Tuesday 31 July 2018
Wednesday 25 July 2018
Tuesday 24 July 2018
Monday 23 July 2018
Sunday 22 July 2018
Saturday 21 July 2018
Friday 20 July 2018
Wednesday 18 July 2018
Monday 16 July 2018
Saturday 14 July 2018
Friday 13 July 2018
Famous Nijhoff poem (Ik ging naar Bommel om de brug te zien)
DE MOEDER DE VROUW
Ik ging naar Bommel om de brug te zien.
Ik zag de nieuwe brug. Twee overzijden
die elkaar vroeger schenen te vermijden
worden weer buren. Een minuut of tien
dat ik daar lag, in ’t gras, mijn thee
gedronken
mijn hoofd vol van het landschap wijd en
zijd –
laat mij daar midden uit de oneindigheid
een stem vernemen dat mijn oren klonken.
Het was een vrouw. Het schip dat zij bevoer
kwam langzaamaan stroom af door de brug
gevaren.
Zij was alleen aan dek, zij stond bij ’t
roer,
en wat zij zong hoorde ik dat psalmen
waren.
O, dacht ik, o dat daar mijn moeder voer.
Prijs God zong zij, Zijn hand zal u
bewaren.
‘THE OLD LADY’
I went to Bommel just to see the bridge.
I saw the new bridge. Two opposing shores
that shunned each other seemingly before
are neighbours once again. A grassy verge
I lay on, tea consumed, for some ten
minutes
my head filled with the landscape far and
wide –
when from that endlessness on every side
this voice came, and my ears resounded with
it.
It was a woman. And the boat she steered
was passing downstream through the bridge
quite slowly.
She stood there at the helm, alone on deck,
and what she sang were hymns, I now could
hear.
Oh, I thought, oh, were mother there
instead.
Praise God she sang, His hand shall safely
hold thee.
Thursday 12 July 2018
Wednesday 11 July 2018
Monday 9 July 2018
'Jeg gik mig ud en sommerdag...'
Jeg
gik mig ud en sommerdag
Jeg gik mig ud en
sommerdag at høre
fuglesang, som hjertet kunne røre,
i de dybe dale,
mellem nattergale
og de andre fugle små, som tale.
Der sad en lille fugl i bøgelunden,
sødt den sang i sommer-aftenstunden,
i de grønne sale,
mellem nattergale
og de andre fugle små, som tale.
Den sang så sødt om dejligst vang og vænge,
hvor kærminder gro, som græs i enge,
Den sang og sødt om bølger blå og hvide
under ø, hvor danske snekker skride,
Den sang om alt, hvad det er lyst at høre,
allerhelst, hvad hjertet dybt kan røre,
Den sang, som ingen andre fugle sjunge,
leged liflig med min moders tunge,
Den sang som talt ud af mit eget hjerte,
toner gav den al min fryd og smerte,
Da nynned jeg så småt i aftenstunden:
Flyv, Guldtop! flyv rundt i bøgelunden,
O, flyv fra Øresund til Danevirke!
syng til dans, til skole og til kirke,
På folkets modersmål, med Danmarks tunge,
syng, som ingen andre fugle sjunge,
Da mærke alle, som har mødre kære,
det er godt i Danemark at være,
Da gløder alt, hvad solen har bestrålet,
som det røde guld på modersmålet,
fuglesang, som hjertet kunne røre,
i de dybe dale,
mellem nattergale
og de andre fugle små, som tale.
Der sad en lille fugl i bøgelunden,
sødt den sang i sommer-aftenstunden,
i de grønne sale,
mellem nattergale
og de andre fugle små, som tale.
Den sang så sødt om dejligst vang og vænge,
hvor kærminder gro, som græs i enge,
Den sang og sødt om bølger blå og hvide
under ø, hvor danske snekker skride,
Den sang om alt, hvad det er lyst at høre,
allerhelst, hvad hjertet dybt kan røre,
Den sang, som ingen andre fugle sjunge,
leged liflig med min moders tunge,
Den sang som talt ud af mit eget hjerte,
toner gav den al min fryd og smerte,
Da nynned jeg så småt i aftenstunden:
Flyv, Guldtop! flyv rundt i bøgelunden,
O, flyv fra Øresund til Danevirke!
syng til dans, til skole og til kirke,
På folkets modersmål, med Danmarks tunge,
syng, som ingen andre fugle sjunge,
Da mærke alle, som har mødre kære,
det er godt i Danemark at være,
Da gløder alt, hvad solen har bestrålet,
som det røde guld på modersmålet,
i de dybe dale,
mellem nattergale
og de andre fugle små, som tale.
mellem nattergale
og de andre fugle små, som tale.
I
walked abroad one summer’s day
I walked abroad one summer’s day to hear
songs of birds that through my heart could
sear,
in the deep, green dales,
midst the nightingales
and each bird that now my heart regales.
A little bird sat in the beech-tree grove,
in the deep, green dales,
midst the nightingales
and each bird that now my heart regales.
A little bird sat in the beech-tree grove,
sweet it sang in summer’s
twilight mauve,
in the leafy vales,
midst the nightingales
and each bird that now my heart regales.
It sang so sweet of meadows lush and low,
in the leafy vales,
midst the nightingales
and each bird that now my heart regales.
It sang so sweet of meadows lush and low,
where like grass
forgetmenots do grow.
It sang so sweet of waves
both blue and white
out at sea where Danish vessels glide,
It sang of everything one fain would hear,
most of all what through the heart can sear,
It sang as no bird else has ever sung,
played so grandly with my
mother tongue,
It sang as if my heart itself did speak,
pain and joy were notes
from its small beak,
And then I murmured in the twilight mauve:
Fly, Gold Crest! fly around your beech-tree grove,
Oh, fly from north to south, from west to east,
And then I murmured in the twilight mauve:
Fly, Gold Crest! fly around your beech-tree grove,
Oh, fly from north to south, from west to east,
sing at every school,
church, dance and feast,
In common Danish, in our
mother tongue,
sing aloud like no bird
else has sung,
Then all who hold their
mothers dear will know
Denmark is a place where
hearts can grow,
Then all will gleam
that’s lit up by the sun,
like red gold gleams upon
our mother tongue,
in the deep, green dales,
midst the nightingales
and each bird that now my heart regales.
midst the nightingales
and each bird that now my heart regales.
Saturday 7 July 2018
A Dèr Mouw 'high and low' poem: Parthenon and barrel organ
Ik sprak enthousiast over ’t Parthenon,
hoe ‘t op verende berg zweefde, als een
blank
snaarinstrument, dat door zijn zuilen,
rank,
de wereldlucht tot aan de horizon
maakte tot één akkoord van marmren klank -
toen plotseling een draaiorgel begon
door de open deuren, dwars over ’t balkon,
te spugen zijn kwijldraderig gejank.
En ’k dacht: Ja, Brahman is de Kunstenaar:
Hij, Shakespeares voorbeeld, zet vlak naast
elkaar
het hoogverhevene en het laagkomieke.
En wat in Cyrano de Bergerac
de bakker zei, toen men zijn glaswerk brak,
dacht ik: Il casse tout, c’est magnifique.
I rhapsodised about the Parthenon,
afloat its springy mountain like some white
string instrument that through its columns,
slight,
gathered the expanse of the world sky in
one
great unifying chord of marble sound –
when suddenly a barrel organ, through
the open doors, across the terrace, spewed
its viscous slobber as its owner ground.
Yes, I thought, Brahman’s the Artist: he
chose,
as later Shakespeare did, to juxtapose
the elevated and the tongue-in-cheek.
And what in Cyrano de Bergerac
the baker said, with all his glassware
smashed,
I thought: Il casse tout, c’est magnifique.
Thursday 5 July 2018
Frans Michael Franzén - champagne poem
Champagnevinet
Drick! de förflyga de susande
Perlorna:
Drick!
Skynda! Det ljufva, det ädla, det höga
Söker
du fåfängt, se’n anden förgick.
Dåren, som fäste vid skummet sitt öga,
Vatten,
blott vatten, på läpparne fick.
Njut! de försvinna, de tjusande
Stunderna:
njut!
Ytterst förfinade, känslan och löjet
Reta
och domna i samma minut.
Snappa i flykten behaget och nöjet:
Högst
är raketen, i det han går ut.
Snar är på jorden den rusande
Glädjen,
ack! snar.
Fångad af ynglingens spända förhoppning,
Än
ur en drufva, förädlad och rar,
Än från en mun, lik en ros i sin knoppning,
Strax
till sitt hem öfver molnen hon far.
Champagne wine
Drink! they soon vanish the fast-climbing
Strings
of pearls, drink!
Quick now! The beautiful, noble, or lofty
Vainly
you seek, once the spirit’s laid waste.
Mad is the man who on foam gazes oftly,
Water,
just water is all he will taste.
Feast! they’re soon banished the spell-binding
Hours
of joy, feast!
Feeling and laughter, refined beyond measure
At
the same instant can rouse and benumb.
Catch in mid-flight all delight and all pleasure!
Rockets
reach highest whilst their end is come.
Brief is on earth every mind-blinding
Gladness,
ah! brief!
Captured by young man’s high hopes so full-blooded,
Now
from a grape at its choicest and rare,
Now from a mouth like a rose that’s just budded,
Straight
to its home o’er the clouds she’ll repair.
Frans
Michael Franzén (1772-1847)
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