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

 

Cornelis Vreeswijk: 'En visa om arton svanar'

 

EN VISA OM ARTON SVANAR

  

Jag drömde om arton svanar i natt

och jag drömde om dej också.

Du bad mej om arton kyssar i natt

och dom kunde du välan få

Sjung sakta, sjung stilla,

säg skulle du vilja

att jag hade vaknat

så drömmen försvann

och att vi inte sett varann'

 

Jag såg dej ifrån mitt fönster i går

men du såg inte att jag fanns.

Du gick där förbi mitt fönster i går

och sen gick du nån annanstans

Sjung sakta, sjung stilla,

säg skulle du vilja

att jag öppnat fönstret

innan du försvann

så att vi hade sett varann'

 

Det faller ett regn i min dröm idag

och jag ger dej mitt paraply.

Och vart skall du gå min vackraste vän

allt under den gråa sky

Sjung sakta, sjung stilla,

säg skulle du vilja

att jag hade gått,

ja, jag vet inte var

och att du stod i regnet kvar

(Music by Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus,

back in 1982, when they were Hootenanny Singers)

 

 

A SONG ABOUT EIGHTEEN SWANS

 

I dreamt about eighteen swans late last night

and I dreamt about you as well.

You asked me for eighteen kisses last night

and I had all those, I could tell.

Sing softly, sing lightly,

say would you wish slightly

I’d opened my eyes so

the dream was no more

and our shared look was still in store?

 

I saw you from my window yesterday

but you didn’t see me at all.

You passed right by my window yesterday

and were soon beyond beck and call.

Sing softly, sing lightly,

say would you wish slightly

I’d opened my window

before you’d passed by

and our shared look none could deny?

 

There’s rain falling into my dream today,

my umbrella I give to you.

And where are you off to, my lovely friend

beneath clouds oh so grey in hue?

Sing softly, sing lightly,

say would you wish slightly

that I’d gone on my way

well, I don’t quite know where

and in rain left you standing there?

 

R.M. Rilke: 'Der Schwan'

 

DER SCHWAN

 

Diese Mühsal, durch noch Ungetanes

schwer und wie gebunden hinzugehn,

gleicht dem ungeschaffnen Gang des Schwanes.

 

Und das Sterben, dieses Nichtmehrfassen

jenes Grunds, auf dem wir täglich stehn,

seinem ängstlichen Sich-Niederlassen—:

 

in die Wasser, die ihn sanft empfangen

und die sich, wie glücklich und vergangen,

unter ihm zurückziehn, Flut um Flut;

während er unendlich still und sicher

immer mündiger und königlicher

und gelassener zu ziehn geruht.

 

 

THE SWAN

 

This toiling, ponderously straining on

through things untackled and as if bound,

is like the gait of the ungainly swan.

 

And our dying, this lost apprehension

of what is our daily common ground,

like his sinking down with anxious tension–:

 

into waters which now gently sheathe him

and which constantly recede beneath him,

as if blithe and bygone slide by slide;

while infinitely calm and more secure

ever more regal ever more mature

he with greater composure deigns to glide.

Medieval Dutch/Flemish text (c. 1400): 'Egidius, waer bestu bleven?'

 

Gruuthuse manuscript, page 28r

RONDEEL

 

Egidius, waer bestu bleven?

Mi lanct na di, gheselle mijn.

Du coors de doot, du liets mi tleven.

 

Dat was gheselscap goet ende fijn,

Het sceen teen moeste ghestorven sijn.

Nu bestu in den troon verheven

Claerre dan der zonnen schijn,

Alle vruecht es di ghegheven.

 

Egidius, waer bestu bleven?

Mi lanct na di, gheselle mijn.

Du coors de doot, du liets mi tleven.

 

Nu bidt vor mi: ic moet noch sneven

Ende in de weerelt lijden pijn.

Verware mijn stede di beneven:

Ic moet noch zinghen een liedekijn.

Nochtan moet emmer ghestorven sijn.

 

Egidius, waer bestu bleven?

Mi lanct na di, gheselle mijn.

Du coors de doot, du liets mi tleven.

For more information go to here.

 

 

RONDEL

 

Egidius, where shall I find thee?

I long for thee, dear friend of mine.

Thou’st suffered death, to life consigned me.

 

Sweet company we had and fine,

Yet one must die and the other pine.

Now at the throne mayst thou enshrined be,

There as a brightest sun to shine,

With bliss that’s unalloyed assigned thee.

 

Egidius, where shall I find thee?

I long for thee, dear friend of mine.

Thou’st suffered death, to life consigned me.

 

Now pray for me: thy death’s behind thee,

I to this harsh world must resign.

Keep my place by thee safe, I mind thee:

I still must sing my song’s each line.

Yet unto death all lives incline.

 

Egidius, where shall I find thee?

I long for thee, dear friend of mine.

Thou’st suffered death, to life consigned me.

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