Thursday 31 March 2022

Emil Aarestrup: 'Du var den fine Rose'


 

Du var den fine Rose

 

Du var den fine Rose,

Blegrød i Sommerluften,

Og jeg var Atmosphæren,

Som fyldte sig med Duften.

 

 

You were the rose in flower

 

You were the rose in flower,

Pale-red in summer’s radiance,

And I the air around you

Imbibing all its fragrance.

 

Emil Aarestrup: 'Erkjendelse'


 

ERKJENDELSE

 

At ikke jeg forlængst har hængt mig

Om hendes Hals, om hendes Knæ,

Og i mit Raserie har vovet -

Ja, hun maa troe, jeg er af Træ.

 

Men det er jeg paa ingen Maade;

O, gid jeg bare var af Træ!

Men, jeg er lidt moralsk, lidt dydig,

Og derfor egentlig et Fæ.

 

 

ADMISSION

 

That long ago my arms have never

Around her neck or knees been thrown,

Despite my turmoil nought’s been ventured -

Yes, she must think I’m made of stone.

 

Yet quite the opposite describes me;

Oh, were I only made of stone!

But I’m straight-laced, a trifle prudish,

A stupid ass if it be known.

 

J.C. Bloem 'Dichterschap'


Dichterschap

 

Is dit genoeg: een stuk of wat gedichten,

Voor de rechtvaardiging van een bestaan,

In 't slecht vervullen van onnoozle plichten

Om den te karigen brode allengs verdaan ?

 

En hierom zijn der op een doel gerichten

Bevredigende dagen mij ontgaan;

Hierom blijft mij slechts zelf en lot betichten

In zicht van' t eind der onherkeerbre baan.

 

Van al de dingen, die 'k in dromen zocht-

Erger: van alle, die ik wèl vermocht,

Is, nu hun tijd voorbij is, niets geworden.

 

En ik kan zelfs niet, als mijn onbevreesd

Erkennen mij verwijst naar de verdorden,

Aanvoeren: maar mijn bloei is schoon geweest.

 

 

Poethood

 

Is this enough: a smattering of verses,

To justify existence on this earth,

In just fulfilling mindless duties’ curses

For long since frittered bread in constant dearth?

 

Because of this would days of satisfaction

And purposefulness often pass me by;

Thus too I’ve but myself and fate to question

Now, irreversibly, my end is nigh. 

 

Of all the things that I in dreams have sought

Worse than that: all which finally were caught,

Now that their time is past, nothing remains.

 

Not even when self-knowledge fearlessly

Consigns me to the wilted can I claim

In my defence: but I bloomed peerlessly.


Wednesday 30 March 2022

Willem Kloos (1859-1938): 'Ik ween om bloemen'


 

Ik ween om bloemen in de knop gebroken

En vóór den uchtend van haar bloei vergaan,

Ik ween om liefde die niet is ontloken,

En om mijn harte dat niet werd verstaan.

 

Gij kwaamt, en 'k wist -- gij zijt weer heengegaan...

Ik heb het nauw gezien, geen woord gesproken:

Ik zat weer roerloos nà die korten waan

In de eeuwge schaduw van mijn smart gedoken:

 

Zo als een vogel in den stillen nacht

Op ééns ontwaakt, omdat de hemel gloeit,

En denkt, 't is dag, en heft het kopje en fluit,

 

Maar eer 't zijn vaakrige oogjes gans ontsluit,

Is het weer donker, en slechts droevig vloeit

Door 't sluimerend geblaarte een zwakke klacht.

 

 

I weep at flowers in bud whose stems have snapped

And just before their blossoming must die,

I weep should love’s fine bloom remain untapped

And at my heart that cannot fathom why.

 

You came, I knew – but after that you left …

I scarcely caught a glimpse, no word did say:

Once more sat motionless, so soon bereft,

To endless shadows of my pain a prey.

 

Just like a bird which wakens suddenly 

In night’s deep silence since the sky’s a-glow

And thinks it’s daytime, lifts its head and trills,

 

But well before some light its keen eye fills,

The darkness has returned, and but a low

Complaint through drowsing leaves drifts woefully.

 

Tuesday 29 March 2022

Willem Kloos: 'Avond'



Avond

 

Nauw zichtbaar wiegen op een lichten zucht

De witte bloesems in de scheemring -- ziet,

Hoe langs mijn venster nog, met ras gerucht,

Een enkele al te late vogel vliedt.

 

En ver, daar ginds, die zachtgekleurde lucht

Als perlemoer, waar ied're tint vervliet

In teêrheid... Rust -- o, wondervreemd genucht!

Want alles is bij dag zó innig niet.

 

Alle geluid dat nog van verre sprak,

Verstierf -- de wind, de wolken, alles gaat

Al zachter en zachter -- álles wordt zo stil...

 

En ik weet niet, hoe thans dit hart, zo zwak,

Dat al zó moê is, altijd luider slaat,

Altijd maar luider, en niet rusten wil.

 

Evening

 

Scarce visible upon a light sigh sway

In growing twilight the white blossoms – see,

How past my window still, at end of day,

One far too late bird flits unhurriedly.

 

And there, far off, sky’s softly coloured light

With pearl-like lustre where in tenderness

Each tint dissolves… o rest, unreal delight!

For all in daytime lacks such ferventness.

 

All far-off sounds that still had not expired

Are gone – the wind, the clouds, already all

Grows ever quieter, all with calm is blessed…

 

I fail to grasp how now this heart, so tired,

So weak already, loudly starts to call,

Ever more loudly, and will seek no rest. 





Monday 28 March 2022

Leo Vroman: 'Spleen'

 


SPLEEN

 

Ik zit mij voor het vensterglas

onnoemelijk te vervelen.

Ik wou dat ik twee hondjes was

dan kon ik samen spelen.

 

 

 

SPLEEN

 

I sit down at the window pane

completely bored as ever.

I wish I was two dogs in vain

so we could play together.



Friday 25 March 2022

ars amandi

ars amandi – 1. en hund

 

man skal lære sin hund at kende

problemet er

de dør alt for hurtigt

 

min nuværende

er ikke den samme hund

som den foregående

 

det gør ikke noget

siger den nuværende

efter det du siger

er du ikke

det samme menneske

 

 

ars amandi – 1. a dog

 

you must get to know your dog

the problem is

they die far too quickly

 

my present one

is not the same dog

as the previous one

 

that doesn’t matter

says the present one

based on what you say

you are not

the same person either

 

 

Wednesday 23 March 2022

Ludvig Holstein: 'I solen går jeg bag min plov'

 


Sang bag ploven

 

I solen går jeg bag min plov.

Jeg nikker til den grønne skov,

Hvor du, min lykke, gemmer dig.

Mit hjerte ler og gemmer sig

Og gemmer sin lyksalighed

Til sol går ned, til sol går ned.

 

Min lykke vågner ung og ny

Som lærkesang ved morgengry.

Hver aftenstund den smykker sig.

Men kun for mig du smykker dig.

Og nætternes lyksalighed

Er dagens gyldne hemlighed.

 

Jeg pløjer op det gode muld.

Men ingen ser det gyldne guld,

Som i mit hjerte gemmer sig.

Jeg gemmer mig, jeg gemmer dig,

Jeg gemmer vor lyksalighed

Til sol går ned, til sol går ned.

 

 

Song behind the plough

 

In sun’s warm glow I plough the land,

I greet the trees as green they stand,

where you, my joy, are hiding still.

My heart’s full glad and hides as well

And hides its bliss from everyone

Till setting sun, till setting sun.

 

My joy awakens young and new

Like lark-song in the dawn’s pale blue.

Each evening it adorns itself.

You though for me adorn yourself.

And all the bliss of every night

Is daytime’s secret golden-bright.

 

I plough the rich earth, turn each fold,

But no one sees the golden gold

That hidden in my heart does dwell.

I hide myself, you hide yourself,

I hide my bliss from everyone

Till setting sun, till setting sun. 

 

 

Sunday 20 March 2022

Ingeborg Bachmann: 'Nach dieser Sintflut'

 


Nach dieser Sintflut

 

Nach dieser Sintflut

möchte ich die Taube,

und nichts als die Taube,

noch einmal gerettet sehn.

 

Ich ginge ja unter in diesem Meer!

flög' sie nicht aus,

brächte sie nicht

in letzter Stunde das Blatt.

 

 

After this Flood

 

After this Flood

I’d like  to see the dove,

and nothing but the dove

saved one more time

 

For I would go under in this sea!

were it not to fly out,

not at the last instant

come bearing the leaf.

Saturday 19 March 2022

Thor Sørheim: 'Tidtakeren'



Tidtakeren

 

Den store tidtakeren trykket rutinert

på knappen da Big Bang lyste opp i det store

tomrommet, og siden har klokka tikket trofast

runde for runde gjennom millioner av år og galakser.

Den store tidtakeren har alt under kontroll, tida tar alle ting

for gitt, jordas roterende bane rundt ei brennende sol

blir notert i faste og skiftende intervaller. En gammel venn

som hilser på deg i en travel handlegate sier, nei, nå

er det lenge siden, og tidtakeren kan gi et nøyaktig svar.

Det er ingen grunn til å legge skjul på at det har vært

kriser undervegs, dinosaurenes undergang og bienes slavekår,

imperier har gått under av overmot, mennesker er blitt

jagd på flukt av lovlig valgte tyranner. Kortene blir stokket

om og en forstokket utgave er automatisk en ny utgave,

selv om innholdet er det samme. Tidtakeren lar seg

ikke distrahere, for ham finnes ingen framtid, bare

et øyeblikk hvor han skal stanse klokka, og resten

av historien, regner han med, blir avgjort etter fotofinish.

 

The Timekeeper

 

The great timekeeper competently pressed

the button when the Big Bang lit up the huge

voids of space, since when the clock has faithfully ticked

round by round for millions of years and galaxies.

The great timekeeper has all under control, time takes everything

for granted, the earth’s orbit round a burning sun

is noted in fixed and changing intervals. An old friend

who greets you on a busy shopping street says, no, how

long ago is it now, and the timekeeper can give an exact answer.

There is no point in concealing the fact that there have been

crises en route, the dinosaurs’ extinction and the bees’ slavery,

empires have fallen because of hubris, people have been

put to flight by legally elected tyrants. The cards have been

reshuffled and a die-hard version is automatically a new one,

although the content is the same. The timekeeper does not

let himself be distracted, for him there is no future time, only

a moment when he must stop the clock, and the rest

of history, he assumes, will be decided by a photo-finish.

 

Evert Taube: 'Morgonsång på Baggensfjärden'



Morgonsång på Baggensfjärden

 

Nu ristes gren och skälver löv,

Nu kommer bris, nu kommer bris!

Emellan böjda trän vi skymta Baggensfjärden

Nu knarra blockar, sträckas tåg

I morgondis, i morgondis

Jungfrulig, daggbestänkt, uppväckt ur dvala världen

 

Sin famn av ås vid ås,

Sitt sköt av hav vid hav

Mot himlen öppnar –

Böljans djupa grav är ännu dystert mörk

Men ytan glimmar

I solens glada ljus

Fiskmåsen simmar i snövit skrud

Mot strand i dunkel sänkt

 

Men bortom mörknad ås

Går, guldbestänkt, i ljusnad rymd

En här av moln som jagas av okänd vind

Mot okänd ort

Det dagas

 

 

Morning song at Baggensfjärden

 

Now leaves are rustling, branches shake

Now comes a breeze, now comes a breeze!

We catch between bent trees a glimpse of Baggensfjärden

Now rocks are creaking, rushes stretched

In morning mist, in morning mist

So pristine, dredged in dew, aroused from worldly slumber

 

Its arms by ridge on ridge,

Its lap by sea on sea

Now skywards open –

Sinister and dark is still the wave’s deep grave 

The surface gleams though

In sun’s bright joyous light

The sea-gull swims in its snow-white garb

Towards the dusky shore

 

But past the darkened ridge,

Now dredged in gold, in lightened space

A host of clouds is hustled by unknown wind

To place unknown:

It’s daybreak

 

Thursday 17 March 2022

R.M. Rilke: Sonnets to Orpheus (XIII)


(XIII)

 

Sei allem Abschied voran, als wäre er hinter

dir, wie der Winter, der eben geht.

Denn unter Wintern ist einer so endlos Winter,

daß, überwinternd, dein Herz überhaupt übersteht.

 

Sei immer tot in Eurydike -, singender steige,

preisender steige zurück in den reinen Bezug.

Hier, unter Schwindenden, sei, im Reiche der Neige,

sei ein klingendes Glas, das sich im Klang schon zerschlug.

 

Sei - und wisse zugleich des Nicht-Seins Bedingung,

den unendlichen Grund deiner innigen Schwingung,

daß du sie völlig vollziehst dieses einzige Mal.

 

Zu dem gebrauchten sowohl, wie zum dumpfen und stummen

Vorrat der vollen Natur, den unsäglichen Summen,

zähle dich jubelnd hinzu und vernichte die Zahl.

 

 

(XIII)

 

Be in advance of each parting, as if unbending

past, like the winter that soon is gone.

For among winters exists one so without ending

that, if well-wintered, despite all your heart will live on.

 

Be ever dead in Eurydice –, sing while ascending

praise while descending into what’s sheer in its ground.

Here, midst the dwindling, be, in the death that’s impending,

be a clear-ringing glass turned to shards in mid-sound.

 

Be – and know the condition of being’s negation,

the quite infinite source of your own oscillation, 

that you completely fulfil this in one single phase.

 

To what’s been used up and likewise the dull and the numbing

bounty of nature’s great hoard, the unspeakable humming,

joyfully reckon yourself, and that number erase.