N.F.S. Grundtvig: 'Kong David'

Kong David

 

Jeg gik i Marken og vogtede Faar,

Slog min Harpe i Skyggen af Palmer,

Glad som en Fugl i den faureste Vaar

Hopped rundt jeg og nynned paa Psalmer!

 

Da kom der Bud fra min Fader som bedst:

Skynd dig hjem! klæd dig paa! kom til Gilde!

Seeren siger, der fattes en Gjest,

Det er dig, kom nu ikke for silde!

 

Rødmusset blev jeg da mere end før,

Som en Fugl, som en Vind, jeg var hjemme,

Blegned kun flygtig ved Høielofts-Dør,

Da jeg hørde de Vældiges Stemme.

 

Bæger af Guld med den skummende Viin

Rakde Seeren brat mig i Salen,

Salved mit Hoved med Olie fiin,

Som en Dugg over Græsset i Dalen!

 

Mange i Salen saae skævt til mit Held,

Ikke vidste dog Nogen min Lykke,

Lønlig udsprang der i Barmen et Væld,

Som en Kilde i Palmernes Skygge.

 

Kongeligt blev da mit Sind og min Hu,

For min Hjord turde alting jeg vove,

Løver og Bjørne, dem trodsed jeg nu,

Trodsed meer, trodsed Falskhed til Hove.

 

Goliath praled med Hjelm og med Skjold,

Imod ham saae jeg ud som Græshoppen,

Dog med min Slynge jeg fældte den Trold,

Skildte godt ogsaa Hoved fra Kroppen!

 

Træde jeg maatte fuldmødige Fjed,

Over Stok, over Steen, i det Øde,

Før jeg fik Kronen at fryde mig ved,

Under den maatte Hjertet end bløde.

 

Konge dog blev jeg, navnkundig som Faa,

I Jerusalem godt jeg blev hjemme,

Og medens Throner paa Jorderig staae,

Davids-Harpen gaaer aldrig ad Glemme!

 

 

King David

 

In open fields I watched over my sheep

Under palm trees my harp I sat strumming,

Glad as a bird that in spring loves to cheep

I skipped back and forth, psalms sometimes humming!

 

From my father came the urgent request:

Hurry home! Banquet time! Don fine clothing!

For, says the prophet, we’re lacking a guest,

That is you, don’t be late, stop for nothing!

 

Ruddy cheeked grew I yet more than before,

Like a bird, a swift wind, homeward fleeting,

Only went pale at the banquet hall door

When I heard mighty men say their greeting.

 

A golden goblet of bright, foaming wine

Brought the prophet me – he did not dally –

Then anointed my head with oil so fine

As does dew all the grass in the valley!

 

Many regarded my fortune askance

But unknown to them all, bliss enbalmed me,

For in my breast rose a ne’er-ending dance,

Like a spring in the shade of the palm tree.

 

Kingly my mind became, noble and true,

For my flock would I everything venture,

I defied lions and bears from henceforth too,

Courtly falseness I even dared censure.

 

’Gainst boastful Goliath with sword and shield

I resembled a half-grown cicada,

And yet with my sling I made the giant yield

And my blow made his head fall much harder!

 

Many a weary step I had to tread,

Over hill and dale, deserts so arid,

Ere I a crown’s weight could feel on my head

Yet my heart still bled, troubled and harried.

 

King I became, famed as few are from birth,

In Jerusalem I had my dwelling, 

And while thrones exist still upon this earth,

David’s harp’s fame will be for the telling.

 

 

 

 

https://kalliope.org/da/text/grundtvig2001061847

 

https://hojskolesangbogen.dk/om-sangbogen/historier-om-sangene/j-l/jeg-gik-i-marken-og-vogtede-faar

  

N.F.S. Grundtvig: 'Babels'Taarnet'

 

Babels-Taarnet

 

Paa Sletten ved Euphrat i Asialand,

Hvor nu kun boer Tiger og Løve,

Der Kæmperne fordum med Dværge-Forstand

Sig flokked for Konster at prøve;

Men Vorherre, Han var deres Mester.

 

De sagde: hvad aldrig Man hørde tilforn,

Og Ingen skal giøre os efter,

Af Tegl lad os bygge til Himlen et Taarn,

Et Mærke paa Menneske-Kræfter!

Men Vorherre, Han var deres Mester.

 

Og lad os om Taarnet saa bygge en By,

Der rummer os alle tilhobe,

Om Floden da gaaer over Bjerge paany,

En Dyst vi paa Sletten tør vove!

Men Vorherre, Han var deres Mester.

 

Saa ælted de Leer og saa brændte de Tegl,

Og Lim kogde ret de med Gammen,

De tænkte, det kunde nu aldrig slaae feil,

Det hængde jo ypperlig sammen.

Men Vorherre, Han var deres Mester.

 

Da havde end Alle det deiligste Sprog,

En Levning fra Paradis-Dage,

Det Mennesket gjorde paa Verden fuldklog,

Og spared ham megen Umage.

Men Vorherre, Han var deres Mester.

 

Da sagde vor Herre: nei hold! ikke saa!

Forvirre lad Os deres Tale!

Da kunde ei meer de hinanden forstaae

End Heste kan Haner, som gale.

For Vorherre, Han er deres Mester.

 

Kun Babel, Forvirring, kom Alle ihu,

De skyldte hverandre for Skaden,

Og Babel blev Navnet, og er saa endnu,

Paa Taarnet saavelsom paa Staden.

For Vorherre, Han var deres Mester.

 

Nu hver sine Veie med Nag og med Sorg

Udvandred, som Lige med Lige,

Kun Nimrod af Taarnet sig laved en Borg

Og stifted det Babelske Rige.

For Vorherre, Han var deres Mester.

 

Saatit sig de Kloge nu flokke i By,

Og taarne sig op imod Himlen,

Da skaber Vorherre et Babel paany,

Som Avner adspreder han Vrimlen;

For Vorherre, Han er deres Mester!

 

 

The Tower of Babel

 

Beside the Euphrates in far Asian climes,

Where now live but tiger and lion,

Thronged dwarf-minded giants in pre-ancient times

To try out their skills strong as iron;

But the Lord God was ever their Master.

 

They said: What has never been heard of before,

And no one will emulate ever,

Of bricks let us build to the heavens a tower,

A landmark of human endeavour!

But the Lord God was ever their Master. 

 

A city around it then let us build too, 

So great that we’ll all be contained there,

Should hills be submerged by the river anew,

We’ll dare to cross swords on the plains there!

But the Lord God was ever their Master.

 

The clay was then kneaded, the bricks were all fired,

And glue was then boiled with elation,

They thought, it can’t fail for our plan is inspired,

It’s worthy of all admiration. 

Yet the Lord God was ever their Master. 

 

A language most wonderful all of them prized,

A relic of Eden’s past glory,

Which made all mankind here on earth fully wise,

And saved it much trouble and worry.

But the Lord God was ever their Master.

 

Then God said: I’ll have to! It’s for their own good!

Their speech all awry let’s be throwing!

And no more each other they then understood

Than horses can cocks when they’re crowing.

For the Lord God is ever their Master.

 

And Babel, confusion, was all they could say,

Each other they blamed, more’s the pity,

The name given, Babel, is there to this day –

The tower as well as the city.

For the Lord God was ever their Master. 

 

And each went his way then, both grieving and dour,

Though equal, yet different they sounded

Just Nimrod a castle made out of the tower

And Babylon’s kingdom he founded.

For the Lord God was ever their Master. 

 

Whenever the wise men now flock to the town,

And form a great tower t’ward the heavens,

God makes a new Babel and blows them all down

Like chaff they’re at sixes and sevens; 

For the Lord God is ever their Master!

 

 

Willem Kloos: 'Ik ween om bloemen in de knop gebroken'

 

Ik ween om bloemen in de knop gebroken

En vóór den uchtend van haar bloei vergaan,

Ik ween om liefde die niet is ontloken,

En om mijn harte dat niet werd verstaan.

 

Gij kwaamt, en 'k wist -- gij zijt weer heengegaan...

Ik heb het nauw gezien, geen woord gesproken:

Ik zat weer roerloos nà die korten waan

In de eeuwge schaduw van mijn smart gedoken:

 

Zo als een vogel in den stillen nacht

Op ééns ontwaakt, omdat de hemel gloeit,

En denkt, 't is dag, en heft het kopje en fluit,

 

Maar eer 't zijn vaakrige oogjes gans ontsluit,

Is het weer donker, en slechts droevig vloeit

Door 't sluimerend geblaarte een zwakke klacht.

 

 

I weep at flowers in bud whose stems have snapped

And just before their blossoming must die,

I weep should love’s fine bloom remain untapped

And at my heart that cannot fathom why.

 

You came, I knew – but after that you left …

I scarcely caught a glimpse, no word did say:

Once more sat motionless, so soon bereft,

To endless shadows of my pain a prey.

 

Just like a bird which wakens suddenly 

In night’s deep silence since the sky’s a-glow

And thinks it’s daytime, lifts its head and trills,

 

But well before some light its keen eye fills,

The darkness has returned, and but a low

Complaint through drowsing leaves drifts woefully.

 

A.J.D. van Oosten: 'Marlene Dietrich' (PS 57)

 

MARLENE DIETRICH

 

Zij is dit jaar een nieuw, hoog sterrebeeld,

haar oogen zijn vergif en goud voor ons,

lokkend en vast staan haar flonkerende dijen,

haar lichaam fonkelt in den middernacht;

 

zij is een kind met een gekrenkt vertrouwen

wanneer spotlachend zij door ’t zenith gaat;

maar in den na-nacht dooft haar daemonie,

 

een engel schildert in haar harde trekken

nabij de kim het teeken der verloren vrouwen.

 

 

MARLENE DIETRICH

 

This year she is a new, high constellation,

her eyes are venomous and gold to us,

her shimmering thighs are luring and firm,

her body sparkles in the midst of night;

 

she is a child with trust that’s been betrayed

when passing with derision through its zenith;

but late at night her demon nature dwindles,

 

an angel paints in her hard features near

the skyline’s rim the sign of women who are fallen.

 

Meanwhile my straying hand had worked it out –

A bed of roses was my fate in store.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 57

 

 

 

 

'Poetic Synapses' UPDATE

 The poetic synapses project (Albert Hagenaars & John Irons) has 56 poems on the blogspot at present. Here they all are, and where to find them:

Anneke Brassinga: 'Nagedachte'

Nagedachte

 

Al dat zinnentuig, en dan nog geen sjoege

van wat brandt in de pit waar zich verduren moet

het schroeiend neteligs en de zweepslag

 

van angst alsof ooit iets stilvallen zou; terwijl

op dode stronken mos gedijt, in tierende varens

uitbreekt begraven gebeente!

 

Kunnen dan niet, als ontzind en huidloos

doordringend verliefde grondstof, tot éen zacht

vuurtje nu vervloeien mijn de weg kwijtrakende

 

voortstrompeling en jouw

als sneeuw voor de zon ronddwarreldende

afwezigheid?

 

 

In loving memory

 

All this power of five senses, yet not even the foggiest

notion what burns in the wick where the scorching 

nastiness and the lashing of fear must be

 

endured as if anything would ever be stilled; meanwhile

on dead stubs the moss is thriving, and buried bones

burst out in rampant bracken!

 

So why could – as a frantic and hideless

pervasively love-struck substance – my path-losing

stumbling and your as snow in the sun

 

round-swirling absence, not converge

and merge with each other into one gentle

small flame?

 

 

Max Schuchart: 'De zigeunerin' (PS 53)

DE ZIGEUNERIN

 

Zij heeft mij in haar donkere tent gelokt:

Ik ben er op haar beenen ingeloopen,

Want naar zij zeide zou ze ’t bloot en open

Leggen nadat ’k een gulden had gedokt.

 

En ik, bij de’ eersten aanblik reeds geschokt,

Ben blindelings bij haar binnengeslopen

En zij ontknoopte er een voor een de knoopen -

Niet van haar jurk, maar van mijn grillig lot.

 

Ik heb mijn hand in die van haar gelegd,

Zij zag de naaste toekomst en moest blozen:

“U bent nog niet verbonden in den echt,

Maar 'k zie dat u zeer gauw zult minnekozen.”

Mijn hand kwam onderhand verdwaald terecht

En ’t noodlot ging van toen af over rozen.

 

 

THE GIPSY WOMAN

 

She got to lure me into her dark tent:

it was her legs that seemed to lead the way,

She claimed she would reveal it once I’d spent

The guilder every client had to pay.

 

And I, already at first sight quite shocked,

Slipped blindly in at this so tempting bait

And she undid the buttons one by one –

Not of her blouse, but of my fickle fate.

 

I placed my hand in hers, and soon she saw

my nearest future, and her flushed cheeks shone:

‘You’ve not yet tied the knot beyond all doubt,

But soon you’ve lovey-doveying galore.’

Meanwhile my straying hand had worked it out –

A bed of roses was my fate in store.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 53

 

 

C.O. Jellema: 'Notitie bij een Friese kerkmuur'

 

Notitie bij een Friese kerkmuur

 

Toen in de Eifel vulkanen uitdoofden,

hun kraters zich vulden met water,

tot tufsteen de lava verhardde,

Batavieren ons land binnenkwamen,

voor handel bevaarbaar de grote rivieren,

hier aan de kust in hutten gewoond werd

van vlechtwerk en leem, een godshuis

voor eeuwig echter gemetseld

om uitzicht op hemel wou zijn en

zeewind en regen geduldig de bouwsteen

uitsleten, blootlegden splinters

basalt, kwartsiet, van het slijkgas

de holten – toen

 

vond er een plek voor haar nest die

muurbij, wier goudzwart schildje,

kijk, ze vliegt op,

in het zonlicht

nu vonkt.

 

 

Note on a Frisian church wall

 

When in the Eifel volcanoes became extinct,

their craters filled up with water,

the lava hardened into tuff,

Batavians arrived in our country,

the large rivers navigable for trade,

on the coast here dwellings of wattle

and daub were lived in, a house of god

though raised in stone and mortar

to grant a lasting view of the heavens and

sea wind and rain patiently eroded

the stones, exposed splinters of

basalt and quartz, the holes of

the sludge gas – then

 

was a spot for her nest found by the

mason bee, whose gold-black scutellum,

look, up she flies

into the sunlight

now glints.

Notat ved en frisisk kirkemur

 

Da vulkanerne slukkede i Eifel,

deres kratere fyldtes med vand,

lavaen størknede til tuf,

Bataverne trængte ind i vores land,

de store floder blev sejlbare for handel,

her ved kusten blev det boet i hytter

af lerklining, et gudshus,

lavet for evigt af murværk, ville

være med om en himmeludsigt og

havsvind og regn tålmodigt nedbrød

murstenene, blottede fliser af

basalt, kvarts, hulerne fra

slamgas – da

 

fandt plads for dens bo denne

murerbi, hvis guldsorte lille skjold

– kig, den flyver op –

nu glimter

i sollyset.