Alex Garff: 'Septembers himmel er så blå'

Septembers himmel er så blå, 

dens skyer lyser hvide, 

og lydt vi hører lærken slå 

som for ved forårstide. 

Den unge rug af mulden gror 

med grønne lyse klinger, 

men storken længst af lande for 

med sol på sine vinger. 

Der er en søndagsstille ro 

imellem træ'r og tage, 

en munter glæde ved at gro, 

som var det sommerdage. 

Og koen rusker i sit græs 

med saften om sin mule, 

mens bonden kører hjem med læs 

der lyser solskinsgule. 

Hver stubbet mark, vi stirrer på, 

står brun og gul og gylden, 

og røn star rød og slaen blå, 

og purpursort står hylden. 

Og georginer spraglet gror 

blandt asters i vor have, 

sa rig er årets sidste flor: 

oktobers offergave. 

De røde æbler løsner let 

fra træets trætte kviste, 

Snart lysner kronens bladenet, 

og hvert et løv må briste. 

Når aftensolen på sin flugt 

bag sorte grene svinder, 

om årets sidste røde frugt 

den tungt og mildt os minder. 

At flyve som et forårsfrø 

for sommerblomst at blive 

er kun at visne for at dø, 

kan ingen frugt du give. 

Hvis modenhedens milde magt 

af livet selv du lærte, 

da slår bag falmet rosendragt 

dit røde hybenhjerte.

September’s skies are tall and blue,

its clouds gleam white and drifting,

and loudly trills the lark, anew

its springtime song uplifting.

From rich dark soil young rye has grown,

its green blades upward thrusting,

the stork though long since off has flown

with sun its wings encrusting.

A Sunday calm is everywhere

midst trees and roof-tops reigning,

a zestful growing fills the air,

past summer’s joy retaining.

At grass cows tug and munch away

with juice their mouths are swimming,

while farmers harvest home the hay

that golden sunshine’s skimming.

Each stubbled field we gaze on too

is golden, brown and yellow,

the rowan red, the sloe dull blue,

the elder’s purple mellow.

And dahlias of motley hue

midst asters now brim over,

their final flourish says adieu,

bids welcome to October.

Red apples will have loosened soon

from branches tired and weighted,

And tree-tops their thick crown have strewn,

each leaf to earth gyrated.

When evening sun drops down behind

black branches, fades and dwindles,

year’s last ripe fruit it calls to mind,

fond memories it kindles.

Like some spring seed to swirl and fly

and be some summer flower

is just to wither and to die

if fruit you can’t empower.

If though from life itself you gain

mature mild strength unfleeting,

when petals fade you will retain

a rose-hip heart full-beating.

Poem by the Irish poet Michael Longley in Danish

After Amergin

                 

I am the trout that vanishes

Between the stepping stones.

I am the elver that lingers

Under the little bridge.

I am the leveret that breakfasts

Close to the fuchsia hedge.

I am the stoat that dances

Around the erratic boulder.

I am the skein of sheep’s wool

Wind and barbed wire tangle.

I am the mud and spittle

That make the swallows’ nest.

I am the stonechat’s music

Of pebble striking pebble.

I am the overhead raven

With his eye on the lamb’s eye.

I am the night-flying whimbrel

That whistles down the chimney.

I am the pipistrelle bat

At home among constellations.

I am the raindrop enclosing

Fairy flax or brookweed.

I am waterlily blossom

And autumn lady’s tresses.

I am the thunderstorm

That penetrates the keyhole.

I am the sooty hailstone

Melting by the fireside.

I am the otter’s holt and

The badger’s sett in the dunes.

I am the badger drowning

At spring tide among flotsam.

I am the otter dying

On top of the burial mound.

Efter Amergin

  

Jeg er ørreden der forsvinder

Mellem vadestenene.

Jeg er glasålen der nøler

Under den lille bro.

Jeg er harekillingen der spiser morgenmad

Tæt op ad fuchsiahækken.

Jeg er lækatten der danser

Rundt vandreblokken.

Jeg er feddet af fåreuld

Viklet ind af vind og pigtråd.

Jeg er leret og spyttet

Der udgør svalens rede.

Jeg er den sortstrubede bynkefugls musik

Af rullesten mod rullesten.

Jeg er ravnen højt oppe

Der øjner lammets øje.

Jeg er den lille natflyvende regnspove

Der hvisler ned ad skorstenen.

Jeg er dværgflagermusen

Der er hjemme blandt stjernebilleder.

Jeg er regndråben der omslutter

Vild hør og samel.

Jeg er åkandeblomst

Og skrueaks.

Jeg er tordenvejret

Der trænger igennem nøglehullet.

Jeg er den sodsværtede hagl

Der smelter ved kaminen.

Jeg er odderboet og

Grævlingegraven i klitterne.

Jeg er grævlingen der drukner

Ved springflod blandt strandingsgods.

Jeg er odderen der omkommer

Oven på gravhøjen.

See Amergin Glúingel here

Dèr Mouw: 'the notes are swallows'

Nog hoorbaar, heel heel ver, is de avondtrein.–

Blauw naast groen korenveld een boer aan ’t werk.

Hei. Boven bos de toren van een kerk.

Rust, overal; ’t diepst op de spoorweglijn.

’t Is of de vijf telegraafdraden zijn

een notenbalk; de sleutel – ginds, die berk;

de noten zwaluwen, zwart op ’t rode zwerk;

de vlaggetjes hun staarten, lang en fijn.

En Mendelssohnse melodieën zingen

op ’t beukenpodium de gietelingen;

de nachtegaal vangt zijn nocturnes aan:

dat hij bij ’t hoogtepunt van zijn gezangen

goed uit zal halen, komt herinn’rend hangen,

als scheef point-d’orgue, ‘t boogje van de maan.

Still audible, far off, is the evening train.–

A farmer, blue against green corn, at work.

Heath. Above woods the tower of a church.

Quiet reigns – the railway track its prime domain.

Five lines of telegraph wires seem to trail

a stave; the clef – that birch tree can suffice;

the notes are swallows, black against red skies,

with stems and flags formed by their fine, long tails.

And from their beech-tree platform blackbirds sing

melodies with a Mendelssohnian ring;

the nightingale will start his nocturnes soon:

and, to remind him to call loud and clear

when his song gains its climax, there appears,

as skewed point-d’orgue, the crescent of the moon.

Link to the CD project of Pauline Oostenrijk here

HCA in his mid-20s - a poem to the ladies

Avis aux lectrices

Und wenn Du schiltst und wenn Du tobst,

Ich werd’ es geduldig leiden;

Doch wenn Du meine Werke’ nicht lobst,

Laß ich mich von dir scheiden.

H. Heine

I’m lacking something! – shall I state it clearly?

It’s common and comes hardly as a shock;

I’m lacking – yes – a young girl to love dearly –

Ah, heav’ns above! I’m now a laughing stock!

Should I then ne’er dare love, sweet dreams be tending?

What? Am I then not old enough for such?

God knows, I’d not a soul e’er be offending,

No, great affection’s what I crave so much!

For every poet, even folk most lowly

Have their own sweetheart – what a blessèd boon!

One’s feels so sad, quite faint, sighs come not slowly,

Oh, let me join them, join them very soon.

As yet though I see no one I’m in want of

That from my yearning heart can set me free;

God knows, my poetry I’m greatly fond of,

But, dearest Lord, that’s not enough for me!

No, I must have – ah, words are so deficient –

A sweetheart, shall my heart at last find rest;

A young girl, just a tiny one’s sufficient,

For I have love for two within my breast!

Oh come! keep my sweet hope from e’er decreasing;

For those in love great beauty too beget.

Though all my poems you must praise unceasing,

For I will break things off, should you forget!

“Fantasies and Sketches”, 1831

Dèr Mouw: a translation poem

Het hele landschap heeft de zon vertaald:

’t aardappelveld in niet hoog artistiek,

maar deeglijk proza; kleurige lyriek

geeft ’t koornland in een stijl, die vlamt en straalt;

episch in vorm, in kleur, in klank, verhaalt

de eik van zijn zonneheros in epiek;

de populieren zoeken ’t in tragiek,

hoe op ’t geen hoogstreeft, ’t noodlot bliksemstraalt;

paarse ernst van groene rooie-kool herhaalt

de humor van wat klein schijnt en komiek;

wetend wat recht is, en dat híj nooit faalt,

knikt wijs de den welwillende kritiek –

Uit de onvertaalbare ontzaglijke daalt

één lof op ‘t literaire mozaiek.

The sun’s translated the whole countryside:

potato fields into if not ornate

yet solid prose; while cornfields add a spate

of lyricism, flaming far and wide;

epic in colour, form and sound, the oak

tells of its sun-hero in epic verse;

the poplars choose the tragical, the terse:

how those who strive high, fate fells at one stroke;

perse gravity of green red-kale infers

humour in what seems droll and quite prosaic;

knowing what’s right, and that he never errs,

the pine nods sagely, genially commends –

From the untranslatable immense descends

sheer praise upon the literary mosaic.

Ludvig Holstein: 'I solen gaar jeg bag min plov'

Sang bag ploven

I solen går jeg bag min plov.

Jeg nikker til den grønne skov,

Hvor du, min lykke, gemmer dig.

Mit hjerte ler og gemmer sig

Og gemmer sin lyksalighed

Til sol går ned, til sol går ned.

Min lykke vågner ung og ny

Som lærkesang ved morgengry.

Hver aftenstund den smykker sig.

Men kun for mig du smykker dig.

Og nætternes lyksalighed

Er dagens gyldne hemlighed.

Jeg pløjer op det gode muld.

Men ingen ser det gyldne guld,

Som i mit hjerte gemmer sig.

Jeg gemmer mig, jeg gemmer dig,

Jeg gemmer vor lyksalighed

Til sol går ned, til sol går ned.

Song behind the plough

In sun’s warm glow I plough the land,

I greet the trees as green they stand,

where you, my joy, are hiding still.

My heart’s full glad and hides as well

And hides its bliss from everyone

Till setting sun, till setting sun.

My joy awakens young and new

Like lark-song in the dawn’s pale blue.

Each evening it adorns itself.

You though for me adorn yourself.

And all the bliss of every night

Is daytime’s secret golden-bright.

I plough the rich earth, turn each fold,

But no one sees the golden gold

That hidden in my heart does dwell.

I hide myself, you hide as well,

I hide my bliss from everyone

Till setting sun, till setting sun. 

Jeppe Aakjær: 'Høgen'

Høgen

Vær hilset Høg over Granetop,

du stolteste Fugl i Skoven!

Du stirrer trodsigt mod Himlen op,

din Flugt er vild og forvoven.

Du kløver Brisen i vilden Lyst,

mens grønligt Øjnene spejde;

du hugger dit Næb i din Fjendes Bryst,

og aldrig du skjænker ham Lejde.

Du er en Røver for Gud og Mand,

i Blod du sølede Hammen;

du ser med Foragt paa den vrikkende And,

der spejler sin Fedme i Dammen.

Jeg elsker vel ej din blodige Klo,

men Flugtens Sus om din Bringe,

dit vilde Blik fra dit stolte Bo

og Solens Blink paa din Vinge.

The Hawk

My greeting, hawk above fir-trees high,

you proudest of birds in the forest!

Defiant you stare straight up at the sky,

your flight is as wild as it’s lawless.

You cleave the breeze with a wanton zest,

with greenish eye ever scouting;

you sink your sharp beak in your quarry’s breast,

its right to survive always flouting.

A brigand you are before God and man,

your body blood-red from the slaughter:

the duck’s waggling rump with contempt you scan,

reflected down there in the water.

No love of your bloody claw have I,

but your flight-smoothed breast in all weathers;

your savage gaze from your home on high

and the glint of the sun on your feathers.

Torild Wardenær: 'The fiddlers'

The fiddlers

There’s a great deal we never get to know anything about. The fiddlers for example.

For that reason, there is not anything special to say about them. All we have heard is this:

They came to town one afternoon. They were going to stay at Hotel Union, and for a while

reception was full of dark-dressed men with embroidery on their jackets and their fiddles

safely stowed away in black cases.

Nobody opened them and played on their instruments right then. It would probably not

have been appropriate. It is almost certain that one or other of them must have felt like 

striking up a tune.

Anyway, it didn’t happen. But later, when they had all been given rooms, some

scattered notes could be heard coming from various rooms in the west wing.

Torild Wardenær: 'Sifong'

Siphong

Siphong, siphong. The word popped out. It did. He was just standing there, and the word popped

out without warning: siphong, siphong. Twice, no more.

What do you say?

He tried it out again. No one directly contradicted him. He laughed. Became excited. He had

not been drinking champagne, only black coffee.

He looked at himself in the mirror, pronounced the word slowly and noted his facial expression.

Shaped his mouth first into a smile. Then made a round opening, like he mimicked to very small children.

It looked odd, but sounded good: siphong, siphong!

Instead of good afternoon and be seeing you, he shouted it to his friends. They were standing on

the loading verge and they replied: what? both of them. He waved and repeated the greeting. They

waved back.

On the bus he said the same when he was given his change. Siphong. The driver looked up and

nodded to him. Said: OK. And let the heavy bus swing out as light as a feather from the edge of the pavement.

Anneke Brassinga: Rosie's oration

Rosie’s oration

Ever seen a wrinkled sea-gull? Wrinkly sea, yes, stone

and bone, but walled-eye horse, hollow-gob donkey

no. Well, help each other keep peepers skinned! Fair to assume

humanity exists as species? Not as yet satisfactorily demonstrated

by independent sources, it being much too intersubjectively

limited, with bulging eyes copiously magnifying vain dazzling

can never plainly be concluded – without one contribution

of potencies dormant in wintering sugar beet as well as

the industrially freeze-dried tea rose – that dubious parasite,

conceitedly believing its own word, has the right to posit itself.

Well now, it unmistakably would seem related to the rose: it too

becoming crumpled in its utmost state, and shedding

sweet tears even, before the final snap. Likewise geranium and jasmine.

In short, QED: humanity, no, merely an overwhelming

quantity, falling outside all botanical categories, consequently

rushing around in panic, bellicose, in earliest

and final stages abusively not clinging to the illusory

public spirit, sweetly vegetating as seen fit, specimens.