Ebba Lindqvist: 'Träd'

 

TREE

 

The tree has been torn up by the roots.

A thousand fine root hairs are drying out in the sunshine.

Cockroaches and centipedes have moved out.

The worms have left the clumps of earth.

Never more will its branches rise skywards.

They will dry out. They will decay.

They will forget

the water’s highways through their fibres.

The tree has been torn up by the roots.

But the leaves still feel their way. For a few more days

they rest, open to the blue sky.

For a few more days they stretch out

towards the sun.

 

And this was a tree at the roadside.

Humbly serving the one who believes in reality.

 

But this tree has grown elsewhere,

has deeply sucked juice and nourishment out of life

and yet was sentenced to be torn up by the roots.

And although I know this to be in vain –

no more than leaves on branches already dead –

I pray for a miracle even so: may the tree grow green,

may its branches unfurl!

Who owns life? Who do scent and sunshine belong to?

Oh, dead tree that must dare to grow green!

Oh, leaves that force themselves to seek the sun!

 

But nothing can be compared with anything else,

for trees are trees and humans are humans.

And since I know that this is in vain,

I remain silent and pray for nothing.

But he who believes he knows the tree’s semblance

from all the thousands of cockroaches underneath,

he shall be given the tree torn up by the roots

and the crown now facing the earth.

 

Maybe the bird of life is singing in its branches.

To see the original Swedish poem, go to here.

 

 

 

 

Ebba Lindqvist: 'Monolog i Hades'

 

Monologue in Hades

 

(Euridyce to Orpheus)

 

Who said that I would follow you, Orpheus?
Why were you so sure that you sought me here?

That you forced me back, step by step?

Our love was beautiful once, and shall never be denied.

But no life can tempt me any longer. Up there also

in the land of the sun the cold shadow comes

creeping over the mountains. I know. I remember.

And no one as I knew the coldness in your heart.

The sun gets dark spots. Eros has black wings.

And in the dark of night I already heard while on earth

the baying of Hades’ hounds. – Don’t imagine I grieve,

although you were unable, although you turned back. Oh, no one

knew your weakness as I did. You came back dead-tired,

came back always to me from feasts and victories,

flung your lyre to the ground, sank into my embrace to forget

the bacchanals and singing and wine. And I your beloved alone.

But no song for me. No journey to the sun.

Never the flight of bird’s wings. Orpheus came dog-tired home.

Don’t imagine that I grieve. I chose my life in Hades.

It was not the serpent that chose me. It was I who chose the serpent.

I saw it in the meadow among the flowers. I wished for the poison.

First here in the land of the shadows was I able to live.

Life puts one up against a wall. Life demands an answer.

Life has spear-sharp words that bore through our heart.

The blood drips so silently, so silently, and no one sees how it drips.

And yet – time and time again I have to say the same, Orpheus:

our love was beautiful once, and shall never be denied.

But that was not what I followed. Tremblingly pale,

reelingly tired I followed the lyre and the song.

The song of the sun and the winds. The song of the sea and the waves.

The song of the earth’s delightfulness, when poppies bloom in spring.

The song of all that the earth gives but even more

all that it does not give. Of that which is beyond the earth,

of that which is beyond the human heart and beyond love.

The song of that which is more beautiful than life.

The song superior to love and death.

The song superior to the song. – Oh, everything on earth will soon vanish,

I will forget everything, but never the song.

Only once have you played for me alone.

Only once – in the cool realm of the shadows.

Once I have lived my life on earth. Oh, so gladly do I give the earth

to those who have the strength to live. But

who said that I would follow you, Orpheus?

No life tempts me any longer,

and I never long to return.

 

To see the original Swedish poem, go to here. 

 

 

 

Ebba Lindqvist: 'Hela hösten är jag besatt av lökar'

 

Hela hösten är jag besatt av lökar

 

Hela hösten är jag besatt av lökar.

Lökar jag måste sätta.

Lökar jag inte vill sätta.

Jag ser dem som vajande fält

av gula solar, då solen inte orkar —

som röda hjärtan,

då hjärtat inte orkar —

som blå himmel gömd i gräset,

då himlen inte orkar.

Lökarna orkar.

De bor i mina händer.

De slår rot i mina ögon.

Om natten drömmer jag

om en röd tulpan

med jordens svarta hjärta

inbränt i sin krona.

 

 

All autumn I am obsessed with bulbs

 

All autumn I am obsessed with bulbs.

Bulbs I must plant.

Bulbs I don’t want to plant.

I see them as a swaying field

of yellow suns when the sun’s not up to it –

as red hearts

when the heart’s not up to it –

as blue skies hidden in the grass

when the sky’s not up to it.

Bulbs are always up to it.

They dwell in my hands.

They take root in my eyes.

At night I dream of a red tulip

with the earth’s black heart

burnt into its corolla.

 

 

Ebba Lindqvist: 'Fågelmärkning'

 

Fågelmärkning

 

Jag vet ingenting om fåglar.

Jag vet ingenting om dikter.

Men jag fångar en dikt ...

som en fågel i flykten.

Jag är en fågelmärkare.

Några minuter i min hand —

och så är den färdig att flyga,

försedd med ett märke, ett datum, ett namn —

ut i en värld, fylld av faror —

för fåglar ... för dikter ...

för att vi skall få veta någonting om dikten —

kanhända —

om dess ensamma märkliga färd

genom tiderna,

om dess viloplatser

i ett människohjärta,

den enda plats,

där en dikt hör hemma,

en liten tid,

för alltid —

så underliga flyttfåglar dikter ...

 

 

Bird ringing

 

I know nothing about birds.

I know nothing about poems.

But I catch a poem …

like a bird in flight.

I am a bird ringer.

A few minutes in my hand –

and it is ready to fly,

provided with a ring, a date, a name –

out into a world full of dangers –

for birds… for poems …

so that we shall find out something about the poem –

perhaps –

about its lonely remarkable voyaging

through the ages,

about its resting places

in a human heart,

the only place

where a poem belongs

for a short time

for always –

such strange birds of passage poems …

 

 

Emil Hagström: 'Men gamla bocken'

 

MEN GAMLA BOCKEN

 

Liten killing hoppar omkring

och vill så lustig vara.

Han leker och dansar i rös och ring,

om världens sorg vet han ingenting.

Men gamla bocken skakar pả skägget.

 

Liten killing buffar på sin mor,

diar och hickar och nyser.

Han vet ganska litet om död och klor.

Han kastar och tvärar och önskar sig stor.

Men gamla bocken skakar på skägget.

 

 

 

BUT THE BILLY GOAT

 

The young kid only wants to spring

and finds life so amusing.

He’d so like to dance beyond pale and ring

of worldly sorrows knows not one thing

But the billy goat simply shakes his beard.

 

The young kid nudges at the doe,

suckles and hiccups and sneezes.

Of death and claws he is not in the know,

He butts and swerves and is eager to grow.

But the billy goat simply shakes his beard.

  

 

The Swedish word rös refers to a boundary stone, a heap of them can be called a cairn in English.

The English word pale derives from the Latin word pālus = a wooden stake or post. The term was used for a fence made of stakes (a palisade) and later the enclosed area or territory protected by that fence. Anyone going ‘beyond the pale’ became an ‘outlaw’, i.e. someone with no claim to or not deserving any legal protection.

 

 

Emil Hagström: 'Vittnesbörd'

 TESTIMONY

 

I’m dead pleased

that I’m the one I am

and not some other feller.

I’m dead pleased

that life’s the way that it is

and ain’t just what I think.

For if life was just

the way I thought it was

that’d be downright awful

I’m dead pleased

that God Almighty’s

what he maybe is,

for if he was what I thought

he was

that’d be downright awful.

 

To see the original Swedish poem, go to here.

Emil Hagström: 'Min blonda natt och sommar'

 

MY LIGHT-BLOND NIGHT AND SUMMER

 

I’m walking along the

bog’s black, greasy duckboard

and see when I gaze downstream

the mist fade out of view.

I thought that you were here,

yes, really close beside me,

but it was just the wind and

the memory of you.

 

Your dress was oh so thin

like feathered clouds in summer,

your cheek was as smooth

as petals roses wear.

And merely just to see you

and sense your utter presence

made me feel so childishly

sadly free of care.

 

My light-blond night and summer

when autumns pale and whiten

and withered grass crowds round the

lone walkway woebegone,

then you’re close beside me

where the far stream is gleaming,

my dragonfly are you

and a song that’s winter long.

To see the original Swedish poem, go to here.

 

 

 

Emil Hagström: 'I friveckan'

 

IN MY WEEK OFF

 

A week off’s what I’d like now,

nice and quiet would suit,

to lick my wounds in private,

place on my strings a mute.

I’d like to laze and feel I’m free

have no one who despises me

have no one there who envies me

for being who I am.

 

A week off’s what I’d like now

with my dear friend who’d come

with scarlet sage she’d picked for

her small herbarium.

She came so undeniably

was kind and gently cared for me

made harm and danger turn and flee

and simply disappear.

 

And all that now seems broken,

my friend, between us two

if not before in heaven will

one day be whole anew.

There I will laze and feel I’m free

have no one who despises me

have no one there who envies me

for being who I am.

To see the original Swedish poem, go to here.

 

 

 

Mario Benedetti: 'Ruta, poema inédito'

 

THE ROAD MAP, unedited poem

 

I found it in my pocket / it was a road map

I did not know where it might take me

but followed it roaming just at random

with all my deep-felt longings in my hand

 

it was an atlas of the soul / awareness

of things enacted and what lay in store

on the ground I saw what were my footprints

the path then was one already trodden

 

the former ocean depths now were no more

everything was firmer, more secure

quite suddenly I found myself beside

the river for which I had always yearned

 

then only did I take my own advice

returned the road map to my pocket

where it remained waiting for

another tomorrow

To see the original poem, go to here.

 

* The Spanish word nostalgia, like the German word Sehnsucht can be a longing both for things past and things to come, whereas nostalgia in English is not normally used in the plural and refers exclusively to the past, often with a tinge of regret.

Gustaf Fröding: 'Harens rätt'

 

Harens rätt

 

En hare må väl ha rätt

att mumsa på sin kål

och äta sig magen mätt

så mycket magen tål,

och njuta sitt liv det kära,

när ingen räv är nära.

 

Och söker en räv att tvinga

sig till ett mål på hare

att koka i kulans kettil,

har haren rätt att springa

med harben, höga och snare,

men kalla sig annat än hare,

har haren ingen rätt till.

 

 

The rights of a hare

 

A hare may well have the right

to munch its tasty kale

and eat till its stomach’s tight,

perhaps from top to tail,

enjoy a life it holds dear

when there’s no fox that’s near.

 

And should a fox ever seek

to try and dine on hare

by cooking it in a pot,

the hare has the right to streak

off on hare’s legs from there,

but call itself owt but hare –

that right a hare has not.