DOs and DON'Ts

 

DON’Ts

 

1.     Rhyme can make a text feel like a poem, but it does not make it a poem.

(The same applies to alliteration.)

2.     Counting syllables may create equality, but it does not create a pulse.

3.     A pacemaker creates an illusion of pulse, but does not make a poem breathe.

4.     Overattention to form in a text creates scaffolding, but blocks the view of the house.

5.     Misusing space on the page is dressing mutton as lamb.

6.     Repetition without modulation or modification creates monotony.

7.     Overuse or misuse of imagery smothers and blurs the image.

8.     Misuse of content ends up as philosophy, misuse of sound ends up as babble, misuse of space can leave you with an almost empty plate.

9.     Unless you dig deeper than the personal, you cannot say anything that will have universal validity.

10. Do not mistake rules for technique.

 

DO’s

 

1.     Read Goethe’s poem: ‘Natur und Kunst’ 

2.     Read e.c. cummings’ poems: ‘Yes is a pleasant country’, ‘O by the by’

(And listen to him read them on Spotify)

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Hen ad Bjerge, gjennem Bjerge'

 

Andersen sketch of the Simplon pass

Hen ad Bjerge, gjennem Bjerge,

Knap en Fod fra Afgrunds Randen

Flyver jeg i Banetoget

I den maaneklare Nat,

Gjennem lange, mørke Tunler,

I en sneekold, fugtig Luftning

Ud igjen, højt over Bjerge

Byer Dybt i Dalens mørke sat,

Lysene dernede blinke

Ovenover Lyser Himlen,

Nyet tændt og alle Stjerner

Seer jeg i min vilde Flugt,

Gjennem Bjerge, over Bjerge,

Som en Fugl jeg dristigt flyver,

Verden, Livet, Gud, det Hele, 

Eventyr! Hvor smukt!

 

 

Now past mountains, now through mountains,

From the abyss edge scarce one foot

In the train I’m flying onwards

In the clear and moonlit night,

On through long and lightless tunnels,

In a snow-cold humid airing

Out once more, high over mountains

Towns in valleys deeply set,

From down there the lights are twinkling

Up above the skies are gleaming

Newly lit and stars all marshalled

In my wild flight this I see,

Through the mountains, over mountains,

Like a bird I’m boldly flying,

World and life and God – all present,

Fairy tale! Sublime!

 

From Andersen’s travel account, 1867

 

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Hans trætte Støv er bragt til Gravens Ro'

The Danish composer C.E.F. Weyse

Hans trætte Støv er bragt til Gravens Ro,

 

Hans trætte Støv er bragt til Gravens Ro

Hans stærke Aand i Kraft end meer ophøiet! –

Hans stod i Verden ensom jo,

Og ensom lukked’ han I Døden Øiet!

Alene var han: naar da Hjertet leed,

Med Melodier Smerten han indhulled’.

I Toner staaer hans Ungdoms Kjærlighed,

Den lyder i: ”de klare Bølger rulled!”

 

Han sad ved Orglet, og en egen Magt

Da løftede vor Tanke højt fra Jorden;

En skat af Sange har han Folket bragt,

I Toner udtalt Aandens Dyb i Norden!

Hans Tale var et Væld, så sundt og rigt,

Hans Sjæl var ung -- nu har den Himlens Glæde!

Ak, død er Weyse! -Hvilket Sørge-Digt

Har kraft som disse Ord, -- og dybt vi græde.

 

 

 In grave’s embrace his weary dust lies furled

 

In grave’s embrace his weary dust lies furled,

His spirit’s strength, though, higher than before!

He was a lonesome figure in the world,

And when in death he closed his eyes yet more!

He was alone: when woes plagued heart and mind,

With melodies he sought to ease the pain.

His youthful love in music is enshrined,

As in: ‘The clear waves rolled…,’ where it’s quite plain.

 

His organ playing had an inborn force

That high above the earth our thoughts could raise;

A treasure trove of songs to us he brought,

Revealed the Northern spirit in each phrase!

A wealth of words he spoke, so rich and free,

His soul was young – may heaven’s joy he reap!

Ah, Weyse is no more – What elegy

Can match these words – and we now deeply weep.

 

 

* the reference is to a poem by Adam Oehlenschläger

 

Herman van den Bergh: 'Sabbath' (PS 61)

 

 

SABBATH

 

Die dag heerste licht op de bergen; daaronder

sprongen de waters als dartel metaal,

terwijl hoog in vuurhemels vlammenzaal

alle tekens zich schaarden tot een wonder.

 

Zesmalen had hij de hand gewend, zesmaal

baarde de vruchtbare ruimte; de donder

der schepping rolde zesmalen, zonder

dat ’t tot een rust kwam in zijner palme’ ovaal.

 

Toen zweeg de wereld. Bergen, lichtbeheerst,

zwegen mét de korzle stuifslag der stromen.

Over de zwarte bossen boog een gebaar

dat uit de teelaarde scheen opgekomen.

Zes dagen werden hun tegenstander gewaar:

 

Sabbath! - een dichter rustte voor het eerst.

 

 

SABBATH

 

That day light held sway in the mountains, though under

them, like skittish metal the waters gushed high,

while in the flaming hall of the fiery sky

all signs congregated to form a wonder.

 

Six times with upturned hands he raised his arms,

six times did fertile space give birth, and also

six times did creation’s thunder roll, at no

stage finding rest in both his ovalled palms.

 

Then the world fell silent. So too the light-

gleaming mountains and streams’ glinting spray.

Above the black forests an arched gesture rose 

which seemed from the topsoil to be on its way.

For six days they grew conscious of their foe.

 

Sabbath! – first now did a poet rest aright.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 61

 

 

 

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Danmark, dejligst vang og vænge'

Danmark, dejligst vang og vænge

 

Danmark, dejligst vang og vænge,

lukt med bølgen blå,

hvor de voksne, danske drenge

kan i leding gå

mod de sakser, slaver, vender,

hvor man dem på tog hensender;

én ting mangler ved den have:

leddet er af lave.

 

Ved Guds nådig forsyn hegnes

dog det meste land,

og hvad under Danmark regnes,

nyder værn af vand.

Ingen nabo, som vil vinde,

tør på Danmark gå i blinde,

blev kun ledet hængt til rette,

skulle vel det tætte.

 

Mejlfarsund os Fyn beskytter,

tryg står Møens klint;

ind til Gedser ingen rytter

ride skal for svindt;

Guldborgsund for Lolland genner,

Øresund vort Sjælland tjener,

hvert land har sit eget lukke,

alt må Jylland sukke.

 

Holster, vagrer, lyneborger

som en farlig flod

gør os Jylland mange sorger,

tørster efter blod;

lægges af må slig uvane,

skam det var at lade rane

fra vor mark den mindste tue;

pil vi har og bue.

 

Sådan talte dronning Tyre,

ret kaldt Danebod:

I, som står for Danmarks styre,

fatter frejdigt mod!

Gabet kan vi vel tillukke,

så vi ej os lader plukke

af hver fremmed løbeskytte,

der får lyst til bytte.

 

Fra moradset vest ved strande

til Mysund ved Sli

vi vil os en vold bemande,

gøre snæver sti.

Om forlov skal hver mand bede,

hvis han agter ind at træde,

nødig skal han atter fare

hjem med stjålen vare!

 

Danemark vi nu kan ligne

ved en frugtbar vang,

hegnet trindt omkring, - Gud signe

den i nød og trang!

Gid som korn opvokse knægte,

der kan frisk mod fjenden fægte

og om Danebod end tale,

når hun er i dvale.

For all the historical information, go to here.

 

 

Denmark where fair meadows slumber

 

Denmark, where fair meadows slumber

Close to lapping waves,

From where young Danes in great number

Can set out on raids

’Gainst the Wends and Slavs and Saxons

And defeat them by such actions;

One thing, though, this garden lacks

Dykes against attacks.

 

By God’s mercy much of Denmark

Is fenced in today,

And attacks from outside Denmark

Water holds at bay.

No one who’s a next-door neighbour

Dares to risk disastrous labour;

If defences are in order,

They ensure the border.

 

Mejlfarsund protects Fyn’s borders,

Safe are Møen’s cliffs;

Into Gedser would no horseman

make his ride too swift;

Guldborgsund can safeguard Lolland;

Øresund shields all of Zealand.

Each land has its own protection,

Jutland’s the exception.

 

Peoples south of Jutland’s border,

Like some fearsome flood,

Profit much from its disorder,

Since they thirst for blood;

Such bad habits must be halted,

Shame if stolen when assaulted

One grass tuft from any barrow –

We have bow and arrow.

 

These words did Queen Thyra utter,

Rightly known as Denmark’s pride:

You who Denmark seek to govern,

Seize the chance your folk to guide!

We can seal the gaps now yawning,

not be picked off without warning

By some mercenary soldier 

Gross neglect made bolder.

 

From the west-coast’s widespread marshes

To Mysund near Sli

Build manned ramparts for armed forces,

Guard paths all can see.

Entry only with permission

One must have a valid mission,

No one’s pocket shall be swollen

By goods that are stolen!

 

Denmark then we can consider

As a fertile lea,

Neatly fenced in, – God deliver

It in times of need!

May like corn young lads start growing

Who’ll our foes be overthrowing

and of Denmark’s pride be speaking

while she still is sleeping.

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Ingenting og noget'

 

Ingenting og Noget

 

Hør nu en Sang om Ingenting!

Ja, Ingenting er Skroget;

Men, pyntet lidt med Klang og Kling,

Den bliver mueligt Noget.

 

Før Chaos var der Ingenting;

Nu blev af Intet Noget.

Herr Adam løb blandt Fæ omkring;

Jeg ynker salig Fjoget.

 

Han manglede just Ingenting;

Dog savnede han Noget.

Træt sov han i sin Kasseking,

Og drømte der heelt broget.

 

Og Ein, Zwey, Drey, nu i et Spring

Fløi af et Ribben kroget

En sær forunderlig Smaa-Ting,

Der dog saae ud som Noget.

 

Men, ak! min Sang faaer jo et Sving,

Som var der Lidt paa Skroget;

Jeg lovede jo Ingenting.

Og her — — ja, fik I Noget?

 

 

Nothing and something

 

Just listen to my nothing song!

Yes, it’s bare bones are nothing

But, when adorned with pling and plong,

It could quite well prove something.

 

Well, nothing was ere chaos came

But out of this came something.

And Adam mixed with beasts quite tame;

I pity the poor bumpkin.

 

And nothing was there that he lacked

And yet he did lack something.

Tired out, his nightshirt he unpacked,

Ere to weird dreams succumbing.

 

And ein-zwei-drei, he felt a pling

As if one rib was strumming,

And out then flew a strange curved thing

That had to be a something.

 

Alas! my song’s begun to swing,

As if its bones were bumping;

I didn’t promise anything.

And now  –– did you get something?

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Norsk Stiil' (sound poem)

 

Norsk Stiil

 

Tag mig Tusinde!

Er dikke susende?

Er dikke knusende, 

Fygende, strygende,

Anlet lysende,

Gysende,

Sprogformer kudskende,

Reent ravruskende

Bardebrag i Bersærkegang?

Fra Landet med Kornet

Heimdal støder i Hornet

Et Storheds Skrat:

Klat!

Tiden vil Jern og Staal!

Sutteblødt er Danskens Maal,

Ynkeligt klynkende,

I Raadenskab synkende; 

Al dansk Poesi

Forbi!

Er dikke?? Er dikke? Dikke, dikke, dikke!

 

 

Norwegian essay

 

Oh, goodness gracious

Is coochie rapacious?

Is coochie audacious,

Spacious, vexatious,

Face loquacious,

Ungracious

Language forms clunking

Droll and debunking

Quirking beserking?

From the land of corn

Heimdal blows on his horn

A clattering crash:

Bash!

The age calls for iron and steel,

The Danish tongue’s a sloppy meal

Jelly-like slinking

In rottenness sinking:

Danish verse all bled

Stone dead!

Is coochie?? Is coochie. Coochie, coochie, coo!