Marie Dauguet: 'L'aube paisible'

 

L’aube paisible

 

L’harmonieux silence erre au fouillis des branches

Et dans l’immense paix d’un matin du dimanche,

                   Calme extatiquement,

Rien qu’un envol de cloche au fond du firmament.

 

L’aurore a suspendu sa luisante mantille

Sur le potager bleu où, traînant sa coquille,

                   S’attarde l’escargot

Zébrant d’argent mouillé les feuilles des pavots.

 

Les lierres enlacés aux murs qui les étayent,

Répandent leur parfum qu’exaspéra la nuit,

                   Et les pêchers s’éveillent

Déployant leur fraîcheur où l’abeille bruit.

 

Un chat muettement, plissant ses yeux de jade,

Glisse à travers les haricots et les salades.

                    Calme extatiquement,

Le vieux jardin repose au mol égouttement

 

Des cloches dans l’espace. Et parmi sa glycine,

La maison qu’un trait rose au bord du ciel dessine,

                    Sur le verger dormant

Ouvre, aux frais angelus, portes et contrevents.

 

 

The peaceful dawn

 

Among the tangled branches sweet-toned silence strays

And in the vast peace of a Sunday morning haze,

                   Ecstatically calm,

Nothing but fleeting chimes at heaven’s outer arm.

 

Over blue kitchen gardens has Aurora draped

Her gleaming mantle where, trailing its own shell’s weight,

                   The snail rests for a time

From streaking leaves of poppies with its silver slime.

 

The twining ivy, held by walls no wind can shake,

Spills out its pungent scent that irked night constantly,

                   And now the peach trees wake,

Spreading their freshness out where bees hum noisily.

 

Quite silently a cat, with narrowed eyes of jade,

Slides through the lettuces and beans in total shade.

                   Ecstatically calm,

The age-old garden’s resting in the soothing balm

 

Of bells that drift through space. And midst wisteria,

Pink-traced against the sky, the house exterior

                   – While still the orchard snores –

Opens to this Angelus shutters and closed doors.

 

 

Marie Dauguet: 'Le verger'

 

Le verger

 

La blancheur de ces fleurs follement entassées,

A travers les blancheurs grises du firmament,

Ton musical égouttement, blanche rosée,

Et les pas de la nuit au lointain s'enfuyant.

 

C'est l'aube, mais pourtant rien encor ne s'éveille:

A peine au fond du ciel de trembleuses lueurs;

Le verger faible et doux entre mes bras sommeille,

Je le sens tout entier incliné vers mon cœur.

 

Quand le printemps répand son immortel soupir

Et que la solitude et du silence abondent,

A cette heure surtout, mon affamé désir

Te recherche, beauté suprême, âme du monde;

 

Je te pénètre un peu. Je perçois des accents;

Mon oreille est plus claire en mon être... et je sens

Qu'un dieu repose en moi qui n'est pas encor né.

 

15 mai 1907.

 

 

The orchard

 

The whiteness of these madly heaped-up flowers, seen through

The greyish whiteness of the firmament’s new day,

Your musical soft-falling droplets of white dew,

And footsteps of the distant night that flees away –

 

Nothing is yet astir though dawn now gathers pace,

At heaven’s rim the trembling gleamings almost start;

The orchard, faint and soft, still sleeps in my embrace,

I feel it totally inclined towards my heart.

 

When spring spreads far and wide its great immortal sigh

And solitude and silence fully are unfurled,

Especially then, with famished strong desire do I

Seek you, beauty unrivalled, soul of the whole world;

 

I enter you just slightly. Accents are intense,

My ear is keener and my being… And I sense

A god lies deep within me that is not yet born.

 

15 May 1907.

 

Herman Gorter: 'De dag gaat open als een gouden roos'

 

De dag gaat open als een gouden roos

 

De dag gaat open als een gouden roos;

ik sta aan 't raam en zend mijn adem uit,

het veld is stil, en nauwlijks één geluid

breekt naar het koepelblauw bij tussenpoos.

 

En in mijn kamer, als een donkre doos,

waarvoor de parels hangen aan de ruit,

ga 'k heen en weer, tot waar mijn wandling stuit

en ik bij donkren wand stil peinzend poos.

 

Ik heb 't gevonden, het mensengeluk,

als moest ik worden vier en dertig jaar

eer ik het vond, en ging veel trachten stuk

in spannend worstlen en ijdel gebaar.

Maar zo zeker als daarbuiten de zon de

wereld befloerst, heb ik 't geluk gevonden.

 

 

The day’s unfolding like a golden rose

 

The day’s unfolding like a golden rose;

I send my breath out at the window-sill,

there’s scarcely any sound – the fields lie still –

that rises to the blue sky’s vaulted dome.

 

And in my boxlike room, completely black,

in front of which the pearls hang on the pane,

I pace the floor until I’m stopped again

and quietly muse when dark walls halt my track.

 

I’ve found it, human happiness, despite

it taking four and thirty years for me

to do so, and much searching failed outright

through tussles, gestures made quite needlessly.

As sure though as the world outside is dressed

in veils of sunlight, I’ve found happiness.

Hans Christian Andersen's tales and stories in English translation

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Johan Herman Wessel (1742-85): 'Vaaren'

 

Vaaren

 

Fast hele Jordens Kreds udraaber Vaarens Pragt.

Bedrøveligt Beviis paa hvad saa tit er sagt:

At Smagen her til Lands (jeg mener paa vor Klode),

Om ei den værste, er i Sandhed ei den gode.

Ifald mig undes Lov, saa er det min Propos,

At vise, Vaaren ei fortiener Verdens Roes.

Kun Christen-Kierlighed mig, andet ei, indblæste

Den Lyst, at høvle lidt paa Smagen hos min Næste.

(Til Smagens Politur, jeg troer, man bruger Fiil;

Men høvle, syntes mig, faldt bedre i min Stiil.)

Jeg sielden noget troer, som troes af for mange;

Dog hørte jeg saa tit evindelige Sange

Om Maji-Dagens Lyst, at jeg det Indfald fik,

Engang til Floræ Eng at gaae – og see! jeg gik.

Jeg havde Østerport lagt nogle Skridt tilbage,

Og standsede, for ret ind i mit Bryst at drage

Den Balsom, som saa tit er liflig siungen om,

Og henrykt raaber jeg: Du Duft af Blomster, kom!

Du Zephyr, bring mig den paa silkebløde Vinger!

Da Æolus med Fart mig i mit Ansigt springer,

Vred, for jeg hilsede hans Fætter Zephyr mildt,

Og puster Støv, hvis Lugt fra Balsom let var skilt.

Min Skade lærte mig, at Vestenvinden blæser

Ei altid lige mildt paa Digter som paa Læser.

Men, skiønt jeg lidet godt hos Flora torde spaae

Af Maaden, som hun strax bød mig velkommen paa,

Min Fromhed gav mig Mod, trods Stormen frem at trænge,

I Haab, at, naar jeg gik opmærksom, langt og længe,

En Art af Skiønhed mig vel eengang forekom,

Som over Næstens Smag formildede min Dom.

I dette fromme Haab aftørrede jeg Støvet,

Ved hvilket nyligen mig Synet var berøvet,

Og saae den grønne Mark – den var – ja! Herre Gud!

Man veed, hvordan en Mark, naar den er grøn, seer ud.

Den meest nysgierrige, hvor lidt han end har Stunder,

Sig dog i Tide kan see mæt paa det Vidunder;

Sligt Syn mit Øie kun en slet Erstatning gav

For Støvet, som endnu det følte Svien af.

Dog tys! jeg synes nu den muntre Lærke høre,

Hvad Øiet tabte før, det vinder nu mit Øre.

Men hvad! jeg hører jo blot Klang, og intet meer,

Som naar man regelløs slaaer paa et stemt Klaveer.

Omsonst Køer, Faar og Sviin, som brøle, bræge, grynte,

Med Accompagnement den smukke Sang vil pynte.

Den første Stemme er de andre Stemmer værd;

Men for Musikens Skyld jeg staaer ei længer her.

Endnu var Næstens Smag et Skin af Bifald værdig;

Endnu til nyt Forsøg min Fromhed fandtes færdig. –

 

 

Spring

 

O’er nearly all the earth spring’s glory folk proclaim.

A sorry proof of what’s so oft said in the main:

That taste in this our land (our globe is here my meaning),

If not the worst, to reckon good is idle dreaming.

Should I be given leave, this then is my intent,

To show the world’s high praise of spring is praise ill spent.

Pure Christian love, nought else, might see me entertaining

The urge to give my neighbour’s taste a little planing.

(To polish taste, I think, one tends to use a file;

But planing seems to me to better fit my style.)

Seldom do I believe what’s done so by too many;

And yet such endless songs exist, they’re two a penny,

Which praise sweet days in May, that I, on pleasure bent,

Would make for Flora’s meadow – and behold! I went.

It did not take me long the East Gate to be leaving,

Soon after which I stopped, so I might deeply breathe in

The balsam whose delights are often sweetly sung,

And rapturously I cry: You scent of flowers, come!

Oh Zephyr, on your silken wings it here be bringing!

At which I have Aeolus in my visage springing,

Who wroth, since I his cousin Zephyr so did greet,

Blows dust, whose scent to tell from balsam’s were no feat.

The west wind does not blow, my hurt soon let me know it,

As gently on the reader as upon the poet.

But though I little good from Flora now dared hope,

Judged by the welcome with which I now tried to cope,

My piety gave me strength to advance though gales were swishing,

My hope, with due attention, was to go on wishing

For beauty of some kind perhaps to come my way

That could the verdict on my neighbour’s taste allay.

And in this pious hope, the dust brushed off or shaken

That recently my vision quite from me had taken,

I now beheld green fields – they were – Good Lord, I mean: 

You know what fields all tend to look like when they’re green.

The highly curious man, whose time is soon outdated,

Can at such wonders though quite soon his gaze have sated;

My eyes’ poor substitute for such a sight was blurred

Since they still smarted from the dust they had incurred.

But hark! And can that be the merry lark I’m hearing,

What eye has just now lost may yet my ear be cheering.

What’s this?! It’s only sound I hear in this bird’s trill,

As if a tuned piano’s being struck at will.

In vain would cows, pigs, sheep with roaring, grunting, bleating

With their accompaniment the fine song be completing.

And every voice could call the other’s voice its peer,

But for the music’s sake I stand no longer here.

Still was my neighbour’s taste worth some show of kind favour;

Still from one more attempt my piety did not waver. –

 

Thorkild Bjørnvig: 'Lappedykkeren' (1959)

Lappedykkeren

 

Med Halsens fuldendte Bøjning,

Næbbets slanke Lanse

sigter den paa mig, svajer

og følger, som vilde den danse,

den mindste af mine Bevægelser,

yndefuld, vagtsom og fin —

men Kroppen blir passivt staaende

lodret, som hos en Pingvin.

 

Den flyver ikke, som ventet –

en Olieplet paa dens Bryst

er mygt blevet infiltreret,

har lammet dens Evne, Lyst

til at kalde, parres og yngle,

svømme, flyve og dykke,

jage, fange, fortære —

hele dens Legemslykke;

har ramt den som dødelig Sygdom:

en Draabe, en flydende Kim,

og den mineralske Spedalskhed

klistrer dens Fjer som Lim.

 

Nedskrevet til et Vraggods

blandt Brædder og Dunke paa Sandet,

ubrugelig, kan ikke fiske,

droppet af Luften og Vandet,

paa Vej ned mod Kredsløbets Hades:

de langsomt svindende Ting —

vogter den ufravendt paa mig,

mens jeg gaar om den i Ring.

 

Syge lille Guddom,

fortabt paa de ensomme Flader,

endnu har Naturen, den vældige,

aldrig taalt Svækkelsens Grader

fra Fuldkommenhed ned til pur

Udslettelse – ingen Nød,

som ikke af vilde Dyr fordrer

genvunden Magt eller Død.

 

Derfor vil jeg ikke prøve

forgæves at rense din Krop,

for du vilde værge din Dødsro

med vild Angst, tog jeg dig op,

som skulde du leve! Nej Maanen

i Nat er dig mere fortrolig

og Skyerne, Luften og dét,

som du afventer rolig, rolig.

Og du vil synke: din sidste

fuldkomne Bevægelse – ned

og ligge uformelig henstrakt

paa dette tilfældige Sted.

 

 

The grebe

 

With the perfect curve of the neck,

the beak’s slender lance

it points at me, swaying

and follows, as if it would dance,

the smallest of my movements,

elegant, fine and alert –

but its body is that of a penguin,

held upright, passive, inert.

 

It does not fly as expected –

on its breast a stain of oil

has gently infiltrated,

has sapped its power and spoilt

its desire to call, to mate and breed,

to swim, to fly and dive,

to hunt, to catch, devour –

its joy at being alive;

has struck like a deadly disease:

a drop, a germ that’s afloat,

and the mineral leprosy

glues feathers to sticky coat.

 

Reduced to just jetsam

midst planks and cans in the sand,

no use at all, unable to fish

dropped by water, air and land,

on its way down to life-cycle’s Hades:

each slowly dwindling thing –

it watches my moves intently

as around it I walk in a ring.

 

Sick little deity,

lost on the lonesome expanses,

nature, the mighty, has never as yet

brooked impairment’s nuances

from perfection down to pure

obliteration; – no plight

that from wild beasts does not dictate 

reasserted power or death outright.

 

Which is why I will not try in vain

to clean your body of slick,

for you would defend your last rest

with wild fear, were I to pick 

you up as if you should live. No, 

tonight’s moon’s a more intimate friend

and the clouds, the sky and what

you so calmly await as your end.

And you will sink down: your last

perfect movement – leaving no trace,

lie outstretched a shapeless form

in this fortuitous place.

 

 

P.C. Boutens: 'Hart en land'

 

Boutens in 1922

Hart en land

 

Mijn hart wou nergens tieren

En nergens vond het vreê

Dan tussen uw rivieren

Nabij uw grote zee,

Mijns harten eigen groene land

Dat voor mij dood en leven bant.

 

De wind zong door de bomen

Tot in mijn stille huis

De stemmen uwer stromen,

Uw volle zeegeruis:

Daar brak mijn hart in zangen uit,

Daar werd de stem van 't bloed geluid.

 

Wel hebt gij mij gegeven

Al wat ik anderen bood.

Ik zong van dood en leven,

Van liefdes rijke nood:

Des harten tederste ademhaal,

Hij werd verstaanbaar in uw taal.

 

Al dieper zoeter wonder

Fluistert uw stem mij voor…

Laat mij niet sterven zonder

Uw levenwekkend koor!

De wind die in uw lover luwt,

Is 't afscheid dat mijn hart niet schuwt.

 

Buiten de tijd en zijn bestier,

Een ledig nest

Hoog in de top van de populier,

Komt nooit mijn hart tot rust.

En alle dingen zijn eenzaam, en

Vloeien ineen -

Ik wil slechts wezen wat ik ben:

Alleen, alleen, alleen!

 

 

Heart and land

 

My heart would nowhere flourish

At peace could nowhere be

Than where your rivers nourish

Close by your mighty sea,

My heart’s green land that at each breath

For me can banish life and death .

 

The wind did through the trees sing

Until it reached my door

Your currents’ choir unceasing,

Your sea’s soft distant roar:

Then did my heart burst into song,

Then blood’s own voice grew loud and strong.

 

Me you have granted long all

That I have then professed.

Of life and death my song called

Of love’s so rich distress.

Heart’s gentlest breathing when dispensed

Your language crafted into sense. 

 

A deeper, sweeter wonder

You soft voice whispers low…

Let when my life goes under

Your choir ignite life’s glow!

The wind subsiding in your leaves

Means parting that my heart won’t grieve.

 

Outside time’s rule and mastery,

An empty nest

High in the top of the poplar tree,

My heart will ne’er find rest.

And all things here are lonesome, and

Merge into one –

I would remain just what I am:

Alone, alone, alone!

In a letter to Herman Robbers, then editor of Elseviers geïllustreerde maandschrift of 28.xi.1924, Boutens writes that he is including his “Bezonnen Liedjes”, and that if Robbers is not interested in them, would he return them, so that they can be sent to De Nieuwe Gids, who have shown interest in them. Six poems, under the title “Bezonnen Liedjes” appeared in EGM 1925, I, p.31 ff. One of them is ’Hart en Land’. To see all six poems in Dutch, go to here. These poems were later included in the collection Bezonnen Verzen (1931).