ZKV 116: 'At digte'

 

ZKV 116

AT DIGTE

 

On page 68 of his collection Heartland, the Danish poet Klaus Høeck wrote this:

 

          at digte betyder

     at tætne (altså ikke

bare en tilfældig

 

         homonymi) men

     virkeligheden fugen

imellem sproget og

 

         verden digtning er

     værket der ud

     fylder huller og

 

sprækker som når skibsskrog

         kalfatres og stryges

     med tjære og beg

 

 

          the danish word digte means

     both to write poems and

to caulk (i.e. is not just a chance

 

         homonymy) to caulk

     reality the pointing

between language and

 

         world digtning is

     the actual process of

filling in holes and

 

cracks as when ship’s hulls

         are caulked and brushed

     with tar and pitch

 

 

Strictly speaking, digte (to write poetry) comes from the late-Latin dictare (to make, fashion), whereas digte (to seal, make tight) is probably a loan word from Dutch (dichten - cf. Dutch dicht doen, dicht bij). The cognate Danish word is tætne, which indeed means to seal or make tight. And tight is the English cognate word.

 

And English, alas has no one word to match the Danish gendigte – which covers to re-caulk and to re-create a poem in a different language. In other words, to make a vessel as seaworthy as the original.

Inger Hagerup: 'Villt skal det være og sterkt skal det være!'

 

VILLT SKAL DET VÆRE

 

Villt skal det være og sterkt skal det være!

Livet skal være en eneste sang,

en sang om det unge, det nye, det nære --

en stridssang mot minner og skyggenes tvang.

Alle de blodløse drømme skal dødes

og drukne i glemsel med dagen igår.

Dagsterke lengsler og ønsker skal fødes.

Ta hvad du vil, hvis du ingenting får!

 

Ja, livet skal syde, og livet skal brenne.

I dag er det VI som har nerver og blod!

Vi danser om solen, vår gud og vår frende,

mens stjernene drysser i fleng for vår fot.

Villt skal det være, og sterkt skal det være!

--En dirrende fest i hvert gyllent minutt!

Vi drikker av livet til gudenes ære

og smiler mot døden når festen er slutt.

 

 

WILD AND STRONG

 

Let wild and strong be each day’s unseen centre!

Life is to be one magnificent song 

a song of what’s young, new, and knows no surrender –

defying our shadows’ and memories’ throng.

All of our dreams that are bloodless shall perish,

be gone from our minds as is yesterday’s past.

Longings’ and wishes’ new birth we shall cherish.

If nothing’s given, just take it unasked!

 

Yes, life shall sparkle, be fiery and foaming.

Today it is US who have nerves, hearts that beat!

We dance round the sun, god and friend and our homing,

while stars in their thousands are strewn at our feet.

Let wild and strong be each day’s unseen centre!

A quivering feast in each much-treasured breath!

To honour the gods, we now drink of life’s splendour

and when it is over, we smile at our death.

 

 

Jacob Daniël du Toit: 'Die tarentaal'

 

Die tarentaal

 

Die kruiwawiel se skreeugeluid

kerm hy droefgeestig uit

terwyl die skeemring vinnig daal,

die tarentaal.

 

Hy soek – en dit is ook al laat –

vir hom ’n kameraad,

om in ’n boom die eensaamheid

en nag te slyt.

 

Sáám sal hul in ’n blinkblaarboom

half slaap, half waak, half droom,

en by die naadring van verderf,

alléén nie sterf.

 

*

Ek het gemik, en met die knal

het een dood neergeval;

die ander vlieg met wilde krag

wèg in die nag!

 

 

The guinea fowl

 

The barrow with its groaning wheel

gives out its mournful squeal

while dusk lets fall its sudden cowl:

the guinea fowl.

 

It’s seeking – though the hour is late –

another fowl as mate

to pass night’s loneliness maybe

up in a tree.

 

They’ll share a dogwood’s leafy gleam,

half sleep, half wake, half dream,

and when their ending then draws nigh

alone not die.

 

*

 

I’ve taken aim, and at the sound

one’s fallen to the ground;

the other with wild strength takes flight

into the night!

 

 

 

Marie Dauguet: 'La prairie permanente'

 

La prairie permanente

 

En mars, après un bon et soigneux déchaumage,

Nous sèmerons dans un sol argilo-calcaire,

La flouve, le lupin, l’agrostide vulgaire

Qui forment un solide et résistant fourrage.

 

Par ces aubes mouillées, qu’un soleil gris éclaire,

Nous herserons les champs soyeux comme un plumage,

A qui nous donnerons ensuite un fort roulage

Pour bien tasser la graine et la couvrir de terre;

 

Tandis qu’entre les pas, où du brouillard se drape,

Des grands bœufs patients, la lavandière happe

Sa proie; et qu’à l'orée du bois couleur de perle,

 

S’est éveillé soudain, si pensif et si doux,

A travers les bourgeons éclatés tout à coup,

Réjouissant nos travaux, le flageolet d’un merle.

 

Les Pastorales, 1908

 

 

The permanent pasture

 

In March, the stubble ploughing carried out with care,

In clay and limestone soil we’ll sow sweet vernal grass,

Along with common bent and lupin everywhere,

Which form resistant forage that is not too sparse.

 

In these dew-moistened dawns, lit by a sun that’s grey,

We’ll harrow fields to silk-like plumage on a bird

Which afterwards are rolled to smooth the ruts away,

So that the seed is firmly packed when it’s interred;

 

While among the hoofprints – that morning mists still wreathe –

Of the large patient oxen, the wagtail will seize

its prey; and by the woods with pearly hues beset

 

There all at once awakes – so pensive and so blithe –

Above the bursting buds, explosively alive,

Rejoicing in our toil, the blackbird’s flageolet.

 

Les Pastorales, 1908

 

 

Hans Andreus: 'De vogels'

 

De vogels

 

Vanmorgen werd ik wakker

van de vogels.

 

En ik dacht: waarvan werd ik wakker?

Van de vogels.

 

Van het licht ook, maar

meer van de vogels.

 

Het licht zacht zingend,

de vogels keihard.

 

 

The birds

 

This morning I was woken up

by the birds.

 

And I thought: What was I woken up by?

By the birds.

 

By the light too, but

more by the birds.

 

The light singing softly,

the birds at full blast.

Lars Gustafsson: 'Vårens glada fågelkör'

 

Pied fly-catcher

VÅRENS GLADA FÅGELKÖR

 

Tillägnad Staffan Söderblom

 

Ack dessa vårens glada fågelröster!

Hur väl minns också jag den kören

av dessa små bevingade sångare

 

De bars in på särskild bricka

av magister Gustav Edin,

mycket dammiga, allt blekare i färgen

och, som det kunde förefalla

 

en aning överambitiöst

uppstoppade:

sparv och näktergal, hök och flugsnappare,

ängspiplärka och strömstare

 

Och från en grammofonskiva

från Sveriges Radio, alltför ofta använd,

spelades alla deras glada röster upp     

 

Jag lärde mig aldrig

skilja det ena pipet från det andra

 

Och nu i oktober är det storspovens

dova röst som ensam blev kvar

 

Dock lärde jag mig den till slut.

 

 

SPRING’S JOYOUS CHOIR OF BIRDS

 

Dedicated to Staffan Söderblom

 

Ah those joyous voices of birds in spring!

How well I too remember the choir

of those small wingèd singers

 

They were borne in on a special tray

by schoolmaster Gustav Edin,

extremely dusty, increasingly pale in colour

and – it might possibly seem –

 

somewhat overambitiously

stuffed:

sparrow and nightingale, hawk and pied fly-catcher,

meadow pipit and dipper –

 

And from a gramophone record

from Radio Sweden, much over-used,

all their joyous voices were played

 

I never learnt

to distinguish one cheep from the other

 

And now in October the dull voice

of the curlew is all that is left

 

In any case

I did finally learn that one

 

Jeppe Aakjær: 'Majnat'

 

Majnat

 

Naar Vildgaasen larmer Valborgnat,

hvem lægger sig da til at sove?

Da vandrer man ensomt med Dug paa Hat

langs Fjord og knoppende Skove.

 

Derude straaler en Stjærne saa stor,

at helt den fylder mit Øje;

den samme Stjærne forvist jeg tror,

jeg saa over Barndommens Høje.

 

Og Vibeskriget rækker saa langt;

dog længere Længslerne rækker.

Hvor bliver éns Hjærte bitterlig trangt,

naar Klyden i Majnatten trækker!

 

Det pipper i Mos, og det pibler i Græs,

det sprætter i hældende Kroner;

der kommer en Duft fra det yderste Næs

af tusinde smaa Anemoner.

 

Saa ensomt bræger det spæde Lam

paa Bakken langt i det fjærne,

og Frøerne kvækker fra Pyt og Dam,

som sang det fra Stjærne til Stjærne.

 

29/4 1916.

 

 

May Night

 

When wild geese honk on Walpurgis night

who thinks then of going to rest?

With dew-beaded hat you roam out of sight

through fjordland and woods newly dressed.

 

Way out there gleams so mighty a star

that all of my eye it now fills;

I’m sure that same star I once saw afar

when I gazed o’er my childhood hills.

 

And the peewit’s cry is borne on the wind,

though longing’s borne farther away.

How bitterly close one’s heart is confined

when the avocet migrates in May!

 

There’s trickling in grass and cheeping in moss,

the tree-tops twitch out of their slumber;

from the farthermost cape the scent wafts across

of anemones countless in number.

 

The lonely young lamb on the hill far beyond

can be heard with its plaintive small baa,

and the frogs all croak from puddle and pond,

as if star now were singing to star.

 

29/4 1916.

 

 

Heinrich Heine: 'Im wunderschönen Monat Mai'

Im wunderschönen Monat Mai 

 

Im wunderschönen Monat Mai,

Als alle Knospen sprangen,

Da ist in meinem Herzen

Die Liebe aufgegangen.

 

Im wunderschönen Monat Mai,

Als alle Vögel sangen,

Da hab ich ihr gestanden

Mein Sehnen und Verlangen.

 

 

In May month’s beauty unsurpassed

 

In May month’s beauty unsurpassed,

When all the buds were bursting,

There came a love that quickened

My heart and slaked its thirsting.

 

In May month’s beauty unsurpassed,                                   

When birds all sang untiring,

To her I have confided

My longing and desiring.

 

  

Walther von der Vogelweide (c.1170-c.1230): 'Under der linden'

  

Under der linden

an der heide,

dâ unser zweier bette was,

dâ mugt ir vinden

schône beide

gebrochen bluomen unde gras.

vor dem walde in einem tal -

tandaradei!

schône sanc die nachtigal.

 

Ich kam gegangen

zuo der ouwe,

dô was mîn friedel komen ê.

da wart ich enpfangen

hêre frouwe,

daz ich bin sælic iemer mê.

kuster mich? wol tûsenstunt!

tandaradei!

seht, wie rôt mir ist der munt.

 

Dô het er gemachet

also riche

von bluomen eine bettestat.

des wird noch gelachet

innecliche,

kumt iemen an daz selbe pfat.

bî den rôsen er wol mac -

tandaradei!

merken, wâ mirz houbet lac.

 

Daz er bî mir læge,

wessez iemen,

– nu enwelle got – sô schamt ich mich.

wes er mit mir pflæge,

niemer niemen

bevinde daz wan er unt ich

und ein kleinez vogellîn!

tandaradei!

daz mag wol getriuwe sîn.

 

 

Under the lime tree,

heath-surrounded,

where such a blissful bed was ours,

you will in time see,

your eyes grounded,

much flattened grass as well as flowers.

near the wood and in a dale

tantanteray!

sweetly sang the nightingale

 

I came out walking

now converging

on where my love was gone before.

received such sweet talking,

blessed virgin,

that I am joyful ever more.

did he kiss me? thousandfold!

tantanteray!

see, my lips are red as gold.

 

To where he had crafted

out of flowers 

the finest bed on which to lie.

this is still laughed at 

at all hours,

should someone near this place pass by.

from the roses he can say –

tantanteray!

just where my fair head once lay.

 

Should someone discover

with me he lay

- may God forbid – ashamed I’d be.

that done by my lover

must secret stay 

for everyone save him and me

and a tiny little bird!

tantanteray!

trusted not to say a word.