Hans Christian Andersen: 'Snorlige Gader, Palai ved Palai' (1831)

Centre of Berlin in 1831 map

 

Snorlige Gader, Palai ved Palai

1831

 

Snorlige Gader, Palai ved Palai,

Man bliver træt af at gaae og at see.

Pæne Soldater, – den første jeg saae,

Følte jeg gjennem mit Hjerte gaae,

Og jeg brød ud: ”Hvilken Krop! Hvilke Been!

Gud, hvor det dog er en nydelig En!”

”Unter den Linden ” Alverden gik.

(Det er dog smukkest i Kobberstik!)

Gaderne støve og Ungdommen med,

Ak, det gjør Øinene stor Fortræd!

Ægte Berliner Witz finder man her,

Og den er kostbar - tro mig - især

Hvis den med ”Schnellposten” skulde herfra,

Blev den for dyr ved sin Tyngde, ak ja!

”R” bliver snurret, man siger ”mein Jot”

Ellers er Folket meget godt;

Byen – ja vendt paa kryds eller tvers,

Bliver for stor til at sætte i Vers.

 

 

Moral

 

Mærk Dig: Moralen er saare fiin,

Som man faaer ud af det store Berliin!

 

 

Arrow-straight streets and fine mansions galore

1831

 

Arrow-straight streets and fine mansions galore,

Walking and gazing makes one tired and sore.

Handsome young soldiers – the first one I saw

I felt pierce my poor heart right to the core,

I exclaimed: ‘What a body! What fine legs!’

Dear God, that one leaves me quite perplexed!’

‘Unter den Linden’ all come and go.

(Though as an etching it’s finest, I know.)

The streets are all dusty, and young folk are too,

Oh, it is hard on one’s eyes, so vast a view!

Berlin-style humour is everywhere here,

And it is not cheap – believe me – quite dear

If it by ‘Schnellpost’ were meant to be sent

Its weight would cost you your very last cent.

They roll all their Rs and exclaim ‘mein Jot’

Apart from this though they seem a fine lot;

The city – if taken from A to Z –

Won’t fit my verse – there’s no more to be said.

 

 

Moral

 

Take note: The moral seems very clear,

To describe Berlin you must stand right here!

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Smaabørn, kjør kun rask afsted!'

Denmark, 1937

Smaabørn, kjør kun rask af sted

 

Smaabørn, kjør kun rask afsted!

See, qvivit! vi komme med.

Det er Fastelavn i Dag,

Vi skal til et lystigt Lag;

Katten, som vil faae os fat,

Har de nu i Tønden sat.

Fare! Fare! Krigsmand!

Døden skal han lide,

Han kom dog til allersidst

I den sorte Gryde.

 

 

Quickly children, off you go!

 

Quickly children, off you go!

Whoosh, we’re with you, we’re not slow.

Lent is here again today,

Time for fun and time for play;

And the cat that chased us so

In the barrel has been stowed.

Danger, danger! Soldier!

Death comes when you’ve fallen,

You shall end up last of all

In the coal-black cauldron

 

 

For the ‘cat in the barrel’ game, see here.

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Den Frivillige' (1848)

 

Den Frivillige

 

Mel. Saa kjæmped de Helte.

 

Jeg kan ikke blive, jeg har ingen Ro,

Jeg maa med de andre til Leiren!

Vor Sag er retfærdig, og Gud tør vi troe

:/: Er med os, han giver os Seiren. :/:

 

Aarhundreder Danmark var mægtigt og stort,

Men saa blev der plukket og plukket.

Nu skal de ei gjøre, hvad før de har gjort,

:/: For længe har Danmark nu sukket. :/:

 

De kan overvælde vort lille Land,

Men rokke ei Mod eller Villie.

Thi nu slaae vi alle til yderste Mand,

:/: Vort Skjold er saa reent som en Lilie. :/:

 

Jeg føler mig stærk, og jeg kan holde ud!

Tak Moder, Du vil, jeg maa stride.

Med mig er din Tanke og med mig er Gud,

:/: Hvad troer du din Søn da kan lide. :/:

 

Farvel Allesammen! Jeg har ingen Ro,

Jeg maa med de Andre til Leiren.

Vor Sag er retfærdig, og Gud tør vi troe

:/: Er med os, han giver os Seiren. :/:

 

 

The Volunteer

 

Mel. Thus fought the heroes.

 

I cannot remain here, to set out I must

And join up with those in the army !

Our cause it is just, in God do we trust,

:/: Our victory’s sure, nought can harm me. :/:

 

For hundreds of years, our Denmark was great,

Since then though by foes it’s been plundered.

They shall not repeat what they’ve done to date,

:/: Too long it for glory has hungered :/:

 

And should they take now what’s left of our land,

Our courage and will shall shall not waver.

This time we shall fight to the very last man,

:/: Our shield and our sword they shall savour. :/:

 

I feel I am strong, that I shall not yield!

Am glad Mother Denmark accepts me.

With you in my thoughts and God as my shield,

:/: I have all I need to protect me. :/:

 

Farewell to you all! To set out I must

And join up with those in the army !

Our cause it is just, in God do we trust,

:/: Our victory’s sure, nought can harm me. :/:

 

 

Andersen responded almost immediately to the outbreak of hostilities with this song. It first appeared in ‘Fædrelandet’ on 21 April 1848. It became quite popular, but was overshadowed by ‘In Denmark I was born’, which has almost become a second national anthem. This song was written at a pivotal time in Denmark’s history, but does not have much literary value.

Hans Christian Andersen: 'I det brændende Skib, paa det rullende Hav'

 

Steamship 'Austria' in 1857

I det brændende Skib, paa det rullende Hav

 

† Henriette Wulff

(Paa Dampskibet „Austria”, den 13de Septbr. 1858)

 

I det brændende Skib, paa det rullende Hav,

I Rædsler, som ei vi udholde at høre,

Har du lidt, har du endt, har Du fundet din Grav,

Dødsmaaden og Kampen naae aldrig vort Øre!

 

Du dristige, kraftfulde Sjæl, Du dig holdt

I et skrøbeligt Legem; høit stod Du i Vrimlen,

Og aldrig dit ildfulde Hjerte blev koldt;

Her Faa kun forstod Dig, men Flere i Himlen!

 

Du var mig en Søster deeltagende stærk,

Min Sjæl holdt Du oppe, naar Verden mig traadte,

Du kjendte, forstod mig, og det er dit Værk,

At tit jeg ei sank, naar synke jeg maatte.

 

Det falske, det Tomme, det Bjældeklangs Smaa

Har Hobens Beskyttelse, bæres af Strømmen,

Dens Løb ei forandres —, Skumbølgerne gaae,

Og Jordlivet gaaer,- det er endt snart, som Drømmen.

 

Farvel min Veninde fra Barndommens Aar!

Du var mig meer god, end jeg det fortjente,

Nu har du stridt ud – ; hos en Broder Du staaer,

Med hvem alt paa Jorden Dig Længsel foreente.

 

Din Kiste blev Havet, det rullende Hav,

Og Indskriften over Dig staaer i vort Hjerte,

Din Sjæl er i Himlen, der Herren Dig gav

Lyksalighed tifold for Dødsstundens Smerte.

 

I det brændende Skib paa det rullende Hav,

I Rædsler, som ei vi udholde at høre,

Har Du lidt, har Du endt, har Du fundet din Grav,

Dødsmaaden og Kampen naae aldrig vort Øre

 

 

(To understand verse 5, it is important to know that Henriette’s brother, Christian Wulff, died of yellow fever in 1856, while stationed in Beaufort, North Carolina.)

 

 

 

On the ship all ablaze, on the deep, rolling sea

 

† Henriette Wulff

(On the steamship ‘Austria’, 13 Sept. 1858)

 

On the ship all ablaze, on the deep, rolling sea,

In horrors our ears simply could not endure,

You have suffered and died, there your grave came to be,

Though the way that you perished will never be sure.

 

In a frail human frame did your bold, daring soul

Have to dwell; in a crowd though was well to the fore,

And your spirited heart never came to turn cold;

Here few understood you, but in heaven far more!

 

A sister were you to me, caring by nature,

My soul you sustained when the world was against me,

You knew my true being and never did waver

To keep me from sinking, when none would befriend me.

 

The false and the empty, the tinkling of brass

Gains most folk’s protection, is borne by the stream,

Its course does not alter – the foam-topped waves pass

And earthly life too – it soon ends, like a dream.

 

Farewell, dearest friend since my childhood’s first years!

Your kindness to me was sustained and exceeding,

You’ve taken your leave  –; and a brother stands near

With whom all on earth made you long for remeeting.

 

The waves are your coffin, the deep, rolling sea

The written inscription’s engraved in our heart,

Your soul is in heaven , where God’s bliss shall be

Tenfold for your anguish at having to part.

 

On the ship all ablaze, on the deep, rolling sea,

In horrors our ears simply could not endure,

You have suffered and died, there your grave came to be,

Though the way that you perished will never be sure.

 

 

DOs and DON'Ts

 

DON’Ts

 

1.     Rhyme can make a text feel like a poem, but it does not make it a poem.

(The same applies to alliteration.)

2.     Counting syllables may create equality, but it does not create a pulse.

3.     A pacemaker creates an illusion of pulse, but does not make a poem breathe.

4.     Overattention to form in a text creates scaffolding, but blocks the view of the house.

5.     Misusing space on the page is dressing mutton as lamb.

6.     Repetition without modulation or modification creates monotony.

7.     Overuse or misuse of imagery smothers and blurs the image.

8.     Misuse of content ends up as philosophy, misuse of sound ends up as babble, misuse of space can leave you with an almost empty plate.

9.     Unless you dig deeper than the personal, you cannot say anything that will have universal validity.

10. Do not mistake rules for technique.

 

DO’s

 

1.     Read Goethe’s poem: ‘Natur und Kunst’ 

2.     Read e.c. cummings’ poems: ‘Yes is a pleasant country’, ‘O by the by’

(And listen to him read them on Spotify)

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Hen ad Bjerge, gjennem Bjerge'

 

Andersen sketch of the Simplon pass

Hen ad Bjerge, gjennem Bjerge,

Knap en Fod fra Afgrunds Randen

Flyver jeg i Banetoget

I den maaneklare Nat,

Gjennem lange, mørke Tunler,

I en sneekold, fugtig Luftning

Ud igjen, højt over Bjerge

Byer Dybt i Dalens mørke sat,

Lysene dernede blinke

Ovenover Lyser Himlen,

Nyet tændt og alle Stjerner

Seer jeg i min vilde Flugt,

Gjennem Bjerge, over Bjerge,

Som en Fugl jeg dristigt flyver,

Verden, Livet, Gud, det Hele, 

Eventyr! Hvor smukt!

 

 

Now past mountains, now through mountains,

From the abyss edge scarce one foot

In the train I’m flying onwards

In the clear and moonlit night,

On through long and lightless tunnels,

In a snow-cold humid airing

Out once more, high over mountains

Towns in valleys deeply set,

From down there the lights are twinkling

Up above the skies are gleaming

Newly lit and stars all marshalled

In my wild flight this I see,

Through the mountains, over mountains,

Like a bird I’m boldly flying,

World and life and God – all present,

Fairy tale! Sublime!

 

From Andersen’s travel account, 1867

 

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Hans trætte Støv er bragt til Gravens Ro'

The Danish composer C.E.F. Weyse

Hans trætte Støv er bragt til Gravens Ro,

 

Hans trætte Støv er bragt til Gravens Ro

Hans stærke Aand i Kraft end meer ophøiet! –

Hans stod i Verden ensom jo,

Og ensom lukked’ han I Døden Øiet!

Alene var han: naar da Hjertet leed,

Med Melodier Smerten han indhulled’.

I Toner staaer hans Ungdoms Kjærlighed,

Den lyder i: ”de klare Bølger rulled!”

 

Han sad ved Orglet, og en egen Magt

Da løftede vor Tanke højt fra Jorden;

En skat af Sange har han Folket bragt,

I Toner udtalt Aandens Dyb i Norden!

Hans Tale var et Væld, så sundt og rigt,

Hans Sjæl var ung -- nu har den Himlens Glæde!

Ak, død er Weyse! -Hvilket Sørge-Digt

Har kraft som disse Ord, -- og dybt vi græde.

 

 

 In grave’s embrace his weary dust lies furled

 

In grave’s embrace his weary dust lies furled,

His spirit’s strength, though, higher than before!

He was a lonesome figure in the world,

And when in death he closed his eyes yet more!

He was alone: when woes plagued heart and mind,

With melodies he sought to ease the pain.

His youthful love in music is enshrined,

As in: ‘The clear waves rolled…,’ where it’s quite plain.

 

His organ playing had an inborn force

That high above the earth our thoughts could raise;

A treasure trove of songs to us he brought,

Revealed the Northern spirit in each phrase!

A wealth of words he spoke, so rich and free,

His soul was young – may heaven’s joy he reap!

Ah, Weyse is no more – What elegy

Can match these words – and we now deeply weep.

 

 

* the reference is to a poem by Adam Oehlenschläger

 

Herman van den Bergh: 'Sabbath' (PS 61)

 

 

SABBATH

 

Die dag heerste licht op de bergen; daaronder

sprongen de waters als dartel metaal,

terwijl hoog in vuurhemels vlammenzaal

alle tekens zich schaarden tot een wonder.

 

Zesmalen had hij de hand gewend, zesmaal

baarde de vruchtbare ruimte; de donder

der schepping rolde zesmalen, zonder

dat ’t tot een rust kwam in zijner palme’ ovaal.

 

Toen zweeg de wereld. Bergen, lichtbeheerst,

zwegen mét de korzle stuifslag der stromen.

Over de zwarte bossen boog een gebaar

dat uit de teelaarde scheen opgekomen.

Zes dagen werden hun tegenstander gewaar:

 

Sabbath! - een dichter rustte voor het eerst.

 

 

SABBATH

 

That day light held sway in the mountains, though under

them, like skittish metal the waters gushed high,

while in the flaming hall of the fiery sky

all signs congregated to form a wonder.

 

Six times with upturned hands he raised his arms,

six times did fertile space give birth, and also

six times did creation’s thunder roll, at no

stage finding rest in both his ovalled palms.

 

Then the world fell silent. So too the light-

gleaming mountains and streams’ glinting spray.

Above the black forests an arched gesture rose 

which seemed from the topsoil to be on its way.

For six days they grew conscious of their foe.

 

Sabbath! – first now did a poet rest aright.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 61