Poem by Kira Wuck

Loneliness smells of calf’s liver in a baking dish

the smell sticks to every corner of the house

snow and tall trees mark off roads

You can’t get away before everything thaws

that’s why people get married quickly here

Sometimes someone hacks a hole in the ice

to see if he’s still alive

in the sauna friendships are exchanged for beer

Words are as scarce as the light

when anyone asks anything

I stick mine under the snow

In the kitchen I drink the last dregs

in the wine glasses waiting to be washed up

boiled pig’s heads gape at me

snow is swept off roofs

I hide slightly tipsy under the table-cloth

pick the innards out of a roll

look at where the walls touch each other

Grundtvig's church of living stones

The church, that ancient house, will stand

The church, that ancient house, will stand

though its towers may keep on falling,

many lie ruined, deep in sand,

yet their bells still go on calling,

calling the young as well as old,

mostly to those with wearied soul

whose longing is rest eternal.

No house that human hands have raised

can be the Lord our God’s temple,

the tabernacle can, though praised,

but as shadow it resemble.

Yet God a wondrous dwelling made,

formed it from merely earthly clay,

raised it from dust by his mercy.

We are his house and church, a shrine

built out of stones that are living,

who, ’neath the cross, baptism combine

with faith in heartfelt thanksgiving.

Were we but two or three, e’en so

he’d choose to build and dwell below

amongst us in all his glory.

We with our king can meet and pray

in the humblest hut if need be,

can say with Peter: Here I’d stay,

though the world were offered freely;

close as his word, he’ll ne’er depart,

he is our mouth, likewise our heart,
o’er time and space king and ruler.

Houses which churches have as name,

built all in praise of our Saviour ,

where to his arms oft children came,

as home we cherish and savour.

Wonderful things are spoken there,

the pact concluded that we share

with him who grants us all heaven.

The font baptism calls to mind,

the altar joys of communion,

God’s word where faith and hope combine

with his love in mystic union,

the house of God, whose word endures,

Christ, who eternal life ensures,
God’s living Son, our Redeemer.

May then God grant, where’er our home,

always when church bells are pealing,

people in Christian faith will come

to where they can hear when kneeling:

Not as the world sees, you see me,

all that I say will come to be,

my peace I leave with you always!

Poem by the Swedish writer Erik Beckman (1935-95)

 Happiness

The big voice roars above me:

A stroke of happiness goes over Falsterbo.

   I see a double-bass that’s heavily belaboured.

   Round suns or cheeses shoot off from its strings

      I hide myself in dad’s old black piano

      and with a comb poke at the strings inside it.

         Dust and rust and a musty smell descend on me

         along with an untuned F-sharp from the 1800s.

The big voice moves along and uncle-rumbles:

A stroke of happiness goes over Falsterbo.

The little voice pipes close to me:

A stroke of happiness goes over Abisko.

   I see a little fiddle fiddling down there.

   It is a muted sound of need and northern lights.

      I pound it to death with the heel of my boot

      and play Jumpin’ in the sun on double manuals.

         The pedal-organist pounds the pedals up and down.

         A spider trembles on its ceiling thread.

The little voice creeps over death’s threshold piping:

A stroke of happiness goes over Abisko.

I grow into a youth, highly erotic, searching

on dad’s map for Falsterbo and Abisko.

   A young man is erotic. He stands at the window

   seeking and conducting. The young girl

      is erotic. Cycling grammar school teachers

      fall over each other in a heap in the street.

         A mixed-up sound of saxophone and harpsichord,

         policeman’s whistle and frightened cycle-bells.

I give them a fortissimo and everybody screams.

The sun burns into my father’s map of Sweden behind me.

Afterwards we sit and comment on what happened

gathered in generations round the 60-watt bulb:

   How the midwives themselves became prolific

   and the tinned sardines gave birth to young.

      How soundlessly all flights of birds moved

      southwards and northwards over a mapless country.

         How all voices fell silent and went into exile,

         became mute sheep in flocks on some alien planet.

The violinist in us draws his bow and everybody hums:

doh re mi fa so. Then even the children fall silent.

Calendar poem of the day, by Victor Vroomkoning

 VUILNISZAKKEN

Zoals ze daar ’s morgens

op de stoep tegen elkaar

aan geleund warmte zoekend

in hun plastic jassen staan

te wachten, grijs,

vormeloos, vol afgedankt

leven, tegelijk broos

en weerloos. Je zou ze

weer naar binnen willen

halen, je ouders

wachtend op de bus.

REFUSE SACKS

The way they stand waiting

there on the morning door-step

leaning against each other,

seeking warmth in their

plastic coats, grey,

formless, full of cast-off

life, frail and so

assailable. You would

like to fetch them back

inside, your parents

waiting for the bus.

One of my MA poems

the visit

brother mike phoned

‘you’d better take a plane

ma hasn’t long’

we did the four-hour drive

in his car

edging towards each other

ma slowly opens her eyes

‘oh john’ she says

(for the first time since childhood

i am not just ‘dear’)

as if i had been out of the room

a couple of minutes only

‘i’ve had this dream

i was in holland and

the canals were frozen over and

people were skating’

she leans towards the side of the bed

where i am sitting

her loose hospital shift

exposing one perfect brown nipple

the one time

i have seen it since

the unfocused gaze

of my first days

‘it was such a lovely dream’

sudden intimacy

who is this person?

i wonder

besøget

bror mike ringede

‘bedst du tager et fly

ma har kun kort tid tilbage’

vi kørte de fire timer

i hans bil

kantede os ind mod hinanden

ma åbner langsomt øjnene

‘du john’ siger hun

(for første gang siden barndommen

hedder jeg ikke bare ‘skat’)

som om jeg kun havde været

udenfor værelset et par minutter

‘jeg har haft denne drøm

jeg var i holland og

kanalerne var tilfrossede og

folk skøjtede’

hun bøjer sig frem mod den side af sengen

hvor jeg sidder

hendes løstsiddende sygehustøj

blotter én perfekt brun brystvorte

første og sidste gang

jeg har set den siden

det ufokuserede blik

af mine allerførste dage

‘det var sådan en dejlig drøm’

pludselig intimitet

hvem er denne person?

undrer jeg

Grundtvig – the Danes as world champions at self-deprecation

Far higher are mountains in other lands found

Far higher are mountains in other lands found

than here where a hill is thought striking.

But Danes of the North find that grass-covered mounds,

and lowlands are more to their liking.

The lofty and wind-swept may suit all the rest,

to stay down to earth is what serves us Danes best.

Far lovelier, we are prepared to believe,

are foreign climes which we know barely.

But Danes are at home where beech comes into leaf

by shores strewn with fair blue-eyed Mary,

from cradle to grave our most beautiful sight

is fields in full bloom in the waves’ glittering light.

Far greater may deeds be for money or fame

by foreigners done, or their scions.

Though never in vain were shields borne by us Danes

with hearts and with three passant lions.

Let eagles for worldly power sharp talons wield!

we’ll not change our banner, we’ll not trade our shield.

Far cleverer folk may be found anywhere

than where every sound and strait’s glinting.

For household use though we have good sense to spare,

we won’t make us godlike by thinking.

As long as the heart burns for truth and what’s right,

time surely will show that our minds were quite bright.

Far higher, and nobler, and finer the words

that foreigners’ lips may be spouting.

Of what’s high and lovely can Danes though be heard

to speak and to sing without shouting.

Our native tongue may not strike home to a hair,

but melts the heart more than their tongues cleave the air.

Far more of that ore that’s so white or so red

did others extract or were selling.

But every Dane eats of his own daily bread

no matter how humble his dwelling.

And as for great riches, we’re on the right track

when few have too much, fewer still suffer lack.

Another Jan Glas in English

THE NUMBER DOGGIE

From neither here nor there your trashy

postcards from Nostalgialand.

On the reverse side clear handwriting got

invariably lost in a brain-fog.

That’s what happens in this life when

you try to understand things.

Poetry

might in your case have been able to help,

only, you didn’t like poetry you said

and just like that showed me a

newspaper photo of a running doggie.

That I would never see you again

was the final upshot of it.

Loss

is measurable, that investigation I have now

more or less completed.

Just different data are required

For example the number doggie

taking a run-up to becoming grass.

Poem by the Norwegian writer Olav H. Hauge, who writes in nynorsk

Eg dreg ifrå glaset

Eg dreg ifrå glaset fyrr eg legg meg,

eg vil sjå det levande myrkret når eg vaknar,

og skogen og himmelen. Eg veit ei grav

som ikkje har glugg mot stjernone.

No er Orion komen i vest, alltid jagande –

han er ikkje komen lenger enn eg.

Kirsebærtreet utanfor er nake og svart.

I den svimlande blå himmelklokka

ritar morgonmånen med hard nagl.

I draw back the curtains

I draw back the curtains before I lie down,

I want to see the living darkness on waking,

and the forest and the sky. I know a grave

with no peephole out to the stars.

Now Orion has come in the west, always hunting –

He’s not come any further than I have.

The cherry tree outside is bare and black.

In the staggering blue dome of the sky

the morning moon scores with a hard nail.

Jan Glas - in Danish!

 SOM VAR HUN MIN KONE

Jeg fandt hende halvfrossen.
Hele vinteren havde hun ventet på gæssene.
Jeg tog hende ind som var hun min kone.

Inde i huset tog hun plastikposer
på sine snavsede fødder.
‘Det er der ingen grund til’, sagde jeg.
Raslende gik hun over til køleskabet.
Jeg gik op for at skifte sengetøj.

‘Er du rigtig klar over
at du er undsluppet fra himlen?’
Ja, det var hun godt klar over.

Ovenpå stod jeg et øjeblik
ved soveværelsevinduet.

Vandet i dammen, så jeg,
var blevet til fisk.


DET AT SVØMME

Hitler og Stalin, ingen af dem kunne svømme,
hvilket siger meget om fisk
men ikke noget om dem der kan.

Nu forstår jeg bedre havet:
den slughals kan heller ikke svømme –
det er fordi havet har en bund.

Hitler og Stalin, den ene var tosset med arisk kitsch,
den anden med proletarisk kitsch.

I Mali faldt der i årevis ingen regn,
søer og vandløb tørrede ud
og alle fisk druknede.

Da Stalin var død
turde ingen røre ved liget de første par dage.

Bagefter talte man i lang tid ikke om det at svømme.


SØNDAGSHVILE

Vi havde vores eget forråd af ord
og vidste hvad hvert enkelt
ord stod for,

vi placerede dem tæt ved hinanden;
mellem ordene
havde du intet at sige,

dér herskede søndagshvilen
uforsonligt.

Om aftenen trak man
gardinerne fra før krigen for.


RÆKKEFØLGE

Først var der det at sidde
så kom der stol
i den sproglige rækkefølge.
Så enkelt var det.

Ved at bøje sig forover
kunne man få næseblod,
ingen vidste hvordan.

Bag disken kunne fru Kelder
pludselig uden videre falde baglæns
hovedkulds ud af livet,
og ingen vidste hvordan.

Hver gang du ringede på butiksklokken,
kom hun til sig selv igen.
Så enkelt var det.
I den rækkefølge.

Poem by the Norwegian writer Johan Sebastian Welhaven (1807-73)

The poem’s spirit

What e’en in richest language

stays locked with seven seals,

though words cannot express it

the poem yet reveals.

From language’s stern structure

from thought’s constrictedness

a free idea emerges –

the poem’s spirit this.

Within the soul its home was

ere verse was its attire,

and language ore turned fluid

when heated in its fire.

The word it quite suffuses

like scent that rises up

from deep within the rose bush

in every flower cup.

And though the serried poem

can never hold it pent,

it still is always present

as is rose-petal’s scent.

The old complaint dismiss then

that no art ever can

portray the spark of thought out

of which a poem sprang.

For if it could be fettered

and be in print revealed,

it would within those limits

its life and force then yield.

It would with spirit’s freedom

on word-sounds dearly float;

and has in poem’s rhythms

a passage far too short.

A passage to a new life

within the reader’s breast;

there once more it will waken

in joy or sore oppressed.

And there be moved and nourished

and be just like the fire

that in the poet’s soul lay

ere verse to life aspired.

Thus only can the poem

retain its magic power

and what defies expression

within the word can flower.

Regard the tranquil pleasure

with which the poet’s blessed

when from his songs the spirit

now floats from breast to breast.

And let his fame but skywards

be borne by this day’s wind,

’tis not the true refreshment

that can assuage his mind.

But when his mental image,

though fame or none he knew,

takes root in some pure bosom

and there is born anew –

Oh, bring him then a message

his spirit there is rife,

for then his work is promised

what is eternal life.