Saturday 30 May 2020
Halbo C. Kool: 'Le poète pur parle'
Dèr Mouw: The only poem ever to start with 'Spitsbogend'
Tuesday 26 May 2020
Nils Ferlin: 'Jag kunde ju vara...
Jag kunde ju vara ...
En luffare är jag — vad mera,
jag kunde ju vara en präst,
jag kunde ju vara en brukspatron
en bonde eller en häst ...
Jag kunde ju vara en svala,
en kråka eller en snok,
en snok — eller kanske en blomma,
ett sommarstänk i en bok ...
Nå — öster börjar i väster
och söder slutar i norr,
virrig är jag av frågor
och halsen är fan så torr ...
... en luffare är jag, som halkar
förbi i vägarnas grus.
Mitt hjärta är hett som en masugn
och kallt som ett fattighus.
I could of course be
A tramp’s what I am - what else then,
I could be a vicar of course,
a foundry proprietor too perhaps
a farmer or just a horse…
I could of course just be a swallow,
a grass snake or maybe a rook,
if not a snake then a flower,
a summer’s dash in a book…
Well, east has in west its beginning
and south ends in north as well,
I get confused by questions
my throat is as dry as hell…
…a tramp’s what I am who’s lurching
around in the dust of the road.
My heart is as hot as a furnace
yet a poor man’s cold abode.
Lars Gustafsson: 'Tranflog'
(Flight of cranes over Skåne, April morning.
Sunday 24 May 2020
Lars Gustafsson: 'Skäggdoppingen'
Saturday 23 May 2020
Holger Drachmann: 'Ad kendte Veje'
AD KENDTE VEJE
O hvor hvert Fjed dog er gammeltungt,
naar Vejen skal trædes tilbage;
Trittet var let, saa tyveaarsungt,
da det gik mod de dejlige Dage.
Liden Fugl paa vor Vej
havde travlt med at synge
sin Elskovssang;
i hver Bøgetræsgynge
var Legen i Gang, —
nu synges, nu leges der ej.
Kun de susende Graner har endnu Røst,
og det lyder som oprørt Vand;
det tegner mod Høst.
Elskede! ak, den dobbelte Klang,
som strider i denne Kalden:
Sangfuglelatter fra korngul Vang
og hulkende Skovvandes Falden!
Nu er Sommeren væk
og kun Høsten tilbage,
en Middelhøst;
kun en Afglans af Dage
med kummerlig Trøst,
et Billed med falmede Træk.
Og jeg trykker det blegede Blad til min Mund.
Der er dobbelt og stridende Lyst
i Afskedens Stund.
Nej, jeg vil ej som den Klagende staa,
naar Intet dog kan forandres;
heller ad høstgule Gange gaa,
naar Stierne dog skulle vandres.
Der er Kraft i den Luft,
som fra Granskovens Naale
min Aande naa’r;
gennem Høstsolens Straale
et Farvevæld gaar,
hver Blomst har forstærket sin Duft.
Lad kun Vaaren forstumme; her spirer et Frø.
Jeg har Sange i Hjertet endda;
de kan aldrig dø.
DOWN WELL-KNOWN PATHS
Oh, how each footstep with lead seems hung,
when the path must be trod till it’s ended;
Light was each step, so twenty-years young,
when it led towards days that were splendid.
A small bird as we passed
was so busily singing
its song of love;
in each beech there was swinging
and playing above, —
songs and games did not last.
Only pine trees now soughing have voice at all,
and its sound’s that of water when rough;
soon autumn will call.
Dearest one! ah, the double-edged plea
that clashes in this strange calling:
Songbirds’ gay laughter from corn-hued lea
and woodland streams’ sad-sobbing falling!
Now the summer is gone
there’s but autumn remaining,
and autumn’s stalled;
merely day’s image waning
with solace now palled,
a picture whose features once shone.
And I press the wan leaf to my lips with a sigh.
Double urges still clash when recalled
at the hour of goodbye.
No, as lamenter I’ll not say adieu,
when change there is no evading;
rather tread paths of autumnal hue,
when only such paths lie in waiting.
There’s a force in the air
which as pine needles’ resin
my mind sets on fire;
and the autumn’s rays dress in
a rainbow attire,
each flower has a scent twice as rare.
Let the spring remain silent; a seed time is nigh.
All my heart’s songs will never expire:
they refuse to die.