Hans Christian Andersen: 'New Year Poem' (1862)

 

Nytårsdigt 1862

 

Igjen et Aar udfolder sine Vinger,

Det flyver frem med Morgenrødens Glands;

Igjen vi spørge: hvad mon Aaret bringer?

Hvor falder Sørgeflor, hvor Brudekrands?

 

Skal Krigsråb eller Fredens Hymne lyde?

Hvad meisler det i Verdens Marmorblok?

Hvad vil det reise og hvad vil det bryde?

Far hen hver Frygt! Vorherre hjelper nok.

 

Han er i gode og tunge Dage

Det hjerte, vi os trygt tør hælde til;

Igjennem Mulmet vi Klarhed drage;

Vort Liv er ei Tilfældighedens Spil!

 

Aftrykt i Illustreret Tidende 29/12 1861.

 

 

New Year Poem 1862

 

Once more a year its wings is now outspreading,

Is flying forward with dawn’s gleaming light.

Once more we ask: what lies where we are heading?

Where are black veils or bride’s bouquets in sight?

 

Will war cries or a hymn of peace be sounding?

What will on world’s hewn marble be engraved?

What will be raised, what find its final grounding?

Begone, all fear! Our Lord will have us saved.

 

He is, when days are light or dark and dreary,

The heart on which we full of trust dare lean;

Through murky mist we get to see quite clearly

Our life on earth mere chance has never been!

 

Printed in Illustreret Tidende 29/12 1861

 

Cees Nooteboom: 'Horatius aan Pollio in 2005' (PS 25)

 

Horatius aan Pollio in 2005

 

Blunders, valse vrienden, zo loop je

over een vuur, verborgen onder bijtende

as. Verraad, de loterij van het noodlot.

Je weet het niet meer, je schrijft

wat ze willen horen, je schroeit je voeten

maar verbrandt je ziel.

 

Hoeveel verhalen er ook zijn,

er is altijd maar één geschiedenis,

onkenbaar, onherkenbaar

voor slachtoffers en daders.

Schrift is geduldig van wie het ook is.

Voor lijden is er geen cijfer.

 

Jij schrijft. Voor ons de beelden van dood

en vervolging. Dat waren geen mensen.

Ze houden jou niet uit je slaap.

Jij zuigt het heil uit de toekomst,

waar wij niet meer zijn.

 

Uit je lege ziel kwam een oorlog,

vogelverschrikkers dansend op tafel.

De provincie vernedert de Eufraat.

 

Quae caret ora cruore nostro?

 

Horatius wist het, elke kust van de wereld

gekleurd door ons bloed, een verhaal

dat eindigt in woorden.

 

Maar als je ons zoekt zijn we weg.

 

 

Horatius to Pollio in 2005

 

Blunders, false friends, so you walk

across a fire, hidden beneath biting

ashes. Treachery, the lottery of fate.

You no longer know, you write

what they want to hear, you scorch your feet

but burn your soul.

 

No matter how many stories there are,

there is always but one history,

unknowable, unrecognisable

for victims and perpetrators.

Writing is patient with whoever it is.

Before suffering there is no number.

 

You write. Before us the images of death

and persecution. They were not humans.

They do not prevent you from sleeping. 

You suck salvation out of the future,

where we no longer exist.

 

Out of your empty soul came a war,

scarecrows dancing on the tabletop.

The province humiliates the Euphrates.

 

Quae caret ora cruore nostro?

 

Horatius knew it – every coast of the world

coloured by our blood, a story

that ends in words.

 

But when you seek us we are gone.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 25

 

 

Hans Christian Andersen: ''Hjertets Melodier IV.' (Min Tankes Tanke...)

 

Hjertets Melodier IV. (1830)

 

Min Tankes Tanke ene du er vorden,

Du er mit Hjertes første Kærlighed.

Jeg elsker Dig, som Ingen her på Jorden,

Jeg elsker Dig i Tid og Evighed!

 

Digtet er […], skrevet i 1830 og anbragt under titlen “Hjertets Melodier” sammen med syv andre digte møntet på Andersens første kærlighed Riborg Voigt.

 

 

Melodies of the Heart IV (1830)

 

You have become my one thought all-consuming,

You are the first love that my heart has known.

My love for you my whole life is illuming,

My love for you eternal now has grown.

 

 

The poem was in fact written in 1830 and placed under the title ‘Hjertets Melodier’ (Melodies of the Heart), along with seven other poems dealing with Andersen’s first love, Riborg Voigt.

 

Also set to music by Edvard Grieg. For more information, go to here.

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Et Barns Skriftemaal'

 

Et Barns Skriftemaal

 

I Regning er jeg noget sen,

Det vil jeg tilstaae ærligt;

Der skal man altid laane Een,

Og laane er besværligt.

 

Jeg skrev som Stil et Winthersk Digt,

Der havde mig bevæget,

Og saa fik jeg dog "Maadeligt",

Da det var ei mit eget.

 

Historie man lære skal,

Jeg kan den ikke havne,

Naar den gaaer op i bare Tal

Og gamle Krigsmænds Navne.

 

Min Lærebog den kan jeg vel,

De ti Guds Bud med Ære;

Men saa er der en stor Tabel

Den er saa svær at lære.

 

Var jeg en Fugl, da fløi jeg fri,

Langt bort fra Skolekrogen,

Da lærte jeg Geografi,

Og brugte ikke Bogen.

 

Helst gad jeg være Storkefa'er,

Han kan til Nilen drage,

Og naar saa Alting seet han har,

Han komme kan tilbage;

 

Thi her er godt, kun bort jeg vil,

Naar jeg Ondt besværes.

Gid Tal og Regning ei var til,

De kan saa godt undværes!

 

Alt, hvad jeg tænker og jeg troer,

Det har jeg her nedskrevet;

Min egen lille, søde Mo'er,

Til Dig jeg sender Brevet !

 

 

A Child’s Confession

 

I’m late to grasp Arithmetic,

I must confess quite truly;

To ‘borrow’ you must be so quick,

Which I am not unduly.

 

For Written Work I wrote a verse

Of Winther I’d found gripping ,

It was marked ‘poor’ – you can’t get worse –

Since that was viewed as cribbing.

 

And History one has to learn

With all its repercussions,

With useless dates at every turn

And soldiers’ names in dozens.

 

My Catechism I know well,

By heart the Ten Commandments;

But not to multiply by twelve,

From tables in compartments.

 

Were I a bird, I would fly free,

And school would not be needing,

For then I’d learn Geography

And do so without reading.

 

I’d love to be a father stork,

And to the Nile be flying,

And when he everywhere has stalked,

He homewards can be plying.

 

It’s all right here, though I resist,

Must flee when numbers plague me

If only Maths did not exist,

It’s purpose quite evades me!

 

I’ve written all that I believe,

For worse or maybe better

Dear mother who my woes relieve,

To you I send this letter!

 

First published in Illustreret Tidende, 7 March 1875.

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Bryllupssang 10.'

 

Bryllupssang 10.

 

Bolette Puggaard og Emil Hartmann

 

(Den 4. November 1864)

 

I Sangen lyde Hjerteslag,

Saa festligt Hjertet banker.

En Bryllupsdag er Glædens Dag

Med store Alvors Tanker.

 

To Hænder slutte sig saa fast,

Som vil de Verden bære,

Om under dem selv Jorden brast,

De maatte sammen være.

 

I Kjærlighed er Haab og Tro,

Ja Ungdoms Sind tillige,

Et Solskin, hvori Roser groe

Heelt ind i Himlens Rige.

 

I Sangen lyde Hjerteslag,

Saa festligt Hjertet banker.

En Bryllupsdag er Glædens Dag

Med store Alvors Tanker.

 

Gud, som har Kjærligheden lagt

I Eders unge Hjerter,

Han har velsignet Eders Pagt

Her foran Altrets Kjerter;

Hold fast ved ham i Vel og Vee,

Han styrke og han lede.

Den Lykke, unge Hjerter see,

For Eder vi nedbede.

 

 

Wedding Song no. 10

 

Bolette Puggaard and Emil Hartmann

 

(4 November 1864)

 

Within this song are heartbeats twined,

So festively they’re beating.

A wedding day, to joy assigned,

A solemn oath’s completing.

 

Two hands are clasped so tightly now.

To them the world’s a feather,

And should the earth yet burst, somehow 

They’d still remain together.

 

In love do hope and trust combine,

A youthful mind’s its leaven,

A sunshine in which roses climb

Up to the realm of Heaven.

 

Within this song are heartbeats twined,

So festively they’re beating.

A wedding day, to joy assigned,

A solemn oath’s completing.

 

God, who in your young hearts has placed

A love that will not falter,

Has blessed your vows now by His grace,

Here at this bright-lit altar;

Hold fast to Him in joy and pain,

May He sustain and guide you.

The joy that young hearts see we pray

That He will e’er provide you.

 

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Lille Viggo' (1832)

 

Lille Viggo

 

Lille Viggo, vil Du ride Ranke?

Sæt Dig paa mit Knæ, Du søde Dreng!

Jeg hos Dig er Barn i Sjæl og Tanke;

Vi vil lege, til Du skal i Seng.

 

Her hos Dig jeg Barnehimlen finder,

Glemmer Alt, hvad der gjør Hjertet Vee;

Lad mig kysse dine røde Kinder,

Lad mig dog de brune Øine see!

 

Viis mig saa, hvor stor Du er, Du Søde!

Nei, hvor Haanden dog er buttet rund!

Smilet sidder i de Kinder røde,

Altfor smuk er dog din lille Mund!

 

Hver en Blomst Du kysser, som en Broder,

Taler med den, paa din egen Viis,

Hele Verden har Du i din Moder,

Hendes Skjød er Dig dit Paradiis.

 

Ingen seer paa Dig med mørke Blikke,

Du er Barn, Dig er man ikke vred;

Verdens vilde Strid forstaaer Du ikke,

Kjærlighed kun kjender Kjærlighed.

 

Jeg en smuk Historie Dig lover,

Følg nu Moder til din lille Seng!

Synge vil jeg for Dig, til Du sover,

Lille Viggo, Moders bedste Dreng!

 

Du maaskee for mig, som ældre, synger,

Naar jeg skal til Ro den sidste Gang;

Ja, naar Jorden paa min Kiste tynger,

Syng da med den dybe Vuggesang!

 

Tænk paa ham, der trofast mange Gange

Gynged’ Dig paa Armen op og ned.

Verden glemmer mig og mine Sange!

Mon Du glemme vil min Kjærlighed?

For more information about Ranke and Viggo, go to here

 

 

Little Viggo

 

Little Viggo, shall I be your horsie?

On my knee, sweet lad, and off we go!

When with you I am a child most surely;

Until bedtime we’ll ride high and low.

 

Here with you I’m in a childhood heaven,

All that causes heartache you make flee;

Let me give your red cheeks kisses seven,

Let me just your brown eyes once more see! 

 

Show me how you’ve grown – let’s do our riding!

Look, your hands are now so plump and round!

In your cheeks a smile is always hiding,

And your little mouth’s the fairest found!

 

Every flower you kiss just like a brother,

Speak with each one, often twice or thrice,

All the world is present in your mother,

And to you her lap is paradise.

 

No one with black looks would e’er pursue you,

You’re a child, so anger’s out of place;

All the world’s wild strife means nothing to you,

Love sees only love in every face.

 

I can promise you fine story-telling,

Follow mother now straight off to bed!

Songs I’ll sing till sleep’s your precious dwelling,

Little Viggo, mother’s sleepyhead!

 

You may, when I’m old, perhaps sing for me,

When I take my last rest by and by;

Yes, when on my coffin earth’s laid o’er me,

Sing to me the deep last lullaby!

 

Think of him, who faithfully and often

Rocked you on his arm so tenderly.

Me, my songs, the world’s one day forgotten!

Will you though forget my love and me?

A MILLION GREETINGS!

 

This site started on 1 November 2009.  During the night it has been visited for the millionth time. It seemed so hard to get  my English translations of poetry published that I decided to focus on a digital approach. Over the years I have found great joy in knowing that people all around the world have accessed poetry they might otherwise have been unable to read and enjoy.

Thank you all, dear readers, wherever you are!

Greetings from Denmark, where a new day will soon be dawning.

Joachim du Bellay: 'Les Regrets' (1558)

 

Sonnet XXXI – Les Regrets

 

Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage,

Ou comme cestuy là qui conquit la toison,

Et puis est retourné, plein d’usage et raison,

Vivre entre ses parents le reste de son aage !

 

Quand revoiray-je, hélas, de mon petit village

Fumer la cheminée, et en quelle saison,

Revoiray-je le clos de ma pauvre maison,

Qui m’est une province, et beaucoup d’avantage ?

 

Plus me plaist le séjour qu’ont basty mes ayeux,

Que des palais Romains le front audacieux,

Plus que le marbre dur me plaist l’ardoise fine,

 

Plus mon Loyre Gaulois, que le Tybre Latin,

Plus mon petit Lyré, que le mont Palatin,

Et plus que l’air marin la doulceur Angevine.

 

 

Sonnet XXXI - Regrets

 

Happy, like Ulysses, the one whose journey’s done,

Or like that man of fame who gained the golden fleece

And then returned, more seasoned and more wise, to Greece

To live among his own with all his battles won!

 

When will I see, alas, the smoke from chimneys rise

Once more in my small village, at what time of year

I see once more the plot of my poor home so dear

That is to me a province – more, despite its size?

 

More pleasing is the place my ancestors have built

Than Roman palaces, their grandeur and their gilt,

More than the marble’s hardness does my fine slate please,

 

More than Tiber’s swift waters, my Loire calm and still,

More my Lyré so small than the Palatine Hill,

And more than strong sea-air, the Angevine soft breeze. 

 

 

Gerrit Komrij: 'Woordenschat'

 

WOORDENSCHAT

 

’t Is wonderlijk om als een omnivoor

De woorden op te kunnen vissen ui

Een zelden aangesproken reservoir

Van taal, een zwarte bron die zich ontsluit

 

Zodra je in haar mijnengang afdaalt.

Daar sluimert alles wat je moeder zei,

Daar zijn de woorden uit je jeugd verdwaald,

Daar is de taal nog nieuw en vogelvrij.

 

Wat wordt omhooggehaald gaat zich verbinden

Tot zinnen die zo helder zijn als glas.

Ik zou er van geluk om moeten wenen

 

Dat ik iets in mijn eigen hoofd kan vinden

Wat ik niet wist dat daar te vinden was -

Fluor en mica in de dode stenen.

 

 

TREASURY OF WORDS

 

It’s very strange that, like some omnivore,

You have the hidden power to fish up words

From some quite rarely called on reservoir

Of language, a black well beneath the earth

 

That opens up once you descend her mine.

There, all your mother said rests safe and sound,

There the words from your youth have lost their lines,

There language is still new and out of bounds.

 

What’s hauled up enters into combinations,

Forms sentences as clear as glass that’s ground.

I could weep tears of joy at this alone:

 

I can inside my head find constellations

I did not know were waiting to be found -

Fluor and mica in the lifeless stones.