Wednesday 22 February 2023

Marie Dauguet: 'Musique slave' (revised version)


 

Musique slave

 

C’est le concert doux des voix pleureuses,

Vieux chagrins résignés et tendresses

Que l’on méconnut et la tristesse

Des élans réprimés. Effleureuses

Voix sourdes, pleurez comme les ifs

Embrumés qu’échevèle un vent convulsif.

 

C’est le concert tout en lancinances

Des désirs contraires et la ronde

Des corbeaux et des folles arondes

Par le ciel fleuri d’incohérences:

Rouges pompeux, tristes violets

Dont se mêlent, en accords faux, les reflets.

 

C’est le concert vraiment sans mesures

Des baisers profonds et des morsures;

Le vibrement nerveux des ciguës

Sous l’archet des bises ambiguës

D’avril où reluit un soleil blond

Que voile une averse blême de grêlons.

 

C’est surtout l’écart entre le rêve

Et le réel qui, sans nulle trêve,

Par des accents forcenés s’exprime,

Comme une blessure s’envenime,

Puis éclate enfin en gémissant

Et remplit l’horizon noir d’un flot de sang.

 

 

Slavonic music

 

It’s soft voices in concert that weep,

Old resigned heartaches, each fondness

That one failed to see and the sadness

Of urges repressed. You brushing, deep

Muffled voices, shed tears as do yews,

Misted when convulsive gusts of winds abuse.

 

It’s the concert completely awry

Of conflicting desires and the round

Cawed by crows and mad swallows when found

In a whirled, incoherent tall sky:

Pompous reds, sad mauves without end

Where, in false chords, all their reflections now blend.

 

It’s the concert with no measured pace

One of biting and heavy embrace;

Hemlock’s nervous quivering that grows

Under north winds’ ambiguous bow

In April, where sun’s gleam becomes pale

When veiled in a violent shower of hail.

 

It’s above all the cleft between dream

And the real that no truce will redeem

That’s in furious accents expressed,

Like a wound which germs start to infest

And which groans as it bursts in a flood

And fills the black skyline with red-gushing blood.

 

 

Tuesday 14 February 2023

P.C. Boutens: 'Perelaar'



                PERELAAR

 

De bloesemwitte perelaar

Laait uit de dunne schemering

In vlammende verheerlijking,

Geen boom in bloei meer, maar

 

Een naakte stofontstegen hulk

Omhuifd en overstraald

Met vuren sneeuw ontdaald

Aan blankbestervende avondwolk -

 

Herkent ge uzelf weêrspiegeld, ziel,

Die staat in aardsch geluk ontdaan,

Uw bloed in bloesem opgegaan

Tot dauw die uit den hemel viel?

 

Nog aardewortlend aardevrij,

O glimlach lach- en tranenblind,

Die liefdes wegen open wint

Aan leven en aan dood voorbij...

 

Stil, achter dooven spiegelbrand

Vangt ijmker nacht den dagverloren zwerm

Der sterrebijen aan den hemelberm

In de gekorfde schaduw van zijn hand.

 

 

                PEAR-TREE

 

Through the approaching evening shade

Blazes a pear-tree, blossom-white,

Transfigured in its flaring light,

A tree no more, remade

 

A vessel, whose ethereal shroud

And hood is sequin-cloaked

With fiery snow invoked

From banks of fading evening cloud -

 

Is this a mirror to your eye,

Soul, unconcealed in earthly bliss,

Your soul in rising blossom-mist

As dew descending from on high?

 

Still earthbound, yet from earth released,

Smile that is blind from tears and joy,

Gaining an entrance to love's ways

Past life and death's extremities...

 

Calmly, behind the gutting brand,

Does night the keeper hold at heaven's verge

The swarm of star-bees, lost to daytime search,

Cupped in the hivelike shadow of his hand.

 

 

                PÄRONTRÄD

 

Ett päronträd står vitt i blom,

Blossar nu upp i skymningen,

Fullbordad är förvandlingen:

Trädet förnimmes som

 

Ett naket skepp med dunlätt skrud

Och kåpa övertänd

Av eldsnö återvänd

Från kvällens moln, som suddas ut -

 

Värnlösa själ, av lycka tärd,

Ser du din egen spegelbild,

Ditt blod som stigit blomsterlikt

Dalar som manna från sin färd?

 

Trots sina rötter nästan fri,

Leende blint av skratt och sorg,

Som öppnar kärleksstigens port

Och glider liv och död förbi...

 

Lugnt, bakom facklans matta brand,

Samlar biodlarn natten in sin svärm

Av stjärnbin, glimmande vid himlens bräm,

I kupad skugga av sin välvda hand.

 

 

                PÆRETRÆET

 

Det blomsterhvide pæretræ

Flammer med ét i skumringen,

Fuldbyrdet er forvandlingen:

Træet forandret til

 

Et nøgent skib med fjerlet skrud

Og hætte, overklædt

Med ildsne dalet ned

Fra aftensky, som viskes ud - 

 

Ser du dig selv genspejlet nu,

Værgeløs sjæl i paradis,

Dit blod, der steg som blomsterdis

Og dalede som himmeldug?

 

Trods sine rødder næsten fri,

Smil som er blindt af fryd og sorg,

Som åbner kærlighedens port

Og glider liv og død forbi...

 

Blidt, bagved faklens matte brand,

Fanger nu natten med sin vogterånd

I kuppelskyggen af den hule hånd

Sin stjernebisværm tæt ved himlens rand.

 

 

                DER BIRNBAUM

 

Durch eine leichte Dämmerung

Flammt jetzt in weißer Blütenpracht

Der Birnbaum auf, der, kaum vollbracht,

Aus Baum in Blüte in

 

Ein kahles Schiff verwandelt steht,

Umhüllt und überstrahlt

Von Feuerschnee, genährt

Von einer späten Wolkenschicht -

 

Hast Du Dein Spiegelbild erkannt,

Wehrlose Seele, weich vor Glück,

Dein Blut, das blütenähnlich stieg

Und mannagleich den Heimweg fand?

 

Noch erdverwurzelt erdbefreit,

O Lächeln lach- und tränenblind,

Das nun den Liebesweg gewinnt

An Leben und an Tod vorbei...

 

Still, hinterm fahlen Spiegelbrand,

Fängt Imker Nacht den tagverlornen Schwarm

Der Sternenbienen an dem Himmelsrain

In den gekorbten Schatten seiner Hand.

 

 

                pear-tree

 

spring evening 

white phosphor beads

cling to black branches

a ship

unmoored

 

this time

a shimmering

of transient soul-moths

alighting

or in flight

 

and out of time

a firmament

of star-bees

recovered

by the night


Wednesday 8 February 2023

Hjalmar Gullberg: 'Som ordband'

In manus tuas domine commendo spiritum meum

 

Som ordband

 

Som ordband sirligt utgår med sentenser

på gamla målningar ur lammets mun,

utsmyckning av en lånad text – så glänser

ett monogram av stjärnor i en brunn…

 

Ord ur en mun som inte själv kan tala,

en konst som mer är vädjan och dekor

än konst, är vad jag bjuder: de verbala

resterna av en bildprakt som förgår.

 

 

Like ribboned words

 

Like ribboned words that gracefully in scenes

of scripture from the lamb’s mouth scroll and swell,

adornment of a borrowed text – so gleams

a monogram of stars deep in a well…

 

Words from a mouth without the gift of speech,

an art more décor, more a pleading sigh

than art is what I offer: mumbled, bleached

shreds of a visual splendour born to die.

 

Tuesday 7 February 2023

Dan Andersson: 'Jag har mött min huldra i öknen en gång'


 

Jag har mött min huldra i öknen en gång,

och skall minnas dess röst tills jag dör,

och eländigt jag nynnar min stammande sång

i all skapelsens gränslösa kör.

 


I once met my huldra* in tracts waste and bare,

and her voice will recall till I die,

and my stammering song is both paltry and spare

in creation’s vast chorusing cry.

 

 

*A huldra is a forest spirit that watched over the kilns of

charcoal burners, who left food for her in a special place

 

 

Monday 6 February 2023

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Den flyvende kuffert'

 


The Flying Trunk

 

There was once a merchant who was so rich that he could pave the whole street and almost another small one as well with silver coins, but he didn’t do so: he had a different way of using his money, and if he spent a shilling he would get a florin in return; that was the sort of merchant he was – and then he died.

His son now got all this money, and he led a merry life, went to costume balls every night, made paper dragons out of pound notes and played ducks-and-drakes across the lake with gold coins instead of a flat stone, and off the money could fly, and it did – finally, all he had left was four shillings, and all he had left to wear was a pair of slippers and an old dressing gown. Now his friends were no longer interested in him, since they couldn’t be seen on the street together any more, but one of them, who was kind, sent him an old trunk and said: ‘Start packing!’ well, that was all very well, but he didn’t have anything to pack, so he took a seat in the trunk himself.

It was a queer trunk. As soon as one pressed the lock, the trunk could fly; and it did, in a trice it flew with him up the chimney, high up above the clouds, farther and farther away; the bottom creaked and he was scared that it would fall to pieces, for then he would have turned some quite impressive somersaults! God forbid! and then he came to the land of the Turks. He hid the trunk in the forest under some withered leaves and then went into the city – he was able to do that perfectly well, for among the Turks everyone wore dressing gowns and slippers. There he met a woman who was a nurse for a little child. ‘Tell me, Turkish nurse!’ he said, what is that large castle close to the city – its windows are so high up!’

‘That is where the king’s daughter lives!’ she said, ‘it has been predicted that she will have a most unhappy love affair, so no one is allowed to come to her without the king and queen being there too!’

‘Thank you for telling me!’ the merchant’s son said, and he went back into the forest, sat down in his trunk, flew up onto the roof and crept through the window to the princess.

She was lying asleep on the sofa – she was so beautiful that the merchant’s son couldn’t help kissing her; she woke up and was very frightened, but he said he was the god of the Turks who had come down through the air to her, and she rather liked what she heard.

They then sat next to each other, and he told her stories about her eyes: They were the loveliest, dark lakes, and thoughts swam there like mermaids; and he told her about her forehead: It was a snow-capped mountain with the most magnificent halls and pictures, and he told her about the stork that comes with the sweet little babies.

Yes, they were the loveliest of stories! then he proposed to the princess, and she said yes at once!

‘But you must come here on Saturday,’ she said,’ then the king and queen are here with me to drink tea! they will be very proud that I am marrying the god of the Turks, but make sure you can tell a really fine fairy tale, for my parents are extremely fond of them – my mother likes one that is lofty and has a moral, and my father likes an amusing tale that makes one laugh!’

‘Yes, the only bridal gift I will have with me will be a fairy tale!’ he said, and they parted, but the princess gave him a sabre that was ornamented with gold coins – and that he found particularly useful.

Now he flew off, bought himself a new dressing gown and sat in the forest making up a fairy tale – it had to be ready by Saturday, and that is no easy task.

Then he had it ready, and then came Saturday.

The king, the queen and the whole court were waiting with the princess to drink tea. He was extremely well received! ‘Now would you tell us a fairy tale!’ the queen said, ‘one that is profound and instructive!’

‘But one that can make you laugh!’ the king said.

‘I will indeed!’ he said and started to tell – and one must listen carefully.

“There was once a bundle of matchsticks, they were exceptionally proud of themselves for they were of high birth: their family tree, the tall pine tree they each were a tiny piece of, had been a great old tree in the forest. The matches now lay on the shelf between a tinderbox and an old iron pot, and they told these two about their youth. “Well, before we branched out we were sitting pretty!’ they said. ‘Every morning and evening there was diamond tea – that was the dew – all day long we had sunshine, when the sun shone,  and all the small birds had to tell us stories. We couldn’t help noticing that we were rich as well, for the hardwood trees only wore clothes in the summer, but our family could afford green clothes both summer and winter. But then the woodcutters came – that was the great revolution – and our family was split up: the trunk became a main mast on a magnificent ship that could sail the seven seas, if it wanted to, and the other branches ended up elsewhere, and our job is to provide light for common folk, which is why we of noble ancestry have ended up here in the kitchen.’

‘Well, I have led a different sort of life!’ the iron pot that lay next to the matchsticks said. ‘Ever since I came into the world I’ve been scoured and have cooked many times! I take care of what’s substantial, so I am really number one in the house here. My only pleasure is, when the meal’s over, to lie nice and clean on the shelf and conduct a sensible conversation with my companions; but, with the exception of the water-bucket that occasionally comes down to the garden, we always live indoors. Our only source of news is the market-basket, but it talks so disturbingly about the government and the people; well, recently there was an old pot that fell down out of sheer fright and dashed itself to pieces, what’s more! it’s very liberal, let me tell you!’ –

‘Now you’re talking too much!’ the tinderbox said, and the steel struck the flintstone so the sparks flew. ‘Wasn’t the idea to have a cheerful evening?’

‘Yes, let’s talk about who is finest!’ the matchsticks said.

‘No, I don’t like talking about myself,’ the clay pot said, ‘let’s have some evening entertainment! I’ll start, I’ll tell you about something everyone has experienced that makes it so nice and easy to get the picture, and it is so enjoyable: “Down by the Baltic where the Danish beech trees grow!”’

‘That’s a lovely beginning!’ all the plates said, ‘it’s sure to be a story I like!’

‘Yes, that’s where I spent my youth with a quiet family; the furniture was polished, the floor washed, and clean curtains were hung up every fortnight!’

‘How interestingly you tell the story!’ the feather duster said. ‘One can immediately hear it is a woman who is telling the story – there’s a touch of cleanliness about the whole of it!’

‘Yes, that’s the feeling one gets!’ the water-bucket said, and gave a little jump of joy, so some water sploshed onto the floor. And the pot went on telling, and the end of the story was just as good as the beginning.

All the plates rattled with pleasure, and the feather duster took some green parsley out of the sand-hole and garlanded the pot, for it knew that would annoy the others, and: ‘If I garland her today,’ he thought, ‘she will garland me tomorrow.’

‘Now I want to dance!’ the fire-tongs said, and did so; good heavens, how it could fling one of its legs into the air. The old chair cover in the corner split just by looking at it! ‘May I be garlanded now!’ the fire-tongs asked, and she was.

‘They are just riffraff!’ the matches thought to themselves.

Now the tea urn was to sing, but it had a cold, it said, it couldn’t unless it had come to the boil; but it was out of sheer snobbery – it refused to sing except when it stood on the table where the master and mistress sat.

Over in the window sat an old quill that the maid used to write with; there was nothing remarkable about it, except that it had dipped too deep into the ink-well, but that had made it all high and mighty. ‘If the tea urn won’t sing,’ it said, ‘it doesn’t have to! outside there’s a cage hanging with a nightingale in it, it can sing – it hasn’t learnt anything yet admittedly, but we don’t want to criticise it for that this evening!’

‘I find it highly inappropriate,’ said the tea-kettle, who was a lead-singer in the kitchen and half-sister of the tea urn, ‘that such an alien bird should be heard! Is that patriotic? I will let the market-basket pass judgment!’

‘I am simply vexed,’ the market-basket said, ‘I am as extremely vexed as anyone could imagine! Is this a proper way of spending an evening – wouldn’t it be more correct to tidy up the whole house? Then everything would be in its proper place, and I will keep tabs on the whole lot. That would be something different!’

‘Yes, let’s kick up a shindy!’ they all said. At that moment the door opened. It was the servant maid, and now they stood still, were as quiet as church mice; but there was not a single pot that didn’t know what it could do, and how fine it was; ‘Yes, if I’d had my way,’ they thought, ‘ it would really have been a merry evening!’

The servant-maid took the matches and struck them – goodness gracious, how they sputtered and flared.

‘Now everyone can see,’ they thought, ‘that we are the finest! what a gleam we have! what light!’ – and then they went out.”

‘That was a delightful fairy tale!’ the queen said, ‘I felt I was there myself in the kitchen with the matches, yes, now you shall have our daughter.’

‘Yes, indeed!’ the king said, ‘you shall have our daughter on Monday, my son!’ They called him ‘my son because he was going to be one of the family.

The wedding was now decided on, and the evening before the whole city was illuminated, buns and pastries flew in all directions; the street urchins stood on their toes, shouted hurrah and whistled through their fingers – it was simply marvellous.

‘Well, time for me to make my contribution!’ the merchant’s son thought, and so he bought rockets, toy percussion bombs and all conceivable kinds of fireworks, lay them in his trunk and flew with them high up into the sky.

Woosh, woosh – how it flashed and sparked!

All the Turks leapt in the air, so their slippers flew past their ears – they had never seen the sky lit up like this before. Now they really understood that it was the god of the Turks himself that was to have the princess.

As soon as the merchant’s son had come down into the forest once more, he thought: ‘I really must go into the city even so and hear what sort of an impression it all made!’ and it was fair enough he wanted to do so.

Oh, how eager people were to tell him about it! Every single one he asked had seen it in his or her own way, but all of them had found it most delightful.

‘I saw the god of the Turks himself,’ one of them said, ‘he had eyes like blazing stars and a beard like foaming waters!’

‘He flew in a cloak of fire,’ another one said.  ‘The loveliest small angels peeped out of its folds!’

Yes, he heard the finest things – and the following day he was going to be wed.

He now went back into the forest to sit in his trunk – but where was it? The trunk had been destroyed by fire. A spark from the fireworks had not gone out, it had set the trunk alight and now it was nothing but ashes. He couldn’t fly any more, couldn’t get to his bride.

She stood all the next day up on the roof and waited for him – she is still waiting – but he travels all over the world telling fairy tales, though they are not as cheerful as the one he told about the matchsticks.

 

Saturday 4 February 2023

Verner von Heidenstam: 'Vid vägens slut'


 

Vid vägens slut 

 

Vis, o människa, det blir du först

när du hinner till de aftonsvala

höjders topp, där jorden överskådas.

Konung, vänd dig om vid vägens slut,

vila där en stund och se tillbaka! 

Allt förklaras där och allt försonas,

och din ungdoms riken hägra åter,

strödda än med ljus och morgondagg. 

 

 

At journey’s end

 

Wise, o human, you will not become

until you gain the lofty summit in its

evening calm, the earth spread out below you.

King, then turn around at journey’s end,

rest a while and take a long look backwards!

All will be explained and reconciled there,

and your youthful realms once more will shimmer,

studded still with light and morning dew.