Monday 28 February 2022

Thor Sørheim: 'Vostoksjøen'




LAKE VOSTOK

 

A lake deep in Antarctica

has been besieged by ice

continuously for millions of years.

 

Signs may indicate

that there are forms of life

down there. A bacterium on the lake bed,

 

a knocking sound confined

in total darkness, a bombed city

that refuses to perish.

 

Thor Sørheim: 'Ikke til troende'


 

NOT TO BELIEVERS

 

Moses listened, and all he wrote down

was not what he heard, but that he was

never closer to a glimpse of god

than the voice in the cloud on the mountain top.

 

Since then many have heard – in passing,

in the wind, in streets pulled down

underground by death and the lie

of a just war – the vulnerable aspect

of revelation, the breath in the alphabet

from voices without arguments, voices

with a rhythm they have experienced as truth.

 

Thor Sørheim: 'Gjennom klova'

 


THROUGH THE GORGE

 

It was not the deep, narrow path

between the rockfaces or the fear

of meeting a snake I remember best.

 

It was not the view at the mouth

of the pine-tree bay, the waves that climbed up

and down the poles of the jetty and the blue van

placed as if by chance under the blackthorn bush

white with blossom. What I remember best

 

is the tall, slender deciduous trees

which through the entire gorge pressed themselves

flat against the rock to create the greatest possible

space for the light that slowly streamed

towards me from the other side.

 

Thor Sørheim: 'I forkant av forfallet'

 


ONE STEP AHEAD OF DECAY

 

The stinging nettles have surrounded the letterbox,

the aspens tremble on the verandah floor,

the roof tiles gape around the chimney, the door-latch

points limply at the mat, the floorboards give way with

lethargic creaks, the putty falls out in chunks, the wallpaper

loosens along the skirting boards, tubs, bowls and saucepans

collect water that drips from ceiling and taps,

rooms have been locked off in stages, the wallpaper is rotting,

damp stains like skulls are coming into view

on the walls, an ant-hill is trying to establish itself

in front of the fireplace, it is frightening to recall

that the former owners suffered a completely natural death.

 

Sunday 27 February 2022

Thor Sørheim: 'Magmatisk'


 

MAGMATIC

 

If we were able to observe the planet Earth

from innermost to outermost, we would see it resembles

an old gas lamp travelling through infinite darkness,

protected only by a thin mantle, fragile as an eggshell.

 

If we could penetrate to the exterior

of our comprehension, we would understand that it is

double-dealing, held fast in the course of the sun,

but with an incandescent longing to burn itself out.

 

Thor Sørheim: 'Misunnelsesverdig'

 


ENVIABLE

 

Ever since the first cries were heard on the earth

we have had a finger in the pie. We drew the heads

of oxen in the caves before aiming at their hearts, grasped

the plough firmly and felt the forces we could harness

when we stuck our palm into cascading water. The wheel

rolled along with the terrain, we studied the ice that split

rock and the atoms that smashed reason. We taught ourselves

mastery of fire, earth and air, and send scouts out 

on missions behind the rim of our own atmosphere.

We encompass the whole universe, but have never gained

a satisfactory explanation as to why fish chose

to live in the sea.

 

Thor Sørheim: 'Skyve noe til siden'

 

TO PUSH SOMETHING ASIDE

 

I brush breadcrumbs off the breakfast table,

randomly, like a thought that surfaces

and disappears. It will take some time to fill the floor,

we’re only at the beginning of the history

that will become visible, and a light sweep

of the hand is enough to push something aside.

 

All we have swept under the carpet and brought in

wearing our boots will be collected together

and discarded. I look out the window at a lawn,

and know that just a spit beneath it lies the clay

as protection against a thousand-year history below

of sand and scraps that can be pushed aside.

 

We can always delve deeper into matter by looking 

at computer screens, housing estates and a glittering

sea shivering with early morning cold. When we sail

on a membrane among granite rocks that resemble

well-turned catches on a large window, with a deeper insight,

we often, imperceptibly easily, choose to push everything aside.

 

 

Saturday 26 February 2022

Thor Sørheim: 'Å elte en deig'


 

KNEADING DOUGH

 

Kneading dough is feeling the wind

that makes a field surge like the sea.

Is walking along a shore that is washed

by breakers, unceasingly. A breath

of something that’s larger than life.

 

Kneading dough is taking nature

in one’s own hands, the soft and the supple

that blends and starts to stiffen. A force

that requires a fist brought down hard. From time

to time the world needs turning inside out.

 

Kneading dough is creating

a globe that rotates inside a blue drum,

as in a subway where heads bob

around and bodies collide. All must touch

everything else for the dough to cohere.

 

Kneading dough is snatching

a piece of life from god’s finger,

and feeling how happiness, fear

and the awful second the world stands still

give rise to a hope of a scent after death.

 

 

Gerrit Kouwenaar: 'stilleven'

 



stilleben


En vinter tidligt stået op, du milde, hvor ærligt

medfølende og hæslig er denne fødsel, hud

mellem inden- og udenfor, skum mellem igår

og senere, man barberer sin egen far


når man laver thee taber man glasset, når man drikker

bliver sukkeret bittert, man tager et brusebad, koger et æg

poserer for dagslyset, stilleben med den spisende


nu, aften, man har gemt skårene, lykke

er ikke til at udstå, blyanten stokdøv, til og med

blækket skal skrives om, trægt murrer værkets

hast dengang man stadigvæk levde –


Friday 25 February 2022

Gerrit Kouwenaar: 'terwijl men tafelt'

 



mens man sidder til bords


Mens man sidder til bords bliver de døde stadig mere døde

ligesom denne side fodrer sig selv med sine ord


den ene arver kniven, den anden skeden

den ene spiser sit kød, den anden sine guder


for mange liv siden var der en morgen

man hørte fuglene, man var ikke født


det vil ikke nytte noget, det er ikke til at undgå

en aften som denne, den fuldkommen bestående


bordet det hvide læsset med lokkemad

og at man er udødelig og skal dø –


Thursday 24 February 2022

Gerrit Kouwenaar: 'sleutel'

 


nøgle


Hvis du taber din nøgle led først

i din egen dørlås, hvis du skal dø

giv din plante lidt mere vand, bank ikke

efter regn på det sænkede loft, lav noget


digte skal ikke trøste, siger jeg

alligevel endnu en gang i det som af og til virkelig

begynder at ligne en fuldvoksen stilstand


hænderne foldet over det arvelige bestik, brød

og kødpålæg står klar, men ikke et eneste ord

der ligger ret i munden, og hvor mager appetitten

at spise er at leve


altså først skal tavsheden lige forgyldes lidt

noget tomrum indtages, skumringen beboes

og en af dem tændes, for de døde –


Hjalmar Gullberg: 'Strandtistel'

 


Strandtistel

 

Här i en rymd av blonda evigheter

träffas vi åter, nära havets svall. 

Skolpojkens fynd bland florans rariteter,

brusten i växtpress, rostad som metall!

 

Solfjädrar liknar dina blad med nålar,

blågröna fat med blombuketter i,

taggiga stjärnor, bronskärl, offerskålar,

fyllda av dagg då natten är förbi.

 

Fram tågar gässen av den skånska stammen

dagligen för att stoppa buken full.

Fårhjorden kommer med de muntra lammen.

Ingen dig rör för dina taggars skull.

 

Strandtistel, du som låter vinden storma

utan att ryckas med och brytas av,

lär mig att vara sällsynt och att forma

stjärnor på gränsen mellan jord och hav!

 

 

Sea holly

 

Here in a vastness of blond endlessnesses

we meet once more, close to the sea’s soft surge.

The schoolboy’s find midst flora’s rare addresses,

broken in plant press, metal’s rust as scourge!

 

Your spiky leaves resemble fan-blade petals,

bluish-green vases that encase bouquets,

prickly stars, sacrificial bowls, bronze vessels,

brimming with dew when night has had its say.

 

Geese of the Scanian clan come in processions

each day to fill their bellies to the brim.

The sheep too with their lambs’ gay indiscretions.

But you remain untouched, your spikes are grim.

 

Sea holly, tackling storm winds unabating

with roots unyielding, like some steadfast tree,

teach me to be uncommon, be creating

stars on the boundary twixt earth and sea!


Wednesday 23 February 2022

Gerrit Kouwenaar: 'Muziek voor het slapen gaan'



musik før man sover ind


Der var musik på da hun fandt ham

det som spilledes havde hun senere glemt, havde hun

lagt af, dækket til eller slugt med hans liv


hun håbede på at det havde været strawberries

en sødrød nynnen i en køligere højde

og ikke den niende lille om og om igen

ufuldendt for altid


men helst det stykke med denne flygtende fugl

der aldrig kunne svare på hvor den var på vej hen

og kunne hvile ud, bosætte sig under sine fjer –


Tuesday 22 February 2022

Hjalmar Gullberg: 'Janusanletet'

 


  

 

Janusanletet

 

Jag följer den vanliga lunken,

jag tjänar om dagen mitt bröd.

Mot natt är jag ofta försjunken

i samtal med ofödd och död.

 

Besvikelsens frätande syra

har räckts åt min törstiga mun.

Men hemligt läska mig dyra

essenser ur drömmarnas brunn.

 

Förlåt, att jag aldrig har kunnat

välsigna din gåva, o liv!

En värld som ej finns har förunnat

mig ljuvare tidsfördriv.

 

När ofödda ord i mig stöna

och hjärtat har feberskräck,

ger drömmen mig svalka i gröna

bersåer med lummig häck.

 

Men pennan mot papperet raspar

och orden bli stelnat bläck, 

som handla om vindsus i aspar,

om sländor vid porlande bäck ...

 

 

The Janus visage

 

The common routine is my station,

I spend my days earning my bread,

though nights more in deep conversation

with both the unborn and the dead.

 

The acid of dashed expectations

my parched lips has sought to have cursed;

in secret, though, precious libations

from dreams’ wondrous well slaked my thirst.

 

Forgive me, I’ve never been able

to bless you, o life, for your gift!

I’ve found in a world that’s a fable

a pastime that more suits my drift.

 

When words still unborn moan for hours,

my feverish heart fills with dread,

the dream gives me coolness in bowers

of green leafy hedges instead.

 

But pen against paper is rasping

and words turn to dry ink in books

which deal with winds soughing in aspens

and dragonflies by purling brooks.

 


Gerrit Kouwenaar: 'als er geen oorlog is'

 



når der ikke er krig


Når der ikke er krig er man tryg, huse

er mere beboelige end grøfter slør asters, kun

hvidt skal spises, kun sort skal fastes


man spiser ujævnt i somre som disse, de døde

afliver sig selv andre steder, gnaver ord

det sneer sultevintre så længe man skal læse kød


man kan alarmere telefonen, fratræde i piller

man kan være uendelig for at mindske sig selv


udenfor på pladserne truer faldende stilhed, indenfor

stadig blidere hårstrygning, ingensteds er der uvejr –


Monday 21 February 2022

Hjalmar Gullberg: 'Gitarren'

 


Gitarren

 

Jag är din farfars instrument.

Min sista sträng är borta.

Vill jag berätta vad som hänt,

så kommer jag till korta.

 

När jag var ung och hade ton

och det i gatan skymde,

låg som familjens nådehjon

jag inte här och skrymde.

 

Då smög din farfar sig åstad

med mig i sina armar.

Man lyddes till vår serenad

bak många fönsterkarmar.

 

Jag var en livlig och gesvind

musikens undersåte.

Nu bor jag ensam på din vind

bland skräp och gammal bråte.

 

 

The guitar

 

I am your grandpa’s instrument.

My one last string is broken.

To tell of my predicament

Needs words that can’t be spoken.

 

When my fine tone sang tunefully

and dusk came slowly sidling,

I did not out of charity

lie taking space here idling.

 

For then your grandpa roamed abroad,

me in his arms embracing.

Our serenades were much encored

behind each window casing.

 

With music as my king, my tone

was lively, not a mutter.

Now in your attic on my own

I live midst junk and clutter.

 

Gerrit Kouwenaar: 'binnen'


 

indeni


Tænk engang alt det du har turdet, eksproprieret

omfavnet, har været, nu sidder du

på vagt ved din seng


du bladrer gennem bogen, rører ved ordene

mistror dit værktøj, guldstøv sangcikader


brødet er forlegent, vil ikke forstene

uret maler mel og ved aldrig sikkert


dybt inde in haven slukkes det yderste indeni

altid disse fugle der vil bygge rede –