Dutch poetry calendar's poem of the day - by Gerrit Komrij

DREGS

Poets, we read them and our eyes stay dry.

Where are the times of lifeblood freely shed?

Where songs full of compassion’s heartfelt cry?

The litanies – where now? All gone. Quite dead.

Blood turned to grit and slag. Tears turned to glass.

Sorrow was pasteboard. What now sold a treat

Were grimace, shriek and brutal pain. (En masse,

Per piece, you name it). Vinegar was sweet.

The poet, nowadays, is just a freak.

He clowns around and poses in full view.

What’s left: a single-track, obsessive streak.

The wounds he licks. The music too.

A personal favourite - by the Swedish writer Erik Axel Karlfeldt (1864-1931)

Song after the harvest

Here dances Fridolin,

on sweet wine he is drunk but serene,

on his fields’ yield of grain, berries’ juice like champagne,

and the tune of a waltz wild and keen.

See, with tight-fitting frock coat and tails on his arm,

how he dances each girl at the ball so warm,

till she leans – like a poppy whose drooping stem wanes –

on his breast, tired and blissfully calm.

Here dances Fridolin,

and the wine makes his memory keen –

here his father and forebears found solace so strong

in the fiddle’s high-droning careen.

But you sleep now, old ancestors, on such a night,

and the hand that made strings sing is no longer light,

and your lives and your times are a murmuring song

in which sighing and joy both take flight.

But here dances Fridolin!

See your son, he is strong, lithe and lean,

and with farmers speaks plainly the language they know,

but with learnèd folk Latin’s routine.

Through your new land’s bright gold does his scythe sweep apace,

and his joy is as yours if his barn should lack space,

and his lass he lifts high, like his kin long ago,

toward the harvest moon’s red saucepan face.

A poem by the Swedish writer Ragnar Thoursie (1919-2010)

Your eyes are

Your eyes are a clear sky seen from the fish

waiting at the bottom of a well:

Clouds drift across its billows, quays

and gulls, falling swallows,

a spring lark. And when the underwater

observer moves the film of the surface ripples

slightly – But stones that fall

frighten more the one looking upward

than your cleft and once more

shieldlike raised

mirror of water and clouds.

Many a wanderer has bent down

over you: a dark face seen against dreams;

relieved his thirst and muddied

the flowing vein of clearness;

but gone on his way with water-touched tongue

and firstly raising a cairn.

Time to stop all this November obsession - the kill-off poem from Henrik Nordbrandt

The year has sixteen months: November
December, January, February, March, April
May, June, July, August, September
October, November, November, November, November.

On Kingo's death Dorothe Engelsbretsdatter wrote this poem

 

Simple female remembrance

of the widely famous poet

DOCTOR THOMAS KINGO,

whose sorrowful demise

many quick minds do regret

                  So testifies

                  this simple-minded poetess

Ah! Kingo is but dust again,

                  Who wrote hymns so ensnaring!

That he for his praiseworthy pen

                  In heaven palms is bearing;

Such blissful words: of great address,

                  In song and lamentation

That many a limb cured from distress –

                  Yet dust is now his station.

The troubled solace-thirsting soul

                  Your spirit, hand can quicken!

This the remorse-crushed reed makes whole,

                  consoles the heart that’s stricken.

Adroitly me and all alive

                  The fear of God you’re teaching,

Your songs of praise good harvest give

                  We laud God through your preaching.

How well! How well! did you employ

                  The pound God you entrusted,

The outcome clear you now enjoy

                  Your voice has upwards thrusted!

You gained a place in Sion’s choir

                  And took your seat with honour

From so much worldly ill that’s sired

                  Midst sin and grief: and gone were

Your great high office rank and state,

                  A sad end to your story,

You now have charge o’er things more great,

                  And risen to high glory.

You faithful worker, you gain there

                  Reward for all your labour

And can life’s crown in peace now bear

                  Delights forever savour!

Full rest and peace and joy you’ve found,

                  Off former unrest shaken,

You sleep until the trump shall sound

                  and from the grave awaken.

Devout, with spirit’s solace filled

                  You knew the art of prayer

Though death your sweet voice may have stilled

                  And great the loss we share

E’en so do choruses ring out,

                  Each Christian soul rejoices!

And all continue to sing out

                  While they have tongues and voices.

I die, and live convinced that I

                  At God’s throne shall refind you.

There shall we sing the two of us

                  What God gives us a mind to!

Hallelujah, with angels chime,

                  Triumph and great rejoicing,

We both join in when it is time:

                  Your soul, all sweetly voicing!

For heaven I the earth would leave

                  ’Mongst the devout be dwelling

And have the Saviour me receive,

                  That is my wish compelling.

Both joy and glory that ne’er cease

                  May He you now be granting:

Farewell, God’s man, you left in peace

                  And choruses I’m chanting.

A great Norwegian Kingo admirer - Dorothe Engelbretsdatter (1634-1716)

Weary of the world,

and desirous of heaven

You souls who as did Simeon

                  For heaven so are yearning,

Take leave of this world’s Babylon,

                  This sin-cacked prison spurning,

Refuse not from this deep abyss

In peace to journey unto bliss,

                  When God’s hour is approaching.

We are like some poor flock of owls

                  In places of confusion,

Laboriously we roam and prowl

                  Where rest is but illusion;

Here on this earth is no sure rest,

Nor is there any feathered nest.

                  In Meshech we are strangers.

Oft must our life, so full of care,

                  Beneath the cross be bowing,

Delight that once has been our share

                  Now woe is disendowing;

Change after happiness would spy

Where tares among the wheat do lie

                  And put a stop to gladness.

Some lustful souls do well withal,

                  Find life a bed of roses,

While others are but sorrow’s thralls,

                  Bear crowns of thorns, not posies;

Complaint, constraint and wounds full sore

Do through their restless skin now bore

                  Till death the knot’s untying.

All sin and sorrow pass away,

                  The grave has proof that’s soothing,

When finally the earth and clay

                  The diggers’ spades are smoothing;

For then the body’s found its nest,

For then the soul at last knows rest,

                  And all feuds have their ending.

So now, earth that laments and grieves,

                  That is a trap of evil,

Good night! For heaven I now leave,

                  Rejoice at this upheaval.

There shall eternal joy be mine,

There shall Hosannahs sweetly chime

                  Among the hosts of angels.

In sin and grief mankind you chain,

                  Yea! cause the soul’s frustration

Begone! Limed grave, stronghold of pain!

                  Sion’s palace is my station.

By harmful sinful deeds dismayed,

The many stumbling blocks arrayed

                  That block my pathway forwards.

Come, longed-for Death! Cut through life’s straw,

                  You as your Lord’s gatekeeper

Shall open heaven’s mighty door

                  Though you are too life’s reaper;

If God deems that my time is come,

That sufferings enough are done,

                  That I can cease my weeping.

Almighty God! I cry aloud,

                  Our time here you’ve allotted,

By blessed hour and burial shroud

                  All agony is blotted;

From thralldom’s yoke by mercy freed,

With life’s course fully run indeed,

                  There comes a final treasure

Help’s granted him who to the end

                  resists the world’s beguiling.

A trustful helmsman will e’er fend

                  Against the ocean’s wiling,

He’d rather drown in his dire need

Than let his hand the storm-waves heed

                  That would the helm be seizing.

Oh, Jesus, by your death may I

                  From this world now be leaving,

Let my soul to your bosom fly

                  From sin and days of grieving;

My corpse grant space within my grave,

So I, without my pilgrim’s stave

                  May at your side be resting.

When you on Judgment Day shall fetch

                  The dead to life eternal,

 Touch my grave too with hand outstretched

                  And grant me grace supernal,

May the last trump wake me from sleep

And you my body safely keep

                  Amongst the blessèd chosen.

Palimpsest by Klaus Høeck on a painting by Edouard Villard

the newspaper

(1910)

why is it that the

words in the newspaper are

forgotten almost

before they have been

written down while the poem

lives? – it is because

dead words relate to

time and to time alone and

die with it while the

living words of po

etry relate to what is

time’s prerequisite

And one by his Norwegian counterpart, Petter Dass (1647-1707)

The Second Song

Hallowed be Thy Name

To be sung to its own tune

Oh Mighty LORD! Thy precious name and glory

Throughout the world are its most famous story,

And every soul, and every thrall,

And mortals all shall tell withal

                  Thy glory.

Proper it is to hear, a thing of beauty,

That lips may call the praise of GOD their duty;

Th’abyss that glowers, the green-clad bowers

For Thy great power at every hour

                  Salute Thee.

And if folk shamefully should fail to render

All praise to GOD, forget His mercies tender,

Yet will the stones, and e’en dry bones

His pure name throne, at once make known

                  His splendour.

Yea, ere GOD all his glory shall surrender

Shall fearful whale and ocean homage render,

As ling and cod, so too their scrod,

Saithe by the squad more praise to God

                  Engender.

For GOD is GOD, though earth no fruits were giving,

And GOD is GOD, though mankind ceased from living,

Though folk should die, in heaven high

Hosts multiply, and cymbals ply

                  Thanksgiving.

Should e’er the LORD lack splendour or lack servants?

Behold, ten thousand keep a strict observance.

Ten thousand times ten thousand times

Are all their rhymes and sweetest chimes

                  Most fervent.

For at GOD’s name shall every knee be bending,

Both those who in high heaven life are spending

And those on earth, in south and north,

Likewise those cursed with trials henceforth

                  Unending.

High mountain and deep dale shall both expire,

The end of heav’n and earth too be entire,

Each rockface sheer shall disappear,

But prayers sincere to a thousand ears

                  Aspire.

And should the old be stiff and prone to sleeping,

Shall children in the womb GOD’s praise be keeping;

The dumb, the game, the blind, the lame

All do the same, so too those maimed

                  Or creeping.

I when myself from top to toe reviewing,

Find no limb’s claim can merit my eschewing,

Though fine they’re found as silken gown

All shall bow down, and sighs around

                  Be strewing.

But, oh mankind, can you believe this wholly?

Full due is giv’n to keeping GOD’s name holy,

If farmer, priest, on praise did feast

And then just ceased? Not in the least,

                  Not solely.

On earth we can’t the LORD’s name be revering

If we just nod and murmur words so cheering;

No, while alive, where’er you strive,

GOD’s word let shrive, and earthly lives

                  Be steering.

Make sure your light burns brightly and uncovered

That man your zeal and virtue can discover,

No lust embrace, but love and grace,

Devout and chaste until life’s space

                  Is over.

Hate all GOD in His word is also hating,

The excess that your life is vitiating,

Shun sin and flaws, obey GOD’s laws,

Make virtue yours, make zeal your cause

                  Elating.

But should you make sin’s broad path your endeavour,

And without shame yourself from virtue sever,

Then you are base, GOD’s name disgrace

His spirit chase, His realm deface

                  For ever.

But LORD! Prevent this plight that makes us quaver!

All that’s ungodly cause in us to waver!

That with full might we e’er may fight,

When time is right, with Thee delight

                  May savour!

A great hymn from the Danish master - Thomas Kingo (1634-1703)

To each his destiny

Sorrow and joy hand in hand go together,

                  Fortune, misfortune as neighbours do dwell,

Luck and adversity call to each other

                  Sunshine and clouds are companions as well.

                                    Earth’s brightest gold

                                    Is but fine mould,

Heaven alone is where bliss can unfold.

Gold crown and sceptre they sparkle and glitter,

                  Glitter is not, though, what royal robes imply.

Thousands of burdens a crown’s weight embitter,

                  Thousandfold cares in a sceptre’s power lie.

                                    Life for a king

                                    Unrest will bring

Heaven alone can give bliss without sting.

Everything’s fortune is waxing and waning!

                  Everyone finds his own grief in his heart!

Often a breast, though bejewelled, is complaining,

                  Weighed down by woe and by rage torn apart!

                                    Trials we have all,

                                    Some large, some small,

Heaven alone is where cares cannot gall.

Wisdom, dominion and temporal glory,

                  Vigour and youth in the years of our prime,

Hold their head high, but the end of the story

                  Is that they perish when ravished by time!

                                    All things must end

                                    None can contend

Heavenly bliss can alone all transcend!

Fairest of roses have sharp thorns aquiver,

                  Loveliest flowers their poisonous sap,

’Neath rosy cheeks can a heart always wither,

                  Strange how a destiny each does enwrap!

                                    As storm-tossed boat,

                                    Our land’s afloat,

Heaven alone all sweet bliss does promote.

Well then! No worry shall me overpower

                  Should the world not do as I’d have prevail!

No tribulation shall cause me to cower

                  Nothing shall cause my heart ever to fail!

                                    Sorrow shall die,

                                    Joy’s seeds on high

On heaven’s isle of pure bliss multiply.

Fear shall give rise to a joy that’s enduring,

                  Agony’s distaff from tufts spin fine thread!

Poverty rich robes shall make most alluring,

                  Weakness on sound legs shall rise from his bed!

                                    Envy shall stand

                                    Cornered, unmanned,

Heaven alone all of this can command!

Let then my fate and my fortune be fashioned

                  As does my LORD and my MASTER desire,

Let no spite reign, nor no envious passion,

                  Let but the world do as it would conspire!

                                    Time’s loom will stare

                                    Empty and bare,

Heaven will weave all that is to be there.

A hymn by Hans 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.