Wednesday 27 February 2013

Medieval Norwegian Ballad of the Dream (Maren Ramskeid version)

The Ballad of the Dream

Olaf he was a fine young man
like a sallow bush the same
Father and mother they wished him well
from the time that he spoke their name.
– And it was Olaf Aaknesonen who slept a sleep so long –

Olaf he was a fine young man
like a sallow twig the same
Father and mother they wished him well
from the time to this earth he came.
– It was etc.

He laid him down a Christmas Eve
and soon fell fast asleep,
he did not wake till past Twelfth Night
when folk their church shall keep,

He did not wake till past Twelfth Night
when sun’s dawn rays did gleam
today I will be off to church
I wish to tell my dream.

He did not wake till past Twelfth Night
when sun’s rays ended his dream
then did he saddle his fine steed
its harness like gold did gleam

Now at the altar you do stand
and reel prayers off by the ream
I in porch outside will stand
where I will tell my dream.

First on my journey I set out
o’er a plain of sand and thorns,
my scarlet cloak was sorely rent
from each finger the nail was torn.
– For the moon shines bright and the roads are endless wide –

Then on my journey I set out
through the narrow ring of thorns
my scarlet cloak was sorely rent
from each toe the nail was torn.
– For the moon shines etc.

Then I arrived at Gjallar bridge
a bad place to go o’er
The hounds they bite the snakes they sting
and the bulls stand ready to gore.

There did I see two snakes that fought
that struck at each other’s head
and there were siblings in that place
that wanted each other to wed.

Waded have I through miry bogs
where I foot can never touch ground
Crossed over Gjallar bridge have I
with grave-earth in my mouth.

Blessed are those who here on earth
the poor man gave some shoes
He need not walk o’er the thorny heath
barefoot should he not choose.

And blessed are those who here on earth
the poor man gave some rye
he need not take a dizzy walk
on Gjeddar bridge so high.

And blessed are those who here on earth
the poor man gave some corn
he need not fear on Gjeddar bridge
the fierce bull’s sharp-tipped horn.

And blessed are those who here on earth
the poor man gave some bread
he need not in the other realm
of any harm be in dread.

And blessed are those who here on earth
the poor man clothes did give
he need not fear in the other realm
with hatred or mocking to live.

Then I set out in wintertime
where the ice was glittering blue
but God put it clearly in my mind
so from there I fast withdrew.

Then did I see in wintertime
all on my right hand
I caught a glimpse of paradise
that gleamed like a distant land.

Then did I glimpse paradise
it could not have gone better for me
there with red gold on her hands
my godmother I did see.

There did I see my godmother
it could not have been better for me
now set you out to Broksvalin
for there Judgment Day shall be.
– The moon shines bright and the roads are endless wide –

Then it was I met the man
his cloak was blue to see
a child he bore upon his arm
and sank down to his knee.
– In Broksvalin for there Judgment Day shall be –

There it was I met a man
his cloak it was of lead
his sorry soul upon this earth
was miserly indeed.
– In Broksvalin etc.

A mighty host came from the north
and now I feared the worst
With Grizzly Greybeard at its head
upon a jet-black horse.

A mighty host came from the south,
and now I hoped the best
Archangel Michael at its head
closest to Jesus Christ.

A mighty host came from the south
and slowly it did ride
Archangel Michael at its head
his horn was by his side.

Archangel Michael took his horn
and blew it loud and clear
And now for every living soul
does Judgment Day draw near.

But then each sinful mortal shook
like aspen leaves in the wind
and each and every soul alive
shed tears for every sin.

Archangel Michael took the scales
and all did pay in kind,
all sinful souls that he there weighed
were to Jesus Christ consigned.

Then did I wake up when past Twelfth Night
after the midnight chime
may God preserve both one and all
who are out at such a time.
– It was Olaf Aakneson who slept a sleep so long

I first wake up at past Twelfth Night
have slept so long it seems
it is temptation to every soul
to fall into such dreams.
– And it was etc.

Wednesday 13 February 2013

Poem from the cycle 'Laughing Crows' by the Swedish writer Ragnar Thoursie


XXVII

                                                 Inspection of Granhult’s old church

‘The evil elf bit without warning deep into my heart.’
Then did I flee to the Lord’s sacred sanctuary –
but found here too a place full of Devils painted on wood
in great magnificence, in green and gold, with jowls
run red and venom running down for a hundred years.
What succour came from the Vicar’s words and Dove above his head!
I was tormented by endless singing, from old crones with dragons’
necks and old men like me on the edge of the grave.
Only a deceased field-mouse under the pew kept my heart
awake. Finally the litany was over. We trooped out like
criminals. Though in the parish house the soul felt freer.
– God’s word is great; but its light does not light up our dead bodies
until after talk of this and that and several cups of coffee.

Monday 11 February 2013

Poem by the Dutch writer
Menno Wigman


MISUNDERSTANDING

This poem will be sad. I do not quite know why
I’m coughing up this secret, but for the past two
months or more the thought’s been haunting me
that poetry is not compassion. Rather an illness
shared with a handful of quite hopeless idiots,

an overcooked complaint that others will find dull
and after dark – it has no powers to heal.
The room is still a room, the bed a bed.
My life's loused up by poetry and even
though I once knew better, I don’t kid myself

when with this heap of print I plague three score
poor readers maybe more, or worse, have two trees felled.

Wednesday 6 February 2013

Poem by the Norwegian/Danish writer Ludvig Holberg (1684-1754)


Til borgmesteren, der netop havde
Overstaaet en alvorlig sygdom

Vi gratulerer dig til din genvundne Helse!
Da du for Døden laa bad alle for din Frelse.
Grund havde vi dertil. Vi alle bange var,
din Efterfølger blev en endnu større Nar.


To the mayor, who had just
got through a serious illness

On your recovered health we would congratulate you!
When at death’s door we prayed that life might reinstate you.
For this we had good reason. All of us did dread
we’d get an even greater ninny in your stead.

Monday 4 February 2013

Poem by the Norwegian writer
Arnljot Eggen (1923-2009)

Village in an underdeveloped country

My small community in Norway
was also ravaged by tuberculosis
Young girls with high fevers lay screaming
that they didn’t want to die
Most of them had all their teeth pulled out
before they were twenty
The draughty old houses there
were also picturesque
For tourists
We played the five-card game for a cigarette
and sat on a doorstep and spat
That’s how you passed the time
when you didn’t have a job or go to school
There was ‘such peace and quiet’ about the place
like in the village here

I return home once more,
in strange clothes
I’ve been away about twenty-five years
I’ve lived in a country that wasn’t ours
Do you still recognise me, brothers

One more from Gerrit Komrij


NIEUWE KERKSTRAAT

The street is silent. You like walking there.
It seems unlived in, though, you ascertain.
‘No bread today’ a note says. You could swear
You’re in the eye of some great hurricane.

You whistle all the Marseillaise much louder.
Catch cholera. Catch galloping consumption.
Level with Top-Class Launderer ‘Van Buiten’
You glimpse a shuffling tramp all of a sudden.

‘The end is nigh,’ he cries. His babbles worsen.
He sputters plegm. He really is a baddun.
You well know who it is. It’s you in person.
Though you pretend you don’t know him from Adam.

Sunday 3 February 2013

Short poem by Rien Vroegindeweij

Poetry

Paper and pen
Day and night
Until way past when.

Friday 1 February 2013

Most of Komrij's poems feel like sonnets - this one is one

 
BIOGRAPHY

A youth of shammy cloths and bacon rind,
Of vegetating with hydraulic jacks,
No understanding skill of any kind
And all that fuss about death at his back.

A middle age where he just feels constricted
By job careerists who display disdain,
While a pinched leering wife’s on him inflicted
And he just longs for summer nights, in vain.

During his final years his drunken spouse
Picks on his dentures and his gammy bowels.
She blows her top. She’s always on the moan.

A gallant noose comes gently floating past.
He puts his head inside it and, at last,
Three seconds of pure joy – the first he’s known.