P.C. Boutens: 'Leeuwerik'

 

LEEUWERIK

 

Blijft gij nooit één blanke uchtend, 

Leeuwrik, zingen hier beneên, 

Die uw nachtlijk nest ontvluchtend 

Door de zilvren neevlen heen 

 

Vleuglings vindt de gouden wegen 

Waar uw aadmen juichen wordt, 

Tot uw zang in vuren regen 

Naar de koele vore stort; 

 

Zingt gij nooit de rode smarten 

Van de duistre aardenacht, 

Wordt het bloeden onzer harten 

Wel gestelpt, maar nooit verklacht?...

 

In het ijle blauw verloren 

Volgt mijn oog niet meer uw vlucht, 

Maar uw antwoord dwaast mijn oren 

Met zijn zaligend gerucht: 

 

Steeds, uit vreugd of smart gerezen, 

Heeft de ziel uw vreugd verstaan, 

En tot uwe vreugd genezen, 

Ons gemeen geheim geraên: 

 

Alle smart omhooggedragen 

Meerdert vreugdes gouden schat: 

Slechts de vleuglen die ons schragen, 

Zijn van aardes tranen nat.

 

 

First published in De Gids, December 1909, subsequently included in the collection 'Carmina', published 1912

 

 

SKYLARK

 

Do you never one bright morning, 

Lark, stay here below to sing, 

You who from your night nest soaring

Through the silver mists will wing

 

Up to golden paths ascending,

Where your breath erupts in song

Which as fiery rain descending

Finds cool furrows’ depths ere long;

 

Do you never sing the crimson

Pains of each dark earthly night,

Is our bleeding hearts’ vermillion

Stemmed but ne’er lamented quite?...

 

Lost in pale blue sky’s great vaulting,

Your small speck my eyes now miss,

But your answer, ear-assaulting,

Stupifies my mind with bliss:

 

Rising out of joy or sorrow,

Joy your soul has always gained,

Healed into your joy each morrow

Our shared secret ascertained:

 

All pains skyward-borne declare us

Joy’s gold treasure will accrue:

Nothing but the wings which bear us

Still wear tears of earthly dew.

Antjie Krog: 'digter wordende'

 

digter wordende 

 

om op ’n oggend wakker te word binne-in klank

met vokaal en klinker en diftong as voelspriet

om met aarselende sorg die effensste roerings

van lig en verlies in klank te kalibreer

 

om jouself meteens gekniel te vind

bo-oor die hoorbaar kloppende wand

van ’n woord – soekend na daardie presiese

moment wat ’n versreël volloop in klank

 

wanneer die betekenis van ’n woord swig,

begin gly en hom eindelik oorgee aan geluid

van dan af smag die bloed na die inkantasie

van taal – die enigste waarheid staan gevél in klank

 

die digter dig met haar tong

sy haal asem – ja, diep uit haar oor

 

 

becoming a poet

 

one morning you awake in the midst of sound

with vowel and consonant and diphthong as antenna

with hesitant care you calibrate the tiniest

flutter of light and loss into sound 

 

suddenly find yourself kneeling

above the audibly throbbing wall

of a word – searching for the precise

moment that a line of verse fills up with sound

 

when the meaning of a word succumbs,

begins to slide and finally submits itself to sound

from that moment the blood yearns for language as

incantation – the sole truth stands couched in sound 

 

the poet writes with her tongue

she fetches breath – yes, deep out of her ear

 

Stéphane Mallarmé: 'Sainte'

 

Sainte

 

À la fenêtre recelant

Le santal vieux qui se dédore

De sa viole étincelant

Jadis avec flûte ou mandore,

 

Est la Sainte pâle, étalant

Le livre vieux qui se déplie

Du Magnificat ruisselant

Jadis selon vêpre et complie:

 

À ce vitrage d’ostensoir

Que frôle une harpe par l’Ange

Formée avec son vol du soir

Pour la délicate phalange

 

Du doigt que, sans le vieux santal

Ni le vieux livre, elle balance

Sur le plumage instrumental,

Musicienne du silence.

 

 

Saint

 

At the stained window that reveals

The age-old gleaming sandalwood

Of her viol whose gilding peels

Once played with mandora or flute,

 

There sits the pale Saint, spreading flat

The age-old book and laying bare

The stream of the Magnificat

For vespers and for evening prayer:

 

A harp on these glazed monstrance panes

Formed by the Angel’s evening flight

Is being played on by the Saint’s

Delicate finger brushed with light

 

Which, with no viol’s complement

Nor aid of book, she balances

On her full-feathered instrument,

Maker of music’s soundless bliss.

 

Paul Bénichou, in his most helpful book ‘Selon Mallarmé’, points out that ‘vitrage’ does not mean the same as ‘vitrail’ and that it is simply a collection of random non-coloured panes: here those of the window, which reflect the rays of the setting sun and gleam around the Saint like a monstrance.

 

There is Swedish translation of the poem on p. 73 of Axel Englund’s book Mallarmé: Dikter i översättning.

R.M. Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus, II, iv: 'O dieses ist das Tier, das es nicht giebt'

 

IV

 

O dieses ist das Tier, das es nicht giebt.

Sie wußtens nicht und habens jeden Falls

- sein Wandeln, seine Haltung, seinen Hals,

bis in des stillen Blickes Licht - geliebt.

 

Zwar war es nicht. Doch weil sie's liebten, ward

ein reines Tier. Sie ließen immer Raum.

Und in dem Raume, klar und ausgespart,

erhob es leicht sein Haupt und brauchte kaum

 

zu sein. Sie nährten es mit keinem Korn,

nur immer mit der Möglichkeit, es sei.

Und die gab solche Stärke an das Tier,

 

daß es aus sich ein Stirnhorn trieb. Ein Horn.

Zu einer Jungfrau kam es weiß herbei -

und war im Silber-Spiegel und in ihr.

 

 

IV

 

Oh such a beast as this there’s never been.

Though unaware of this they loved its gait,

its posture and arched neck as too the straight

forthrightness of a quiet gaze so keen.

 

It never was, though through their love became

a pristine beast. They always gave it space.

And in that space, both clear and free from claim,

it raised its head with ease, had little need

 

to be. They fed it without using corn,

though its existence always kept in sight.

This in the beast instilled such purity

 

that it then grew an alicorn. A horn.

It passed close by a maid and, silver-white,

in her and in her mirror came to be.

Listen to the poem in German and English

Pär Lagerkvist: 'En gång ska du vara...'

 

En gång ska du vara en av dem som levat för längesen.

Jorden skall minnas dig så som den minns gräset och skogarna,

det multnade lövet.

Så som myllan minns

och så som bergen minns vindarna.

Din frid skall vara oändlig så som havet.

 

 

One day you will be one of those who have lived long ago.

The Earth will recall you as it recalls the grass and the forests,

the decomposed leaves.

As the soil recalls

and as the mountains recall the winds.

Your peace will be as endless as the ocean.

 

 

Pär Lagerkvist: 'Min vandringsstav har brustit'

 

 

 

My walking stick’s got broken,

my roaming days are done,

I live among my fellow men,

among you not alone.

 

To heights bright but deserted

I once was led, by whom?

But then I glimpsed earth’s beauty.

Turned back and made for home.

 

In fields the rye’s maturing,

And harvesting’s in store.

Like other folk I’ll harvest too

and plough the fields once more.

 

Worn is my hand and broken

it is my walking stick.

I have made peace with him who

way back once gave me it.

 

  

Pär Lagerkvist: 'Vem gick förbi min barndoms fönster'

 

Vem gick förbi min barndoms fönster

 

Vem gick förbi min barndoms fönster

och andades på det,

vem gick förbi i den djupa barndomsnatten,

som ännu inte har några stjärnor.

 

Med sitt finger gjorde han ett tecken på rutan,

på den immiga rutan,

med det mjuka av sitt finger

och gick vidare i sina tankar.

Lämnade mig övergiven

för evigt

 

Hur skulle jag tyda tecknet,

tecknet i imman efter hans andedräkt.

Det stod kvar en stund, men inte tillräckligt länge

för att jag skulle kunna tyda det.

Evigheters evighet skulle inte ha räckt till för att tyda det.

 

När jag steg upp på morgonen var rutan alldeles klar

Och jag såg bara världen som den är.

Allt var mig så främmande i den

och min själ var full av ensamhet och ängslan bakom rutan.

 

Vem gick förbi,

förbi i den djupa barndomsnatten

och lämnade mig övergiven

för evigt.

 

 

Who walked past my childhood window

 

Who walked past my childhood window

and breathed upon it,

who walked past in the depths of childhood night

that as yet does not have any stars.

 

With his finger he made a sign on the pane,

on the breath-misted pane,

with the soft part of his finger

and walked on in his thoughts.

Left me abandoned

for ever

 

How was I to interpret the sign,

made in the mist that was caused by his breath.

It remained for a while, though not long enough

for me to be able to read it.

An eternity of eternities would not have sufficed to read it.

 

When I arose in the morning the pane was quite clear

and I could only see the world as it is.

All seemed so alien in it to me

and my soul was lonesome and fearful behind the pane.

 

Who walked past,

past in the depths of childhood night

and left me abandoned

for ever.

Pär Lagerkvist: 'Nu löser solen sitt blonda hår'

 

Nu löser solen sitt blonda hår

 

Nu löser solen sitt blonda hår

i den första gryningens timma

och breder det ut över markens vår,

där tusende blommor glimma.

Hon väter det tankfull i svalkande dagg

i blommans fuktiga gömmen,

hon lossar det varligt från rosornas tagg,

men tveksamt, förströdd, som i drömmen.

 

Hon låter det smeka skog och äng,

hon låter det fara för vinden.

Nu smeker det barnen i deras säng

och de gamla på skrovliga kinden.

 

Men hennes tanke är borta från allt,

vad kan denna glädje väl båta?

Hon drömmer bland stjärnor, som tusenfalt

förstora det levandes gåta

 

Hon löser sitt hår och breder det ut

i morgonens saliga timma

och drömmer bland världar, som gått förut

och nya, som längtande glimma.

 

 

The sun lets down all her long blond hair

 

The sun lets down all her long blond hair

in the first of dawns’ early hours,

and spreads it out over meadows’ spring, where

there glimmer a thousand flowers.

She pensively dips it in thirst-quenching dew

in the flowers’ moist well-concealed seams,

she carefully frees it from rose thorns anew,

though unsure and bemused as in dreams. 

 

She lets it caress leas and forest deep

she lets it be caught by the breeze,

caress every child in bed fast asleep

and old deep-furrowed cheeks at its ease.

 

But her thoughts are detached from all this,

for how can this joy be of use?

She dreams among stars that vastly increase 

life’s enigma but grant her no clues.

 

She lets down her hair and spreads it out wide

in dawn’s hour that bliss is prolonging,

and dreams among worlds no longer spied 

and new ones that glimmer with longing.

 

 

Pär Lagerkvist: 'Om du tror på gud och någon Gud inte finns'

 

Om du tror på gud och någon Gud inte finns

så är din tro ett ändå större under.

Då är den verkligen någonting ofattbart stort.

 

Varför ligger der en varelse nere i mörkret och roper på

     något som inte finns?

Varför förhåller det sig så?

Det finns ingen som hör att någon roper i mörkret. Men varför

     finns ropet?

 

 

If you believe in god and no God exists

your belief is a yet greater miracle.

Then it is truly something inconceivably great.

 

Why is there a creature deep in the dark calling out

     to something that does not exist?

Why is that the way things are?

There is no one who hears someone calling out in the dark. But why

     does the call exist?

 

 

 

Sophus Claussen (1865-1931): 'Strofer i Tusmørket'

Strofer i Tusmørket

 

Skumringsstunder. Lune Aftener. Nattetimer.

Lad os tale, medens alting bliver stille: vi har mer at tale om.

Ræk mig endnu dine Hænder, naar du synes, vi skal tie,

de er hvide, de er milde, deres Tryk en venlig Dom.

Hører du i Nabolaget Port og Døre lukkes i?

Og det graaner saa fortroligt om os, til vi intet ser

uden dig og mig, der svulmer som en dobbelt Melodi,

vakt til Liv, mens Aftenfreden gør dig stum ved dit Klaver.

 

Skal vi vandre ned i Haven til det gode tyste Bord

midt paa Plænen under Asken, hvor i Skjul saa mange Gange

jeg har siddet lunt og lyttet til den sommervarme Jord,

munter med min slukte Pibe, medens Mulmet rundt om gror,

og du skimted næppe Bordet, naar du bragte mig mit Glas,

som jeg tømte under Træet, øm og frydefuld tilpas.

 

Skumringsstunder, lune Aftener, Nattetimer.

Har du set, at det nye Skud paa Rosen, det har skudt igen i Dag —?

Stryg en Tændstik og se efter — — Se, vor Have er beredt,

selv i Mørke har vi Roser, selv i Tavshed Velbehag.

 

 

Twilight verses

 

Dusk is falling. Balmy evenings. Nighttime hours in store.

Let us talk while all grows quiet: more talk between us would be fine.

Reach out your hands when the need for silence outweighs talk yet more,

they are white and they are gentle and their squeeze a well-meant sign.

Can you hear the neighbours’ gates and doors be shut as dusk arrives?

With greyness darkening until all that’s seen is you and me,

who seem like a two-part melody to swell and come alive,

while you sit silent in this calm at untouched piano keys.

 

Let us go down to the good quiet garden table yet again

under the mid-lawn ash tree, where I have sat in evening’s glow, 

concealed and cosy, listening to rewarmed earth in summer’s reign,

cheerful with my unlit pipe, while the gloaming around us grows,

and you hardly glimpsed the table when you came out with my glass,

which I drained beneath the tree, in fond and gleeful mood at last.

 

Dusk is falling. Balmy evenings. Soon the hours of night.

The rose’s new shoot, have you seen it? – one more has come today.

Just strike a match and take a look –– See, our garden’s quite prepared,

Even in darkness we have roses, in silence joy holds sway.