A poem by the Swedish writer Lars Gustafsson

An early summer day at Björn Nilsson’s grave

(Midsummer 2005)

Väster Våla graveyard in the light of early summer

and with the kindly southwesterly wind over

Brusling’s meadows that must have been there

that mild morning in the sixties

when we invented the Monster in Bo Gryta.

The monster was a huge mole, and we needed it

to have something to write about in Expressen.

(It was one of those irritating weeks

when everything refused to happen,

world history hesitates or meditates

on what the next really lousy surprise

is to look like and no star had broken his leg.)

Bo Gryta is a deep-hole in the Åmänningen lake

To be found a few kilometres outside

the villages of Bodarne and Vretarne, on a line

between the former Boda harbour, where the wreck

of an ore smack that capsized and sank is said

to lie, though no one knows where, and Dentist’s Point.

How deep is this deep-hole? Nobody knows.

Many have tried with plummet and line.

And when the line came up, snipped

just as elegantly as with a razorblade

or the chain they tried instead,

the cut just as shiny and neat

from what can only be

extremely large teeth, the attempts

were abandoned. Christopher Middleton

described them in his poem ‘The Mole’.

This really had an effect:

for a couple of summers latter a busload

of Englishmen, eccentrics and experts

came for the monsters of the deep. They sounded

and took notes. Per Brusling offered them coffee,

now an old man who knows quite a lot about the lake.

The summer wind passes over Björn Nilsson’s grave.

And I’m afraid I am the only one left who knows

how it really happened.

The expedition returned

deeply convinced that this giant mole

not only gigantic and malevolent,

is also sly, extremely sly,

and knows how to hide in murky depths

whenever anyone comes there

in search of it.

A poem by the Dutch poet Hanny Michaelis

Amongst the other trees,

luxuriant green colossi,

that one, scantier of bud each year

and now merely a finely ramified

skeleton, frail enlargement

of a leaf in autumn

wasted down to the very nerve.

A caricature of Goethe’s

green-golden tree of life,

but closer to the truth.

Klaus Høeck's variations on a theme by Grundtvig, from 'In Nomine'

        i walked abroad one

summer’s day to hear all kinds

        of transistorra

dios blaring at full volume from

rugård landevej and my own

too for that matter from here

inside the green labyrinth well mixed up

        stirred and thoroughly

blended with songs of birds that

        through my heart could sear

        songs of birds that through

my heart could sear at three ’o

        clock in the morning

(before the devil’s up and a

bout and even the holy spirit’s

still asleep drunk on roses on him

self and on the damp scent of grain)

        i listened in ex

celsis and from far below

        in the deep green vales

        in the deep green vales

beneath the heart and the a

        bysses of the mind

grundtvig’s hymns blossom and set

their hips and their itching powder and their

living word along with their

ultimative demands made on the flesh

        and on the soul that

attempts to conceal itself

        midst the nightingales

        midst the nightingales

that are not singing any

        more (since midsummer

has long since passed like a secret

fire at the back of the head) among

the trees in the garden of udby

rectory i count the beats of

        the cuckoo’s heart and

of my own and all those small

        birds that speak so clear

        and the other birds

that speak so clear and that sing

        and cheep and chirp and

chatter and kick up a racket

from morning to evening and cackle

and crow i drown out completely with my

very own variation

        on the old danish

folk song: ‘i walked abroad one

        summer’s day to hear’

        and the other birds

that speak so clear i ask the

        following question:

will you lend me your wings when the time

comes in gratitude for all the

grain and white bread and sunflower

seed will you – you small jackinaboxes

        so my soul can fly

away up to paradise

        midst the nightingales?

        midst the nightingales

and the fires caused by pyro

        maniacs in lang

eskov amidst summer light

ning and caravans we extravagant

ly frittered away our lives on what

is referred to as nothing: long

        walks that took us out

to the sea and excursions

        in the deep green vales

        in the deep green vales

beyond any form of sense

        and of utili

tarianism midst mozart’s

horn concertos and forgetmenots

behind trinitatis’ tremen

dous mirrors we wasted our time on

        what is referred to

as nothing: songs of birds that

        through my heart could sear

        i walked abroad one

summer’s day to hear a fair

        ytale that i know

extremely well but that even so

is new every time it is told

(almost like evening church bells peal

ing or like the folk high school song book)

        by the tall trees in

the forest and all those small

        birds that speak so clear

(for a translation of Grundtvig's original poem, go to here)

A poem by the Flemish writer Peter Holvoet-Hanssen

The magician comes

Picture a southern terrace in let’s say Marseilles
you occupy a lousy room in the Rue de Mazenod
eat and drink like a jolly frog with an imaginary companion
look up, rub your eyes: no richly rhymed rhetorics
Dutchman, the Flying Dutchman ties up at the quay

A seigneur descends the gangplank in a natty cape
his trunk advances jauntily beside its master
the cutlery stands to attention at the Marseillaise
and your friend chokes on his bouillabaisse
you knew the magician would come

His palace is as big as your imagination, picture it to yourself
it is enthroned in creamy clouds like Nephelokokkugia
the female slaves there lick his wand, he flicks pearls at their navels
thrusts his little battering ram between the guru’s chubby cheeks
throws him into a dungeon so dark even the enlightened one shudders

When the magician comes

You do not fear his wrath – you’re lucky, you certainly had it coming
even more, you smash all the plates at his feet
you fill his boots with pastis before he can even say ‘abra...’
you place him in front of a carnival mirror and paint his portrait
he genially crooks the corners of his mouth, finds it ‘impressionnant’

You imitate a sunset, most impressionist
until he starts to nod – dismount your easel while he’s still asleep
for if he suddenly starts, sea horses will run aground
if his balls nag, consumptives will shag themselves sound
if you summon him, you’ll be astounded

The magician comes

The last Heaney translation for the time being

 Odderen

Da du sprang i,
Dirrede lyset af Toscana
Og svingede gennem bassinen
Fra øverst til nederst.

Jeg elskede dit våde hoved og knusende crawl,
Din fine svømmerryg og -skuldre
Der brød overfladen gang på gang
Dette år og hvert år siden.

Jeg sad med tør hals på de varme sten.
Du var uden for min rækkevidde.
Den modnede klarhed, den druetunge luft
Tynnede ud og skuffede.

Gudskelov for den langsomme nedtyngning,
Når jeg holder dig nu
Er vi tætte og dybe
Som atmosfæren på vandet.

Mine to hænder er loddet vand.
Du er min hukommelses håndgribelige,
Smidige odder
In øjeblikkets bassin,

Der drejer for at svømme på ryggen,
Med hver tavse, lårrystende spark
Som gentipper lyset,
Hæver køligheden ved din hals.

Og pludselig er du ude,
Tilbage igen, opsat som altid,
Tung og sprælsk i din opfriskede pels,
Sættende aftryk på stenene.

Opening poem of 'Rib Cities' by the Swedish poet Eva Ström

The floods

The floods have not reached us

not wiped out the roadway, not overflowed the fields

The squalls have not reached us

not torn up trees by the roots, not

blocked the roads, tossed the train from the rails

Three thousand railway workers have not cleared

one thousand one hundred trees. No stable roof has blown off

near Petersborough, no aircraft was forced

to make a second landing attempt with terrified

passengers. No Sharon Black, 40, was still shaking

when saying the words: I honestly thought

I was going to die. The entire reality

from Aberdeen to Dover, from Dublin

to the English Channel was enacted in the

virtual emptiness that unexplored is called your brain

And you shut your eyes and said: Where you are is not death

where death is you are not. But the water continued to rise

and the two schoolboys at Robertsbridge, East Sussex

continued their arduous path through the expanses of water

leading their bikes through the vast defoliation

since the river had once more burst the embankments

and inundated the land one could not see

until Stan Lewis stepped out onto the staircase of his shop in Bewdley

to feed seven swans floating on a mirror of calm.

One more Danish translation of Seamus Heaney

Field Work

I

Where the sally tree went pale in every breeze,

where the perfect eye of the nesting blackbird watched,

where one fern was always green

I was standing watching you

take the pad from the gatehouse at the crossing

and reach to lift a white wash off the whins.

I could see the vaccination mark

stretched on your upper arm, and smell the coal smell

of the train that comes between us, a slow goods,

waggon after waggon full of big-eyed cattle.

II

But your vaccination mark is on your thigh,

an O that’s healed into the bark.

Except a dryad’s not a woman

you are my wounded dryad

in a mothering smell of wet

and ring-wormed chestnuts.

Our moon was small and far,

was a coin long gazed at

brilliant on the Pequod’s mast

across Atlantic and Pacific waters.

III

Not the mud slick,

not the black weedy water

full of alder cones and pock-marked leaves.

Not the cow parsley in winter

with its old whitened shins and wrists,

its sibilance, its shaking.

Not even the tart green shade of summer

thick with butterflies

and fungus plump as a leather saddle.

No. But in a still corner,

braced to its pebble-dashed wall,

heavy, earth-drawn, all mouth and eye,

the sunflower, dreaming umber.

IV

Catspiss smell,

the pink bloom open:

I press a leaf

of the flowering currant

on the back of your hand

for the tight slow burn

of its sticky juice

to prime your skin,

and your veins to be crossed

criss-cross with leaf-veins.

I lick my thumb

and dip it in mould,

I anoint the anointed

leaf-shape. Mould

blooms and pigments

the back of your hand

like a birthmark –

my umber one,

you are stained,

stained to perfection.

Feltarbejde

I

Hvor gråpilen blegnede i enhver brise,

hvor den rugende solsorts fuldendte øje kiggede,

hvor én bregne altid var grøn

stod jeg og så dig

tage stien fra portbygningen ved vejkrydset

og række ud for at lyfte hvidt vasketøj ned fra tornbladsbuske

jeg kunne se vaccinationsmærket

stramme på din overarm, og lugte kullugten

fra toget der kommer imellem os, et langsomt godstog,

vogn efter vogn fuld af storøjet kvæg.

II

Men vaccinationsmærket har du på låret,

et O som er helet ind i barken.

Bortset fra at en dryade ikke er en kvinde

så er du min sårede dryade

i en moderlig lugt af våde

og ringormede kastanjer.

Vår måne var lille og fjern,

var en længe betragtet mønt

skinnende på Pequods mast

tværs over Atlantens og Stille Havets vande.

III

Ikke slamstriben,

ikke det sorte udkrudtsvand

fuld af ellekogler og koparret løv

Ikke vild kørvel om vinteren

med dens gamle afblegede skinneben og håndled,

dens hvislelyd, dens skælven.

Ikke engang sommerens beskgrønne skygge

tyk af sommerfugle

og svampe buttede som en lædersadel.

Nej. Men i en stille hjørne,

fastgjort til dens stenpudsede mur,

tung, draget mod jorden, lutter mund og øje,

solsikken, drømmende umbra.

IV

Lugt af kattepis,

med åbne lyserøde blomster:

jeg trykker et blad

af blodribsen

mod bagsiden af din hånd

så at den tætte langsomme sviden

af dens klæbrige saft

kan grunde din hud,

og dine årer kan

krydsskraveres med bladårer.

jeg slikker min tommelfinger

og dypper den i muld,

jeg salver den salvede

bladform. Muldet

blomstrer og pigmenterer

bagsiden af din hånd

som et modermærke –

min kære umbra,

du er bejdset, bejdset

til perfektion.

A Danish translation of a poem by Seamus Heaney

Sang

En røn som en læbestiftsminket pige.

Mellem sidevejen og hovedvejen

Elletræer i våd, dryppende afstand

Står ud fra sivene.

Der er dialektens dyndblomster

Og immortellernes absolutte gehør

Og det øjeblik hvor fuglen synger helt tæt

På musikken af det der sker.

To see another poem by Seamus Heaney in Danish go to 09.11.09

Some poems from Heptameron by the Danish poet Klaus Høeck

OSpApFpFpA

then i lift

my index finger and

let it point up in

the air – not as

a warning not

so as to point to anything

in particular but as in

a zen-buddhist

koan and the information

is not slow in

coming: it is without

doubt the index finger

of my right hand

OSpApFpFpF

i have never

thought about

what i use

my middle finger for

but now i do so

the first thing

that occurs to me

is that it is

indispensable if

you want to play

a b on the cornet

for then you have to

depress the second piston

OSpApFpFP

i am not quite

clear if the ring

finger was in

volved in schumann’s

experiments with

tying his fingers

together so as to play

certain chords but

i have noticed

that i myself use

it to flick

the ash off my cigarette

from time to time

OSpApFpFpS

a little finger

must stick out it

simply must

stick out as if it

did not have anything

to do with the other

fingers and then it

must have a diamond

ring on – otherwise it

isn’t a little finger

from which i can deduce

that my little finger

isn’t a little finger

OSpApFpFpG

have you ever tried

to pick your

nose with your

thumb? – it’s no

good for doing that

nor is it really

any good for

underlining something

but what a

fingerprint it

can leave behind what a

bruise it can leave on

the petal of a poppy

To see the entire collection, go to here

Translation of a poem by the Swedish writer Eva Ström, taken from her collection 'Rib Cities'

Spectacular bodies

I do not travel alone toward the anatomical theatre

where the body is read as divine symmetry

The small monkey scratches the examining man’s scalp

and the dog chews entrails through scent strands of violence

The one with me builds his chapel out of Thou-shalt-not

but simultaneously whets the knives on wet grindstones

The criminal is the text that will discover the wonder

when the grave-desecrators furnished Dr Knox with material

The darkness enveloped the vagabonds and homeless

Now they lay instead in the gutter by Tottenham Court Road

In the street of home interiors they furnished their own corner

while the rain dripped in their sealed gazes

a finger pad’s imprint in a uniquely carved pattern

betrayed the presence of bodies that were still warm

Someone walking alongside said: There is no natural religion

before stretching out his hand and asking for change

but his pupil was silent, a doll in constant ground frost

evacuated and homeless the sight-bark was driven out.