Senses

My translation of Pia Tafdrup's Senses pentalogy (five-volume collection), on which I have been working with the author during the past few years, is now complete.

Snapshots

Spuyten Duyvil of NYC have published my translation of Susanne Jorn's Andalusiske øjebliksbilleder i November/Andalusian Snapshots in November. This is really a collaborative venture, and the book is bilingual, with facing Danish and English texts. 

From dark mood

to light mood

Pastel yellow Photosensitivity

Coming Up

 

Titles to look forward to from Bloodaxe Books in March Maria Stepanova (trs Sasha Dugdale): War of the Beasts and the Animals (PBS Translation Choice) Pia Tafdrup (trs David McDuff): The Taste of Steel / The Smell of Snow Seán Ó Ríordáin (trs Greg Delanty): Apathy Is Out: Selected Poems (Irish-English dual language edition) All these titles will be available direct from Bloodaxe Books in March.

https://bloodaxebooks.com

The Bat Effect

by Pia Tafdrup

We have learned that a wing-beat

from a butterfly on one

side of the globe

can cause a storm

on the other,

we now also know that a virus

has transmitted itself

from a bat to a human

at a market in Wuhan,

the sick person’s coughing has spread

a swirl of Covid-19 to the rest of the world

without discriminating

between gender, ethnicity or religion.

A storm of corona, a storm of infection,

tiny particles like invading parasites

in living cells

induce coughing, fever, difficulty

with breathing,

lead to slow suffocation.

Suspected cases are quarantined, the rest of us

forced into a time-warped community

where we have in common

each being confined to our homes,

unless at high risk

we’re performing essential tasks.

Day 16

My translation of Pia Tafdrup's poem 'På alle sprog' (from the Bloodaxe volume Salamander Sun and Other Poems) was chosen for Day 16 of National Poetry Month here in the UK.

The Taste of Steel and The Smell of Snow

My translation of Pia Tafdrup's collections SMAGEN AF STÅL (2014) and LUGTEN AF SNE (2016) is scheduled for publication as a single volume by Bloodaxe Books in November 2020:

https://www.bloodaxebooks.com/ecs/product/the-taste-of-steel-the-smell-of-snow-1242

Plovdiv

by Laus Strandby Nielsen

There are no clouds over Plovdiv

today. They all followed Orpheus

down to the dark where they were late

for the concert. What should they do?

The door to the music was closed. Or-

pheus, Orpheus himself sounded like

an echo you could hear but faintly.

There was scarcely room for them

all in this uppermost part of the under-

world in which they had landed, just

like a flock of desperate refugees

before a bristling barbed wire fence,

so did they huddle together not knowing

inside from out. Here the transformation

took place: the clouds flowed like water

down to the underworld, making chaos

and mud. For a long time, Orpheus kept

his singing head above the hazardous

mud, but his mouth was filled,

his eyes and ears, and when at last

through the mud he heard the beloved’s

whisper like a strangely bubbling sound,

it was too late. Too late is the not

so cheerful motto of this story.

Der er ingen skyer over Plovdiv

i dag. De fulgte alle efter Orpheus

ned i mørket hvor de kom for sent

til koncerten. Hvad skulle de gøre?

Døren til musikken var lukket. Or-

pheus, selveste Orpheus lød som

et ekko man kun svagt kunne høre.

Der var næsten ikke plads til dem

alle i denne øverste del af under-

verdenen hvor de var havnet, ganske

som en flok fortvivlede flygtninge

foran et hegn af flænsende pigtråd,

sådan trykkede de sig sammen og

vidste hverken ud eller ind. Her skete

forvandlingen: skyerne flød som vand

ned i underverdenen, skabende kaos

og mudder. Længe holdt Orpheus sit

syngende hoved oven over det farlige

mudder, men hans mund blev fyldt op,

hans øjne og ører, og da han til sidst

gennem mudderet hørte den elskedes

hvisken som en underligt boblende lyd,

da var det for sent. For sent er det ikke

så muntre motto for denne fortælling.

translated from Danish by David McDuff

from Laus Strandby Nielsen: -- og andre steder, Asger Schnacks Forlag, 2019

Laus Strandby Nielsen: Two Poems

RECOGNITION

I’m the only person
in the whole world
who sees the world
with my eyes.
And now I see
myself see myself
almost as a kind of
central heating system
with pipes and thermostats,
calcifications
and insurance policies
where everything
is written in small print
in medical Latin.

I see myself
see myself
as a chemical factory
with a built-in power station
and without exaggeration
a lot of electronics.

I see myself
see myself
as a very
advanced computer
which is rather primitive
in certain respects.

I see myself
see myself as
an investment
and an investor,
sohelpmegod
as a market,
whimsically logical
swinging
from one form
of hysteria
to another
and back again,
forced against
an equilibrium
that is impossible.

I see myself
see myself
as a bank.
But how could it
go so wrong?
And can it happen
again? Here?

I see myself
see myself
as a small
and yet dizzying
swarm of small devils
that hide
behind one another
when they realise
they are being seen. Easy,
take it easy, say the
ones in front that are the
smallest, while they
swarm away, easy now.
There is no reason
to exaggerate.
Absolutely no reason.
A little smile is enough.

But I don’t recognise
the eyes that see me.

(It must be both
complete and incomplete,
says the spin
doctor, but
it’s all very well for him to say so
sitting there
in that rain-sodden tree
advertising
himself
with his yellow beak.)


GENKENDELSE

Jeg er den eneste
i hele verden
der ser verden
med mine øjne.
Og nu ser jeg
mig selv se mig selv 
nærmest som en slags
centralvarmesystem 
med rør og termostater,
forkalkninger
og forsikringer 
hvor det hele 
står med småt
på lægelatin. 

Jeg ser mig selv 
se mig selv 
som en kemisk fabrik
med indbygget elværk 
og uden at overdrive
en hel del elektronik.

Jeg ser mig selv
se mig selv
som en meget
avanceret computer
der er ret primitiv
på visse punkter.

Jeg ser mig selv
se mig selv som
en investering
og en investor,
gudhjælpemig
som et marked, 
lunefuldt logisk
svingende  
fra en form 
for hysteri
til en anden
og tilbage,
tvunget imod 
en ligevægt
som er umulig.

Jeg ser mig selv
se mig selv
som en bank.
Hvordan kunne det
dog gå så galt?
Og kan det ske
igen? Her?

Jeg ser mig selv
se mig selv
som et mindre 
og dog svimlende 
mylder af smådjævle
som gemmer sig
bag ved hinanden
når de mærker
de bliver set. Rolig,
bare rolig, siger de
forreste der er de
mindste, mens de
myldrer løs, rolig nu. 
Der er ingen grund
til at overdrive.
Absolut ingen grund.
Et lille smil er nok.

Men jeg genkender 
ikke de øjne der ser mig.

(Det skal være både
afsluttet og uafsluttet,
siger kommunikations-
rådgiveren, men det
kan han sagtens sige
som han sidder der
i det regnvåde træ
og reklamerer
for sig selv
med sit gule næb.)




PORTRAIT OF A FULL STOP

When it’s dark it gets light.
When it’s light it gets dark.
When it’s dark it does get light
at some point, but at some point

it gets dark again of course.
Then it gets light. Then it gets dark.
Light. Dark. Something is wrong. It’s
completely wrong. It’s going too fast.

In the dark-light I stumble into the light-dark
and hit something soft, the darkness falls,
I’m covered by a fur coat of light. Here

you can reflect that what you say
may end up in a poem, and if you can’t
recognise it at all, what then?


PORTRÆT AF ET PUNKTUM

Når det er mørkt, bliver det lyst.
Når det er lyst, bliver det mørkt. 
Når det så er mørkt, så bliver det lyst
på et tidspunkt, men på et tidspunkt

så bliver det selvfølgelig mørkt igen.
Så bliver det lyst. Så bliver det mørkt.
Lyst. Mørkt. Der er noget galt. Der
er noget helt galt: Det går for hurtigt.

I mørkelyset snubler jeg ind i lysmørket
og rammer noget blødt, mørket fælder, 
jeg er dækket af en pels af lys. Her

kan man tænke på at det man siger
måske havner i et digt, og når man så
slet ikke kan genkende det, hvad så?


© Laus Strandby Nielsen and David McDuff 2019

translated from Danish by David McDuff

Drachmannlegatet

The painter and poet Holger Drachmann was born on October 9th, 1849. Drachmann was among the first artists who travelled to Skagen and he was a prominent member of the artists’ colony. Since 1917 a literary prize, the Drachmannlegatet, has been awarded on Drachmann’s birthday. This year's laureate is the Danish poet Susanne Jorn (b. 1944). As has been the case in recent years, the Plesner Galleries at Skagens Museum will be the venue for a celebration of this year’s laureate on October 19th.

https://skagenskunstmuseer.dk/blog/2018/10/09/susanne-jorn-modtager-drachmannlegatet/

Nightdress

by Pia Tafdrup

The nightdress you want to be buried in

hangs white and newly ironed

on a hanger in the closet,

the sight

almost makes me cry,

even though you’re alive, mother,

standing next to me

to show me that nightdress,

that looks most of all like a wedding dress

under the transparent plastic.

You raise the nightdress to the light

like a mirror for death

I can’t see into,

when you are with me.

I have to imagine

you lifeless

in this nightdress, see my life

without you,

but I cannot now.

NATKJOLEN

Natkjolen, du vil begraves i,

hænger hvid og nystrøget

på en bøjle i skabet,

synet

får mig næsten til at græde,

selv om du er i live, mor,

står ved siden af mig

for at vise mig netop den natkjole,

der mest af alt ligner en brudekjole,

under den gennemsigtige plastik.

Du løfter natkjolen frem i lyset

som et spejl for døden,

jeg ikke kan se ind i,

når du er hos mig.

Jeg skal forestille mig

dig livløs

i denne natkjole, se mit liv

uden dig,

men det kan jeg ikke nu

(from Synet af lys [The Sight of Light], Gyldendal, 2018)

translated from Danish by David McDuff

The Sight of Light

The third part of Pia Tafdrup's series on the five senses, Synet af lys, has been published by Gyldendal. Berlingske writes: "80er-englen og akademimedlemmet er tilbage med sin måske allerbedste digtsamling indtil nu."

World Poets

Among the participants in Bloodaxe's new DVD anthology World Poets, which presents work by 30 poets together with films of interviews and readings featuring the poets themselves, are Pia Tafdrup and Tua Forsström. There are also poems by Tomas Tranströmer. While it's good to see Nordic poets included here, some of Pia Tafdrup's poems inexplicably appear in Swedish translation, rather than in the original Danish. There are also some glitches and typos in the Swedish texts. It would have been useful to see proofs before publication, but apparently Bloodaxe considered it O.K. to skip that step.

Pia Tafdrup translation project

I've been endeavouring to start a Patreon page for my Pia Tafdrup poetry translation project. The page is now online, and I'm hoping to attract a few supporters for the task I've set myself of completing an English version of Lugten af sne (The Smell of Snow, Gyldendal, 2016). So far I have only three patrons, all of whom are very welcome, but perhaps in the course of time some more may arrive. The Patreon concept is new to me, and I'm still not entirely sure how well suited it is to a project of this kind, which depends not on images, graphics, videos and multimedia but simply on words and (often) virtual paper. At any rate, this is an experiment, and it will be interesting to see how it works out over the course of the next few months. Donations need not be large - in fact, I set a minimum of $1 - and all contributions are gratefully received. I am still deciding what to offer my patrons by way of Patreon rewards, and will post my decisions here (and there) in due course.

By the end of the project, I should have complete translations of Smagen af stål (The Taste of Steel, Gyldendal, 2014) and Lugten af sne. You can follow some of the progress of the work on the Patreon page, and I may from time to time post some draft versions here on Nordic Voices.

Pia Tafdrup audio recordings

News that Pia Tafdrup is currently recording readings of all her poetry collections, which will be distributed as sound files for download over the Internet.

The Smell of Snow

Pia Tafdrup's new collection Lugten af sne (The Smell of Snow) will be published by Gyldendal in May 2016.

One of the poems from the new book can be read in my translation here.

Caught in the Act

by Pia Tafdrup

The fish catches its food

and itself is caught, has its head

cut off with a cracking sound,

the smell of fish blood rises while

under the knife the fish still twitches.

The light bones and feathers

lie scattered among grass and stones,

where the bird circled in the air,

smelled its way to earthworms in the soil,

before the marten consumed its meal.

On the grassy plains a hungry wolf

goes after the sheep's bellies and guts,

on the carcasses the ribs

are gnawed away, flies and worms

take care of the last remnants.

In the dust among the rubble of war

the wounded lie,

I recognize the smell,

when an angel is grazed.

In the dust among the rubble of war

lie the dead,

victims of a bloody hour, who once

lay in wombs,

must now be placed in the grave

infinitely close to our hearts.

Breathing, collision,

the locations accumulate,

rocks and clods of earth,

the whole world is a crime scene.

translated from Danish by David McDuff

Cyclical

Kineserne betragter metallet som et element. Jeg holdt mig til den vestlige tankegang i kvartetten, men metallet blev ved at spøge og dukker op i denne bog, hvor den knytter sig til smagssansen. I digtet vises forbindelsen mellem flere elementer, dels når de forholder sig produktivt til hinanden, dels destruktivt. En cyklus, der kan gå begge veje. Det produktive kan afføde mere positiv produktion, men kan også slå om i sin negation, så det destruktive tager over. Det er to sæt af kræfter, vi må forholde os til, to forskellige kræfter, der griber ind i vores liv.

The Chinese view metal as an element. I stuck to the Western way of thinking in the quartet, but metal continued to haunt it and it shows up in this book, where it is linked to the sense of taste. In the poem the connection of several elements appears, partly when they relate productively to each other and partly when they do so destructively. A cycle that can go either way. The productive can generate more positive production, but can also turn into its negation, so that the destructive takes over. There are two sets of forces we must relate to, two different forces that intervene in our lives.

- Pia Tafdrup, in a note on her new collection Smagen af stål (The Taste of Steel), Gyldendal 2014

Two Collections

Here are links to the Amazon pages for the forthcoming Bloodaxe collections One Evening in October I Rowed out on the Lake by Tua Forsström and Salamander Sun and Other Poems by Pia Tafdrup, both in my translation. Both books are scheduled for publication on January 25, 2015.

Pia Tafdrup: Snow Flowers

SNOW FLOWERS

The snow has settled on the branches, filled
the empty bird nests in trees and bushes along
roads that all lead to the church.
The March sun dazzles, the snow on the ground dazzles,
shadows fall where we walk,
flocks of crows circle high up above us.

The cold in the church, the cold round our feet, silence
swirls giddily in the vaulted space,
where no sounds from outside
penetrate.
Having to lose is what we can’t make ourselves ready for.

The dead woman
we have come to bury is not here. No tracks
lead anywhere.
An invisible frontier is crossed, a part
of our life is gone,
a chapter of Europe’s history over.

We must bury the body she left behind,
she herself carried on,
though we see her in the open coffin, give thanks for
what we received.

We see the dead woman,
see her dressed in travel clothes, see the dead woman
with  mouth closed and lips pressed together,
though in life she was always laughing and talking,
muscles robbed of movement, skin like stone.

There was a time when it was to us
she laughed and talked.
The loss we must all bear, it
does not make it any less hard.

We see and don’t understand. We are present here
and don’t understand.

We lay flowers, stand
in the smell of incense with lighted candles.
Except that her head is not tilted,
the dead woman resembles

the image of the Virgin Mary in the icon
that is placed in the open coffin.

The funeral is
for the living, the dead woman's soul
has already gone.
Several days ago it vanished for us.

Dear soul,
We bury your body, but you are free.

The language we speak is not the same as before,
the snow falls into me,
snow flowers drift cold in the blood.
We look and look at the dead woman.
The sight of her face is imprinted
forever, the wax candles are burning down.

Now it is us. Now loneliness shines.
Star-visited night,
many-multiplied arrival,
frost-lit fields, ice-bound soil,
loss burns itself into the mind,
a strange and unfamiliar freedom.

SNEBLOMSTER

Sneen har lagt sig på grenene, fyldt

de tomme fuglereder i træer og buske langs

veje, der alle fører til kirken.

Martssolen blænder, sneen på jorden blænder,

skygger falder, hvor vi går,

flokke af krager cirkler højt oppe over os.

Kulden i kirken, kulden om fødderne, stilhed

hvirvler svimmelt i det hvælvede rum,

hvor ingen lyde udefra

trænger ind.

At skulle miste kan vi ikke gøre os klar til.

Den døde,

vi er kommet for at begrave, er her ikke. Ingen spor

fører nogen steder hen.

En ikke synlig grænse er passeret, en del

af vores liv er væk,

et kapitel af Europas historie slut.

Vi skal begrave legemet, hun efterlod,

selv fortsatte hun,

skønt vi ser hende i den åbne kiste, takker for

hvad vi fik.

Vi ser den døde,

ser hende iført rejseklæder, ser den døde

med lukket mund og læberne presset sammen,

skønt hun i live altid lo og talte,

muskler berøvet bevægelse, hud som sten.

Der var en tid, hvor det var til os,

hun lo og talte.

Tabet skal vi alle bære, det

gør det ikke mindre svært.

Vi ser og fatter ikke. Vi er til stede her

og fatter ikke.

Vi lægger blomster, står

i duften af røgelse med tændte lys.

Bortset fra at hovedet ikke hælder,

ligner den døde

billedet af Jomfru Maria på ikonet,

der sættes i den åbne kiste.

Begravelsen er til

for de levende, den dødes sjæl

er allerede rejst.

For flere dage siden forsvandt den for os.

Kære sjæl,

Vi begraver din krop, men du er fri.

Sproget, vi taler, er ikke det samme som før,

sneen falder i mig,

sneblomster fyger koldt i blodet.

Vi ser og ser på den døde.

Synet af hendes ansigt prentes ind

for altid, vokskærterne brænder ned.

Nu er det os. Nu lyser ensomheden.

Stjernebesøgt nat,

mangedoblet ankomst,

frostbelyste marker, isbundet jord,

tab brænder sig ind i sindet,

en sær og fremmed frihed.

(from Smagen af stål [The Taste of Steel], Gyldendal 2014)

translated from Danish by David McDuff

Molossus

In its World Poetry Portfolio series, Molossus literary quarterly has published a selection of poems by Pia Tafdrup in my translation.