SNEGLE-SPYT
Den vaade, sorte Snegl ved Rosen sad
og ærgred sig; ham Godtfolks Tale stødte:
De kalde Rosen smuk, fy, jeg maa spytte!
Nu har jeg sat mit Mærke paa dens Blad.
SNAIL SPIT
Beside the rose the snail sat, wet and dark
and highly vexed; folk’s praise offended it:
They call the rose most fair – that makes me spit!
On its green leaf I now have left my mark.
A masterpiece of compression! This has reduced the fairy tale 'The Snail and the Rosebush' to four lines.
Naar Alnaturen slumrer
Og Skoven staaer Vinterdragt
Naar Sneen fyger
Og hurtig stryger
Af Marken hen
Naar Boreas med sine Storme
Besøger Sjølunds skjønne Egne
Og De en Fugleskræmme skuer
Der ensom staaer paa nøgen Mark,
Da tænk paa mig!
Slagelse, den 4 Januari 1823
When all of Nature slumbers
And woods are in winter dress
When snow starts drifting
And swiftly sifting
Across the fields
When Boreas with its chill winds
Rakes over Sealand’s lovely regions
And you discern a distant scarecrow
That stands alone in some bare field,
Then think of me!
Slagelse, 4th January 1823
OMHOOG ZIEN NAAR DE ZON DE WATERROZEN
Omhoog zien naar de zon de waterrozen,
kinderlijk, alsof ’t Rafaëls englen waren;
grauw slib en wijde scheemringen bewaren,
die hier de dood stilde tot smartelozen.
Opzuigt de bliksemstorm het meer tot hozen:
dan staan in blauw doorschijnende pilaren
de doden: hun zwarte ogengaten staren
boven hun grijns om macabre apotheozen.
Naar Brahmans zonlicht bloeien mijn gedachten;
scheemringen, koel, van zielegronden brachten
rust aan mijn smart om wensen, lang gebroken:
vlaag van herinn’ring woelt uit grauw vergeten
’t verleden op bij flits van plotsling weten –
’t herrijst, ’t herrijst; mijn dode wensen spoken.
SUNWARD THE WATER-LILIES TURN THEIR EYES
Sunward the water-lilies turn their eyes,
childlike, like angels done by Raphaël;
in grey sludge and wide dusks retained, there dwell
those for whom death did painlessness devise.
And should a lightning storm’s induced osmosis
suck up the lake, the dead will all stand there
in clear blue columns: empty orbits stare
above their grin at grim apotheosis.
To Brahman’s sunlight my thoughts strive to flower;
dusks that rose coolly from the soul’s deep bower
made pain at broken wishes cease to taunt me:
from limbo’s grey a gust of memory
whirls up the past when in a flash I see –
they resurrect; dead wishes come to haunt me.
Dødsøieblikket
Wenn die unbekannte Hand den letzten Pfeil an das Haupt des Menschen sendet, so bückt er vorher das Haupt, und der Pfeil hebt bloß die Dornenkrone von Seinen Wunden ab.
Jean Paul. (Hesperus, 1795)
Hvad er det dog, som lyser? Det luttres for min Sands;
Jeg føler Øiet briste i denne Straaleglands.
Mit Hoved mat sig bøier for Kraften i min Aand,
Og mildt om Hjertet løsne sig alle snevre Baand.
I Døden faae vi Vinger, det troe vi jo som Smaa,
Ja Aanden den faaer Vinger, som Tankens overgaae!
I Stjernernes Systemer, i Midet paa vor Jord,
Jeg seer en Guddoms Fylde hvortil jeg ei har Ord.
En Evighed jeg skuer i Alt, selv i mit Bryst,
Og alle Taager synke bag Jordens kjendte Kyst.
I mine Brødres Hjerter nu først jeg læser ret,
Vel er’ vi alle Svage, men Ingen ganske slet.
O kunde vi herneden saa klart i Andre see,
Som i vort eget Indre, vi gjorde dem ei Vee.
I hver jeg mig gjenkjender, i Store, som i Smaa,
O, skal vi da i Døden hinanden først forstaae?
Jeg er saa let, saa salig, saa luttret i min Tro,
Jeg føler Kamp og Stræben, og dog en himmelsk Ro!
The moment of death
When the unknown hand shoots the last arrow at the person’s head, he bends his head forwards, and the arrow only lifts the crown of thorns off his wounds.
Jean Paul
What is it shines so strongly? My mind is purified;
I feel my eyes are breaking now its strong rays preside.
My weary head bends forwards caught by my spirit’s might
And gently my heart loosens the bonds that hold it tight.
In death we all gain wings and this children know full well,
The spirit gains wings also, which those of thought excel!
In stellar constellations, in dust mites here on earth,
I see divine abundance for which I have no words.
In all things gaze for ages, in my own breast the most,
And all mists sink down slowly behind earth’s well-known coast.
The hearts of fellow humans first now come into sight,
For though we all are weaklings, no one is bad outright.
Oh could we see in in others as clearly as we view
Our inner selves, our blind urge to hurt them we’d subdue.
I see myself in others, in those both great and small,
Oh, must death first take place ere we understand it all?
I am so light, by faith have been purified and blessed,
Prepared to fight and struggle, though full of heav’nly rest!
To see a German translation of this poem, go to here.
Det døende Barn
Moder, jeg er træt, nu vil jeg sove,
Lad mig ved Dit Hjerte slumre ind;
Græd dog ei, det maa Du først mig love,
Thi Din Taare brænder paa din Kind.
Her er koldt og ude Stormen truer,
Men i Drømme, der er Alt saa smukt,
Og de søde Englebørn jeg skuer,
Naar jeg har det trætte Øie lukt.
Moder, seer Du Englen ved min Side?
Hører Du den dejlige Musik?
Se han har to Vinger smukke hvide,
Dem han sikkert at vor Herre fik.
Grønt og Gult og Rødt for Øiet svæver,
Det er Blomster Engelen udstrøer!
Faar jeg ogsaa Vinger mens jeg lever,
Eller, Moder, faaer jeg naar jeg døer?
Hvorfor trykker saa Du mine Hænder?
Hvorfor lægger Du din Kind til min?
Den er vaad og dog som Ild den brænder,
Moder, jeg vil altid være Din!
Men saa maa Du ikke længer sukke,
Græder du, saa græder jeg med Dig,
O, jeg er saa træt! – maa Øiet lukke –
- Moder - see! nu kysser Englen mig!
The Dying Child
Mother, I am tired, I would be sleeping,
Close up to your heart let me expire;
Do not weep, be first this promise keeping,
Since your tears will course your cheeks like fire.
Here it’s cold, outside the storm is brewing,
Beauty though in dreams reigns unopposed,
And sweet angel children I’ll be viewing
When my tired eyes I at last have closed.
Mother, can you see the angel by me?
Can you hear the lovely music play?
Look, two wondrous white wings spread out widely ,
Only God provides such fine array .
Yellows, greens and reds seem to be snowing,
Flowers the angel strews before my eye!
Will while I’m still living wings start growing,
Or first, mother, when I come to die?
Why is it you press my hands so gently?
Why is it you lay your cheek to mine?
Though it’s moist it seems to burn intensely,
Mother, you for me need never pine!
So let not with sighs your heart be brimming,
I’ll weep too if you weep constantly,
Oh, I am so tired! – my eyes are dimming –
– Mother – look! the angel’s kissing me!
ARVO PÄRT: FRATRES
Voor 12 cello’s en percussie
Luister naar het hout
en naar de zingende kern daaronder,
de kloppende stokken in het bos!
Een melopee van twaalf ondertonen
in hun knoesten en kwasten gevat
en op een klaagdeun afgestemd.
Hun broederlijk brommen
deint weg tussen de maatstrepen
van hun metronomisch gebed.
ARVO PÄRT: FRATRES
For 12 cellos and percussion
Listen to the wood
and to the singing core beneath,
the beating sticks in the forest!
A droning dirge of twelve undertones
caught in their knobs and knots
and attuned to a murmured complaint.
Their brotherly bourdon
fades away between the barlines
of their metronomical prayer.
Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars
Poetic Synapses 14
Hjemvee
Warum wurde auf den schmutzigen Erdenkloß ein Geschöpf mit unnützen Lichtflügeln geklebt, wenn es in die Geburtscholle zurückfaulen sollte, ohne sich je mit den ätherischen Flügeln los zu winden?
Jean Paul.
Om Aft’nen i det lille, snevre Kammer,
Naar Alt er stille, i mit Bryst det flammer!
En mægtig Længsel fylder al min Tanke,
Af Hjemvee føler jeg mit Hjerte banke,
Og jeg maa græde, skjøndt jeg er en Mand,
Thi her, har Hjertet intet Fædreland!
Naar Kunsten aabner mig sit store Rige,
Den samme Længsel føler jeg da stige,
Enhver Musik, hver Sang der naaer mit Hjerte,
Gjenvækker denne bittre, søde Smerte!
Men Hjemmet finder jeg dog aldrig her,
Mit Hjem er der, hvor jeg kun ikke er!
Seer jeg den friske Skov, de grønne Dale,
Da føler jeg, hvad ei jeg kan udtale,
Seer jeg det stolte Hav og Aftenrøden,
Da længes Hjertet mægtigt efter Døden!
Dog nei! det er ei Døden, nei, et Hjem, —
Et Hjem, hvis Navn jeg ei kan stamme frem.
Homesickness
Why was a being, endowed with useless wings of light, chained to this dirty clump of earth, if it were to rot in its birth-clod, without ever being freed from it by means of its ethereal wings?
Jean Paul (The Campaner Thal, 507th Station)
In my cramped, narrow room at day’s cessation,
When all is still, my breast’s a conflagration!
My thoughts are filled by some enormous yearning,
I feel my homesick heart is brightly burning,
And I must weep, although I am a man,
For here the heart lacks any fatherland!
When art its mighty realm to me is showing
This selfsame yearning I sense in me glowing,
Each song, all music with which my heart’s shaken
This sweet yet bitter pain does reawaken!
To find a home here cannot be my lot,
My home is only where my heart is not.
The fresh woods and green vales I find a blessing
But feel incapable of e’er expressing,
The proud sea and the sun when it is setting
Cause me to long for death, all pain forgetting!
Not so! Not death, a home is what I crave‚ –
Its name but stuttered this side of the grave.
Er Du i Verden vide,
Du er dog Hjemmet nær,
Gud aander ved din Side
I Luft og Blomst og Træer;
Du høre kan hans Stemme
I Dig og rundtenom,
Og føle du er hjemme
Hvor Du i Verden kom!
Og stedes Du i Fare,
Er uforskyldt i Nød,
Han vil dig vel forsvare,
Og der er ingen Død,
Og der er ingen Smerte.
Vort Jordlivs Stjerneskud
Er, fra en Moders Hjerte
At flyve op til Gud.
Disse Vers skrevne paa en eensom Bjærgvandring ved Setubal i Portugal 1866
Wherever you should wander
Your home is always nigh,
God breathes close by and yonder
In flowers and trees and sky
His voice you hear inside you
and everywhere you roam,
Though it be far and wide you
Will always feel at home.
If peril should befall you,
Or undeserved distress,
He’ll not let this appal you
And there’s no sting in death.
Nor pain in this existence –
Our life’s a shooting star
From mother’s heart the distance
To where God’s mansions are.
These lines written on a lonely mountain walk near Setubal in Portugal 1866
REMEDIE
Tegen de angst. Al wat ik schrijf
weerstaat mijn wanhoop, elke zin
waaraan ik ademloos begin
jaagt mij de stuipen van het lijf.
Want op papier ben ik niet bang.
Hier gelden vastgestelde wetten
die mij uit razernij ontzetten
en redden van de ondergang.
Kunst zet het leven naar zijn hand,
brengt het terug tot dunne lijnen
die zich, tegen verval bestand,
tot het verstilde beeld verfijnen
van windfiguren in wit zand
waarin ik veilig kan verdwijnen.
REMEDY
Treatment for fear. All that I write
challenges my despair, each line
I breathlessly a place assign
chases away my fits of fright
On paper I am unafraid.
Here there are fixed rules that apply
which help my frenzied mind get by
and save it when it is dismayed.
Art places life at your command
makes of it thin lines which cohere
and even all decay withstand
creating here a tranquil sphere
of wind-formed figures in white sand
where I can safely disappear.
 |
| Prunus padus (hägg/bird cherry) |
DÅ VORO BOKARNA LJUSA
Då voro bokarna ljusa, då var ån af
simmande hvit ranunkels öar sållad,
ljus sin krona häggen gungade här där
gosse jag vandrat. —
Tyst det regnar. Himlen hänger lågt på
glesa kronor. En hvissling; tåget sätter
åter i gång. Mot sakta mörknande kväll jag
färdas vänlös.
THEN THE BEECHES WERE LIGHT
Then the beeches were light, then isles of
floating marsh buttercups riddled the river,
light its crown the bird-cherry swayed here where
I roamed as a boy. –
Soundless the rain. The sky hangs low over
sparse tree-tops. A whistle: the train starts to
move on again. Toward slowly darkening evening I
journey friendless.
