Jeppe Aakjær: 'Storken'

 

Storken

 

Han kommer med Sommer, han kommer med Sol

til Kløver og nikkende Hvener.

Mens Pigen hun sømmer sin blommede Kjol

i Læ af de røde Syrener,

han sænker sig ned paa det mossede Tag

og knebrer fra Reden den udslagne Dag

en Højsommervise om Danmark.

 

Og Børnene stirrer fra Tærsklen didop,

hvor Løget paa Mønningen nikker,

og Oldingen ranker sin krogede Krop

i Stuen, hvor Slagværket dikker;

og Minderne dugger, og Læberne be’r,

og Børnene pludrer og peger og ler:

„Se Storken er kommen til Danmark!”

 

Velsignede Fugl uden Høgenes Klør,

med Ørnenes mægtige Vinge,

du dukker dig helst mellem græssende Kø’r,

kun Hygge og Fred vil du bringe;

du følger i Furen vor Bonde saa nær

og nikker som han, mens af Rugen det drær

med Løfte om Høst over Danmark.

 

Hvor Engblommen lyser langs Aaløbets Bred,

du skridter saa langt gjennem Engen;

med Halsen i Bugt og med Øjet paa Sned

du titter til Pigen og Drengen.

Du søger din Føde til Leernes Klang,

og Høduften følger din higende Gang

langs alle de Aaer i Danmark.

 

Saa lad os da værne den solkjære Fugl,

der pynter vor Vang og vort Vænge,

der ruger sit Kuld i det ormstukne Hjul

tilvejrs paa den mossede Længe.

Hans Yngel skal trives i Regn og i Sol,

hans Rede beskyttes som Hjemmets Symbol,

mens Sagnene lever om Danmark!

 

4/3 1912.

 

 

 

Storken

 

He comes with the summer, he comes with the sun

to clover and soft-dipping grasses.

To sew her flowered dress now the girl has begun

where lilacs form cool crimson arches;

on moss-covered roofs he prefers to alight

and from his nest clatters his daytime delight –

a high-summer song praising Denmark.

 

And up from the threshold the children all look,

where plants on the roof-ridge are dipping,

the old man now straightens his back like a crook,

indoors where the clock’s gently ticking;

and memories mist over, lips start to pray,

and chattering children now point up and say:

‘The stork, look, is back here in Denmark!’

 

Most blessed of birds without claws like a hawk,

with great wings like those of an eagle,

midst calm grazing cows do you swoop down and walk,

bring peace and well-being quite regal,

the farmer you tail as each furrow unfurls,

and nod just like him when the rye pollen swirls

and augurs good harvests in Denmark.

 

Where river banks gleam with their globeflowers well stocked,

through meadows you stride in full measure;

with neck craning downwards and head slightly cocked

you eye boys and girls at your leisure.

You seek for your food as the scythes slowly swish,

the scent of hay follows your gait’s yearning wish

along all the rivers of Denmark.

 

So let us this sun-loving bird treat with care

that graces our leas, fields and landscapes,

whose broods nest on worm-eaten wheels that they share,

high up on old roofs with their moss-drapes.

In sun and in rain may his offspring e’er thrive

His nest as a symbol of home stay alive,

while legends exist about Denmark!

 

4.3.1912

Henrik Wergeland: 'Pigen paa Anatomikammeret'

 

Pigen paa Anatomikammeret

 

– – Jo det er Hende! O lys hid!

Og slip ei Kniven end paaglid

i denne Armes Hjerte!

O, der er rædsom Vittighed

i Lampens Blik, som stirrer ned

paa denne døde Smerte.

 

Saa kold, dengang den aanded, saae

den stolte Verden jo derpaa?

Og frække Øine skar

det Slør igjennem tidligt, som

den stakkels Piges Fattigdom

af gyldne Drømme bar.

 

Som Blomst i Isen frossen ind

jeg seer et Træk paa denne Kind,

som vel jeg bør at kjende.

Thi Fryden i min Barndomsleeg,

før altfor høit min Skulder steeg,

– o var den ikke Hende.

 

Tversover boed’ hun for os,

i Armod født, som i sit Mos

paa Taget Stedmorsblommen.

Fornemme Folk kun fatted’ svært,

at Blod saa fagert og saa skjært

af Fattigfolk var kommen.

 

Ak, mangt sligt Aasyn dog jeg saae

som Maanedsrosens Pragt forgaae,

som Sommerfuglestøvet!

Dem Skjebnens Haand for haardt vel tog,

og Syndens Spor dem overjog

som Sneglens Sliim paa Løvet.

 

 

The girl in the dissection room

 

– – Yes, it is her! Oh light here, quick!

Let not the knife yet even flick

across this poor girl’s heart!

Oh, what cruel irony does glow

in this lamp’s gaze that stares down so

on dead pain set apart.

 

So cold, yet when it breathed did not

the proud world gaze at it a lot?

And bold eyes soon sliced through

the veil of golden dreams that she

the poor girl against poverty

wore when as child she grew.

 

Like flower frozen in the ice

this cheek bears traits that in a trice

should be well-known to me.

For childhood games that brought me joy,

before I was no longer boy,

– Oh surely it was she.

 

She lived just opposite from us,

of humble birth, like in its moss

the roof’s heartsease could thrive.

Fine folk could hardly contemplate

that blood so fair and delicate

from paupers could derive.

 

Ah, many a face as this saw I

like monthly rose’s splendour die,

as butterfly-dust brief!

Fate’s hand too firmly must have grasped,

and sin’s trace to such lives have clasped

like snail’s slime on the leaf.

Dèr Mouw: ''k Zend, imker, dikwijls mijn gedachtenschaar'

 

’k Zend, imker, dikwijls mijn gedachtenschaar

uit zwermen, als de nacht te schitt’ren staat

van wereldbloemen, die ontluiken laat

de Grote Ziel, ontzaglijk visionair.

 

’k Ben vreemd in elke aanwezig en vergaar,

wat mij van eeuw’ge essentie tegenslaat:

zo geurt dan in mijn ziel, een honingraat,

de witte roos van Berenike’s Haar.

 

Mijn liefde leidt hun halfbewuste zwerm

naar sterreperken langs de Melkwegberm,

mijn pauwoog, mijn mystische nachtkapel:

 

zij dragen naar hun huis de heil’ge vracht,

en kneden uit mijn woorden, wit en zacht,

mijn verzen samen, cel naast sterlichtcel.

 

 

I, beekeeper, oft send my host of thoughts 

out swarming when the night stands glitt’ring clear

with world-flowers, which the Great Soul lets appear

and bloom, a visionary vast and fraught.

 

I’m strangely present in each one out there,

and cull eternal essence as they roam:

then in my soul’s a scent, a honeycomb,

the white rose  found in Berenice’s hair.

 

The semi-conscious swarm my love lets stray

to star-beds bordering the Milky Way,

my peacock, mystic moth in night’s deep well:

 

they bring back to the hive their sacred load,

and, white and soft, my words then knead and mould

to form my verse, cell next to starlight cell.

 

Benny Andersen: 'Vort muddermål er hæsligt'

 

This pastiche of Lembcke's poem is one of the songs in Benny Andersen's saga about Svante. For copyright reasons, the original cannot be shown here, but you can find it on the Internet. 

The muddy tongue

 

Our muddy tongue is frightful, it has so foul a sound.

With what shall I compare it, in song can praise be found?

A whore well past forty, red-nosed and hair all dyed,

but she is so game and she still holds back the tide.

 

She places on our lips every word that’s choked and wry

from all love’s hoarsest groaning, to festive drunken cry;

to hearts weighed down by sorrow, or filled with wild unrest,

she grants us all the timely belch that calms our savage breast.

 

And if in east and west we have searched from first to last

the wisdom of new ages, the wit of times long past,

she tempts and she entices, by her will we must bide.

She is a whore past forty that still holds back the tide.

 

The foreigners that seek to learn her language with great toil,

they get the feeling it is just like porridge on the boil;

And every time they struggle to say what strikes their ears,

she laughs out loud so heartlessly and all she says is: Cheers!

 

And all of the poets she gave words’ mighty power

they tyrannise her language, but from an ivory tower.

Each song known by the people and listened to with zest,

is mostly German, English or Spanish at its best.

 

Each feeble joke that causes a grin to reach our lips,

a gross of them at least she has right at her finger-tips.

Each word straight from the belly that back to it can home

has been for many centuries our language’s basic tone.

 

And words all change in passing before they disappear

Our dialects forgotten, like snow of yesteryear;

and tongue after tongue all like shooting stars have died;

but she is so game and she still holds back the tide.

Edvard Lembcke (1815-97): 'Vort Modersmaal'

 

Vort Modersmaal

 

Vort Modersmaal er dejligt; det har saa mild en Klang;

hvormed skal jeg ligne det og prise det i Sang?

En højbaaren Jomfru, en ædel Kongebrud,

og hun er saa ung, og saa yndig ser hun ud!

 

Hun lægger os paa Læben hvert godt og kraftigt Ord

til Elskovs sagte Bønner, til Sejrens stolte Kor;

er Hjertet trangt af Sorgen, og svulmer det af Lyst,

hun skænker os Tonen, som lette kan vort Bryst,

 

Om om i Øst og Vest vi har sværmet og søgt

de svundne Tiders Visdom, de fjerne Landes Kløgt,

hun lokker og hun drager, vi følge hendes Bud;

for hun er saa ung, og saa yndig ser hun ud.

 

De fremmede, de tænkte at volde hende Sorg;

de bød hende Trældom i hendes egen Borg;

men just som de mente, hun var i Baand og Bast,

da lo hun saa hjertelig, at alle Lænker brast.

 

Og alle de Skjalde, hun skænked Ordets Magt,

de blev om hendes Sæde en stærk og trofast Vagt;

hver Sang, som Folket kender og lytter til med Lyst,

den blev en Ring i Brynjen, som dækker hendes Bryst.

 

Hver kraftig Skæmt, der lokker om Læben frem et Smil,

den blev i hendes Kogger en hvas og vinget Pil;

hvert Ord, der kom fra Hjertet, og som til Hjertet naar,

det blev en Sten i Muren, der hegner hendes Gaard.

 

Og Aarene rulle og skiftes om paa Jord,

og vore Navne glemmes som Sne, der faldt i Fjor,

og Slægt efter Slægt segner hen paa Nornens Bud;

men hun er saa ung, og saa yndig ser hun ud!

 

 

Our mother tongue

 

Our mother tongue’s delightful; it has so mild a sound.

With what shall I compare it, in song can praise be found?

a sweet high-born maiden, a royal noble bride,

and she is so young, and all charms in her reside!

 

She places on our lips every word that’s good and spry

from all love’s gentle prayers, to victory’s proud cry;

to hearts weighed down by sorrow, or filled with wild unrest,

she grants us all the timely note that calms our savage breast.

 

And if in east and west we have searched from first to last

the wisdom of new ages, the wit of times long past,

she tempts and she entices, by her will we must bide,

and she is so young, and all charms in her reside!

 

The foreigners that wished but to cause her grief and gall,

they sought to make her captive within her castle wall;

but just when they imagined her trussed and tightly wrapped,

she laughed out loud so heartily that all her chains just snapped.

 

And all of the poets she gave words’ mighty power

stood guard both loyal and faithful around her scented bower,

each song known by the people and listened to with zest,

became a ring within the coat of mail that shields her breast.

 

Each powerful jest that causes a smile to reach our lips,

became in her full quiver an arrow razor-tipped;

each word straight from the heart and that to the heart can roam

became a stone within the wall that now surrounds her home.

 

And years all change in passing before they disappear

Our names are all forgotten, like snows of yesteryear;

and line after line at the Norn’s command have died;

but she is so young, and all charms in her reside!

 

 

Anton van Wilderode: 'Oud zijn is teren op herinneringen' (PS 29)

 

 

Oud zijn is teren op herinneringen

 

Oud zijn is teren op herinneringen,

wonen in steden die men eens bezocht,

is gaan en keren in al kleiner kringen,

lopen op effen wegen zonder bocht.

 

Is wars van heimwee naar de einder kijken

waarachter niets gebeurt dat ik niet ken,

de dagen met de dagen vergelijken

de man zijn die ik steeds gebleven ben.

 

Is wachten op beweging van bezoekers

van wie ik van vooraf de woorden weet

als kwamen die uit eer gelezen boeken.

Geluk is alles wat men niet vergeet.

 

 

Old age is living off one’s recollections

 

Old age is living off one’s recollections,

dwelling in places visited before,

acting within diminishing dimensions,

walking along flat paths that twist no more.

 

Is gazing, though averse, at the horizon

behind which nothing happens, all is drained,

comparing days with days that don’t enliven,

being the man I always have remained.

 

Is from my visitors expecting motion,

whose words known in advance seem mere refrains

from books that I have read once with emotion.

Joy’s found in all that memory retains.

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 29

 

Carl Ploug (1813-94): 'Modersmaalet'

 

MODERSMAALET 

Den 4de Januar 1843.

 

Du Danske, som kan høre 

De velske Toners Flugt,

Hvi finder dog dit Øre 

Vort simple Sprog saa smukt?

Veed du, som vidt har vanket,

Hvorfor din Kind blev rød,

Hvorfor dit Hjerte banked,

Naar Hjemmets Tale lød? 

 

Fordi den Sjæl, som lever 

I Folkets tause Bryst,

Som det i Modgang hæver

Og trodser Kampens Dyst, 

Som i dets Idræt præger

Sin Fylde og sin Magt,

— Er den, der sig bevæger

i Sprogets Rhytmedragt: —

 

Fordi, naar Tanken svinge 

Sig dristigt vil og vidt, 

Paa Modersmaalets Vinge

Den kun kan flyve frit;

Og nynne kan vort Hjerte

Kun Tonerne, hvori

Vi lærte Livets Smerte

Og Livets Poesi.

 

 

THE MOTHER TONGUE

4 January 1843

 

You Dane who can’t help hearing

Strange foreign notes in flight,

Why do you find endearing

Our tongue that’s deemed so slight?

Why did your cheek start blushing,

Oh you who far have roamed,

Why did your heart start rushing

When hearing sounds from home?

 

Because the soul that’s dwelling

In our folk’s silent breast,

Which makes it start repelling

And fighting when repressed,

Which in its endless striving

Displays its force aright

– Is what, in language thriving,

Is clad in rhythmic might: –

 

Because, if thoughts soar swinging

Up boldly, far and wide,

On our own tongue they’re winging,

Then only freely glide;

And our hearts are set heaving

Alone by notes which we

Have gleaned from all life’s grieving

And all life’s poetry.

 

There are in fact four more verses to the poem. You can find the full version here:

 

In the last verse, Peter Hiort Lorenzen (1791-1845) is praised as a symbol of courage and tenacity in the fight for the mother tongue and Danish identity. He was a Danish merchant and politician from Haderslev and a champion of the Danish language in Schleswig. In the 1840s, he became well-known for insisting on speaking Danish in the Assembly of the Estates, where it was mandatory to speak German.