johnirons

Sonnet by the Swedish writer Georg Stiernhielm (1598-1672)

2012-02-22T13:55:00.006+01:00

The Amazoners

Til then

Stormächtigste Drottning

CHRISTINA

Sonetto.

Hjeltinna, hwilkens Nampn, och Seger-rijke Hand,

Wett, wijßdom, dygd, förstånd, och herlige bedrifter

Wijdt öfwerga all prijß, som gifs i gambla Skrifter

The störste Hiältar, vnder Solen i all Land:

I Eder dygd består wärt Köns beröm och Stand,

Wår forne högheetz rätt, wårt wälde, prijß och heder

Förnyjat ökas, store Drottning, genom Eder.

Alt Mans-twång är nedlagt, och slijtne theres band.

Then Seger som Wij daglig öfwer Eder winne,

I blöde Män, them Wij vthi wår ögons macht

Oß tienstbar’ göre, skatte Wij vthi wår Sinne,

För ringa Saak: Men thetta är vthi wår acht:

At böija Halßen vnder lydnan och betwinga

The stolte Hiertan, them wårt Wälde synes ringa.

The Amazons

To the

Most Mighty Queen

CHRISTINA

Sonnet

Oh heroine, whose name, and whose victorious hand,

Wit, wisdom, virtue, sense, and wondrous feats exciting

Do far exceed all praise bestowed in ancient writing

On greatest heroes ’neath the sun in every land:

Your virtue does enshrine our gender’s rank and fame –

Our ancient noble right, our rule, our praise and honour

Through you, great queen, are now replenished and grow stronger.

All male constraint is gone, their ties make little claim.

The victory which daily we o’er you are gaining,

You feeble men, whom we by force of eye alone

Bend to our service, we deem worthy of disdaining,

Of little note: But our intention here make known:

To make those with stiff necks bow low and bring to earth

Those with proud hearts who judge our rule of little worth.

Swedish poem by the Finnish writer Tua Forsström

2012-02-21T20:04:00.001+01:00

Anyone who was once there

It is still snowing.

I go up into the tower-room and gaze one

more time out over the bay: heaviness and dizziness.

Someone phones and puts forward optimistic

suggestions, and of course: you can dance the foxtrot

till the very end. But I prefer to make an excursion

to a nearby folklore museum or apply to become

a mezzo-soprano in the church choir, although I don’t

sing all that well. It’s not easy. It is really quite

a problem. I know which continent you set store

by, but now an imbalance prevails between the species

there: everyone took with them some cuddly toy they didn’t

want to leave behind. Now they devour each other. I know which

regions appeal to you, anyone who was once there always yearns

to return. Sweat and whatever else that slid along

the walls when one went to bed. In the tropics

stray dogs are not strays in the same way,

they live and die. The snow swirls ever thicker and faster

round the roses, the darkly shimmering remains of the night.

We don’t remember everything, but a great deal.

To see the original and hear the author read the poem, go to here

Poem by the Swedish writer Eva Runefelt (b. 1953)

2012-02-21T09:32:00.002+01:00

Polderland

Som svävande reflexer

betar de kortväxta hästarna

de ljusa poldrarnas gröna vatten

Djuren försvinner och uppstår

i det vinklade ljuset, hjärnljuset

Tyngdlösa

Det är efter uppståndelsen, april

De stora markernas vila

över år

som rotat i en ny växtlighet

Gräsfåglar, alléer av vindrosor

och nätternas karminljus

ännu inte utslaget

Polderland

Like hovering reflections

the short-statured horses graze

the green water of the light polders

The animals disappear and re-emerge

in the angled light, the brain-light

Weightless

It is after the re-emergence, april

The rest over years of the

huge fields

that has rooted in a new vegetation

Grass-warblers, avenues of windflowers

and the nights’ carmine light

as yet unfolded

Angst - Danish style: Tom Kristensen (1930)

2012-02-19T17:24:00.002+01:00

Angst

Human angst has dominion that’s Asian.

It’s matured during immature years.

In my heart it’s a daily sensation,

as if mainlands each day disappear.

But my angst must be turned into longing,

into visions of dread and distress.

I have longed for mid-ocean disasters

and for wanton destruction and death.

I have longed for great cities on fire

and for races in flight’s headlong surge,

for break-ups the whole world was cursed by

and an earthquake that’s known as God’s scourge.

Angst - Swedish style: Pär Lagerkvist (1916)

2012-02-19T17:23:00.000+01:00

Angst, angst is my legacy

Angst, angst is my legacy,

my throat’s deep gash,

my heart’s scream in the world.

Now foaming cloud grows stiff

in night’s coarse hand,

the forests now and

rigid heights ascend

so barrenly towards the skies’

diminished vault.

How hard it all is,

how solid, black and silent!

I grope around me in this murky space,

I feel the rock’s sharp edge against my fingers,

I tear my upward-stretching hands

to shreds against the frozen tatters of the clouds.

Ah, I wear my nails down to the quick,

my hands I tear till they are sore, are wounded

against mountain and darkened forest,

against the black iron of the sky

and against the cold earth!

Angst, angst is my legacy,

my throat’s deep gash,

my heart’s scream in the world.

Poem by the Swedish writer Stagnelius (c. 1815)

2012-02-19T11:48:00.001+01:00

Vän! I förödelsens stund

Vän! I förödelsens stund, när ditt inre av mörker betäckes,
                  När i ett avgrundsdjup minne och aning förgå,
Tanken famlar försagd bland skuggestalter och irrbloss,
                  Hjärtat ej sucka kan, ögat ej gråta förmår;
När från din nattomtöcknade själ eldvingarne falla,
                  Och du till intet, med skräck, känner dig sjunka på nytt,
Säg, vem räddar dig då? – Vem är den vänliga ängel,
                  Som åt ditt inre ger ordning och skönhet igen,
Bygger på nytt din störtade värld, uppreser det fallna
                  Altaret, tändande där flamman med prästerlig hand? –
Endast det mäktiga väsen, som först ur den eviga natten
                  Kysste serafen till liv, solarna väckte till dans.
Endast det heliga Ord, som ropte åt världarna: “Bliven!” –
                  Och i vars levande kraft världarna röras ännu.
Därföre gläds, o vän, och sjung i bedrövelsens mörker:
                  Natten är dagens mor, Kaos är granne med Gud.

Friend! When destruction is nigh

Friend! when destruction is nigh, when the darkness engulfs all within you,

When in the deepest abyss notions and memory fail,

Thoughts now timidly grope midst will-o’-the-wisps and shadows,

The heart no longer can sigh, nor eye can shed a tear;

When from your night-befogged soul the wings of fire are now falling,

And you, affrighted, feel yourself sinking to nothing once more,

Say, who will rescue you then? – Who is the friendly angel,

Who within you will restore order and beauty again,

Build your collapsed world anew, raise up once more the fallen

Altar, and there will kindle the flame with a priestly hand? –

None but the powerful being who first from the night eternal

Once kissed the seraph alive, wakened the planets to dance.

None but the Word divine, that called to the world: “Be ye living” –

And in whose true living power yet are the worlds ever moved.

Therefore take heart, oh friend, and sing in the dark of affliction:

Night is the mother of day, Chaos is neighbour to God.

Poem by the Swedish writer Katarina Frostenson

2012-02-19T10:22:00.003+01:00

Myself in a yellow dress

Scatter me brother, with your eye that refuses to close

that only looks out, sees nothing, only the shimmer and flecked sunlight

on water among leaves

in the green of July, under a tree

in the plaited blue basket that amply contained you

when everything hummed around you

and you were like honey

myself in a yellow dress, dark

in the tree, ever darker yellow, shriller, shrieking upwards

yet silent, towards the tree-top

triumph, little brother, over everything

through the weight of the crown

I feel the head of the sun

To see the original poem and hear the poet read it aloud, go to here

One of Bellman's 'Fredman's Epistles'

2012-02-16T17:07:00.005+01:00

Fredman’s Epistle No. 79

Charon his horn is sounding,

Storm winds commence their howling,

Hawsers, ropes, sails start bounding

and come loose apace;

Moon’s nightly round is ending

Stars gleam with dismal cowling,

To its great change is bending

Life’s allotted space;

Soon will my hour-glass have emptied,

Charon’s oars all have attempted,

Purling they burrow

Deep in each furrow,

Through bright waves sliding,

Death’s bark is gliding,

Jet-black the funeral ferry down the river strokes

To dust and smoke://:

And ghosts’ loud bays.

Landladies oh so dashing,

Brace me for this my journey,

When on my fathers’ ashes

I’ll be heaped tonight.

Red-faced and voice quite throttled

Innkeepers stand there sternly,

Chalk me up nigh a bottle

For my hat – that’s right.

Ma’am take the slate at the counter,

Rub out two pence for the flounder;

Likewise please cut a

Penny for butter;

Further the eel-fish

There in the green-dish;

Further the plump potato on which now I dine,

It was most fine ://:

And round and light.

While at my tankard sitting,

I my last will am writing;

This document most fitting,

Read, Ma’am, I implore;

Gone is this world’s dominion,

See how its taste’s more biting,

Heaven with stars its minions

Now above me soar.

I keep my tankard in motion –

Clang, what a brew, what a potion,

Foam mounts and frizzles,

Froth almost sizzles,

Drops in full spate float

Down on my greatcoat.

That hit the spot, Ma’am Maja, that was beer that sang.

Clang, Ma’am, cling-clang! ://:

Off Charon’s shore.

My head droops at all angles,

All of me’s forward nosing,

It seems my neck just dangles.

But, ye Gods, I wince

As tearful eyed I’m glaring

At all my rags imposing

Which once, no padding sparing,

Buttoned as if pinned;

Aren’t though my breeches quite charming,

These garments oh so disarming?

Waistcoat’s distended

All the rest mended

Stockings in creases,

Heels worn to pieces,

And that fine shirt, Ma’am Maja, was – please note my thrift –

Beckman’s wife’s shift ://:

Just two years since.

Now midships I stand quaking,

Heav’ns, how the rudder’s creaking,

Shadows all for the taking,

Lapping waves so slight;

Aeolus drowns all crying,

Charon’s shrill whistle’s shrieking,

Help! Hear dark shadows sighing

How their moans affright;

Thunder and northern lights’ flashes,

Lightning that through the sky dashes

Arched o’er the river,

See the Plough quiver,

Stars no more quicken.

Shores slowly thicken,

Till from the sombre shadow all last light departs;

My torment starts. ://:

So, Ma’am, good night!

Poem by the Swedish writer Lars Forssell (1928-2007)

2012-02-15T11:31:00.001+01:00

You tell me that poetry’s dead

You tell me that poetry’s dead

or at the very least dying

You seem to forget, well-fed friend,

that it lives just like you

next door to death

half a flight down

half a creaking flight down

there in the dark

The bricklayer sings

The carpenter sings

The woman cashier at the self-service sings

Ministers and opposition

and you and I and the grave-digger

All of us sing for our lives

All of us open-mouthed sing for our lives

till him there half a flight down

knocks with his stick on the ceiling!

Poem by the Swedish writer Harry Martinson (1904-78)

2012-02-14T17:28:00.000+01:00

The juniper bush

Silent he stands by the stone,

at one with the heather.

Amongst his prickly needles

sit swarms of berries

like caught charges of shot.

He is proof against anything.

He habitually brushes the north wind.

His twigs are tough as sinews.

He withstands with what is most barren,

and yet is scented, yet possesses grace.

To graves and floors he gave sprays,

and he brewed a good beer

where he stood, strong and amiable,

squeezed between grey stones in Thule.

A love-song by the Swedish poet Gustaf Fröding (1860-1911)

2012-02-14T10:55:00.005+01:00

En kärleksvisa

Jag köpte min kärlek för pengar,

för mig var ej annan att få,

sjung vackert, I skorrande strängar,

sjung vackert om kärlek ändå.

Den drömmen, som aldrig besannats,

som dröm var den vacker att få,

för den, som ur Eden förbannats,

är Eden ett Eden ändå.

A love-song

For money my love I did purchase,

Else love I’d have had to forego,

sing sweetly, you strings harsh and wordless,

sing sweetly of love even so.

The dream not come true ere it vanished

though dreamt I was loath to forego,

for him who from Eden’s been banished

is Eden an Eden e’en so.

Another poem by the Swedish writer Werner Aspenström (1918-1997)

2012-02-14T08:15:00.000+01:00

Spelman och upptecknare

Den gamle spelmannen kunde inte spela längre,

endast tralla.

Den gamle tandlöse spelmannen kunde inte tralla längre,

endat väsa.

I väsandet hördes trallen,

i trallen stråkdragen,

i stråkdragen de otämjda forsarna.

Rätt nöjd cyklade upptecknaren hemåt

med fem mil av Västerdalälven i portföljen.

Fiddler and compiler

The old fiddler could no longer play,

only sing the tunes.

The old toothless fiddler could no longer sing,

only hiss the tunes.

In the hissing the singing was audible,

in the singing the bow-strokes,

in the bow-strokes the untamed rapids.

Quite content the compiler cycled homewards

with thirty miles of Västerdal river in his briefcase.

Another famous poem by the Swedish poet Nils Ferlin

2012-02-13T07:38:00.002+01:00

When beauty arrived in town

When beauty arrived in town it found cleverness there

then thorns and sheer spite did blight all endeavour.

Then they with their thousand guns aimed and shot straight at her,

for all of them were now ever so clever.

Then none felt at all like dancing or gladness and song,

or something that might perhaps smack of danger.

When beauty arrived in town – if she did come along,

they neither would laugh or cry at this stranger.

Ah, cleverness is an old man so shrewd and so wise

that roses and columbines freeze and perish.

When town-folk had learnt his ABC book, from their eyes

the gleam disappeared that they’d sought to cherish.

With spades did they toil and dig in the soil and the field,

though nothing but zeal did zeal then empower.

They counted their sheaves for counting’s sake – not for the yield,

and hated just for a laugh or a flower.

At some point it will be summer, the songs have descried,

one day over every land space will tower.

A great deal will then be crushed that has shone far and wide.

but mind-raising is humanity’s dower.

Now there they weave webs so small and of grey clinging thread,

and pay for their barns and shelves all on credit.

At some point it will be summer, the songs have foresaid,

though songs are frail sybils time may subedit.

As so often, the recording by Sven-Bertil Taube is the one to go for.

A famous poem by the Dutch writer Martinus Nijhoff

2012-02-12T13:33:00.001+01:00

‘THE OLD LADY’

I went to Bommel just to see the bridge.

I saw the new bridge. Two opposing shores

that shunned each other seemingly before

are neighbours once again. A grassy verge

I lay on, tea consumed, for some ten minutes

my head filled with the landscape far and wide –

when from that endlessness on every side

this voice came, and my ears resounded with it.

It was a woman. And the boat she steered

was passing downstream through the bridge quite slowly.

She stood there at the helm, alone on deck,

and what she sang were hymns, I now could hear.

Oh, I thought, oh, were mother there instead.

Praise God she sang, His hand shall safely hold thee.

Poem by the Swedish poet Frans Michael Franzén (1772-1847)

2012-02-10T17:49:00.003+01:00

Champagnevinet

Drick! de förflyga de susande

Perlorna: Drick!

Skynda! Det ljufva, det ädla, det höga

Söker du fåfängt, se’n anden förgick.

Dåren, som fäste vid skummet sitt öga,

Vatten, blott vatten, på läpparne fick.

Njut! de försvinna, de tjusande

Stunderna: njut!

Ytterst förfinade, känslan och löjet

Reta och domna i samma minut.

Snappa i flykten behaget och nöjet:

Högst är raketen, i det han går ut.

Snar är på jorden den rusande

Glädjen, ack! snar.

Fångad af ynglingens spända förhoppning,

Än ur en drufva, förädlad och rar,

Än från en mun, lik en ros i sin knoppning,

Strax till sitt hem öfver molnen hon far.

Champagne wine

Drink! they soon vanish the fast-climbing

Strings of pearls, drink!

Quick now! The beautiful, noble, or lofty

Vainly you seek, once the spirit’s laid waste.

Mad is the man who on foam gazes oftly,

Water, just water is all he will taste.

Feast! they’re soon banished the spell-binding

Hours of joy, feast!

Feeling and laughter, refined beyond measure

At the same instant can rouse and benumb.

Catch in mid-flight all delight and all pleasure!

Rockets reach highest whilst their end is come.

Brief is on earth every mind-blinding

Gladness, ah! brief.

Captured by young man’s high hopes so full-blooded,

Now from a grape at its choicest and rare,

Now from a mouth like a rose that’s just budded,

Straight to its home o’er the clouds she’ll repair.

Poem by the Swedish writer Karl Vennberg (1910-95)

2012-02-08T12:38:00.003+01:00

But even this sun is homeless

But even this sun is homeless

burns homeless

with gleaming grains of fire,

brandishes homeless

its torches against the dark,

protects itself in vain

with a silver-white radiance.

Ah even this sun is homeless.

What then can blind hands find?

Are the seeking groping yearning themselves

merely homeless light from a homeless sun?

Yes, homeless light is everything refracted

through the lenses of the body or the soul:

trickery and truth

affliction and lies.

The same blind laws and lawlessnesses

watch over light and lenses.

So tend, presumptuous humanity,

the flowers of belief and unbelief

sprouting from fire and loathing,

lure lust to you with the honey of lust,

root yourself with pain

at a painful truth.

The same homelessness is lust and truth,

all shall be reduced to the same focus

Oh to gain alone one’s focus

and there be consumed by fire,

oh to return homeless

to an eternal homelessness.

Oh to be lifted from a conflagration

of lust and lies

up towards gleaming

mountains of fire,

homelessly brandishing torches,

shadows and

silver-like radiance.

The Swedish writer Sophia Elisabet Brenner also wrote in German. Here is a translation of a German poem

2012-02-07T16:32:00.002+01:00

Die Unvermeidliche Flucht menschlicher Tage/

Vorgestellet in Abbildung einer

Sand-Uhr/

Bey Beerdigung

Des Weiland Wohl Ehrenvesten und Groß-Achtbahren/

Nun mehro bey GOTT WohlSeligen

Herrn BARTHOLOMÆI Klüvers/

Den 19. Februarii dieses jetztlauffenden 1693.sten Jahres.

BEwehrtes Spiegel-Glas/ in dem die Sterbligkeit/

Der schnellen Jahre Flucht leibhafftig an zu schauen/

Dein Sand erinnert mich wie wir auf Trieb-Sand bauen

Und schätzen offtermahls vom Ziel/ uns viel zu weit.

Da doch dis Gläser-Paar/ so über sich gestürtzt/

Eins/ auf die Wiege sieht’ und eins die Bahre zeiget/

Misst was verfloßen ist/ lehrt wie der Rest sich neiget

Der jeden Augenblick ein Theil des Lebens kürtzt

O wahres Ebenbild des Kummers der uns qwählt/

Uns handelt Angst und Noth/ wie deinen Sand die Wellen/

Uns drückt so manche Last und dräut uns gar zu fällen/

Daß man der Trübsahl mehr als Sand am Ufer zählt.

Auch sonsten läst der Mensch als selbst der Zeiten Raub/

Gantz füglich/ auser dem/ der Sand-Uhr sich vergleichen/

Jst/ weil sein Körper steht und wann er wird zur Leichen/

Jm Leben brüchig Glaß/ und nach dem Tode/ Staub.

Wohl dem der weil er noch des Leibes Umhüll/ trägt

Und eh die Zeit verläufft/ sich auf die Heimfahrt schikket/

Dem Welt und Eitelkeit/ die Sinnen nicht berükket/

Damit er fertig sey wann seine Stunde schlägt.

Mein Freund auch auf der Bahr/ wie wohl ichs nicht gedacht

Dich in so kurtzer Zeit der Gruben zu vertrauen/

Doch weil wir uns gewiß auf ewig wieder schauen/

So scheid ich wohl gemuth/ indeßen gute Nacht.

The ineluctable flight of human days/

As represented in the depiction of an

Hour-Glass/

At the funeral of

the formerly most upright and extremely worthy/

Now with GOD blessed and reunited

Mr BARTHOLOMÆUS Klüver/

19 February of this present year of 1693.

Well-tested mirror-glass/in which mortality/

Of swiftly fleeing years embodied we see stand/

Your sand reminds me how we build on shifting sand

And often from our goal/ so far removed can be.

Yet here this glassy pair/ up-ended at our birth

With one that views the cradle/ one that shows the bier/

Lacks what has downward run/reveals the end is near

And teaches us each instant shortens life on earth.

Oh most true image of the misery we bear/

Just as the waves the sand/do fear and need us steer/

Threatened by such dire loads far from our course we veer/

And count our sorrows more as sand upon the shore.

Man may in other ways/ a prey to time’s sore thrust/

With this same hour-glass yet be suitably compared/

Is/while his body stands and when as corpse is bared/

In this life fragile glass/ and after death/ mere dust.

Happy the one who while in human flesh still clad

And ere his time is o’er/prepares his journey home/

Whose mind this world and vanity can’t cause to roam/

Who when his hour is come is ready and not sad.

My friend here on the bier/ I never thought I might

Entrust you to the grave/after so short a time/

But since we soon shall meet/ though in a heav’nly clime/

I leave you well consoled/ and until then good night.

Poem by the Swedish writer Oscar Levertin (1862-1906)

2012-02-06T15:32:00.000+01:00

At the Jewish cemetery in Prague

Do not lay flowers, fringes, ribbons

on monuments above their bones,

life did not choose green wreaths to give them

but stones. On monuments lay stones!

As did the forefathers, those hounded

from land to land with taunts and shame

who’ve seen through centuries unrounded

their line by ghetto’s curse so maimed.

Where to the weary rest is given

from homeless roaming’s path of thorns,

and anxious heart no more is riven

by self-shed tears and others’ scorn,

where summer promises if spoken

won’t fool death’s quietness now full-known.

Do not lay flowers as love’s token

on monuments, or wreaths. Lay stones!

Poem by the Swedish poet Gunnar Ekelöf

2012-02-05T13:02:00.001+01:00

Kinesisk broderi

En eldfågels bo är hjärtat

byggt med kvistar av ådror

fodrat med lågor. Men fågeln

ruvar där i en ännu högre

värme. Från dess bröst och sidor

tycks lågorna vika. Orörd

vilar den på det osynliga ägget

med vingarna fläktande, stjärtens fjädrar

hängande ut över bokanten. Eller den fladdrar

ett ögonblick upp som för att hämta

tankars och bilders insekt, försvinnande

i luftens siden så snart den lyftat

åter synlig först då den åter vilar

i lågorna, slätande sina fjädrar med näbbet.

Chinese embroidery

A firebird’s nest is the heart

built with twigs of veins

nourished with flames. But the bird

broods there in an even greater

heat. From its breast and sides

the flames seem to fall back. Untouched

it rests on the invisible egg

its wings fanning, its tail-feathers

hanging over the nest’s edge. Or it flutters

up for an instant as if to fetch

an insect of thoughts and images, disappearing

into the silk of the air as soon as it has lifted

only visible again when it once more rests

in the flames, smoothing its feathers with its beak.

Poem by the Swedish writer Pär Lagerkvist

2012-02-04T13:42:00.003+01:00

Livsbåten

Snart är du död och vet ej att du glider

på livets båt bort mot de andra landen

där morgon väntar dig på dolda stränder.

Oroas ej. Räds ej i uppbrottstimman.

En vänlig hand lugnt ordnar

båtens segel,

som för dig bort från

kvällens land till dagens.

Gå utan ängslan ner

i strandens tystnad,

den mjuka stigen genom

skymningsgräset.

The boat of life

Soon you’ll be dead and not know you are gliding

upon life’s boat away towards the other lands

where morning waits for you on hidden shores.

Don’t be afraid. Fear not the hour of parting.

A friendly hand calmly trims

the boat’s sail

that takes you from the

evening land to that of day.

Walk without apprehension
in the shore’s silence

down the soft path through the

twilight grass.

A poem by the Swedish poet Lucidor (Lasse Johansson, 1638-74)

2012-02-02T18:42:00.001+01:00

I would be foolish to spend my life grieving

I would be foolish to spend my life grieving

Even when things went completely awry/

Fortune is subject to pitching and heaving/

Wait and she’ll right herself up by and by;

All the world finds what is motley most pleasing/

Many must live on coarse bread hard and dry.

Fortune, misfortune spend life alternating/

Every beginning must end before long:

Drunken men’s hiccups anon are abating/

Joy follows weeping/ tears give way to song;

He who with pointer the truth’s indicating

May from truth’s plank find he’s falling headlong.

On all the trees heaven’s dew is descending/

But once the earth them with sap strongly stacks

Till they the sky defy/ who can be sending

All crashing down/ with no shaft to his axe?

Finger-rubbed worm-eaten trees soon start bending/

Many think won what they finally lack.

So let misfortune and fortune keep fighting

Till I can see/ Who will win or withdraw

No one a coach horse too hard should be riding

If you exhaust him/ he’ll then vex you sore;

Though persecution one must be abiding

Minds will be free when the body’s no more.

So shall my blood and my heart remain carefree/

At envy hate constraint/ L a s s e ne’er pales/

No one dares do more than his own fair share be/

Justice (despite all injustice) prevails/

Flee if you can from misfortune stay snare-free/

Prison means longing if fortune should fail.

Think my friend that one should therefore perforce be

Gay/though it might not one’s leaning convey/

Fortune is fickle/ unknown must her course be/

Yesterday’s guest/ may well leave you today;

So my hope is that you learn to endorse me

Write you are gay just like me come what may.

To see the original, go to here.

A tirade against the female sex by the German baroque poet Theobald Hock

2012-02-01T13:23:00.001+01:00

Put not too great a trust in love

I faithfully both night and day

Have served a pure, fine lady

So I her love but could repay

No effort I forbade me.

All other love, joy, gain, desire

Have I despised and banished,

Yea, worldly riches quite entire

For her alone let vanish.

No other thanks have been my lot,

Reward for toil’s relinquished.

Begad! Dismissal’s what I got,

And love is now extinguished.

With fervent hope my heart is filled

My love once more to conquer;

But now she lets what she has killed

Me courteously just long for.

It seems, if I may make so bold,

Ah, daughters fair of Eve you,

Great boast, small roast applies all told,

May Valentine believe you!

Who trusts your honeyed words so suave

Will find his labours wasted:

’Gainst wind he sows, he builds on wave,

As I such woes have tasted.

Poem by David Koker, a Dutch Jew who died on the way to Dachau in 1945

2012-02-01T08:40:00.000+01:00

Sabbath

We looked up at each other from our reading

quite simultaneously. And through our eyes

there passed the very same serene surprise

that everything could be so good and pleasing.

within these walls, where joy all haste is spurning,

where in their sunlike, unassuming shine

white, slender Sabbath candles now are burning,

life’s smallest things can seem both whole and fine.

Glimmering light-spots dancing on the ceiling

the table of a never-ending white,

with dishes motionless and softly gleaming,

the wine, the pure white bread. Oh how this sight

expressed such solemn presence, nonetheless

seemed so aloof. We find ourselves constrained

for just one instant by bright giddiness

yet to what’s innermost have been ordained,

and like the things around us self-contained

have we become as we observe each other,

re-find ourselves in space so bountiful.

Each in his solitude and yet together –

such was our Sabbath, and so wonderful.

Another poem by the Swedish poetess Sophia Elisabet Brenner

2012-01-28T09:46:00.001+01:00

SONNET

Til sin kiäre Man Assessoren Herr

ELIAS BRENNER,

Upå den första Januarii Anno 1691

MJn Wän! jag skulle wäl på Nyårs gåfwor täncka

Så framt förmågan/ lik som willian wore god/

Och medellößhet ei för mig i wägen stod/

Då sökte jag med flit dig något nytt at skäncka/

Dock wil jag deremot min håg på håfwor läncka/

Som icke stå til fahls i hwarie köpmans bod

Och qwinnor fordomdagz sig litet påförstod/

Jag wil i netta Rim et dußin radar/ jäncka.

Jag tror at sådan skänck dig lärer bäst behaga/

Den jag ock ingen an har ensam kåstat på/

Du kanst hwad borgat är på intet sätt fördraga/

Wi stämmom öfwerens jag säjer lika så

Man lär och aldrig mig ur sinnet kunna taga

At länte fiädrar/ hälst åt Swanar illa stå.

Ho rätt besinna wil hwart hän sig tiden smyger

Den achte grant upå wårt nybegynte år/

Det grånar mer en brått/ som snö och frost betyger/

Det åldras medan än deß födzle dag påstår.

Det börjar först i dag/ och bådar oß wår ända/

Som bäst wi samkom år/ bli wåra dagar få/

Gud ewig gode Gud/ hwars år ei återwända/

Hielp at wi oß i tid från werlden kunde slå!

Lär oß betrachta wäl hur korta wåra timar/

Och at hwart ögnableck oß skyndar til wårt mål/

Betäncka/ huru slätt sig dock tilsammans rimar/

Wårt Lif är skiört som glaß och tidsens tand af stål.

SONNET

To her dear Husband Deputy Judge

ELIAS BRENNER,

Upon the first day of January Anno 1691

My Friend! I ought of course on New Year gifts be musing

To the extent my powers/ likewise my will were good/

And had not lack of means for this in my way stood/

Then keenly I would seek and something new be choosing/

Instead my thoughts are fixed on bounties in full ration/

Which are not found on sale in every grocer’s stall

And which by women once were scarcely grasped at all/

I will in well-turned rhymes a dozen lines/ now fashion/

I think that such a gift to you will give most pleasure/

Which I alone and no one else have laboured on/

For secondhand things you find irksome beyond measure/

And I think likewise and with you agree thereon

Nor will I e’er relinquish the idea I treasure

That borrowed feathers/ least of all befit a Swan.

Whoever would reflect on where time’s always stealing

Should note most carefully our newly started year/

It greys so fast/ as snow and frost are both revealing/

It ages even while its birth-day is still here.

It first begins today/ and yet our end presages

The more we gather years/ the fewer are our days/

Eternal God most true/ no year turns back the pages/

Help us in time to avert from this fair world our gaze!

Teach us to well observe how short is our life’s season/

How our approaching end each instant makes us feel/

To see in all combined there is both rhyme and reason/

Our life is frail as glass and time’s cogged wheel of steel.

Poem by the Swedish poetess Sophia Elisabet Brenner (1659-1730)

2012-01-27T09:27:00.012+01:00

Qwinnokönetz

Oskrymtade Tårar

Fälte öfwer

Den fordom ÄDLE och WÄLBORNE/

Fru MARJA Hiärne/

Som i sine bäste och liufweste år/igenom den timmeliga

Döden blef hädanryckt/ den 11. Decemb. Anno 1690.

Döden som sig föresatt

Til sit tysta tilhåld föra/

Hwad hans faslig långa natt

En gång måtte hyglig göra/

Sökte nogast hwar han trodde

Någon utwald fägring bodde.

Länge stod han utan hopp/

Om han nånsin skulle finna

Så fulkomlig menskio kropp/

Som förmåtte öfwerwinna/

Alt hwad kulit mörkt och öde

Fins i sälskap med de döde.

Men omsider lät han se/

At hans anslag ikke fela/

Ödetz stränga Systrar tre

Hjulpe til at särskilt dela/

Hwad til werldens lust och fägnat

Himlen/deiligt sammanägnat.

Sielf naturen/ grämer sig/

Som sit skönhetz mönster/ miste/

Och dit kön som genom dig/

Skönste/ sig behaglig wiste.

The unfeigned tears

of the female sex

Shed over

The late NOBLE and WELL-BORN/

Mistress MARJA Hiärne/

Who in her very prime/was wrested from this life

by temporal Death/ on 11 December Anno 1690.

Death who had made up his mind

For his silent haunt to capture/

What his endless night unkind

Might provide with some small rapture/

Sought with care where for the telling

Some fair beauty might be dwelling.

Long he stood with hope forlorn/

That he ever would discover

Human flesh so pure in form/

It could fully triumph over/

All that’s dreary dark down-hearted

In the realm of those departed.

But he finally could see/

For his plot success awaiting/

When austere Fate’s sisters three

Helped him now in extricating/

What for earthly joy and pleasure

Heaven/had composed at leisure.

Even nature/ grieves you too/

Mourns her beauty’s template’s passing/

As your sex does which through you/

Prized its beauty all-surpassing.

Poem by the Dutch writer K. Schippers

2012-01-26T07:37:00.000+01:00

No, no Nanette

Before the war Tea for Two

did something for my father.

And for me too.

He walked slowly

to hear more of it

coming from a house

and so missed the No. 2 tram.

In the next one my mother was sitting.

Poem by the Swedish writer Tomas Tranströmer

2012-01-25T08:46:00.002+01:00

Allegro

I’m playing Haydn after a black day

and feel a simple warmth in my hands.

The keys are willing. Gentle hammers strike.

The sound is green, lively and quiet.

The sound says that freedom exists

and that someone does not render unto Caesar.

I thrust my hands deep into my Haydn pockets

and imitate someone who gazes calmly at the world.

I hoist the Haydn flag – which means:

‘We won’t surrender. But want peace.’

The music is a glasshouse on the slope

where the stones fly, where the stones roll.

And the stones roll straight through

but each pane remains unbroken.

There are probably a number of English translations of this poem in existence. I have not seen any of them - I never consult other translations when making my own. Translations of the same poem are like different recordings of the same piece of music - find the one(s) you like best.

A famous song by the Swedish troubadour Evert Taube (1890-1976)

2012-01-24T10:53:00.004+01:00

While still the boat sails along

While still the boat sails along,

while still the heartbeat is strong,

while still the sun’s rays on waves are a glittering throng,

for just a day maybe two

let that be plenty for you,

for many live with no gleam of light ever in view!

And why should you be the one the world’s giving

so much good fortune and sunshine while living?

Have fo’c’sle watch late at night

beneath the stars’ twinking light,

enjoy a kiss maybe two in the dance’s swift flight?

Yes, why should you be the one with keen hearing and eye,

catch the roar of the waves, be always singing?

And why should you have the best meal that money can buy,

like a wave-bobbing bird freed from winging?

And to the engines’ slow song,

and should your watch seem too long,

remember soon will the bell toll for you: ding, ding, dong!

While still the boat sails along,

while still the heartbeat is strong,

while still the sun’s rays on waves are a glittering throng.

Though you should suffer, perform each endeavour,

There will be rest soon for ever and ever!

But that’s no reason at all

to not be glad and stand tall,

it’s time to strike up a quite irresistable waltz!

It’s such a great stroke of luck you’re alive now, my friend

and can waltz through the day around Havanna!

And when your last money’s gone, go to sea once again

with the trade wind your sailor’s bandanna.

Do your duty aright,

Go on land that’s in sight,

Take a kiss maybe two in the dance’s swift flight!

While still the boat sails along,

while still the heartbeat is strong,

while still the sun’s rays on waves are a glittering throng.

One of the best-known of Taube's songs. To hear it sung, go to here for Evert Taube's version, or to here to hear his son Sven-Bertil's.

A poem by the Swedish Romantic poet Erik Gustaf Geijer (1783–1847)

2012-01-23T11:32:00.005+01:00

Natthimmelen

Ensam jag skrider fram på min bana.

Längre och längre sträcker sig vägen.

Ack, uti fjärran döljes mitt mål!

Dagen sig sänker, nattlig blir rymden.

Snart blott de eviga stjärnor jag ser.

Men jag ej klagar flyende dagen.

Ej mig förfärar stundande natten.

Ty av den kärlek, som går genom världen,

föll ock en strimma in i min själ.

The night sky

Lonely along my course I move forward.

Further and further still the way stretches.

Ah, in the distance veiled is my goal!

Day is descending, night fills the heavens.

Soon stars eternal are all that I see.

But I lament not the day that is fleeing.

Nor do I dread the night that’s approaching.

For of the love which the world here suffuses

into my soul a gleam also fell.

Poem by the Danish poet Michael Strunge

2012-01-22T05:43:00.000+01:00

Speed of life

Smash the clock

with my thoughts –

I only live

at the speed of life

Swiftly change

to a new disguise –

I need transformations

at the speed of life

Form contrasts

need no camouflage –

sick and tired of

not being myself

Change colour

anarchist chameleon –

throw off my mask

change life-form

My mind

grows out of my head –

changed minds

after having been dead

Finally

it would seem I now know –

that I do not have

an indestructible self

Who knows

knows what one’s self is like?

I couldn’t care less

myself create myself

Change speed

I need a change of speed –

I transform my life

before it transforms me

Poem from 'Variations on a theme by Silfverstolpe' by the Swedish writer Lars Gustafsson

2012-01-19T20:17:00.002+01:00

(Coda: GMS dedicates the statue of Finn Malmgren)

And one winter day the friend once more stands

in the park, but this time as a statue.

He is and he is not Finn Malmgren.

Returned and not returned.

‘Maybe you’re too shy to be a statue

in this city of critical youth

and shy when you’re now forced to speak.’

All around students in white caps,

standard bearers, honoratiores in doctor’s hats.

And then this statue. Which is completely out of place.

How was it to be forced to speak?

Finn Malmgren, lost in the Arctic Ocean,

has come back again as a Stone Guest.

How does one address a statue?

One does not speak to statues.

How does one force a statue to speak?

Statues are regularly far too shy.

One can speak in their stead,

and then must pay careful attention

that the one whom one imitates

is the person, not the statue.

If statues could speak,

they would perhaps have

frighteningly deep voices,

or sound like the gnashing

one hears when an excavator

scoops deep in a quarry.

That is difficult, and hardly customary,

hardly even appropriate, to imitate.

So the speaker must

now imitate three voices:

The genuine voice of the deceased

fading fast away,

a voice from the Arctic Ocean

(‘in gasping wireless telegrams’),

another voice that is neither

that of Finn Malmgren nor the Statue

but Finn Malmgren as Statue

and that is probably quite difficult to imitate,

for Doctor Malmgren was, as far as is known,

never a statue.

And then finally, Gunnar Mascoll,

your own voice, boyish and friendly,

cultivated, slightly nasal,

a fine Englishman’s voice, but with

a slight touch of Södra Västmanland,

between Gisslarbo and Kungsör, approximately,

and with a weak melancholy fall

on the final syllable,

(but not so tired as to sound Mephistophelian),

Gunnar Mascoll,

who are you talking to?

The poet Gunnar Mascoll Silfverstolpe wrote a poem about the Swedish meteorologist and Arctic explorer Finn Malmgren, who perished after the airship 'Italia' crashed en route for the North Pole. It was read out at the unveiling ceremony on 1 November 1931. Lars Gustafsson wrote a series of variations on this theme of Silfverstolpe, like those of Bach on the Goldberg theme. This is the Coda of that collection. For the original Silfverstolpe poem (in Swedish), go to here.

Poem (1936) by the Danish writer Tom Kristensen (1893-1974)

2012-01-19T09:21:00.001+01:00

It is Knud who is dead

Were I today a grouse, I’d flex my wings for flight,

I’d fill my lungs with air and fly both day and night

over a winter sea blackening behind whitish foam,

through the cloud-chased December sky I’d roam.

But as a wind-tossed grouse, the sport of every gale,

north-west I’d fly to warn of storms that now hoist sail.

My heart brimful of pain, lured from within my breast

The song that soon will howl the length of Greenland’s coast.

On it would echo, covering half the world,

follow sealskin boots and all sledge tracks now unfurled.

howl in Hudson Bay as far as King William’s Land,

whisper in settlements and every distant strand.

All his old friends should be roused from a doze so light,

Clearing and Willow Twig, Auá with dog snowy-white,

all the beautiful girls with smiles broad and bright

would rise in confusion, forgetting their carefree respite.

All of them must be awakened. Sorrow’s but started,

Soon it will spread to where all Alaska’s uncharted.

The great magician is dead! The mighty wizard is dead!

Did you all hear my song? Did you all get the thread?

Islands, lands and rivers are locked with chains of ice.

The joy that warmed you all has paid the final price.

Shiver, as we all do today, our fire is dead,

for he’s forever dead, it is Knud who is dead.

Do you all understand?

The 'Knud' referred to is the Danish arctic explorer Knud Rasmussen. To hear a discussion of this translation, you can download a podcast of DR P1 Skønlitteratur 18.01.2012 here. The discussion starts after about 21 mins 21 secs of the programme. It is in Danish!

A 'vanitas' poem by the German writer Andreas Gryphius (1616-64)

2012-01-15T11:10:00.006+01:00

All is vanity

You see, where’er you look, but vanity on earth!

What one man builds today, another will tear down;

where now proud cities stand, mere meadows will be found

on which a shepherd child’s seen playing with the herd,

What now is in full flower will trampled be and dead

what throbs with vibrant life will soon be ash and bone;

nought may eternal be: not ore nor marble stone.

On us now fortune smiles, but troubles loom ahead.

The fame of mighty deeds like dreams shall fade away.

Is then poor humankind, time’s plaything, here to stay?

Ah, how most everything we now consider great

is but an empty void, but shadow, dust and wind,

is but a meadow flower one can no longer find!

And what’s eternal not one man would contemplate!

For the original poem, go to here.

One of the best-known of all the Swedish writer Bellman's poems

2012-01-13T17:39:00.004+01:00

FREDMAN’S SONGS

No. 21

Mealtime song

Then off we lumber, cold and numb,

leave Bacchus’ din and noisy shout,

when death calls to us: ‘Neighbour, come,

your hour-glass has run out.’

You, old man, put your crutches down,

and you, sweet youth, my law obey:

the fairest nymph whose smile you own

link arms with right away.

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

and die contentedly!

You at your dram and rummer glass,

with cheeks all flushed and hat awry,

ere long your hearse will slowly pass

and swathed in black go by!

And you who big words ne’er did shun,

your coat by stars and orders hid,

the joiner’s got your coffin done,

is planing smooth its lid!

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

and die contentedly!

But you who sit lips tightly pressed,

whom bolts, bars, iron and locks protect,

arms folded on your money chest

shut in and circumspect;

and you who, jealous, smash again

all bottles, goblets, mirrors too,

now say goodnight, your wine-glass drain

your rival greet anew;

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

and die contentedly!

And you with titles’ fine array

who gild your beggar’s staff each year,

who though of rank can hardly pay

the cost of your own bier;

and you who angry, idle, base

would curse your infancy’s own hearth,

will e’er display your drunken face

down to the cup’s last half;

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

and die contentedly!

You who to war have strode ahead

in bloodstained shirt at bugle’s call;

and you who romp in curtained bed,

in Cloris’ fair arms sprawl;

and you who with your golden book

at temple’s echo stand and pause,

who shake your head with learnèd look,

and wage disastrous wars;

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

and die contentedly!

And you who with such honest eyes

your friends blaspheme with undue zest

and at your wine them stigmatise

and do so as in jest;

and you who fail them to defend.

though never fail them to allow

to give you drinks you then up-end,

what is your answer now?

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

and die contentedly!

But you who till your dying day,

your host’s glass have not thought to chink

since to his table you did stray,

although he calls out: Drink!

Force such a guest from food and wine,

Away with him and all his mob,

and wrench then with a look malign

the wine glass from his gob.

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

and die contentedly!

Say, neighbour, say, are you content?

Then praise your host when he appears.

And should we both be homeward bent,

let’s walk together: Cheers!

But first with wine, both red and white,

let’s bow deep to our hostess fair,

and slip into the grave aright

in evening star’s bright flare.

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

and die contentedly!

For the original, go to here. For the best-ever recording, try Sven-Bertil Taube.

A poem by the Swedish writer Verner von Heidenstam (1859-1940)

2012-01-13T08:26:00.003+01:00

Vid vägens slut

Vis, o människa, det blir du först

när du hinner till de aftonsvala

höjders topp, där jorden overskådas.

Konung, vänd dig om vid vägens slut,

vila där en stund och se tillbaka!

Allt förklaras där och allt försonas,

och din ungdoms riken hägra åter,

strödda än med ljus och morgondagg.

At the ending of the path

Wise, oh human creature, you’ll first be

when you gain the lofty summit in its

evening coolness, with the earth spread out below.

King, turn round at the ending of the path,

rest there a while and look behind you!

All is explained there, all is reconciled,

and once more your youth’s realms appear to shimmer,

still strewn with early light and morning dew.

Poem by the Swedish poet Artur Lundkvist

2012-01-12T16:11:00.003+01:00

The magpie

my gusty temperament’s bird,

flies whirling like a helicopter,

a ball of wings in the wind.

The magpie, merry widow, laughing

despite her unprovided for young, laughing

at thefts she’s committed and thefts she is planning.

The birch tree’s own black-and-white bird,

at home even in trees that stand black in snow.

Basketless picker of autumn’s rowanberries,

with breast steel-shimmering as a frost-clear winter sky.

Farms though she loves even more than the forest,

flies through chimney smoke reeking of fried bacon,

picks up a safety pin thrown out with the baby’s

bathwater,

sits on the wooden pump listening to the separator in

the kitchen.

The magpie, cunning lass with wagging tail,

never completely young and inexperienced,

more like a gipsy girl with a silver coin in her ear,

easily seduced in late-winter’s last hay

when her feet are cold from the rain.

Though never a surly old crone like the crow

or hoarse like the raven, the roving horsedealer,

with a knife inside his coat and chewing his backy.

No, most akin to the poor vicarage miss

that dances on the ice

in spite of her tattered gloves.

The magpie with bundle of twigs and squeaky milk churn,

clad in blown-away egg-white, dipped in tar from the drainpipes,

where she whets her beak against the grindstone

and laughingly mocks young boys that climb

trees.

To see the original, go to here.

Another song from 'Fridas Visor' by the Swedish writer Birger Sjöberg

2012-01-11T15:37:00.002+01:00

Freda spring-cleaning

(Among the trees in Freda’s father’s patch of garden he observes outside the windows, during a spring lunch break, how Freda, who has been granted time off to do the spring-cleaning, is busily on the move about the house. ---Internal hymn of love.)

Something sweet and angel-like for certain

gleams round Freda’s head, you must admit!

More so, when behind spring’s flowery curtain

twinkle-toed I see her lightly flit!

She takes no resounding strides but nicely

tripping steps like reeds that swish when swung;

And yet Freda does not stand precisely

on our social ladder’s highest rung.

How while working with such dedication

she remains so practical and calm,

Science must seek a cogent explanation

since I’m left quite tongue-tied by her charm.

Runs about with pail where water trembles

dries the crystals round the lamp’s thick band.

Flower or butterfly though she resembles,

or a wave that gleams on silver sand.

Swiftly is her ready cloth in motion,

while she breathes on waiting window-pane,

then her nimble hands without commotion

rub the copper pitcher bright again.

Every part of ‘Charles XII’s obsequies’

she now cleans to Boston’s cheerful airs.

How the halbadiers their king’s exequies

would forget were her hand close to theirs!

While spring breezes quiverings are raising

in the rooftop phone wires where they swarm,

the tall bureau’s china cat is gazing

in deep thought at Freda’s bustling form.

Now my angel’s light hand wields a hammer,

this embroidery tacks to the wall:

‘Leave beneath the threshold thoughts’ high clamour

and your hat and stick out in the hall.’

Free from bitterness at what fate’s offered,

I do yet affirm with love-filled voice,

though the Alderman’s his daughter proffered,

Freda would still be my certain choice.

Should my master with his daughter pair me:

‘Take Astrea as your future bride,’

I’d still hasten back to Freda, where she

chases moths that in the curtains hide.

Common wind makes window panes start tinkling,

common dust around her ankles flit,

and yet something angel-like is twinkling

round fair Freda’s head, you must admit!

Midst the pails and stools she moves so nicely,

with a queenly air her cloth is wrung.

And yet Freda does not stand precisely

on our social ladder’s highest rung.

To see the original, go to here.

Poem by the Dutch writer Hester Knibbe

2012-01-08T17:10:00.001+01:00

Search Expedition

Tonight wandered through a city

so done in as a body with broken

ribs and a heart laid bare. Searched

for you there with buns in my pocket, searched

for a sigh, some movement in dismantled

streets and alleys. Tonight

a moment not knowing your lair

searched for you with hope in my bones.

But no matter how much I tugged at you

with my voice and my eyes, fragments of wall

kept on growing around you, cellars seemed

to have crept on you, I stayed alone

with those buns in my pocket

just calling and walking.

For this and two other Knibbe translations, go to here

The plot thickens! Original text of 'The first time...'

2012-01-07T07:22:00.006+01:00

So now there are three versions!

A real classic this one - a poem from 'Fridas Visor' by the Swedish writer Birger Sjögren (1885-1929)

2012-01-06T07:32:00.012+01:00

The first time...

The first time that I saw you it was a summer’s day

one morning when the sun was shining bright,

and all the meadow’s flowers, so varied in display,

in pairs stood bowing in its warming light.

So gentle was the morning breeze, and at the shore but slightly

a loving wavelet rippled round a shell the sand held tightly.

The first time that I saw you it was a summer’s day

the first time that I held your hand so lightly.

The first time that I saw you the sky was all ablaze,

so dazzling as the finely feathered swan.

There came then from the forest, the green-fringed forest’s haze,

a chorusing of birds in joyful song.

There trilled a song from high above whose beauty none could equal,

it was the tiny grey-fledged lark, as hard to glimpse as gleeful.

The first time that I saw you, the sky was all ablaze,

so dazzling and intense though without sequel.

And therefore when I see you, though it be winter's day,

with snowdrifts lying glittering and cold,

I still hear larks' quick trilling, the summer winds that stray

and spring's keen urge to even so unfold.

I still sense that from downy beds green plants would be advancing

with cornflower and with cloverleaf all lovers' joy enhancing,

that rays of summer sunshine upon your features play,

which softly blush in radiance entrancing.

This is from the first of two books that are a gentle pastiche of provincial town life. To see the original, go to the Projekt Runeberg site here. There is another version of line 20, with 'vågens brus' (=the sound of the waves) instead of 'vårens frus', even in poetry anthologies, but 'vårens frus' (= the urge of spring to burst forth) seems more logical in view of the following two lines.

There are many YouTube recordings, but the version to download is by Ingvar Wixell, originally recorded in the early 1970s. It is available on iTunes 'Fridas Visor & Evert Taube'.

A poem by the Swedish poet Gunnar Ekelöf (1907-68)

2012-01-05T07:47:00.000+01:00

Poetik

Det är till tystnaden du skall lyssna

tystnaden bakom apostroferingar, allusioner

tystnaden i retoriken

eller i det så kallade formellt fulländade

Detta är sökandet efter ett meningslöst

i det meningsfulla

och omvänt

Och allt vad jag så konstfullt söker dikta

är kontrastvis någonting konstlöst

och hela fyllnaden tom

Vad jag har skrivit

är skrivet mellan raderna

Poetics

It is the silence you’re to listen to

the silence behind quotation marks, allusions

the silence in the rhetoric

or in the so-called formally accomplished

This is the search for what’s meaningless

in the meaningful

and vice versa

And all that I artfully seek to compose

is by way of contrast something artless

and the whole fullness empty

What I have written

is written between the lines

Another sonnet from the collection 'mannen utan väg' by the Swedish poet Erik Lindegren

2012-01-03T09:18:00.007+01:00

XXV

the faithful bee hums for the shrivelled rose

the rabid dog drinks from the sunken storm’s throat

and the flying dutchman hauls his bride on board

so as to bury himself in her fury-cut hair

at the lists the lance of the black knight grows

and in the air the tragic mask of the charwoman glitters

in the dandelion pasture even the catchfly’s tar-bubbles burst

and the butterflies’ blinkers now say their final prayer

in the skies desert-singed clouds stack from verandahs

and the pulse’s tambourine makes the virginia creeper tremble

a taboo summer squirms uneasily on crystal-clear noes

the jaws of the tiger lily sink softly into the past

from the trailer of time hurrahs are flung out at death

dully garrisons rest beneath the rain’s silent leaps

A poem from the 40 'broken sonnets' by the Swedish writer Erik Lindegren

2012-01-02T08:32:00.005+01:00

XXIX

far out on the ocean rocks Medusa’s head

with worms now grey and a crow’s-nest of eternal grief

we recall what we recognise our brothers’ blood

their winding sheet of women’s burning tears

their eyes forever lost in the begging hand of death

we recognise what we know and we wait

wait for liberation’s wingbeat above our heads

for the end of degradation and our own life –

oh whirlwind of hate that lacerates our breast

run through us with life when we have to bleed

lift us like a trophy in your flight towards the sun

carve us a blood-eagle with the spear of twilight

for deep in our breast resides Medusa’s head

with worms now grey and tears of stone-turned grief

This sonnet, according to Lindegren, describes 'Sweden's situation Whitsun 1940', and it draws on both the Medusa of antiquity and the famous painting 'The Raft of the Medusa' by Théodore Géricault. The poem is from the collection 'mannen utan väg' (the pathless man), which I am at present translating into English. The entire original collection can be found here.

A poem by the Dutch writer Jacobus Revius (1586-1658)

2011-12-26T11:50:00.000+01:00

CREATION

God with his wires invisible has strung the world

As ’twere a lute, with all of its accoutrements.

The welkin is the bowl, full-ribbed from end to end,

The rose, the sun and moon whose orbits round us twirl.

The two coarse bass strings that forever boom and roar

Are earth and ocean: the high chanterelle, so sweet

Upon the ear, the sky: the others that complete

The choir are the trees and beasts of every sort.

This lute th’Almighty plucked with His accomplished fingers,

The angels then joined in as His proficient singers,

The mountains listened rapt, the rivers all stood still:

And man alone hears neither singers nor the strings,

Unless it please God to reveal to him such things

According to His prudent plan and heav’nly will.

Poem by the Dutch writer Nachoem M. Wijnberg

2011-12-25T18:10:00.000+01:00

THE RACKET IN RODIN’S STUDIO

His apprentices’ sole task is making hands

and placing them in boxes, ordered as to type,

while he himself kneads the remaining clay bodies

attaching to them the hands already prepared.

He prises apertures open and moistens the clay

with spit from his mouth, to save himself some time.

He moves between the heaps of clay and the models

kneeling on sheets while the apprentices watch him

and hold onto hands that grip and let go.

First verse of 'Solstice Song' by the Danish poet Johannes V. Jensen

2011-12-21T12:12:00.000+01:00

Solstice song

Our sun has now grown cold,

we are in winter’s hold

the days are waning.

Now, past the deepest night,

our hope burns bright –

yes, hope burns bright,

for now the sun will right,

now light will soon return, the days again are gaining.

Another poem by Ekelund

2011-12-13T12:09:00.001+01:00

Then the beeches were light

Then the beeches were light, then isles of

floating marsh buttercups riddled the river,

light its crown the bird-cherry swayed where I

roamed as a boy. –

Soundless the rain. The sky hangs low over

barren tree-tops. A whistle: the train starts to

move on again. Toward slowly darkening evening I

journey friendless.

To see the original poem and comments on it, go to here

A poem by the Swedish writer Vilhelm Ekelund (1880-1949)

2011-12-13T07:37:00.005+01:00

After rain the chestnut trees...

After rain the chestnut trees

wearily incline the blossom

of their heavy sceptres.

The large wet

clusters of the lilacs

gently rock.

Shyly and hesitantly

the nightingale

already starts to call.

Heart, and you feel

the endless balm of

rebirth and of silence

flowing over you:

heart, and yet your song

is this minor –

this mute song of longing.

A poem by the Dutch poet Hanny Michaelis

2011-12-12T09:00:00.001+01:00

This afternoon - the room

filled to the brim with sun

and sweeping baroque music –

I thought unawares

of what you once said

to me about

sorrow being the keynote

of existence.

That night tears

came to my eyes. Now

I just slightly

moved my head

like a donkey

plagued by flies.

Yesterday's poem on the Dutch Meulenhoff calendar, by Gerrit Komrij

2011-12-09T06:50:00.001+01:00

THE WORLD UPSIDE-DOWN

In order to collect the doubtful prize

For all the pain she caused that’s gone before,

The holy trinity adopts the guise

Of three air pilots, sticky still with gore.

And Destination Hell’s their aircraft’s mission

“The devil waits with fat cigars and bourbon.”

The airmen’s journey seems an endless prison.

For years the blood-red airscrew whirring’s droned on.

Not far from Saturn, a ring her station,

Combing her hair, they see a raffish belle.

Clearly they display their admiration

But nowhere can they rest. There is no hell.

Danish translation of yesterday's poem

2011-12-08T08:35:00.001+01:00

Havet ælter sine minder

Havet ælter sine minder,

indtil de bliver glatslebne:

og alligevel betyder de så lidt.

For havet selv er en eneste
stor hukommelse
et eneste stort nu.

Derfor: forlang af frasen

det fuldkomne blads fløjlsbløde glans,

eller tving den til at forme sig til en klippes knæskal!

Hvor lykkeligt intet at huske,

intet! Og dog være et vidnesbyrd

om noget forgangent– et vidnesbyrd i ansigtets

dristige linje, i håndens frigjorthed,

i mundens lukkethed – et vidnesbyrd i stemmen.

Og hvad du siger er ligegyldigt

som de knuste æggeskal i en forladt rede.

Poem by the Swedish-language Finnish writer Rabbe Enckell (1903–74)

2011-12-07T10:03:00.003+01:00

Havet ältar sina minnen

Havet ältar sina minnen,

tills de blir glattslipade:

och ändå betyder de så litet.

Ty havet självt är ett enda

stort minne

ett enda stort nu.

Därför: avkräv frasen

det fullkomliga lövets sammetsmjuka glans,

eller tvinga den att forma sig till en klippas knäskål!

Hur lyckligt ingenting minnas,

ingenting! Och dock vara ett vittnesbörd

om något gånget – ett vittnesbörd i ansiktets

djärva linje, i handens frigjordhet,

i munnens slutenhet – ett vittnesbörd i rösten.

Och vad du säger är likgiltigt

som de krossade äggskalen i ett övergivet näste.

The sea kneads its memories

The sea kneads its memories

until they are smoothly polished:

and yet they mean so little.

For the sea itself is a single

great memory a single great now.

Therefore: demand from the phrase

the velvet-soft lustre of the perfect leaf,

or force it to form itself into a rock’s patella!

How fortunate to remember nothing,

nothing! And yet to be a testimony

of something bygone – a testimony in the bold line

of the face, the emancipation of the hand,

the reserve of the mouth – a testimony in the voice.

And what you say is of no consequence

like the crushed egg-shells of an abandoned nest.

Anon. Norwegian song, originally sung by Alf Cranner on his LP 'Fiine Antiquiteter" in the mid-1960s

2011-12-05T16:49:00.003+01:00

Vil man se fagre piger i mengde,

da skal man øverst i Hallingdal gå.

Fagre som roser, skjønne som liljer,

gullgule lokker og øyne så blå.

En sådan var min,

med gruber på kinden

den falske til malurt forvandlede vin.

Skulle jeg sørge, da var jeg en dåre.

Skulle jeg gråte, da var jeg en narr.

Skulle jeg la kvinnfolk mitt hjerte bedåre,

da var det skitt å vera vaksin som kar.

Takk og ære for meg!

Den pige skal aldri,

nei, aldri i verden min kjæreste bli.

Will you see fair maids, fair maids a-plenty,

high up in Hallingdal’s where you should be.

Fair as fine roses, lovely as lilies,

fine golden locks, eyes as blue as the sea.

A like girl was mine,

with dimpled cheeks rosy

the false one to wormwood did turn the sweet wine.

Were I to grieve now, with fools you’d compare me

Were I to weep now, a numskull I’d be.

Were I to let every woman ensnare me,

it would be hard as a man to stay free.

Praise and honour to me!

That girl, she will never,

no, never whatever my sweetheart e’er be.

For a snatch of a more recent version by Alf Cranner, go to here. The text differs slightly from this one.

A poem by another Romantic poet, a Swede this time - Erik Johan Stagnelius (1793-1823)

2011-12-04T10:55:00.004+01:00

Till Natten

Redan med Cynthias lampa i hand, omglimmad af stjärnor,

Kommer Du, vänliga Natt! åter från skuggornas land.

Tystnaden jämte Dig går och sömnen, af vallmo bekransad,

Lekande drömmars tropp följer Ert segrande tåg.

Heliga Natt! i din famn jag med lågande känslor mig kastar,

Uslingens enda skatt, slafvarnes frihet Du är.

Dölj mig för människors syn, bjud människorösterna tiga

Och på moderlig arm vagga ditt gråtande barn.

Kan Du ej hela de blödande sår, mig Dagen har gifvit,

Klaga min smärta för Dig skall Du ej neka likväl.

O att Du evig blef! men allt är förgängligt i tiden,

Vågorna skifta ej så fjärran på sjöarne om.

Snart är ditt välde förbi, snart strålar den rosiga Eos,

Fordom min glädje och nu fasans och sorgernas bud.

Dock jag känner en natt, som aldrig sig ändar, en hvila,

Aldrig af spöken störd, aldrig af drömmarnes här.

Mäktige Gudar! unnen mig den! snart, snart mig den unnen!

Icke en annan bön har jag att ställa till Er.

To Night

Surrounded by bright-gleaming stars, and clasping Cynthia’s lantern,

You have already returned, kind Night, from shadowy lands.

Silence accompanies you, sleep too, with poppies its garland,

Playful batallions of dreams swell your victorious train.

Ah, Holy Night, to your bosom with feelings ablaze I now hasten,

Wretches’ sole treasure you are, freedom for all those enslaved.

Hide me from all human sight, bid all human voices fall silent

And on your motherly arm cradle your tearful young child.

Should it not be in your power to heal the foul wounds day’s inflicted,

You’ll not deny me to tell e’en so at length of my woes.

Oh, were you but without end! Though all in time has its season,

Waves on the lakes so far off seem not to constantly change.

Soon will your reign have its end, soon will pink Eos be gleaming,

Formerly source of great joy, heralding fear now and grief.

One night does though exist, one that’s a rest-place unchanging,

One that no ghosts e’er disturb, one that no dream-hosts frequent.

Grant this to me, mighty gods! Soon, soon please let it be granted!

No other wish have I to beg for from you.

This poem is written in elegiac couplets, each made up of a hexameter followed by a pentameter.

Another poem by the Danish writer Schack von Staffeldt

2011-12-02T10:43:00.000+01:00

Initiation

I sat far out on the sound’s still shore,

The skies were smiling;

And filled with longing I gazed down o’er

The waves beguiling.

The sun slipped into the sea’s embrace,

The coast and sky joined in blushing grace.

With sweet foreboding a harp I heard,

The clouds now rending;

The muse descended, in sunlight girt,

Her lyre extending.

She sealed my lips with kiss of fire

And sank down into her shimmering pyre.

Then all around me the world was new:

The winds spoke softly;

From pale clouds drifting before the moon

Called spirits lofty;

In all creation a loving heart beat,

My own reflection in all did I meet.

Since then the earth each thought and desire

Does now imprison;

Though dreams ease longing, as do song’s lyre

And premonition,

The kiss consumes me, no peace can see birth

Before the skies I bring down to earth!

To see the original poem, go to here

Another poem by Edith Södergran

2011-12-01T11:59:00.006+01:00

Ingenting

Var lugn, mitt barn, det finnes ingenting,

och allt är som du ser: skogen, röken och skenornas flykt.

Någonstädes långt borta i fjärran land

finnes en blåare himmel och en mur med rosor

eller en palm och en ljummare vind—

och det är allt.

Det finns icke något mera än snön på granens gren.

Det finnes ingenting att kyssa med varma läppar,

och alla läppar blir med tiden svala.

Men du säger, mitt barn, att ditt hjärta är mäktigt,

och att leva förgäves är mindre än att dö.

Vad ville du döden? Känner du vämjelsen hans kläder sprida,

och ingenting är äckligare än död för egen hand.

Vi böra älska livets långa timmar av sjukdom

och trånga år av längtan

såsom de korta ögonblick då öknen blommar.

Nothing

Calm now, my child, there’s nothing there,

and everything is as you see it: the forest, smoke and ever-receding rails.

Somewhere far off in a distant land

there’s a bluer sky and a wall with roses

or a palm and a more temperate wind –

and that is all.

There’s nothing there except the snow on the spruce tree’s branches.

There’s nothing there to kiss with warm lips,

and in time all lips grow cool.

You say though, my child, that the heart is powerful,

and that to live in vain is less than dying.

What did you want of death? Do you feel the repugnance his clothes spread,

and nothing is more repulsive than to die by one’s own hand.

We ought to love life’s long hours of illness

and oppressive years of longing

just as the brief moments when the desert is in flower.

Short poem by the Dutch (and Frisian) writer Tsead Bruinja

2011-11-30T08:37:00.000+01:00

a choir sings

a choir sings

and compassion makes the air around us

as thick as syrup

then the record stops

all the entrails

fall out of the song

we are looking at

as if our first manger

was a guitar case

A poem by the Danish Romantic poet Schack von Staffeldt

2011-11-29T15:56:00.003+01:00

By the lake

– And while all the waves are borne off apace,

I feel as if I there too had my place,

And staring into the image-filled lake,

In some strange longing my parting would take.

From still azure depths me greeting, I spy

A different nature, different sky;

All is ethereal there and ideal,

Like things in their pristine form more real.

My very first I from the purest blue,

My once purer self then whispers anew:

Why did you leave me, just leave me and go?

Oh, how I do love you, I love you so!

How strangely afraid and aching I seem,

My spirit escapes to more than a dream:

There appear to be gods and humans who

Embrace and mingle in depths of pure blue.

From Digte (1804). To see the original, go to here.

Another Swedish-speaking Finnish poet: Edith Södergran

2011-11-29T08:06:00.004+01:00

The world bathes in blood

The world bathes in blood that God should live.
That his glory may persist, all else must perish.
What do we humans know of the eternal one’s pining
and what the gods drink to renew their strength.
God will create anew. He will reshape the world into a clearer sign.
Therefore he girds himself with a belt of lightnings,
therefore he wears a crown of flaming spikes,
therefore he envelops the earth in blindness and night.
Therefore he observes cruelly. His creator’s hands forcefully squeeze the earth.
What he creates no one knows. But it passes like a shudder
through half-awake minds. It is like giddiness at the sight of the abyss.
Before rejoicing choirs break out in songs of praise
it is quiet as in the forest before sunrise.

(1918)

An early poem by the Swedish writer Gustaf Fröding

2011-11-27T10:33:00.001+01:00

Guitar and accordion

Two neighbours reside in my dwelling

– the one sentimental in vein,

– with loud voice I hear him declaiming

of sorrow and life’s pain.

At times he is gloomy and bitter,

and melancholic, bizarre,

at times soulful, quite elegiac,

and sings at times to his guitar.

The other is sprightly and cheerful,

bucolic and coarsely burlesque.

For him are all sorrows and troubles

distortions, mere fancy, grotesque.

He broods not at all – for life is

a joke he just chortles on,

and whistles and sings while playing

his old accordion.

– You soon tire of hearing such antics

– and yet I’ve grown used to the pair;

the one quite resembles my present;

the other my past laid bare.

And sometimes, when sadness oppresses

and days to me seem too long,

I write down in music notation

small snatches of both their songs.

And should people say that the music’s

melodically poorly turned,

and isn’t quite all that it should be

where harmony’s concerned,

it comes from the fact that guitar song

and accordion song can quite

often both strike up at the same time

and come from left and right.

To see the original poem, go to here

Poem by the Finnish writer Johann Ludvig Runeberg (1804–77) who wrote in the Swedish language

2011-11-25T11:22:00.002+01:00

Joy and sorrow

Joy and sorrow both

resided in my heart,

joy in the one chamber,

sorrow in the other.

irreconcilably separate,

first the one ruled

then the other, solely.

Since the one and only came here,

she’s opened, it would seem, the door

and has united both,

for my joy is sadness

and my sorrow bliss.

Translation of a poem by the Swedish poet Esaias Tegnér (1782-1846)

2011-11-24T10:35:00.003+01:00

Spleen

I stood where my life’s slopes had reached their summit,

Where watercourses strain and would untwine

And with their foaming wave would downwards plummet;

There it was clear, and standing there was fine.

I gazed towards the sun and all its planets

Which, after setting, in the sky did shine;

I looked down at the earth, so green and fair,

And God was good and man was honest there.

An evil spleen-filled elf appeared, who merely

Bit without warning deep into my heart;

Lo, all at once the world was void and dreary,

And sun and stars quite suddenly went dark;

My once gay landscape lay autumnal, weary,

Each grove grew dun, each flower stem broke apart,

All vigour died within my frozen mind,

All joy, all courage shrivelled up and pined.

What’s it to me, reality’s dead matter,

So dull, oppressive and so coarsely raw?

How hope’s once rosy hue has, ah, grown flatter!

How memory once blue, ah, clouded o’er!

And poetry itself! Its idle patter,

Its tight-rope saltos I would have no more.

Its vain illusions none can satisfy,

But skimmed from surfaces of things nearby.

For you, mankind, I should be praises saying,

You in God’s image made, how apt, how true!

Two lies though you are guilty of displaying,

Woman is one and, by her, man makes two.

Of faith and honour the old song needs praying,

Best sung when we deception would pursue.

You heaven’s child! What’s true, I would maintain,

Is, branded on your brow, the mark of Cain!

So legible a mark, writ by God’s finger,

Why did I fail to notice such a sign?

Through human life a corpse-like stench does linger

Which poisons spring’s air, summer’s pomp maligns.

That smell comes from the grave and seeks to injure;

Graves are walled up, by marble guarded fine.

Alas, though, foul decay is on life’s breath,

No guard shuts out its constant reek of death.

Tell me, you watchman, how the night progresses!

Is it unceasing, will it never end?

The moon, half-eaten, through the sky’s still presses,

The tearful stars still through the heavens wend.

My pulse beats fast as in my youth’s successes,

Hours of affliction though it cannot mend.

Each pulse beat’s pain, how endless and how raw!

Oh, my poor heart, devoured and bleeding sore!

My heart? Within my breast I none discover,

’Tis but an urn wherein life’s ashes lie.

Show pity on me, Hertha, you green mother,

Oh, let that urn be buried by and by;

In air earth’s pain erodes but still will smother,

In earth, though, surely it must cease its cry,

Perhaps time’s orphan, when earth’s school is done,

Will see its father – far beyond the sun.

To see the original, go to here.