Lucidor. 'O syndig Man' (earlier than 1674)

 

To see Lucidor's poem in English, go to here.

Elisabeth Eybers: 'Herinnering'

 

 Herinnering

 

As kind het ’k eens die maan se ronde skyf

langsaam sien uitswel bo die silwer vlei

om saggies soos ’n seepbel weg te dryf

en tussen yl popliere in te gly. 

 

Agter my in die donker was ’n raam

vol lig en mensestemme en gelag

en ín my angs en weekheid sonder naam

terwyl ek op die maan se loskom wag. 

 

Die res is alles duister en verward…

Van tak tot tak het hy gewieg… ek weet

nog net dat die gekneusde gras se geur

soos naeltjies was en dat ek skielik seer-

gekry het van die inkrimp van my hart

en met my pols die trane weggevee’t.

 

 

Memory

 

The moon’s round disc I as a child once saw

slowly dilate above the silver vlei

then gently drift off bubble-like before

it slid midst thread-thin poplars by and by.

 

Behind me in the dark a window pane

was full of light and voices loud and gay,

in me was fear and faintness without name

while watching for the moon to break away.

 

The rest’s obscure, confused now for my part...

It swayed from branch to branch... I just persist

in sensing still the scent of new-bruised grass

was needle-sharp and too my sudden gasp

of pain at the contraction of my heart

and how I wiped the tears off with my wrist.

 

 

Thomas Kingo: 'Dend XI. Sang. Keed af Verden, og kier ad Himmelen'

Thomas Kingo (1634-1703)

 Weary of the world, and with heaven most dear 

         Farewell, world, farewell

As thrall here I’m weary and no more will dwell,

The manifold burdens that on me have lain,

I wrest them now from me and do them disdain,                                    

I wrench myself free, though am wearied withal:

         ’Tis vanity all,

         ’Tis vanity all.

 

         And what everywhere

Does this world embellish with visage so fair?

’Tis all merely shadows and baubles of glass,

’Tis all merely bubbles and clattering brass,

’Tis all but thin ice, filth and mischief withal:

         ’Tis vanity all,

         ’Tis vanity all.

 

         My years what are they?

That furtively dwindle and sidle away?

And what are my worries? My thought-troubled mind?

My joy or my sorrow? My fancies so blind?

And what do my work, moil and toil all recall?

         ’Tis vanity all,

         ’Tis vanity all.

 

         Oh riches and gold,

You false earthly idol so bright to behold,

You are though among the deceits the world brings

That wax, wane and alter with all other things.

You are but vain glory whate’er may befall:

         ’Tis vanity all,

         ’Tis vanity all.

 

         Ah, honour – ’tis what?

Your crowns and your laurels proclaim what you’re not,

And envy consumes you and sits on your back,

You lack peace of mind and are prone to attack!

You stumble where others contrive not to fall:

         ’Tis vanity all,

         ’Tis vanity all.

 

         Ah, favour and grace

That mist-like enfold us, are gone without trace.

You fickle inflator that puffs up the mind,

You thousand-eyed creature that e’en so are blind,

When viewed ’gainst the sun one can see that you pall:

         ’Tis vanity all,

         ’Tis vanity all.

 

         Ah, friendship and trust,

That knows how to veer vanes to bliss with each gust!

You handsome deceiver, you fortunate pup,

That fails us so often in sorrow’s deep cup

You say what experience has us recall:

         ’Tis vanity all,

         ’Tis vanity all.

 

         Ah, joys of the flesh

That many have fatally snared in their mesh,

You quick-burning tinder, you spark on the wind,

Have sown flames eternal for those that have sinned,

Your cup seems like honey, the drink though is gall:

         ’Tis vanity all,

         ’Tis vanity all.

 

         Farewell, then, farewell

No more your deceits shall my soul now compel,

Oh world of delusion, I now you dismiss,

Consign to oblivion’s deepest abyss,

My grief and affliction no more me shall chafe:

         With Abraham safe,

         With Abraham safe.

 

         There all of my years

Will start in eternity’s spring without tears,

My days will not dawn with the rise of the sun,

Nor moon’s wax or wane tell when night has begun,

My sun is Lord Jesus with rays like gold staves:

         With Abraham safe,

         With Abraham safe.

 

         My riches and gold

Will always be mine both to have and to hold,

No robber can ever deprive me of them,

No bartering cause me to part with one gem,

I never will find myself left as a waif:

         With Abraham safe,

         With Abraham safe.

 

          My honour is won

From that throne my Jesus is sitting upon,

A crown filled with glory for me is in store,

With blood of the lamb it is gilt ever more,

’Tis mine though the devil me gladly would strafe:

         With Abraham safe,

         With Abraham safe.

 

         With grace I will shine

As one of the angelic host so divine,

No envious eye shall my face ever see,

God’s countenance gaze ever-smiling on me,

There will I pour scorn on death’s envious grave:

         With Abraham safe,

         With Abraham safe.

 

There I have a friend,

My Jesus who loves me I love without end,

My eye will regard him unclouded and fair,

The heavenly torch of his love proffered there,

In spirit Love’s blaze I eternal may crave:

         With Abraham safe,

         With Abraham safe.

 

         My rapture and joy

Are quickened when angels their trumpets employ,

But God is all joy both for me and their kind!

Rejoice then, my soul, all the world leave behind!

Mind well on your heart God his joy will engrave:

         With Abraham safe,

         With Abraham safe.

To see the Danish original, go to here.

Ida Gerhardt: 'Leopold'

 

Jan Henrik Leopold (1865-1925)

Leopold

 

Adelaar was hij tot de laatste strofe,

toppen òverzwevende waar geen sterveling

ooit genaakt, of naar de verlaten horstplaats

statig weer dalend.

 

Onverschrokken kantelend langs ravijnen,

vochtomvlaagd door daverend levend water,

schrijvende zijn vederenschaduw daar waar

eeuwige sneeuw ligt.

 

God zij lof om dit nimmer aangerande

trots vermogen, dat zóveel barre winters

heeft getart en de sterke vleugels wette:

Trots ongebroken.

 

 

Leopold

 

Till his last stanza he remained an eagle,

soaring high above summits no mortal had

ever reached, or regally gliding down to

his lonesome eyrie.

 

Fearlessly tilting along canyon edges,

sprayed by flurries of thundering live water,

writing his feathery shadow there where the

eternal snow lies.

 

God be praised for this never emulated

and proud capacity, that so many harsh

winters has defied and mighty wings whetted:

Pride still unbroken.

 

To see one of his most famous poems, go to here.

Joseph von Eichendorff: 'Mondnacht' (c. 1835)

 

Mondnacht

 

Es war, als hätt der Himmel

Die Erde still geküßt,

Daß sie im Blütenschimmer

Von ihm nun träumen müßt.

 

Die Luft ging durch die Felder,

Die Ähren wogten sacht,

Es rauschten leis die Wälder,

So sternklar war die Nacht.

 

Und meine Seele spannte

Weit ihre Flügel aus,

Flog durch die stillen Lande,

Als flöge sie nach Haus.

 

 

Moonlit night

 

It was as if the heaven

The earth had softly kissed,

Of him she now for ever

Must dream in flower-mist.

 

Through fields the air moved lightly,

The corn did softly sway,

The forests rustled gently,

So clear the star-night lay.

 

My soul stretched wide its pinions

Above the moonlit ground,

Flew through the quiet dominions

As if ’twere homeward bound.

 

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Vor Jord har meget Stort og Godt' (1835)

 

Vor Jord har meget Stort og Godt,

Men ogsaa grumme meget Smaat,

Som abe vil Geniet!

Saa kjækt de gjennem Verden gaae,

Men naar man rigtig seer derpaa,

De fik kun Liberiet!

 

 

Our earth has much that’s good and great

Though even more that’s second rate

And apes superb creation!

They strut the stage with zest and zeal,

Though at a closer look reveal

But dressed-up imitation.

 

 

Hans Christian Andersen: Letter of introduction to Councillor of State Collin (2 April 1821)

Councillor of State Jonas Collin

 

Til Hr. Etasraad Kolin

paa min 16 Aars Fødselsdag den 2den April 1821

 

Kunstens Tempel ser jeg i det fjerne

mellem Klipper midt i Havets Skjød

did det er jeg iler, o! saa gjerne

at jeg glemmer Skibbrud og hver Nød.

Ej mig skrækker disse Vrag jeg skuer

dem den vilde Bølge leger med

thi alt længe i mit Hjerte luer

Haabet om at naa hin kjære Bred.

Lad og Mangen strande paa dens Klipper

andre synke skuffede af Haab

i mit Hjerte, dog den Trøst ei glipper

at og Mangen bønhørt ser sit Raab.

Naaer jeg Breden, jeg ved Klippen tager

ud igjen mig aldrig Bølgen slaaer

heller ej dens hvide Skum bedrager

saa jeg tror, alt fast paa Landet staaer. -

Jeg de bratte Klipper vil bestige,

ser jeg da Thalias Tempel nær

Ingen er da, selv blandt lykkelige

lykkelig som jeg, nei! Ingen meer,

hvis i Helligdommen dybt at trænge

naadeligt Gudinden under mig

har thi saligt jeg jo levet længe

om end snart mit Livslys slukker sig.

 

Tilgiv jeg bruger Sanggudindens Griffel

og maler mine Tanker, Følelser. -

I Dag for 16 Aar gav Gud mit Livet

i Odins stille Bye - Jeg blev en ringe Blomst

i Livets store Hauge, hvis skjøre Stilk

tidt Stormen vilde knuse, den truedes med Fald.

I Konstens Blomster Bed at prange ei

den kunde. - Men dog en Plads den ønskede

maaske med Konst og hvad Naturen gav

en Gang i Tiden, den vel kunde fryde. -

Af venlig Haand den passedes og snart

den spirede med meere livligt Farve,

En Guldberg var den vennehulde Gartner

som pleiede, og klippet Blomsten har. -

Og sikkert naaer en Lingreen nu tillige

saa vennehuld, som hiin, opelsket

til næste Sommer der i Kunstens Hauge

forundes kan en Plads i blandt de simple.

 

 

To Councillor Kolin, Esq.

on my 16th birthday, 2 April 1821

 

I can see art’s temple in the distance

midst the rocks in wave’s profound embrace

I set out there, such is my insistence

harm and shipwreck I forget to face.

I fear not the wrecks that I am sighting

those the foaming waves have as their prey

for long since my heart’s burns with delight in

hope of reaching that dear shore one day.

So let many on its cruel rocks founder

others sink from hopes that broke in twain,

in my heart this comfort grows yet sounder:

Many others’ cries were not in vain.

When close by the rock the sands receive me,

there’s no wave can turn my feet around

neither does its white-topped foam deceive me

so I think I’m standing on firm ground. –

When the steep rocks I have climbed up fully

Thalia’s temple close at hand I see,

No one, even those most happy, could be

Happier than I. No! None but me;

Should the gracious goddess gratify me,

grant me access to her inner shrine,

I’d have lived a long time blessed entirely

though few days of life’s light were still mine.

 

Forgive my use of the song muse’s pen

to paint each keen emotion, every thought. –

Sixteen years past today God gave me life

in Odin’s quiet town. – I was a meagre flower

in Life’s great garden, one whose fragile stem

the storm would often crush and cause to fall.

To thrive in art’s fair bed of flowers it was

not able. – Yet a place it dearly wished for

perhaps with art and that which nature gave

as time passed by it might well come to flourish. –

It was well cared for by a friendly hand

and soon it gained a much more healthy colour.

A certain Guldberg was its caring gardener

who tended and who pruned it into flower. –

And surely will a Lingreen also now

as did the former caringly ensure

that it next summer maybe in Art’s garden

can gain among the lowly its own place.

 

 

For an earlier, shorter version to Grundtvig, see

 

The introduction to Grundtvig is as follows in English:

Dear Sir,

Trusting in your kindness, I write to you. – Professor Guldberg encourages me by assuring me anyone would willingly contribute slightly to my happiness, since he says that I possess talent. – I am therefore sending you a little poem that I have dared to compose. I hope you will excuse me, for I am only 15½ years old.

 

Hans Christian Andersen

 

 

To Nic. Fred. Sev. Grundtvig, Esq.

Kronprinsessegaden no. 402 Copenhagen

 

 

Martinus Nijhoff: 'De moeder de vrouw' (Danish and English translations)

 

DE MOEDER DE VROUW

 

Ik ging naar Bommel om de brug te zien.

Ik zag de nieuwe brug. Twee overzijden

die elkaar vroeger schenen te vermijden,

worden weer buren. Een minuut of tien

dat ik daar lag, in 't gras, mijn thee gedronken,

mijn hoofd vol van het landschap wijd en zijd -

laat mij daar midden uit de oneindigheid

een stem vernemen dat mijn oren klonken.

 

Het was een vrouw. Het schip dat zij bevoer

kwam langzaam stroomaf door de brug gevaren.

Zij was alleen aan dek, zij stond bij 't roer,

 

en wat zij zong hoorde ik dat psalmen waren.

O, dacht ik, o, dat daar mijn moeder voer.

Prijs God, zong zij, Zijn hand zal u bewaren.

In de zestiger jaren werkte A.L. Sötemann langdurig aan een analyse van het sonnet. Nogal wat interpretatie-onzekerheden deden hem worstelen met de duiding. Daaraan kwam een einde toen de clavicinist Hans Philips, een goede vriend van de dichter, hem frappante informatie gaf: Vanaf de pas geopende brug bij Zaltbommel had Philips in 1933 een psalmzingende vrouw gezien op een binnenvaartschip, en een andere keer elders een sterk op zijn eigen moeder lijkende vrouw. Twee momenten, vertelde hij aan Nijhoff tijdens een gezamenlijke fietstocht door het rivierengebied onder Utrecht, die hem aan de dichter in relatie tot zijn moeder hadden doen denken. Twee weken later liet Nijhoff Philips een eerste versie lezen van ‘De moeder de vrouw’.

 

 

 

’MODEREN FRUEN’

 

Jeg tog til Bommel for at se på broen.

Jeg så den nye bro. Og de to bredder

der ville undgås måske før blev atter

naboer. Noen minutter nød jeg roen

og lå så dér, i græsset, teen drukket,

hovedet fyldt af landskab vidt og bredt –

da midt i alt det evige hørs brat

en stemme hvori ørene blev vugget.

 

Det var en kvinde. Med hende om bord

gled skibet gennem broen ned ad floden

Hun var alene på dækket, stod til rors,

 

og det hun sang var salmer, ku’ jeg høre.

O, tænkte jeg, hvis bare det var mor.

Pris gud sang hun, Hans hånd må dig bevare.

 

 

‘THE OLD LADY’

 

I went to Bommel just to see the bridge.

I saw the new bridge. Two opposing shores

that shunned each other seemingly before

are neighbours once again. A grassy verge

I lay on, tea consumed, for some ten minutes

my head filled with the landscape far and wide –

when from that endlessness on every side

this voice came, and my ears resounded with it.

 

It was a woman. And the boat she steered

was passing downstream through the bridge quite slowly.

She stood there at the helm, alone on deck,

 

and what she sang were hymns, I now could hear.

Oh, I thought, oh, were mother there instead.

Praise God she sang, His hand shall safely hold thee.