zkg 2

 

ZKG 2

 

the blackbird chirps and

trills away

he improvises

every day

 

or so it seems though

it may be

he shapes his song to

fit his tree

 

and seamlessly the

two then merge

and fill the space where

they converge

 

Gustaf Münch-Petersen: 'morgon'

 

morgon

 

varifrån kommer det,

att vi, utan allt,

fattiga på allt,

kunna drömma allt -?

- framtiden är redan lagd,

fjärran vilar hon

sövd av våra drömmar –

 

 

morning

 

how can it be

that we, lacking everything,

short of everything,

can dream everything–?

– the future is already laid down,

far off it is resting

sedated by our dreams –

Eldrid Lunden: 'Tomheit'

 

Tomheit

 

Tomheit

er noe vi berre kan snakke om

frå ein stad utanfor tomheita

Tomheit finst ikkje

i naturleg

tilstand

I atmosfæren vil tomrommet

øyeblikkeleg

invaderast av det som ligg omkring

Syns vi dette høyrest abstrakt ut

kan vi opprette eit tomrom

på plenen og sjå

kva som skjer

 

 

Emptiness

 

Emptiness

is something we only can talk about

from a place outside emptiness

Emptiness does not exist

in a natural

state

In the atmosphere the empty space will

immediately

be invaded by what lies around it

If this seems highly abstract to us

we can set up an empty space

on the lawn and see

what happens

Marie Dauguet: 'Les orges'

 

Les orges

 

Les orges sous l’azur blêmi

De l’aurore à peine où frémi;

Tendrement au bord du bois rose,

Somnambulique, un merle cause.

Très loin, vers l’horizon bleuté,

Quelque part un coq a chanté.

 

L’air de velours vibre en sourdine,

Comme une pâle mandoline,

Et, colombe au bord de son nid,

De flocons d’écume garni,

La source aux palpitantes houles,

Imperceptiblement roucoule.

 

Sur les mélisses diaphanes,

Il semble que frissonne et plane,

Semant des plumes dans le vent,

Un essaim pensif d’oiseaux blancs,

Aux sonorités cristallines,

L’air est une harpe câline.

 

Les chaumes s’étirent et songent,

Où des vols d’alouettes plongent,

Où s’étouffent des gazouillis.

A la lisière des taillis,

Comme des lèvres qui sourient,

Des roses vagues sont fleuries.

 

Et mon cœur, sans maître ni glose,

Soupire avec l’odeur des roses

Sauvages aux fossés des bois;

Avec, la clarté qui croît,

Tournoiement de fuseaux d’aïeule,

Le bruisselis doux des éteules.

 

 

The fields of barley

 

The barley under stone-washed skies

Has scarcely quivered at dawn’s rise ;

At rosy wood’s edge, tenderly

A blackbird’s chatting sleepily.

The far horizon’s tinged with blue

Somewhere a cock’s been crowing too.

 

The muted velvet air vibrates,

Like some pale mandolin it quakes,

And at the far edge of its nest,

With flecks of foam discreetly dressed,

A dove, source of this pulsing swell,

Coos imperceptibly as well.

 

O’er limpid lemon balm it seems

As if a flock of white birds streams,

Trembling and hovering at ease,

Sowing small feathers in the breeze –

With crystal sounds that coalesce

The air is like a harp’s caress.

 

The stalks dream as they stretch and bend, 

There the larks’ plunging flight will end,

There all their twittering will die.

At the coppice’s edge nearby,

Like lips that break into a smile,

Blurred roses now bloom for a while.

 

And my heart, unmastered, unwrought,

Sighs at wild roses’ fragrance, brought

From woodland ditches far and near;

With, as all things become more clear,

Ancestral spindles’ twirling thread,

The rustling barley’s gentle tread.

 

Gustaf Münch-Petersen: 'skapa'

 

skapa

 

skapa dig en värld

utav gärningar -

lät följderna rulla likt

ständigt olika stenar

nedför branterna, som lovar havet,

och stumt hopar enastående skärvor

period efter period -

skapa dig världar,

låt dem rulla likt stenar –

 

 

create

 

create a world for yourself

out of deeds –

let the consequences roll like

a constant variety of stones

down slopes that border the sea

and mutely amass amazing shards

period after period –

create worlds for yourself

let them roll like stones –

 

 

Gustaf Münch-Petersen: 'stäng in dig'

 

stäng in dig

 

stäng in dig i din kammare

med din svaghets guld,

vänta i din kammare,

tills kärlekens mod har kommit,

vänta,

tills ett öppet svärd ligger

mellan vad du måste och vad du icke

längre kan -

 

 

shut yourself up

 

Shut yourself up in your room

with the gold of your weakness,

wait in your room

until love’s courage has come,

wait

until an unsheathed sword lies

between what you must and what you

no longer can –

 

 

Pierre de Ronsard: 'Cueillez dés aujourd’huy les roses de la vie'

 

Cueillez dés aujourd’huy les roses de la vie

 

Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,

Assise aupres du feu, dévidant & filant,

Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous esmerveillant,

Ronsard me celebroit du temps que j’estois belle.

 

Lors vous n’aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,

Desja sous le labeur à demy sommeillant,

Qui au bruit de mon nom ne s’aille resveillant,

Bénissant vostre nom de louange immortelle.

 

Je seray sous la terre: & fantôme sans os

Par les ombres myrteux je prendray mon repos ;

Vous serez au fouyer une vieille accroupie

 

Regrettant mon amour & vostre fier desdain.

Vivez, si m’en croyez, n’attendez à demain :

Cueillez dés aujourd’huy les roses de la vie.

 

Pierre de Ronsard, Sonnets pour Hélène, 1578

 

 

Make sure you pluck today life’s roses while you may

 

When one day you are old, by candlelight and fire

You sit at eventide, at work with woollen skeins,

You’ll marvel and remark while chanting my refrains,

Ronsard my beauty found could poetry inspire.

 

Then you will have no maid to hear your every phrase

And who while still at work will end up in a doze,

Who when my name is mentioned wakes from her repose,

And showers upon your name her everlasting praise.

 

A boneless phantom, I will lie beneath the ground

In myrtle trees’ cool shade and there be resting sound;

And you beside your hearth be hunching, old and grey,

 

Regretting my true love and all your proud disdain.

Live, if you believe me, let nothing you restrain:

Make sure you pluck today life’s roses while you may.

 

From Sonnets to Hélène, 1578

Gustaf Münch-Petersen: 'fallande blomblad'

 

fallande blomblad

 

bägaren är bräddfylld, därför

måste du dricka -

se icke på bägarens vägg,

tänk icke på framtidens smärta -

dropparna äro dyrbara,

bägaren är bräddfylld nu -

därför måste du dricka –

 

 

falling flower petals

 

the cup is brimful, therefore

you must drink –

do not look at the wall of the cup,

do not think of future pain –

the drops are precious,

the cup is brimful now –

therefore you must drink –

 

 

Gustaf Münch-Petersen: 'diktaren'

 

diktaren

 

nu vill jag berätta

för dig vad en diktare är:

han är dimman ytterst

på horisonten,

han är ryggen utav det,

som varit,

och hans panna är strimman som dröjer

på nattens gräns,

hans ögon äro ibland trötta

av att vänta efter det,

som han icke vet, om det finns,

och ibland äro de blinda

av en sol på andra sidan

dimman -

då gråter diktaren, tills

dimman har ryckt längre bort,

och väntandets ångest åter

svalkar hans svidande ögonlock -

diktaren är han, som

antingen är en dåre eller en vis,

han, som

varje timme väljer,

om han vill leva eller

alltid ha varit död –

 

 

the poet

 

now I want to tell

you what a poet is:

he is the mist at the farthest

edge of the horizon,

he is the ridge of

what has been,

and his brow is the streak lingering

on night’s border,

his eyes are sometimes tired

of waiting for what

he does not know if it exists,

and at times they are blinded

by a sun on the far side

of the mist –

then the poet weeps, until

the mist has shifted further away,

and the fear of waiting once more

cools his smarting eyelids –

the poet is one who

is either a madman or a wise man,

one who

every hour chooses

whether he wishes to live or

has always been dead –

This poem comes from the collection Solen finns, which the Danish poet Gustaf Münch-Petersen wrote in Swedish. A Danish translation of the collection exists. For more information, go to here.

 

Marie Dauguet: 'Les foins'

 

Les foins

 

La tiède lune au bord du ciel monte et sourit.

Vois sur les foins coupés trembler son halo gris;

La nature s’emplit comme une basilique

Du silence embaumé des soirs mélancoliques.

 

Au chemin de la vie et voilant sa laideur

L’oubli s’étend ainsi que la rosée en pleurs.

L’oubli divin s’étend somme l’herbe fleurie,

Déployée en nuage aux pentes des prairies.

 

Il semble que s’efface et meurt l’humanité,

Tant le souffle qui sort des lèvres de l’été

Et qui si doucement rôde aussi sur nos lèvres

De tout mesquin désir nous libère et nous sèvre.

 

La lune à travers l’ombre, et tel un oiseau blanc,

Suspend toujours plus clair son essor transparent

Et son calme plumage en neige diaphane

Se mêle au flot bleui de l’herbe qui se fane.

 

Parmi l’odeur des foins, avec des mots secrets

Sourdement murmurés, courent les ruisseaux frais

Où la lune attirée et mystique se penche,

Frôlant à leur miroir errant son aile blanche.

 

 

The hayfields

 

The tepid moon at heaven’s rim ascends and smiles.

See its grey halo trembling on mown hay in piles;

Like a basilica all nature is suffused

With mournful evenings’ scented silence undiffused.

 

And at the path of life, its plainness hid from view

Oblivion extends as does the tearful dew,

Oblivion divine extends like flowering grass

Spread out on meadow slopes like clouds that slowly pass.

 

It seems as if humanity grows blurred and dies,

As breath exhaled from summers lips at its demise

And which so softly lurks around our lips anew,

Free of all mean desire, which frees and weans us too.

 

The moon seen through the shade, and like a bird full white

Suspends its brightening, transparent upward flight

And all of its calm plumage in translucent snow

Blends with the bluish flowing of the grass below.

 

Among the hay’s sweet scent, with secret words at play

And mutely murmured, fresh streams course and wend their way

Where the attracted, mystic moon in downward swing

At their far-straying mirror skims its silver wing.