Thor Sørheim: 'Skriften på veggen'

מנא מנא תקל ופרסין (or Mene, Mene, Tekel, Uphasin)

 

SKRIFTEN PÅ VEGGEN

 

Fra de første spede forsøk på å uttrykke noe

vesentlig, har menneskeheten levd med frykt

og håp og risset inn sine drømmer og sitt raseri

på veggene i mørke huler og på svabergene

langs elver og hav. Med hogde streker oppstår

symbolske figurer, og vi kan fremdeles tolke deres

budskap. Vi har lært oss å lese skriften på veggen

og tatt alvoret med oss etter hvert som bildene

 

la grunnlaget for de neste stegene i henvendelsen

mennesker imellom. Tegning ble til skrift, rette

streker i varierende lengde og posisjoner. Enetalen

fra skriften på veggen ble til samtaler mellom de

som kjente til koden, alfabetet. Men vi må aldri

glemme at ord er bilder som må tolkes. Evig liv

er et uttrykk for menneskeverd, ordet bønn

er et rop om at Gud må gjøre det umulige mulig.”

 

 

THE WRITING ON THE WALL

 

From the first tentative attempts to express something

important, humanity has lived with fear and hope 

and has scratched its dreams and its rage onto the

walls of dark caves and onto the smooth rocks along rivers

and seashores. Via hewn strokes symbolic figures

emerged, and we are still able to interpret their

message. We have learnt to read the writing on the wall

and have grasped its import as the images came to form

 

the basis of the next steps that were taken in interhuman

communication. Drawings turned into scripts, straight

lines of various lengths and positions. The monologue

of the writing on the wall became conversations between

those familiar with the code, the alphabet. But we must

never forget that words are images that must be deciphered.

Eternal life is an expression of human worth, the word

prayer is a call for God to make the impossible possible.

 

 

Thor Sørheim: 'Om å dikte'

 

OM Å DIKTE

 

Det er ikke jeg som skriver diktene. Bidraget

mitt er å sanse fritt i et vegkryss og nyte duften

av ryllik og honningblom og slippe ordene løs.

De springer ned i grøftekanten, noen ganger

kan jeg til og med høre dem mumle til kjøttmeisen.

De sørger for innhold og rytme, stort sett da, før de

forsvinner, og da er det jeg som må henge opp

sokker og truser på snora under en smilende himmel.

 

 

ABOUT FASHIONING A POEM

 

I’m not the one who writes the poems. My contribution

is to free my senses at a crossroads and enjoy the scent

of yarrow and musk orchid and let the words loose.

They jump down to the edge of the ditch, sometimes

I can even hear them mumbling to the great tit.

They take care of the content and rhythm, more or less,

before disappearing, and then I am the one who must

hang socks and briefs on the line beneath a smiling sky.

Thor Sørheim: 'Gamle piletrær'

 

GAMLE PILETRÆR

 

Gamle piletrær fletter seg sammen

ved vadestedet. Omfangsrike med kraftige

greiner som stikker ut i alle retninger. Tjukke

stammer har fått en knekk, to terner skriker

ute på sjøen mens de kretser rundt

en arrogant måke som overser klyngen

av trær som bøyer seg i ærbødighet

mot det lave blåveisalteret. Gjemmesteder

finnes i de hule stammene, og rotvelt åpner

surklende kjeften sin fra undergrunnen, mørk

sang overdøver måkeskrikene da jeg bøyer meg

ned til møtet med forråtnelse og fortrolighet.

 

 

OLD WILLOW TREES

 

Old willow trees intertwine at the

ford. Voluminous in girth and with powerful

branches protruding in all directions. Thick

trunks have opened up cracks, two terns are

screeching out on the lake while circling round

an arrogant gull that is surveying the clump

of trees which bow in deference towards

the low altar of blue anemones. The hiding places

are in the hollow trunks, and a windfall opens

its gurgling jaws from the subsoil, dark

song drowns out the shrieking gulls as I bow down

to meet with decomposition and intimacy.

Evert Taube: 'Den glade bagaren i San Remo' (1937)

 

Den glade bagaren i San Remo

 

Text och musik: Evert Taube, 1937

 

Min vän, den glade bagarn uti San Remo stad,

ja, om ni kände honom, skulle ni bli glad.

Han sjunger framför ugnen sin glada ritornell

så stolt som om han vore en löjtnant John Forsell.

 

Den glade bagarn bakar det bästa bröd som fås,

det bakas inte bättre ej ens i Alingsås.

Han sjunger när han bakar, och arbetar med fröjd

det ökar varans värde och köparen blir nöjd.

 

San Remos sköna damer beundrar hans figur,

han liknar till det yttre en ung och kraftig tjur.

Och när han knådar degen och sjunger högt i dur,

då ryser det i damer med sinne för skulptur.

 

Min vän, den glade bagarn, som sprudlar av musik,

han har en vacker hustru, som står i hans butik.

Från ungnen langas brödet till disken där hon står,

ju mera bagarn sjunger dess mer hon sälja får.

 

Men om den glade bagarn vill svalka sig nån gång

bland damer i butiken, som lyssnar till hans sång,

då säger hustrun vänligt och klappar bagarns bröst:

”Kom inte ut Florindo, det drar, och du förstör din röst!”

 

 

The cheerful baker of San Remo

 

Lyrics and music: Evert Taube, 1937

 

My friend, San Remo’s baker, who’s cheerful through and through,

ah, if you only knew him, then you’d be cheerful too.

He sings there by the oven his cheerful ritornelle

proud as the opera singer once known as John Forsell.

 

The cheerful baker’s bread is the best bread one can buy,

not even Alingsås with such bread could ever vie.

He sings while he is baking, with joy he pounds the dough,

which makes the bread worth more and the buyer’s pleasure grow.

 

San Remo’s lovely ladies his figure much admire,

his bull-like strong physique does each one of them inspire.

And when he kneads the dough and they hear his merry trills,

Those ladies keen on sculpture feel oh such wondrous thrills.

 

My friend, the cheerful baker, whose tunes will never stop,

he has a lovely wife who stands daily in his shop.

Fresh bread’s tossed to the counter, where she inhales its smell,

the more the baker’s sings, the more bread she gets to sell.

 

But if the cheerful baker would come into the shop

and join the ladies listening, his wife will tell him stop,

though in a friendly fashion, and pat him on the chest:

‘It’s draughty here, Florindo, your voice knows what is best!’

Try listening to the man himself, or maybe his son Sven-Bertil in a live performance

 

 

G.J.Resink: 'Vrouwenfiguur op een tjandi'

 

 

Vrouwenfiguur op een tjandi

 

Regens zijn aan haar voorbijgegaan,

weerlicht en zon, nachten met volle maan,

schaduwen, wind, - en mensen,

wier vingers langs haar voeten zijn gegleden,

haar wreven van de welving hebben beroofd,

en die hier misschien hebben gebeden

en in andere werelden geloofd.

 

Ik heb haar alleen maar aangeraakt,

haar lichaam afgetast met de gedachte,

dat zij niet door goden is gemaakt,

maar door een mens. En in haar tederste leden

tintelt mijn vingertoppen de druk tegemoet der zachte

handen van iemand van duizend jaar geleden.

 

The word Tjandi or Candi for a temple in Indonesia is a word of Sanskrit origin. The word refers to any religious structure, most often Hindu or Buddhist, with a pyramidal tower.

 

 

Female figure on a candi

 

Rains have for centuries passed her by.

Sheet-lightning and sun, nights of a full moon,

shadows, wind, - and humans,

whose fingers have glided along her feet,

her insteps from their arching have deprived,

and who perhaps for prayer here used to meet,

convinced this world from elsewhere is derived.

 

Only by touch have I ever tried 

to probe and explore her body with the notion

she was not wrought by gods but by

a human. And in her softest parts I sense

my fingertips tingle with counter-pressure, motion

of gentle hands that date from a thousand years hence.

 

 

G.J. Resink: 'Avondregen'

 

Avondregen

 

De regen ruist als oerwoud om het huis

en drijft de dieren van het duister binnen,

duizendpoten, spinnen, torren, een muis,

zelfs een visitevlinder, die vriendinnen

voorspelt, waarop ik voor de nacht mijn zinnen

had gezet. Maar de koelte maakt mij kuis

en kinderlijk - ‘o, regen, regen ruis’

en houdt de beesten uit mijn donker binnen.

 

 

Evening rain

 

The rain soughs like a jungle round my house

driving the creatures of the dark inside,

centipedes, spiders, beetles and a mouse,

a passing butterfly that prophesied

some lady friends my senses had supplied

for the night. But coolness my ardour’s doused

and I’m a child – ‘o, rain, rain till I drowse’

keeping the creatures from my dark inside.

 

 

G.J. Resink: 'Djangir'

 

Djangir

 

Zij dansen. Duizend dromen in één nacht.

De dromen van een licht bewogen leven:

Hoe men lief kan hebben; hoe men best zacht

Mag zijn, maar niet half-zacht; hoe men zich geven

 

Moet, maar nooit helemaal; hoe men wel beven

Kan van ontroering, doch, op vorm bedacht,

De hartstocht door een gouden huid moet zeven

Tot zweetglans, oogopslag en pradadracht.

 

Nu zullen dit voor mij wel dromen blijven.

Maar hier neemt één idee in vele lijven

Gestalten aan en winnen alle zinnen

Het van de zuiverste gedachtengangen:

Hier laat, in duizend dansposen gevangen,

De schoonheid zich bloot lijfelijk beminnen.

 

De 'djangir' is een moderne Balische dans, waarbij de dansers en danseressen in een carré zitten en de solodanser in het midden, voortdurend met gebaren en mimiek begeleiden. De kleding van de dansers en in het bijzonder die van de danseressen, bestaat uit lappen die met bladgoud zijn opgelegd, het zogenaamde prada, en die om het lichaam worden gewonden. Het schouderstuk en het hooftooisel zijn meestal van leer of perkament, eveneens rijk met goud bewerkt, zoals de hele kleding rijk en kostbaar is. De dans zelf is zeer zinnelijk en hartstochtelijk, maar in strenge vormen gevat.

 

 

Djangir

 

They dance. A thousand dreams in just one night.

Dreams of a life that’s lightly set in motion:

How one can love; may be gentle outright

but not half-gentle, must accept the notion

 

Of partial self-giving, be quivering, 

with emotion, yet form’s prime role confess,

Must sift one's passion through a golden skin

To gleaming sweat, glances and prada dress.

 

For me all this may well stay merely dreams.

Here, though, in many bodies it would seem

One idea becomes shapes, the senses gloved

and coated with the purest trains of thought:

Here, in a thousand dancing poses caught,

Beauty can purely physically be loved.

 

The ‘djangir is a modern Balinese dance in which the dancers, male and female, sit in a square with a solo dancer in the middle, always accompanied by physical and facial gestures. The attire worn by the dancers and, especially that of the female dancers, consists of patches gilded with goldleaf, the so-called ‘prada’, which is wound round the body. The epaulets and headdress are usually of leather or parchment, also richly decorated with gold, which means the garment is very rich and costly. The dance itself is extremely sensuous and passionate, yet couched in strict forms.

 

G.J. Resink (1911-1997): ''Poera in zee in Tabanan'

Danau Beratan temple, Bali

 

Poera in zee in Tabanan

 

Een eeuwen geleden uit de deining geheven

koraalkalkterras scheidt rijstland en oceaan.

In het plat, waarover bij vloed de golven slaan

bewaren kuilen wat er achter is gebleven

 

van oertijdtuinen, die ten onder zijn gegaan.

Uit steen en stortzee op een rots omhoog gedreven

streeft een tempeltje naar verhevener bestaan.

 

Soms schijnt het boven schuim en sawahs uit te zweven.

 

Licht, reuken, wind en regens hebben het omgleden,

priesters feesten er met geesten; meer naar beneden

preev’len reven in brandingsnissen hun gebeden.

Steeds gereed om in zee of hemel heen te gaan

verbeeldt het dit leven: doorvochtigd met de vrede

van aan veel deel te hebben, heel alleen te staan.

  

Poera: temple

Brandingsnissen: term for potholes scooped out of rocks protruding above a coral limestone terrace

 

 

Poera in lake in Tabanan

 

A coral limestone terrace, raised centuries ago

by heaving swell, divides paddy fields from ocean.

In the flat land, over which the waves at high tide flow,

potholes retain what is left from this demotion

 

of primeval gardens whose life was bluntly halted.

Raised up onto a rock by rough seas’ violent motion,

a stone poera strives to gain life more exalted.

 

Above the foam and sawahs it sometimes seems to float.

 

Light, scents, many winds and rains have slid around it,

priests feast here with spirits, but much further down it

rifts in wave-cut notches mumble prayers that ground it.

Always prepared into sea or sky to pass away, 

it portrays this life: pervaded with the peace that’s founded

on taking part in much, yet being a castaway.

G.J. Resink: 'Luchtwacht te Megamendung' (PS 65)

 

Luchtwacht te Megamendung

 

In de nanacht sta ik op wacht en tuur

luchten en verten af naar vreemde lichten,

vliegtuigen, seinen, maar van niet één uur,

dat ik op post stond valt iets te berichten.

 

Want wie let nu nog op de dwaalgeestschichten,

die uit sawahs flitsen of op het vuur,

dat uit een kampong rookt naar het azuur,

waaruit de sterren naar de zeeën zwichten,

 

die het land omlichten; op meteoren

of op de morgenster; op het groen gloren

van de eerste schemer of de ochtendmaan,

verre seinen van een eeuwige vrede?

 

Hoor, hoe ver weg bedoeks luchtalarm slaan,

die anders zouden manen tot gebeden.

 

 

Air raid watch at Megamendung

 

In the hours before dawn I stand and scour

the sky and distance for uncommon lights,

aircraft, signals, but from no single hour

of my watch did anything come in sight.

 

For who’s still aware of accounts of erring

spirits that flash from sawahs, of the rise

of smoke from kampongs up into the skies,

from where stars glide off to the seas’ interring,

 

that ring land with light; of meteors’ flare

or the morning star; of the greenish glare

of dusk’s early signs or the moon at morning,

signals of far-off lasting peace to share?

 

Hark, how distant the beduk’s air raid warning,

which would normally summon one to prayer.

 

 

sawah: paddy field, rice field

kampong: village, settlement

beduk: drum used in mosques to signal times for prayer

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 65

 

 

 

 

G.J Resink: 'Drempelwereld'

 

Mount Erebus, Ross Island, Antarctica

Drempelwereld

 

Er lopen door de tropen van de ziel drie lijnen:

de breuklijn, die elk levensevenwicht verhindert;

de strook, waarlangs de aardse zwaartekracht vermindert

en dan die linie van vulkanische domeinen,

 

waaruit de vloedgolf of het vuur ten dode vlindert

dier onbewuste driften, die ons ondermijnen.

En langs die lijnen beeft en brandt de ziel en zindert

haar droom: in God of in wat schoon is te verdwijnen.

 

Ik blijf tellurisch trouw aan kraters en aan killen,

die eiland en dolfijn doen rijzen en verzinken

en meteoren 's nachts tot zeesterren verstillen

of aan een winterpool Erebus’ top doen blinken.

 

Maar wordt de graviteit in mijn gevoelens lichter

dan duift of vlamt een vers omhoog en word ik dichter.

 

(Erebus is de naam van de antieke onderwereld en van de enige vulkaan op de Zuidpool. Voor de gedachtenassociatie is het van belang te weten, dat de Hindoe-Baliërs het dodenrijk in het Zuiden situeren.)

 

Threshold world

 

Three lines run through the tropics of the human soul:

the fault line, which life-balance stalls in any form;

the band along which gravity’s below the norm

and then lines of volcanoes that like chains unroll,

 

from where tsunamis crush as do hot lava streams,

whose wild, unconscious urges everything subvert.

Along these lines the quaking soul is burnt, its dream

is dashed: in God or loveliness to reconvert.

 

My faith’s telluric – craters, channels formed by tides

that cause island and dolphin to rise up and sink

and night meteorites into sea-stars to subside

or at a winter-pole Erebus’ peak to glint.

 

If ever my emotions’ gravity grows lighter,

then verse will dove or flame aloft – and I’m a writer.

 

(Erebus is the name given to the underworld in Antiquity. It is also the name of the only volcano at the South Pole. It is important for the association of ideas to know that the Hindu Balinese locate the realm of the dead in the South.)

 

Most sonnets in Dutch have 10- or 11-syllable lines or a combination of both. It is difficult to ‘convert’ odd-numbered lines into English, since fewer word classes end on a weak syllable than in Dutch. English sonnets tend to be in lines of 10 syllables, or possibly combined with lines of 11 syllables. A longer line is possible – the alexandrine, with 12 syllables. Resink has chosen a 13-syllable line throughout. The stanza pattern of 4-4-4-2 is less usual in Dutch than the 4-4-3-3 pattern (typical of the Petrarchan sonnet). And the Shakespearean sonnet often does not have the balanced feel of the ABBA ABBA CDE CDE rhyme scheme. It has a drive towards a climax and a final couplet that expands on the first 12 lines: ABAB CDCD EFEF GG.

Note that an ’I’ figure is first introduced in line 9. Here the shift starts. He has been playing on the language of the outside world being used to describe the inner world up to that point, but now he states his personal position. And the final couplet is Shakespearian. Playing on the idea of lighter and heavier (‘dichter’ can also mean denser in English) he has a neat final flourish to his poem. If you want a poem by Shakespeare to compare with, try Sonnet 116, which concludes: ‘If this be error and upon me proved,/I never writ, nor no man ever loved.’