P.C. Boutens: 'Hoe is mijn lief van puren goude' (Liederen van Isoude)

 

HOE is mijn lief van puren goude,

Hoe zilvren ben ik hem!:

Wanneer hij zingt ‘Isoude’,

Teêr-blank beslaat zijn stem.

Ik ken geen manelichter lied

Dan dat zijn straal naar mij verschiet!

 

Die met hem in den dag verkeeren,

Prijzen wel schoon

Mijn vogels gouden veêren,

Maar niemand weet zijn hartetoon.

In schemerkleurlooze avondzaal

Zingt mij alleen mijn nachtegaal...

 

Hoe kan hij schat van zangen

Bewaren tot het avond is

Zoo trouw als ik mijn arm verlangen,

Die rijkste droefenis?

Ontzegelt dan mijn kus alleen

Die helle wel van vreugdgeween?

 

Zoo schijnt de goudgedegen

Zon al den dag de wereld licht,

Maar waart zijn teêrstgenegen

Blik achter oogen dicht,

En in den nacht als geen hem ziet,

Ruischt naar de maan dat zilvren lied.

 

(First published in De Nieuwe Gids gedenkboek 1910, p. 32)

 

 

MY love is nought to me but golden,

I to him silver sheen!:

Whene’er he sings ‘Isolde’

His voice is shroudlike gleam.

No song I know so lunar-bright

As his projected shaft of light!

 

Those who by day may share his image

Can but extol

My bird’s gold-gleaming plumage,

To none though does his heart unfold.

In colour-faded twilight-hall

Sings but to me my nightingale...

 

How can that treasure-hoard of

Songs be kept till the evening-hour

As I poor yearning loyally store, a

Wealth of sadness held as dower?

Must then release come from my kiss

For that bright spring of tearful bliss?

 

So does the native-golden

Sun give light to all the days,

Yet its closed eyes keep hidden

Its fondest gentle gaze,

And unseen murmurs all night long

Out to the moon that silver song.

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Digterens sidste Sang'

 

Digterens sidste Sang

 

Løft mig kun bort, Du stærke Død,

Til Aandens store Lande!

Jeg gaaer min Vei, som Gud mig bød,

Fremad, med opreist Pande.

Alt hvad jeg gav, Gud, det var dit,

Min Rigdom ei jeg vidste!

Hvad jeg har øvet, er kun lidt,

Jeg sang som Fugl paa Qviste!

 

Farvel hver Rose frisk og rød,

Farvel, I mine Kjære!

Løft mig kun bort Du stærke Død,

Skjøndt her er godt at være!

Hav Tak, o Gud, for hvad Du gav,

Hav Tak for hvad der kommer!

Flyv Død, hen over Tidens Hav,

Bort til en evig Sommer!

 

 

The poet’s last song

 

Just lift me up, oh mighty Death, 

To Spirit’s realms unending!

My head held high, I onward tread,

God’s bidden path e’er wending.

All that I gave, God, came from you,

My grasp of wealth was sparing!

My own achievements are but few,

I bird-like sang uncaring.

 

Farewell, each rose so fresh and red,

Farewell, those I love dearly!

Just lift me up, oh mighty Death,

Though life I prize sincerely!

My thanks for gifts to God on high,

My thanks for what is pending!

Fly Death, across time’s ocean, fly

To summer without ending!

 

 

R.M. Rilke: 'Sei allem Abschied voran' (Sonnet XIII, Sonnets to Orpheus)

 

(XIII)

 

Sei allem Abschied voran, als wäre er hinter

dir, wie der Winter, der eben geht.

Denn unter Wintern ist einer so endlos Winter,

daß, überwinternd, dein Herz überhaupt übersteht.

 

Sei immer tot in Eurydike -, singender steige,

preisender steige zurück in den reinen Bezug.

Hier, unter Schwindenden, sei, im Reiche der Neige,

sei ein klingendes Glas, das sich im Klang schon zerschlug.

 

Sei - und wisse zugleich des Nicht-Seins Bedingung,

den unendlichen Grund deiner innigen Schwingung,

daß du sie völlig vollziehst dieses einzige Mal.

 

Zu dem gebrauchten sowohl, wie zum dumpfen und stummen

Vorrat der vollen Natur, den unsäglichen Summen,

zähle dich jubelnd hinzu und vernichte die Zahl.

 

 

(XIII)

 

Be in advance of each parting, as if unbending

past, like the winter that soon is gone.

For among winters exists one so without ending

that, if well-wintered, despite all your heart will live on.

 

Be ever dead in Eurydice –, sing while ascending

praise while descending into what’s sheer in its ground.

Here, midst the dwindling, be, in the death that’s impending,

be a clear-ringing glass turned to shards in mid-sound.

 

Be – and know the condition of being’s negation,

the quite infinite source of your own oscillation, 

that you completely fulfil this in one single phase.

 

To what’s been used up and likewise the dull and the numbing

bounty of nature’s great hoard, the unspeakable humming,

joyfully reckon yourself, and that number erase.

Workshop preparations here

 

 

P.C. Boutens: 'Leeuwerik'

 

LEEUWERIK

 

Blijft gij nooit één blanke uchtend, 

Leeuwrik, zingen hier beneên, 

Die uw nachtlijk nest ontvluchtend 

Door de zilvren neevlen heen 

 

Vleuglings vindt de gouden wegen 

Waar uw aadmen juichen wordt, 

Tot uw zang in vuren regen 

Naar de koele vore stort; 

 

Zingt gij nooit de rode smarten 

Van de duistre aardenacht, 

Wordt het bloeden onzer harten 

Wel gestelpt, maar nooit verklacht?...

 

In het ijle blauw verloren 

Volgt mijn oog niet meer uw vlucht, 

Maar uw antwoord dwaast mijn oren 

Met zijn zaligend gerucht: 

 

Steeds, uit vreugd of smart gerezen, 

Heeft de ziel uw vreugd verstaan, 

En tot uwe vreugd genezen, 

Ons gemeen geheim geraên: 

 

Alle smart omhooggedragen 

Meerdert vreugdes gouden schat: 

Slechts de vleuglen die ons schragen, 

Zijn van aardes tranen nat.

 

 

First published in De Gids, December 1909, subsequently included in the collection 'Carmina', published 1912

 

 

SKYLARK

 

Do you never one bright morning, 

Lark, stay here below to sing, 

You who from your night nest soaring

Through the silver mists will wing

 

Up to golden paths ascending,

Where your breath erupts in song

Which as fiery rain descending

Finds cool furrows’ depths ere long;

 

Do you never sing the crimson

Pains of each dark earthly night,

Is our bleeding hearts’ vermillion

Stemmed but ne’er lamented quite?...

 

Lost in pale blue sky’s great vaulting,

Your small speck my eyes now miss,

But your answer, ear-assaulting,

Stupifies my mind with bliss:

 

Rising out of joy or sorrow,

Joy your soul has always gained,

Healed into your joy each morrow

Our shared secret ascertained:

 

All pains skyward-borne declare us

Joy’s gold treasure will accrue:

Nothing but the wings which bear us

Still wear tears of earthly dew.

Antjie Krog: 'digter wordende'

 

digter wordende 

 

om op ’n oggend wakker te word binne-in klank

met vokaal en klinker en diftong as voelspriet

om met aarselende sorg die effensste roerings

van lig en verlies in klank te kalibreer

 

om jouself meteens gekniel te vind

bo-oor die hoorbaar kloppende wand

van ’n woord – soekend na daardie presiese

moment wat ’n versreël volloop in klank

 

wanneer die betekenis van ’n woord swig,

begin gly en hom eindelik oorgee aan geluid

van dan af smag die bloed na die inkantasie

van taal – die enigste waarheid staan gevél in klank

 

die digter dig met haar tong

sy haal asem – ja, diep uit haar oor

 

 

becoming a poet

 

one morning you awake in the midst of sound

with vowel and consonant and diphthong as antenna

with hesitant care you calibrate the tiniest

flutter of light and loss into sound 

 

suddenly find yourself kneeling

above the audibly throbbing wall

of a word – searching for the precise

moment that a line of verse fills up with sound

 

when the meaning of a word succumbs,

begins to slide and finally submits itself to sound

from that moment the blood yearns for language as

incantation – the sole truth stands couched in sound 

 

the poet writes with her tongue

she fetches breath – yes, deep out of her ear

 

Stéphane Mallarmé: 'Sainte'

 

Sainte

 

À la fenêtre recelant

Le santal vieux qui se dédore

De sa viole étincelant

Jadis avec flûte ou mandore,

 

Est la Sainte pâle, étalant

Le livre vieux qui se déplie

Du Magnificat ruisselant

Jadis selon vêpre et complie:

 

À ce vitrage d’ostensoir

Que frôle une harpe par l’Ange

Formée avec son vol du soir

Pour la délicate phalange

 

Du doigt que, sans le vieux santal

Ni le vieux livre, elle balance

Sur le plumage instrumental,

Musicienne du silence.

 

 

Saint

 

At the stained window that reveals

The age-old gleaming sandalwood

Of her viol whose gilding peels

Once played with mandora or flute,

 

There sits the pale Saint, spreading flat

The age-old book and laying bare

The stream of the Magnificat

For vespers and for evening prayer:

 

A harp on these glazed monstrance panes

Formed by the Angel’s evening flight

Is being played on by the Saint’s

Delicate finger brushed with light

 

Which, with no viol’s complement

Nor aid of book, she balances

On her full-feathered instrument,

Maker of music’s soundless bliss.

 

Paul Bénichou, in his most helpful book ‘Selon Mallarmé’, points out that ‘vitrage’ does not mean the same as ‘vitrail’ and that it is simply a collection of random non-coloured panes: here those of the window, which reflect the rays of the setting sun and gleam around the Saint like a monstrance.

 

There is Swedish translation of the poem on p. 73 of Axel Englund’s book Mallarmé: Dikter i översättning.

R.M. Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus, II, iv: 'O dieses ist das Tier, das es nicht giebt'

 

IV

 

O dieses ist das Tier, das es nicht giebt.

Sie wußtens nicht und habens jeden Falls

- sein Wandeln, seine Haltung, seinen Hals,

bis in des stillen Blickes Licht - geliebt.

 

Zwar war es nicht. Doch weil sie's liebten, ward

ein reines Tier. Sie ließen immer Raum.

Und in dem Raume, klar und ausgespart,

erhob es leicht sein Haupt und brauchte kaum

 

zu sein. Sie nährten es mit keinem Korn,

nur immer mit der Möglichkeit, es sei.

Und die gab solche Stärke an das Tier,

 

daß es aus sich ein Stirnhorn trieb. Ein Horn.

Zu einer Jungfrau kam es weiß herbei -

und war im Silber-Spiegel und in ihr.

 

 

IV

 

Oh such a beast as this there’s never been.

Though unaware of this they loved its gait,

its posture and arched neck as too the straight

forthrightness of a quiet gaze so keen.

 

It never was, though through their love became

a pristine beast. They always gave it space.

And in that space, both clear and free from claim,

it raised its head with ease, had little need

 

to be. They fed it without using corn,

though its existence always kept in sight.

This in the beast instilled such purity

 

that it then grew an alicorn. A horn.

It passed close by a maid and, silver-white,

in her and in her mirror came to be.

Listen to the poem in German and English

Pär Lagerkvist: 'En gång ska du vara...'

 

En gång ska du vara en av dem som levat för längesen.

Jorden skall minnas dig så som den minns gräset och skogarna,

det multnade lövet.

Så som myllan minns

och så som bergen minns vindarna.

Din frid skall vara oändlig så som havet.

 

 

One day you will be one of those who have lived long ago.

The Earth will recall you as it recalls the grass and the forests,

the decomposed leaves.

As the soil recalls

and as the mountains recall the winds.

Your peace will be as endless as the ocean.

 

 

Pär Lagerkvist: 'Min vandringsstav har brustit'

 

 

 

My walking stick’s got broken,

my roaming days are done,

I live among my fellow men,

among you not alone.

 

To heights bright but deserted

I once was led, by whom?

But then I glimpsed earth’s beauty.

Turned back and made for home.

 

In fields the rye’s maturing,

And harvesting’s in store.

Like other folk I’ll harvest too

and plough the fields once more.

 

Worn is my hand and broken

it is my walking stick.

I have made peace with him who

way back once gave me it.

 

  

Pär Lagerkvist: 'Vem gick förbi min barndoms fönster'

 

Vem gick förbi min barndoms fönster

 

Vem gick förbi min barndoms fönster

och andades på det,

vem gick förbi i den djupa barndomsnatten,

som ännu inte har några stjärnor.

 

Med sitt finger gjorde han ett tecken på rutan,

på den immiga rutan,

med det mjuka av sitt finger

och gick vidare i sina tankar.

Lämnade mig övergiven

för evigt

 

Hur skulle jag tyda tecknet,

tecknet i imman efter hans andedräkt.

Det stod kvar en stund, men inte tillräckligt länge

för att jag skulle kunna tyda det.

Evigheters evighet skulle inte ha räckt till för att tyda det.

 

När jag steg upp på morgonen var rutan alldeles klar

Och jag såg bara världen som den är.

Allt var mig så främmande i den

och min själ var full av ensamhet och ängslan bakom rutan.

 

Vem gick förbi,

förbi i den djupa barndomsnatten

och lämnade mig övergiven

för evigt.

 

 

Who walked past my childhood window

 

Who walked past my childhood window

and breathed upon it,

who walked past in the depths of childhood night

that as yet does not have any stars.

 

With his finger he made a sign on the pane,

on the breath-misted pane,

with the soft part of his finger

and walked on in his thoughts.

Left me abandoned

for ever

 

How was I to interpret the sign,

made in the mist that was caused by his breath.

It remained for a while, though not long enough

for me to be able to read it.

An eternity of eternities would not have sufficed to read it.

 

When I arose in the morning the pane was quite clear

and I could only see the world as it is.

All seemed so alien in it to me

and my soul was lonesome and fearful behind the pane.

 

Who walked past,

past in the depths of childhood night

and left me abandoned

for ever.