Tuesday, 30 June 2015
A June poem by Marjoleine de Vos
To see the poem, go to here
Posted by John Irons at 13:27 No comments:
Monday, 22 June 2015
One from Viggo Stuckenberg's 'Final Poems'
Were it not because the jasmine’s blooming,
hellish torments on me would be thronging,
you are gone, the summer day is empty.
all its sun and song speak but of longing.
But the jasmine’s blooming by the hedgerow
like a milky way of white suns blazing,
what to me are all the stars of heaven –
each bloom is your white dress while I’m gazing.
Posted by John Irons at 07:16 No comments:
Sunday, 21 June 2015
Monday, 15 June 2015
Kingo at his simple and straightforward best
The tenth song
Is a thanksgiving after Holy Communion
Soul’s shepherd, Jesu, thanks to thee
And for thy death, soul’s remedy
Whereby thou rescuedst me.
Thy body and thy blood I’d praise,
My soul’s delight;
The meat and drink that can erase
The serpent’s hate and bite.
I still can taste how sweet thou art
To mouth and mind,
Yet hold thee closest in my heart,
Where thou hast been enshrined.
You worldly lusts depart from me,
I never more,
No nevermore your friend shall be,
But bring you to God’s law.
O JEsu, let thy body’s bread
And blood-filled bowl,
Refresh me even until death,
Then I’ll have reached my goal.
Posted by John Irons at 20:37 1 comment:
What makes a Dane? - Benny Andersen knows
Just go to here
Posted by John Irons at 10:25 No comments:
Friday, 12 June 2015
Great summer poem by Lars Gustafsson
Events on the periphery of a summer day
The trapped bumblebee
cusses and buzzes at the window
in a foreign language
The old coffee-mill
can’t stop going on
about rationing and war
A splendid spider’s web
has taken over grandma’s bicycle
an Evangelii Härold no longer for sale
From the century-old bush
gooseberries, brown as amber,
and weary, fall to the ground one by one
It is – in short – late here on earth
In the wall-mounted telephone
the afternoon storm is already crackling
Posted by John Irons at 12:54 No comments:
Thursday, 11 June 2015
A sonnet or 'sound rhyme' by Thomas Kingo
Sonnet or Sound Rhyme
It is ordained that all things shall comply completely
With those who fear God’s name, the orbit of the world
And fortune’s centre-point, around which it is whirled,
Shall bow – if God sees fit – down to their hand if need be:
The world’s a workshop though for heaven’s fortune-things,
With many twists and turns and with the strangest swings
That to the flesh’s purblind eye seem made to measure,
Yet to a noble soul can give such wondrous pleasure,
Since it God’s heav’nly hand in all things can discern,
No matter where the wind of fortune seeks to turn,
It still makes out its God at every compass point,
And fortune’s frail glass never puts it out of joint:
However harsh and searing fate might seem to be,
God makes all things that are, and does so perfectly.
Posted by John Irons at 16:32 No comments:
Wednesday, 10 June 2015
Our hotel room wall poem in Oslo - Olav Aukrust's classic
Ei naki grein
Ei naki grein med blodraud bær
og ei som bladrik blømer,
på kvar sin måte fagre er
for den som kjærleg dømer.
Den eine gjev ein ange, ho,
der ljuv ho ligg og blømer.
Den andre gjev sitt hjarteblod
når lauv og haustvind rømer.
Den eine skin og strålar, ho,
den andre brenn og mognar
og gjev til sist sitt hjarteblod;
der tung av bær ho bognar.
Eg gav deg den med blomar på.
Eg gjev deg den med bæri.
Kven rikast er vil du få sjå
litt lenger fram på ferdi.
A naked branch
A naked branch with berries red
and one that’s in full blossom,
are lovely both, it can be said,
to eyes that kindly gloss them.
The one’s sweet scent comes from the bud,
as blossoming it lies there.
The other gives its own life’s blood
in autumn winds, and dies there.
The one is capped with radiant hood,
the other ripens blazing,
and lastly gives its own life’s blood
with berries heavy laden.
I gave you that with blossoms on.
I give you that with berries.
And you will surely see anon
which should the more be cherished.
Posted by John Irons at 19:41 No comments:
Tuesday, 2 June 2015
Got lost twice in 2007, otherwise OK
to protect leftovers of their comté
until the next day
the farmers of morbier
covered it with a layer of ashes
then placed more comté on top:
in the heated pool
day month and year
were out of mind
for several minutes
reality seems the same
access to a word
is briefly but firmly denied
there is this taste
for at beskytte resten af deres comté
til den efterfølgende dag
dækkede morbiers bønder den
med et lag af aske
og placerede så mere comté ovenpå:
i det opvarmede bassin
kunne jeg pludselig
ikke komme på
dag måned eller år
de var sporløst forsvundet
i adskillige minutter
ser virkeligheden ud som før
men hver gang
adgangen til et ord
nægtes kort men bestemt
er der denne smag
got lost once again
could not remember the date.
found it in the newspaper
but distrusted it.
thought it was summer
but there is still snow outside.
the seasons have now swung back
dog sniffed up her name.
var fortabt igen
kunne ikke huske datoen.
fandt den i en avis
men var mistroisk.
troede det var sommer
men der er stadig sne udenfor.
årstiderne er nu svinget tilbage
hunden har snuset sit navn op.
Posted by John Irons at 20:15 No comments:
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