C.O. Jellema: 'Notitie bij een Friese kerkmuur'

 

Notitie bij een Friese kerkmuur

 

Toen in de Eifel vulkanen uitdoofden,

hun kraters zich vulden met water,

tot tufsteen de lava verhardde,

Batavieren ons land binnenkwamen,

voor handel bevaarbaar de grote rivieren,

hier aan de kust in hutten gewoond werd

van vlechtwerk en leem, een godshuis

voor eeuwig echter gemetseld

om uitzicht op hemel wou zijn en

zeewind en regen geduldig de bouwsteen

uitsleten, blootlegden splinters

basalt, kwartsiet, van het slijkgas

de holten – toen

 

vond er een plek voor haar nest die

muurbij, wier goudzwart schildje,

kijk, ze vliegt op,

in het zonlicht

nu vonkt.

 

 

Note on a Frisian church wall

 

When in the Eifel volcanoes became extinct,

their craters filled up with water,

the lava hardened into tuff,

Batavians arrived in our country,

the large rivers navigable for trade,

on the coast here dwellings of wattle

and daub were lived in, a house of god

though raised in stone and mortar

to grant a lasting view of the heavens and

sea wind and rain patiently eroded

the stones, exposed splinters of

basalt and quartz, the holes of

the sludge gas – then

 

was a spot for her nest found by the

mason bee, whose gold-black scutellum,

look, up she flies

into the sunlight

now glints.

Notat ved en frisisk kirkemur

 

Da vulkanerne slukkede i Eifel,

deres kratere fyldtes med vand,

lavaen størknede til tuf,

Bataverne trængte ind i vores land,

de store floder blev sejlbare for handel,

her ved kusten blev det boet i hytter

af lerklining, et gudshus,

lavet for evigt af murværk, ville

være med om en himmeludsigt og

havsvind og regn tålmodigt nedbrød

murstenene, blottede fliser af

basalt, kvarts, hulerne fra

slamgas – da

 

fandt plads for dens bo denne

murerbi, hvis guldsorte lille skjold

– kig, den flyver op –

nu glimter

i sollyset.

 

 

ZKV 114: The quick and the dead

 

ZKV 114

 

Et iterum venturus est cum gloria,
iudicare vivos et mortuos

(Nicene Creed)

 

 

A striking difference between English and other Germanic languages is that if you use an adjective as a noun about people, it nearly always can only refer to more that one person, e.g. the rich, poor, elderly, unemployed, injured, young, homeless, wounded, mentally ill, etc. 

In a few cases – the accused for one person in court, the deceased is a legal term for a person who is dead – it is also possible to use such words for one person only. Germanic languages can use for both singular and plural, and they distinguish grammatically, e.g. den døde/de døde; der Tote/die Toten (the dead person/dead people). Handy.

 

What about the quick and the dead? Here something else is at work too. The original meaning of quick is not fast. It exists in such phrases as That hurt me to the quick. The quick of one’s nails (the sensitive, living tissue beneath the nail plate). Here’s the etymology:

 

quick (adj.)

English quik, from Old English cwic "living, alive, animate, characterised by the presence of life" (now archaic), and figuratively, of mental qualities, "rapid, ready," from Proto-Germanic *kwikwaz (source also of Old Saxon and Old Frisian quik, Old Norse kvikr "living, alive," Dutch kwik "lively, bright, sprightly," Old High German quec "lively," German keck "bold"), from PIE root *gwei- "to live." Sense of "lively, active, swift, speedy, hasty," developed by c. 1300, on notion of "full of life."

 

So when the Danish poet Klaus Høeck calls his latest collection  AND THE DEAD, bells ring for the English reader:

 

From thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead.

(Book of Common Prayer, 1662)

 

Høeck has written many collections of poetry about the quick and the dead, but here there is an extra poignancy because those featured are no longer here amongst the living. They live on within the minds of those who remember them. And, as in life, they quicken our hearts and minds.

Sigfred Pedersen: 'Den gamle skærslippers forårssang'

 

DEN GAMLE SKÆRSLIPPERS FORÅRSSANG

 

Nu lokker atter de lange veje,

og jeg har flikket de gamle sko.

Og jeg har skåret en grøn skalmeje

bag piledammen ved Holstebro.

Jeg går fra Skagen med kurs mod Fakse,

og glemt er vinterens sult og nød.

Jeg sliber knive, jeg sliber sakse,

jeg sliber solskin og dagligt brød.

 

Hvor er min ungdom? Jeg ved det næppe.

Hvor var den skøn. Jeg var fri og løs. 

Jeg sov i vejgrøftens blomstertæppe, 

jeg sov hos landsbyens bedste tøs.

Med hende var det en fryd at bakse,

thi vårens duft var i hendes skød.

Jeg sleb kun knive, jeg sleb kun sakse

men sleb dog solskin og dagligt brød.

 

Jeg var jo bare en skør skærslipper

foruden hjem og foruden ro.

Jeg var kun rakker og hundeklipper,

og bonden stænged for mig sin lo.

Han var så selvsikker, thi hans akse

var plantet støt i et stort fad grød.

Jeg sleb kun knive, jeg sleb kun sakse

men sleb dog solskin og dagligt brød.

 

Dengang var brændevin hvermands eje,

thi den var billig, og den var ram.

Men malurt dufted langs alle veje

og gav kulør til en fuseldram.

Å soldebrødre, å lurifakse,

I drak jer tumbet fra vid og sans,

men jeg sleb knive, og jeg sleb sakse

og plukked malurt omkring sankthans.

 

Den, der har pligter, kan sagtens dømme

en pjalt, som ikke betaler skat.

Men jeg er digter, og jeg må drømme,

thi jeg er et med den lyse nat.

De digtere er så mange slagse,

og selv blandt dem er jeg kun en fant,

der sliber knive og sliber sakse

og takker rørt for en kobberslant.

 

Hvor er I nu, alle I jeg kendte,

hver buttet pige, hver kammesjuk?

Hver anden af jer på Sundholm endte.

Hver anden kvaltes i flaskens kluk.

Men jeg er stadig iblandt de vakse!

Mit hår er hvidt, men min tud er rød! 

Jeg sliber knive, jeg sliber sakse,

jeg sliber solskin og dagligt brød.

 

Og endnu venter de lange veje

med morgenkulde, med middagsglød.

Min slibesten kan jeg fortsat dreje

og holde næsen forsvarligt rød.

Jeg går fra Skagen med kurs mod Fakse’

og glemt er vinterens sult og nød.

jeg sliber knive, jeg sliber sakse,

jeg sliber solskin og dagligt brød.

To listen to the song in Danish, go to here.

 

 

SPRING SONG OF THE OLD KNIFE GRINDER

 

The open road yet again is calling,

and now my shoes I’ve made good as new.

A willow flute I have trimmed this morning

from by the pond close to Holstebro.

I start from Skagen and make for Fakse,

with winter’s trials no more in my head.

I sharpen scissors and knives in batches,

And I grind sunshine and daily bread.

 

Where has my youth gone? I ought to thank it.

How fine it was. I was fancy free.

I slept in ditches with flowers my blanket,

The village beauty slept next to me.

To grapple with her was joy quite matchless,

in her lap’s spring scent I laid my head

I sharpened scissors and knives in batches,

though too ground sunshine and daily bread.

 

I was a knife grinder, seen as crazy,

no home to go to, nowhere to rest.

A no-good dog trimmer, downright lazy,

at farmers’ barns an unwelcome guest.

He was so sure of himself, his axis

came from the porridge on which he fed.

I just ground scissors and knives in batches

though too ground sunshine and daily bread.

 

Snaps once was common, by some lamented,

But cheap and acrid when home-distilled.

Though wormwood then every roadside scented

and added colour to glasses filled.

Oh, salty brothers, oh greedy snatchers,

You got quite drunk and your wits took flight,

but I ground scissors and knives in batches

and picked my wormwood at summer’s height.

 

Those who have duties judge me severely – 

I pay no tax, am a sorry sight.

But I’m a poet, my dreams love dearly

and I am one with the summer night.

But even poets not clad in patches

call me a wretch whose life-force is spent,

who sharpens scissors and knives in batches

and thanks profusely for every cent.

 

Where are you now, you who all once knew me,

each buxom wench and each friendly mug?

at Sundholm workhouse one half came duly.

The others drowned in the bottle’s glug.

But I’m still here, despite all my scratches!

My hair is white, but my snout is red!

I sharpen scissors and knives in batches,

And I grind sunshine and daily bread.

 

The open road even now is calling,

with morning cold and with midday heat.

My grindstone still needs no overhauling,

I keep my nose red, so all’s complete. 

I start from Skagen and make for Fakse,

with winter’s trials no more in my head.

I sharpen scissors and knives in batches,

And I grind sunshine and daily bread.

To hear a very different instrumental version, done on an 8-channel Korg synthesizer, go to here.

 

R.M. Rilke: 'Blaue Hortensie'

 

Blaue Hortensie

 

So wie das letzte Grün in Farbentiegeln 

sind diese Blätter, trocken, stumpf und rauh, 

hinter den Blütendolden, die ein Blau 

nicht auf sich tragen, nur von ferne spiegeln.

 

Sie spiegeln es verweint und ungenau, 

als wollten sie es wiederum verlieren, 

und wie in alten blauen Briefpapieren 

ist Gelb in ihnen, Violett und Grau;

 

Verwaschenes wie an einer Kinderschürze, 

Nichtmehrgetragenes, dem nichts mehr geschieht: 

wie fühlt man eines kleinen Lebens Kürze.

 

Doch plötzlich scheint das Blau sich zu verneuen 

in einer von den Dolden, und man sieht 

ein rührend Blaues sich vor Grünem freuen.

 

 

Blue Hydrangea

 

Like the last green found in a colour jar 

these leaves are, dried-out, lustreless and raw, 

behind the blossom umbels, which no more 

wear blue, but only mirror from afar.

 

It’s mirrored in a vague and tear-stained way

as if they wished to lose and not to wear,

and as in blue-tinged writing paper there

is yellow in them, violet und grey;

 

Like a child’s apron’s washed-out quality,

Something no longer worn, its use now ceased:

how much one feels a small life’s brevity.

 

The blue though seems to fast regain its sheen 

in one of the large umbels, and one sees 

a poignant blue rejoicing in the green.

 

Thorkild Bjørnvig: 'Lappedykkeren'

Thorkild Bjørnvig (1918-2004)

 

Lappedykkeren

 

Med Halsens fuldendte Bøjning,

Næbbets slanke Lanse

sigter den paa mig, svajer

og følger, som vilde den danse,

den mindste af mine Bevægelser,

yndefuld, vagtsom og fin –

men Kroppen blir passivt staaende

lodret, som hos en Pingvin.

 

Den flyver ikke, som ventet –

en Olieplet paa dens Bryst

er mygt blevet infiltreret,

har lammet dens Evne, Lyst

til at kalde, parres og yngle,

svømme, flyve og dykke, 

age, fange, fortære –

hele dens Legemslykke;

har ramt den som dødelig Sygdom:

en Draabe, en flydende Kim,

og den mineralske Spedalskhed

klistrer dens Fjer som Lim.

 

Nedskrevet til et Vraggods

blandt Brædder og Dunke paa Sandet,

ubrugelig, kan ikke fiske,

droppet af Luften og Vandet,

paa Vej ned mod Kredsløbets Hades:

de langsomt svindende Ting –

vogter den ufravendt paa mig,

mens jeg gaar om den i Ring.

Syge lille Guddom,

fortabt paa de ensomme Flader,

endnu har Naturen, den vældige,

aldrig taalt Svækkelsens Grader

fra Fuldkommenhed ned til pur

Udslettelse; – ingen Nød,

som ikke af vilde Dyr fordrer

genvunden Magt eller Død.

 

Derfor vil jeg ikke prøve

forgæves at rense din Krop,

for du vilde værge din Dødsro

med vild Angst, tog jeg dig op,

som skulde du leve! Nej Maanen

i Nat er dig mere fortrolig

og Skyerne, Luften og dét,

som du afventer rolig, rolig.

Og du vil synke: din sidste

fuldkomne Bevægelse – ned

og ligge uformelig henstrakt

paa dette tilfældige Sted.

 

 

The grebe

 

With the perfect curve of the neck,

the beak’s slender lance

it points at me, swaying

and follows, as if it would dance,

the smallest of my movements,

elegant, fine and alert –

but its body is that of a penguin,

held upright, passive, inert.

 

It does not fly as expected –

on its breast a stain of oil

has insinuated itself,

has sapped its power and spoilt

its desire to call, to mate and breed,

to swim, to fly and dive,

to hunt, to catch, devour –

its joy at being alive;

has struck like a deadly disease:

a drop, a germ that’s afloat,

and the mineral leprosy

glues feathers to sticky coat.

 

Reduced to just jetsam

midst planks and cans in the sand,

no use at all, unable to fish

dropped by water, air and land,

on its way down to life-cycle’s Hades:

each slowly dwindling thing –

it watches my moves intently

as around it I walk in a ring.

Sick little deity,

lost on the lonesome expanses,

nature, the mighty has never as yet

brooked impairment’s nuances

from perfection down to pure

obliteration; – no plight

that from wild beasts does not dictate 

reasserted power or death outright.

 

Which is why I will not try in vain

to clean your body of slick,

for you would defend your last rest

with wild fear, were I to pick 

you up as if you should live. No, 

tonight’s moon’s a more intimate friend

and the clouds, the sky and what

you so calmly await as your end.

And you will sink down: your last

perfect movement – leaving no trace,

lie outstretched a shapeless form

in this fortuitous place.

 

Halbo C. Kool (1907-1968): 'Le Poète Pur Parle'

 

 

LE POÈTE PUR PARLE

 

Ik ben een smerig rijmelaar

met roos en vet in ’t sluike haar,

die, ongewasschen, ongeborsteld,

al zweetend met zijn rijmen worstelt

om, is per slot een vers gelukt,

na 'n haastig middagmaal verrukt,

op alle muzen te gaan klinken

en me een goeden roes te drinken,

want zonder muze, zonder rijm

ben ik een slordig sliertje slijm,

dat om zijn kleinheid te vergeten

zijn heil zoekt in onmatig eten,

in drank en spel en vrijerij,

een kermisklant, zoo vogelvri)....

 

 

 

LE POÈTE PUR PARLE

 

A grubby rhymster I from birth,

my limp hair clogged with grease and scurf

who quite unwashed and never combed,

grapples sweat-drenched to rhyme his poem,

and, if a line at last sounds good,

I mad with glee gulp down my food

then drink a toast to every muse

and get quite plastered while I booze,

for if deprived of muse and rhyme

I’m just a sticky string of slime

that, to forget my hopeless bleating,

salvation seek in overeating,

in gambling, drink as well as whores,

a carny, quite beyond all laws.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 52

 

Marie Dauguet: 'Mes bœufs tristes'

 

Mes bœufs tristes

 

Mes bœufs tristes s’en vont, cou tendu et naseaux

Dilatés, par les champs dures que leur sabot brise;

Ils marchent frissonnant sous le grossier manteau

De toile où s’introduit, navrant leur flanc, la bise.

 

Aux pierres des échos l'air glacial aiguise

Infatigablement ses perçants javelots,

Et tout à coup des giboulées glauques et grises

S’écroulent sur nous avec un bruit de grelots.

 

Des heures, patients, nous labourons pourtant,

Alignant les sillons, décrivant la tournière,

Mais sans rien espérer de la vie et du temps.

 

Sous la nue, qui toujours plus âprement se fonce,

Mon cœur est déchiré comme la glèbe amère

Où le soc des charrues cruellement s’enfonce.

 

 

My doleful oxen

 

My doleful oxen till the fields with nostrils flared

And necks outstretched, hoofs breaking up the crumbling soil;

Their flanks, despite their coarse cloth coats, feel bare,

Sought out by a north wind that aggravates their toil.

 

On echoing stones the tormenting glacial air

Sharpens its piercing javelins quite tirelessly,

And all at once grey sheets of gloomy sleet are there,

Falling on us with tinkling bell-sounds endlessly.

 

For hours, despite all this, we patiently plod on,

Aligning furrows, tracing turns in border strips,

Though hope of anything from life or time is gone.

 

Beneath the clouds, which fiercely darken to a frown,

My heart, just like the bitter glebe, is torn to bits

As the advancing ploughshare sinks so cruelly down.