Pierre de Ronsard: 'Cueillez dés aujourd’huy les roses de la vie'

 

Cueillez dés aujourd’huy les roses de la vie

 

Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,

Assise aupres du feu, dévidant & filant,

Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous esmerveillant,

Ronsard me celebroit du temps que j’estois belle.

 

Lors vous n’aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,

Desja sous le labeur à demy sommeillant,

Qui au bruit de mon nom ne s’aille resveillant,

Bénissant vostre nom de louange immortelle.

 

Je seray sous la terre: & fantôme sans os

Par les ombres myrteux je prendray mon repos ;

Vous serez au fouyer une vieille accroupie

 

Regrettant mon amour & vostre fier desdain.

Vivez, si m’en croyez, n’attendez à demain :

Cueillez dés aujourd’huy les roses de la vie.

 

Pierre de Ronsard, Sonnets pour Hélène, 1578

 

 

Make sure you pluck today life’s roses while you may

 

When one day you are old, by candlelight and fire

You sit at eventide, at work with woollen skeins,

You’ll marvel and remark while chanting my refrains,

Ronsard my beauty found could poetry inspire.

 

Then you will have no maid to hear your every phrase

And who while still at work will end up in a doze,

Who when my name is mentioned wakes from her repose,

And showers upon your name her everlasting praise.

 

A boneless phantom, I will lie beneath the ground

In myrtle trees’ cool shade and there be resting sound;

And you beside your hearth be hunching, old and grey,

 

Regretting my true love and all your proud disdain.

Live, if you believe me, let nothing you restrain:

Make sure you pluck today life’s roses while you may.

 

From Sonnets to Hélène, 1578

Gustaf Münch-Petersen: 'fallande blomblad'

 

fallande blomblad

 

bägaren är bräddfylld, därför

måste du dricka -

se icke på bägarens vägg,

tänk icke på framtidens smärta -

dropparna äro dyrbara,

bägaren är bräddfylld nu -

därför måste du dricka –

 

 

falling flower petals

 

the cup is brimful, therefore

you must drink –

do not look at the wall of the cup,

do not think of future pain –

the drops are precious,

the cup is brimful now –

therefore you must drink –

 

 

Gustaf Münch-Petersen: 'diktaren'

 

diktaren

 

nu vill jag berätta

för dig vad en diktare är:

han är dimman ytterst

på horisonten,

han är ryggen utav det,

som varit,

och hans panna är strimman som dröjer

på nattens gräns,

hans ögon äro ibland trötta

av att vänta efter det,

som han icke vet, om det finns,

och ibland äro de blinda

av en sol på andra sidan

dimman -

då gråter diktaren, tills

dimman har ryckt längre bort,

och väntandets ångest åter

svalkar hans svidande ögonlock -

diktaren är han, som

antingen är en dåre eller en vis,

han, som

varje timme väljer,

om han vill leva eller

alltid ha varit död –

 

 

the poet

 

now I want to tell

you what a poet is:

he is the mist at the farthest

edge of the horizon,

he is the ridge of

what has been,

and his brow is the streak lingering

on night’s border,

his eyes are sometimes tired

of waiting for what

he does not know if it exists,

and at times they are blinded

by a sun on the far side

of the mist –

then the poet weeps, until

the mist has shifted further away,

and the fear of waiting once more

cools his smarting eyelids –

the poet is one who

is either a madman or a wise man,

one who

every hour chooses

whether he wishes to live or

has always been dead –

This poem comes from the collection Solen finns, which the Danish poet Gustaf Münch-Petersen wrote in Swedish. A Danish translation of the collection exists. For more information, go to here.

 

Marie Dauguet: 'Les foins'

 

Les foins

 

La tiède lune au bord du ciel monte et sourit.

Vois sur les foins coupés trembler son halo gris;

La nature s’emplit comme une basilique

Du silence embaumé des soirs mélancoliques.

 

Au chemin de la vie et voilant sa laideur

L’oubli s’étend ainsi que la rosée en pleurs.

L’oubli divin s’étend somme l’herbe fleurie,

Déployée en nuage aux pentes des prairies.

 

Il semble que s’efface et meurt l’humanité,

Tant le souffle qui sort des lèvres de l’été

Et qui si doucement rôde aussi sur nos lèvres

De tout mesquin désir nous libère et nous sèvre.

 

La lune à travers l’ombre, et tel un oiseau blanc,

Suspend toujours plus clair son essor transparent

Et son calme plumage en neige diaphane

Se mêle au flot bleui de l’herbe qui se fane.

 

Parmi l’odeur des foins, avec des mots secrets

Sourdement murmurés, courent les ruisseaux frais

Où la lune attirée et mystique se penche,

Frôlant à leur miroir errant son aile blanche.

 

 

The hayfields

 

The tepid moon at heaven’s rim ascends and smiles.

See its grey halo trembling on mown hay in piles;

Like a basilica all nature is suffused

With mournful evenings’ scented silence undiffused.

 

And at the path of life, its plainness hid from view

Oblivion extends as does the tearful dew,

Oblivion divine extends like flowering grass

Spread out on meadow slopes like clouds that slowly pass.

 

It seems as if humanity grows blurred and dies,

As breath exhaled from summers lips at its demise

And which so softly lurks around our lips anew,

Free of all mean desire, which frees and weans us too.

 

The moon seen through the shade, and like a bird full white

Suspends its brightening, transparent upward flight

And all of its calm plumage in translucent snow

Blends with the bluish flowing of the grass below.

 

Among the hay’s sweet scent, with secret words at play

And mutely murmured, fresh streams course and wend their way

Where the attracted, mystic moon in downward swing

At their far-straying mirror skims its silver wing.

 

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