From 'Vinci, later' by the Danish poet Morten Søndergaard

A DOG-FIGHT

for jhs

A wild-mint fragrance

        beneath the twilight ladder

there must be a language

so things can be said as they are

        neither more nor less

there must be a hole in the lid

        in the body so it can rain

down into the heart

evening of granite of nothing

        the dogs are fighting and goodbye sugar

sprinkles onto the fax

there must be many houses

so death gets lost

everything is here for a little while longer

        and the horseradish is in flower

For a translation of the whole collection, go to here

Translated poem by Hester Knibbe in 'Lyrisch van Rembrandt'

ANNA ANSWERS TOBIT’S ACCUSATION

Though blind you think yourself all-seeing, but
seeing were already blind. In my arms I carry
what I have earned, while you grouse, make
me a scapegoat. With open eyes

you slept, now you just sit there, your robe
the worst for wear, a mole, not worth kicking, you
the just, the ever generous, but still
a miser, to your power wed. No

Tobit, I am not a thief, you know that,
between our bleating please and thank-you, for
giving gives honour, receiving makes trivial, that

gets your goat. Try washing your eyes
with the gall you spew, scrub the arrogant
muck off your soul. And see!

Section from 'In Nomine' by Klaus Høeck

‘études australes’

and behind me stars

of glass and soda sparkle

behind my shoulder

that’s smoking with salt

behind my bedhead while i

am dreaming the stars

sparkle like crayfish

on the sea-bed of båring

vig the stars sparkle

like lightships there up

in the springtime night while i

am falling asleep

i have gathered the

dead around me in a cir

cle as around a

maypole for a dance

and a conversation they

cannot take part in

all the dead members

of my family around

me like statues that

move almost imper

ceptibly whenever i

do not gaze at them

and behind me the

stars sparkle like electric

welding over fun

en from the lindø

shipyards behind me the stars

toll for my ears out

from the spit ene

bærodde as if strangers

were going to be

evening guests or an

unexpected word in my

most recent poem

the dead also look

at me (at any rate from

their carbonised pho

tographs turned pale by

purgatory) or maybe

it is the other

way around that i

only move (am moved) when the

dead gaze at me and

that i otherwise

come to a complete standstill

in my memories?

and behind me the

stars plummet down cold and a

lien with sili

con from their orang

eries and from their enorm

ous celestial map

plunge into the realm

of my poems where they strike

my left foot or leave

behind them such words

as ‘carina’ or ‘puppis’

or as ‘canopus’

and behind me the

stars fall down from their winter

gardens fall down in

to ‘études australes’

from one star chart to anoth

er one and that is

the way the stars sound

then even harder and wild

er than emerald

that is the way the

stars sound in grete sultan’s

interpretation

nobody becomes

a good person just by dy

ing it is unfor

tunately not that

simple just as nobody

becomes an evil

person just by liv

ing it is not that simple

everyone has to

do it by themselves

both parts of their own free will

it’s that difficult

and behind me the

stars cast out dice over the

sky’s rough glass surface

like ice-cubes like the

coins in an I-ching throw

like the notes coming

from a steinway grand

piano like the sparks from

john cage’s pitu

itary gland like

crocodile tears like the last

words in the bible

i have gathered the

dead around me for life’s sake

(also the dead chaf

finches that flew in

to the window pane yester

day) life cannot un

equivocally

determine itself as life

the dead define us

in a way they are

what makes us living without

death there is no life

and behind me the

stars chime with death and necess

ity behind me

the stars ring out for

god – what if i were not to

turn around would i

then not be transformed

into a pillar of salt

or into a stone

plinth would my poem then

not be transformed into a

mourning cherry-tree?

Eichendorff - workshop poem 'Mondnacht'

Mondnacht

Es war, als hätt der Himmel

Die Erde still geküßt,

Daß sie im Blütenschimmer

Von ihm nun träumen müßt.

Die Luft ging durch die Felder,

Die Ähren wogten sacht,

Es rauschten leis die Wälder,

So sternklar war die Nacht.

Und meine Seele spannte

Weit ihre Flügel aus,

Flog durch die stillen Lande,

Als flöge sie nach Haus.

Moonlit night

It was as if the heaven

The earth had softly kissed,

Of him she now for ever

Must dream in flower-mist.

Through fields the air moved lightly,

The corn did softly sway,

The forests rustled gently,

So clear the star-night lay.

My soul stretched wide its pinions

Above the moonlit ground,

Flew through the quiet dominions

As if ’twere homeward bound.

This is a third draft, i.e. work in progress. To see the workshop in action, go to here

Anna Enquist - 'Lyrisch van Rembrandt'

REMBRANDT AND SASKIA

In his first year of marriage he portrays

his wife, paints everything that stays

concealed of her behind the larded cheeks,

the timid lips and rosy ear.

He paints her necklaces and pearls, a dangling

eardrop made of glass that takes an afternoon.

Transparency, but the incensed complaint:

he paints but what exactly does he paint?

Not how she was but what she thought,

what she espied behind the easel, what

that glance revealed – access

to muted grief: a self-portrait, no less.

Svantes viser - a parody of the song in praise of the Danish tongue by Edvard Lembcke (1815-97)

THE MUDDY TONGUE

Our muddy tongue is frightful, it has so foul a sound.

With what shall I compare it, in song can praise be found?

A whore well past forty, red-nosed and hair all dyed,

but she is so game and she still holds back the tide.

She places on our lips every word that’s choked and wry

from all love’s hoarsest groaning, to festive drunken cry;

to hearts weighed down by sorrow, or filled with wild unrest,

she grants us all the timely belch that calms our savage breast.

And if in east and west we have searched from first to last

the wisdom of new ages, the wit of times long past,

she tempts and she entices, by her will we must bide.

She is a whore past forty that still holds back the tide.

The foreigners that seek to learn her language with great toil,

they get the feeling it is just like porridge on the boil;

And every time they struggle to say what strikes their ears,

she laughs out loud so heartlessly and all she says is: Cheers!

And all of the poets she gave words’ mighty power

they tyrannise her language, but from an ivory tower.

Each song known by the people and listened to with zest,

is mostly German, English or Spanish at its best.

Each feeble joke that causes a grin to reach our lips,

a gross of them at least she has right at her finger-tips.

each word straight from the belly that back to it can home

has been for many centuries our own tongue’s basic tone.

And words all change in passing before they disappear  

Our dialects forgotten, like snows of yesteryear;

and tongue after tongue all like shooting stars have died;

but she is so game and she still holds back the tide.

The Flemish poet Paul Bogaert

TUCK ME IN

Tell me that it’s time, tell me that

I’m tired, leave all protests unheard,

give me a flannel, the bear I know’s mine,

show me my bed, tuck me in,

smell of soap, tell me how

princesses always sleep soundly

and just vanish, don’t go too

far, cover me up, tuck me in,

leave me alone, don’t throw sand in

my eyes, don’t put on any

song, don’t reconcile me to the night,

do what I do, tuck me in.

For more poems by Paul Bogaert go to here
Or to this website for the longer poem 'Address'

Benny Andersen - Svantes vise No. 1

LITTLE SONG FOR NINA

My life is but a can of beer,
Deposit paid am I,
except when you are oh so near,
you envoy from on high.

My navel’s flab, my belly’s girth,
whose growth I daily fear,
you swear are things of greatest worth –
to me you’re always dear!

But how can ever I extol
your figure without flaw?
I drink your body of its soul
in hipflask swigs galore.

You are my life, my daily bread,
You are my dearest dear.
I’m but a bloke who’s overfed,
who’s standing far too near.

I know that this is of the past.
Another’s your sweet dear.
But you have taught me love at last,
to me you’re always near.

The first major Danish hymn-writer 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.

Gerrit Komrij - Venezia

 My favourite section from the collection is this:

HARLEQUIN’S EGG

1

Verse can be pulled on like a pair of pants:

Tight, loose, to size, to suit your mood the while.

There are for each imaginable stance

Yet other pants. (Priest’s garb is unistyle.)

When reckless - jazzy coloureds are your pick.

A thin stripe - when capricious - lends you flair.

Though white for whims or daring’s also slick.

A poet cuts a figure everywhere.

He can, if death his poet’s heart sore squeezes,

Compose a solemn hymn on Edam cheeses,

Though also wildly weep in his distress.

Or he forgets the pain. The cheese, no less.

Makes fun of it, as through the nets he eases.

He shrugs it off, is free once more from stress.

2

Let’s say you want to write a poem about an

Egg, you would let that egg, with quite astounding,

Sounding magic, float through woods to outer

Reaches, where you’d let it - like a confounding,

Egg-shaped pumping-engine - dip and soar!

You’d alternate egg-colour in confusion -

Now blue, now yellow. Or: on its shell-floor

You’d paint great marguerites in wild profusion.

The egg would wax and wane, the poet can

Do all - for him it’s just a piece of cake

To make uneggy what as egg began.

A sickly man, a fan-shaped host of spikes.

And then a cookie, or a lady’s bike.

No real verse, though - unless the egg should break.

3

It breaks. The yolk’s no joke - what does the poet?

He festoons frills and garlands round his person,

Like some decked maypole. Lovelier still - to show it

He sarabandes and does his samba version.

He plays for monarch and he plays for beggar.

The flowers sway with him, birds explode in flashes

Above his head, the reddish sun glows redder.

He finds a way to flaunt a feast of fashions.

At night he plays for bailiff and for debtor.

He plays for this and that - the ranting male.

His eyes turn red as cherry-stones - uncanny -

And he’s now warbling like a nightingale.

He thinks of everything, the yolk excepted,

And, tired from dancing, parks on it his fanny.

4

What do you do, with egg-stain on your bum?

You feel so sticky, look a little glum.

And mum’s the word. For if no stain had come

To grace your arse, it would have been such fun.

Why did the egg not vanish in a trice?

Why such a cinch to make a lady’s bike?

Wasn’t it too a fan-shaped host of spikes?

And now there’s this adornment on your bike.

You still feel, in your pants with yellow pickings,

Now only fancied by some rangy chickens,

Just what a silly idiot you have been.

You’d best give up your antics - what a curse!

You’d better take your pants off, Harlequin,

And in the buff in future write your verse.