Another poem by Bjørn Aamodt

 

Nothing

Under a blue-grey evening sky the black hull

that we have spent five days loading reverses

out into the harbour basin, heels past the grain silo,

and rights itself in the sailing channel with a green light

on the starboard side. Nothing

the snowflakes say

that melt on the back of my warm hand. Nothing

the winter wind says in the empty harbour street,

and I feel the blood pounding

its way through the body in its closed circuit.

And the snow

that unobtrusively knocks and says nothing.

Poem by the Norwegian poet Bjørn Aamodt

Anchorage

Bearskin and gold. The story hangs on the word

like a rusty hulk turns on its anchor in the tide.

The small porthole of consciousness.

The compass needle quivers towards the magic word-pole.

Haul in the chain, 4 shackles out.

Steady the feet on the deck against the black wall

that towers up and surges in over the port bow.

Shift the weight over onto the right foot

while the lashing spray slams at the wheelhouse window.

Steady so! Anchorage, Antwerp, down under

and home. The word like a threadbare ritual

for getting one’s sea-legs, standing

almost still. There the next second comes, foam-whipped.

Another Wessel, this time mocking eulogies of spring

Spring

O’er nearly all the earth spring’s glory folk proclaim.

A sorry proof of what’s so oft said in the main:

That taste in this our land (our globe is here my meaning),

If not the worst, to reckon good is idle dreaming.

Should I be given leave, this then is my intent,

To show the world’s high praise of spring is praise ill spent.

Pure Christian love, nought else, might see me entertaining

The urge to give my neighbour’s taste a little planing.

(To polish taste, I think, one tends to use a file;

But planing seems to me to better fit my style.)

Seldom do I believe what’s done so by too many;

And yet such endless songs exist, they’re two a penny,

Which praise sweet days in May, that I, on pleasure bent,

Would make for Flora’s meadow – and behold! I went.

It did not take me long the East Gate to be leaving,

Soon after which I stopped, so I might deeply breathe in

The balsam whose delights are often sweetly sung,

And rapturously I cry: You scent of flowers, come!

Oh Zephyr, on your silken wings it here be bringing!

At which I have Aeolus in my visage springing,

Who wroth, since I his cousin Zephyr so did greet,

Blows dust, whose scent to tell from balsam’s were no feat.

The west wind does not blow, my hurt soon let me know it,

As gently on the reader as upon the poet.

But though I little good from Flora now dared hope,

Judged by the welcome with which I now tried to cope,

My piety gave me strength to advance though gales were swishing,

My hope, with due attention, was to go on wishing

For beauty of some kind perhaps to come my way

That could the verdict on my neighbour’s taste allay.

And in this pious hope, the dust brushed off or shaken

That recently my vision quite from me had taken,

I now beheld green fields – they were – Good Lord, I mean:

You know what fields all tend to look like when they’re green.

The highly curious man, whose time is soon outdated,

Can at such wonders though quite soon his gaze have sated;

My eyes’ poor substitute for such a sight was blurred

Since they still smarted from the dust they had incurred.

But hark! And can that be the merry lark I’m hearing,

What eye has just now lost may yet my ear be cheering.

What’s this?! It’s only sound I hear in this bird’s trill,

As if a tuned piano’s being struck at will.

In vain would cows, pigs, sheep with roaring, grunting, bleating

With their accompaniment the fine song be completing.

And every voice could call the other’s voice its peer,

But for the music’s sake I stand no longer here.

Still was my neighbour’s taste worth some show of kind favour;

Still from one more attempt my piety did not waver. –

Poem by the incorrigible Norwegian poet Johan Herman Wessel (1742-85)

Over brygger Walt

Her ligger Walt,

Han giorde Malt,

Og det var alt.

Concerning brewer Walt

Her lies poor Walt,

He brewed good malt,

His only fault.

Poem by the Norwegian poet Astrid Hjertenæs Andersen (1915-85)

Horses standing in the rain

When my mind is full of dreaming,

ever vaguer and more distant

than my thought can find the words for,

ever wilder and more torrid

than my heart can comprehend,

I want just to stand where rain falls

stand out in the rain like horses

on expanses of lush grassland

midst the mountains’ weight, as here.

Stand and feel my body sucking

all this coolness, strength and wetness

that in steady streams now trickles

down my face, my hair and hands.

Be just like the forest sucking

at the sky’s breasts like an infant.

Be like grassland, full of sweetness,

trembling with devout desire.

Just stand in the rain like horses,

with wet flanks and leaning sideways,

letting scent of soil and moisture

strongly, sweetly fill my mind,

I just want to stand there being

let the drizzle sift down on me,

until thought that’s free from fever

follows dreams to perfect clearness

in a stillness sheer and calm.

Poem from the collection 'Live' just out by the Danish poet Klaus Høeck

 

                  language

                  can i have a hof?

a what? – comes a shout so panes

                  and glasses rattle

                  the inn lady looks

sharply at me – of course she

                  knows full well what a

                  hof is – but here in

nørre snede can i have

                  a beer – here in nør

                  re snede you don’t

give yourself airs – got the mes

                  sage mister smart arse

                  so do the dia

lects cross swords as in a ven

                  detta the waitress

                  answers completely

differently to what i

                  had expected ‘to

                  day’s menu meat

loaf followed by strawberries’

                  neither more nor less

                  to put it in a

nutshell take it or leave it –

                  that’s the way it is

                  not to mention the

parting short in the inn lounge

                  at nørre snede

                  i notice that the

coffee hasn’t been put on

                  the bill and draw at

                  tention to the o

mission – you don’t need to pay

                  anything for that

                  my lad – i mean that

is just bloody fantastic

                  would you credit it

Poem by the Norwegian writer Gro Dahle

I carve my daughter

I carve my daughter out of sallow. Whittle a flute

from her fingers. When I blow on her, I hear

how beautifully she cries.

I dress myself with my child. A coat of mail. Armour. A

daughter shield. Hold her in front of me on my lap.

My lap is a throne. The people are jubilant.

Poem by the Norwegian poet Olav Nygaard (1884-1924)

Now evening rises

Now evening rises at the western edge

through farmhouse yards his way he lightly treads,

hangs mountains inbetween with muted shading.

Through scrub and heather whispering’s heard soon

and as it sings the throstle changes tune

with twilight tremolo its call pervading.

But firmly of his steed’s reins day takes hold

puts on his great cloak etched with seams of gold

twixt far horizons hurries at light’s closing.

A breeze moves through cool vale and mountain side

where shadow’s waiting for the night, his bride

and swooning in his dreams of love is dozing.

And breathing gently night then enters in

with dark locks round her neck and cheek’s smooth skin

and shawl of elfine mists that swirl so lightly.

And dulcet tones, th’aeolian harp’s sweet charms,

rise shyly like a girl from mother’s arms

and float in cool realms light of foot and sprightly.

A quiv’ring bliss is felt twixt mountains tall

so seed starts growing, skins are sloughed and fall

and eyes turn upwards dazed by some great wonder:

from deepest heav’n sounds swell’s surge full and strong,

the endless urge to procreate, spheres’ song

that greets as kinsfolk those dark shores far yonder.

To see the original, go to here.

Poem by the Norwegian writer Aasmund Olafsson Vinje (1818-1870)

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.

A very famous poem. For the original, go to here.
To listen to the first two verses with music by Grieg, go to here. 

Poem by the Norwegian writer Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson (1832-1910)

The hare and the fox

The fox he lay ’neath the birch-tree root

by the heather.

The hare she scuttled with agile foot

o’er the heather.

The day’s plain sunshine I do declare!

it’s shining here there and everywhere

o’er the heather.

The fox he grinned ’neath the birch-tree root

by the heather.

The hare she scuttled and off did shoot

o’er the heather.

I’m so delighted at everything

shoo-hay, can you match such leaps and springs

o’er the heather?

The fox lay still at the birch-tree root

by the heather.

The hare she tumbled right to his foot

o’er the heather.

But goodness gracious, can that be you! – –

– My dear, and dare you be dancing too

o’er the heather?

To see the original, go to here.