METOPE
You I would in rhythms fondly rivet tight!
You I would hold deep and lasting in the eternal
young alabaster of the poem’s flight!
You day-dreamer, moved by the sun! With your gaze
chastely turned toward evening’s pale gold, meekly
you turn a heaven towards another, as bathed
in light and tenderness and secrecy!
I would gladly forfeit verse’s every trope
were one thing in my power: to hew firm-lined
in memory’s stubborn stone a smooth metope
that could depict your shy, frail-contoured mind!
We stroll through moist and yielding ebb-tide sand! Your ear
takes in the plashing waves of the summer sea!
Devoutly we feel that the evening stillness here
ever outward shifts its sounding boundary!
A string of fading chimes that’s slowly shrinking
behind blushing groves and gold church spires again –
and softly gleaming air-waves that are sinking
like streams of sun from mountains – which remain!
The ridges all turn blue. The stars fill in the skies!
The last clouds hasten home at end of day!
The meadow is at prayer – from air’s ebb tide will rise
mighty Arcturus! Behind grey stone walls sighs
a slight breeze through rye’s fur of silver grey!
And through your gaze a warm, deep animation –
in a dark blur of blue the eye can find
a drifting droplet, honey moistly gleaming,
and quietly I ask you: ‘Friend – what’s on your mind?’
‘I’m thinking of evenings like this I will not get to live through –
of ripening fields that rustle with corn, without me!
Of light things in motion: of ears of corn breaking,
of pale sails far out and of paths in the sea,
waves that all make for the shore, without me!
Mild daily life that no grave can dishearten,
such thoughts are mine, friend – the deep and the blue
future evenings in this summer garden,
my mind not by yours, of that I think too!
All of it brims in my eye like a tear –
poor, scared and alone, I’ll soon begin crying!
All which this evening is ours, all things here – –
after a few, heady years must face dying,
when mists will disperse and the eye will see clear!
Oh look, love, an ebb tide so black and so deep!
How strange the shore gets when the tide’s waters fall!
Is the night of dread far off then, when we shall be
a yet grimmer shore, one abandoned by all?
Yet even so, what a sweet, blessed wonder
these meadows, the corn, scrub and trees now in view,
the mountains beyond – and where’er our eyes wander,
by our fleeting moments are covered in dew –
take that birch tree over there, how ours it is!
That lattice fence! That ancient handcart lying there
still in the grass, and long hayrack poles here
up against the rowan trees, never elsewhere,
and the ditch, green as ever – year after year!
Oh, love, could grave’s yawning abyss be averted,
I’d wish to turn into this field with hay drying,
the birch tree there, studded with stars, and the
mountain, and thus I’d be somehow preserving
our own holy garden – from just that: from dying – –!
Embrace me, my love, hold me tightly, securely –
this small gleam of hope is soon all I can know –
the brief, fervent moment of bliss will cause surely
an other eternity in me to glow!’
And I, a living man, with earth my dwelling,
from top to toe, a man of flesh in kind,
can, faint and shy, in my embrace sense something
comprising only look and voice and mind,
dissolved in painful fear and dark foreboding!
You lonesome one! I can but mutely, lightly
caress your fragrant hair, with your hand held in mine –
and there, thus eye to eye, stand Pan and Psyche
before a sea of corn – in bright starshine!
Translated by John Irons
METOPE
Dig vil jeg ømt i rytmer nagle fast!
Dig vil jeg dypt og blivende bevare
i digtets evige, unge alabast!
Du solbevægede sværmerske! Med panden
pikelig vendt mod kveldens bleke guld,
vender du mildt en himmel mot en annen,
likesaa lys og øm og løndomsfuld!
Gjerne ga jeg min verdens vers tilhope,
hadde jeg magt til ét: at hugge ind
i mindets trodsige sten en myk metope
over dit vare, omridsømme sind!
Vi vandrer i fugtig fjæresand! Du lytter
til sommersjøens luftige bølgesprut!
Vi føler det fromt, at kveldens stilhet flytter
sin tonende grændse altid længer ut!
Det kimer av falmet lyd, som glir tilbake
bak rødmende lunde, gyldne kirkespir –
og luftens lysende bølger synker svake,
som bækker av sol fra bjærgene, som blir!
Aaserne blaaner. Stjernerne er nære!
De sidste skyer skynder sig hjem tilkvelds!
Engen har andagt – op av luftens fjære
stiger Arcturus! Lindt, bag graastensgjærdet,
aander en vind i rugens sølvgraa pels!
Gjennem dit blik en varm og dyb beaandning –
midt i et mulm av blaat kan øiet faa
et drivende stænk, en fugtig glans av honning,
og stille spør jeg dig «Ven – hvad tænker du paa?»
«Jeg tænker paa kvelder som denne, jeg ikke faar lov til at leve –
paa modne marker, som bruser av korn, uten mig!
Paa rørende, lette smaating: Aks som knækkes,
veier i sjøen, bleke seil derute,
bølger, som strømmer mot stranden uten mig!
Hverdagen, ven, som mildt blir ved bak graven,
tænker jeg paa, og alle de dype, blaa,
kommende kvelder her i sommerhaven,
uten mit sind mot dit, tænker jeg paa!
Det hele fylder mit øie som en taare,
jeg, ensom og angst og arm, skal graate snart!
Alle de ting, som nu ikveld er vore – –
om faa, berusende aar staar stunden fore,
da taakerne glir, og øiet kan se klart!
Aa, elskede, se, hvor dyp og sort en fjære!
Saa underlig stranden blev, da vandet faldt!
Mon rædselens kveld er fjærn, da vi skal være
en styggere strand end dén, forladt av alt?
Allikevel er det et sødt og salig under,
at engene her, med korn og krat og trær,
og bjærgene bak, saa dypt som blikket bunder,
dugges saa sødt av vore smaa sekunder – –
bare den bjærken dér, hvor vor den er!
Og skigarden da! Den gamle redskabsvognen
ligger i græsset støt, og stadig staar
de svære hesjestængerne op i rognen,
og grøften er grøn som før, i alle aar!
Aa, ven, lot gravenes dyp sig vildt besværge,
vilde jeg bli til vangen her, med hø,
til bjærken dér, med stjernerne i, og bjærget,
bare for slik, paa annen vis, at værge
den hellige haven vor, for dét: at dø – –!
Ta om mig, ven, og hold mig! Saan at trykkes
er snart det eneste glimt av haab, jeg vét –
den hastige, hete straalestund, det lykkes
at vække i mig en annen evighet!»
Og jeg, en levende mand, paa jorden hjemme,
en tydelig mand av kjød, fra taa til top,
kan, svimmel og sky, i favnen min fornemme,
noget, som bare er blik og sind og stemme,
i smertelig angst og anelse løst op!
Du ensomme! Alt, jeg kan, er stumt at stryke
dit duftige haar, med haanden din i min –
og, øie til øie saan, staar Pan og Psyke
foran et hav av korn, i stjerneskin!
From Olaf Bull (1883–1933), in Samlede dikt og noveller, Gyldendal Norsk forlag, Oslo 1995. First published in Metope, Gyldendal Norsk forlag, Oslo 1927.
Poem of the Week. 52 poems through the year
From the time when the earliest texts were recorded in runic inscriptions, poetry has had a strong position in Norway. By introducing a new poem each week throughout 2019, we aim to highlight the quality and breadth of Norwegian poetry. «Poem of the Week» presents 52 poems, inspired by the changing seasons and the passing of the year. The selection has been made by Annette Vonberg and Tone Carlsen, and consists of poems from the earliest handwritten manuscripts up until today, with a special emphasis on contemporary poetry.