Tove Ditlevsen, Danmark, 1917-1976

Der bor en ung pige -

Der bor en ung pige i mig, som ikke vil dø,
hun er ikke længere mig, og jeg ikke hende,
men hun stirrer på mig fra spejlet, i øjnenes sø,
som søger hun noget, hun ikke mere kan finde.

Hun har ikke andre i verden at spørge end mig:
hvor er mine drømme? og hvor er min tyveårs glæde?
Hvor er de uskyldige smil, den alvorlige leg?
Hvordan er mit pund forvaltet i årenes kæde?

Jeg prøver at fange det blege og lysende blik,
jeg prøver at holde den spørgende stemme tilbage,
og hører i hjertet en mild og bedrøvet musik,
en regnvejrstone af sagte dryppende klage.

"Din drøm var skrøbelig barn og dømt til at dø,
din renhed blev mindre ren af de ting du lærte -
mod stenbroen faldt dine fine og frugtbare frø
en aften, da virkeligheden brød ind i dit hjerte.

Du havde en pigelig drøm om et barn og en mand,
og du fik, hvad du pegede på, men var stadig alene,
så blev du tilbage i barndommens undrende land,
mens jeg går omkring og er til i en verden af stene.

Og det er din styrke og trøst, at du ikke er død,
men lever et sted som en spinkel og vigende skygge,
endskønt jeg har solgt dine drømme for hus og for brød,
og trukket dig ned i en smerte, der minder om lykke.

Og der er min frelse, at jeg kan fornemme din røst
som bølgeslag i mit blods tungsindige vandring -
du er mit forsvar, min uro og dybeste trøst,
bestandig og god gennem årenes liv og forandring."

Der bor en ung pige i mig, der ikke kan dø,
før jeg selv blir træt af at tro, at jeg engang var hende,
hun stirrer imod mig fra spejlet, i øjnenes sø,
efter noget, der altfor ofte er svært at finde.

Tove Ditlevsen, Kvindesind, 1955.

photo Ebeltoft Glasmuseum : grethe bachmann

Les Fleurs Du Mal

Les Chats



Les amoureux fervents et les savants austères
Aiment également, dans leur mure saison,
Les chats puissants et doux, orgueil de la maison,
Qui comme eux sont frileux et comme eux sédentaires.

Amis de la science et da la volupté,
Ils cherchent le silence et l'horreur des ténèbres;
L'Erèbe les eût pris pour ses coursiers funèbres,
S'ils pouvaient au servage incliner leur fierté.

Ils prennent en songeant les nobles attitudes
Des grands sphinx allongés au fond des solitudes,
Qui semblent s'endormir dans un rêve sans fin;

Leurs reins féconds sont pleins d'étincelles magiques,
Et des parcelles d'or, ainsi qu'un sable fin,
Etoilent vaguement leurs prunelles mystiques.

Charles Baudelaire
(1821-1867)

LES FLEURS DU MAL
(1857)

^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^
Cats
Translation by Richard Howard 1982

Lovers, scholars - the fervent, the austere -
grow equally fond of cats, their household pride.
As sensitive as either to the cold,
as sedentary, though so strong and sleek,

your cat, a friend to learning and to love,
seeks out both silence and the awesome dark...
Hell would have made the cat its courier
could it have controverted feline pride!

Dozing, all cats assume the svelte design
of desert sphinxes sprawled in solitude,
apparantly transfixed by endless dreams;

their teeming loins are rich in magic sparks,
and golden specks like infinitesimal sand
glisten in those enigmatic eyes.

^^^^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^^^^

photo: gb

Rabindranath Tagore

photo: gb

Lotus

On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying,

and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded.

Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my

dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind.

That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to

me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion.

I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this

perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart.

GITANJALI "Song Offerings" Translations made by the author from the original Bengali.

Rabindranath Tagore, India: Poet, Philosopher, Musician, Writer, Educator, Nobel Laureate (1861-1941)

Russian Poetry

ALEXANDER PUSHKIN (1799-1837)
Winter morning Cold frost and sunshine: day of wonder! But you, my friend, are still in slumber - Wake up, my beauty, time belies: You dormant eyes, I beg you, broaden Toward the northerly Aurora, As though a northern star arise! Recall last night, the snow was whirling, Across the sky, the haze was twirling, The moon, as though a pale dye, Emerged with yellow through faint clouds. And there you sat, immersed in doubts, And now, - just take a look outside: The snow below the bluish skies, Like a majestic carpet lies, And in the light of day it shimmers. The woods are dusky. Through the frost The greenish fir-trees are exposed; And under ice, a river glitters. The room is lit with amber light. And bursting, popping in delight Hot stove still rattles in a fray. While it is nice to hear its clatter, Perhaps, we should command to saddle A fervent mare into the sleight? And sliding on the morning snow Dear friend, we'll let our worries go, And with the zealous mare we'll flee. We'll visit empty ranges, thence, The woods, which used to be so dense And then the shore, so dear to me. photo:gb

Emily Dickinson

THE DAISY FOLLOWS SOFT THE SUN

HE daisy follows soft the sun,

And when his golden walk is done,

Sits shyly at his feet.

He, waking, finds the flower near.

"Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?"

"Because, sir, love is sweet!"







We are the flower, Thou the sun!

Forgive us, if as days decline,

We nearer steal to Thee,--

Enamoured of the parting west,

The peace, the flight, the amethyst,

Night's possibility!




by: Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

photo: gb

Shakespeare in Winter

Spring and Winter ii

When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!
To-who!--a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doe blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!
To-who!--a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

William Shakespeare

photo:gb

Nature - A Butterfly

FROM cocoon forth a butterfly
As lady from her door
Emerged—a summer afternoon—
Repairing everywhere,
Without design, that I could trace,
Except to stray abroad
On miscellaneous enterprise
The clovers understood.
Her pretty parasol was seen
Contracting in a field
Where men made hay, then struggling hard
With an opposing cloud,
Where parties, phantom as herself,
To Nowhere seemed to go
In purposeless circumference,
As ’t were a tropic show.
And notwithstanding bee that worked,
And flower that zealous blew,
This audience of idleness
Disdained them, from the sky,
Till sundown crept, a steady tide,
And men that made the hay,
And afternoon, and butterfly,
Extinguished in its sea. Emily Dickinson Nature V