(Jens Andersen, Andersen, vol. I, p. 154):
Sunday 26 February 2017
Andersen's 'The dying Child'
'The dying Child' is an epoch-making text, because Andersen's poetic elevation of the thoughts and speech of a child, which bear the form of the poem, broke with all sorts of norms as to what good and correct literature should look like in the 1820s (the poem dates from 1826). So deep and complete a bowing of the knee to the nature of a child had not been attempted anywhere in the world - not even Goethe in his poem about Erlkönig from the end of the 18th century had attempted this.
(Jens Andersen, Andersen, vol. I, p. 154):
(Jens Andersen, Andersen, vol. I, p. 154):
Saturday 25 February 2017
Bellman and Charon
Fredman’s
Epistle No. 79
Charon his horn is sounding,
Storm winds commence their howling,
Hawsers, ropes, sails start bounding
and come loose apace;
Moon’s nightly round is ending
Stars gleam with dismal cowling,
To its great change is bending
Life’s allotted space;
Soon will my hour-glass have emptied,
Charon’s oars all have attempted,
Purling
they burrow
Deep
in each furrow,
Through
bright waves sliding,
Death’s
bark is gliding,
Jet-black the funeral ferry down the river
strokes
To
dust and smoke://:
And
ghosts’ loud bays.
Landladies oh so dashing,
Brace me for this my journey,
When on my fathers’ ashes
I’ll be heaped tonight.
Red-faced and voice quite throttled
Innkeepers stand there sternly,
Chalk me up nigh a bottle
For my hat – that’s right.
Ma’am take the slate at the counter,
Rub out two pence for the flounder;
Likewise
please cut a
Penny
for butter;
Further
the eel-fish
There
in the green-dish;
Further the plump potato on which now I dine,
It
was most fine ://:
And
round and light.
While at my tankard sitting,
I my last will am writing;
This document most fitting,
Read, Ma’am, I implore;
Gone is this world’s dominion,
See how its taste’s more biting,
Heaven with stars its minions
Now above me soar.
I keep my tankard in motion –
Clang, what a brew, what a potion,
Foam
mounts and frizzles,
Froth
almost sizzles,
Drops
in full spate float
Down
on my greatcoat.
That hit the spot, Ma’am Maja, that was beer
that sang.
Clang,
Ma’am, cling-clang! ://:
Off
Charon’s shore.
My head droops at all angles,
All of me’s forward nosing,
It seems my neck just dangles.
But, ye Gods, I wince
As tearful eyed I’m glaring
At all my rags imposing
Which once, no padding sparing,
Buttoned as if pinned;
Aren’t though my breeches quite charming,
These garments oh so disarming?
Waistcoat’s
distended
All
the rest mended
Stockings
in creases,
Heels
worn to pieces,
And that fine shirt, Ma’am Maja, was – please
note my thrift –
Beckman’s
wife’s shift ://:
Just
two years since.
Now midships I stand quaking,
Heav’ns, how the rudder’s creaking,
Shadows all for the taking,
Lapping waves so slight;
Aeolus drowns all crying,
Charon’s shrill whistle’s shrieking,
Help! Hear dark shadows sighing
How their moans affright;
Thunder and northern lights’ flashes,
Lightning that through the sky dashes
Arched
o’er the river,
See
the Plough quiver,
Stars
no more quicken.
Shores
slowly thicken,
Till from the sombre shadow all last light
departs;
My
torment starts. ://
So, Ma’am, good night!
So, Ma’am, good night!
Monday 20 February 2017
'Svarta Rudolf' - a great Erik Axel Karlfeldt favourite
Svarta Rudolf
Se svarta
Rudolf han dansar,
han böjer sin
nacke och ler.
Han tänker på
stormande nätter
i Amsterdams
glädjekvarter.
||: Han
drömmer om flickornas kransar
och svävande bruna ben
på stranden av blåa slätter
vid samoamånens sken. :||
Han böjer sin
nacke och blundar
i flygande
roslagsvals.
Så höll han i
smäktande lundar
sin arm om
chilenskans hals;
||: Så böjde
han krullig hjässa
en afton i negerbyn,
mot trettonårig prinsessa
med eldsken i ebenholtzhyn. :||
Så dansa de
svajiga karlar
på Malagas
vinstänkta redd.
Den vitröda
tösen hon bävar,
bedårad,
förlorad, förledd.
||: Hun ler i
den väldiges nävar
åt allt vad han tog och han gav,
hon suckar och vinden svarar
från Ålands jäsande hav. :||
Black-haired Rudolph
Look, black-haired
Rudolph, he’s dancing,
he bends his
head slightly and smiles.
He’s thinking
of wild nights of pleasure
where
Amsterdam’s red light beguiles.
||: He’s
dreaming of wreathed girls romancing,
their brown legs that sway to each
tune,
Samoa’s smooth beaches quite azure
beneath the Pacific’s bright moon.
:||
His eyes
closed, he bends his head slightly,
the Roslagen
waltz whirls him on.
As once in dark
groves he held lightly
a Chilean
girl’s neck like a swan;
||: As once
his black curls he inclined to –
in some shanty town late at night –
a youthful princess he’d a mind to
with ebony skin shot with light. :||
So dance all
the swaying young fellows
on Malaga’s
wine-spattered piers
The blushing pale
lass slowly mellows,
enchanted,
entranced and all ears.
||: She smiles
as huge fists hold her tightly
at all that he took and he gave,
she sighs and the wind answers quietly
from Åland’s sea’s turbulent waves. :||
To hear an old 78 recording, go to here
Saturday 18 February 2017
'Violen från Flen' - a great Olrog favourite
Violen från Flen
Det står en
vacker flicka i en bokhandel i Flen,
och drömmer
ibland böcker så allén.
Där finns
till salu smått och gott,
mest papper
och kuvert,
men ändå
annonserar man såhär:
Köp en
Hjalmar Gullberg eller Vilhelm Moberg,
men köp den
av Violen från Flen.
All
bildning och kultur, verkligt rara djur,
får ni av
Violen från Flen.
Äventyr och
sagor finns uti vårt lager
där
sånggudinnan går på lätta ben.
Prosa och
lyrik, kanske romantik,
får ni av
Violen från Flen.
När ortens
unga glopar går på jakt så verkar de'
municipalsamhälls-jeunesse-dorée.
Och frågar
de Violen om hon vill gå med dem ut,
så rodnar
hon och svarar så till slut:
Allt kan ni
begära, av det litterära,
ja allting
av Parnassens fenomen.
Men
praktisk romantik, eller erotik,
finns ej
hos Violen från Flen.
Tag i
stället för er, av små bokprimörer,
ta'
småvarmt från den Bonnierska buffén.
Bildning
och kultur, verkligt rara djur,
får ni av
Violen från Flen.
The Violet of Flen
A lovely
girl stands lonely in a bookshop out in Flen,
and dreams
among the books of her domain.
On sale are
paper, envelopes,
and mostly
bibs and bobs,
despite
this though advertisements proclaim:
Buy a
Hjalmar Gullberg or a Vilhelm Moberg,
but buy it
from the Violet of Flen.
All your
cultural feasts, truly snuggly beasts,
you’ll get
from the Violet of Flen.
We stock stirring
stories, tales of former glories
here the
muse of song delights to reign.
Poetry and
prose, romance too who knows,
you’ll get
from the Violet of Flen.
When local whippersnappers
go out hunting or foray
they seem
to be the town’s jeunesse dorée.
And if they
ask the Violet if she’d like to join the guys,
she blushes
and she finally replies:
All you
could desire, literature entire,
and that
which to Parnassus might pertain.
Though all
cooing doves, and erotic love’s
not stocked
by the Violet of Flen.
Take though
for nutrition, early small editions,
from
Bonnier’s buffet do not abstain.
All your
cultural feasts, truly snuggly beasts,
you’ll get
from the Violet of Flen.
Thursday 16 February 2017
A Vanitas poem by the Swedish poet Nils Ferlin
Fåfänglighet
Jag har klättrat på önskningens stege,
jag har klättrat så långt att jag vet
att den stegen är hög som en himmel
och djup som en evighet ...
Och mänskor ha gått på den stegen
i tusen och tusen år –
och ingen har visat dem vägen
var stegen står ...
Men alla som tvinga dess pinnar
de springa på glödande kol,
och aldrig i levande livet
de nå sitt mål ...
Jag har klättrat på önskningens stege,
jag har gått ett par fjät - så jag vet
att den stegen är hög som en himmel
och allt är fåfänglighet
Vanity
On the ladder of human desire
I have climbed up so far that I know
it’s as high as the heavens and higher
and deeper than deep below ...
And people have have busily climbed there
for thousands and thousands of years –
and no one has helped them to find where
it upward rears ...
But all who its rungs would endeavour
they leap as on hot glowing coals
and here in this life they will never
attain their goals.
On the ladder of human desire
I have climbed a few steps – so I know
it’s as high as the heavens and higher
and vanity’s all there’s to show.
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