Hear the music but not the words,
dancing movement, but no one present.
Poem, but without a reader.
Time, but without the numbers.
How many mysteries can you cope with?
The friend who died but no longer could speak,
the other friend who in his final bed
described a circle with his hands,
by which he meant travelling. That was
a farewell, and I understood it, I was
still to travel on further, circles around the world
until I could be with him again,
or he with me, a futile promise.
 |
Owl
Now, by degrees, I no longer listen to anyone.
For a conversation I wait for the owl
that measures time. The time between its words
are counted, a metronome that measures
the value of the words – word, silence, word.
And then the following word, also just one.
The two of us alone between
the well-nigh swaying,
man and owl.
Is it off hunting?
I do not know.
Owl, night, man, time,
I hear the sound of its wings,
the sound of my breath,
the shriek of the prey,
then silence.
I no longer listen to anyone.
Clouds
There it was then
the procession of the clouds.
In front the sea clouds, black and storm-laden.
They destroyed entire villages
drowning the animals
in their night-black rain.
Lastly the small ones came
with the colours of bats,
skins of barbed wire,
tattered ends of teeth and daggers.
They streamed over the plain
and the distant houses.
When the last one had disappeared
the wind curled up
in the silence,
a dangerous dog.
We were left behind as no one
in our villages of nothing,
spectres of never more the same
with for ever the ashes and the smell
of the end.
Fox
It was from the low road he first saw the fox,
black and alone in a field of snow.
Behind, before the second field, a bank
of bushes, three trees, blown by the wind,
secret signs in the afternoon light,
a frozen moment, a now written down.
The fox had stood still and looked and he looked
back, saw that the fox saw him, and saw
the white marking under its head, its brush
like a prolongation in the white snow
Everything was empty, he too, the fox made
a decision and raced off, a long streak
against the white, a tale of speed
and fear, its paws now another
foursome, Hebrew letters on a blank sheet,
beginnings of a script that remains on
the photo, a winter afternoon tale
man and fox, light and man and beast,
there is only this.
Second, stillness, fox,
only this
poem.
(Flight of cranes over Skåne, April morning.
Villanella)
The light tracks of a bird are hard to find again.
The number of wild cranes is also very few.
Soon shall the withered grass burn till no straws remain.
This morning was a joyful woman’s reign
whose voice in lust’s short instant rush rose pure and true:
The light tracks of a bird are hard to find again.
All birds are in some secret goddess’s domain,
who taught them flight and unrest; fleeing, staying too.
Soon shall the withered grass burn till no straws remain.
They now change places at the front, the forward dame
by her male consort, and slide off towards the blue.
The light tracks of a bird are hard to find again.
Unfathomable moment! You cannot retain
your form, nor can you slide away anew.
Soon shall the withered grass burn till no straws remain.
And this white blind-born morning would force me retain
the guilt that was my death, which I in secret had to rue.
The light tracks of a bird are hard to find again.
Soon shall the withered grass burn till no straws remain.
Natt
Jag vill ut till att vandra i vildmark om natten,
till att leta mig vägar där ingen har gått.
Jag vill stanna på Matalams stenfrusna vatten
för att hölja mitt vemod i skymmande grått.
Jag vill hälsa dig, hemland av sånger och saga
och av snö kring Ajatteles klippor och snår;
mitt frostiga arvland där rävarna jaga,
medan midnattens hunger kring skogarna går.
Mina marväxta tallar ha torkat med åren,
och se storfuran lutar sig trött för att dö. –
Det är grått, det går krypande skymning i snåren
och i topparna visslar en västan om tö.
Och ur skuggornas djup klinga urgamla låtar,
där är vallhornets lockton med vemod uti,
där gå viddernas visor kring vindfällda bråtar,
och den själ som de fångat vill aldrig bli fri.
Så jag hälsar dig, gran, som min ensamma like
och jag räcker dig, ungbjörk, min trofasta hand,
och jag kallar mig fri fastän här i mitt rike
jag har fångats och snärjts av det namnlösas band.
Night
I will out and in nighttime expanses be roaming,
off in search of lone paths where no human has strayed.
Pause by Matalam’s stone-frozen waters at gloaming
and my mournfulness cloak in both greyness and shade.
I will greet you, of sagas and songs my home kingdom,
with your snow round Ajattele’s brushwood and peaks;
my frosty old fatherland, foxes’ dominion,
where the hunger of midnight round forestland sneaks.
My deformed stunted spruces are dried-out and sprawling
and the tall pine leans wearily, ready for death. –
All is grey, through the brushwood dim twilight is crawling
And in tree-tops a west wind has thaw on its breath.
And from depths of the shadows are ancient lays sounding,
where the horn’s tempting call has a strange mournful tone,
there go songs of the wilds, wind-felled wood heaps surrounding,
and the soul they have captured no freedom will own.
So I greet you, old pine, my lone likeness so pressing,
and, young birch, I give you firm, faithful hands,
and I call myself free in this realm, though confessing
I’ve been caught and ensnared in the nameless one’s bands.
Tijdopname
Op ’t gras vannacht zag ik mijn ouders zitten,
luchtig gekleed in voorjaarsochtendlicht;
’k herkende hen eerst niet aan hun gezicht
maar aan hun houding, als vanouds in witte
tuinstoelen naast elkaar, hun blik gericht
verwelkomend op mij; ik kwam niet nader,
dronk het beeld in, het beeld van moeder, vader,
en achter mij groeide de toekomst dicht.
Die tuin nu wandelpark, het huis kantoor,
niets weet mij daar nog, de voetstap van vreemden
wiste door jaren heen van ons elk spoor.
En toch vannacht dat grasveld, zij daardoor
nog op hun vaste plek, nog geen ontheemden,
en wie ik werd ging in hun blik teloor.
Time exposure
Last night I saw my parents on the lawn,
sparsely attired in spring’s first morning light;
I did not know their faces at first sight,
rather their posture, as of old they’d drawn
their white chairs side by side, their gaze was trained
on me in welcome; and I came no nearer,
drank in the picture, that of mother, father,
my future closed behind me – none remained.
The garden now a park, the house replaced
by offices, nothing recalls me there,
strangers’ steps have removed our every trace.
And yet last night that lawn, them unerased
still on their fixed spot, still no homeless pair,
and who I would become sank in their gaze.
Auf eine Christblume II
Im Winterboden schläft, ein Blumenkeim,
Der Schmetterling, der einst um Busch und Hügel
In Frühlingsnächten wiegt den samtnen Flügel;
Nie soll er kosten deinen Honigseim.
Wer aber weiß, ob nicht sein zarter Geist,
Wenn jede Zier des Sommers hingesunken,
Dereinst, von deinem leisen Dufte trunken,
Mir unsichtbar, dich blühende umkreist?
On a Christmas Rose II
In winter soil there sleeps, a flower-seed,
The butterfly that soon on nights in spring
Will flit round bush and hill on velvet wing;
Though never on your honeyed nectar feed.
Perhaps, who knows, its gentle spirit may,
When all of summer splendour’s fully spent,
One day made giddy by your subtle scent,
Unseen by me, round you in full bloom stray?
In winteraarde slaapt, een bloem in knop,
de vlinder die om heesters eens en heuvel
in voorjaarsnachten danst op fulpen vleugel;
nooit drinkt hij uit uw kelk de honingdrop.
Wie echter weet, of niet zijn tere geest,
als alle zomerpracht is wegggezonken,
eenmaal, van uw zachtgeurende adem dronken,
voor mij onzichtbaar u, in bloei, omzweeft?
(C.O. Jellema)
For much more information (in German) on the poem, go to here
Tijdverblijf
Alles wat van mij houdt
gaat dood, mijn hond,
mijn vriend, de vogels die
ik voer geef als het vriest.
Daarom houd ik
van dode dingen,
van porselein, een schilderij,
van een gedrukt gedicht.
Passing time
All those that love me end
up dead, my dog,
my friend, the birds that I
give food to when there’s frost.
That’s why I love
things that are dead,
love porcelain, a work of art,
a poem that’s in print.
Du bofink fin
Du bofink fin med bröstet rött som vin,
långt bittrare än döden är den röda morgonen!
Hur ängsligt smyger du i kvällens skugga,
som mörknar kall till långa vinternatten;
hur vekt det späda bröstet skiner
i blodigt mörka aftonrodnans frost,
som kall, kall fläktar ifrån norr!
Förgäves dagen lång det svaga näbb sig mödat
att genomtränga snö och isig skorpa,
ett bär, ett frö att leta upp.
Nu trött du flaxar längs den gråa gata,
och hjärtat flämtar under vackra bröstet.
Den svarta stare nu sig reder
ett skjul inunder parkens buskar,
där sitter han och väntar döden.
O mörka långa vinternatt,
i dig är gott att dö, av ingen märkt.
Du bofink fin, så flaxa ej mer ängsligt,
dig luta tryggt och veka bröstet sänk
till moderliga natten och den ljuva sömnen,
där kan du glömma köld och hunger
och glupska kråkan som, ej mätt av lump och ben,
for efter dig – och knappt du undkom.
Ty bittrare än döden är den röda morgonen!
You chaffinch fine
You chaffinch fine with breast as red as wine,
far bitterer than death is the red flush of morning!
How anxiously you steal to evening shadow
which coldly darkens into endless winter night;
how frail your tiny breast seems, gleaming
in bloodied-crimson evening twilight’s frost
which wafts in cold and chill from northern climes!
In vain throughout the day your feeble beak has striven
to penetrate both snow and icy crust,
in search of some small berry or a seed.
Now tired you flutter through the dull-grey street,
with palpitating heart beneath your lovely breast.
The sable starling’s busy now preparing
a hidey-hole among the park’s thick bushes,
where it can sit and wait for death.
Oh dark and endless winter night,
to die in you is good, a death unnoticed.
You chaffinch fine, cease now your anxious flutter,
securely your exhausted breast incline
against maternal night and slumber sweetly,
there to forget all cold and hunger
and the greedy crow, from rags and bones unsated, who
came after you – from whom you just escaped.
For bitterer than death is the red flush of morning.
