The Smell of Snow

Me reading my translations of 'Ånd', 'Prana' and 'Rimtåge' from Pia Tafdrup's LUGTEN AF SNE.

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

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.

Under Cirrus Clouds

UNDER CIRRUS CLOUDS

  

As blood springs out on a forehead,

radiant, red clouds of ice crystal

high above the earth, before the sun goes down,

compact smell of pine needles

is brought on a breeze from the trees further away.

A swarm of insects hangs in the air,

I remember how it was to be kept awake

by a story without fighting sleep, just watch

lips in motion, listen to words from a mouth,

feel the warm breath flow towards me,

keep me hovering in the light of the lamp

like the insects in front of me.

Only after the story did I land in the dark,

which was good,

left to myself

words kept constantly bubbling out.

I’m present, and listen to my breathing in the middle of the path

where I’ve stopped,

as I heard my breathing in the dark as a child

without calling for anyone. My lungs

swelled out when the lamp was switched off,

in those days the stories had no conclusion,

they kept on, incalculably,

there was no goodbye,

no one talked about anything ending.

When one story ended, the next one continued,

there were only beginnings, genesis, openings,

as if the stories needed me

in order to unfold, or I needed them

in order to have life breathed into me, to draw breath,

so my lungs reached the sky, expanded

as now in the breeze under the cirrus clouds.

UNDER FJERSKYER

Som blod springer

frem på en pande,

lyse, røde skyer af iskrystal

højt over jorden, før solen går ned,

kompakt lugt af fyrrenåle

føres med en brise fra træerne længere borte.

En sværm af insekter hænger i luften,

husker, hvordan det var at blive holdt vågen

af en historie uden at kæmpe mod søvnen, bare følge

læber i bevægelse, lytte til ord fra en mund,

mærke den varme ånde strømme mig i møde,

holde mig svævende i lampens lys

som insekterne foran mig.

Først efter historien landede jeg i mørket,

der var godt,

overladt til mig selv

piblede ord uophørligt frem.

Jeg er til stede, lytter til mit åndedrag midt på stien,

hvor jeg er standset,

som jeg hørte min vejrtrækning i mørket som barn

uden at kalde på nogen. Lungerne

spilede sig ud, når lampen blev slukket,

historierne var uden slutning dengang,

de blev ved, uberegneligt,

der var intet farvel,

ingen talte om, at noget ville ende.

Når ét eventyr sluttede, fortsatte det næste,

der var kun begyndelser, tilblivelse, åbninger,

som om historierne behøvede mig

for at folde sig ud, eller jeg behøvede dem

som nu i brisen under fjerskyerne.

så lungerne nåede himlen, videde sig ud

for at få pustet liv i mig, for at trække vejret,

som nu i brisen under fjerskyerne.

Pia Tafdrup - from LUGTEN AF SNE (THE SMELL OF SNOW), 2016

translated from Danish by David McDuff

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.