Will Van Broekhoven: 'Troebel vocht' (PS20)

 

TROEBEL VOCHT

 

Dichten is

iets oprakelen

roerend in troebel vocht

de ogen in je achterhoofd gesloten

je vingertoppen van lenzen voorzien

 

En ginds gaat alles verder

daar hoopt men steeds op helder weer

helderder weer

 

 

MURKY MOISTURE

 

Poetry’s

raking up something

rummaging in murky moisture

the eyes in the back of your head shut tight

your fingertips equipped with lenses

 

And all continues over there

there one still hopes for fair weather

a fairer chance

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 20

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Et Digt om Konerne'

 

Et Digt om Konerne

 

En Kurvemager havde gjort

En Kurv. Nu det var ikke stort,

Men den var smuk og Manden værdig.

»Nu, Gud skee Lov, at den er færdig!«

Udraabte han, da Konen kom;

Men Konen brød sig ei derom.

– »Siig: Gud skee Lov, den er istand!«

– »Det gjør jeg ikke, lille Mand!

Du har jo sagt det, det er nok!« –

– »Siig Gud skee Lov!« – Han tog sin Stok.

Hun sagde: »nei, jeg ikke vil!« –

Saa fik hun Prygl, og han slog til.

Høit skreg hun; Nabokonen kom

Og spurgte ud: hvorfor? hvorom?

Og strax, saa snart hun hørte det,

Saa gav hun ganske Konen ret,

Gik hjem og hun var meget vred:

Knap fik hun Tid at sidde ned,

Sin Mand fortalte hun det Hele.

»Din Mening kan jeg ikke dele«,

Begyndte han: »det var ei Ret,

At Konen ikke sagde det!« –

– »Jo det var Ret! hun skulde ei,

Jeg havde heller ikke, jeg!« –

– »Du?« svared’ Manden, »ei Du turde!

For jeg slog ogsaa! ja jeg gjorde!« –

– »Det gad jeg see, min lille Mand!« –

– »Siig: Gud skee Lov den er istand!«

– »Det gjør jeg ei!« – Saa slog han til.

Hun skreg. Det var det samme Spil.

Strax kom den næste Naboemo’r,

Hun hørte Alt, og høit hun svoer,

At Konerne de havde Ret.

Sin Mand hun strax fortalte det,

Og Enden her, jo det gik smukt,

Madammen med fik sit Produkt;

Fra Huus til Huus det stadigt gik,

Og Prygl de allesammen fik,

Thi ingen Kone fandt behov

At sige Mandens: »Gud skee Lov«.

Fra Gade det til Gade kom,

Tilsidst saa var det Byen om,

Ja Landet med! og eens det gik,

De sagde »nei«, og Prygl de fik.

Om det er Sandhed eller hvad –?

Du spørge kan din Kone ad.

 

Moral

Brug Kys, og ikke Stok, min Ven!

Thi hun forstokkes kun ved den.

 

 

A Poem about the Wives

 

A basketmaker had just made

A basket. Not large or high-grade

But fine, her husband more than worthy.

‘Well, God be praised, though not too early!’

He called out, when his wife appeared;

She didn’t like what she’d just heard.

‘Say: God be praised, it’s made and done!’

‘No, husband, that request I’ll shun!

You’ve said it once, that’s done the trick!’

‘Say God be praised!’ – He took his stick.

She said: ‘No, no, this I’ll not do!’

So she was beaten, black and blue.

She yelled; the wife from next door came

And asked: What’s up, who was to blame?

And straightway when she heard her plight,

Agreed the wife had been quite right,

Went home as angry as could be,

Had hardly sat down hurriedly

Before she told her husband all.

‘My own respect for her is small,’

He first remarked: ‘It wasn’t right

To have said that and start a fight!’

‘Oh yes it was. She’s not to blame,

I would have done the very same.’

‘You,’ he replied, ‘you wouldn’t dare!

For then I’d beat you! So beware!’

‘No, husband, that request I’ll shun

‘Say God be praised, it’s made and done!’

‘I won’t!’ – He beat her black and blue.

She yelled. The same thing happened too.

The wife appeared then from next door,

She heard it all, out loud she swore

Both wives had done quite right that day.

Her husband she told straight away,

The end of this was swift and neat,

This lady too was soundly beat.

From house to house the scene then spread,

With each wife thrashed for what she said,

None felt the need to say the phrase

The husband wanted: ‘God be praised’.

The same scene spread from street to street

Until the whole town was complete,

The country too! The couples clashed,

The wives said ‘No’ and then were thrashed.

If this or not might just be true –?

Well, you could ask your wife that too.

 

Moral

My friend, use kisses not the stick!

Or she’ll grow stubborn double quick.

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Mit Liw' (1822)

Andersen left Odense 4 September 1819

Mit Liw (1822)

 

Taare trille naar jeg mindes

Barndom dig med al din Fryd.

Da var jeg saa rolig,

Herrens Engle trolig,

Skjærmede om mig – – –

 

– Naar Aftensolen hist i Vesten sank,

Og Maanens Skive skinned klaer og blank,

Da kjærlig Moder tog sin lille Dreng

Og bragte ham til lune, bløde, Seng;

Og medens udenfor lød’ Nattergale-Chor

Hun lærte mig at bede Fader-vor.

Jeg ældre blev, stærk Phantasien ulmed’

I Lue brød den Gnist, som havde dulmet;

Nu lærte jeg at læse; hvilken Himmel

Laae ikke for mig, hvilken Blomstervrimmel!

Nu fulgte jeg Kong Lear paa nøgne Hede,

Og mødte Machbets Hexer, fæle, lede,

Jeg med Niels Klim foer ned i Dybets Skjød

Og græd veemodig ved skjøn Valborgs Død.

Nu var jeg fjorten Aar, mit Hjærte brændte,

Jeg Verden kun af Digterværker kjendte

Og var derfor saa lykkelig og fro,

Og ilede fra Barndoms søde Boe

Allene ud i Verden vide.

Naadig Herren var og god,

Mig hans Engle fulgte,

De i Drømme gav mig Mod,

Haabet ei sig dulgte.

Naar jeg i den dunkle Nat

Syntes mig saa rent forladt,

Knæled jeg paa Sengen,

Modig da jeg Harpen tog,

Strængene med Haanden slog,

Sang min Smerte, sang min Lyst,

Og det lindrede mit Bryst.

 

Da hørte ædle Mænd de spæde Toner,

Og lyttede til Barnets svage Sang;

De saae’ hvor Sjælen gennem Støvets Zoner

Til Trøstens Himmel barnlig fro sig svang.

Thi tog de Barnet fra sin raae Natur

Og satte ham bag Temples (!) lune Muur,

Hvor Aanden kunde classisk dannes ud,

Og eengang kraftfuld stige mod sin Gud. –

 

Jeg græd af Glæde,

Mit Hjærte bævet;

Er Gud tilstæde?!

Hans Engle svæved’

Jo mildt om mig. –

Sig Veien høiner,

Men Maalet øiner

Dog Sjælens blik. –

 

Heelt uvant var’ de første Skridt at gaae,

Og nu jeg først min hele Svaghed saae:

Dog ei min Fryd, min Munterhed bortveeg

Før dybt i Sjælen denne Tanke steeg:

Mon ogsaa du har Kræfter værdig er,

Alt hvad der for dig Svage gjøres her?

 

Men snart en Klogskabs Stemme,

Den mørke Taage brød.

O aldrig kan jeg glemme,

Hvad for mit Indre lød.

Nu har man planten (!) prøvet,

Men den kun Ukrud er,

Thi har man den berøvet

Sit Haab, sit Stjerneskjær. –

 

– Fortvivlet drog jeg da i Natten ud,

Og glemte Naadens store, milde Gud;

Da lød din Stemme faderlige Ven

Og atter mig til Livet kaldte hen;

Skjøndt vel jeg veed du Skuffes i din Tro

At Evner end hos Ynglingen skal boe,

Men det er dog en sød en salig Trøst,

At høre venskabs vennehulde Røst,

Jeg synker veed jeg – men med roligt Bryst,

Jeg gjorte hvad jeg kunde, er min Trøst.

Jeg var stupid, forvirret uden Sands,

Og derfor drømte om en Digterkrands.

 

Kilde: https://www.hcandersen-homepage.dk/?page_id=79028

 

 

My Life (1822)

 

My tears run down when I recall

You, childhood, with your many joys

Such a calmness bore me,

The Lord’s angels surely

Watched over me – – –

 

- When in the West sun set and it was night

And moon’s disc shone with gleam both clear and bright,

A loving mother her young son then led

To the sweet warmth and softness of his bed;

And while the nightingales’ song filled the air

She taught me how to say the Lord’s own prayer.

As I grew older, latent fantasy

Was kindled and flared up inside of me;

I now learnt how to read, what heaven lay

Before me, and what flowers in fine array!

I followed on the naked heath King Lear,

Encountered Macbeth’s witches, grim and queer,

With Niels Klim I descended to the depths

And sadly wept at lovely Valborg’s death.

When just fourteen, my heart’s fire grew and grew,

From prose and verse alone the world I knew,

And so was happy, and would gladly roam

And hastened from my childhood’s much-loved home

Into the great wide world.

God was merciful and good,

Angels walked beside me,

Their dreams fed my reckless mood,

Hope was strong inside me.

When in depths of darkest night

I felt lonely, full of fright,

I knelt at my bedside,

Then my harp I boldly took

With my hand its strings I shook,

Sang what roused me or oppressed,

And relief it brought my breast.

 

Then noble men discerned the frail notes’ quavers,

And listened to the child’s still fragile song;

They glimpsed the soul that rose through dust-filled layers

Consolingly to heaven’s mighty throng.

And so they took the child from his raw state

To safe, warm temple walls where he could educate

And feed his spirit in the classic way

So he might soar towards his God some day. –

 

I wept with joy here,

My heart now shivered

Is God quite near?!

For his angels quivered

Around me gently.–

The path grows steeper,

My soul though keeps the

Goal within sight.

 

My first steps were both shaky and unsure

And only then I all my weakness saw,

My joy and my good cheer, though, did not swerve

Till deep within my soul this checked my verve:

I wonder if your puny powers come near

To meriting the things done for you here?

 

But wisdom’s voice soon spoke, and

The dense mist turned aside.

My memory’s unbroken

Of words echoed deep inside.

The plant has now been tested,

Weeds only though were seen

For it has been divested

Of hope, its starry sheen. –

 

– Despairing, out into the night I trod,

Forgetting mercy’s great and gentle God;

Then your voice sounded, Father mild and friend

Recalling me to earthly life again;

Though shaken your faith managed to survive

That in this youth some talents may yet thrive,

It even so is sweet and comforting

To hear your trusting voice of friendship ring,

I know I’m sinking – but with quiet breast

My consolation is I did my best.

I was confused and stupid, without sense,

My dream of laurel wreath therefore intense.

 

Source: https://www.hcandersen-homepage.dk/?page_id=79028

 

  

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Oldingen'

Photograph taken in 1874

 

Oldingen

 

Foran den store Indgang nu jeg staaer

         Ved Død og Grav.

Syv Gange ti er Støvets Leveaar,

         Det Rum, Gud gav;

Mit Legem’ kastes hen, en udslidt Klud,

Og Sjælen — Sjælen, skal den slettes ud,

Alt, hvad jeg elsked’, stræbte, leved’, led,

Gaae op i Glemsel? — Er det Evighed?

 

Er da det Hele kun et Spil af Kræfter,

         Alt uden Meed?

Hvorfor fik vi da denne Længsel efter

         En Evighed?

Har Jesus, som for os sit Liv hengav,

Kun fundet, vundet med os Død og Grav,

Da er vor Tro, vort Haab, vort Liv Bedrag,

Og ikke Kjærlighedens store Sag!

 

Den Kraft, som ordned’ alle Kloders Gang

         Ved Ordet: “bliv!”,

Det Forsyn, hvorfra Kjærlighed udsprang,

         Har evigt Liv.

— Den Sjæl, Gud i sit Billede har skabt,

Er uforkrænkelig, kan ei gaae tabt;

Vort Jordliv her er Evighedens Frø,

Vort Legem døer, men Sjælen kan ei døe!

 

Først kendte tryk i Julebog 1874, december 1874

 

 

The Old Man 

 

Before the awesome entrance, I now face

         Both death and grave.

Life’s three score years and ten is all the space

         Which God us gave;

A worn-out cloth, my body shall decay,

The soul though – shall it simply fade away,

That which I loved, lived, suffered, sought to be

All be forgot – Is that eternity?

 

Is all then simply waste of effort, quite

         Devoid of aim?

Why then this longing for eternity

         We cannot tame?

Has Jesus, who his life for us once gave,

Discovered, won, like us, just death and grave?

If so, our faith, hope, life are merely fraud,

Not the Great Cause of Love which we so laud!

 

The force which ordered every planet’s course

         With ‘Let there be’,

The providence which Love has for its source,

         Live endlessly.

– The soul which in his image God has made

Is incorruptible, can never fade;

Life here’s the seedling of eternity,

Our body dies, the soul from death is free!

 

First known appearance in print: Christmas Book 1874, Dec. 1874

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Epilog, fremsagt ved Aftenunderholdning den 11. Februar 1838 til Fordeel for Stiftelsen til Blindes Dannelse'

 

Epilog, fremsagt ved Aftenunderholdning

den 11. Februar 1838 til Fordeel for

Stiftelsen til Blindes Dannelse

 

Jeg veed om Farverne, de ere skjønne,

Som Tonerne de vexle skal i Pragt;

Men om den grønne Skov, om alt det Grønne,

Har Duften ene et Begreb mig bragt.

Blaat er jo Havet, naar ei Bølger stige,

Og Himlens Farve nævne de som blaa,

En Blaahed eier det Uendelige,

Jeg aner det, skjøndt jeg det aldrig saae.

I Solens Opgang pranger jo det Røde,

Den Blinde kjender ei sligt Farvespil,

Men Livets Straaler følte jeg at gløde,

Og jeg begreb, at der var Skjønhed til.

O, hvilken Trøst i Livets Sorg og Møie,

At kunne Gud i Alt omkring sig see,

At læse Tanken i sin Broders Øie,

See i hvert Træk, han føler ved vor Vee!

Een Farve kun der er den Blinde kjender,

Een Farve, viet Livets Sorg og Nød,

Den boer i Natten, naar ei Stjernen Brænder,

Den er et Billede paa Grav og Død:

Den sorte Farve kjendes af den Blinde,

Rundt om mig hersker altid der kun Nat,

Dog i det Sorte selv lod Gud os finde

En Sjæle-Duft: Du er ei her forladt.

Den mørke Farve, som mit Blik omtaager,

Har just en Duft, den største Hjertet veed:

Jeg veed, at Naadens milde Fader vaager,

Den Blinde fandt et Hjem og Kjærlighed.

En Verden mørk, Du skal dog Veien finde,

En kjærlig Gud det Bedste vil skal skee,

I Døden svinder Mørket for den Blinde,

Der skal jeg Gud og hver Velgjører see!

 

 

Epilogue, recited at evening entertainment

given on 11 February 1838 for the benefit of 

The Foundation for the Education of the Blind

 

Of colours’ beauty I have some awareness,

Like tones, they all in splendour alternate;

But of the woods so green, with all their greenness,

Their scent has brought me but a single trait.

The sea is blue unless its waves are listless,

The colour of the sky is named as blue,

Infinity is said to have great blueness,

Although not seen, I sense this must be true.

The sun’s red splendour dominates when rising,

If blind one can’t perceive this colour play,

But life’s rays I could feel as something glowing

And knew that there was beauty in each ray.

And oh! What comfort in life’s tribulations

When everything around one God can show,

Read in one’s brother’s eye each thought and notion,

See in each gesture he divines our woe!

If blind there’s but one colour made for learning

One that’s reserved for life’s pain and distress,

It dwells in night’s realm when no star is burning,

And is an image of both grave and death:

To one who’s blind, it’s a familiar colour,

Around me night’s the only ruler known,

But in the blackness God lets us discover

A scent of Soul: You’re not all on your own.

This deep, dark colour that so veils my gazing

Has quite the strongest scent the heart can feel:

Watched over by a Father’s grace amazing,

The blind have found a love and home most real.

A dark world, but the path shown to the seeker,

God ordering the best so lovingly;

The blind will find in death the dark grows weaker,

There God, each benefactor too, I’ll see!