Lennart Sjögren: 'I lövfällningen'

 

In the leaf-shedding season

 

In the leaf-shedding season

it is

as if what was low becomes higher

and what was sound

becomes silence

the migrant birds that have arrived belatedly

are in for an uncertain winter.

 

It sometimes happens that children

born in the spring

have already shrunk into old people.

They hold out their hands

as if they had been condemned

to become joyless beggars.

Yes

even the sails

now approaching harbours

resemble overripe fruit.

 

Among the remains of

the gutted house

after this summer’s last thunderstorm

the old man living there holds up

a refound nail

in front of his face.

 

And it is as if leaves and beggars

and the children and the very old

were engaged in some other conversation.

 

Lennart Sjögren: 'Angående två målningar'

 

Regarding two paintings

 

 

I

 

In pictures by Cranach the Elder

one often sees animals being hunted by hounds

over precipices.

They fall into the river, they break legs

and skulls.

The hounds go on barking

and the huntsmen ruddy-cheeked

fill their bellies

forcing in even more food.

 

In the background white-hued women are waiting

hunting horns are heard in the air

daggers are kept hidden in folds of clothing

or pointed at hearts.

 

 

II

 

In this painting by Brueghel the Elder

Saul commits suicide

he is surrounded by a forest of lances,

but he is alone with his open breast

into which he now thrusts the blade.

 

It is dark

the glaze maintains its wall

between us and the one now dying.

It is a matter of urgency for us

that such dreams exist

urgent that between us and what is more onerous

there is a silence of varnish

which says:

 

do not worry

you are not Saul, you are not the stags

you are not the lance or

the restless horses.

I exist between you

and what is onerous

that is why the art of painting

in this century is still possible.

  

Lennart Sjögren: 'Fågelkvinnan'

 

The bird-woman

 

A woman with a bird’s mouth

becomes visible

she smiles like nightjars commonly do.

And those who are afraid

of life

go on fearing

and those who play go on playing.

And those who hush

and always look away

go on doing so.

But

the bird-woman herself steps aside

and says

with this inimitable smile of hers

completely devoid of sympathy

like the consolation of forest and water:

You

perhaps believe that I am death

which of course I am not

and I am not life either.

I

am a hybrid creature

my claws I latch onto the dead

my beak is turned toward the living

in the forest I fly off

to those unborn.

Like you

and the others I drink water

and exist on berries and creatures smaller than myself.

In that

which is underground I seek sleep

but sleep is not given me.

My mouth

that smiles – that is how I was created.

And just as little as I know

what life or death carry in their folds

when they like owls

see me through the darkness

do I know what my smile means.

 

 

(The nocturnal nightjar is a wide-mouthed, insect-eating summer visitor to moors and forests.)

Lennart Sjögren: 'Grodan'

 

Grodan

 

Att söka sig till avskilda platser

i landskapet eller i själen

är lika förrädiskt

som de kinesiskt lärde

de som trodde sig veta Taos väg.

 

Det leder till grinighet

till föreställningen om kejsarens värde

och sist till inbilskhet.

 

Bättre är då att lyssna till åskan

och se blixtarna som så snabbt kan ödelägga

ett helt liv.

 

Skatan har min ynnest

liksom de undrande mössen framför fällan

 

men mest grodan

hon som bara glor och glor

hon i det nedersta kalla

som en kort stund kväker till månen

innan vägarna tar hennes liv.

 

 

The frog

 

To search for secluded places

in the landscape or the soul

is just as treacherous

as the Chinese scholars

those convinced they knew the path of Tao.

 

It leads to fractiousness

to the notion of the emperor’s value

and ultimately to arrogance

 

It is better then to listen to thunder

and gaze at lightning that so swiftly can destroy

an entire life.

 

I favour the magpie

as well as the wondering mice before the trap

 

But most of all the frog

that just stares and stares

down in the profoundest cold

that croaks briefly at the moon

before the paths take its life.

 

 

Lennart Sjögren: 'Lungan'

 

The lung

 

A lung lies on an islet

or rather on a tussock

in the smallish lake

and all around is forest

that is never-ending.

 

It seems to be still breathing

It says: look, I’m alive!

 

It has been removed from something that was

larger

from anything that existed in the sphere

of either animals or humans.

 

The birds here fly low and obliquely

they glide towards the surface of the water

but finally shy away.

No, no end is there to the forests

and the towns spread out like fish roe

in all that resembles congealed water.

The railway tracks unfurl their meanders

as if life was nothing else

than constant farewells and returns.

 

To be part of this travelling

which is an inward journey

and the lung that still lies there

in the small lake

and is scarcely visibly breathing.

 

As evening draws near it shimmers like opal

little remains of its light shade of pink.

It could be from a human being

that left its body

before dissection took place.

But it is more likely

that it derives from some everyday poaching

now before winter

now before the thin and hazardous ice.

 

*

 

As night falls the signposts disappear

only the lung indicates the way.

 

Older than any legend

although just recently excised

it tells you who you are,

and your embarrassment subsides

when you have listened long enough

And your face (that which you regarded as yours)

becomes increasingly erased in the twilight.

And

when it

says about itself: I was once two

the one half was taken away or eaten up

and actually died after a long loss of blood

I was borne by strong bird’s claws

to this lake

the death took place elsewhere

even so I say: look, I’m alive.

Give me a hand,

one chopped off or a live one

so that I have something to hold onto

when from this place I now

descend towards what lies deeper.

 

*

 

The nights and the value they can have

To say one thing and mean something else.

Which

is the harder and more desirable art

that of telling the truth or of lying

Which is it harder to retain

to die for and to live for.

 

If what the lung now says

that it was borne here by claws

then one’s conception of an act committed

on the spot becomes invalid

and the forest becomes even deeper.

And if it furthermore says

that it is alive

although it is not.

While what is waterlogged

continues to rise through the layers of clay

and while far off

cargo vessels and small yachts run aground

in sudden storms on other coasts

and while

the birds in here continue to fly

obliquely over the fen

because their eyes sense

as yet undiscovered traps

the lung starts to lose

its increasingly opal-tinted membrane.

It descends

emptied of blood.

 

But what one believed

was its illness

was instead a bath on the bed of the lake

and what one believed was a lie

crawled like a white slug

ever closer to the truth.

– But it was some other truth

some other attitude

that was thus revealed.

 

And yet it talked about a life.

 

Marie Dauguet: 'C'est l'aube et c'est l'hiver'

 

C’est l’aube et c’est l’hiver

 

C’est l’aube et c’est l'hiver; dans les grises ténèbres,

C’est le spectral éveil des bois, des eaux funèbres;

Très vague, on aperçoit, que le brouillard confond,

Le marais miroiter, couleur d’ambre et de plomb.

 

Des vols noirs vont errants en la nuit qu’ils célèbrent;

Sur les vieux rouvres secs aux noueuses vertèbres

Se posent croassant. Mais pourtant tout au fond

Du ciel glauque et fangeux que Décembre corrompt,

 

Une vague lueur – à peine on la devine –

S’efforçant à percer sa gangue de bruine,

Moire le vol claquant des oiseaux stymphalides;

 

Et voici qu’au lointain, dont reculent les bornes,

S’ouvre un essor plus doux, vainqueur de l’ombre morne,

Le jour, papillon d’or, brise sa chrysalide.

 

 

It’s winter and it’s dawn

 

It’s winter and it’s dawn; and in grey shadows’ blur

Woods and mournful waters like spectres start to stir;

One glimpses only vaguely, by thick fog misled,

Reflections from the marsh – amber and shades of lead.

 

Black flights of birds roam in the night they celebrate;

In old, dry oak trees with gnarled joints they land and wait,

While croaking raucously. Yet, from the very base

Of grim and miry skies December would deface,

 

A hazy gleam, so faint it hardly can be seen,

As it attempts to pierce its shrouding mist’s dull sheen,

Ripples Stymphalian birds one otherwise could miss;

 

And in the distance, where the boundaries recede,

A gentler soaring starts, shade’s conqueror is freed –

Gold butterfly, the day bursts from its chrysalis.

 

 

Jeppe Aakjær: 'Da man skød Trofast'

 

Da man skød Trofast

 

Saa er du død, min laadne Ven,

skudt ned paa maa og faa;

dit Morgenbjæf, dit Aftenskjænd

det svarer aldrig mer igjen

mod Hjemmets Mure graa.

 

Naar jeg fra Staden vendte hjem

den lange, lange Vej,

og jeg fik Døren lidt paa Klem,

fik hilst paa Mor, fik Skjæmten frem,

jeg spurgte efter dig.

 

Og sprang du over Tærsklen ind

med Glædeshyl og -Hop,

og klapped jeg dit gule Skind,

da først kom i mit rørte Sind

den rette Stemning op.

 

Da saa jeg, Hjemmet var som før,

i Mindet ingen Mist,

fra Klinken i den brune Dør

indtil dit laadne Skinds Kulør

var alting just som sidst.

 

Men nu er det en anden Sag,

for nu er du jo skudt;

nu har du haft din Dommedag,

din Pande har man sprængt i Kvag

med Rævehagl og Krudt.

 

Ak, at jeg ej kan hjælpe dig,

at tavs er nu din Mund!

Du logrer aldrig mer for mig,

din Dom den appelleres ej,

du var jo kun en Hund.

 

Men jeg vil sukke næste Aar

og mærke Mindets Brist,

naar jeg paa Hjemmets Tærskel staar

og sér, at i den gamle Gaard

er alt ej helt som sidst.

 

 

Kjbh. 17/9 1895.

 

When Trusty was shot

 

So now you’re dead, my shaggy friend,

at random killed one day;

your bark at dawn, growl at day’s end

will never echo out again

against home’s walls of grey.

 

When homeward I from town set out

along that long, long track, 

I’d, door ajar, to mother mouth

a greeting, joke a bit, then shout

for you now I was back.

 

And o’er the threshold you would rush

with joyous howls and bounds,

your golden coat my hand would brush

and only then my mind would hush

and peace of mind be found.

 

I’d see then home was as before,

my memory like glass,

from worn latch in the dark-brown door

to shade of the thick coat you wore,

all was as it was last.

 

All’s different now, the past is barred,

for now you have been shot;

you’ve met your Maker, like as not,

with powder and with coarse buckshot

your skull’s been blown apart.

 

Ah, I can’t help you, all help’s blocked,

your mouth can speak no plea!

Your tail will wag no more for me

your sentence knows no clemency –

for you were just a dog.

 

I though will sigh aloud next year

note memory’s great lack,

when on the threshold I stand here

and see the old farm can’t appear

again as once way back.

 

 

Copenhagen 17/9 1895

 

Jeppe Aakjær: 'Jeg er født på Jyllands sletter'

 

Jeg er født på Jyllands sletter,

dér hvor lam af lyngen nipper,

dér hvor hvergarnsklædt og liden

moder tørred sine stripper.

 

Helst jeg mindes sommerkvælden,

når de tunge stjerner tændtes,

medens under portens mørke

stud og hors af selen spændtes.

 

Rugen stod mod lervægsgavlen,

bøjet svagt af junidræet,

duggen faldt på gøgens vinge,

hvor han gol i hyldetræet.

 

Koen stod med reb om øret

ved en frønnet vognkæp bunden,

med en kat på hver sin side

og med drøvets drevl af munden.

 

Inde var kun lavt til loftet,

månen kasted lys i stuen,

bedstefar i lædertrøjen

stavred om ved skorstensgruen.

 

Mor gled ind ad frammesdøren,

slæbende på malkespanden,

snart har koens varme drikke

fyldt hver barnekop til randen.

 

Far kom kroget ind fra stalden,

hængte trøjen op ved bjælken,

spiste tavs, indtil han sagde:

Lad os takke Gud for mælken.

 

Bad vi da i lys fra månen,

som kun børn og bønder beder,

medens tunge stjerner tændtes

over brede, tavse heder.

 

I was born on Jutland’s heathland

where lambs nibble from the heather,

where my coarse-clad mother dried her

milk pails in all kinds of weather.

 

I recall those summer evenings

heavy stars, new-lit, skies garnished,

while within the gateway’s darkness

steers and horses were unharnessed.

 

Rye stood up against clay gables

from June’s blossom slightly sprawling,

on the cuckoo’s wings the dew fell

when from elders it kept calling.

 

Rope around its ears, the cow stood

tethered to a post now rotting,

with a cat on either side its

chewed cud drooling, almost clotting.

 

Everywhere the home low-ceilinged,

rooms that shafts of moonlight softened,

grandad in his leather jacket

stumbling round the fireplace often.

 

Round the front door mother edging,

her now laden bucket towing,

soon the cow’s warm milk was filling

each child’s cup to overflowing.

 

From the stable father lumbered,

jacket on a beam hung slowly

ate in silence, then repeated:

Thanks for milk to God most Holy.

 

Moon-lit, we then prayed as only

peasant families are able,

while the new-lit heavy stars shone

over silent heathland’s sable.