Georg Stiernhielm (1598-1672): Kling-dikt ('Hålt stilla mitt Förnuft')

 

               Kling-dikt

         på Authoris Sinn-beläte,

              En Silkes-matk.

 

Hålt stilla mitt Förnuft, tig sachtelig besinna/

     Hwad thetta wara må! du sijr här en Figur/

     En vsel, naken Kropp/ en Matk, ett Creatur/

Som ingen skapnad har, ther intet är til finna,

Som ögat lyster see. Men märck; här ligger inna/

     Meer än en tänkia kan; en nyttig/ ädel/ pur/

     En sälsam/ underlig af Gud beredd Natur:

En Matk/ theß Spijs är Blad/ theß ijd är artigt spinna;

Theß Spona Silkes-tråd; theß wärck och wäf är Sijden.

     Af Blad gör han en Skatt; til theß han, toom och mager/

     Inwicklat in-dör i sin wäf/ och lijwet stäcker.

Men sij! En ny Figur, med Wingar prydd/ med tiden/

     Här kommer fram igen/ vpqwickter/ fin och fager:

     En lijflig Sool hans Siäl med kraft/ en gang/ vpwäcker.

 

 

              Sound-Poem (sonnet)

     on the emblem of the author,

               A silk-worm

 

My reason stay awhile, reflect ere you propound

     What this perhaps may be. What you see here’s a figure,

     A paltry naked hulk, a silk-worm, a mere creature

Without appearance and where nothing can be found

Designed to please the eye. Yet note: there lies within

     More than a mind can grasp, a useful, fine, pure nature

     Of rare and curious kind in each God-given feature:

A worm whose food is leaves, whose sole delight to spin,

Whose spun thread, toil and web on silk are all inclined.

     Of leaves it treasure makes, till empty, thin and abject,

     Cocooned within its web its own life it then takes.

But look, a brand-new figure, graced with wings fine-lined,

     In time will re-emerge, refreshed and fair of aspect,

     Once a vivacious sun its soul now re-awakes.

 

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.

Henrik Wergeland: 'Med en bouquet'

 

Med en bouquet

 

Den har ei Sjel, som ikke troer,

     Naturen er en aaben Bog,

at Mossens blege Klippeflor

     saa vel som Rosen har sit Sprog.

 

Det kjender Du, min Elskte, vel.

     Du Drømmen seer i Klokkens Bund.

Du fatter Liljens tause Sjel

     og Ordene fra Rosens Mund.

 

Lad da din skjønne Fantasi

     blandt Somrens Blomster sværme om!

For Hende, Blomster, taler I!

     Hun er jo selv saa favr en Blom.

 

Paa Morgenrødens Høie groe

     kun Roser lige hendes Kind,

paa Lysets Bjerg, hvor Engle boe,

     kun Liljen reen som hendes Sind.

 

Og ikkun hist, hvor Dagens Blaa

     frembryder som en Kilde klar,

saa fagre Blaavioler staae

     som hendes søde Øienpar.

 

 

With a bouquet

 

He has no soul who won’t believe

     that Nature is an open book,

that moss’s pallid rock-flowers have,

     like roses, voice as well as look.

 

My love, you know this as of old.

     The bell-flowers dreams to you disclose.

You know the lily’s silent soul,

     the words soft-spoken by the rose.

 

Let then your fantasy now seek

     midst summer flowers to roam so free!

And flowers, for her I charge you speak!

     For such a lovely flower is she.

 

On hills where dawn’s flush casts its spell

     there grow but roses like her cheek,

on peaks of light, where angels dwell,

     but lilies pure as she is meek.

 

And only there where blue of day

     like spring so clear does now arise,

grow violets in blue array

     as lovely as her pair of eyes.

 

 

Inger Hagerup: 'Emily Dickenson'

 

Emily Dickinson

 

Meget spinkel. Meget liten.

Alltid sirlig kledd i hvitt.

Gjennom huset trippet hennes

veloppdragne pikeskritt.

 

Tørket støv og vannet blomster

med små travle husmorhender.

Bakte brød. Gikk tur i parken,

og skrev brev til slekt og venner.

 

Kjærlig søster. Lydig datter.

Slik var dagens dukkelek.

Men den skjulte ilden herjet.

Og det stumme skriket skrek.

 

Og bak jomfruburets låste

dør og lette blondekapper

lå en fremmed ingen kjente.

Altfor ensom. Altfor tapper.

 

Lå en kald kirurg og lyttet

til sin egen nakne smerte.

Og mens puten kvalte skriket,

obduserte hun sitt hjerte.

 

 

Emily Dickinson

 

Very slender. Very tiny.

Always neatly dressed in white.

Through the house she used to trip with

girl-like steps well-bred and light.

 

Wiped off dust and watered flowers

with small busy housewife hands.

Baked bread. In the park went walking,

wrote to family and friends.

 

Loving sister. Duteous daughter.

Doll-play was her daily fare.

But the hidden fire ravaged.

And the silent scream did tear.

 

And behind the locked door of her

girl’s room and her bonnets’ lace

lay a stranger known to no one.

All too lonely. All too brave.

 

Lay a surgeon listening coldly

to her naked pain apart.

And while cushions choked her screaming,

she dissected her own heart.

 

 For information on photographs of Emily Dickenson, go to here.

 

 

B.S. Ingemann: 'I Snee staaer Urt og Busk i Skjul'

I Snee staaer Urt og Busk i Skjul

 

I Snee staaer Urt og Busk i Skjul;

     Det er saa koldt derude;

Dog synger der en lille Fugl

     Paa Qvist ved frosne Rude.

 

Giv Tid, giv Tid! — den nynner glad

     Og ryster de Smaavinger —

Giv Tid! og hver en Qvist faaer Blad;

     Giv Tid! — hver Blomst udspringer.

 

Giv Tid! og Livets Træ bli’r grønt,

     Maa Frosten det end kue.

Giv Tid! og hvad du drømte skjønt,

     Du skal i Sandhed skue.

 

Giv Tid! og Aandens Vinterblund

     Skal flye for herlig Sommer;

Giv Tid og bie paa Herrens Stund!

     — Hans Skjønhedsrige kommer.

 

 

In snow each bush and plant stands blurred

 

In snow each bush and plant stands blurred,

     outside the cold is stinging,

yet on a branch a little bird

     by frozen pane is singing.

 

Soon time! soon time! – its glad song cleaves

     the air, its small wings shaking, –

soon time! each branch will sprout new leaves

     soon time! each flower be waking.

 

Soon time! and life's tree will turn green,

     though frost would fain subdue it,

soon time! and what was but a dream

     you shall as truth then view it.

 

Soon time! and spirit's winter sleep

     will flee at summer's glory,

soon time, God's promised hour He'll keep –

     His fair realm ends the story.

 

 

 

 

 

Anna Blaman: 'Winter' (1940)

 

Winter

 

Ik ben gestorven zonder het te weten

want anders had ik me toch wel verzet

en als een starre wacht voor ’t raam gezet

zit ik dit bodemloos bestaan te meten

 

Ik heb maar een verlangen – te vergeten

maar op mijn ademtocht de nerf gewet

groeit er aan ijsvarens een rauw bouquet

en buiten ligt een toegevroren Lethe

 

en ik blijf wachten – en meet het leven uit –

het is woestijn, herkomst – en doelverloren

de stem des roependen zonder geluid

 

Was er ooit een die mij had kunnen horen?

een eenzame voor een bebloemde ruit

en buiten blanke toegesneeuwde sporen –

 

 

Winter

 

I find I’ve died though unaware of this

resistance otherwise would have been plain

and like a glazed guard at the window pane

I sit and gauge life’s bottomless abyss

 

I have a single longing – to forget

but on my breath and with a nerve that’s honed

a raw frost-fern bouquet is swiftly cloned

and outside Lethe’s ice is firmly set

 

and I stay waiting – gauging life’s fixed ground –

it’s desert, origins – its aim interred

the only calling voice devoid of sound

 

Could I by someone ever have been heard?

a lone one at a pane with flowers ice-bound

and outside tracks the snow’s completely blurred –

Edvard Storm (1749-1794): 'Heimreise fraa Sæteren'

 

Heimreise fraa Sæteren

 

Os ha gjort qva gjæras skulle,

     ysta ost aa kinna Smør,

Naa staar at aa kløvja Øikjom,

     sættja Laas for Sæterdør.

Korkje finds dæ meire

     Føe her for Heie hel’ for Krist,

Gla æ os, os slep aat Bygden,

     meire gla æ Kue vist.

 

Farvæl Qve, som ofte gjore

     bloutast Blomsterseng ’pum mæg,

Nær æg trøt ve Høgsdags Leite

     jøp aa sløngde mæg paa dæg.

Farvæl Sæl! mi kjære Stugu,

     som saa mangt mit Arbei saag!

Montru du aa mærkte naagaa,

     nær Stakællen sjaa mæg laag?

 

Farvæl maark, som Fænan gnaagaa,

     der æg Gjete mangein Gaang;

Farvæl skoog, som ofte joma

     taa min lur aa stut aa Saang!

Farvæl Hulder, som der budde!

     fløt naa du ti sæle ind;

Vinters Ti æ ilt aa ligje

     ute baa for Vær aa Vind.

 

Kom naa alt ti Sætre finnes,

     kom aa følg aat Bygden ne!

Heile Jore æ naa røjugt,

     qvart eit Straa høir Fænan te;

Skond døk’; Folkje venta heime,

     Bufærslefsa vil døm haa;

Hær æ inkje meire gjæra;

     Folk aa Fæna, læt os gaa!

 

 

Home journey from the high pasture

 

We have done all that was needed,

     churned the butter, made the cheese,

Now we’ve just to load the horses,

     lock the hut door, take the keys.

Nor for pagan or for Christian

     is there any food left o’er,

We are glad we’re homeward wending,

     gladdest are the cows for sure.

 

Farewell pasture, that so often

     was my flowery feather bed,

When at midday tired from labour

     down on you I flung my head.

Farewell hut! my own dear cabin

     that oft at my work could stare!

Did you notice owt, I wonder,

     when my young man saw me there?

 

Farewell fields cropped close by cattle,

     where my frequent watch was long;

Farewell woods where echoes rattled

     from my calling horn and song!

Farewell Huldra, who did dwell here!

     in my hut you can move in;

Winter’s not for lying outdoors

     in all weathers and cold wind.

 

Come now all in these high pastures

     to the village let’s be gone!

Now the fields are neat and tidy, 

     every straw’s the cattle’s own;

Hurry – folk are waiting down there,

     Harvest home awaits below;

Nothing more to do up here now;

     Folk and cattle, off we go!

 

 

Aasmund Olafsson Vinje (1818-1870): 'Ved Rundarne'

 

Ved Rundarne

 

No seer eg atter slike Fjøll og Dalar,

som deim eg i min fyrste Ungdom saag,

og sama Vind den heite Panna svalar;

og Gullet ligg paa Snjo, som fyrr det laag.

Det er eit Barnemaal, som til meg talar,

og gjer’ meg tankefull, men endaa fjaag

Med Ungdomsminni er den Tala blandad:

Det strøymer paa meg, so eg knapt kan anda.

 

Ja, Livet strøymer paa meg, som det strøymde,

naar under Snjo eg saag det grøne Straa.

Eg drøymer no, som fyrr eg altid drøymde,

naar slike Fjøll eg saag i Lufti blaa.

Eg gløymer Dagsens Strid, som fyrr eg gløymde,

naar eg mot Kveld af Sol eit Glimt fekk sjaa.

Eg finner vel eit Hus, som vil meg hysa,

naar Soli heim mot Notti vil meg lysa.

 

Alt er som fyrr, men det er meir forklaarat,

so Dagsens Ljos meg synest meire bjart.

Og det, som beit og skar meg, so det saarat,

det gjerer sjølve Skuggen mindre svart;

sjølv det, som til at synda tidt meg daarat,

sjølv det gjer’ harde Fjøllet mindre hardt.

Forsonad’ koma atter gamle Tankar:

det sama Hjarta er, som eldre bankar.

 

Og kver ein Stein eg som ein Kjenning finner,

for slik var den, eg flaug ikring som Gut.

Som det var Kjæmpur spyr eg, kven som vinner

af den og denne andre haage Nut.

Alt minner meg; det minner, og det minner,

til Soli ned i Snjoen sloknar ut.

Og inn i siste Svevn meg eigong huggar

dei gamle Minni og dei gamle Skuggar.

 

 

At Rondane

 

Once more such heights and valleys stand before me

as those I saw when my first youth held sway;

my heated brow the selfsame wind cools for me,

and gold lies on the snow, as once it lay.

A childhood language speaks that seems to awe me

and make me thoughtful, although also gay,

And childhood memories the words are wreathing:

It streams out to me, almost stops me breathing.

 

Yes, life streams out now as I felt it streaming

when under snow I saw the green shoots rise.

I’m dreaming now, as once I stood there dreaming

when I such mountains saw ’gainst bright blue skies.

Forgotten is day’s strife, as ’twas at evening

when glimpsing sun’s last rays would be my prize.

I’m sure to find a house that heeds my calling,

with sun to light my way home ere night’s falling.

 

All’s as before, transfigured, seen more clearly,

with daylight seeming brighter than way back.

And that which bit and cut me so severely

the actual shadow now makes seem less black;

e’en that which tempted me to sin, or nearly,

e’en that hard rock makes softer in attack.

Old thoughts, now reconciled, extend a greeting:

though older, it is still the same heart beating.

 

And every stone seems known where’er I’m wending,

for ’mongst such stones did I once run about.

As if they were great giants fiercely contending,

I ask this peak and that who’ll win their bout.

All things remind me in a chain unending

till deep down in the snow the sun goes out.

And till the final sleep one day enfolds me

old memories and shadows will console me.