Margriet Westervaarder: 'als gobelins hangt hij de jurken...' (PS 31)

 

 

als gobelins hangt hij de jurken

van zijn moeder aan de muur

 

postuum heeft hij haar lichaam laten tatoeëren

met alle namen die ze hem ooit gaf

 

hij heeft haar doodsmatras

tot donzig bed geklopt

haar parelsnoeren plooit hij zwierig rond zijn heupen

een afgeknipte haarlok tooit zijn borst

 

haar braaksel en haar zweet

plaatst hij onder een stolp in zijn vitrinekast

de tanden die ze op hem brak

laat hij vergulden en tot sieraad maken

 

haar stem is duurzaam bij hem ingeplant

als hij haar klaagzang en bevelen hoort

vult hij het aan met tweede stem

en vraagt om meer

 

hun ingestorte kaartenhuis

wil hij herbouwen in oudroze porselein

hij lispelt binnensmonds

hoe heel aantrekkelijk en vreselijk

 

het was, hoe ze als zwarte kraai

hem 's nachts nog steeds komt pikken

 

hij beeldt zich in dat ze de woorden zegt

die in zijn leegte passen

 

 

 

like tapestries he hangs the coats

that were his mother’s on the wall

 

he’s posthumously had all the names she ever

gave him tattooed on her body

 

he has plumped up her death mattress

into a downy bed

jauntily drapes her pearl necklaces around his hips

a severed lock of hair adorns his chest

 

her vomit and her sweat

he places under cover in his glass cabinet

the teeth which she once broke on him

he has made into gold-plated jewellery

 

her voice is permanently planted in him

when he hears her dirges and commands

he adds to them a second voice

and asks for more

 

her caved-in former house of cards

he will rebuild from old-rose porcelain

under his breath he lisps

just how appealing and yet terrible

 

it was, how she, like some black crow,

would come at night and peck away at him

 

he likes to think she says the words

that fully fit his emptiness

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 31

 

Schack Staffeldt: 'Meine Grabschrift'

 

Meine Grafschrift

 

Ich habe als Mensch gelebt, geliebt und gedichtet,

Als Bürger und Richter geschlichtet und redlich gerichtet.

 

 

My Epitaph

 

As a human I’ve lived and loved and poems perfected; 

As judge and citizen things resolved and others respected.

Emil Aarestrup: 'I Vreden rejste sig hans Hovedhaar som Taarne'

 

 

I Vreden rejste sig hans Hovedhaar som Taarne,

Hans Næse steg, hans Vom, hans Røst sig hæved -

Kun een Ting hang, som altid, paa den Høivelbaarne.

 

 

Such wrath: his hair stood quite on end from the exertion,

His voice, his nose and belly rose together -

But one thing hung, as always, on his noble person.

 

 You can find the three-liner here.

 

 

Schack Staffeldt: 'Til Britterne'

 

 

Til Britterne

 

Krigens Lynild omsonst, o Britter! mod Eder sig tænder,

Thi Neptun om jer Øe, slaaer sin betryggende Favn:

Kun for den lavere Krig med Piil og med Skytte I ræddes,

Mens det larmende Torv, Kræmmere! Valpladsen er.

 

 

To the British

 

In vain, war’s lightning flash – oh British! – you dearly would harrow,

For Neptune in his embrace your isle does firmly shield:

You are but safe from lesser wars and from the marksman’s arrow,

You’ve noisy market squares – Shopkeepers! – as battlefield.

 

(The derogatory term ‘shopkeepers’ for the British is often attributed to Napoleon, but it dates from 11 June 1794 and was made by the French revolutionary Bertrand Barère.)

Jan Kal: 'Mont Ventoux'

 

MONT VENTOUX

 

dichten is fietsen op de Mont Ventoux,

waar Tommy Simpson nog is overleden,

onder zo tragische omstandigheden

werd hier de wereldkampioen doodmoe.

 

op deze col zij velen losgereden,

eerste categorie, sindsdien tabu.

het ruikt naar dennegeur, Sunsilk Shampoo,

die je wel nodig hebt, eenmaal beneden.

 

alles in onuitsprekelijk vermoeiend,

de Mont Ventoux opfietsen wel heel erg,

waarvoor ook geldt: bezint eer gij begint.

 

toch haal ik, ook al is de hitte schroieiend,

de top van deze winderige berg:

ijdelheid en het najagen van wind.

 

(Mont Ventoux, 1 aug. 1971)

 

 

MONT VENTOUX

 

 

writing verse is cycling up Mont Ventoux,

where Tommy Simpson met his tragic end,

before he ever made the final bend

the once world champion collapsed from view.

 

here riders all try shaking off the pack,

a category one col, now taboo.

it has a pinewood scent, Sunsilk Shampoo,

which you could need to use when you get back.

 

it’s so exhausting you run out of fuel,

cycling up Mont Ventoux’s a bitter pill,

so ‘look before you leap’ applies, you’ll find.

 

despite all this, although the heat is cruel,

i reach the summit of this windswept hill:

vanity and the hot pursuit of wind.

 

(Mont Ventoux, 1 Aug. 1971)

 

 

Schack Staffeldt: 'Die Stunde der Andacht' (1793)

 

Die Stunde der Andacht

 

Leise athmen rings umher die Leben,

Träumen gleich der Seligen, umschweben

Ahndungen von ferner Zukunft mich:

Heilig und geweiht ist diese Stäte,

Mein Gefühl entlodert zum Gebete,

Nahet, Schöpfer, deinem Throne sich.

 

Das Gefühl im düstern Tannenhaine,

Die Betrachtung, die beim Sternenscheine

Bang' den Vorhang jener Welt umfliegt -

Jede Kraft, die der Natur entquillet,

Die des Edlen schöne Seele füllet,

Stärke mich, wann meine Kraft versiegt!

 

Jeder Thränenguß beim Feierschalle

In des Tempels hochgewölbter Halle

Sey ein Vorgefühl der Seligkeit!

Jede That, mit der die Menschheit ringet,

Jede, die das Mitgefühl umschlinget,

Sey ein Funken deiner Herrlichkeit!

 

Schwinden dann des Sinnenlands Gestalten,

Die mit banger Ahndung mich umwallten,

An dem Sterbelager, Träumen gleich,

Dann erhebe auf der Hoffnung Schwinge

Kühner meine Ahndung sich und bringe

Mich hinüber in der Geister Reich!

 

 

The Hour of Devotion

 

All around me lives are softly breathing

As in dreams of those now blessèd, weaving

Far-off premonitions reach me here:

Holy, consecrated is this lair

And my feeling flares up into prayer,

To thy throne, Creator, it draws near.

 

In the dusky fir-tree grove the feeling,

And the contemplation in stars’ gleaming

That flits anxiously round that world’s veil –

May each force from nature’s endless treasure

Which the noble soul fills in full measure

Strengthen me if my own force should fail!

 

May each burst of tears at glad exalting

In the mighty temple hall’s high-vaulting

Be a foretaste of a future bliss!

May each deed that man would be embracing,

Everything that has compassion’s tracing,

Be a spark of thy great gloriousness!

 

When our world’s perceived forms face attrition –

Those which filled me with dread premonition –

At my final death-bed, as in dreams,

Then, more boldly and more strongly rising,

May my premonition soar and fly me

To the spirits’ realm that brightly gleams!

Published in Musen-Almanach. Poetische Blumenlese aufs Jahr 1793, s. 35.

A different, earlier version of the poem exists in a letter written by Staffeldt to the Duke of Augustenborg in 1792. This has been published in Danske Studier 2002. You can find it here.

 

Paul Rigolle: 'Brief aan Baudelaire'

 

Brief aan Baudelaire

 

Ha Baudelaire, kan ik jou, kan ik jou nog schrijven

anderhalve eeuw, een land en een landschap later

nu het duister opnieuw deemstert doorheen

 

de dagen en verderop in het Oosten een man

halsstarrig bommen gooit op uitgestorven steden.

Wie of wat zou je zijn indien je terug kon keren?

 

Een rapper, een rekkenvuller die vol gramschap

de dingen schikt of ergens tussenin een dichter

die zich inzet voor het klimaat? Ik kan er enkel maar

 

naar talen, Baudelaire, net zo verstrikt als ik ben

in de halsstrik van de taal. En graag, wat graag

herdenk ik in jou, in mij, anno nu, de dag dat

 

Menno duizend dromen stierf, de dag

dat Pernath van rechts naar links het boek

van de waarheid droeg, het uitgebreid hebbend

 

over de onmacht een mens te zijn.

 

 

Letter to Baudelaire

 

Hi, Baudelaire, can I, can I still write to you

a century and a half, a country and a landscape later

now that darkness once more descends

 

devouring our days and further east a man is

stubbornly dropping bombs on deserted cities

Who or what would you be if you could return?

 

A rapper, a shelf-stocker who full of resentment

arranges things or a poet that in between

stands up for the climate? But all I can do is

 

yearn for words, Baudelaire, ensnared as I am

in the noose of language. And gladly, so gladly

I recall in you, in me, in this present year, the day that

 

Menno died a thousand dreams, the day

that Pernath, from right to left, bore

the book of truth, dealing at length with

 

the powerlessness of being a human.

 

Schack Staffeldt: 'Ved Söen'

 

Ved Söen

 

— Og medens de Bölger fare afsted,

Mig synes at ogsaa jeg skulde med,

Og stirrende ned i billedfuld Söe,

I underlig Længsel vil jeg bortdöe.

 

Mig vinker dybt i den stille Azur

En anden Himmel, en anden Natur,

Æteriskt og idealiskt er Alt,

Ligt Tingenes allerförste Gestalt.

 

Mit förste Jeg fra det reene Blaae,

Mit reenere Selv tilhvidsker mig saa:

Hvi skilte du dig fra mig, fra mig?

Og dog hvor elsker, hvor elsker jeg dig!

 

Da blir jeg saa underlig bange og öm,

Min Aand sig lösner til meere end Dröm:

Mig synes at Guder og Mennesker gaae

Omfavnede, dybt i det reene Blaae.

 

 

By the lake

 

– And while all the waves are borne off apace,

I feel as if I there too had my place,

And staring into the image-filled lake,

In some strange longing my parting would take.

 

From still azure depths me greeting, I spy

A different nature, different sky;

All is ethereal there and ideal,

Like things in their pristine form more real.

 

My very first I from the purest blue,

My once purer Self then whispers anew:

Why did you leave me, just leave me and go?

Oh, how I do love you, I love you so!

 

How strangely afraid and aching I seem,

My spirit escapes to more than a dream:

There appear to be gods and humans who

Embrace and mingle in depths of pure blue.

 

Schack Staffeldt: 'Indvielsen'

Indvielsen

 

Jeg sad paa Pynten ved Sundets Bred,

       Himlene smiilte,

Og saae med Længsel i Dybet ned,

       Bølgerne hviilte,

Da hælded Solen til Havets Bryst,

Og rundtom rødnede Luft og Kyst.

 

Og brat fra Skyen en Strængeleg

       Anelsen vakte,

I Aftenrøde Musen nedsteg,

       Harpen mig rakte

Og rask et brændende Kys mig gav,

Nedsynkende i det luende Hav.

 

Da rundt en anden Natur der blev:

       Vindene talte;

Fra Skyer, som blege for Maanen hendrev,

       Aanderne kaldte;

Et Hjerte slog varmt og kjærligt i Alt,

I Alt mig vinked min egen Gestalt.

 

Dog blev fra nu for Tanke og Trang

       Jorden et Fængsel;

Vel lindrer ved Anelse, Drøm og Sang

       Hjertet sin Længsel,

Dog brænder mig Kysset, jeg kjender ei Fred

Førend jeg drager Himlene ned!

 

 

Initiation

 

I sat far out on the sound’s still shore,

       The heavens smiling;

And filled with longing I gazed down o’er

       The waves beguiling.

The sun slipped into the sea’s embrace,

The coast and sky found a blushing grace.

 

With sweet foreboding a harp I heard,

       The clouds now rending;

The muse descended, in sunlight girt,

       Her lyre extending.

Sealing my lips with kiss of fire

She plunged into her glittering pyre.

 

Then all around me the world was new:

       The winds spoke softly;

From pale clouds drifting before the moon

       Called spirits lofty;

In all creation a loving heart beat,

My own reflection from all did me greet.

 

Since then the earth each thought and desire

       Does now imprison;

Though longing is eased by dream, plucked lyre

       And premonition,

The kiss still consumes me, no peace will see birth

Until the heavens are brought to earth!

 

 

Erik Knudsen: 'Schack Staffeldt'

 

Schack Staffeldt

 

Du tænder lys i alle vinduer

For ikke at se de grinende rovdyr.

Men nattens døtre kalder dig ud, lokker

       med guldæbler og skamløse orkideer.

Din skygge vokser fantastisk, strejfer

Mælkevejen, svinger henover månens torso.

                             Pludselig

Spiller et orgel i susende løvtræer.

Du lytter ind mod dit nøgne hjerte

Og hører ekko fra mindets bjerghuler.

 

Stjernerne ler med lykkelige øjne.

En af dem er dig. Men hvilken?

 

Feber i blodet. Hjemve. – Kunne du blot

Slippe din dødvægt! rykke tanken op med rode!

 

Roligt vugger i det fjerne

Et objektivt fastland. – Turde du blot

Springe ud fra din fordømte vulkanø!

 

Dit bryst er tungt af lava.

 

Ingen forløsning, ingen flugt.

Du presses hårdt mellem himmel og jord,

Stønner under vægten af tusind atmosfærer.

 

Lysene blafrer bag de våde ruder.

Du bar ingen tårer, ingen virkelighed.

Drømmen er dit eneste element.

 

Men du er vågen og klar.

Uden kikkert

       finder du dig selv:

En slukket planet i et hav af ild.

 

 

Schack Staffeldt

 

You light candles in all the windows

So as not to see the grinning predators.

But the night’s daughters call you out, tempt

       with golden apples and shameless orchids.

Your shadow grows fantastic, grazes

The Milky Way, swings across the moon’s torso.

                             Suddenly

An organ plays in rustling leafy trees

You listen close to your naked heart

And hear an echo from memory’s mountain caves.

 

The stars smile with happy eyes.

One of them is you. But which?

 

Fever in the blood. Homesickness. – If only you could

Escape your deadweight! rip thought up by the root!

 

Calmly in the distance

An objective mainland rocks. – If only you dared

Leap out of your damned volcanic island!

 

Your chest is heavy with lava.

 

No deliverance, no flight.

You are hard-pressed between heaven and earth.

Groan under the weight of a thousand atmospheres.

 

The candles flutter behind the wet window panes.

You have no tears, no reality.

The dream is your sole element.

 

But you are awake and ready.

Without telescope

       you find yourself:

An extinct planet in a sea of fire.