Eva Gerlach: 'Die alle dingen' (also Danish translation)

 

DIE ALLE DINGEN

 

                        “Sol qui illustras omnia solus”

                        (Bruno, Cantus Circaeus)

 

Wat was het dat je zei, iets over snoeken

vroeg in de winterochtend als het donker

om jou en om je vader elk apart

heen zat op de brommer, elk zijn wak

hakte en je wierp de wat voor hengel,

zus of zo’n haak, ondermaats

aas uit het emmertje: nooit één

snoek gevangen. Was er niet een lamp,

hadden wij hem later niet, zo’n staande,

plekkerig metaal, hij kon ook hangen.

 

Alles, alle dingen in gedachten

houden, tijd en plaats, substantie, hoe-

veelheid en hoedanigheid. Een god

zijn die het beweegt.

                        Soms zag je eentje

stilstaan in de diepte, met zo’n spitse

bek zoals ze hebben, grijze vlekken.

 

 

 

WHICH ALL THINGS

 

                        “Sol qui illustras omnia solus”

                        (Bruno, Cantus Circaeus)

 

What was it you said, something about piking

early on winter mornings when the dark

sat round you and your father each apart

on the moped, each would hack

a hole in the ice and you’d cast

your what sort of rod, some hook or other,

undersized bait from the bucket: never caught one

single pike. And wasn’t there a lamp,

didn’t we have it later, blotchy metal,

standing model, it could also hang.

 

To keep everything, each single thing,

in mind, time and place, substance

quantity and quality. Be a

god that moves it.

 

                        Sometimes you saw just

one unstirring in the depths, with that

pointed mouth they have, patches of grey.

 

(Can also be found here)

 

 

SOM ALLE TING

 

“Sol qui illustras omnia solus”

(Bruno, Cantus Circaeus)

 

Hvad var det du sagde, noget om geddefiskeri

tidligt om morgenen i vinter da mørket

lukkede sig om dig og din far hver især

på knallerten, og hver hakkede

sin våge og du kastede din hvad for en stang,

med en eller anden slags krog, dit alt for lille

agn fra spanden: aldrig fanget

en eneste gedde. Fandtes der ikke en lampe,

hadde vi den ikke siden hen, sådan en

ståmodel, skjoldet metal, den ku’ også hænge.

 

At holde alt, alle ting i sine

tanker, tid og sted, substans, mængde

og beskaffenhed. At være en

gud som sætter det i bevægelse.

                        Undertiden så du én

hængende i dybden, med sådan en spids

snude som de nu engang har, grå pletter.

 

 

Lennart Sjögren: 'Gäddhuvud'

 

Gäddhuvud

 

Hur vassa är inte dina tänder:

Gäddhuvud fastän solen stekt dig mot väggen

och fastän vintern flått ditt skinn

och fastan du redan hänger där på tredje året.

 

Andra har sitt Framåtskridande

andra har sin Sergeant.

Jag har dig.

 

Inte finns det något i ditt huvud

som vänder sig till det vänskapliga.

Ändå vill jag räkna dig

som en av mina närmare vänner

och möjlig att tala stumhetens språk till.

 

Bland demonerna hör du avgjort inte hemma

inte heller bland de apokalytiska.

Du är den du är

den du är är du.

 

Inte heller vill jag inräkna mig

själv bland djurdyrkarna

bara för att jag umgås med dig.

Inte tillber jag dig, men du tillhör

ändå tröstens krets.

 

Din väg gick rakt från vattendjupet

till den luft som är människans men inte din.

Nåd sökte du inte heller

varken i mina eller andras ögon.

 

Och vad du i tystnaden sade när du drogs upp

vet jag inte.

Ögon har du inte längre, skinn knappast

men dina tänder

som sakta äter sig genom solens hetta

visar du ännu mot mig.

 

 

Pike-head

 

How sharp your teeth are: Pike-head

though the sun’s fried you to the wall

and though winter’s flayed your skin

and though this is already your third year hanging there.

 

Others have their Progress

others have their Sergeant.

I have you.

 

There is nothing in your head

that tends towards the friendly.

Even so I wish to count you

one of my closer friends

and possible to talk the language of muteness to.

 

You definitely do not belong among the demons

nor among the apocalyptics.

You are what you are

what you are is you.

 

Nor do I wish to include myself

among animal devotees

just because I keep your company.

I do not worship you, even though you belong to

the circle of consolation.

 

Your path went directly from the watery depths

to the air that is man’s but not yours.

Nor did you seek for mercy

not in my eyes nor those of others.

 

And what you said in silence when hauled up

I do not know.

Eyes you no longer have, scarcely skin

but your teeth

that slowly eat their way through the sun’s heat

you still bare at me.

Werner Aspenström: 'Hypnos för människoharar'

 

HYPNOS FÖR MÄNNISKOHARAR

 

Var inte rädd för de tongivande.

Följ tonen som tonar för dig.

Var inte rädd.

Låt dig inte skrämmas av tornspirornas

tuppar och kors.

Sitter högt men flyger inte.

Grip halmstrået som finns inom räckhåll, 

det räcker för dig.

Var inte rädd.

Vänta dig ingenting bättre

av de bättre vetande.

Livbojar av sand flyter inte.

Rätta dig inte efter de felfritt skrivande.

En man skrev till Poul Bjerre

och bad om en »hubnotisk sömn«.

Punktera dig själv.

Var inte rädd.

Var inte rädd för stillheten.

Böj dig inte för dem

som stormar mot stillheten.

Var inte rädd för suset i den inre skogen,

för halvtonerna, kvartstonerna,

bortdöendet,

som kan vara en begynnelse…

Den inre skenbilden är inte lögnaktigare

än den yttre vrångbilden.

Inblick hjälper inte mot allt.

Grisen blir inte renare,

gåsen inte klokare,

åsnan inte fogligare,

men haren blir litet mindre harig

när den korsar det öppna fältet.

Försök!

Var inte rädd.

 

 

HYPNOSIS FOR HUMAN HARES

 

Don’t be afraid of the tone-setters.

Follow the tone that tones for you.

Don’t be afraid

Don’t let yourself be scared by the cocks

and crosses of the steeples.

They sit high up but don’t fly.

Clutch at the straw that’s within reach

that’s enough for you.

Don’t be afraid.

Don’t expect anything better

from those who always know better.

Lifebuoys of sand don’t float.

Don’t conform to those who write flawlessly.

A man wrote to Poul Bjerre

and asked for a ‘hubnotic sleep’.

Puncture yourself.

Don’t be afraid.

Don’t be afraid of the silence.

Don’t knuckle under to those

who storm off towards silence.

Don’t be afraid of the inner forest’s swishing,

of the semitones, the quarter tones

the dying away

which can be a beginning…

The inner false image is no more deceitful

than the outer distorted image.

Insight is no cure for everything.

The pig doesn’t get any cleaner,

the goose any cleverer,

the donkey any dociler,

but the hare becomes a bit less harelike

when it crosses the open field.

Try it!

Don’t be afraid.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: 'Der Fischer'

 

Der Fischer

 

Das Wasser rauscht’, das Wasser schwoll,

ein Fischer saß daran,

sah nach dem Angel ruhevoll,

kühl bis ans Herz hinan.

Und wie er sitzt und wie er lauscht,

teilt sich die Flut empor;

aus dem bewegten Wasser rauscht

ein feuchtes Weib hervor.

 

Sie sang zu ihm, sie sprach zu ihm:

Was lockst du meine Brut

mit Menschenwitz und Menschenlist

hinauf in Todesglut?

Ach wüßtest du, wie’s Fischlein ist

so wohlig auf dem Grund,

du stiegst herunter, wie du bist,

und würdest erst gesund.

 

Labt sich die liebe Sonne nicht,

der Mond sich nicht im Meer?

Kehrt wellenatmend ihr Gesicht

nicht doppelt schöner her?

Lockt dich der tiefe Himmel nicht,

das feuchtverklärte Blau?

Lockt dich dein eigen Angesicht

nicht her in ew’gen Tau?

 

Das Wasser rauscht’, das Wasser schwoll,

netzt’ ihm den nackten Fuß;

sein Herz wuchs ihm so sehnsuchtsvoll,

wie bei der Liebsten Gruß.

Sie sprach zu ihm, sie sang zu ihm;

da war’s um ihn geschehn:

Halb zog sie ihn, halb sank er hin

und ward nicht mehr gesehn.

 

 

The Angler

 

The water swirled, the water twirled,

an angler sat close by,

gazed calmly at the line unfurled,

his heart gave scarce a sigh.

And while he listens to the whirls,

the waters part and spout;

then from the spate of water swirls

a glistening woman out.

 

She sang to him, she spoke to him:

Why do you lure my brood

with human wits and human tricks

up where death’s gleams delude?

Did you but know how fine it is

for small fish down below,

to join them would be your sole wish

and true health you would know.

 

Does not the dear sun fairer grow

– the moon too – in the sea?

From breathing waves its visage show

a beauty plain to see?

Does not the dark sky you entice,

the glistening, misty blue?

As does your own face in a trice,

in this eternal dew?

 

The water swirled, the water twirled,

his naked foot it snared;

his heart with yearning was enfurled –

a lovers’ greeting shared.

She spoke to him, she sang to him,

resistance was in vain;

so, partly dragged, he downwards sagged

and was not seen again.

ZKV 2: 'Heaven'

 

 

HEAVEN

 

In the church the choir sang in yesterday evening, a huge lugubrious barn of a place with vast amounts of excess wood boxing in each section of the pews in both nave and aisles, there is a spectacular pulpit. As is typical of Danish churches, it is located about two thirds up the right side of the nave, high in the air, like some overgrown crow’s nest. Above this vast mustard pot hangs the lid, the canopy, which in Danish is called ‘himmel’ (heaven). Up to it leads a tortuous flight of curving stairs, but this too is boxed in by dark wooden panels, and knobbly, carved disciples, nine in number, marking the ascent on the outside. The way in to the staircase is blocked by a two-metre-high dungeon of a door, topped by an escutcheon bearing the date 1679, and provided with a brass keyhole but no key. The remaining three disciples, larger than the other nine, guard the door. Above it is the apposite inscription: “I am the door: by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture.” John X, 9. If this is the path to heaven, it is clearly going to be quite a climb.

 

Today I was shown a film set for a future Danish TV series from the late 1950s and early 1960s, complete with recording studio and posters on the wall. Along with Buddy Holly, Little Richard, and the éternelle Cliff Richard, was Eddie Cochran. I confess to having owned 78s by all four apostles. And find it easier to subscribe to the Gospel according to Eddie:

 

The formula for heaven’s very simple

(three steps to heaven, three steps to heaven)

Just follow the rules and you will see

And as life travels on and things do go wrong

Just follow steps one, two and three

(three steps to heaven, three steps to heaven)

 

Step one, you find a girl you love

Step two, she falls in love with you

Step three, you kiss and hold her tightly

Yeah, that sure seems like heaven to me

(three steps to heaven, three steps to heaven)

 

ZKG 34 : 'the clock-tower'

 

the clock-tower

 

despite being the only landmark

the squat clock-tower had no main access

from the drive to the school

its base contained a rounded arch

that opened up onto the central court

to one side just classrooms

the other the school chapel

 

the day i nearly set fire to the school

focusing my convex motorbike headlamp glass

on the dry grass

beside the swimming pool

with its outer fence

it could just be seen stage right

 

when the grass caught fire

and i couldn’t stamp it out

and it rampaged

threatening the fence

and the school army’s arsenal

complete with ammunition

i ran to it

as the obvious refuge

 

at its base

beside the chapel

was a snail alcove

that formed the beginning

of the spiral staircase

i crept inside

and hid

with time above me

but unable to reach

that far down

 

eventually

i had to come out

and ‘face the music’

which was decidedly dolce

since i had owned up

‘would you like a glass of water?’

 

zkg 27: 'string quartet'

 

string quartet

 

oh to live inside a new first violin

without the weight of someone’s stupid chin

 

oh to live inside a second violin

whose echo is original as sin

 

oh to live inside an broad-beamed lush viola

with time to read a book by emile zola

 

oh to live inside a gorgeous cello

and bathe in sound that’s beautiful and mellow

 

Louis Ferron: 'Wat nog splijten kon in jaren van weemoed' (PS 51)

 

 

Wat nog splijten kon in jaren van weemoed,

nog kon roesten van onlesbare dorst,

vervalt en het roepen onder de aarde

doet geen pijn meer en de lampen,

de waakzame, van de ruisende vrouwen

gaan in duister gekleed.

 

Kijk, een haas slaat zijn haken,

buitelt en

proeft tussen zijn tanden het lood.

 

 

 

What could still split in years of melancholy,

still rust from unquenchable thirst,

decays and the underground calling

no longer causes pain and the lamps,

the vigilant ones, of the rustling women

are clad in darkness.

 

Look, a hare zigzags away

tumbles and

tastes the lead between its teeth.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 51