A poem about machines by Lars Gustafsson

The machines

Some of them came early, others late,

and outside the time when it exists

each and every one of them is homeless.

Heron’s steam ball. The Voltaic pile. The ballista.

The great pit winder in Falun. Curiosities:

The ‘pneumatic winnower’

Una macchina per riscaldare i piedi

We only perceive machines as being homeless

when they belong to a different century.

And then they become distinct, acquire a meaning.

What do they mean? Nobody knows.

The flat-rod system: a device with two raising rods

that moving in reciprocal fashion

transfer power over large distances.

What does the flat-rod system mean?

die bergwerke im harz anno 1723

The picture swarms with people. Human beings,

tiny as flies, are being hoisted and lowered in barrels

and the object marked ‘j’ in the picture, ‘La Grande Machine’,

at the fresh waterfall, drives all the cables.

No one has ever combined,

which would be perfectly possible,

a flat-rod system and a steam engine,

Hero’s steam ball and the Voltaic pile.

The possibility still exists.

A foreign language that no one has spoken.

And strictly speaking:

Grammar itself is a machine

that among countless sequences

selects communication’s strings of words:

the ‘keen instruments’, ‘parts of childbirth’,

the ‘scream’, the ‘smothered whispers’.

When words have passed away, grammar remains,

And it is a machine. That means what?

Nobody knows. A foreign language.

A completely foreign language.

A completely foreign language.

A completely foreign language.

The picture swarms with people. Words,

tiny as flies, are being hoisted and lowered in barrels

and the object marked ‘j’ in the picture, ‘La Grande Machine’,

at the fresh waterfall, drives all the cables.

A Rilke poem about the soul

Nennt ihr das Seele, was so zage zirpt

in euch? Was, wie der Klang der Narrenschellen,

um Beifall bettelt und um Würde wirbt,

und endlich arm ein armes Sterben stirbt

im Weihrauchabend gotischer Kapellen, -

nennt ihr das Seele?

Schau ich die blaue Nacht, vom Mai verschneit,

in der die Welten weite Wege reisen,

mir ist: ich trage ein Stück Ewigkeit

in meiner Brust. Das rüttelt und das schreit

und will hinauf und will mit ihnen kreisen ...

Und das ist Seele.

You call that soul, which chirps so chary deep

within? Which, like the fool’s bells’ tinkling sound,

craves acclamation, unwon worth would reap,

and lastly poor will sleep poor death’s last sleep

in gothic chapels’ evening incense found, –

You call that soul?

When, covered in May’s snow, blue night I see

in which the planets lengthy courses run,

I feel: a small piece of eternity

lies in my breast. That shakes and calls to be

set free to join them orbiting the sun ...

And that is soul.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Aus der Sammlung Gaben an verschiedene Freunde

Another Barnas poem

Choose a theme to make it all come more alive

(The Dutch character)

To start with we stuff them in the corner. It’s handy

it they stay put in their place.

We tie them up and allow them to properly dry.

If this is on the cards depends on our level.

We allow weeks to pass

and then add colour to the sky.

Do it in approximately true scale

and use worthless material as much as possible.

Now we’re going to use our imagination.

That produces a fine effect.

We give each other a few ideas such as a beast

that scores wainscoting in the room

with its claws. Its rage a straight line

as high as the claws can reach.

Unfortunately we’re unable to bend the rules.

A poem from the collection 'Galgenfrist' by the Danish poet Ivan Malinowski

Diktonius

But after the fire

one could almost

spell one’s way to the grass’s veins

the mayfly’s track

the cobweb

so rich a destruction

so good a hatred

(there they sit in their nests

of chewed paper

death does not understand them

shame comes and has lost

its simplest metre)

yes I know it

the cry in the street

hunger’s spurts of flame

in leap on leap

against these walls

this horrible world

now finally so beautiful so pure

in the hot ashes of your poems.

One of 193 poems about one magnolia tree in 'Heartland' by Klaus Høeck

     the magnolia tree

is motionless more now in

     the heart of winter

     than it was before no

longer rustles with leaves of tin

     i have to speak for it

out there where the words

     turn on the border

between language and tree

     in there where

the poem turns upside down

     or inside out

Anonymous Swedish medieval ballad

The power of grief

Little Kerstin and her mother laid gold on the bier,

– who breaks off leaves from a lily-tree –

little Kerstin from his grave mourned her true love so dear.

– Then all your days shall you rejoice.

With fingers so small on the door he did knock:

‘Arise, little Kerstin, and undo the lock!’

‘To hold a tryst here did I no one invite,

And to no one my door will I open at night.’

‘Arise, little Kerstin, the lock now undo!

for I’m the young man that you once loved so true.’

As quick as she could did the maid now arise

and opened the lock on her door in a trice.

On a chest of red gold she prepared him a seat

and in finest clear wine did she wash both his feet.

Then into her bed did the both of them creep,

they talked through the night, there was no time for sleep.

‘The cocks I can hear are beginning to crow,

no longer in homes may the dead tarry now.’

The young maid arose and her shoes she put on,

she went through the wood where her young man was gone.

And when at the churchyard he stopped and did stay,

his fair blond hair then started fading away.

‘Oh look, lovely maid, how the moon’s end is near!’

At which did the young man so fast disappear.

Then did the maid sit herself down on his tomb:

‘I’ll stay here till for me the Lord God shall come!’

To this could the young man be just heard to say:

‘Little Kerstin, please heed me, return home I pray!’

For each single tear that you happen you shed,

my tomb will start filling with blood that’s bright red.

Each moment however your heart gladness knows

– who breaks off leaves from a lily-tree –

shall my tomb fill with petals that come from the rose.’

– Then all your days shall you rejoice.

An Anna Enquist poem

CONVALESCENT HOME NEXT TO THE PARK

Grass for fatigued feet, sky made for licking,

water – what swims and, chittering, tumbles along

observing children’s book rules. Paradise.

They sigh in satisfaction over the grill, lounge

lazily around the music tent, dance in short trousers

by the drums. Riding stable, tennis court.

Behind the highest wall lurk the cracked up,

the legless. They quietly glide to their garden

on caster beds and wheelchairs. The goal for today

was an extra step, was an extra ounce. Now the struggle

for bodily control falters, now those still with use

of an arm shakingly lift a mug with its straw

for a sip. In their silence the park rises up,

inescapable: cartwheels, roller skates, dogs,

a ball. They, in their war chariots, bow their heads.

They listen numbly to a song that’s now alien:

running feet, a horse rearing in its box.

A personal Barnas favourite

Moving house

For months they helped me lug up stairs

years hoist through the window

and when the piano

couldn’t be squeezed in

my voice from the balcony

thundered in chords way off key

Another female poet writes about men, this time Maria Barnas (1973- )

Men

I think of the man I was fond of.

Am I still fond of him?

How many fears does that make?

Our plates grew emptier

And at the edge lies a flower that’s been cut

out of radishes. A slight, exuberant life.

Not for consumption, he’s well aware.

Anna Bijns (1493-1575) - 'Not tied by husbands women prosper best'!

Ballade

To be a woman’s fine, a man far better.

You maids, you widows keep this to the letter:

Don’t haste or fret to see yourselves soon wed.

It’s said that manless you are honour’s debtor;

If finding food and clothes though does not fetter,

Let no man master both your house and bed.

Take my advice: Be wary where you tread

It seems to me, where’er I cast my gaze,

That if a woman choose – though nobly bred

And rich in goods – to wed she all her days

Will spend short-tethered; if alone she stays

Instead both pure and chaste she’ll, I profess,

Be mistress of a life excelling praise.

With marriage I’ve no quarrel, nonetheless

Not tied by husbands women prosper best.

Maids fair of face make wives plain to behold,

Poor frumps, poor drudges; take care, young and old!

From wedlock’s hold I thus should clearly sheer.

Alas, once they are wed they’ve soon extolled

A love which they believe cannot grow cold;

This they will rue within just half a year:

The yoke of marriage makes life far too drear!

Of this all those who’ve wed are well aware!

And women make much clamour out of fear

When husbands seek distraction here and there,

Spend nights and days in inn and gambling lair;

Then wives swear that they rue their foolishness,

But friends and family can’t ease their care.

So stay on guard, and hear what I profess:

Not tied by husbands women prosper best.

The man comes home at times drunk as a lord,

Pesters his wife, exhausted by her chores;

No time to pause if she the house shall run.

And should she feel like countering his roars,

He strikes her in the face or to the floor;

That drink-logged vat’s commands she may not shun.

For all he’ll do is rant and rave at one,

So are things done; poor wife who such must bear!

And if with other women he’s begun,

What joy to rule the home when he’s not there.

You maids, you women, quench your thirst elsewhere

Ere you would hitch yourself up to distress.

Though you a view opposed to mine all share,

I simply do not care, but still profess:

Not tied by husbands women prosper best.

Unkept, a woman must man’s wealth forgo;

His will though likewise she need never know.

And freedom, I maintain, is of great worth.

Without account she’s free to come and go;

Though she must spin to earn her bread, all know

To feed one mouth it takes a lesser purse.

Not tied, she’s envied everywhere on earth,

And though a husband’s income is denied,

As mistress she is master of her hearth.

To freely move is joy none can deride.

To sleep or wake at will she may decide,

With none to chide – so stay untied, don’t rest.

Lost freedom is the worst ill ever tried.

Wives everywhere, though good blokes line your nest,

Not tied by husbands women prosper best.

                                 Princess

Though women may have wealth none can deny,

They’re viewed as slaves by men both low and high.

Should they with fine words ply, then stop them short

And tell them to push off if they should try;

In number good men with white ravens vie.

Away from all gifts shy that they have brought,

As soon as in their mesh the woman’s caught,

Love is as nought, it’s seen repeatedly.

In marriage man’s deception’s grimly taught,

With sorrows fraught, she suffers constantly;

He squanders all her wealth, won’t let her be.

No game for free, but heavy curse no less.

Oft money rules not love when you can see

Such men run till their lungs burst out their chest.

Not tied by husbands women prosper best.