Thursday, 6 February 2025

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Paa Nytaarsmorgen!'

 


Paa Nytaarsmorgen!

 

Du Evighedens Gaade,

Du Lys for min Forstand,

Du Kjærlighed og Naade,

Saa stor, den rummes kan.

Fra Dig alt Livet vælder,

Til Dig alt Liv gaaer hen,

Til Dig jeg Hoved hælder,

Du, Barnets store Ven!

 

Jeg Øinene vil fæste

Fortrøstningsfuld paa Dig,

Hvad der er mig det Bedste,

Det vil Du give mig!

O, lad den Tro ei briste

Hos mig i Angstens Stund,

Og i den allersidste

Kys mig med Fader-Mund!

 

 

On New Year’s Day

 

You Mystery eternal,

You my dim mind’s great Light,

You Love and Grace supernal

Excelling human sight.

From You life wells unending,

To You life home shall wend,

To You my head I’m bending,

You, every child’s great friend!

 

In trust and faith my gaze will

I firmly fix on You.

And on me all my days will

You give my life its due!

Oh, when in fear diminished

May I my faith ne’er miss,

And when my life is finished,

Grant me a father’s kiss.

 

 

'Hans Christian Andersen: 'Dandse, dandse, Dukke min!'


 

Dandse, dandse Dukke min!

 

Dandse, dandse Dukke min!

Nei, hvor Frøkenen er fiin!

Cavaleren ligesaa,

Han har Hat og Handsker paa,

Buxer hvide, Kjole blaa, 

Liigtorn paa den store Taa.

Han er fiin, og hun er fiin.

Dandse, dandse Dukke min! 

 

Her er gamle Lisemo’er!

Hun er Dukke fra i Fjor;

Haaret nyt, det er af Hør,

Panden vasket er med Smør;

Hun er ganske ung igjen.

Kom Du med, min gamle Ven!

I skal dandse alle Tre.

Det er Penge værd at see.

 

Dandse, dandse Dukke min!

Gjør de rette Dandsetrin!

Foden ud ad, hold Dig rank,

Saa er Du saa Sød og slank!

Neie, dreie, snurre rundt,

Det er overmaade sundt!

Det er nydeligt at see.

I er’ søde alle Tre!

 

 

Dance now, dance now, doll of mine!

 

Dance now, dance now, doll of mine!

Isn’t this young lady fine!

And her escort looks a treat,

With his hat and gloves so neat,

Trousers white and jacket blue,

Big-toe corn from tight-laced shoe. 

He’s so fine, and she’s so fine.

Dance now, dance now, doll of mine! 

 

And there’s Lise here as well!

Last year’s doll’s a grand old gell,

Hair quite new, it’s made of flax,

Forehead rubbed quite clean with wax;

She now looks quite young once more.

Come, old friend, and take the floor!

You shall dance, the three of you.

So we can enjoy the view.

 

Dance now, dance now, doll of mine!

Get your steps right, keep in line,

Point your toes and keep quite trim,

Then you’ll look both sweet and slim!

Curtsey, turn and round you spin,

It’s so healthy for the skin!

An entrancing sight to see.

Keep on dancing, all you three!

 

Tuesday, 4 February 2025

Adam Oehlenschläger: 'Der er et yndigt land'

 


There lies a pleasant land

with beech trees wide outspreading

//: near Baltic’s salty strand, ://

it winds and curves in hill and dell,

its name of old is Denmark,

//: and here does Freya dwell. ://

 

There sat in days of yore

the warriors clad in armour,

//: revived from times of war; ://

they rose again to smite the foe,

now here their bones lie resting

//:’neath wreaths of standing stones ://

 

Still beauteous is this land;

rich-veined with deep-blue waters 

//: and in full leaf it stands, ://

and noble women, maidens fair

and men and youths so eager

//: its isles as homeland share. ://

 

Hail king and fatherland!

Hail every heart that’s Danish

//: and serves as best it can! ://

Our ancient Denmark shall stand true,

as long as beech trees mirror

//: their crowns in waves of blue. ://

 

Sunday, 2 February 2025

Thor Sørheim: 'Hva en tro kan bære'


 

HVA EN TRO KAN BÆRE

 

Den som vil bygge ei bru eller finne holdepunkter

for en tro, må først måle og regne ut hvor mye

de faste fundamentene skal tåle av overgang og

motgang. Ved slike anledninger gjelder det å finne

grensen for den vekt som skal legges på de avgjørende

sammenføyningene av tro og viten. Hva ei bru

kan tåle, og hva en tro kan romme vil alltid

bli målt med utgangspunkt i undringens akseltrykk.

 

 

WHAT A FAITH CAN BEAR

 

Anyone wanting to build a bridge or find a firm basis

for a faith, must first measure and calculate how much

the fixed foundations shall be able to tolerate tracking and

backtracking.  On such occasions the critical point must

be found for the weight to be placed on the crucial

interlockings of faith and knowledge. What a bridge

can tolerate, and what a faith can accommodate will always

be based on wonderment’s maximum axel load.

 

 

Saturday, 1 February 2025

Esther Jansma: 'Voor altijd ergens' (PS 23)

 

Voor altijd ergens

 

Het is niet zo dat alles verdwijnt, de laatste

plek waar jij bent de gekende handkleine

bloedwarme helling in het holst van de tijd

is mijn hand en mijn hand heft zich op,

 

maar in de schil van de wereld die stil is

in de huid van het huis in het hart van de lakens

haal jij adem en slaapt, verdwijnt niets.

 

Alles is voor altijd gebeurd en blijft bewaard.

Neem een willekeurige ochtend, wij ontwaakten,

er was voedsel en straks, het licht van zomaar

 

de zoveelste zomer verwarmde ons en vertrok

het heelal in en ging verder - wij beiden

schijnen voor altijd met brood in de handen

ergens uit het blauwe gezicht van de aarde.

 

 

For ever somewhere 

 

It is not so that all disappears, the final

place where you are the well-known hand-size

of blood-warm incline in dark depths of time

is my hand and my hand is undone,

 

but in the husk of the world that is hushed 

in the hull of the house in the lap of the sheets

you breathe and sleep, nothing here disappears.

 

All’s taken place for good and stays retained.

Just take any random morning, we woke up,

there was food and a while later, the light of some

 

umpteenth summer day warmed us, departed

far into the heavens and farther – with both of us

gleaming for ever with bread in our hands

somewhere out of the blue-hued face of the earth.

 

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 23

 

Frans Budé: 'Wij kleedden ons...' (PS 22)

 

We kleedden ons in de wollige vacht van mammoeten,

’s zomers ingeruild voor de huid van hertenbokken.

Eenmaal afgedragen bewaard als dakbeschutting.

We rouwden om onze doden, riepen hen aan.

 

Achter het intens gouden avondlicht volgden zij onze

stappen, hoe we liepen en keken, onze geliefden

beminden. Met omfloerste ogen dwongen ze ons

op het rechte pad te blijven, het vlees te keuren

 

dat wij uit de dieren sneden. Het licht in de grot,

zo lieten ze ons zien, door schachten weggezweefd,

druppelde nooit na. Het was de ontroering door

de diepte - oog in oog met een einde zonder zicht.

 

 

 

We clad ourselves in the woolly coat of mammoths,

during summer months exchanged for the hide of harts.

When too worn-out to be used retained as roofing

We grieved for our dead, we invoked them.

 

From behind the intense golden evening light they followed

our footsteps, how we moved and looked, held dear

our loved ones. With misted eyes they compelled us

to stay on the right path, to approve the flesh

 

that we carved from our prey. The light in the cave,

so they let us see, fluttered away through shafts,

never kept dripping. It was the emotional force of 

the depths – eye in eye with an end without sight.



 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 22

 

Martinus Nijhoff: 'De Danser'

 


De Danser

 

Onder mijn huid leeft een gevangen dier

Dat wild beweegt en zich naar buiten bijt,

Zijn donker bloed bonst, zijn gedrongen spier

Trilt in krampachtige gebondenheid.

 

Totdat zijn pijn als warmte door mij glijdt

En dwingt naar 't worden van gebaren wier

Beheerschte haast en vastgehouden zwier

Zijn vaart nog spannen eer hij zich bevrijdt.

 

Men moet gepoederd zijn, dat in ’t gelaat

Alleen het zwart der openschroeiende oogen

Den waanzin van ’t inwendig dier verraadt.

 

De mond moet, roodgeverfd en opgebogen,

Zoo god’lijk trots zijn, dat hij weten laat

Dat zich zijn breeden lach heeft volgezogen.

 

 

The Dancer

 

Beneath my skin a captive beast is fenced

That thrashes and would bite a pathway free;

Its dark blood throbs, and muscles highly tensed

Tremble in such confined extremity.

 

Until its pain like heat flows through my veins

And forces gestures out whose tempered haste

And maintained elegance screw up its pace

Still more before it hurls aside its chains.

 

One must be powdered so that in one’s face

The black of open-scorching eyes alone

Betrays the madness of the inner beast.

 

The mouth, upturned and reddened, must display

A pride so godlike everyone should know

Its broad smile is now totally released.

 

Friday, 31 January 2025

Christian Morgenstern: 'Der Werwolf'


 

Der Werwolf

 

Ein Werwolf eines Nachts entwich 

von Weib und Kind, und sich begab 

an eines Dorfschullehrers Grab 

und bat ihn: Bitte, beuge mich!

 

Der Dorfschulmeister stieg hinauf 

auf seines Blechschilds Messingknauf 

und sprach zum Wolf, der seine Pfoten 

geduldig kreuzte vor dem Toten:

 

"Der Werwolf", - sprach der gute Mann, 

"des Weswolfs"- Genitiv sodann, 

"dem Wemwolf" - Dativ, wie man's nennt, 

"den Wenwolf" - damit hat's ein End.'

 

Dem Werwolf schmeichelten die Fälle, 

er rollte seine Augenbälle. 

Indessen, bat er, füge doch 

zur Einzahl auch die Mehrzahl noch!

 

Der Dorfschulmeister aber mußte 

gestehn, daß er von ihr nichts wußte. 

Zwar Wölfe gäb's in großer Schar, 

doch "Wer" gäb's nur im Singular.

 

Der Wolf erhob sich tränenblind - 

er hatte ja doch Weib und Kind!! 

Doch da er kein Gelehrter eben, 

so schied er dankend und ergeben.

 

 

The Werewolf

 

One night a werewolf slipped with ease

from wife and child and sought straightway

the grave where their schoolmaster lay

and asked: Decline me, if you please!

 

The village teacher up did flit

And on his sign’s brass knob did sit,

the wolf, paws crossed, sat patiently

until the corpse fulfilled his plea:

 

‘The wherewolf,’ first the good man said,

‘The whencewolf’, dative born and bred,

‘The whosewolf,’ that’s the genitive,

‘The whatwolf’, plain accusative.

 

These cases fuelled the lone wolf’s greed,

he rolled his eyeballs at great speed.

But please, he begged, to these four add

the plural ones, and make me glad!

 

The village teacher though confessed

that he had never known the rest.

Though packs of wolves roam near and far,

a lone wolf’s always singular.

 

Quite blind with tears, the wolf ne’er smiled –

at home he had both wife and child!!

Though since of learning quite bereft,

he humbly thanked the corpse and left.

 

 

 

 

Christian Morgenstern: 'Der Lattenzaun'

 


Der Lattenzaun

 

Es war einmal ein Lattenzaun,

mit Zwischenraum, hindurchzuschaun.

 

Ein Architekt, der dieses sah,

stand eines Abends plötzlich da –

 

und nahm den Zwischenraum heraus

und baute draus ein großes Haus.

 

Der Zaun indessen stand ganz dumm,

mit Latten ohne was herum,

 

Ein Anblick gräßlich und gemein.

Drum zog ihn der Senat auch ein.

 

Der Architekt jedoch entfloh

nach Afri- od- Ameriko.

 

 

The slatted fence

 

A slatted fence once formed a screen,

with slots between, to show the scene.

 

An architect saw suddenly

one evening this anomaly –

 

removed the slots without ado

and built a large house from them too.

 

The fence stood meanwhile foolish there,

without its slots its slats were bare,

 

A ghastly sight that all displeased.

And so the senate had it seized. 

 

The architect absconded though

to Afri- or Americo.

 

 

 

Thursday, 30 January 2025

Dan Andersson: 'En vårvisa'

 


 

En vårvisa

 

Kom, sol, som en gud över åker och slog,

lys hjärtan som längta till ljus!

Blås, vind, och fall rägn i den spirande skog,

väx, gräs, över viddernas grus!

 

Väx, spirande säd, i den mörka mull,

skjut ax och gulna till bröd!

Av hunger och jämmer all världen är full,

kom, sommar, att frälsa från nöd!

 

Kom, sommar, med bröd, tiofalt, om du vill,

nu blive din räddande gärd.

Dig sol, dig jord, vi bedja till,

och till plogar i stället för svärd.

 

 

A spring song

 

Come, sun, like a god over farmland and lea

ignite yearning hearts with your flames!

Blow, wind, and fall rain on each sap-rising tree,

grow, grass, over vast barren plains!

 

Grow, burgeoning seed, in the dark, rich soil,

let golden corn ripen to bread!

The world’s full of hunger, of toil and moil,

Come, summer, and save us from dread!

 

Come, summer, with bread, tenfold, and now may

your tribute of grace be outpoured.

You sun, you earth, for this we pray,

and for ploughshares instead of for swords.