Melampyrum pratense (marimjelle)
LAVMÆLT
Det finnes en visdom der du
minst aner det. Lavmælt marimjelle
nederst i skogbunnen. Langs stier du ofte
har gått, uten å legge merke til gulhvite
blomster som vil si deg noe.
LOW KEY
A wisdom exists where you least
suspect it. Low-key cow-wheat deep down
in the forest floor. Along paths you have often
walked along, without noticing yellow-white
flowers that want to tell you something.
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| Sorbus Norvegica (whitebeam) |
PÅ FORVILLEDE VEGER
Jeg går på skogsvegen ved havet omkranset
av ligusterbusker som trolig har grønne blader
gjennom hele vinteren. Jeg vandrer langs gule
jorder i oktober og ser de mørke skyene over hyttene
på odden, og når jeg snur meg er vesthimmelen blå
og optimistisk. Det finnes vippepunkter som avgjør
vår videre ferd gjennom historien. Jeg velger
forvillede veger framfor firefelts fartsfristelser.
Det er god motstand i ubedt berberis, rød krossved
og sjeldne asalbusker i møte med en snøfri vinter.
ON PATHS RECLAIMED BY NATURE
I walk along the woodland path by the sea surrounded
by privet hedges that probably have green leaves
throughout the winter. I walk past yellow plots of land
in October and gaze at the dark clouds above the cabins
on the spit, and when I turn round the western sky is blue
and optimistic. Tipping points exist that determine
our further course through history. I choose reclaimed paths
rather than four-lane high-speed temptations. There is
good resistance in unsolicited barberry, red guelder-rose
and rare whitebeam when meeting a snow-free winter.
 |
| מנא מנא תקל ופרסין (or Mene, Mene, Tekel, Uphasin) |
SKRIFTEN PÅ VEGGEN
Fra de første spede forsøk på å uttrykke noe
vesentlig, har menneskeheten levd med frykt
og håp og risset inn sine drømmer og sitt raseri
på veggene i mørke huler og på svabergene
langs elver og hav. Med hogde streker oppstår
symbolske figurer, og vi kan fremdeles tolke deres
budskap. Vi har lært oss å lese skriften på veggen
og tatt alvoret med oss etter hvert som bildene
la grunnlaget for de neste stegene i henvendelsen
mennesker imellom. Tegning ble til skrift, rette
streker i varierende lengde og posisjoner. Enetalen
fra skriften på veggen ble til samtaler mellom de
som kjente til koden, alfabetet. Men vi må aldri
glemme at ord er bilder som må tolkes. Evig liv
er et uttrykk for menneskeverd, ordet bønn
er et rop om at Gud må gjøre det umulige mulig.”
THE WRITING ON THE WALL
From the first tentative attempts to express something
important, humanity has lived with fear and hope
and has scratched its dreams and its rage onto the
walls of dark caves and onto the smooth rocks along rivers
and seashores. Via hewn strokes symbolic figures
emerged, and we are still able to interpret their
message. We have learnt to read the writing on the wall
and have grasped its import as the images came to form
the basis of the next steps that were taken in interhuman
communication. Drawings turned into scripts, straight
lines of various lengths and positions. The monologue
of the writing on the wall became conversations between
those familiar with the code, the alphabet. But we must
never forget that words are images that must be deciphered.
Eternal life is an expression of human worth, the word
prayer is a call for God to make the impossible possible.
OM Å DIKTE
Det er ikke jeg som skriver diktene. Bidraget
mitt er å sanse fritt i et vegkryss og nyte duften
av ryllik og honningblom og slippe ordene løs.
De springer ned i grøftekanten, noen ganger
kan jeg til og med høre dem mumle til kjøttmeisen.
De sørger for innhold og rytme, stort sett da, før de
forsvinner, og da er det jeg som må henge opp
sokker og truser på snora under en smilende himmel.
ABOUT FASHIONING A POEM
I’m not the one who writes the poems. My contribution
is to free my senses at a crossroads and enjoy the scent
of yarrow and musk orchid and let the words loose.
They jump down to the edge of the ditch, sometimes
I can even hear them mumbling to the great tit.
They take care of the content and rhythm, more or less,
before disappearing, and then I am the one who must
hang socks and briefs on the line beneath a smiling sky.
GAMLE PILETRÆR
Gamle piletrær fletter seg sammen
ved vadestedet. Omfangsrike med kraftige
greiner som stikker ut i alle retninger. Tjukke
stammer har fått en knekk, to terner skriker
ute på sjøen mens de kretser rundt
en arrogant måke som overser klyngen
av trær som bøyer seg i ærbødighet
mot det lave blåveisalteret. Gjemmesteder
finnes i de hule stammene, og rotvelt åpner
surklende kjeften sin fra undergrunnen, mørk
sang overdøver måkeskrikene da jeg bøyer meg
ned til møtet med forråtnelse og fortrolighet.
OLD WILLOW TREES
Old willow trees intertwine at the
ford. Voluminous in girth and with powerful
branches protruding in all directions. Thick
trunks have opened up cracks, two terns are
screeching out on the lake while circling round
an arrogant gull that is surveying the clump
of trees which bow in deference towards
the low altar of blue anemones. The hiding places
are in the hollow trunks, and a windfall opens
its gurgling jaws from the subsoil, dark
song drowns out the shrieking gulls as I bow down
to meet with decomposition and intimacy.
Den glade bagaren i San Remo
Text och musik: Evert Taube, 1937
Min vän, den glade bagarn uti San Remo stad,
ja, om ni kände honom, skulle ni bli glad.
Han sjunger framför ugnen sin glada ritornell
så stolt som om han vore en löjtnant John Forsell.
Den glade bagarn bakar det bästa bröd som fås,
det bakas inte bättre ej ens i Alingsås.
Han sjunger när han bakar, och arbetar med fröjd
det ökar varans värde och köparen blir nöjd.
San Remos sköna damer beundrar hans figur,
han liknar till det yttre en ung och kraftig tjur.
Och när han knådar degen och sjunger högt i dur,
då ryser det i damer med sinne för skulptur.
Min vän, den glade bagarn, som sprudlar av musik,
han har en vacker hustru, som står i hans butik.
Från ungnen langas brödet till disken där hon står,
ju mera bagarn sjunger dess mer hon sälja får.
Men om den glade bagarn vill svalka sig nån gång
bland damer i butiken, som lyssnar till hans sång,
då säger hustrun vänligt och klappar bagarns bröst:
”Kom inte ut Florindo, det drar, och du förstör din röst!”
The cheerful baker of San Remo
Lyrics and music: Evert Taube, 1937
My friend, San Remo’s baker, who’s cheerful through and through,
ah, if you only knew him, then you’d be cheerful too.
He sings there by the oven his cheerful ritornelle
proud as the opera singer once known as John Forsell.
The cheerful baker’s bread is the best bread one can buy,
not even Alingsås with such bread could ever vie.
He sings while he is baking, with joy he pounds the dough,
which makes the bread worth more and the buyer’s pleasure grow.
San Remo’s lovely ladies his figure much admire,
his bull-like strong physique does each one of them inspire.
And when he kneads the dough and they hear his merry trills,
Those ladies keen on sculpture feel oh such wondrous thrills.
My friend, the cheerful baker, whose tunes will never stop,
he has a lovely wife who stands daily in his shop.
Fresh bread’s tossed to the counter, where she inhales its smell,
the more the baker sings, the more bread she gets to sell.
But if the cheerful baker would come into the shop
and join the ladies listening, his wife will tell him stop,
though in a friendly fashion, and pat him on the chest:
‘It’s draughty here, Florindo, your voice knows what is best!’
Try listening to the man himself, or maybe his son Sven-Bertil in a live performance
Vrouwenfiguur op een tjandi
Regens zijn aan haar voorbijgegaan,
weerlicht en zon, nachten met volle maan,
schaduwen, wind, - en mensen,
wier vingers langs haar voeten zijn gegleden,
haar wreven van de welving hebben beroofd,
en die hier misschien hebben gebeden
en in andere werelden geloofd.
Ik heb haar alleen maar aangeraakt,
haar lichaam afgetast met de gedachte,
dat zij niet door goden is gemaakt,
maar door een mens. En in haar tederste leden
tintelt mijn vingertoppen de druk tegemoet der zachte
handen van iemand van duizend jaar geleden.
The word Tjandi or Candi for a temple in Indonesia is a word of Sanskrit origin. The word refers to any religious structure, most often Hindu or Buddhist, with a pyramidal tower.
Female figure on a candi
Rains have for centuries passed her by.
Sheet-lightning and sun, nights of a full moon,
shadows, wind, - and humans,
whose fingers have glided along her feet,
her insteps from their arching have deprived,
and who perhaps for prayer here used to meet,
convinced this world from elsewhere is derived.
Only by touch have I ever tried
to probe and explore her body with the notion
she was not wrought by gods but by
a human. And in her softest parts I sense
my fingertips tingle with counter-pressure, motion
of gentle hands that date from a thousand years hence.
Avondregen
De regen ruist als oerwoud om het huis
en drijft de dieren van het duister binnen,
duizendpoten, spinnen, torren, een muis,
zelfs een visitevlinder, die vriendinnen
voorspelt, waarop ik voor de nacht mijn zinnen
had gezet. Maar de koelte maakt mij kuis
en kinderlijk - ‘o, regen, regen ruis’
en houdt de beesten uit mijn donker binnen.
Evening rain
The rain soughs like a jungle round my house
and drives the creatures of the dark inside,
centipedes, spiders, beetles and a mouse,
even a butterfly to prophesy
some lady friends my senses have supplied
for the night. But coolness my ardour’s doused
and I’m a child – ‘o, rain, rain till I drowse’
and keeps the creatures from my dark inside.
Djangir
Zij dansen. Duizend dromen in één nacht.
De dromen van een licht bewogen leven:
Hoe men lief kan hebben; hoe men best zacht
Mag zijn, maar niet half-zacht; hoe men zich geven
Moet, maar nooit helemaal; hoe men wel beven
Kan van ontroering, doch, op vorm bedacht,
De hartstocht door een gouden huid moet zeven
Tot zweetglans, oogopslag en pradadracht.
Nu zullen dit voor mij wel dromen blijven.
Maar hier neemt één idee in vele lijven
Gestalten aan en winnen alle zinnen
Het van de zuiverste gedachtengangen:
Hier laat, in duizend dansposen gevangen,
De schoonheid zich bloot lijfelijk beminnen.
De 'djangir' is een moderne Balische dans, waarbij de dansers en danseressen in een carré zitten en de solodanser in het midden, voortdurend met gebaren en mimiek begeleiden. De kleding van de dansers en in het bijzonder die van de danseressen, bestaat uit lappen die met bladgoud zijn opgelegd, het zogenaamde prada, en die om het lichaam worden gewonden. Het schouderstuk en het hooftooisel zijn meestal van leer of perkament, eveneens rijk met goud bewerkt, zoals de hele kleding rijk en kostbaar is. De dans zelf is zeer zinnelijk en hartstochtelijk, maar in strenge vormen gevat.
Djangir
They dance. A thousand dreams in just one night.
Dreams of a life that’s lightly set in motion:
How one can love; may be gentle outright
but not half-gentle, must accept the notion
Of partial self-giving, be quivering,
with emotion, yet form’s prime role confess,
Must sift one's passion through a golden skin
To gleaming sweat, glances and prada dress.
For me all this may well stay merely dreams.
Here, though, in many bodies it would seem
One idea becomes shapes, the senses gloved
and coated with the purest trains of thought:
Here, in a thousand dancing poses caught,
Beauty can purely physically be loved.
The ‘djangir is a modern Balinese dance in which the dancers, male and female, sit in a square with a solo dancer in the middle, always accompanied by physical and facial gestures. The attire worn by the dancers and, especially that of the female dancers, consists of patches gilded with goldleaf, the so-called ‘prada’, which is wound round the body. The epaulets and headdress are usually of leather or parchment, also richly decorated with gold, which means the garment is very rich and costly. The dance itself is extremely sensuous and passionate, yet couched in strict forms.
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| Danau Beratan temple, Bali |
Poera in zee in Tabanan
Een eeuwen geleden uit de deining geheven
koraalkalkterras scheidt rijstland en oceaan.
In het plat, waarover bij vloed de golven slaan
bewaren kuilen wat er achter is gebleven
van oertijdtuinen, die ten onder zijn gegaan.
Uit steen en stortzee op een rots omhoog gedreven
streeft een tempeltje naar verhevener bestaan.
Soms schijnt het boven schuim en sawahs uit te zweven.
Licht, reuken, wind en regens hebben het omgleden,
priesters feesten er met geesten; meer naar beneden
preev’len reven in brandingsnissen hun gebeden.
Steeds gereed om in zee of hemel heen te gaan
verbeeldt het dit leven: doorvochtigd met de vrede
van aan veel deel te hebben, heel alleen te staan.
Poera: temple
Brandingsnissen: term for potholes scooped out of rocks protruding above a coral limestone terrace
Poera in lake in Tabanan
A coral limestone terrace, raised centuries ago
by heaving swell, divides paddy fields from ocean.
In the flat land, over which the waves at high tide flow,
potholes retain what is left from this demotion
of primeval gardens whose life was bluntly halted.
Raised up onto a rock by rough seas’ violent motion,
a stone poera strives to gain life more exalted.
Above the foam and sawahs it sometimes seems to float.
Light, scents, many winds and rains have slid around it,
priests feast here with spirits, but much further down it
rifts in wave-cut notches mumble prayers that ground it.
Always prepared into sea or sky to pass away,
it portrays this life: pervaded with the peace that’s founded
on taking part in much, yet being a castaway.
