A poem by the Norwegian poet Thor Sørheim

KEEN-SENSED CHILD

I listened to the hymn-singing and the sexton

creaking in the chancel, I shot side-glances

at freethinker Frederik who always followed

the vicar obediently home to Sunday dinner,

I was a thoughtful child that during the sermon

could wonder if it was to be a move forward or

back to start in the game that was set out

on the living-room table, Christ came ever

closer during the ‘Crown Him, Crown Him’,

and when the grown-ups closed their eyes

on the rim of the chalice, I decided to

approach the future from the other side.

Poem by the Dutch poet C. Buddingh’

LION AND FOX

My father was so wonderful at doing a lion:

He would crouch under the table, suddenly

shoot out with a roar and chase you

round the whole room till he caught you.

When my sons were small, I mostly did

a fox: I would dress up as an old woman

that came begging for a glass of water or

a crust of bread – and then seize them in triumph.

How much time did I spend on this altogether?

Five hours perhaps: a hundredth thousandth part

‘of my allotted span here on this earth’.

I have lived through a world war

and so much that seemed enormously important.

Dead as a door-nail now. But lion and fox live on.

A poem by the Danish hymnwriter and bishop Adolph Brorson (1694-1764)

The fairest of roses

Now found is the fairest of roses

Its beauty midst thorns it discloses,

        Our Jesus this offshoot and dower

        Midst us human sinners did flower.

Since lost is the glory of bearing

The fruit of God’s image, uncaring

        The world has seemed, barren and wasted,

        We all by our sins death have tasted.

As thistles to nought can aspire

Than all be consigned to the fire,

        So too was the world fit for burning

        And cursed with no hope of returning.

Then God let a rose thrive and flower.

Its seed He did further empower

        To cleanse and to sweeten entirely

        The yield that was ruined so direly.

Now God’s Church its glory is wearing,

The finest of fruits can be bearing,

        For Jesus its yield is reviving,

        The plants with new sap are all thriving.

The whole world with joy should be singing,

The air with glad psalms should be ringing,

        But many are deaf to the telling:

        The rose in the world has its dwelling.

You thistle-minds, hardened and sickly,

As statues so stiff, thorns so prickly,

        Why stand you there tall and unblinking

        In pride’s so depraved way of thinking?

Oh, seek what is low and in keeping,

In dust for your Saviour be weeping,

        Then you will our Jesus be knowing,

        For roses in valleys are growing.

You, Jesus, will be beyond measure

My rose and my glory, my treasure,

        My heart you have captured completely,

        Your sweetness does nourish and feed me.

My rose is my jewel and my treasure,

My rose is my joy and my pleasure;

        My poisonous lusts you have beaten,

        The cross you deliciously sweeten.

Let this cruel world seek to ensnare me,

Let thorns try to scratch, rend and tear me,

        Let life from my poor heart be taken,

        My rose will remain unforsaken.

A third Tellegen in English and Danish

MY POEMS

I write black poems.

I wash them, I rinse them,

but they still remain black.

I hang them out to dry, the sun shines

and just for a instant they are white,

as white as light-heartedness.

Passers-by clear their throats and ask:

‘What do you wash them with?’

Their poems are blue and green and crimson and violet,

like pride and facial pain and beauty and disenchantment.

The wind gets up, the sun disappears behind a cloud

and they’re black once more,

black poems –

I don’t wash them with anything.

MINE DIGTE

Jeg skriver sorte digte.

Jeg vasker dem, jeg skyller dem,

men de forbliver lige sorte.

Jeg hænger dem til tørre, solen skinner

og for et lille øjeblik er de hvide,

ligeså hvide som letsindighed.

Forbipasserende rømmer sig og spørger:

‘Hvad vasker du dem med?’

Deres digte er blå og grønne og højrøde og violette,

som hovmod og ansigtspine og skønhed og skuffelse.

Vinden tager til, solen forsvinder bag en sky

og de er atter sorte,

sorte digte –

Jeg vasker dem ikke med noget.

Danish translations of the two Tellegen poems (13.08 and 01.09)

FORAN ET VINDUE

Jeg står foran et vindue.

Jeg ser ord der kommer.

Visse ord genkender jeg:

endskønt, rød, tidligere,

ikkedestomindre i dets blafrende jakke,

sandfærdighed, ufuldkommen...

Visse klatrer på hinandens skuldre.

‘Hvem er du?’ råber de.

‘Overskyet,’ råber jeg.

‘Tungt eller halvt?’ spørger de.

‘Let,’ siger jeg. ‘Let overskyet.’

Jeg sænker mit blik.

Jeg ville ønske jeg var glitrende

eller nogenlunde

eller endnu mer: desuagtet.

Det begynder at regne.

Endskønt kigger opad, dets kinder bliver våde.

Vidt og bredt spæner afsted.

Mørkret falder.

ET LOKOMOTIV

Der står et lokomotiv på et sidespor,

rustent indtil marven, overgroet med tidsler.

Når det regner, græder hun, brune tårer.

Jeg går langs hende, rører ved hende,

aer hende,

siger noget til hende, noget opmuntrende,

klatrer op på resterne af et gangbræt.

I det fjerne slår et ur.

Måske er jeg en prins. Men kan aldrig vide!

Måske er dette Tornerose.

Futtog, kære lille futtog... åbn dine øjne...!

Højt på himlen står solen.

‘Hej!’ råber de. ‘Hallo!’, ‘Vent lige!’ og ‘Stå stille!’

Men vi tager afsted og hører ingen og intet mere.

Today's Høeck, from '1001 POEMS'

        if language in the

        last analysis

belongs to that type of sys

tem (the axiomatic)

        for which gödel’s proof

        is valid couldn’t

        poetry then be

        considered as that

theorem (the one true asser

tion) which cannot be deduced

        (proved) on the basis

        of language itself?

Danish version of my poem of 26.08.10

en hård negl

dette forår

kom mine fingernegle i udbrud

deres væksthastighed fordobledes

de blev også hårde

sprøde

brød af fuldstændig skævt

dannede rygge

forkastninger

jeg blev ved at gå ind i ting

med mine negle

efterladende splinter overalt

de syntes at blive lavere

bredere

og stribede

jeg betragter dem

og ser min mors negle

på det som er ved at blive

min mors hænder

men med min fars årer

kigger så på portrættet

lige til højre for mig

med min søn

og mine børnebørn

men kan ikke se deres negle

Another Toon Tellegen poem

A LOCOMOTIVE

There’s a locomotive standing on a siding,

consumed by rust, overgrown with thistles.

When it rains, she cries, brown tears.

I walk alongside her, touch her,

stroke her,

say something to her, something encouraging,

climb up onto the remains of a footboard.

A clock strikes in the distance.

Perhaps I am a prince. You never know!

Perhaps this could just be Sleeping Beauty.

Little luvvy loco... open your eyes...!

The sun is high in the sky.

‘Hey!’ they call out. ‘Ho!’ ‘Wait a moment!’ and ‘Stop!’

But we move off and hear nothing and no one any more.

A heron poem by the Dutch poet Chr. J. van Geel

Een reiger loopt voorzichtig

op hoge poten door

de sloot en brengt zijn spieden,

ook als het donker is,

als witvis aan het licht.

A heron cautiously

walks on long-toed feet down

the ditch and brings its spying,

even when it is dark,

as whitefish to the light.

A recent poem of my own

hard as nails

this spring

my fingernails started to erupt

their growth rate doubled

they also grew hard

brittle

shearing off at mad angles

developing ridges

faults

i kept on walking into things

with my nails

leaving shards everywhere

they seemed to grow lower

wider

and striate

i look at them

and see my mother’s nails

on what are becoming

my mother’s hands

but with my father’s veins

then look at the portrait

just right of me

with my son

and grandchildren

but cannot see their nails