Two stanzas from the voyage of the spaceship 'Aniara' - the title of a long poem by the Swedish poet Harry Martinson

(...)

Jag skall berätta vad jag hört om glas

och då skall ni förstå. I varje glas

som står tillräckligt länge oberört

förflyttas glasets blåsa efterhand

oändligt sakta mot en annan punkt

i glasets kropp och efter tusen år

har blåsan gjort en resa i sitt glas.

På samma sätt i en oändlig rymd

där svalg av ljusårs djup sin välvning slår

kring blåsan Aniara där hon går.

Ty fastän farten som hon gör är stor

och mycket högre än en snabb planets

är hennes hastighet med rymdmått sedd

på pricken svarande mot den vi vet

att blåsan gör i denna skål av glas. (...)

(...)

I’ll tell you what I’ve heard concerning glass

and then you’ll understand. In any glass

that has remained untouched for long enough

the bubble in the glass will by degrees

move infinitely slowly to a point

elsewhere within the glass and will complete

this journey first after a thousand years.

It’s likewise in a space that’s infinite

where light-years’ deep abyss throws up its vault

round Aniara’s bubble as she moves.

For though the speed she travels at is great

far swifter than a rapid planet’s course

in terms of space velocities it would

exactly correspond to that we know

the bubble moves at in this bowl of glass. (...)

A poem by the Swedish poet Lars Gustafsson

Fernissa på en åra

Västvinden går.

Västvinden, nyfiken,

in genom öppna fönstret

och bläddrar i uppslagen bok.

Som alltså läser sig själv.

Fernissan på åran

torkar snabbare nu

och minst en fluga

blir alltid kvar

i den hårdnande, klara massan.

Liksom en fråga

utifrån den kristallklara tomma och

nattliga rymden.

Och boken läser sig själv

inte utan eftertanke.

Varnish on an oar

The west wind blows.

The west wind, curious,

in through the open window

and leaves through an opened book.

Which thus reads itself.

The varnish on the oar

dries more quickly now

and at least one fly

is always left there

in the hardening, clear substance.

Like a question from outside,

from crystal-clear, empty and

nocturnal space.

And the book reads itself

not without reflection.

Four poems from Klaus Høeck's Heptameron

OSPGPSPSPA-X

First Sunday in Advent.

        It is

        not the

events that are called

        miracles that

        are so hard

to grasp. More that

        i have to

        create them

myself each time by

        transforming the

        events into

miracles by virtue of my belief.

OGPAPFPAPA-X

Second Sunday in Advent.

        It is smoking

        from winter’s

crystal. My words freeze

        solid to

        the paper

like the tongue to iron, like

        the soul to

        its body.

Can the heat from two paraffin

        wax candles

        separate them again.

Or the heart’s secret fire?

OSPAPSPSPG-X

Fourth Sunday in Advent.

        The clouds look

        like boiling

lead; tracks dark with snow.

        But then the

        light of creation

is also black deep down

        within because

        this act

calls for so much light that

        everything else

        darkens slightly,

when a human child is born.

OGPAPGPGPG-X

Christ’s birthday. I do not

        go to church.

        Consider

instead a reproduction of

        Meister

        Francke’s

‘Christmas Night’. I don’t know

        much about births;

        only about the

spiritual (they hurt). But the

        sky is as

        red as the

glossy paper from my own childhood.

For all of Heptameron (383 pages!) go to this website

A poem by the Dutch poet Rutger Kopland

Die Kunst der Fuge

I

So do thoughts roam, in their roaming repeating

like mountain-meadow streams, always somehow different,

always somehow the same, all of them longing

for something, a somewhere, elsewhere a memory

searching towards. And their longing is only

the force of water, their memory only

banks of rivers, somewhere, elsewhere they are the sea.

II

The space of a wood of tall beeches in winter,

from whose tops there is falling, again and again,

repeating this movement from this once to later,

as long as that falling continues, leaf after leaf after

Their memory is only this space, and only

this falling their longing, this merging amongst

all the others, this unretrievably being all over.

III

The swarms of birds above the valley, the fleeting

moments of belonging together and falling apart.

all that repeating, where there is searching for that

one movement where memory and longing

disappear into each other, the finding of those moments,

and the losing. What binds them and drives them apart

are the cold, wind, grey roofs in the depths.

IV

And high in the rare winter air footprints in the snow,

a man and a woman who came this way, here

- prints were the only thing left of them, a pair of tracks

thin, twining tracks on the roam, memory

and longing, both of them, but of what and to where -

here where we are, only us, and the snow,

snow where no print has been set.

V

There is roaming, merging, falling apart, disappearing

and all this repeated, as if time and again there is something

that has to be sought, found, lost, sought,

as if time and again something must, must be something

before disappearing and after.

From 'Heron Heights' by the Norwegian poet Thor Sørheim

DA DET STORE TREET FALT

Da det store treet falt

slo lufta mellom greinene knallhardt

til begge sider, bladene gikk i spinn

og lauvsangerne svirret i tomrommet

uten feste. I fallet virket treet

mer skremmende enn selve

stormen, vi ante ikke hvilke krefter

vi hadde i vår egen hage før tørkestativet

av jern knelte som et kornaks

under stammen. Lamslåtte så vi

horisonten rase inn i synsfeltet

som en skogkledd planet vi aldri

tidligere hadde observert så nær huset,

og kollisjonen hadde vært uunngåelig

om det ikke hadde vært for lyskilen

som lynkjapt smatt imellom.

WHEN THE BIG TREE FELL

When the big tree fell

the air thwacked out between the branches

to both sides, the leaves went into a spin

and the willow warblers whirred in the empty space

without a hold. In falling the tree seemed

more frightening than the actual

gale, we had no idea what forces

we had in our own garden before the iron

clothes dryer bent at the knee like an ear of corn

under the trunk. Thunderstruck we saw

the horizon tearing into vision

like a wooded planet we had never

previously observed so close to the house,

and the collision would have been inevitable

had it not been for the wedge of light

that slipped through quick as lightning.

An advent poem by Jean-Pierre Rawie

Advent

In deze laatste week van de advent

zou het moeten gaan sneeuwen: ieder jaar

zijn het dezelfde dingen waar je naar

verlangt. Dus sneeuwt het niet; maar alles went.

Je steekt de kaarsen aan op het dressoir,

en denkt aan alle doden die je kent.

Terwijl je wacht op een gemist moment

schuiven de dagen naadloos in elkaar.

Je poogt je tegen beter weten in

iets te herinneren wat er niet was,

omdat wat weg is diepte heeft en zin.

Je draait muziek, drinkt thee, je leest en boek

dat je ook lang geleden al eens las.

Maar alles is onachterhaalbaar zoek.

Advent

In what is now the final advent week

it ought soon to be snowing: every year

the same old things are what you’d like appear

the most. No snow then - old hat, so to speak.

You light the sideboard candles once again,

and think of all you know who’re now deceased.

You’re waiting for some moment that’s been missed

while each day slots into a seamless chain.

Against your better judgment you would chance

to call to mind again what was not there,

since what is gone has depth, significance.

You put on music, drink tea, read a book

that you’ve already read long since, somewhere.

But it’s all gone for good, slipped off the hook.

Another Hester Knibbe translation

Light years

It’s a marvellous world, you said,

with those trees, marshes, deserts,

grasses, rivers and oceans and

so forth. And the moon’s all right too

with its more or less

soft-gleaming sheen and motion. Include

besides the wingèd M, voluptuous

Venus, hot-headed Mars, dead-lucky

J and that sour-puss Saturn of course plus

U and N and far-roamer P, in short the whole

solar family complete with its

milky way and then add on all those other

systems with specks and spots and in

that infinite void it’s a commotion of

well you know. It’s a magnificent

universe, you said, just take a good look

through the ready-made glasses of the dark

at a desert for instance or on your back

in oceans of grass, just take a good look

at that rorschach violence, that’s where we’re

standing somewhere, together.

Jellema again - in Dutch, Danish and English

DRIJFJACHT

Plat op de rug zijn lange lepeloren,

gedoken in de vore lag de haas,

en ik, terwijl ik naderbij kwam, deed,

mijn taak van drijver dus verzakend, of

hij niet gezien werd, niet zijn ogen puilend

van angst, blikloos alsof niet mij hij waarnam,

niet achter mij de wijde vrijheid, maar

een niets in zich, een gat waar hij voor lag,

te diep, te breed om nog te durven springen.

Toen, met een stap van mij aan hem voorbij,

in een seconde was hij weg - me wendend

(verwensing uit de slootwal, doch geen schot)

zag ik hem rennend naar de horizon,

al haast een stip op wit bevroren klei.

Hoe zal zijn einde zijn geweest? In wijn

gestoofd, onder een auto of gewoon

van ouderdom tussen de koude voren -

wanneer in 't voorjaar op het veld voor huis

de hazen buitelen, denk ik aan hem:

hoe angst een plotselinge kracht kan zijn

die je bevrijdt tot in je kloppend hart.

Misschien zal, als het gat dat groeit in mij

te diep, te breed wordt om te kunnen springen,

bij god, een haas mijn voorspraak zijn (want ook

een dier dat angst kent heeft een ziel die wordt

verlost), al was het maar doordat die morgen

mij heugt, die ene stap, en dat instinct

waarmee bestaan zich redt op eigen kracht.

KLAPJAGT

De lange skeører fladt ned langs ryggen,

sammenkrøben i furen lå haren,

og jeg, imens jeg trådte nærmere,

svigtende min klapperpligt, lod

som om den ikke var set, ikke dens angst-

sprængte øjne, tomme som om ikke jeg,

ikke den store frihed bag mig fandtes, men

et intet, et hul der lå foran den,

for dybt, for bredt til at vove springet.

Så, med et skridt fra mig forbi den,

på et sekund var den borte – da jeg vendte mig om

(til eder fra diget, men intet skud)

så jeg den pilende mod horisonten,

en lillebitte prik nu mod rimfrosset ler.

Hvordan blev mon dens endeligt? Grydestegt

i vin, under en bil eller helt almindeligt

af alderdom mellem de kolde furer –

Hver gang harerne om foråret slår kolbøtter

foran mit hus, tænker jeg på den:

at angst kan være en pludselig kraft

der frigør dig indtil dit bankende hjerte.

Kan det tænkes, hvis det hul der gror i mig

bliver alt for dybt, for bredt for at kunne overspringes,

en hare foran gud vil tale min sag (for selv

et dyr der kender angst har også en sjæl der

kan frelses), og var det kun fordi jeg husker

denne morgen, dette skridt, og det instinkt

med hvilket livet redder sig af egen kraft.

BATTUE

Long spoonlike ears against his back full-flattened,

huddled deep in the furrow lay the hare,

and I, as I drew nearer, pretended,

forsaking my task as a beater, not

to have caught sight of him, not his eyes bulging

with fear, void as if not perceiving me,

not behind me unbounded freedom, but

an inner nothing, a hole at his feet,

too deep, too wide to dare to think of leaping.

Then, as I made the step that took me past him

in a split second he was gone – and turning

(to cursings from the ditchside, though no shot)

I saw him make his dash for the horizon,

a mere dot now on white hard-frozen clay.

How did he meet his end I wonder. Braised

in wine, run over by a car perhaps

or simply from old age among cold furrows –

when in spring in the field outside the house

the hares romp and tumble, I think of him:

how fear can sometimes be a sudden force

that sets you free down to your pounding heart.

It could be, if the hole that grows in me

becomes too deep, too wide for any leaping,

a hare will plead my case with god (for

an animal that knows fear has a soul, too,

that is saved), if only since I remember

that morning, that one step and that instinct

with which life saves itself by its own force.

Johannes V. Jensen - time for this poem!

Solstice song

Our sun has now grown cold,

we are in winter’s hold

the days are waning.

        Now, past the deepest night,

        our hope burns bright –

        yes, hope burns bright,

        for now the sun will right,

now light will soon return, the days again are gaining.

The lovely fir tree green

betokens summer’s screen

of woods imposing.

        In Christmas candlelight

        like star-hosts bright,

        yes, star-hosts bright,

        sun’s wonder is in sight

and all the yellow flower-suns that now are dozing.

The fir-tree’s charry scent

gives air to summers spent

and each newcomer.

        Cool Danish years all swing,

        dance in a ring,

        yes, in a ring

        round an eternal spring.

Let all souls also sing of Denmark’s lovely summer!

Jellema in Dutch, English and Danish - Zeegezicht

ZEEGEZICHT

Op de palm van jouw hand, in dat landschap

van gevormde levenslijnen, niet groter

dan een flinke waterdruppel

– terwijl zonsondergang de hele

hemel boven de eindstreep van het eiland

ginds in Turner-kleuren zet –

die babykrab, voorzichtig

van tussen de basaltblokken geraapt,

zijn onderkomen waar hij wachtte op de vloed.

Nog kleiner dan de nagel van jouw pink,

zijn grijsblauw pantsertje nog niet verkalkt,

krabbelt hij zijwaarts over plooi en heuvel,

een onbekende wereld, verontrust

dat bodem warmte geeft.

Dan, op de rand van dat heelal,

laat hij zich zonder aarzeling terugvallen in

de veiligheid van spleten, zeezand, steen,

met achterlating van een beeld, van

haast een naam.

Nu is het of wij, samen onder aan de dijk,

worden gezien, terwijl het water stijgt

en in doorschijning spiegelt hoe de hemel kleurt.

Heeft iemand iets gezegd? Nee, niemand sprak.

SEA VISTA

In the palm of your hand, in that landscape

of shaped life-lines, no larger

than a good-sized drop of water –

while sunset colours all the

sky above the island finish line

out there in Turner shades –

that baby crab, carefully eased

from between the blocks of basalt,

its shelter where it waited for the tide.

Still smaller than your little finger’s nail,

its grey-blue armour not yet calcified,

it scrambles sideways over folds and hillocks,

an unfamiliar world, alarmed

at ground that gives off warmth.

Then, on the rim of that universe and with no

hesitation it lets itself fall back into

the safe terrain of fissures, sea sand, stones,

leaving behind an image,

almost a name.

It seems as if, down by the dike together,

we now are seen, while evening waters rise

and, in translucence, mirror the suffusing sky.

Did someone say something. No, nobody spoke.

HAVUDSIGT

I din håndflade, i dette landskab

af formede livslinier, ikke større

end en pæn dråbe vand

– mens solnedgangen farvesætter

hele himlen over øens målstreg

derovre med Turner-nuancer –

denne babykrabbe, forsigtigt

samlet op mellem basaltblokkene,

dens husly hvor den ventede på tidevandet.

Endnu mindre end din lillefingernegl,

dens gråblå lille rygskjold endnu ikke blevet til kalk,

kravler den sidelæns over fold og bakke,

en ukendt verden, ængstelig

ved et underlag der afgiver varme.

Så, på kanten af dette univers, lader den

sig uden tøven falde tilbage i

trygheden af sprækker, havsand, sten,

og efterlader kun et billede,

næppe et navn.

Nu er det som om vi, sammen nede ved diget,

bliver set, mens vandet stiger

og spejler gennemsigtigt himlens farveskift.

Sagde nogen noget? Nej, ingen talte.