Ola Hansson: 'I Senhöstnätter'

 

 

I SENHÖSTNÄTTER

Till kand. Knut Wicksell

 

Då gula septembermånen slog

genom rutan sitt skarpa sken

och dallrande skugga på väggen jog

från svängande, bladhöljd gren,

där ensam i midnattens stund jag låg,

och fastän mitt öga var lyckt,

en skräcksyn med andlös ångest i håg

jag stundom mig skönja tyckt.

 

Oktobernatt, då regnstormen tjöt,

i stönande vånda det kved,

och andetyst kring min bädd sig knöt

en likvit spökelseked.

Den lutade sig mig tätt intill

med ängsligt jämrande låt,

och våt av kallsvett lyddes jag till

de ofödda släktenas gråt.

 

 

IN LATE-AUTUMN NIGHTS

To Knut Wicksell BA

 

When the yellow moon of September flung

through my window its hard sharp stone

and my wall by flitting shadows was strung

from leaf-concealed branches thrown,

then alone I lay in the dead of night

and although I had closed my eye,

in breathless fear a horrific sight

I seemed now and then to spy.

 

October night, when the rainstorm howled

as if moaning in dreadful pain,

with silent breath round my bed, black-cowled

stood a deathly-pale spectral chain.

O’er my quaking form it now drew near

with a moaning so forlorn,

and drenched in sweat I was forced to hear

the weeping of those still unborn.

Ola Hansson: 'Senhöstblad'

 (To see the original text, go to here)

Late-autumn leaves

 

1.

 

It is a day in late-September, towards evening. Early in the morning a fine drizzle has fallen, but around midday the clouds thinned out, and now they lie only like wispy smoke that spreads a pale greyness out over the surrounding area. The earth has turned dark from the moisture; a fresh, humid scent is rising in the strangely silent air that almost has the mild warmth of spring.

The countryside is quite flat, with marshland and some hills. Among clusters and rows of elms and chestnut trees one can just make out the village. The trees are growing bare, their crowns are shrinking, their leaves turning yellow. Between their erect, bare trunks, yellow stacks and whitewashed walls are gleaming.

The garden over there seems bare and deserted. The beds and lawns are strewn with fallen fruit and large heaps of leaves torn off by the wind – green, juicy leaves and withered brown ones. Stems of plants meander over the flowerbeds, weeds thriving among them. Only asters and a cluster of flamboyant dahlias are still flowering. People are busy picking fruit right now, thin, dark branches are snapping and cracking, here and there a pear comes loose, rustles through the foliage and falls.

And then there are the fields, fringed with willows. They seem so deserted and bare, with rectangles of brownish-yellow stubble, newly ploughed, damp topsoil and juicy green clover. The country road winds its way forward, gravel-grey, with waterlogged wheel tracks and green ditches. But the willows that were pollarded in March are now topped by slender, green, lush summer sprigs.

And the stubble has been ploughed down, the black, fertile topsoil uncovered. The horses pull and strain, yoked in pairs, up the fields and down again, with the farmhands urging them on. A herd of cattle is grazing over in the clover meadow. A cow has got in among the tender shoots of the winter crop; the cattle boy rushes after it, shouting and yelling, and flings his knobbed club at it.

A hunting dog is bounding back and forth in the stubble, snuffling and scenting the air. Then a flock of partridges flies up, screeching shrilly, with noisily flapping wings, and the deep silence is broken by a sudden gunshot.

On the lea outside the stone wall of the garden, under the bushy, lush plum trees, a young girl is busy tying into bundles the linen that has been laid out on the field to stiffen. She has hitched up her dark dress, revealing clogs and red stockings – –

But the air is so mild and humid; and so quiet, so strangely and sadly quiet!

And now, yes, one can see – for it is slightly shady under the trees – that the girl is slim and elegant and that she has a small, fine face with a pair of large, shining eyes framed by the small black shawl, stretched across her forehead. But beneath it a broad, light-brown plait snakes down her back.

And then she starts to sing, quietly at first, just to herself, almost inaudibly, then increasingly more loudly. A simple song, known to no one perhaps, a sad little tune with words that speak of the profound melancholy of September days:

 

And now the day grows cold and grey

With empty heart I’m roaming.

Alone, sad thoughts cause me to stray,

Although I would be homing.

 

How quiet everything is! Mild and damp and so strangely quiet. The cattle is being driven home. The cows are lowing and shambling slowly along, the sheep trotting and tramping, the pigs grunting hither and thither.

A cawing flock of rooks is circling over the winter crop, sinking in large, slow swirls, lower and lower, and finally landing in the field.

The farmhands ploughing on a slope some way away are whistling and shouting. A cart is grating in the gravel of the country road.

Apart from that, silence. And dusk is beginning to fall.

The girl finishes her work, binds the shawl more tightly under her chin and starts to walk along the road, singing her song. She moves slowly up the slope. Now her silhouette is faintly outlined against the dark backdrop. Her song gradually fades away.

 

Alone, sad thoughts cause me to stray,

Although I would be homing.

 

She disappears behind the slope. Twilight falls swiftly over the surrounding countryside.

 

Hans Christian Andersen. 'Martsviolerne' (1830) (+ translation by Chamisso (1833))

 

Martsviolerne

 

Sig Himlen hvælver saa reen og klar,

Iisblomster fryse paa Rudens Glar.

 

I Solens Flamme saa smukt de staae,

En Yngling kommer og seer derpaa.

 

Men som han paa de Blomster seer,

To Pige-Øine derude leer.

 

Saa skjønne Blomster han aldrig saae,

To Martsvioler saa smukke blaae.

 

Iisblomsten smelter ved Kindens Brand,

— Vor Herre hjelpe den unge Mand!

 

 

The March violets

 

The vaulted sky’s pure and clear again

Ice flowers of frost deck the window pane.

 

In flaming sun they spread out so fair

A young man comes and inspects them there.

 

But as he gazes at each fine flower

A girl’s two smiling eyes him devour.

 

He’s never seen flowers of such deep hue,

Two fine March violets of perfect blue.

 

The ice flowers melt from his cheeks aglow,

– May God the poor man some mercy show!

 

 

Märzveilchen

 

Der Himmel wölbt sich rein und blau;

Der Reif stellt Blumen aus zur Schau.

 

Am Fenster prangt ein flimmernder Flor,

Ein Jüngling steht ihn betrachtend davor.

 

Und hinter den Blumen blühet noch gar

Ein blaues, ein lächelndes Augenpaar.

 

Märzveilchen, wie jener noch keine geseh'n

Der Reif wird angehaucht zergeh'n.

 

Eisblumen fangen zu schmelzen an –

Und Gott sei gnädig dem jungen Mann.

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Spillemanden' (1830) (+ German translation by Chamisso (1831))

 

Spillemanden

 

I Landsbyen gaaer det saa lystigt til,

Der holdes et Bryllup med Dands og Spil;

Der drikkes Skaaler i Viin og Mjød,

Men Bruden ligner en pyntet Død.

 

Ja død hun er for sin Hjertenskjær,

Thi han er ikke som Brudgom her,

I Krogen han staaer med Sorgen sin,

Og spiller saa lystig paa Violin.

 

Han spiller til Lokkerne blive ham graae,

Han spiller saa Strængene briste maae,

Til Violinen, med Sorg og Gru,

Han trykker mod Hjertet reent itu.

 

Det er saa tungt, saa knusende tungt,

At døe mens Hjertet endnu er ungt!

Jeg mægter ei længer at see derpaa!

Jeg føler det gjennem mit Hoved gaae.

 

See, Mændene holde ham fast i Favn —

— Men hvorfor nævne I mig ved Navn?

Vor Herre bevare Enhvers Forstand!

Jeg selv er en fattig Spillemand.

 

 

The fiddler

 

So merry the village, around folk prance

They’re holding a wedding with play and dance.

On wine and mead those invited sup;

The bride though looks more like death dressed up.

 

Well, dead she is for her groom to be,

For he’s not here midst this revelry,

To drown his sorrows he’s at the inn,

And merrily playing his violin.

 

He plays away till his locks turn grey,

He plays so the strings must all give way,

Until the fiddle, from pains and aches

Against his heart’s pressed until it breaks.

 

It’s hard to bear, feels heavy as lead

With a heart still young to soon be dead!

I can’t bear to watch it anymore!

It torments my head like an open sore.

 

The men hold him tightly though caringly –

But why are all of you naming me?

The Good Lord preserve us, it can’t be true!

A helpless poor fiddler I am too.

 

 

Der Spielmann

 

Im Städtchen giebt es des Jubels viel,

Da halten sie Hochzeit mit Tanz und mit Spiel,

Den Fröhlichen blinket der Wein so rot,

Die Braut nur gleicht dem getünchten Tod.

 

Ja tot für den, den nicht sie vergißt,

Der doch beim Fest nicht Bräutigam ist;

Da steht er inmitten der Gäste im Krug,

Und streichet die Geige, lustig genug!

 

Er streichet die Geige, sein Haar ergraut,

Es springen die Saiten gellend und laut.

Er drückt sie ans Herz und achtet es nicht,

Ob auch sie in tausend Stücken zerbricht.

 

Es ist gar grausig, wenn Einer so stirbt,

Wann jung sein Herz um Freude noch wirbt;

Ich mag und will nicht länger es seh'n,

Das möchte den Kopf mir schwindelnd verdreh'n –

 

Wer heißt euch mit Fingern zeigen auf mich?

O Gott! bewahr' uns gnädiglich,

Daß Keinen der Wahnsinn übermannt;

Bin selber ein armer Musikant.

 

Uffe Harder: 'Solsortene synger'

 

Solsortene synger

Tilegnet Milan Kundera

 

Solsortene synger

synger og synger

een solsorts sang

når næsten altid mindst een anden

 

Solsortene synger fra tag til tag

fra træ til træ

fra solsort til solsort

fra lytter til lytter

 

Solsortene synger over grænserne

solsortene dækker Europa

med et næsten sammenhængende net

af solsortsang

 

Det betyder ikke andet

end det indlysende

at solsortene synger

men det findes

 

Mens menneskene gennemgår

hvad de ma gennemgå

og lader andre gennemgå

hvad de ma gennemgå

synger og synger solsortene i maj

næsten uden ophold

 

Sådan fortsætter det

så lange det fortsætter

 

Solsorte synger i maj

dækket af sangen

siger nogen

det som ellers slettes.

 

 

The blackbirds are singing 

Dedicated to Milan Kundera

 

The blackbirds are singing

singing away

one blackbird’s song

almost always reaches one other

 

The blackbirds are singing from roof to roof

from tree to tree

from blackbird to blackbird

from listener to listener

 

The blackbirds are singing beyond the borders

the blackbirds are covering Europe

with a well-nigh close-knit net

of blackbird song

 

This means nothing else

than the obvious fact

that the blackbirds are singing

but this exists

 

While humans are going through

what they must go through

and let all others go through

what they must go through

the blackbirds are singing away in May

almost continuously

 

That’s how it continues

for as long as it continues

 

Blackbirds singing in May

covered in song

someone is saying

what otherwise gets erased.

 

Fernand Florizoone: 'Tot aan de drift der wolken'

 

Tot aan de drift der wolken

strekt het land zijn handen uit,

de reiger stijft de stilte

om een vis

 

het licht leest in de gracht

de waterbrief van volwassen geduld.

 

 

Towards the drifting clouds

the land stretches out its hands

the heron stiffens the silence

round a fish

 

in the canal the light reads

the water-letter of full-grown patience.

Fernand Florizoone: 'Het werkwoord wachten' (PS 59)

HET WERKWOORD WACHTEN

 

Tot ik er was, tot ik weer vertrok.

Het leek of hij wachtte altijd op mij,

die dan ruggelings zijn huis betrok,

de deuren dicht, elkaar vermijdend

voor het binnenskamers samenspreken

dat nooit woorden had,

nooit slaags geraakte.

Stilte was ons hevig teken.

 

Alsof wachten

bij hem voorgoed bestond

uit loopgrachten aan de lJzer

onder sterren verloren,

waar elk onvoorzichtig woord

op het spoor kwam van de dood,

zoals de verdwaalde kogel floot

in witte winters aan de passerelle

van Boesinge-sas, achter waterwilgen,

waar hij ooit op het wachtwoord stond,

vierentwintig uur bevroren.

 

 

THE VERB TO WAIT

 

Till I was there, till I left again.

He seemed always waiting just for me,

who cautiously his house then regained,

the doors shut tight, steering well clear

of any mutual conversation

that never had words,

never led to dispute.

Silence was our deep-felt sign.

 

As if waiting

forever consisted for him

of trenches close to the IJzer

lost beneath the stars,

where every carelessly uttered word

could reveal the track of death,

like the stray bullet that whistled

in white winters at the narrow footbridge

of Boesinge sluice, behind sallow willows

where once he’d waited for the password,

twenty-four hours half-frozen.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 59

Uffe Harder: 'Tre hunde'

 

Tre hunde

 

Tre glade hunde i forskellige størrelser

omkring et buffet-bord

med hvid dug

på en ambassade

 

En gæstende ambassadør

danser mens han med klar stemme synger

om sjælen.

 

Der er også tres andre mennesker

 

En hvidhåret dame

vil absolut frelse mig

fra en skæbne som

hun ikke kender til

 

Tre tjenere

lukker hundene ud

på en snedækket plane

hvorfra de smilende vender tilbage

 

Jeg ryger cigar

 

Den skæbne som

den hvidhårede dame tror jeg har

har jeg ikke

men en helt anden

som hun ikke tror jeg har

 

Hundene griner men ikke ad mig

tjenerne ryster på deres hoveder.

 

 

Three dogs

 

Three happy dogs of various sizes

around a buffet table

with a white cloth

at an embassy

 

A visiting ambassador

is dancing while singing with a clear voice

about the soul.

 

There are also sixty others present

 

A white-haired lady

is absolutely determined to save me

from a fate about which

she knows nothing

 

Three waiters

let the dogs out

onto a snow-covered lawn

from which they return smiling

 

I am smoking a cigar

 

The fate which

the white-haired lady believes I have

I do not have

but a completely different one

which she does not believe I have

 

The dogs are grinning but not at me

the waiters are shaking their heads.