A sonnet by Kingo

Sonnet

or

sigh in sound-rhyme

How often I do sigh since fortune’s heavy weight,

Apportioned unto each by God Almighty’s hand,

Burdens unequally the fates all must withstand,

At random strikes down all, and each man separate,

No matter whether they a crown should chance to wear,

Or amongst those deemed beggars their whole life must share!

Yet each must needs accept the portion fate’s assigned,

Enhance his scrap of fortune with what he can find!

Wherefore shall I, O God! with my lot not comply?

Although to pierce my foot I know no thorn can try

Without your hand at work! And brief too is time’s stay,

That bears all on its back and blows it all away.

So do I blow, wait patiently, and blow once more

At all things time e’en so will blow off as before!

Kingo was half Scottish - here's what he wrote on his father's gravestone

HANS KINGO,

Barnfød i Schotland i Kril, efter et ærligt Levnet her paa

Jorden i 85 Aar og sit Ægteskab med sin Hustrue

KAREN SØRENS-DAATTER,

47 Aar, salig hensoved 1671 og med 3 sine Børn her begravet.

her huiler jeg i livsens haab

og paa dend over-engels raab

blant orme-sælskab lenter

min himmel-givne siæl i fred

foor op at see guds herlighed

og kroppens samling venter

med æren tiente jeg mit brød

dend kruned baade liv og død

og vaar mit dyre smykke

jeg aatte ikke verdens guld

nv eyer jeg saa megen muld

som denne steen kand trykke

min rigdom vaar et ærligt naun

et ævigt liv i himmel-staun

det har jeg alt i eye

søg læser at du det kand naa

og tænk at døden dig og saa

vil engang slæt udfeye.

Mine Dage ere lættere henfløyne end en Væve-Skytte.

Job. 7. v. 6.

HANS KINGO,

Born in Scotland in Crail, after an honest life here on the

earth for  85 years and his marriage with his wife

KAREN SØRENS-DAATTER,

47 years, blessedly departed in 1671 and buried here

with three of his children.

in hope of life i here now rest

and bide the archangel’s last behest

while worms my flesh still harry

at peace my heaven-given soul

rose to god’s glory once more whole,

for flesh reborn must tarry

with honour did i earn my bread

it crowned me both alive and dead

and was my jewel most treasured

i nothing knew of worldly gold

now all the earth i own all told

this gravestone’s weight has measured

my wealth was in an honest name

a life in heaven’s home the aim

to which i am aspiring

seek reader this to gain alway

recall: to wipe you out one day

death’s constantly conspiring.

My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle.

Job Ch. VII, v. 6.

A third heartfelt sigh from Kingo

O sweet Jesus, soul’s physician

See and weigh the dire condition

Of my soul’s wounds so profound!

Of my sorely troubled mind!

Of the floods that my eyes blind

Rising from my heart’s own ground!

But if all my wounds and sighs

Fail your heart to open prise,

Then, O heart of Jesus, view

Your own wounds and deep-gashed side,

And death’s savage streams so wide,

Where such pain and woe you knew!

Solace then you’ll bring my soul,

Speak these words that me console:

I’ll restore what sin’s debased!

No more shall you feel pain’s dart

In your sorely wounded heart

Once I wound on wound have placed!

Another (of many) heartfelt sighs from Kingo

Heartfelt sigh

Ah! my Jesus! ah! I fear

Death and Grave and Hell are near!

Death has eyes that on me prey,

Gaping grave would clutch my clay,

And hell’s hideous abyss

Wills that I my soul shall miss,

Satan damns my earthly dust,

And the law says: That is just!

My life’s soon condemned to end

As all devils would intend,

Should, O Jesus!, you not guide

Me to your wide-open side,

Bloodied by my spear of sin,

And there let me enter in

So I, by your heart reviewed,

Law’s stern verdict may elude!

Judgment then can but be good,

Written with your mercy’s blood.

A 1681 'cri de cœur' from Thomas Kingo

Hierte-Suk

Aldrig er jeg uden Vaade,

Aldrig dog foruden Naade:

     Altid har jeg Suk og Vee,

     Altid kand dog JESUM see:

Altid trykker mine Synder,

Altid JEsus Hielp tilskynder:

     Altid er jeg udi Tvang,

     Altid er jeg fuld af Sang:

Nu i Sorrig, nu i Glæde,

Nu i Fald og nu i Sæde:

     Ofte fuld af stor Uroo,

     Altid fuld af JEsu Troo!

Saa er Sorg og Glæde lenked,

Saa er Begeret iskienked

     I mit Levnets Omgangs Skaal,

     Slig er mine Levnets Maal!

Men, O JEsu, jeg vil græde,

Hielp Du til at Troens Glæde

     Fra min Synd og Sorrig maa

     Altid Over-vegten faa!

Heartfelt sigh

Never troubles fail to hurt me,

Never though does grace desert me:

     Ever sighs and pain accrue,

     Ever JESUS though I view:

Ever sins me vex and chasten,

Ever Christ to help will hasten:

     Ever cares on me do throng.

     Ever I am full of song:

Now grief-laden, now quite cheerful,

Now crestfallen, now unfearful:

     Often by unrest enticed,

     Always full of faith in Christ!

Thus is sorrow mixed with pleasure,

Thus my cup receives due measure

     In my life’s allotted span,

     Such is my life’s certain plan!

But, O Christ, on you I’m calling:

By your grace keep me from falling,

     That the joys of true faith may

     Always sin and grief outweigh!

From 'PA'. George Irons (4 March 1906 - 16 April 1980)

IN PERPETUITY

1. THE FLIGHT PATH

Gules an Eagle displayed Or beaked and membered Azure

in each claw a Sword erect proper pommel and hilt Or

on a Chief Ermine two pierced Cinquefoils Gules

in later life

pa’s consuming interests

were genealogy and heraldry

‘i intend to put this family

on the map’

said pa

‘in perpetuity’

‘the name is scottish’ pa remarked

‘originating from dundee’

‘look at your nose, pa’ i replied

‘we’re scandinavians –

iron is their word for eagle’

pa was as good as his word

his coat of arms not lightly won

was fought for with persistence

‘we need a motto’ added pa

semper pugnare paratus i replied

‘always prepared to fight’

2. THE SCOTTISH CONNECTION

Crest: On a wreath of the colours

in front of two Thistle Leaves in saltire proper

a Cross Moline Azure fimbriated Or

the iron bearing

in the middle of a mill-stone

bears it up and guides its motion:

a mill-iron, or cross moline

‘good thing the thistle’s

their national emblem

since you’re so prickly, pa’

i said

semper pugnare paratus

‘one day you’ll be glad of this’

said pa

my cross-moline

my eagle

Poem by the Norwegian writer Inger Hagerup (1905-85)

Emily Dickinson

Meget spinkel. Meget liten.

Alltid sirlig kledd i hvitt.

Gjennom huset trippet hennes

veloppdragne pikeskritt.

Tørket støv og vannet blomster

med små travle husmorhender.

Bakte brød. Gikk tur i parken,

og skrev brev til slekt og venner.

Kjærlig søster. Lydig datter.

Slik var dagens dukkelek.

Men den skjulte ilden herjet.

Og det stumme skriket skrek.

Og bak jomfruburets låste

dør og lette blondekapper

lå en fremmed ingen kjente.

Altfor ensom. Altfor tapper.

Lå en kald kirurg og lyttet

til sin egen nakne smerte.

Og mens puten kvalte skriket,

obduserte hun sitt hjerte.

Emily Dickinson

Very slender. Very tiny.

Always neatly dressed in white.

Through the house she used to trip with

girl-like steps well-bred and light.

Wiped off dust and watered flowers

with small busy housewife hands.

Baked bread. In the park went walking,

wrote to family and friends.

Loving sister. Duteous daughter.

Doll-play was her daily fare.

But the hidden fire ravaged.

And the silent scream did tear.

And behind the locked door of her

girl’s room and her bonnets’ lace

lay a stranger known to no one.

All too lonely. All too brave.

Lay a surgeon listening coldly

to her naked pain apart.

And while cushions choked her screaming,

she dissected her own heart.

'Arguably the godfather of Dutch performance poets' - Rob Schouten on J.A. Deelder

Stadsgezicht (Rotterdam)

Tegenwoordigheid van geest

en realisme in 't kwadraat

vieren onverstoorbaar feest

in een opgebroken straat

Hoog en spijkerhard de hemel

met een blikkerende zon of

zwart en laag in wilde wemel

langs skeletten van beton

Doorheen geloken luxaflexen

tórenhoog de wooncomplexen

stapelen den einder dicht

Posthistorisch vergezicht -

Rotterdam gehakt uit marmer

kant'lend in het tegenlicht

Cityscape (Rotterdam)

Self-possessed resourcefulness

and realism that’s been squared

coolly go to town no less

in a street dug-up and bared

Tall and hard as nails the sky

with a sharply glinting sun or

black and low in disarray

past cemented skeletons

Through venetian blinds’ closed slats

soaring high-rise blocks of flats

stack the skyline shut, unseen

Posthistorical wide-screen –

Rotterdam hewn out of marble

toppling in the backlit scene

A Wim Hofman poem based on a painting by Rembrandt

To see the translation, please go to here

A Bloem poem I have been trying to translate for over eight years. Still trying!

insomnia

Denkend aan de dood kan ik niet slapen,

En niet slapend denk ik aan de dood,

En het leven vliedt gelijk het vlood,

En elk zijn is tot niet zijn geschapen.

Hoe onmachtig klinkt het schriel 'te wapen',

Waar de levenswil ten strijd mee noodt,

Naast der doodsklaroenen schrille stoot,

Die de grijsaards oproept met de knapen.

Evenals een vrouw, die eens zich gaf,

Baren moet, of ze al dan niet wil baren,

Want het kind is groeiende in haar schoot,

Is elk wezen zwanger van de dood,

En het voorbestemde doel van ’t paren

Is niet minder dan de wieg het graf.

insomnia

Thinking about death stops me from sleeping,

And not sleeping death’s my every thought,

And life’s flowing, then as now, is short,

And each being its non-being’s seeking.

How weak the cry ‘to arms’ – and how fleeting –

With which the will to live summons all,

Next to death’s shrill, strident clarion call

To young and old for that final meeting.

Just as nothing a woman can save

From birth once she has condoned creating,

Since the child in her womb gathers breath,

Each being is pregnant with its death,

And the predestined purpose of mating

Is no less the cradle than the grave.

A Danish translation of Wallace Stevens' 'Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird'

Tretten måder at se en solsort på

Wallace Stevens

I
Mellem tyve snehvide bjerge,

Var det eneste der bevægede sig

Solsortens øje.

II

Jeg var i tre sind,

Som et træ

Hvor der sidder tre solsorte.

III
Solsorten hvirvlede i efterårsvindene.

Den var en lille del af pantomimen.

IV
En mand og en kvinde

er ét.

En mand og en kvinde og en solsort

Er ét.

 
V
Jeg ved ikke hvad man skal foretrække,

Tonefaldenes skønhed

Eller hentydningernes skønhed,

Solsorten der fløjter

Eller lige bagefter.

VI
Istapper fyldte det lange vindue

Med barbarisk glas.

Solsortens skygge

Krydsede det, frem og tilbage.

Stemningen

Tegnet i skyggen

En årsag umulig at tyde.

VII
O tynde mænd af Haddam,
Hvorfor forestiller I Jer gyldne fugle?

Ser I ikke hvordan solsorten

Piler rundt om fødderne

på kvinderne der omgiver Jer?

 
VIII
Jeg kender ædle accenter

Og klare, uundgåelige rytmer;

Men tillige ved jeg

At solsorten er inddraget

I det jeg ved.

 
IX
Da solsorten fløj ud af syne,

Markerede den kanten

Af en ud af mange cirkler.

X
Ved synet af solsorte

Der flyver i et grønt lys

Ville selv velklangens ruffersker

Udstøde et skarpt skrig.

XI
Han kørte over Connecticut

I en glaskaret.

En gang blev han gennemboret af frygt,

fordi han forvekslede

Ekvipagens skygge

Med solsorte.

XII
Åen bevæger sig.

Solsorten må være på vingerne.

XIII
Hele eftermiddagen var det aften.

Det sneede

Og var på nippet til at sne.

Solsorten sad

I cederens grene.