Dagkalender van de poëzie for 2 Jan. by the Dutch writer Menno Wigman

JEUNESSE DORÉE

I saw the greatest spirits of my generation

        bleed for a revolt that did not come.

I saw them dreaming between dust covers and

        waking up in the hell of twenty-two cities,

wicked as the hacked-out heart of Rotterdam.

I saw them swearing by a new-found drunkenness

        and dancing on the dark floor of the night.

I saw them weeping for the blockheads in the trams

        and praying between twice one hundred watts.

I saw them suffering from an uninvited talent

        and speaking with an agitated voice:

everything already said, not yet by them.

They were late. No promises that were lived up to.

        The cities glittered black as caviar.

Poem by the Dutch poet Esther Jansma

Soil survey

This is ancient ground, time is slowed right down,

here all of its moments lie in being

past, the chaos of centuries, stacked,

stratified and brought to order. We read

for example a floor in the heart of the city

far below ground level, in the surrounding walls

the toppled brackets of vaults,

a door opening blocked with the reclining

dashes of stones – someone has stood

here on shoes that have never been found

in the dank twilight of his cellar

on flagstones that made no one stop

and thought: that door must go. For he had time,

it was continuously now. He built and

altered buildings, his present was eternal

and there was so much to want, to hold on to.

A poem by the Dutch poet Willem Jan Otten in Danish translation

OM AT STJÆLE TID

Hvorfor ellers, læsende,

er du nået hertil

fra dit tidligere sted,

hvis ikke for at fornemme

fra en anden end dig selv

at alle halvtredsindstyve æg

som bedstefar Otten Agnostikeren

i slutningen af det sidste århundrede,

samlede, udsugede

og lagde i et himmelblåt

skuffedarium,

som jeg senere hen arvede,

at alle halvtredsindstyve æg,

torniriskens indkluderet,

lille som en lillefingernegl,

okkerfregnet,

stadigvæk skulle puttes

i disse linier

som i deres rede fra dengang

og udruges i din læsen.

For an English translation of this poem, go to here.

One poem from '1001 POEMS' by the Danish writer Klaus Høeck

        beneath every so

nata is the sound of a

        second sonata

        that never saw birth - a wild

        mirror-image so

nata full of secret moon

light full of calcium and

        of pain a more beau

        tiful sonata

        perhaps than the one

that you heard played on the keys

        of reality

HAPPY CHRISTMAS!

Forunderligt at sige

Forunderligt at sige

og sært at tænke på,

at kongen til Guds rige

i stalden fødes må,

at himlens lys og ære,

det levende Guds ord,

skal husvild blandt os være,

som armods søn på jord!

Selv spurven har sin rede,

kan bygge dér og bo,

en svale ej tør lede

om nattely og ro.

De vilde dyr i hule

har hver sin egen vrå, -

skal sig min frelser skjule

i fremmed stald på strå?

Nej, kom, jeg vil oplukke

mit hjerte, sjæl og sind,

ja bede, synge, sukke:

Kom, Jesus, kom herind!

Det er ej fremmed bolig,

du den har dyre købt!

Her skal du hvile rolig

i kærligheden svøbt.

It is a wondrous story

It is a wondrous story

and strange if pondered deep

that God’s realm’s future glory

must in a manger sleep,

that heaven’s light and splendour,

the living word for sure,

shall homeless ’mongst us wander

as poorest of the poor!

A nest has e’en the sparrow

where it can built a home,

nor needs the fleeting swallow

for night-time shelter roam.

The beasts need know no anguish,

in caves there’s rest in store,-

Shall then my Saviour languish

upon some stable’s straw?

No, come, I will throw open

my heart, my soul and mind,

yes, sing, sigh, prayers have spoken,

Come, Jesus, come and find!

It is no unknown chamber,

you bought it with your blood!

Here will you sweetly slumber

in love now swathed for good.

A highly relevant poem by the Danish poet Jens August Schade

Snow

So, we got snow after all,

and there I was thinking we wouldn’t get any snow,

and it really looks as if we’re in for a right load of snow,

and not go on eternally thinking about snow without it coming.

The air too has snow in it,

it’s almost laden with snow,

perhaps there’s heavy snowfall far off,

that you can sort of feel inside you

without directly knowing it,

but that comes so that you can see it.

I’ve been hoping for snow all the time,

it’s funny even so that it came.

Yes, there it lies now –

look how white it is,

I’m really bloody pleased about it,

I’ve probably been thinking all the time that it would come.

And then all of a sudden there it is –

it’s funny even so that it comes like that

without you doing anything to make it come,

I haven’t plucked it out of the air,

it’s sort of come by itself.

(1934)

Poem by the Dutch writer Frank Koenegracht

On the far side

                                        In memoriam H.F.

On the far side, by the ruff of reeds

beneath the lovely blue sky

in the target

the arrow is motionless. But after a while

it quivers, tugs itself free,

speeds fixedly poised back across the river,

brakes hard and resumes its position on the bow

beside your steady eye.

Poem by the Dutch writer Jean-Pierre Rawie

Uplifted

If it was swans I cannot know for certain,

whose thousand wingbeats late that autumn night

lay round about the house and sang their flight,

subsiding only with dawn’s lifted curtain.

Throughout the day I walked as one elected,

as if I had been brushed by angels’ wings.

How many sleepless nights have there been since

when not one single wingbeat was detected?

Uplifted thus but once, there’s every reason

to let the sun again now call the tune:

the waxing and the waning of the moon,

the coming and the passing of the seasons.

First verse of the 'Solstice Song' by the Danish writer Johannes V. Jensen

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.

For the whole poem, go to 16.12.09

Another Lars Gustafsson poem

PLACENTA

Detta oformliga, loberade organ,

som utstötes efter födelsen.

Varken mor eller barn, neutralt,

på samma sätt som det innersta tomrummet

inne i den riktiga sömnlöslheten

är en helt och hållet neutral plats.

Det finns alltid något

som är mellan de vanliga tillstånden,

varken det ena eller det andra.

Till detta Mellan

känner jag en skev vänskap,

en släktskap till och med.

Det har den verkliga världens

stora tomma, uppriktiga ansikte.

PLACENTA

This formless, lobated organ

that is expelled after birth.

Neither mother nor child, neutral,

in the same way the innermost void

within true insomnia

is a completely neutral place.

There always exists something

that is between usual states,

neither the one nor the other.

Towards this Between

I feel a wry friendship,

a kinship even.

It has the real world’s

large vacant, candid face.

It has been drawn to my attention that there already exists a fine translation of this poem by Christopher Middleton. You can find it here. I deliberately avoid looking at other translations before attempting my own. I am convinced that any great work of poetry/music is open to many different interpretations. As long as no mistakes of interpretation are involved, it is my conviction that it is enriching to see/listen to as many versions as possible.