What’s better for chill and slow little Sunday evening than few Norwegian poems? Let’s dive together into those beautifully composed art pieces in this fine, spring day (well at least I hope you guys having a lovely spring as well).
Note: all of those English translations are mine.
Gunvor Hofmo
Fra en annen virkelighet (1948)
Syk blir en av ropet om virkelighet.
Altfor nær var jeg tingene,
slik at jeg brant meg igjennom
og står på den andre siden av dem,
der lyset ikke er skilt fra mørket,
der ingen grenser er satt,
bare en stillhet som kaster meg ut i universet av ensomhet,
og av uhelbredelig ensomhet.
Se, jeg svaler min hånd i kjølig gress:
Det er vel virkelighet,
det er vel virkelighet nok for dine øyne,
men jeg er på den andre siden
hvor gresstrå er kimende klokker av sorg og bitter forventning.
Jeg holder et menneskes hånd,
ser inn i et menneskes øyne,
men jeg er på den andre siden
der mennesket er en tåke av ensomhet og angst.
Å, om jeg var en sten
som kunne rumme denne tomhetens tyngde,
om jeg var en stjerne
som kunne drikke denne tomhetens smerte,
men jeg er et menneske kastet ut i grenselandet,
og stillheten hører jeg bruse,
stillheten hører jeg rope
fra dypere verdner enn denne.
***
From another reality
Ill becomes one from the scream of reality.
Way too close the things I was,
so that I burnt myself in-between
and I stand on the other side of them,
where the light differs no from the darkness,
where no borders are set,
just a silence which throws me out in the universe of solitude,
and of irredeemable solitude.
Look, I cool my hand in a tepid grass:
This is ample reality,
this is ample reality enough for your eyes,
but I’m on the other side
where grass blades are pealing clocks of sorrow and bitter expectancy.
I hold a humans hand,
look into a humans eye,
but I’m on the other side
where man is a fog of solitude and fear.
Oh, if only was I a stone
which could roll through this emptiness of burden,
if only was I a star
which could drink this emptiness of pain,
but I’m a human thrown into the borderlands,
and the silence I hear hisses,
the silence I hear screams,
from deeper worlds than this.
Henrik Ibsen
Borte! (1871) Away!
De sidste gæster The last guests
vi fulgte til grinden; We led to the the gateway;
farvellets rester the farewell’s remains
tog nattevinden. the night wind took away.
I tifold øde In tenfold emptiness
lå haven og huset, lay the garden and the house,
hvor toner søde where tones’ sweeteness
mig nys berused. just stunned me.
Det var en fest kun, It was a feast just,
før natten den sorte; before night the black;
hun var en gæst kun, — she was a guest just, —
og nu er hun borte. and now she is not coming back.
Rolf Jacobsen
Byens metafysikk (1933)
Under rennestensristene,
under de skimlete murkjellere,
under lindealléenes fuktige røtter
og parkplenene:
Telefonkablenes nervefibre.
Gassledningenes hule blodårer.
Kloakker.
Fra østens skyhøie menneskealper,
fra vestens villafasader bak spirea
– de samme usynlige lenker av jern og kobber
binder oss sammen.
Ingen kan høre telefonkablenes knitrende liv.
Ingen kan høre gassledningenes syke hoste i
avgrunnen.
Ingen kan høre kloakkene tordne med slam og
stankhundrede mil i mørke.
Byens jernkledde innvolder
arbeider.
Men oppe i dagen danser jo du med flammende
fotsåler over asfalten, og du har silke mot navlens
hvite øie og ny kåpe i solskinnet.
Og oppe i lyset etsteds står jo jeg og ser hvordan
cigarettens blå sjel flagrer som en kysk engel
gjennem kastanjeløvet mot det evige liv
***
City’s metaphysics
Under the gutten’s grate,
under the fusty basements,
under the Lindealléene’s damp roots,
and the park lawns:
Telephone cables’ nervous fibre.
Gas lines’ cave veins.
Sewers.
From East’s soaring human’s Alps,
from West’s villa facades behind spirea
– the same invisible chains of iron and copper
connect us together.
No one can hear telephone cables’ creaky life.
No one can hear gas lines’ sick cough in
the abyss.
No one can hear sewers thunder with sludge and
stench hundred mile in dusk.
City’s iron-dressed entrails
are working.
But overhead in the day you dance with fiery
Soles over the asphalt, and you have silk against
navel’s
white eye and new cloak in the sunshine.
And overhead in the light somewhere I stand and watch how
cigarette’s blue soul flutters like a chaste angel
through chestnut leaves against the eternal life
I hope you liked this little collection of poems. My translations may not be the best, but they’re the only one in the internet as far as I seen. Anyway, have a great week everyone!
againorway 