Anneke Brassinga: 'Concerto'

CONCERTO

 

Als met schalmeien, gorgelpijp en orgelend

het aangeheven schoonlawaai bezingend ons

gekweld bestaan, teloorgaat in de vuilte,

volte van de straat – als tussen stof en stank

uit strot en galmbuis wellen ijle liederen,

welriekend klankenschuim bezield gewaand met

de melkwegfanfare die uitbarst in werelden

van etherischer aard; dan is er nog íets

waarin wij schone beesten zijn.

 

 

CONCERTO

 

If with shawms, gullet-pipe and loud warbling

the struck-up tuneful tumult praising our

anguished existence gets lost in the foulness,

fullness of the street – if among dust and stench

from throat and tooting brass tenuous songs well up,

sweet-scented sound-froth fanciedly inspired by

the milky-way fanfare that bursts out in worlds of

a more ethereal nature, then there is still something

by which we are clean lovely beasts.

 

 

Marie Dauguet: 'Sous la bise'

The bise can lead to high waves on Lake Geneva

 

Sous la bise

 

Sous la bise qui le knoute,

       Ecoute

Le bois se tordre et hurler

 

Et, dans un ciel sans lumière,

       Lanières,

La pluie fauve le cingler.

 

Fuyant l’atroce martyre

       Chavire

D’un coup le bois tout entier,

 

Puis soudain jusqu’en la nue

       Se rue,

Redressé d’un bond altier;

 

Mais le vent qui le décharne,

       S’acharne,

Mate sa rébellion;

 

Des feuillages que transperce

       L’averse

Le flamboyant tourbillon

 

Emplit l’air qui s’en effraie,

       La plaie

Rougit des bois flagellés;

 

Et voici de la hêtrée

       Vautrée

Des gouttes de sang gicler.

 

 

Under the bise*

 

Under the lashing cold bise,

       The trees –

Oh hear how they writhe and howl!

 

And, from a sky where light fails,

       Thick trails –

The fawn rain scourges their cowls.

 

Fleeing the imminent spate

       Of fate,

The whole wood just overturns,

 

Though up to the clouds then speeds

       Stampedes,

And haughtily fate now spurns.

 

But the wind which assails it,

       Flails it

Quelling its mutinous act;

 

The leaves are pierced by the rain

       Insane,

This swashbuckling cataract

 

Whirls through the air filled with dread,

       Turns red

The wound of the welted wood;

 

And here from the sprawling beech–

       Tree’s breach

One sees drops of spurting blood.

 

 

* The Bise is a specific European wind, also referred to by La Fontaine in his famous fable 'La cigale et la fourmi':https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bise

Klaus Høeck: 'études australes' (from: 'In Nomine')

A celestial map by the Dutch cartographer Frederik de Wit, 1670

‘études australes’

 

 

and behind me stars

of glass and soda sparkle

behind my shoulder

 

that’s smoking with salt

behind my bedhead while i

am dreaming the stars

 

sparkle like crayfish

on the sea-bed of båring

vig the stars sparkle

 

like lightships there up

in the springtime night while i

am falling asleep

 

 

i have gathered the

dead around me in a cir

cle as around a

 

maypole for a dance

and a conversation they

cannot take part in

 

all the dead members

of my family around

me like statues that

 

move almost imper

ceptibly whenever i

do not gaze at them

 

 

and behind me the

stars sparkle like electric

welding over fun

 

en from the lindø

shipyards behind me the stars

toll for my ears out

 

from the spit ene

bærodde as if strangers

were going to be

 

evening guests or an

unexpected word in my

most recent poem

 

 

the dead also look

at me (at any rate from

their carbonised pho

 

tographs turned pale by

purgatory) or maybe

it is the other

 

way around that i

only move (am moved) when the

dead gaze at me and

 

that i otherwise

come to a complete standstill

in my memories?

 

 

and behind me the

stars plummet down cold and a

lien with sili

 

con from their orang

eries and from their enorm

ous celestial map

 

plunge into the realm

of my poems where they strike

my left foot or leave

 

behind them such words

as ‘carina’ or ‘puppis’

or as ‘canopus’

 

 

and behind me the

stars fall down from their winter

gardens fall down in

 

to ‘études australes’

from one star chart to anoth

er one and that is

 

the way the stars sound

then even harder and wild

er than emerald

 

that is the way the

stars sound in grete sultan’s

interpretation

 

 

nobody becomes

a good person just by dy

ing it is unfor

 

tunately not that

simple just as nobody

becomes an evil

 

person just by liv

ing it is not that simple

everyone has to

 

do it by themselves

both parts of their own free will

it’s that difficult

 

 

and behind me the

stars cast out dice over the

sky’s rough glass surface

 

like ice-cubes like the

coins in an I-ching throw

like the notes coming

 

from a steinway grand

piano like the sparks from

john cage’s pitu

 

itary gland like

crocodile tears like the last

words in the bible

 

 

i have gathered the

dead around me for life’s sake

(also the dead chaf

 

finches that flew in

to the window pane yester

day) life cannot un

 

equivocally

determine itself as life

the dead define us

 

in a way they are

what makes us living without

death there is no life

 

 

and behind me the

stars chime with death and necess

ity behind me

 

the stars ring out for

god – what if i were not to

turn around would i

 

then not be transformed

into a pillar of salt

or into a stone

 

plinth would my poem then

not be transformed into a

mourning cherry-tree?

 

 

Etudes Australes is a set of etudes for piano solo by John Cage, composed in 1974–75 for Grete Sultan. It comprises 32 indeterminate pieces written using star charts as source material.

  

Anon: 'Konung Göstaf I och Dahlkarlarne'

 

King Gustav I and the Men of Dalarna

 

To Dalarna King Gustav rides

To parley with his Swedes,

But Christian lies at Södermalm,

On stolen pork he feeds,

Christian sits safe in Stockholm,

He guzzles both wine and mead.

 

Listen good men of Dalarna

To all I have to say:

:|: Will you with me to Stockholm go

For there the Jutes to slay? :|:

 

The men of Dalarna answered him

They answered every one:

:|: Good Friday’s battle we still recall,

Much slaughtering then was done. :|:

 

To this King Gustav did reply:

He answered with this prayer:

:|: May God our Father in Heaven ensure

That we now better fare. :|:

 

The men of Dalarna answered him

Who bore the Swedish crown:

:|: Will you our battle-leader be

And take back Stockholm town? :|:

 

Snow grouse and squirrel in the tree

Our arrows seek and find;

:|: That bloodhound Christian surely then

To such a fate’s assigned. :|:

 

I’ll gladly your battle-leader be,

King Gustav told them true,

:|: If you will swear allegiance

And follow my banner blue. :|:

 

Then all the men of Dalarna

They answered one and all:

:|: We’ll gladly risk both life and limb

To make that tyrant fall. :|:

 

The man of Dalarna armed themselves,

Not one whole day but two,

:|: To fight alongside King Gustav

And see the battle through. :|: 

 

Gladly King Gustav then set out,

O’er Tuna bridge he rode;

:|: In numbers that the Danes amazed,

The men from Dalarna strode. :|:

 

Across the Tuna heath they spread,

this army of valiant men;

:|: Greater in number than the king

At one look could take in. :|:

 

He and his men at speed advanced,

They Stockholm would set free;

:|: Their shower of arrows thicker fell

Than hail does on the sea. :|:

 

He and his men they forged ahead

And made for Stockholm town;

:|: Their shower of arrows thicker fell

Than rain from clouds pours down. :|: 

 

The men from Dalarna then did shoot,

Their bows they drew and twanged;

:|: Thicker the swarm of arrows was

Than the seashore’s grains of sand. :|:

 

The men from Dalarna had their sport,

Their arrows did skip and nip;

:|: Two Jutlanders the third one bore

Up on their pikestaff’s tip. :|:

 

The miller’s wife she then came out

And loudly she did chide:

:|: The sacks of grain have all been ground,

Who’s to carry them inside? :|:

 

They are not sacks of grain that’s ground,

In spite of what you say;

The highest Jutlanders they are

That of late in Malm did lie,

The poorest Jutlanders they are

That from arrows came to die.

 

My head is simply splitting,

My limbs are heavy as lead;

:|: I’ve drunk marsh rosemary’s foul brew

That in Dalecarlia’s bred. :|:

 

My side is also aching,

All movement leaves me bent;

:|: I’ve tasted the herring sour and rank

That from Dalecarlia’s sent. :|:

 

From out their houses people came

Onto Stockholm’s streets they stepped;

:|: It caused delight to watch the Jutes

That from their horses leapt. :|:

 

A knight there was called Eric,

He moaned as if in pain :

:|: May Lord God help us Jutes, our land

We ne’er will see again! :|:

 

King Gustaf rode on his noble steed

Around the battlefield;

:|: I thank you, my men of Dalarna,

For faith that did not yield. :|:

 

At my side you have battled

As faithful Swedes and true;

If God me further life shall grant,

I’ll make this up to you.

If God me further life shall grant,

I’ll make this up to you.

 

To see the original, go to here

 

 

This is the story of the Stockholm Bloodbath and its aftermath. For more information, go to here.

 

Sven-Bertil Taube recorded this on an early LP, Skillingtryck

Kai Hoffmann: 'Den Danske Sang' (1924)

 

Den Danske Sang

 

Den danske sang er en ung, blond pige,

hun går og nynner i Danmarks hus,

hun er et barn af det havblå rige,

hvor bøge lytter til bølgers brus.

Den danske sang, når den dybest klinger,

har klang af klokke, af sværd og skjold;

imod os bruser på brede vinger

en sagatone fra hedenold.

 

Al Sjællands ynde og Jyllands vælde,

de tvende klange af blidt og hårdt,

skal sangen rumme for ret at melde

om, hvad der inderst er os og vort.

Og tider skifter, og sæder mildnes,

men kunst og kamp kræver stadig stål:

det alterbål, hvor vor sjæl skal ildnes,

det flammer hedest i Bjarkemål.

 

Så syng da, Danmark, lad hjærtet tale!

thi hjærtesproget er vers og sang,

og lære kan vi af nattergale,

af lærken over den grønne vang.

Og blæsten suser sin vilde vise,

og stranden drøner sit højtidskvad;

fra hedens lyng som fra stadens flise

skal sangen løfte sig ung og glad.

 

 

The Danes’ true song

 

The Danes’ true song is a young blond maiden

who hums contented in Denmark’s land,

a child is she of the sea-blue kingdom

where beech trees listen as waves meet strand.

The Danes’ true song, when it’s deepest ringing,

with sounds of bells, sword and shield will soar;

the strains of sagas towards us winging

that tell of Denmark in days of yore.

 

All Zealand’s charm, Jutland’s strong dominion,

the mild and hard in the same refrain,

must both be sung should our real opinion

of us and ours be made clear and plain.

And customs mellow with time’s rephrasing,

but art and battle for steel still call:

the altar fire where our soul’s set blazing

burns at its brightest in Bjarkemål.

 

So Denmark, sing, let the heart speak freely!

for heart’s true language is verse and song,

from nightingales we can learn this clearly,

from larks o’er meadows with call so strong.

And wind’s wild ballad breaks loose its tether,

the mighty lay of the waves is sung;

from city pavement and moorland heather

the song shall rise up, both glad and young.

 

Kai Hoffmann (text 1924), Carl Nielsen (music 1926)

 

 

I doubt if many Danes have any idea of what Bjarkemål is. It is a modern Danish/Norwegian spelling of Bjarkamál, an Old Norse poem from around the year 1000. The main reason it is referred to is perhaps that King Olav had the poem recited to rouse his outnumbered army the morning before an important battle. In this song there is, then, a call to mental battle reminiscent of the call made in Denmark after their great territorial losses of 1864 to the Prussians, and made topical by the recovery of Danish territory in Southern Jutland in 1922. The famous quotation ‘For every loss a replacement is to be found, what is outwardly lost must be inwardly won’ made in that context comes from the Danish writer J.P. Holst. The British equivalent is when people sing ‘I shall not cease from mental strife’ at the last night of the Proms.

 

For further information about Bjarkamál (= the beserker’s call), go to here.