Pia Tafdrup: 'Efteråret svulmet op' (Dronningeporten)

 

 

 

THE AUTUMN SWOLLEN

 

And, behold, there came up out of the river seven

well favoured kine and fatfleshed; and they fed

in a meadow.

(Genesis Chap. 41, v.2)

 

 

 

 

 

 

The streams have quietly overflowed their banks,

along which rushes and scrub and moss-grown trunks stand in water,

new-born firs compete with each other at taking swimstrokes.

 

Winter-sown fields lie like elongated lakes that are not sucked up,

but mirror the sky with jet-fighter traces, parallel-ejaculated streaks 

sign the sky where it crashes into the two planes.

 

Motionless in their winter coats a herd of red-brown heifers has just got up,

where the black mud meets the wet green,

in long puffs the steaming breath of the cattle pushes into the cold air.

 

Further south if has rained continually for weeks, rivers throb and grow,

break dikes like pain chasing through a body, submerge town and countryside,

hide streets and cars in the streets, carries carcasses of animals.

 

Water pours into gardens, forces its way past barricaded doors and windows,

causes the odd house to collapse or rushes into cellars, rises several floors, 

people use boats in the streets, row from house to house, transport hundreds

                                                                                                        of dead bodies.

 

 

I wade across the ploughed fields, up the hill, my feet

slip in the clayey soil, trip on furrows as I proceed;

the tree at the crest flies up to fetch birds down from the sky.

 

A colony of rooks lands on the bare branches, crooked as fingers 

that for years have studied Haydn’s unpredictabilities,

with prolonged cries the birds pull a cloth right down across the earth.

 

They drag a death-cloak of darkness behind them, but the sky will be lit

a while yet and the clouds before then take on a bloodied pink primeval tinge, 

the white fighter-streaks change to steely grey before they dissolve.

 

The sky opens deep in copper fire, in turquoise, in bright shades of blue, 

a space of continued amazement for the dilated eye, a ravine

to disappear in without a sound above the soggy earth.

 

 

Klaus Høeck: 'Ode til musikaflytningen'

 

ODE TIL MUSIKAFLYTNINGEN

 

     det jeg holder så

meget af ved haydns mu

     sik er at man får

 

     hvad man hører – you

get what you hear – lige le

     des med digtene

 

     håber jeg – du får

det du læser hvis orde

     ne betød noget

 

     andet end det der

står hvorfor så ikke skri

     ve dette andet?

 

 

ODE TO MUSIC-LISTENING

 

     what appeals to me 

so much about haydn’s mus

     ic is you get what

 

     you hear – man bekommt

was man hört – the same applies

     to poetry i

 

     sincerely hope – you

get what you read for if the

     words meant something else

 

     than precisely what

is there on the page why not

     write that something else?

From the collection 'Palimpsest', p. 446.

The whole collection is available in digital form here.

 

 

Thor Sørheim: 'Morgenhaydn'

 

MORGENHAYDN

 

Nattas fortøyninger løsner langsomt

og jeg hører strykerne som risler en varsom

vind over vannflata denne sommerdagen,

før pianoet har rukket å slå sine første

 

regndråper mot det svarte svaberget. Jeg hører

Haydn som fører meg over demarkasjonslinja

mellom løgn og sannhet. Tonene viser veg utenom

herskernes talebobler festet som borreblomster

 

i øregangen. Musikken glir forbi som varme

fingre over mjuk hud. Vi er her nå hvisker

fiolinene fortrolig, du er trygg på denne siden.

Vi seiler med mot, og alt vi spiller er fred.

 

Til T.T.

 

 

MORNING HAYDN

 

Night’s moorings slowly loosen and I hear

the strings ripple a cautious breeze over the

water’s surface on this summer’s day,

before the piano has had time to let its first

 

raindrops strike the flat black rock. I can hear

Haydn, who leads me over the demarcation line

between lies and truth. The notes show a way past

rulers’ speech bubbles that cling like burrs inside

 

my ear canal. The music glides past like warm

fingers over soft skin. We are here now, the violins

whisper confidingly, you are safe on this side.

We sail courageously, and all that we play is peace.

 

To T.T.

For other 'Haydn' poems, try these two: Eduard Mörike and Anna Greta Wide

Johan Herman Wessel (1742-85): 'Digterens Gravskrift over sig selv'

 

Digterens Gravskrift over sig selv

 

Han aad og drak, var aldrig glad,

Hans Støvlehæle gik han skieve;

Han ingen Ting bestille gad,

Tilsidst han gad ei heller leve.

 

 

The poet’s epitaph upon himself

 

He ate and drank, was never glad,

He wore his boot heels down one side;

Ambition – that he never had,

And finally just upped and died.

 

Johan Vibe (1748-1782): 'En sang'

Johan Vibe (far right) and Johan Herman Wessel (far left) toast

                  each other at the Norwegian Society

  

 

En Sang

 

Den, Skaberen skiænkte en oplyst Forstand,

Han elsker og drikker, imedens han kan;

Thi naar man først Foden hos Charon har sat,

Saa siges al Elskov og Viinen god Nat.

 

Lad Viin da og Elskov opvarme dit Bryst;

Snart røver dig Døden al sværmende Lyst.

Og blev du end gammel, saa bliver du dog,

Hvad endnu er værre, saa bliver du klog.

 

Lyksalighed, Maalet for Jordiskes Fliid,

Lær den ej af Viise, du spilder din Tid;

Kun Saften af pressede Druer, min Ven!

Og Pigernes Kysse kan give dig den.

 

Hos Viinen og Elskov boer Lærdom og Vid,

Jeg kiender ej Stierner, jeg veed dog min Tid,

Ty naar jeg ej Piger og Viinen har kiær,

Saa veed jeg tilvisse, min Ende er nær.

 

I strænge Theologi! hindrer mig ej

At vandre bekrandset den lystige Vey,

Jeg frygter kun lidet at blive fortabt

Af den, som har Piger og Vindruer skabt.

 

Al Skabningens Herre er naadig og god,

Til Trøst for de skabte hans Viisdom tillod

I Druen at finde en Lindring mod Harm

Og Forsmag paa Himlen i Pigernes Arm.

 

Mit høyeste Gode skal ønskes min Ven:

At drikke og elske og elskes igien;

Naar Døden da Ende paa Vellyster giør,

Saa har du dog levet, forinden du døer.

 

 

A Song

 

He whom the Creator did bless with good sense,

Should love and should drink well before it all ends;

For once one in Charon’s bark has set one’s foot,

All passion and wine’s out the window for good.

 

Let wine and love’s passion stoke fires in your breast.

Soon death all desires and lusts from it will wrest.

And should you live long, you risk ere your demise

A thing that is worse still, you risk growing wise.

 

A state of bliss, which by all mortals is sought,

Don’t let wise men teach you, your time is too short;

This only the juice of pressed grapes, my dear friend,

And young women’s kisses can ever extend.

 

In wine and love’s passion dwell learning and wit,

I cannot read stars, but know well not to quit,

For when I no more wine and women hold dear,

I’ll know for a certainty my end is near.

 

You strict theologians! Don’t stand in my way

From garland-decked taking the path that is gay;

My fear is but slight He will let hell’s jaws gape,

The One who’s created both woman and grape.

 

The Lord of Creation is gracious and good,

To comfort His creatures them wisely allowed

In grapes to find solace for all that might harm

And foretaste of heaven in women’s fair arms.

 

My greatest boon I wish my friend too may learn:

To drink and to love and be loved in return;

When death puts an end to all joys by and by,

You’ll have at least lived well before you must die.

 

Werner Aspenström: 'Råttfälla, ryttare, regn'

 

Råttfälla, ryttare, regn

 

Skogmusens oansenliga prassel

och råttfällans burdusa smäll

befriade mig från en dröm om ryttare,

lansiärer, ett helt regemente,

som omringades och förintades

av en dimma...

 

Fönsterrutans våta darrskrift

var lättare att tyda:

Vad sker när vi dör

förutom att vi dör?

 

 

Rat-trap, riders, rain

 

The unassuming rustling of the fieldmouse

and the abrupt slam of the rat-trap

liberated me from a dream about riders,

lancers, an entire regiment

who were surrounded and destroyed

by a mist...

 

The wet shaky writing on the window pane

was easier to make out:

What happens when we die

apart from dying?

 

J.C. Bloem: 'De gestorvenen'

 

DE GESTORVENEN

 

Wij lagen naast elkander. Om haar hand

Hadden mijn vingers zich vast heengewonden.

Zo hebben zij des ochtends ons gevonden:

Voorgoed ontkomenen aan een ledig land.

 

Zij dachten dit een eindelijken band

Tussen twee die elkander niets dan wondden:

‘Levend gescheiden, in den dood verbonden’ -

Zij hebben ons geheim niet aangerand.

 

Want het was anders. Op dien laatsten tocht

Wilde ik mijn liefde haar doen uitgeleiden

En had mijn hand moeizaam haar hand gezocht.

 

Niet om die te behouden: zo verlaten

Als ik altijd geleefd had wilde ik scheiden,

Maar ik was heen eer ik ze los kon laten.

 

 

THE DEAD

 

We lay next to each other. Round her hand

My fingers had now twined and held it tight.

Thus had they found us in the dawning light:

Escaped forever to a vacant land.

 

They thought this signified a lasting link

Twixt two who only traded wounds and strife.

‘Parted in life, in death though man and wife’ –

But of our secret they’d not grasped one wink.

 

For it was otherwise. On this last trip

I wished my love to help her to depart,

And arduously sought her hand to grip.

 

Not to keep holding it: I wished to show

I’d been alone and so I wished to part,

But I was gone before I could let go.

 

Thor Sørheim: 'Eika mørkner'

 

EIKA MØRKNER

 

Eika blir brått mørkere når sola i august

velger en lavere bue over himmelhvelvingen.

Etter de varme dagene med grønnskarpe blader

og dansende skygger og gyngende husker som aldri

 

ble glemt av jublende barn. Nå kaster den mektige

trekronen et fiolett skjær over den første høstdagen.

Jeg ser en ukjent verden synke fram i horisonten.

En ny tid hvor fargene ikke lenger henger sammen

 

med mine egne inngrodde drømmer og forventninger.

Jeg kan ikke si at verden er ny. Den er fremdeles like

gammel og eldre enn dette eiketreet, som lar bladene

vise meg de mørke flekkene på lysets ovale palett.

 

 

THE OAK DARKENS

 

The oak grows darker more quickly when the August sun

chooses a lower arc across the vault of the sky.

After the warm days with sharp-etched green leaves

and dancing shadows and swaying swings that were never

 

forgotten by joyous children. Now the mighty crown of

the tree adds a cast of violet to the first autumn day.

I see an unknown world emerging on the horizon.

A new age where colours no longer seem to tally

 

with my ingrained dreams and expectations.

I can’t say that the world is new. It is still just as

old and older than this oak tree, which lets its leaves

show me the dark patches in light’s oval palette.

 

 

Thor Sørheim: 'Lukta av regn'

Pilewort

 

LUKTA AV REGN

 

Sommerregn siver inn gjennom det åpne

vinduet, gardinene blafrer og røper at vinden

kommer fra sørvest. Den tradisjonelle regndansen

utfolder seg i vinduskarmen, jeg ser ikke dråpene

 

som trolig faller ned på syrinbusken og vårkålen,

men jeg lukter en mild vind som lokker regnrike

skyer over til den plassen jeg har inntatt

i morgenlyset, avventende og årvåken. Lukt

 

er det første hjelpemiddelet vi har for å finne

fram i denne tids forvirring. Glem øynene som ser

det de tror de ser, hørselen som er i ferd

med å bli døv for roen i stillhetens menuetter.

 

Det er lukta som taler med ekte troverdighet.

Luftdraget fra kuene som beiter på jordet forteller

at de trekker mot skuret de har til vern. Jeg værer

allerede regnet som trommer mot blikktaket deres.

 

 

THE SMELL OF RAIN

 

The summer rain seeps in through the open

window, the curtains flutter and reveal that the wind

is from the southwest. The traditional rain dance is

performed on the window ledge, I cannot see the drops

 

that are probably falling on the lilac and pilewort,

but I can smell a mild wind that is enticing rain-laden

clouds over to the spot I have taken in the

morning light, expectant and alert. The sense of smell

 

is the earliest form of aid we can use to find our way

in the confusion of our age. Forget your eyes, which

see what they think they see, your hearing, which is in the

process of becoming deaf to the minuets of quietness.

 

It is smell that speaks with true credibility.

The breathing of the cows grazing in the field tells you

they are making for the barn that shelters them. I already

detect the smell of the rain drumming against their tin roof.