Troths to Ghosts<\/b><\/p>\n
To read a poem in translation\u00a0is to pledge troth to a ghost, ♋\ufe0e<\/p>\n A Motley Selection of Poems Translated from Catalan, Danish, French, by\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Gabriel Ferrater<\/p>\n Henrik Nordbrandt<\/p>\n Ivan Goll, Anne H\u00e9bert, Albert Lozeau, Jean-Aubert Loranger, Anonymous, Rainer Maria Rilke<\/p>\n Bertolt Brecht, Jean Gebser, Heinrich Heine, G\u00fcnter Kunert, Christine Lavant, Christian Morgenstern, Rainer Maria Rilke, Hans Dieter Zimmermann<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span>Salvatore Quasimodo<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span>Fernando Pessoa<\/p>\n Tomas Transtr\u00f6mer<\/p>\n ♋\ufe0e<\/p>\n George Lang<\/p>\n ♋\ufe0e Contents<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Icons, Gabriel Ferrater ♋\ufe0e<\/p>\n Notes<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n ♋\ufe0e Catalan <\/i><\/b>♋\ufe0e<\/p>\n Icons<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n As we lay enlaced before After Gabriel Ferrater<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Aleshores, quan j\u00e8iem <\/p>\n ♋\ufe0e <\/i><\/i>Danish <\/i><\/b>♋\ufe0e<\/p>\n Disraught Dream<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n A burst of dust obscured the sun, A footbridge swayed under Just as far over that span so death will be met in its place (This all lasted less than an instant After Henrik Nordbrandt,\u00a0Dr\u00f8m om fortvivlelse<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n En st\u00f8vet sky gik for solen En bro gungrede under mine f\u00f8dder Der var lige s\u00e5 langt over broen S\u00e5 d\u00f8den m\u00e5tte findes Det hele varede mindre end et minut Since it\u2019s typically Danish Not to mention Danish seriousness, that makes it so serious<\/p>\n & o so Danish.<\/p>\n Seriousness & fun But not as typical as Danishness.<\/p>\n Danishness –such a beauteous thing!<\/p>\n After\u00a0Henrik Nordbrandt Danskhed<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Danskheden er sk\u00f8n<\/p>\n Og s\u00e5 sjov!<\/p>\n Det er s\u00e5 typisk dansk ved danskheden For ikke at tale om den danske alvor. s\u00e5 typisk dansk.<\/p>\n Alvor og sjov men ikke s\u00e5 typiske som danskheden.<\/p>\n Danskheden Danskheden er s\u00e5dan en sk\u00f8n ting.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Real Danish Summer<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Real Danish summer will be what this sonnet just as I am myself at one with this summer day, had not\u00a0that mown\u00a0lawn\u2019s likely words made it risky. After Henrik Nordbrandt,\u00a0Den rigtige dansk sommer<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n En rigtig dansk sommer skal v\u00e6re temaet for denne sonnet: ♋\ufe0e French <\/i><\/b>♋\ufe0e<\/p>\n Headstone<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n l lasted only as long as spume From Ivan Goll\u2019s Epitaph in P\u00e8re Lachaise: Je n\u2019aurai pas dur\u00e9 plus que l\u2019\u00e9cume \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Strange Seizure<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n To trap the polar sun Snares of frost laid out One dusk before it swung For a long spell its yellow heart After Anne H\u00e9bert <\/i><\/b>\u00c9trange capture<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Du c\u00f4t\u00e9 du p\u00f4le arctique On a tendu des filets de givre \u00c0 l\u2019heure du couchant Longtemps on a pu voir son coeur jaune <\/p>\n Maple Leaf<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n As they thrash in the breeze the maples moan. on a slope where gloom and silence cloak From its broad boughs splashes of scarlet flow An open slash in the limbs makes a frame The fabric of its swaying summit seems spun Among golden leaves below in a bed Twilight then mutes the luster of things, throws The blue-white moon heaves into sight, transparent splendor nothing can rival: After Albert Lozeau (\u00c9rable rouge)<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Dans le vent qui les tord les \u00e9rables se plaignent, Il est dans la montagne, aupr\u00e8s d’un ch\u00eane vieux, L’\u00e9carlate s’\u00e9pand et le rubis s’\u00e9coule Il n’est qu’une blessure o\u00f9, magnifiquement, Le bel arbre ! On dirait que sa cime qui bouge Sur le feuillage d’or au sol brun s’amassant, Et quand le soir \u00e9teint l’\u00e9clat de chaque chose, La lune bleue et blanche au lointain \u00e9mergeant, Et c’est une splendeur claire que rien n’\u00e9gale, <\/i><\/b>Azure<\/b><\/p>\n I stare and fill my eyes with your light, This blue swells like a river inside, opening within, by sheer vibration, This deep blue, this torrent of eternity, After Albert Lozeau (Lumi\u00e8re)<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Je regarde, et j\u2019emplie mes yeux de ta lumi\u00e8re, Le bleu me glisse au coeur, frais comme une rivi\u00e8re Tout l\u2019espace est en moi, qui vibre clairement; Le ciel bleu descendu dans mon infinit\u00e9 For a sail that haze a beacon, a distant sprit of shore,<\/p>\n why such a sad song.<\/b> And if the ebbing tide<\/p>\n leaves in port a sail or two,<\/p>\n why yearn for the open seas,<\/p>\n why lament you cannot soar? recall departures,<\/p>\n yet off the stern ever swell<\/p>\n distance and despair.<\/p>\n Night, which cloaks your soul, In the west the last hopes of day<\/p>\n dim out and disappear.<\/p>\n In vain you trace<\/p>\n on dusk dissolving\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n relentlessly into night<\/p>\n renuniciation of your acts.<\/p>\n Beyond the garden the sea<\/p>\n soughs like a grove in a forest.<\/p>\n The old port lights up afar<\/p>\n twinkling strings of beads.<\/p>\n Hiding over the horizon<\/p>\n the day stands sentinel.<\/p>\n Who knows what its light will bring<\/p>\n or dreams dark now allows.<\/p>\n For if, when lamp turns off<\/p>\n even darker lips slide<\/p>\n across your eyes,<\/p>\n if shadow brings<\/p>\n like a searchlight beam \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n deeper knowledge\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n of loneliness than before,<\/p>\n what hope can dawn hold out?<\/p>\n Can morning keep<\/p>\n within the beacon\u2019s sweeps After barren sleepless nights<\/p>\n why should daybreak bring surcease:<\/p>\n all that locked in nght<\/p>\n emerging gloriously into day.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Moments. In the Manner of Old Chinese Poems<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n I<\/p>\n Dawn frames a landscape<\/p>\n through a window sash. volumes of the room,<\/p>\n soaks up shadows.<\/p>\n Smooth and steady\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n as a potter throwing clay coming shape of day.<\/p>\n This pervading silence Can I have awaited dawn<\/p>\n so long to no avail?<\/p>\n O let there loom<\/p>\n for me a theshold<\/p>\n toward something other.<\/p>\n V<\/p>\n This little booth is round,<\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 <\/span>lit from within,<\/p>\n and surrounding night<\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 <\/span>sticks like soot<\/p>\n smudging its panes.<\/p>\n I wrtie within this booth,<\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 <\/span>a giant lantern<\/p>\n with a smouldering wick.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 <\/span>Penned\u00a0 <\/span>into my dream<\/p>\n I am tucked in by silence.<\/p>\n <\/i> \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n After Jean-Aubert Loranger\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/b><\/p>\n I<\/i><\/p>\n L’aube encadre un paysage La lumi\u00e8re absorbe l’ombre, Le volume de la chambre.<\/i><\/p>\n Je suis au petit d\u00e9but\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n Impr\u00e9cis d’une journ\u00e9e<\/i><\/p>\n Que la pemndule tapote,\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n Doucement, commeune glaise<\/i><\/p>\n Pour lui faire un avenir.<\/i><\/p>\n Le grand silence m’enclot O\u00f9 ma peine doit m\u00fbrir. Il ne se peut pas, que j’aie<\/i><\/p>\n Attendu l’aurore en vain.<\/i><\/p>\n Il faut qu’il ait, pour moi,<\/i><\/p>\n Le commencement, aussi,<\/i><\/p>\n De quelque chose.<\/i><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n V<\/i><\/p>\n Le petit kiosque est rond,<\/i><\/p>\n il est allum\u00e9<\/i><\/p>\n par le milieu, et la nuit<\/i><\/p>\n d’autour colle aux vitres<\/i><\/p>\n comme une noirceur de suie.<\/i><\/p>\n Et j’\u00e9cris dans dans le kiosque,<\/i><\/p>\n lanterne g\u00e9ant<\/i><\/p>\n qui aurait beaucoup fum\u00e9.<\/i><\/p>\n Parqu\u00e9 en mon r\u00eave,<\/i><\/p>\n je suis bord\u00e9 de silence.<\/i><\/p>\n Lament of the Voyageur Jean Cadieux at Calumet Falls, ca. 1709<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n By this boulder near Calumet Falls Frail birds, your sweet melodies Alone through the woods I\u2019d hurried. One day coming back from a jaunt, In an instant I hit the dirt<\/p>\n and crept through the bushes alert. [\u2026.]<\/p>\n Now I expire alone. My knees quake, A wolf sneaks up to my home. A raven comes to perch on my eaves. In the swampy woods he made his redoubt Nightingale, fly to my loyal mate. So now as I give up the ghost After Anonymous (La complainte de Cadieux, Coureur de bois, ca. 1709)<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Petit Rocher de la Haute Montagne, <\/p>\n Peits oiseaux, vos douces harmonies Seul en ces bois, que j\u2019ai eu de soucis, Un de ces jours que, m\u2019\u00e9tat \u00e9loign\u00e9, Je me suis mis un peu \u00e0 l\u2019ambassade, [\u2026.]<\/p>\n Mes genoux plient, ma faible voix s\u2019arr\u00eate. Un loup hurlant vient pr\u00e8s de ma cabane Un noir corbeau, volant \u00e0 l\u2019aventure, Va-t\u2019en l\u00e0 bas, dans ces bois et marais, Rossignolet, va dire \u00e0 ma ma\u00eetresse, C\u2019et donc ici que le mond\u2019 m\u2019abandonne <\/p>\n In the Eyes of a Dumb Beast<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n In the eyes of a dumb beast To fear all creatures respond. After Rainer Maria Rilke\u00a0 (Vergers n\u00b0 54)<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n J\u2019ai vu dans l\u2019\u0153il animal La b\u00eate conna\u00eet la peur ; <\/i>Ha\u00ef-Ka\u00ef<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n No tree says flowers After Rilke<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n C\u2019est pourtant plus lourd de porter des fruits que des fleurs<\/i><\/p>\n Mais ce n\u2019est pas un arbre qui parle <\/p>\n ♋\ufe0e German <\/i><\/b>♋\ufe0e\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Jealous over Pasternak<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n We touch from afar. But how? With airborne Wir r\u00fchren uns, womit? Mit Fl\u00fcgel-Schl\u00e4gen,<\/i> Sweet Song<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n How should I hold my Self so it After Rainier Maria Rilke<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Wie soll ich meine Seele halten, da\u00df<\/i> Afterwards<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Afterwards, I strode alone About that secret hour, Greener, the trees and meadows, After Bertolt Brecht<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Als ich nachher von dir ging Und seit jener Abendstund Gr\u00fcner ist, seit ich so f\u00fchl Everything Blooming<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Everything blooming The tree feels still Flowers think flower. \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n After Jean Gebser<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Alles Bl\u00fchen Still f\u00fchlt der Baum Blume denkt Blume, Underneath<\/i><\/b>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n The sun shone down, falling hot upon her. Flesh exposed upon such expanse of sand. After G\u00fcnter Kunert (Frist)<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Und Sonne war und fiel hei\u00df auf sie nieder<\/i> Ein wenig Fleisch auf soviel Sandgeh\u00e4ufe<\/i> A Lamb of the Lord<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n From now on and forever From now on the whole world After Christine Lavant<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Seit heute, aber f\u00fcr immer, Seit heute ist alles mein Schutzpatron Soft Yellow Buttercup O swelling boughs whose song After Christian Morgenstern<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Butterblumengelbe Wiesen,<\/i> Wohlgesangdurchschwellte B\u00e4ume, Night is the Seamstress of Stars<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Night is the seamstress\u00a0of stars After Hans Dieter Zimmermann<\/i><\/b> (indirectly quoting Martin Heidegger)<\/p>\n Die Nacht ist die N\u00e4herin der Sterne, wie die Kinder sagen; sie f\u00fcgt zusammen ohne Naht und Saum und Zwirn; sie\u00a0ist die N\u00e4herin, weil sie nur mit der N\u00e4he arbeitet.<\/p>\n ♋\ufe0e Italian <\/i><\/b>♋\ufe0e<\/p>\n Blessed Brume<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Blessed brume rises off the ponds. Beloved youth, it is late. Thus alone, I look back on On this lifeless island, After Salvatore Quasimodo \u201cIn luce di cieli\u201d<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Dagli stagni salgono nuvole beate; Cara giovinezza; \u00e8 tardi. Cos\u00ed solo, numeri di perduto bene Nell\u2019isola morta, Dying Ray of Sun<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Each of us stands alone on\u00a0a plot of earth After Salvatore Quasimodo<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terra ♋\ufe0e\u00a0 <\/span>Portuguese <\/i><\/b>♋\ufe0e<\/p>\n Sensei, the Serene<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Sensei,\u00a0the serene After Ricardo Reis (Fernando Pessoa)<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Mestre, s\u00e3o pl\u00e1cidas <\/i>A Shepherd of Thoughts<\/i><\/b><\/i><\/p>\n I am a shepherd of flocks, which are thoughts, After Alberto Caeiro (Fernando Pessoa) The Strangest of All Strangeness<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n The strangest of all strangeness, After Alberto Caeiro (Fernando Pessoa)<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n \u00c9 mais estranho do que todas as estranhezas<\/i> <\/i>♋\ufe0e Swedish <\/i><\/b>♋\ufe0e<\/p>\n Beheld\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/b><\/p>\n It was a funeral. The organ fell silent. Birds sang. I drove home transfixed <\/p>\n From Tomas Transtr\u00f6mer,\u00a0Fr\u00e5n juli 90<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Det var en begravning Orgeln teg, f\u00e5glarna sj\u00f6ng. Tracks<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n 2 am. Moonlight. Train stopped As if someone has sunk so deep into dream Or somewhere someone has slipped so deep The train stands utterly still. From Tomas Transtr\u00f6mer<\/i><\/b>,\u00a0Sp\u00e5r<\/b><\/p>\n P\u00e5 natten klockan tv\u00e5: m\u00e5nsken. T\u00e5get har stannat Som n\u00e4r en m\u00e4nniska g\u00e5tt in i en dr\u00f6m s\u00e5 djupt Och som n\u00e4r n\u00e5gon g\u00e5tt in i en sjukdom s\u00e5 djupt T\u00e5get st\u00e5r fullkomligt stilla, Notes<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n Gabriel Ferrater<\/b> was a\u00a0 <\/span>major Catalan poet amd scholar. He committed suicide in 1972.\u00a0 <\/span>I have a second degree relationship with him, since his brother, Juan Ferrat\u00e9, was my Doktorvater<\/i>.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Henrik Nordbrand<\/b> spent much of his life outside of Denmark, notoriously complaining that the weather there had sixteen months: “November, December, January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, November, November, November.”.<\/p>\n Anne H\u00e9bert<\/b>. Published in Ellipse<\/i> 50 (1993), pp. 36-37, where I noted, “However elemental and starkly beautiful it may be, political allegory is easily read into H\u00e9bert’s poem, though the poet herself has criticized this proclivity among Qu\u00e9bec critics. I did try to keep the Promethean oveetones of \u00c9trange capture<\/i> alive, but I know that some readers will insist that a people is not a horde.”<\/p>\n Albert Lozeau<\/b>. \u00c9mile Nelligan is usually taken to be Qu\u00e9bec’s Rimbaud, but Lozeau, who suffered from Pott’s Diseae, also deserves the epithet po\u00e8te maudit<\/i>. From Ellipse<\/i> 38 (1987), pp 32-37.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/i><\/p>\n Jean-Aubert Loranger<\/b>. II had forgotten these old translations, which I only recently ran across again. I was struck by how both in terms of content and in wording my own poems have been subconciously modeled on Loranger’s work.. Originally published in Ellipse<\/i> 20 (1977), pp\u00a0 <\/span>22-29<\/p>\n Anonymous. <\/b>I have drawn the source text from Sister Jeanne d\u2019Arc Lortie\u2019s Les Textes po\u00e9tiques du Canada fran\u00e7ais<\/i>, which suggests much of it stems from Fran\u00e7ois Villon\u2019s Ballade des pendus<\/i><\/a>, further evidence that this was not composed by the voyageur Cadieux himself, rather by someone with literary tastes. Ellipse<\/i> 40 (1988), pp 24-27. For the song itself, see https:\/\/thecanadianencyclopedia.ca\/en\/article\/petit-rocher-de-la-haute-montagne-emc<\/a>. \u00a0 \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Rainer Maria Rilke<\/b> as a French poet? In Ellipse<\/i> 50 (2001, pp 82-93). with which journal I had collaborated since 1976, I made the following observation: “Alas, neither in Canada nor in Qu\u00e9bec have there been many poets who produced an interesting body of work in two languages, at least not to my taste. So to help close this chapter of Ellipse<\/i> (the final North Hatley\/Shebrooke issue) let me adduce two poems, composed directly in French by Rilke himself. Those who know his poetry in German, especially the Duino Elegies<\/i>, will recognize a strangely familiar voice.” The poem to Marina Tsvetaeva is his dedication of a copy of the Duino Elegies<\/i> to her. Correspondance \u00e0 trois: Rilke, Pasterak, Tsvetaeva\u00a0<\/span><\/i> (Gallimard 1983), p 9.<\/p>\n Bertolt Brecht<\/b>\u00a0<\/span> is usually thought of as an archetyical proletarian writer. Here he reveals a tender side.<\/p>\n Jean Gebser<\/b> was a German-born philosopher who fed to Switzerland amid the carnage of WW2. Lama Anagarika Govinda<\/a> described him as \u201cone of the most creative and stimulating thinkers of modern Europe\u201d.<\/p>\n G\u00fcnter Kuner<\/b>t was expelled from the DDR in 1979 after protesting the loss of citizenship of Wolf Biermann.<\/p>\n Christine Lavant<\/b> was an Austrian poet whose life was a vale of tears. Fortunately for us, she discovered poetry after a mentor passed her a volume of Rilke. Christian mystics are these days few and far between. In her poetry it appears she was one.<\/p>\n
\na wispy, intangible presence residing in another world
\nyou can never\u00a0touch without crossing over to it.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n
\nGerman, Italian, Portuguese and Swedish\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
\n<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n
\nDistraught Dream, Henrik Nordbrandt
\nNot Nonsense Verse, But Verse about Nonsense, Henrik Nordbrandt
\n<\/span>Real Danish Summer, Henrik Nordbrandt
\nHeadstone, Ivan Goll
\nStrange Seizure, Anne H\u00e9bert
\nMaple Leaf, Albert Lozeau
\nAzure, Albert Lozeau
\nOde, Jean-Aubert Loranger
\nMoments, Jean-Aubert Loranger
\nCadieux’s Lament at Calumet Falls, Anonymous
\nIn the Eyes of a Dumb Beast, Rainer Maria Rilke
\nHa\u00ef Ka\u00ef, Rainer Maria Rilke
\nJealous over Pasternak, Rainer Maria Rilke
\nSweet Song, Rainer Maria Rilke
\n<\/span>Afterwards, Bertolt Brecht
\nEverything Blooming, Jean Gebser
\nUnderneath, G\u00fcnter Kunert
\nA Lamb of the Lord, Christine Lavant
\nSoft Yellow Buttercup, Christian Morgenstern
\nNight Is the Seamstress of Stars, Hans Dieter Zimmermann
\nBlessed Bruce, Salvatore Quasimodo
\nDying Ray of Sun, Salvatore Quasimodo
\n<\/span>Sensei, the Serene, Fernando Pessoa
\nA Shepherd of Thoughts, Fernando Pessoa
\nStrangest of All Strangeness, Fernando Pessoa
\nBeheld, Tomas Transtr\u00f6mer
\n<\/span>Tracks, Tomas Transtr\u00f6mer<\/p>\n
\na window which gave to a grove
\nof olives (two bare seeds
\nwithin a fruit summer burst open,
\ninfused with heat), we had no
\nmemories. We were the memory
\nwe now have. We were icons
\nof ourselves to be revered
\nby true believers of afterwards.<\/p>\n
\nabra\u00e7ats davant la finestra
\noberta al pend\u00eds d\u2019oliveres (dues
\nllavors nues dins un fruit que l\u2019estiu
\nha badat violent, i que s\u2019omple
\nd\u2019aire) no ten\u00edem records. \u00c9rem
\nel record que tenim ara. \u00c9rem
\naquesta imatge. Els \u00eddols de nosaltres,
\nper la submisa fe de despr\u00e9s.<\/i><\/p>\n
\nspilled down the mountain slopes
\nto my love
\nand her lover\u2019s
\nwinter lair.<\/p>\n
\nmy steps as I stumbled
\non without direction.<\/p>\n
\nhave I come as since childhood,<\/p>\n
\nsomewhere between me now
\nand those gray shafts on the opposite shore.<\/p>\n
\n\u2013 what remains of being.)<\/p>\n
\nog lagde bjergsiden ned
\ntil et vinterleje
\nfor min elskede
\nog hendes elsker.<\/p>\n
\nmen mine skridt
\nhavde ingen retning.<\/p>\n
\nsom jeg var kommet fra min barndom.<\/p>\n
\net sted mellem mig og de gr\u00e5 pile
\np\u00e5 den modsatte bred.<\/p>\n
\nmen resten af verden.<\/p>\n
\nNot Nonsense Verse But Verse about Nonsense.
\n<\/i><\/b>
\nDanishness is beautiful
\n& so much fun.<\/p>\n
\nDanishness is all the more fun.<\/p>\n
\nwhich is serious
\nin a\u00a0typical Danish way<\/p>\n
\nare themselves typical.<\/p>\n
\nis the height of\u00a0typicality.<\/p>\n
\nat den er s\u00e5 sjov.<\/p>\n
\nDen er s\u00e5 alvorlig
\np\u00e5 den typisk danske m\u00e5de
\nder g\u00f8r den s\u00e5 typisk alvorlig<\/p>\n
\ner typisk nok hver for sig<\/p>\n
\ner det mest typiske af alt.<\/p>\n
\nis about, since whatever surrounds us should fit
\ninto not thirteen or fifteen but fourteen lines,
\neverything in its proper place, form and content fused,<\/p>\n
\nitself at one with Danishness. Well and perfectly true,
\nexcept this poem wouldn\u2019t be itself if it didn\u2019t
\npoint out that nothing can be one with anything else.
\nThere must be spaces between. Still Danish summer
\nis when and where I could best do without myself.
\nI would have let nature speak in simile\u00a0on my behalf<\/p>\n
\nThere is a tall, red chimney, the crematorium\u2019s.
\nWhat solace to be at long last free of oneself!<\/p>\n
\nFor det m\u00e5 da v\u00e6re rigtigt at det, som omgiver en, ikke skal siges
\ni tretten eller femten linier, men i fjorten: S\u00e5dan vil jeg mene
\nalting kommer p\u00e5 sin plads, s\u00e5 form og indhold bliver \u00e9t
\ns\u00e5dan som jeg selv er \u00e9t med sommeren
\nsom er \u00e9t med danskheden
\nder er det helt rigtige: Men det ville ikke v\u00e6re dette digt
\nhvis det ikke p\u00e5pegede, at ingen kan v\u00e6re \u00e9t med noget andet.
\nPlads skal der v\u00e6re: En rigtig dansk sommer
\ner nok der hvor jeg bedst kunne undv\u00e6re mig selv.
\nOg jeg lod gerne naturen tale p\u00e5 mine vegne, om ikke det vulg\u00e6re
\ngr\u00f8nne havde gjort det for pinligt:
\nMidt i det st\u00e5r en h\u00f8j r\u00f8d skorsten: Den h\u00f8rer til krematoriet.
\nHvilken tr\u00f8st langt om l\u00e6nge at blive fri for sig selv!<\/p>\n
\nthe lips of waves spew onto a beach.
\nBorn under no star into moonless gloom,
\nmy name was but a sputter, a screech.<\/p>\n
\n<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n
\nAux l\u00e8vres de la vague sur le sable
\nN\u00e9 sous aucune \u00e9toile un soir sans lune
\nMon nom ne fut qu\u2019un sanglot p\u00e9rissable.<\/i><\/p>\n
\nfields of snow were set
\nas far as the eye could see.<\/p>\n
\nblocks of indigo ice dislodged
\npristine millennia of snow upturned
\nto arrange the end of the world.<\/p>\n
\nbeneath the snow-bound brink
\nat the quick of the Arctic rim
\nthe sun was captured and cast
\ninto limpid glacial freeze.<\/p>\n
\nthrobbed in that gel
\nlike a magnificent moon
\nin a pitch-black sky
\nemitting eerie frigid rays
\nwhile frozen hordes implored
\nthe inhuman saffron orb
\nforthwith to quit the globe.<\/p>\n
\nOn a remu\u00e9 le champ de neige
\n\u00c0 parte de vue, d\u00e9sirant prendre au pi\u00e8ge le soleil.<\/p>\n
\nRoul\u00e9 des blocs de glace indigo
\nBrass\u00e9 des mill\u00e9naires de neige vierge
\nTout un appareillage de fin du monde.<\/p>\n
\nAvant qu\u2019il ne bascule
\nDerri\u00e8re l\u2019horizon neigeux
\nLe soleil fut appr\u00e9hend\u00e9
\nAu plus vif du cercle polaire
\nMis en cage dans un glacier transparent.<\/p>\n
\nBattre \u00e0 travers le gel
\n\u00c9mettre d\u2019\u00e9trange rayons froids
\nComme une lune mal\u00e9fique
\nDans la nuit noire
\nTandis que tout un peuple transi
\nSuppliait l\u2019inhumaine boule safran
\nDe quitter tout-le-champ la carte du monde.<\/p>\n
\nOne that I know stands not quite alone<\/p>\n
\na footpath running beside an ancient oak.<\/p>\n
\nto the fresh sound of water burbling below.<\/p>\n
\nthrough which a beam pierces, igniting a flame<\/p>\n
\nfrom the dying fires of the crimson sun.<\/p>\n
\nthere is one which flashes bright blood-red.<\/p>\n
\nambient shadows shading to rose.<\/p>\n
\nspills trickles of silver into vast, pure night,<\/p>\n
\nafter setting sun, night autumnal.<\/p>\n
\nEt j’en sais un, l\u00e0-bas, dont tous les rameaux saignent !<\/p>\n
\nSur le bord d’un chemin sombre et silencieux.<\/p>\n
\nDe sa large ramure au bruit frais d’eau qui coule.<\/p>\n
\nLe rayon qui p\u00e9n\u00e8tre allume un flamboiement !<\/p>\n
\nA tremp\u00e9 dans les feux mourants du soleil rouge !<\/p>\n
\nPar instant, il \u00e9chappe une feuille de sang.<\/p>\n
\nL’ombre qui l’enveloppe en devient toute rose !<\/p>\n
\nDans la nuit vaste et pure y verse une eau d’argent.<\/p>\n
\nSous le soleil penchant ou la nuit automnale !<\/p>\n
\nO sky devoid of trace of cloud,
\npleasure unutterable, unavowed,
\nas azure beams converge in my sight.<\/p>\n
\na freshet rising up to the brim.
\nImmensity, without boundary or rim,
\nfloods my humble soul, bearing\u00a0it pride,<\/p>\n
\na space made mine through contemplation,
\nwho am a mere atom in vacuous space.<\/p>\n
\nrolls on and spills into inner infinity,
\nas, dazzled, I watch myself evanesce.<\/p>\n
\nBeau ciel o\u00f9 pas un seul nuage n\u2019appara\u00eet,
\nEt j\u2019\u00e9prouve un plaisir indicible et secret
\n\u00c0 sentir converger l\u2019azur sous ma paupi\u00e8re.\u00a0<\/i><\/p>\n
\nQui, sans me d\u00e9border, toujours s\u2019\u00e9largirait,
\nEt l\u2019immense infini que rien ne contiendrait,
\nVague \u00e0 vague, s\u2019\u00e9tale en mon \u00e2me humble et fi\u00e8re.\u00a0<\/i><\/p>\n
\nJe l\u2019ai bu du regard de moment en moment,
\nEt pourtant je ne suis qu\u2019un atome en l\u2019espace.
\n<\/i><\/p>\n
\nRoule comme un profond torrent d\u2019\u00e9ternit\u00e9,
\nDans lequel, \u00e9bloui, je me mire et je passe!<\/i>Ode\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/b><\/p>\n
\nwipes from the slate of blue,
\n\u00a0<\/span>a vaulting cloud aloft,
\nits clouds washing down to sea,<\/p>\n
\nMuch more thna space, silence
\nweighs heavy on the horizzon.<\/p>\n
\nInconsolate, you always<\/p>\n
\nslowly slips across the sky.<\/p>\n
\nsome hint of beams etched
\nforever into blue?<\/p>\n
\nLight dissolves the solid<\/p>\n
\nthe pemdulum taps out
\nthe still nebulous<\/p>\n
\nis a hot-house in which
\nmy woe will ripen.<\/p>\n
\nAu ch\u00e2ssis de la fen\u00eatre.<\/i><\/p>\n
\nElle d\u00e9solidifie\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n
\nComme une serre chaude<\/i><\/p>\n
\n<\/i><\/p>\n
\nI languish alone as Death calls.
\nDear Echos, but you hear my sigh
\non this last portage I ply.<\/p>\n
\nare music at my obsequies.
\nHad I wings like yours I would fly,
\nnot in my grave putrefy.<\/p>\n
\nFor the fate of my friends I\u2019d worried.
\nHad they drowned in the chute?
\nDid the Iroquois catch them on route?<\/p>\n
\nI saw smoke coming up from my haunt.
\nMy first thought: something\u2019s amock.
\nOnce again the Iroquois\u2019ve struck.<\/p>\n
\nBut the faces I spied at my hearth
\nwere French. Joy flooded my heart.<\/p>\n
\nmy voice falters. My friends break
\ncamp, while that great Voyageur,
\nDeath, stays on for my massacre.<\/p>\n
\nThe jerky he scents is my own.
\nScat from here, beast, away by God,
\nelse your hide feel the blast of a wad.<\/p>\n
\nHe preys on whatever grieves.
\nCarnivore, I cry, though I lie supine,
\nthere is much better meat than mine.<\/p>\n
\nthere lies at least one Iroquois scout
\nwith much more succulent flesh and bone.
\nMy stinking cadaver, pray\u00a0leave it alone.<\/p>\n
\nLet her break to the children my fate.
\nThey have my love. I\u2019ve kept my faith.
\nForget poor Jean, this wraith.<\/p>\n
\nI count on the Saviour uttermost.
\nO Holy Virgin, I implore your charms.q
\nAllow that I die in Your arms.<\/p>\n
\nJe viens finir ici cette campagne!
\nAh! doux \u00e9chos, entendez mes soupirs,
\nEn languissant je vais bient\u00f4t mourir.<\/p>\n
\nQuand vous chantez, me rattach\u2019 \u00e0 la vie :
\nAh! si j\u2019avais des ailes comme vous,
\nJe s\u2019rais heureux avant qu\u2019il ne fut deux jours!<\/p>\n
\nPensant toujours \u00e0 mes si chers amis.
\nJe demandais : H\u00e9las! sont-ils noy\u00e9s ?
\nLes Iroquois les auraient-ils tu\u00e9s ?<\/p>\n
\nEn revenant je vis une fum\u00e9e.
\nJe me suis dit : Ah! Grand Dieu qu\u2019est ceci ?
\nLes Iroquois m\u2019ont-il pris mon logis ?<\/p>\n
\nAfin de voir si c\u2019\u00e9tait embuscade.
\nAlors je vis trois visages fran\u00e7ais,
\nM\u2019ont mis le coeur d\u2019une trop grande joie !<\/p>\n
\nJe tombe \u2026 H\u00e9las, \u00e0 partir qu\u2019il s\u2019appr\u00eatent :
\nJe reste seul \u2026 Pas un qui me console,
\nQuand la mort vient par un si grand d\u00e9sole !<\/p>\n
\nVoir si mon feu n\u2019avait plus de boucane.
\nJe lui ai dit : Retire-toi d\u2019ici,
\nCar, par ma foi, je perc\u2019rai ton habit !<\/p>\n
\nVient de percher tout pr\u00e8s de ma toiture.
\nJe lui ai dit : Mangeur de chair humaine,
\nVa-t\u2019en chercher autre viande que mienne.<\/p>\n
\nTu trouveras plusieurs corps iroquois.
\nTu trouveras des chair, aussi des os.
\nVa-t\u2019en plus loin, laisse-moi en repos !<\/p>\n
\n\u00c0 mes enfants qu\u2019un adieu je leur laisse,
\nQue j\u2019ai garde mon amour et ma foi,
\nEt d\u00e9sormais faut renoncer \u00e0 moi !<\/p>\n
\nMais j\u2019ai secours en vous Sauveur des hommes !
\nTr\u00e8s Sainte Vierge, ah! m\u2019abandonnez pas.
\nPermettez-moi d\u2019mourir entre vos bras !<\/p>\n
\nI glimpsed deep peace
\nnature\u2019s impartial feast
\noffered without surcease.<\/p>\n
\nYet animals know how
\non the hunt to browse
\non the here and now
\nwhich tastes of nothing beyond.<\/p>\n
\nla vie paisible qui dure,
\nle calme impartial
\nde l\u2019imperturbable nature.<\/i><\/p>\n
\nmais aussit\u00f4t elle avance
\net sur son champ d\u2019abondance
\nbroute une pr\u00e9sence,
\nqui n\u2019a pas le go\u00fbt d\u2019ailleurs.<\/i><\/p>\n
\nare lighter to bear than fruit
\n\u2014only a lover.<\/p>\n
\n\u2014c\u2019est un amoureux.<\/i><\/p>\n
\nbrushes our beating wings stir each other.
\nA poet lives alone. Sometimes there comes another
\nwho also bears that which he has borne.<\/p>\n
\nAfter Rainer Maria Rilke<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n
\n<\/i>mit Fernen selber r\u00fchren wir uns an.<\/i>
\n<\/i>Ein Dichter einzig lebt, und dann und wann<\/i>
\n<\/i>kommt, der ihm tr\u00e4gt, dem, der ihn trug, entgegen.<\/i><\/p>\n
\nnot brush against yours? How should
\nI lift myself over you on to other things?
\nIf only I could press myself down
\ninto some lost dark place,
\na strange, still abode where
\nyour own depths do not resound.
\nEverything that touches us, you and me,
\ndraws us together like the stroke of a bow
\nwhich makes two strings sing one voice.
\nWhat instrument are we strung upon?
\nWho holds it in his hands?
\nSuch sweet song!<\/p>\n
\n<\/i>sie nicht an deine r\u00fchrt?\u00a0\u00a0Wie soll ich sie<\/i>
\n<\/i>hinheben \u00fcber dich zu andren Dingen?<\/i>
\n<\/i>Ach gerne m\u00f6cht ich sie bei irgendwas<\/i>
\n<\/i>Verlorenem im Dunkel unterbringen,<\/i>
\n<\/i>an einer fremden stillen Stelle, die<\/i>
\n<\/i>nicht weiterschwingt, wenn deine Tiefen schwingen.<\/i>
\n<\/i>Doch alles, was uns anr\u00fchrt, dich und mich,<\/i>
\n<\/i>nimmt uns zusammen wie ein Bogenstrich,<\/i>
\n<\/i>der aux zwei Saiten\u00a0eine\u00a0Stimme zieht.<\/i>
\n<\/i>Auf welches Intrument sind wir gespannt?<\/i>
\n<\/i>Und welcher Geiger hat uns in der Hand?<\/i>
\n<\/i>O s\u00fc\u00dfes Lied<\/i><\/i><\/p>\n
\ninto the full light of day
\nand saw, with eyes of my own,
\nthe sheer joy of those at play.<\/p>\n
\nknow only that within
\nI feel a new-born power,
\nbeauty in lip and limb.<\/p>\n
\nmore fragrant the flower,
\nfresher the water which flows
\ndown my skin as I shower.<\/p>\n
\nAn dem gro\u00dfen Heute
\nSah ich, als ich sehn anfing
\nLauter lustige Leute.
\n<\/i><\/p>\n
\nWei\u00dft schon, die ich meine
\nHab ich einen sch\u00f6nern Mund.
\nUnd geschicktere Beine.
\n<\/i><\/p>\n
\nBaum und Strauch und Wiese
\nUnd das Wasser sch\u00f6ner k\u00fchl
\nWenn ich\u2019s auf mich gie\u00dfe.<\/i><\/i><\/p>\n
\nis destined to die.
\nWho sees it coming
\nknows that it\u2019s nigh.<\/p>\n
\nin the breezy air.
\nWe rarely conceive
\nwho we actually are.<\/p>\n
\ncreatures, creature.
\nA clod in the fields
\nshould be our teacher.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
\nmeint schon den Tod.
\nNur die sich m\u00fchen,
\nsind wirklich bedroht.<\/p>\n
\nden zitternden Wind.
\nWir denken kaum
\nwas wir eigentlich sind.<\/p>\n
\nund Tier denkt Tier.
\nDes Ackers Krume
\nist gewisser als wir.<\/p>\n
\nOn me too it fell, who lay beside her.
\nWaves broke, crept up to where we were,
\naroused by our naked splendor.<\/p>\n
\nA moment seized from what is endless.
\nTwo threads crossing upon a single strand.
\nThe sun above. Underneath, but darkness.<\/i><\/p>\n
\n<\/i>Und fiel auf mich der ich doch bei ihr war.<\/i>
\n<\/i>Die Wellen gingen fort und kamen immer wieder<\/i>
\n<\/i>Zur\u00fcck voll Neugier zu dem nackten Paar.<\/i><\/p>\n
\n<\/i>Ein wenig Frist in ziemlich viel Unendlichkeit<\/i>
\n<\/i>Ein wenig Leben und zwei Lebensl\u00e4ufe<\/i>
\n<\/i>Dar\u00fcber Sonne und darunter Dunkelheit.\u00a0<\/i><\/p>\n
\nI know Earth is truly warm.
\nI give fire back to the nettle,
\nto the hedgehog his thorn.<\/p>\n
\nis my protector, a\u00a0pasture
\nwhere breezes cradle, lull us,
\nweave our breath\u2019s texture.<\/p>\n
\nwei\u00df ich: Die Erde ist wirklich warm-;
\nich gebe der Nessel den Brand zur\u00fcck
\nund dem Igel die Stacheln.<\/p>\n
\nund die ganze Welt eine Weidenwiege,
\ndarin uns der Windsto\u00df zusammenschaukelt
\nund unsren Atem verknotet.<\/p>\n
\n<\/i><\/b>
\n<\/b>O soft yellow buttercup field
\ntinged green with red sorrel leaf,
\nnot even your copious yield
\naffords full-blown relief.<\/p>\n
\nblossoms like snow in the Spring,
\nour hearts, alas, are strung along
\nby dreams of you\u00a0to which we cling.<\/p>\n
\n<\/i>sauerampferrot get\u00f6nt,<\/i>
\n<\/i>\u2013\u00a0O du \u00fcberreiches Sprie\u00dfen,<\/i>
\n<\/i>wie das Aug dich nie gew\u00f6hnt!<\/i><\/p>\n
\n<\/i>wunderbl\u00fctenschneebereift \u2013<\/i>
\n<\/i>ja, f\u00fcrwahr, ihr zeigt uns Tr\u00e4ume,<\/i>
\n<\/i>wie die Brust sie kaum begreift.<\/i><\/p>\n
\nwhose sparkles she sews together
\nwithout thread or needle or knot
\nin a glittering stichless seam
\ntucking us in nearer to space.<\/p>\n
\nSo too will the air on fire close
\nin on the unmoving heart.<\/p>\n
\nI still cherish all things on earth
\nunder the skies\u2019 light
\nin the shadow of the wind,
\nthe aura and every\u00a0aspect of
\nshe who came to me not long ago,
\nwhose smile mirrors mine yet who
\ntook unripened vigor for love.<\/p>\n
\nthat lost bounty, whole days,
\nthe water of grasses and woods
\nsplendid in distant breeze.<\/p>\n
\nabandonned by every heart
\nwhich once heard\u00a0my voice,
\nI now remain immured.<\/p>\n
\nfinir\u00e0 anche il fuoco dell\u2019aria
\nnel fermo cuore.<\/p>\n
\nMa posso amare tutto della terra
\nin luce di cieli in tenebra di vento;
\ne, su ogni parvenza, la donna
\nche mi venne non \u00e8 gran tempo,
\nal cui riso mi speccio,
\nche amore chiamava, sua verde salute.<\/p>\n
\nmi narravo, e giorni,
\ne, splendenti in remote aure,
\nacque di selve ed erbe.<\/p>\n
\nlasciato da ogni cuore
\nche udiva la mia voce,
\nposso restare murato.<\/p>\n
\ncaught in\u00a0a dying ray\u00a0of sun: \u00ad
\ntill day is suddenly done.<\/p>\n
\ntraffito da un raggio di sole:
\ned \u00e8 subito sera.<\/i><\/p>\n
\nhours\u00a0we spend\u00a0are
\nnot\u00a0lost\u00a0if\u00a0we lose\u00a0them
\nlike\u00a0we\u00a0lose\u00a0the flowers
\nwe choose and cut
\nto\u00a0put\u00a0in a\u00a0vase.<\/p>\n
\nTodas as horas
\nQue n\u00f3s perdemos,
\nSe no perd\u00ea-las,
\nQual numa jarra,
\nN\u00f3s pomos flores.<\/p>\n
\nthemselves sensations. I think with sights
\nand sounds, hands and feet, nose, palate.
\nThinking of a flower is to see and smell it.
\nTo eat a piece of fruit is to learn its meaning.
\nWhich is why, sweltering in the heat of midday,
\nso fully tasting fleeting things makes me sad.
\nI stretch out tired on the grass, shut
\nmy burning eyes, my body weighing down on
\nwhat is there. I know some truth. I\u2019m happy.<\/p>\n
\n<\/i><\/b>
\nSou um guardador de rebanhos.
\nO rebanho \u00e9 os meus pensamentos
\nE os meus pensamentos s\u00e3o todos sensa\u00e7\u00f5es.
\nPenso com os olhos e com os ouvidos
\nE com as m\u00e3os e os p\u00e9s
\nE com o nariz e a boca.<\/i>
\n<\/i>Pensar numa flor \u00e9 v\u00ea-la e cheir\u00e1-la
\nE comer um fruto \u00e9 saber-lhe o sentido.<\/i>
\n<\/i>Por isso quando num dia de calor
\nMe sinto triste de goz\u00e1-lo tanto,<\/i>
\n<\/i>E me deito ao comprido na erva,<\/i>
\n<\/i>E fecho os olhos quentes,<\/i>
\n<\/i>Sinto todo o meu corpo deitado na realidade,<\/i>
\n<\/i>Sei da verdade e sou feliz.<\/i><\/p>\n
\nmore then dreamed by any poet,
\nby any thinker thought up,
\nis that things are just what they seem.
\nNothing to understand about them.<\/p>\n
\n<\/i>E do que os sonhos de todos os poetas<\/i>
\n<\/i>E os pensamentos de todos os fil\u00f3sofos,<\/i>
\n<\/i>Que as cousas sejam realmente o que parecem ser<\/i>
\n<\/i>E n\u00e3o haja nada que compreender.<\/i><\/p>\n
\nI sensed the deceased
\nread my thoughts
\nbetter than myself.<\/p>\n
\nA grave open to the sun.
\nMy friend\u2019s voice rang as far
\nas the minutes\u2019 darkside.<\/p>\n
\nby the glare of summer day,
\nby rain and stillness,
\ntransfixed by the moon.<\/p>\n
\noch jag k\u00e4nde att den d\u00f6de
\nl\u00e4ste mina tankar
\nb\u00e4ttre \u00e4n jag sj\u00e4lv.\u00a0<\/i><\/p>\n
\nGropen ute i solgasset.
\nMin v\u00e4ns r\u00f6st h\u00f6ll till
\np\u00e5 minuternas baksida.\u00a0<\/i><\/p>\n
\nJag k\u00f6rde hem genomsk\u00e5dad
\nav sommardagens glans
\nav regn och stillhet
\ngenomsk\u00e5dad av m\u00e5nen.<\/i><\/p>\n
\nin the middle of a field, cold city lights
\nflickering on the far brink of sight.<\/p>\n
\nshe\u2019ll never remember she was there
\nonce she gets back to her room.<\/p>\n
\ninto sickness that his days all become a flickering
\nswarm of points scattered thin on the brink of sight.<\/p>\n
\n2 am. Stark moonlight. Few stars.<\/p>\n
\nmitt ute p\u00e5 sl\u00e4tten. L\u00e5ngt borta ljuspunkter i en stad,
\nflimrande kallt vid synranden.<\/p>\n
\natt hon aldrig ska minnas att hon var d\u00e4r
\nn\u00e4r hon \u00e5terv\u00e4nder till sitt rum.<\/p>\n
\natt allt som var hans dagar blir n\u00e5gra flimrande punkter,
\nen sv\u00e4rm, kall och ringa vid synranden.<\/p>\n
\nKlockan tv\u00e5: starkt m\u00e5nsken, f\u00e5 stj\u00e4rnor.<\/p>\n