Anna Blaman: 'Winter' (1940)

 

Winter

 

Ik ben gestorven zonder het te weten

want anders had ik me toch wel verzet

en als een starre wacht voor ’t raam gezet

zit ik dit bodemloos bestaan te meten

 

Ik heb maar een verlangen – te vergeten

maar op mijn ademtocht de nerf gewet

groeit er aan ijsvarens een rauw bouquet

en buiten ligt een toegevroren Lethe

 

en ik blijf wachten – en meet het leven uit –

het is woestijn, herkomst – en doelverloren

de stem des roependen zonder geluid

 

Was er ooit een die mij had kunnen horen?

een eenzame voor een bebloemde ruit

en buiten blanke toegesneeuwde sporen –

 

 

Winter

 

I find I’ve died though unaware of this

resistance otherwise would have been plain

and like a glazed guard at the window pane

I sit and gauge life’s bottomless abyss

 

I have a single longing – to forget

but on my breath and with a nerve that’s honed

a raw frost-fern bouquet is formed and cloned

and outside Lethe’s ice is firmly set

 

and I stay waiting – gauging life as found –

it’s desert, origins – its goal absurd

the only calling voice devoid of sound

 

Could I by someone ever have been heard?

a lone one at a pane with flowers ice-bound

and outside tracks the snow’s completely blurred –

Edvard Storm (1749-1794): 'Heimreise fraa Sæteren'

 

Heimreise fraa Sæteren

 

Os ha gjort qva gjæras skulle,

     ysta ost aa kinna Smør,

Naa staar at aa kløvja Øikjom,

     sættja Laas for Sæterdør.

Korkje finds dæ meire

     Føe her for Heie hel’ for Krist,

Gla æ os, os slep aat Bygden,

     meire gla æ Kue vist.

 

Farvæl Qve, som ofte gjore

     bloutast Blomsterseng ’pum mæg,

Nær æg trøt ve Høgsdags Leite

     jøp aa sløngde mæg paa dæg.

Farvæl Sæl! mi kjære Stugu,

     som saa mangt mit Arbei saag!

Montru du aa mærkte naagaa,

     nær Stakællen sjaa mæg laag?

 

Farvæl maark, som Fænan gnaagaa,

     der æg Gjete mangein Gaang;

Farvæl skoog, som ofte joma

     taa min lur aa stut aa Saang!

Farvæl Hulder, som der budde!

     fløt naa du ti sæle ind;

Vinters Ti æ ilt aa ligje

     ute baa for Vær aa Vind.

 

Kom naa alt ti Sætre finnes,

     kom aa følg aat Bygden ne!

Heile Jore æ naa røjugt,

     qvart eit Straa høir Fænan te;

Skond døk’; Folkje venta heime,

     Bufærslefsa vil døm haa;

Hær æ inkje meire gjæra;

     Folk aa Fæna, læt os gaa!

 

 

Home journey from the high pasture

 

We have done all that was needed,

     churned the butter, made the cheese,

Now we’ve just to load the horses,

     lock the hut door, take the keys.

Nor for pagan or for Christian

     is there any food left o’er,

We are glad we’re homeward wending,

     gladdest are the cows for sure.

 

Farewell pasture, that so often

     was my flowery feather bed,

When at midday tired from labour

     down on you I flung my head.

Farewell hut! my own dear cabin

     that oft at my work could stare!

Did you notice owt, I wonder,

     when my young man saw me there?

 

Farewell fields cropped close by cattle,

     where my frequent watch was long;

Farewell woods where echoes rattled

     from my calling horn and song!

Farewell Huldra, who did dwell here!

     in my hut you can move in;

Winter’s not for lying outdoors

     in all weathers and cold wind.

 

Come now all in these high pastures

     to the village let’s be gone!

Now the fields are neat and tidy, 

     every straw’s the cattle’s own;

Hurry – folk are waiting down there,

     Harvest home awaits below;

Nothing more to do up here now;

     Folk and cattle, off we go!

 

 

Aasmund Olafsson Vinje (1818-1870): 'Ved Rundarne'

 

Ved Rundarne

 

No seer eg atter slike Fjøll og Dalar,

som deim eg i min fyrste Ungdom saag,

og sama Vind den heite Panna svalar;

og Gullet ligg paa Snjo, som fyrr det laag.

Det er eit Barnemaal, som til meg talar,

og gjer’ meg tankefull, men endaa fjaag

Med Ungdomsminni er den Tala blandad:

Det strøymer paa meg, so eg knapt kan anda.

 

Ja, Livet strøymer paa meg, som det strøymde,

naar under Snjo eg saag det grøne Straa.

Eg drøymer no, som fyrr eg altid drøymde,

naar slike Fjøll eg saag i Lufti blaa.

Eg gløymer Dagsens Strid, som fyrr eg gløymde,

naar eg mot Kveld af Sol eit Glimt fekk sjaa.

Eg finner vel eit Hus, som vil meg hysa,

naar Soli heim mot Notti vil meg lysa.

 

Alt er som fyrr, men det er meir forklaarat,

so Dagsens Ljos meg synest meire bjart.

Og det, som beit og skar meg, so det saarat,

det gjerer sjølve Skuggen mindre svart;

sjølv det, som til at synda tidt meg daarat,

sjølv det gjer’ harde Fjøllet mindre hardt.

Forsonad’ koma atter gamle Tankar:

det sama Hjarta er, som eldre bankar.

 

Og kver ein Stein eg som ein Kjenning finner,

for slik var den, eg flaug ikring som Gut.

Som det var Kjæmpur spyr eg, kven som vinner

af den og denne andre haage Nut.

Alt minner meg; det minner, og det minner,

til Soli ned i Snjoen sloknar ut.

Og inn i siste Svevn meg eigong huggar

dei gamle Minni og dei gamle Skuggar.

 

 

At Rondane

 

Once more such heights and valleys stand before me

as those I saw when my first youth held sway;

my heated brow the selfsame wind cools for me,

and gold lies on the snow, as once it lay.

A childhood language speaks that seems to awe me

and make me thoughtful, although also gay,

And childhood memories the words are wreathing:

It streams out to me, almost stops me breathing.

 

Yes, life streams out now as I felt it streaming

when under snow I saw the green shoots rise.

I’m dreaming now, as once I stood there dreaming

when I such mountains saw ’gainst bright blue skies.

Forgotten is day’s strife, as ’twas at evening

when glimpsing sun’s last rays would be my prize.

I’m sure to find a house that heeds my calling,

with sun to light my way home ere night’s falling.

 

All’s as before, transfigured, seen more clearly,

with daylight seeming brighter than way back.

And that which bit and cut me so severely

the actual shadow now makes seem less black;

e’en that which tempted me to sin, or nearly,

e’en that hard rock makes softer in attack.

Old thoughts, now reconciled, extend a greeting:

though older, it is still the same heart beating.

 

And every stone seems known where’er I’m wending,

for ’mongst such stones did I once run about.

As if they were great giants fiercely contending,

I ask this peak and that who’ll win their bout.

All things remind me in a chain unending

till deep down in the snow the sun goes out.

And till the final sleep one day enfolds me

old memories and shadows will console me.

 

 

 

Inger Christensen: 'Aftenfalken'

The red-footed falcon (falco verspertinus)

Aftenfalken

 

aftenfalken fejer himlen ren,

bølgeslaget vender sig i søvne

cirkler lidt om strandens gamle sten,

det slidte græs der har så mange navne

er næsten anonymt igen af sand,

forliste barn der intet har at savne

går langsomt op til husene på land,

her lyder kun en fjern forsinket piben

i randen af det bølgeløse vand,

jeg tror den samme lyd man hører viben

kaste rundt når ungerne bliver væk,

langt om lange trækker solen striben

med sig ned bag horisontens hæk

ned i verdensrummets sorte sæk

 

 

Evening’s falcon

 

evening’s falcon sweeps the whole sky clean

in their sleep the waves turn as if musing

round the shore’s old stones and in between,

hard-worn grass with names there for the choosing

turns near nameless once again with sand,

shipwrecked child with nothing for the losing,

slowly makes for houses on the land,

there’s a distant piping’s time-lagged mutter

at the now quite waveless shore’s moist band,

such i think as lapwings often utter

far and wide if young ones they can’t track,

at long last the sun acts as a shutter

and behind the sky-rim it pulls back

last rays into outer space’s sack.

 

Anon.: 'Torbens datter og hendes faderbane' (Danish medieval ballad)

 The plot of this ballad is simple. An unspecified band make for Torben's farm to take revenge for the murder of one of their kinsmen. On their way they meet Torben, out  tilling his land. Torben, to avoid being killed, offers them his house, estate and daughter as recompense. This is rejected and he is slaughtered.  When they reach his farmstead, she politely offers them a drink. The leader of the band (probably a knight) remarks that had he known of her kindness, he would not have killed her father. He offers to marry her. She accepts and he rides off with her on his steed. By present-day standards, this might seem very odd behaviour, but both are conforming to the norms of the time. He is honour-bound to take revenge for the murder of one of his kinsmen; she attains the best thing a woman can hope for, to marry a rich knight.

Torbens datter og hendes faderbane

 

Vi vare saa mange søskende smaa,

         – under lide –

saa aarlig faldt os faderen fraa.

Der dagen han dages, og duggen den driver saa vide.

 

Om en søndag ad aften skured de deres spjud,

         – under lide –

om en mandag ad morgen rede de saa vrede ud.

     Der dagen han dages, og duggen den driver saa vide.

 

Der de komme for norden skov,

der gik hr. Torben og holdt sin plov.

 

‘Her gaar du hr. Torben, favr og fin,

jeg vil nu have bod for frænde min.’

 

‘Jeg vil give eder hus og gaard,

dertil min datter, saa væn en maar.’

 

‘Vi er ikke kommen for hus eller jord,

men vi er kommen for dit hjerteblod.’

 

Saa hugge de hr. torben saa smaa

alt som løv, udi lunden laa.

 

Saa rede de til hr. Torbens gaard,

ude stod hans datter, den væne maar.

 

Ude stod hans datter, saa smal som en vaand,

met et guldkar paa hver sin haand.

 

Hun skænked deri med lyst og spil,

hun drak først sin faders banemand til.

 

‘Havde jeg vidst, du havde været saa god,

aldrig skulde jeg set din faders hjerteblod.’

 

‘Og har I slaget min fader til død,

da har I gjort mig saa stor en nød.’

 

‘Har jeg ikke gjort vel mod dig,

da skal du herefter have saa godt som jeg.’

 

Han satte hende paa ganger graa,

saa slog han over hende kaaben blaa.

 

Saa red han over de sorte heder,

         – under lide –

aldrig saa hun sin fader mere.

     Der dagen den dages, og duggen den driver saa vide.

 

 

Torben’s daughter and her father’s murderer

 

We all were his offspring but barely,

         – by the hillside –

when we all lost our father so early.

The day it is dawning, and dew it is drifting so worldwide.

 

On a Sunday evening their spears they did sharpen,

         – by the hillside –

On a Monday morning they rode, their hearts hardened.

     The day it is dawning, and dew it is drifting so worldwide.

 

North of the wood rode this fearsome band

and found Sir Torben, tilling his land.

 

‘Ah, handsome Sir Torben, with your consent,

To avenge my kinsman’s my firm intent.’ 

 

‘For this my house, my estate I’ll trade,

also my daughter, so fair a maid.’

 

‘We have not come here for house or for land,

Your own heart’s blood is what we demand.’

 

They hacked Sir Torben in pieces so small,

like leaves in the grove they looked withal.

 

Then off to Sir Torben’s estate they made

outside stood his daughter, the fair, sweet maid.

 

Outside stood his daughter,as slim as a wand,

with a golden vessel in either hand.

 

She filled them both full to quench their thirst,

she toasted her father’s murderer first.

 

‘Had I but known you were kind and good,

I’d never have shed your father’s heart’s blood.’

 

‘If my father you’ve killed, why then I confess,

You are the source of my great distress.’

 

‘Should I unkindly have been to you,

Hereafter you’ll live as well as I do.’

 

He placed her then on his ash-grey steed,

With a blue cloak covered her in her need.

 

Then rode he over the ink-black moor

         – by the hillside –

Her father – she saw him never more

The day it is dawning, and dew it is drifting so worldwide.

 

 

 

Anon. 'Margjit Hjukse' (Norwegian folk ballad)

 “Margjit Hjukse” is a folk ballad from Telemark. Composed in the form and style of a traditional ballad, it is classified as a medieval ballad in the nature‑mythical subgenre, because it tells of an encounter with a supernatural being. It exists in various versions.

 

 

Margjit Hjukse

 

I

 

Hjukse den stoltaste gard i Saudhera var,

– tii fell meg long’e –

stolt Margjit var dottri uppå den gard.

     De er eg som ber sorgji så trong’e.

 

Stolt Margjit hon reidde seg til kyrkja å gå,

so tok ho den vegjen til bergje låg.

 

Som ho kom fram med bergevegg

da kom bergekongjen med lange kvite skjegg.

 

Og bergekongjen tukka fram gyllte stol:

“Set deg her stolt Margjit, og kvil din fot!”

 

So gav han henne dei raue stakkar tvo

og lauv uti bringa og sylvspente sko.

 

Møyane tolv dei reidde hennar hår

den trettande sette gullkruna på.

 

So skjenkte han i av den klåraste vin:

“Drikk utor di, allerkjærasten min!”

 

Ho var i bergje dei åri ni,

og ho fødde sønir og døttar tri.

 

 

II

Og Margjit ho sat med sin handtein og spann,

då høyrde ho Bøheras kyrkjeklokkur klang.

 

“I bergje hev eg vori i mange år,

no lengtar eg heim til min fa’ers gård.”

 

Stolt Margjit hon tala til bergekongjen så:

“Må eg få lov til min fa’r å gå?”

 

“Ja, du må få lov til din fa’er å sjå,

men du må kje vera burte hot ein time hell två.”

 

 

III

 

Stolt Margjit ho gekk den leii so long,

bergekongjen kom ette med hov og med tong.

 

Som ho kom der gangande i gård

hennas sæle fa’er ute fyr henne står.

 

“Eg meinar de er Margjit, eg hadde so kjær!

å kjære mi dotter, å er du no der!”

 

Thor Hjukse han tala til dotter si så:

“No hev du vori burte i fjorten år!”

 

Han leidde inn stolt Margjit med glee og gråt,

so sette han henne i sin mo’ers stol.

 

Men då kom bergekongjen snøgt som ein ell:

“Kjem du kje heim att til bonni i kvell?”

 

“Fare no væl då alle i mit heim!

No kjem eg alli til dikkon mei.”

 

Stolt Margjit sette seg på gangaren grå,

ho gret fleire tårir hell hesten ha hår.

 

Hon pikka på bergje med fingane små:

     – tii fell meg long’e –

“Statt upp mi eldste dotter, skrei loka ifrå!”

     De er eg som ber sorgji så trong’e.

 

 

Margjit Hjukse

 

In Saudhera Hjukse was proudest farm there,

     – ne’er comes the morrow –

proud Margjit lived on it, the daughter fair.

     It is I who’s so burdened with sorrow.

 

Proud Margjit to church made ready to go,

the path past the mountain that which she chose.

 

And when at the rockface at once there appeared

the mountain king with flowing white beard.

 

The mountain king took out a fine gilded chair:

‘Sit down now proud Margjit, and rest your foot there!’

 

The next he brought her were red dresses two

with filigree brooches and silver-clasped shoes.

 

Twelve maids came forward and let her hair down,

a thirteenth maid placed on her head a gold crown.

 

Then did he pour out the clearest wine:

‘Drain this to the lees, beloved of mine!’

 

Nine years in the mountain there did she dwell,

and three sons and daughters gave birth to as well.

 

 

II

 

And Margjit sat with her distaff to spin,

when Bøhera’s church bells she heard full ring.

 

‘I’ve lived in this mountain for many a year,

I long for my father’s farm I hold dear.’

 

Proud Margjit the mountain king then did plead:

‘Will you allow me my father to see?’

 

Yes, you may see him without more ado,

but not stay away more than one hour or two.’

 

 

 

III

 

Proud Margjit she took the path so long

the mountain king followed with hammer and tongs.

 

And as she entered the farm courtyard square,

her joyful father did greet her there.

 

‘You seem to me Margjit that I loved so dear!

Oh my dearest daughter, and are you now here!’

 

Thor Hjukse he spoke to his daughter this way: 

Now full fourteen years have you been away!’

 

He led in proud Margjit, joy’s tears on his face, 

in the chair of her mother he her then did place.

 

But in rushed the mountain king, swift as a fire: 

Why are you still here now your time must expire?’

 

‘Farewell my loved ones, for whom I yearn!

To all you at home I can never return.’

 

Proud Margjit she mounted her steed with remorse,

more were her tears than the hairs on her horse.

 

With her small fingers she tapped on the rock

     – ne’er comes the morrow –

‘Rise up, eldest daughter, and throw back the lock!’

     It is I who’s so burdened with sorrow.