Gustaf Fröding: 'Hamlet'

 

Hamlet

 

Väl är mitt huvud sjukt, väl vackla stegen,

väl är jag nära att förgås av kvalen,

min blick är inåtvänd, min mun förtegen,

de hava rätt: »Visst är prins Hamlet galen!»

 

Visst är prins Hamlet galen, men han leker

väl och med flit en lek med galenskapen,

emot det motstånd, intet klokt beveker,

begagnar han det galna såsom vapen.

 

Du kloka vardagsvana, som beställsamt

ser till att allting göres som det brukas

— var på din vakt, när Hamlet handlar sällsamt,

att ej din stora klokhet förödmjukas.

 

 

Hamlet

 

My mind is surely sick, my step unsteady,

I surely was nigh unto death tormented,

my gaze is inward turned, my mouth unready,

their judgment’s true: ‘Prince Hamlet is demented!’

 

Prince Hamlet’s surely mad, although not senseless,

and plays on madness at his own discretion,

reason employed against this proves defenceless,

insanity thereby becomes his weapon.

 

You with your wise and set routine who sagely

order your life so all’s pre-calculated –

be on your guard when Hamlet’s acting strangely,

lest your proud mind end up humiliated.

 

 

Gustaf Fröding: 'Gitarr och dragharmonika'

 

Gitarr og dragharmonika

 

Två grannar jag har i min boning

— den ene är sentimental

— jag hör honom högt deklamera

om sorg och livets kval.

 

Ibland är han dyster och bitter

och melankoliskt bisarr,

ibland litet svärmiskt elegisk

och sjunger ibland till gitarr.

 

— Den andre är munter och lustig

och bondsk och grovt burlesk

För honom är sorg och bekymmer

blott skrymt och skrock och fjäsk.

 

Han grubblar ej alls, han skrattar

åt livet helt sonika

och visslar och sjunger och spelar

på dragharmonika.

 

— Man tröttnar att lyssna på sådant!

— och dock har jag vant mig därvid;

den ene han liknar min nutid

den andre min gångna tid.

 

Och stundom när ledsnad mig trycker

och dagen mig tycks för lång,

jag präntar och sätter i noter

små stumpar av bägges sång.

 

Och sägs det ibland, att musiken

är mindre melodiskt fin,

och är icke allt som det borde

ibland med harmonin,

 

så kommer det av, att gitarrsång

och dragharmonikesång

stämts upp från höger och vänster

ibland på samma gång

 

 

Guitar and accordion

 

Two neighbours reside in my dwelling

– the one sentimental in vein,

– with loud voice I hear him declaiming

of sorrow and life’s pain.

 

At times he is gloomy and bitter,

is sorrowful and bizarre,

at times quite soulfully mournful,

and sings when he plays his guitar.

 

– The other is sprightly and cheerful,

is boorishly burlesque.

For him are all sorrows and troubles

delusions, dreams, grotesque.

 

He broods not one bit – he chuckles

as life goes crazily on,

and whistles and sings while playing

his old accordion.

 

– You soon tire of hearing such antics

– and yet I’ve grown used to the pair;

the one quite resembles my present;

the other my past laid bare.

 

And sometimes, when sadness oppresses

and days to me seem too long,

I write down in music notation

small snatches of both their songs.

 

And should people say that the music

has melodies poorly turned,

is not always quite what it should be

where harmony’s concerned,

 

it comes from the fact that guitar song

and songs to accordion quite

a lot can start at the same time

and come from left and right.

 

 

 

Gustaf Fröding: 'En majvisa'

 

En majvisa

 

Nyss fåglarne sjöngo på nytt om vår,

nytt hopp gav den lyckliga låten,

men mig, som åter vid fönstret står,

i halsen sitter gråten.

 

Nu blommar all världen och sommarn drar in

bland ljusgröna dungar och gärden,

all världen är skön, all världen är min

och jag är en son av all världen.

 

Och törnrosröd lyser morgonsky

och morgonens dimmor sig lyfta,

all världen är ung, all världen är ny,

och ändå så ville jag snyfta.

 

Ty morgonen kommer för klar, för snar,

för friska dess daggdroppar dugga,

den lyser för ljust på den, som var

för nyss i dödens skugga.

 

 

A May song

 

The birds have just started of spring to trill,

bring hope with their joyous loud cheeping,

but I once more at the window sill

am almost choked with weeping.

 

The whole world’s in bloom and soon summertime

will clothe groves and fields with light greenness,

the whole world is fair, the whole world is mine

and I am a son of world’s wholeness.

 

And briar-rose red is the dawn-sky’s hue

and the morning mists are now lifting,

the whole world is young, the whole world is new,

and yet all I feel like is sniffling.

 

For morning’s coming too clearly, too fast,

its dew becomes drizzle unruly,

its gleam is too bright on one held fast

in death’s dark shadow newly.

 

Gotthold Ephraim Lessing: 'Die Biene'

 

Die Biene

 

Als Amor in den goldnen Zeiten

Verliebt in Schäferlustbarkeiten

Auf bunten Blumenfeldern lief,

Da stach den kleinsten von den Göttern,

Ein Bienchen, das in Rosenblättern,

Wo es sonst Honig holte, schlief.

 

Durch diesen Stich ward Amor klüger.

Der unerschöpfliche Betrüger

Sann einer neuen Kriegslist nach:

Er lauscht’ in Rosen und Violen;

Und kam ein Mädchen sie zu holen,

Flog er als Bien’ heraus, und stach.

 

 

The Bee

 

When Cupid back in ages Thracian

Love-struck with pastoral elation

Through meadows bright with flowers leapt,

The smallest of the gods did sting him,

A bee which, to rose-petals clinging,

And now not seeking honey, slept.

 

This painful sting made Cupid shrewder.

The inexhaustible deluder

His ruse of war now took to wing:

In violets and roses hidden,

Should a young maid pass by, unbidden

He would as bee fly out, and sting.

 

Gustaf Fröding: 'En vårmorgon'

 

En vårmorgon

 

Vårens vindar äro ljuva,

glädjens vemod milt de tala

till en själ, som sörjt sig sjuk,

livets vårfröjd kuttrar duva,

kvittrar gråsparv, visslar svala,

gungar björkens krona mjuk.

 

Men min vårfröjd kan ej sjunga,

ej med sparvar kan den kvittra,

ej med duvor kuttra ömt,

icke mjukt i björkar gunga,

icke le åt allt det bittra,

som min dystra natt har drömt.

 

Låt dem kvittra, låt dem kuttra,

endast matt jag känt ditt ljuva

morgonliv, du dag, som grytt,

länge än min själ skall ruva

i de kval, som kanske luttra

mig till vårfröjdsliv på nytt.

 

 

A spring morning

 

Spring’s mild breezes are so soothing,

wistfully their gladness speaking

to a sorrow-stricken soul,

of life’s spring-joy doves are cooing,

sparrows chitting, swallows cheeping,

birch-crowns soughing as they roll.

 

But my spring-joy can’t be singing,

nor join sparrows as they chitter,

nor with doves so softly coo,

not join birch trees’ gentle swinging

not laugh off all which is bitter

that my dark night’s put me through.

 

Let them chitter, have their cooing

I’ve but dimly sensed your surging

soothing dawn-life, new-born day;

my soul still needs time for brooding

over trials which might through purging

once more spring-joy bring my way. 

 

 

Gustaf Fröding: 'Men'

 

MEN

 

Men att evigt krankt betrakta

sina sjuka drag och miner,

se, hur döden lömskt och sakta

härjar oss till grå ruiner,

 

det är pina utan ände,

spanska stövlar, hjul och stegel

- bäst att le åt sitt elände,

bäst att slå itu sin spegel.

 

Bäst att taga bördan på sig,

le åt åldern, som förtorkar

män till gubbar, bäst att slå sig

fram, så länge hoppet orkar!

 

Håna livet, när det hånar

kallt och hatfullt: vrid dig, sväng dig

undan ödet, håret grånar,

du är utnött, gå och häng dig!

 

 

BUT

 

But to be engrossed so wholly

in one’s sickly traits and features,

see how death so slyly, slowly

makes grey ruins of us creatures

 

is an endless pain infliction,

Spanish boot, hanged, drawn and quartered –

best to mock one’s own affliction,

best one’s mirror to have slaughtered.

 

Best one’s burden just to shoulder,

laugh at old age which will shrivel

men to dotards, best when older

to plough on till hope’s mere drivel!

 

Bray at life, when it starts braying

full of hate: start deviating,

dodging fate, your hair is greying,

you’re worn out, the noose is waiting!

 

 

 

Guillaume van der Graft: 'Schrijvenderwijs' (PS 74)

 

Schrijvenderwijs

 

Schrijvenderwijs was ik ingeslapen,

schrijvenderwijs werd ik wakker bij nacht

omdat er woorden stonden te blaten

onder het open raam waar ik lag.

 

Wie had hen daar bijeengedreven,

was het de honger of was het de wind?

Ze stonden in een beginnende regen

doodstil te kleumen op het grind.

 

Toen heb ik ze mee naar boven genomen,

de grote ruit van de spiegel besloeg.

Ik had voordien nooit geweten hoe men

woorden halfslapend naar boven droeg.

 

Maar ’s morgens vroeg toen ik ontwaakte

waren ze weg en de deur stond los.

De zon scheen hoog en droog, er zaten

vogels te lachen in het bos.

 

 

While busy writing

 

While busy writing I’d fallen asleep,

while busy writing woke up late at night

since under my open window like sheep

words stood there bleating with all their might.

 

Who could have herded them up to my pane,

was it sheer hunger, or was it the wind?

They stood on the gravel in spattering rain,

stock-still, half-frozen, making this din.

 

I then brought them up to the second floor,

the large-paned mirror fogged up unawares.

I had never exactly known before

how half-asleep words are brought upstairs.

 

But when I awoke at dawn all the words

had gone from sight and the door stood ajar.

While the sun shone high and dry, woodland birds

could now be heard cackling from afar.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 74

 

 

 

Ebba Lindkvist: 'Ikaros' fall'

 

Icarus’ fall

 

Nobody saw him fall.

Nobody knows what he felt.

Nobody knows if his exultation at daring

was worth his perishing.

All this about belonging to life,

about losing life

nobody is to know.

This was his alone.

 

And what happened later

was probably of no account.

No more than the mayfly’s

path across the waters.

Wings as wings – and all

shall fall.

The evening was never as beautiful as now

at sunset:

 

the sea glittering, the sun’s jewel gleaming,

the ship that is passing.

The ship always passing

towards the morrow.

 

Nobody saw what happened.

Nobody has any time in life.

The fisherman is in such a hurry. He knows

that the fish bite best at sunset.

And with his back to the sea the

shepherd stands deep in prayer.

He has noticed nothing.

And the farmer ploughing sees nothing

except the furrow he is following.

 

Everybody was in such a hurry,

The evening was clear and beautiful,

and there was nobody who noticed

Icarus’ fall.

 

To see the original Swedish poem, go to here.

 

Ebba Lindqvist: 'Träd'

 

TREE

 

The tree has been torn up by the roots.

A thousand fine root hairs are drying out in the sunshine.

Cockroaches and centipedes have moved out.

The worms have left the clumps of earth.

Never more will its branches rise skywards.

They will dry out. They will decay.

They will forget

the water’s highways through their fibres.

The tree has been torn up by the roots.

But the leaves still feel their way. For a few more days

they rest, open to the blue sky.

For a few more days they stretch out

towards the sun.

 

And this was a tree at the roadside.

Humbly serving the one who believes in reality.

 

But this tree has grown elsewhere,

has deeply sucked juice and nourishment out of life

and yet was sentenced to be torn up by the roots.

And although I know this to be in vain –

no more than leaves on branches already dead –

I pray for a miracle even so: may the tree grow green,

may its branches unfurl!

Who owns life? Who do scent and sunshine belong to?

Oh, dead tree that must dare to grow green!

Oh, leaves that force themselves to seek the sun!

 

But nothing can be compared with anything else,

for trees are trees and humans are humans.

And since I know that this is in vain,

I remain silent and pray for nothing.

But he who believes he knows the tree’s semblance

from all the thousands of cockroaches underneath,

he shall be given the tree torn up by the roots

and the crown now facing the earth.

 

Maybe the bird of life is singing in its branches.

To see the original Swedish poem, go to here.