A famous medieval Danish ballad - Ebbe Skammelsøn

Ebbe Skammelsøn

Skammel lives in Ty

both rich and mighty glad,

so courtly the five sons he has –

the end two met was bad.

So outlawed must Ebbe Skammelsøn

     tread tracks far from home.

Ebbe he serves at the king’s high court

for gold and kine serves he;

Peder his brother he has a ship built,

its mast a straight tall tree.

And out there in the courtyard

he ups and shoulders his skin;

and then Maid Lucelille’s

high loft he enters in.

“Hail Maid Lucelille, sit you here

and sew Knight Ebbe fine frocks;

Knight Ebbe serves at the king’s high court

You and your honour he mocks.”

That answered Maid Lucelille,

and answered full and free:

“He never does mock a maiden proud,

far less does he mock me.”

“Rise up, Maid Lucelille,

And pledge yourself my wife!

In truth I now do tell you:

That Ebbe last year lost his life.”

Answered that Maid Lucelille,

and answered full and free:

“Half more the hurt of it you’ll have

than lies in wait for me.”

Hear you me, Maid Lucelille,

And pledge yourself Peder’s wife!

In truth I now do tell you:

That Ebbe last year lost his life.”

In beer they plighted both their troth

even in that same night:

the wedding they fixed for that day month

as quickly as they might.

It was Ebbe Skammelsøn,

at midnight he awoke;

turned to the man right next to him,

of his sudden dream he spoke:

“I thought I saw my stone chamber

ablaze unto the skies!

my mother dear consumed within,

my maiden fair likewise.”

“What you thought was your stone chamber,

its gleam spread far and wide:

’Tis Peder your own brother

who’s made your love his bride.”

It was Ebbe Skammelsøn,

he went to see the king;

begged for leave of absence,

was directly granted him.

It was Ebbe Skammelsøn,

came riding into town:

“Who then are these people

now gathered all around?”

Answered him the young maiden

dressed in her kirtle red:

“’Tis Peder, your own brother,

who now your love has wed.”

It was Ebbe Skammelsøn,

who from the place would ride,

his mother and his sisters two

they bade him wait and bide.

“Oh hear me, my dear mother

Allow me now to ride!

were I to bide this evening,

You’d rue it all your life.”

One sister he gave a fine golden brooch,

the other a ring for her hand;

for Maid Lucelille he’d had it wrought,

when serving in foreign land.

His father bade him sit at the bench

placed highest in the hall:

his mother placed a jug in his hand,

and bade him pour for them all.

He poured for all the golden mead

and then the wine full clear;

each time he glimpsed the lovely bride,

his eye it shed a tear.

The ladies at the topmost bench

they spoke in disbelief:

“Why does Ebbe Skammelsøn

pour wine while in such grief?”

“You eat and drink, my ladies,

both mead and cool clear wine!

Soon there’ll be else to speak of

than the sorrow that is mine.”

That evening late when dew did fall

and all had drunk and fed,

the time came for the fair young bride

to seek her wedding bed.

They all led the fair young bride

to where her bed was made:

before went Ebbe Skammelsøn,

his torch did light the way.

Along the gallery he led

the bride, though he was loath:

“And do you happen to recall

To me you did plight your troth?”

All I ever pledged to you,

Has Peder now, your brother;

all the days I yet may live

I’ll be to you as a mother.”

Then answered Ebbe Skammelsøn,

the tears ran down his cheek:

“It was as wife I you would wed,

and I no mother seek.

Hark you, Maid Lucelille,

With me now flee the land!

my brother Peder I will slay

and that hard fate withstand!”

“If brother Peder you do slay,

I’m lost to you for ever;

Then you must grieve yourself to death

as a bird astray must shiver.”

It was Ebbe Skammelsøn,

sword from sheath did draw;

it was Lucelille

he cut down to the floor.

His bloody sword he then did hide

beneath his purple skin;

he entered the stone chamber

where Peder his brother was in.

“Hark you, Peder Skammelsøn

the time too fast has fled!

A full hour by the clock has passed

since the bride went to her bed.

Hark you, Peder Skammelsøn

all does you avail!

The bride sits in the bridal bed,

and waits for you so pale.”

“Hark you, Ebbe Skammelsøn,

dear brother by my side;

I promise you this selfsame night

to sleep with my fair bride!”

It was Ebbe Skammelsøn,

sword from sheath did draw;

It was Peder Skammelsøn

he cut down to the floor.

His father parted with his left foot,

his mother her right hand;

So outlawed must Ebbe Skammelsøn

steer clear now of this land:

So outlawed must Ebbe Skammelsøn

     tread tracks far from home.

Another Ter Balkt poem

She carries a glass of water up the stairs

    for W.

Rainbows crowd in front of the window

Seas crowd together under her foot

She carries a glass of water up the stairs

In her glass bouquets of papaver, golden

fields of corn, stars of lesser celandine;

dusty evenings and villages, like snow

flaking in the glass that she carries up the stairs

It is the great flight of stairs from silence

to silence, it is the ending flight of stairs

In her glass: goldseekers

In her glass: winter circuses

She bravely carries her big glass of water

Listen, in her bermuda triangle

planes and fast ships will

plunge and founder, against her glass

lips will stick fast, spirits, drinking

and shouting ‘There is The Sea, The Sea -’

(Four highroads peer through the keyhole)

She carries her glass of water up the stairs

It’s water that gleams like clear light

Summer roads; towns; mountains in her glass

The beams of the house place a frame around her

Blazing old water on sailing ships sings

of love; she is love

The stairs are of rumours and almost break,

brittle as the twigs of thought

but she gracefully carries her glass of water

(All stairs would go to the roaring fire,

the houses would secretly go to the maelstrom

where even ships and planes end)

She though carries her glass of clear water

She carries her glass up the ash-flaky stairs

and seas ripple deep down under her foot

A poem by Morten Nielsen (1922-44)

Fate

Chattering cheerful voices that swirled away into the blue...

you were quite miserable, Fatty, though no single one of us knew.

Sweaty fat and thick... Hell though was crouching and sprang

up-ending you and your bike. We laughed at you, the whole gang.

You sat on the bench at the front... don’t cry now, no stare, stare, stare!

when a witty scared substitute teacher asks what two and two are.

Middle school teachers like him salvaged control of the class

by turning it all upon you, who felt a defenceless poor ass.

Finally spring came for us, fifteen with never a care,

the trees stood casting their light over the girls’ silken hair

you came close, cautious and earnest – but all ended just in a rout:

the one who laughed loudest at us was her the whole thing was about.

Time for revenge! Now you’re dressed in cross-belt and high-polished boots,

your pale blue eyes have a gleam, you lift an arm in salute.

With hatred mockery threats a person is able to cope –

But not, no never at all: To be made to feel a dope...

Now you are someone, Fatty! Both party comrade and man.

And if one day we go to the wall, your hand will show what it can.

Ready with knuckleduster to smash my face black and blue,

Your urge now to murder, Fatty, the bad years you’ve been through.

A Hugo Claus poem

THE DEATH OF HIS ANCESTOR



Before his death he has already left us,
six months earlier, dull, broke, musty, broken,
although still whole he walked through our rooms.

‘I have not been happy for a moment,’
he said gasping audibly
for air in the kitchen air.

And was then blue. Like a plum.
He was fond of plums. All sorts,
preferably just ripe. Mother sat alone.

Not that he was dead then. No, he clung
to the chairs, sea-sick.
It was his heart that did not want to die,

the engine. The carcass, the bodywork
were worn out but the engine was still good.
He stayed in bed and was sometimes dead.

The nuns hissed: ‘Yes, his time has come.’
But a hiccup or two and he set off
again: only even bluer.

He was then taken to the room
that is reserved for dying -
where the soul escapes decay.

His head shrank visibly,
about the size of a woman’s fist.
Eyes open. But can he still see?

It is nature. Had nothing more to eat
or drink. Though he still wanted to,
he chewed away. The nuns sang the Angelus.

When they wiped his lips with a
sponge, he bit on it and would not let go.
They pinched his nose and he let go.

No death rattle. The occasional hiccup.
Yes, his time has come. He was cold up to his knees
and his upper part sweat. But the engine didn’t stop.

They no longer washed him. For turning him over
would tip his heart over and cause it to stop.
Eau de cologne, not too strong, on his temples.

No speaking too loud. Not about debts. Nor
about a last signature. Go away, sir.
Son or not, go away. For he hears everything, everything.

His palate was black. His skin, say no more.
With cotton wool the holes in his skin were rid
of the black that crept into the edges, so quickly.

Fist-sized craters in the jaws of his hole,
with black mould. Let out the clutch, a shock,
he overworked the engine. Which stopped. Thank God.

And suddenly collapsed from within.
The man-sized cavity within the truss
was filled up with cardboard and cotton wool.

Straightened out, otherwise he’ll stay bent
and his bones will have to be broken.
He must be laid out fine. Everyone will be seeing him.

No more washing now either. Every form of contact
disperses the flesh, light as pollen in spring.
In the holes: the bonemeal of his fishbones.

Then came the troublesome distress for Sir Wild Boar,
Inundated with family council and solicitor.
And the time of the cart and the funeral.

I was the nail in his coffin, he often said.
Now just a fingernail, as a last gesture
scratching against the walnut of his head.

Lord, take your son in your arms.
The women went on the left (all loved ones)
The men on the right (all sons).

Time of the earth which now ferments in him.
Time of the seasons. A pint of beer, quick.
Many ancestors - and all disinherited.

A poem by the Dutch writer H.H. Ter Balkt

Hymn of praise to the walnut tree

Keep your hands from the fruit of the walnut tree,

do not shake its branches or its trunk,

whoever appropriates its fruit, whoever takes possession,

without love, that person shall fare ill.

Whoever torments the walnut tree shall fall down.

Long live the walnut tree, may it live in joy.

It is monocious, prolific.

To cause it harm is simply not on.

The seal protects it. The unbroken shield withstands.

No one steals from the walnut tree.

Those who do so even so shall surely pass away.

Nine spices protect the walnut tree.

Flutter off, you rustling ghosts.

Flutter off, you thirteen plagues and torments.

Ash Yggdrasil may well be a walnut tree.

Vivid in spring and in summer the leaves.

Stay with your light.

To hear the translation read, go to here 

Bellman's 'Fredman's Epistle No. 79'

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 sequence by Klaus Høeck

‘études australes’

and behind me stars

of glass and soda sparkle

behind my shoulder

that’s smoking with salt

behind my bedhead while i

am dreaming the stars

sparkle like crayfish

on the sea-bed of båring 

vig the stars sparkle

like lightships there up

in the springtime night while i

am falling asleep

i have gathered the

dead around me in a cir

cle as around a

maypole for a dance

and a conversation they

cannot take part in

all the dead members

of my family around

me like statues that

move almost imper

ceptibly whenever i

do not gaze at them

and behind me the

stars sparkle like electric

welding over fun

en from the lindø

shipyards behind me the stars

toll for my ears out

from the spit ene

bærodde as if strangers

were going to be

evening guests or an

unexpected word in my

most recent poem

the dead also look

at me (at any rate from

their carbonised pho

tographs turned pale by

purgatory) or maybe

it is the other

way around that i

only move (am moved) when the 

dead gaze at me and 

that i otherwise 

come to a complete standstill

in my memories?

and behind me the

stars plummet down cold and a

lien with sili

con from their orang

eries and from their enorm

ous celestial map

plunge into the realm

of my poems where they strike

my left foot or leave

behind them such words

as ‘carina’ or ‘puppis’

or as ‘canopus’

and behind me the

stars fall down from their winter

gardens fall down in

to ‘études australes’

from one star chart to anoth

er one and that is

the way the stars sound

then even harder and wild

er than emerald

that is the way the 

stars sound in grete sultan’s

interpretation

nobody becomes

a good person just by dy

ing it is unfor

tunately not that

simple just as nobody

becomes an evil

person just by liv

ing it is not that simple

everyone has to

do it by themselves

both parts of their own free will

it’s that difficult

and behind me the

stars cast out dice over the 

sky’s rough glass surface

like ice-cubes like the

coins in an I-ching throw

like the notes coming

from a steinway grand

piano like the sparks from

john cage’s pitu

itary gland like

crocodile tears like the last

words in the bible

i have gathered the

dead around me for life’s sake

(also the dead chaf

finches that flew in

to the window pane yester

day) life cannot un

equivocally 

determine itself as life

the dead define us

in a way they are

what makes us living without

death there is no life

and behind me the

stars chime with death and necess

ity behind me

the stars ring out for

god – what if i were not to

turn around would i

then not be transformed

into a pillar of salt

or into a stone

plinth would my poem then

not be transformed into a

mourning cherry-tree?