from THE WHALES IN PARIS 2002 translated by David McDuffTHE WHALES IN PARIS
It’s hardly Paris the whales sing about in the great oceans, but the city is beautiful this morning, when I wake after dreaming about ton-heavy, cavorting whales. On all sides they swam, the gigantic creatures, and my only salvation in the rough sea was to grab hold of their tails, which were so slippery that my hands slid the moment the whales altered course or flapped their tails hard, so I was hurled far away, but each time I swam back, grabbed hold again and in this way kept myself alive all night long… On the wall opposite I see now that it’s a brilliant morning, the greetings of the birds suggest the same, the whales are gone, a woman goes from window to window, raising the Venetian blinds and opening the windows ajar, – this I enter in my dream journal. The sun falls into the woman’s kitchen, where she walks around putting heaps of clothes together. Each day our lives are invented; a so far new combination of the known and the unknown, will perhaps arise today – it depends on what falls into our minds, falls into us, embraces us with memory-deep gaze, when we seek an entrance to something that is freedom for the soul – and will tolerate no limit other than the open sky.HVALERNE I PARIS
Det er næppe Paris, hvalerne synger om i de store oceaner, men byen er smuk denne morgen, hvor jeg vågner efter at have drømt om tonstunge, legende hvaler. Til alle sider svømmede de gigantiske dyr, min eneste redning i det oprørte hav var at gribe fat i deres haler, der var så glatte, at mine hænder gled, det øjeblik hvalerne bugtede sig af sted eller slog hårdt med halen, så jeg blev slynget langt væk, men hver gang svømmede jeg tilbage, greb fat igen og holdt mig på denne måde i live natten igennem ... På muren overfor ser jeg nu, at det er en lysende morgen, af fuglenes hilsner fremgår det samme, hvalerne er borte, en kvinde går fra vindue til vindue, hejser persiennerne op og åbner vinduerne på klem, - dette fører jeg ind i min drømmeprotokol. Solen falder ind i kvindens køkken, hvor hun går omkring og lægger bunker af tøj sammen. Hver dag opfindes vores liv; en hidtil ny kombination af det kendte og ukendte, opstår måske i dag — det afhænger af, hvad der falder os ind, falder ind i os, omfavner os med erindringsdybt blik, når vi søger en indgang til noget, der er frihed for sjælen — og ikke tåler anden begrænsning end den vide himmel.WITHOUT MANDOLIN
“Abstract means not recognizing something” – says the woman at the museum to the children on the floor. The group follows her finger from “Man With Guitar” to “Man With Mandolin”. On the contrary he is very concrete and not painted by Picasso, the man who has keeled over on the pavement and grown together with a plane-tree in bud, which young folk hurry past along the river in cars paid for by bad conscience of rich fathers, not heading anywhere in particular, perhaps to a concert this evening ─ without mandolin. They rush past the man, who outcast by himself, by others, or casting out the city, sleeps motionless in a dust-brown coat with his head on the kerb, while hungry pigeons peck at his bread… Death also passes one windless afternoon, where sunlight hurries between the branches of the tree. Fire flows in his breast, draws a confusion of flight-tracks. What is that runs to meet the river, as the water changes from dark to gold, a glittering wound? The cold sucks blackly from the earth, the city closes round the man, a crooked, coagulated figure no one recognizes, something sealed and alien, which everyone, in spite of its open face, continues to pass by in an arc – and thus makes abstract.UDEN MANDOLIN
Abstrakt betyder ikke at genkende noget — siger kvinden på museet til børnene på gulvet. Flokken følger hendes finger fra “Mand med guitar” til “Mand med mandolin”. Derimod er han meget konkret og ikke malet af Picasso, ham der er segnet om på fortovet og vokset sammen med et platantræ i knop, som unge jager forbi langs floden i biler betalt af rige fædres dårlige samvittighed, ikke på vej noget bestemt sted hen, måske til koncert i aften - uden mandolin. De suser forbi manden, der udstødt af sig selv, af andre, eller udstødende byen, sover ubevægelig i støvbrun frakke med hovedet mod kantstenen, mens sultne duer hakker i hans brød ... Døden passerer også en vindstille eftermiddag, hvor sollys iler mellem træets grene. Ild flyder i brystet, trækker et virvar af flugtspor. Hvad løber floden i møde, når vandet skifter fra mørkt til gyldent, et glitrende sår? Kulden suger sort fra jorden, byen lukker sig om manden, en kroget, koaguleret skikkelse ingen genkender, noget forseglet fremmed, som alle, på trods af hans åbne ansigt, i fortsat strøm går i en bue udenom — og således gør abstrakt.WHAT HOUR, WHAT MINUTE?
An offence in life is sometimes punished by death – poison – gas – electric chair – firing squad – or hanging – but what is death, when it doesn’t come as punishment? It can hardly be a reward? Condemned to die are we – even without punishment. Or is death in spite of everything a gift, as otherwise we would have lived too long? That would be a punishment! For ourselves, and for others. It is hard to see death as a gift, when I want to throw away the piece of paper with the name and address of a friend, who is death, because I must remind myself not to send any more letters, not call any more, but probably not give up having conversations in dreams… Shall I hide the frayed scrap of paper or remember its contents? It is quiet in the shadow… I evacuate the address he wrote for me – but why? Because the sky with rising glow shines red as Herod now – or because a woodpecker wanders out on a branch with its feet up and head down, but its gaze along the morning sky of the abyss.HVILKEN TIME, HVILKET MINUT?
En forseelse i livet straffes undertiden med døden - gift - gas - strøm - skud - eller hængning - men hvad er døden, når den ikke kommer som straf? Vel næppe en belønning? Dømt til at dø er vi - selv uden straf. Eller er døden trods alt en gave, da vi ellers havde levet for længe? Dét ville være en straf! for os selv og andre. Svært er det at se døden som en gave, når jeg vil smide papirlappen væk med navn og adresse på en ven, der er død, fordi jeg skal huske mig selv på ikke at sende flere breve, ikke ringe op mere, men vel ikke afstå fra at samtale i drømme ... Skal jeg gemme den flossede lap eller huske dens indhold? Der er stille i skyggen ... Jeg evakuerer adressen, han skrev til mig - men hvorfor? Fordi himlen med stigende glød lyser herodesrødt — eller fordi en spætte nu vandrer ud ad en gren med fødderne op og hovedet ned, men blikket langs afgrundens morgenhimmel.SLEEP HIEROGLYPH
One moment, when others are out of sight, in the dream you will embrace me, so that my plutonic soul will not forget that I’m alive. You throw your arms round me, in that same instant push up into me – my white heart beats hard in the rose darkness. I adapt myself to a foreign climate, am surprised by your smell, which I did not recognize, but love unconditionally, like something I had missed without being aware of it, as the earth goes under, and you are the sky, where a rising sun shines behind the horizon of your closed eyes… My heart beats volcanically hard, the blood’s lava glows through my sleep, writes itself somatically black along the mountain’s sides.SØVNHIEROGLYF
Et øjeblik, hvor andre er ude af syne, vil du i drømmen omfavne mig, for at min plutoniske sjæl ikke skal glemme, at jeg er levende. Du slår armene om mig, trænger i samme nu op i mig — mit hvide hjerte slår hårdt i rosenmørket. Jeg tilpasser mig et fremmed klima, overraskes af din lugt, som jeg ikke kendte, men elsker ubetinget, som noget jeg havde savnet uden at vide af det, da jorden går under, og du er himlen, hvor en opstigende sol skinner bag dine lukkede øjnes horisont ... Mit hjerte slår vulkanisk hårdt, blodets lava gløder gennem søvnen, skriver sig somatisk sort ned ad bjergets sider.FAREWELL, WE SAY
Farewell, we say to the dying, but don't forget them, until we ourselves die, and are perhaps remembered so as that way - while grey ducks in a pointed vibrating wedge migrate across the sky - to receive continued existence. Just as the words, when they are spoken, receive meaning and brilliance. Or the grain of dust that hangs in the beam of light, makes visible the fact that the globe with its six billions goes on rotating ― and nothing seems impossible. Exactly as when my father walked with me holding one hand while my mother held the other... So with bare feet I passed the snake in the grass and the worst enemies. So I was brought floating into the world, into the open to be deposited here.FARVEL, SIGER VI
Farvel, siger vi til de døende, men glemmer dem ikke, før vi selv dør, og muligvis huskes for således - mens gråænder i en spidst vibrerende kile trækker hen over himlen - at få fortsat eksistens. Ligesom ordene, når de udtales, får betydning og glans. Eller støvkornet, der hænger i lysstriben, synliggør, at kloden med dens seks milliarder roterer videre — og intet synes umuligt. Akkurat som dengang min far gik med mig i den ene hånd, og min mor holdt mig i den anden ... Sådan passerede jeg på bare fødder slangen i græsset og de værste fjender. Sådan blev jeg ført svævende ind i verden, ind i det åbne for at bundfældes her.IN SOMEONE ELSE’S DREAM
Between the tree’s weavings of stems, the sun stands in fever-bright dance, birds sing with requited love. I pick up waves of sound – the branches sway rhythmically, reflexes of morning light are thrown in across the floor in springy fields of light, where the cat with a soft thud settles down to lick a paw. I’m outside everything, an ear in someone else’s dream. I am hammer and anvil, raise houses parallel displaced to the brain’s architecture, knock the words together and hear a brittle sound of wings, as when I learned how to cut the pages of books, and be able to make the knife hiss against the paper like wing-beats through the room... See birds land on the sills of kaleidoscopic dwellings, so tightly they can hold onto thoughts – and at the same time so permeable that stars and other dreams will force their way in... Wildly transparent.I EN FREMMED DRØM
Mellem træets udfletninger af stammer, står solen i feberblank dans, fugle synger af gengældt kærlighed. Jeg opfanger bølger af lyd — grenene vajer rytmisk, reflekser af morgenlys kastes ind over gulvet i fjedrende lysfelter, hvor katten med et blødt bump slår sig ned for at slikke en pote. Jeg er uden for alt, et øre i en fremmed drøm. Jeg er hammer og ambolt, rejser huse parallelforskudt til hjernens arkitektur, tømrer ordene sammen og hører en sprød lyd af vinger, som da jeg lærte at sprætte bøger op, og kunne få kniven mod papiret til at suse som vingeslag gennem stuen ... Ser fugle lande på sålbænken til kalejdoskopiske boliger, så tætte, at de kan holde på tankerne — og på samme tid så permeable, at stjerner og andre drømme vil trænge ind ... Vildt gennemskinnelige.GRAVITATION OF SHADOWS
The children play by the lake in throbbing heat. They touch one another’s hands, the sun from the highest sky makes wounds clot. The children tumble about in the grass, spun into dreams – they stick together like wounds that are healing and don’t even know they are angels... They kiss one another, they cuddle, they go near the water. The plants on the bottom glow in the sun for the ones who tread right up to them. In from the path the plants can hardly be sensed in the water and not by the ones who are moving further away in among the trees’ forgetfulness. The children play by the lake – they gather what they find, they scream with delight and take it with them. The green swaying on the bottom emerges from the low water, sucks them down towards a darkness they have no name for. Birds fly above them, the shadows from the birds give the children wings... But the season changes and becomes another, the place changes and becomes another, the era another.SKYGGERS TYNGDEKRAFT
Børnene leger ved søen i bankende varme. De berører hinandens hænder, solen fra den højeste himmel får sår til at størkne. Børnene tumler om i græsset, spundet ind i drømme — de klæber sammen som sår, der heler og ved endnu ikke, at de er engle ... De kysser hinanden, de kæler, de nærmer sig vandet. Planterne på bunden står og lyser i solen for dem, der træder helt nær. Inde fra stien anes planterne i vandet knap og ikke af dem, der færdes længere borte inde mellem træernes glemsel. Børnene leger ved søen — de samler, hvad de finder, de skriger af fryd og bærer det med sig. Det grønt svajende på bunden dukker op af det lave vand, suger dem ned mod et mørke, de ikke har navn for. Fugle flyver over dem, skyggerne fra fuglene giver børnene vinger ... Mens årstiden skifter og bliver en anden, stedet skifter og bliver et andet, tidsalderen en anden.JOURNEY WITHOUT END
Close my eyes, hear the silence waken – a river boils beneath the sky, goes roaring off, images wrench themselves free from an inner continent, fizz past in confusion. What I see, I can’t hold on to: The thought, the dreamed, the much desired – the whole of it I let go of, allow the images to be what they are. They sail away, glide out of my field of vision, the water washes past my closed eyes. I roll the images out, empty them all into the river, until there is nothing left except the heart, which can be heard, except the lungs, which breathe – in, out… It’s not I who must get moving, but the river, as I sit by its bank. A light-shower of pearls the river becomes, a water-light that trembles – the heart scarcely needs to beat – a mirror-undulating light, a freely cascading water, which no grille shall block. There’s a tingling in my skin, a faint pulsing, and inside the light, the purple blue in a living flame, and inside the purple blue an eye which sees that I give in and disappear, give in and appear, sees that the river becomes light, the light becomes haze, that the mist wraps around me, envelops me in a remembered embrace, that I am slowly filled with emptiness, that the river has glided out of my field of vision, that nothing reaches me, that my body is heavy, heavily floating, that the light vibrates white, before it stands still – that there’s a humming and stinging under the roots of my hair, as I come to myself, light as the mist that early in the morning rise from the earth, – open my eyes and look at the world: Mysteriously near, and crystal sharp.REJSE UDEN ENDE
Lukker øjnene, hører stilheden vågne — en flod koger under himlen, bruser af sted, billeder vrister sig fri af et indre kontinent, syder i et virvar forbi. Hvad jeg ser, holder jeg ikke fast: Det tænkte, det drømte, det endnu ikke fødte, det fjerne, det nære, det højt ønskede - det hele giver jeg slip på, lader billederne være det, de er. De sejler af sted, glider ud af synsfeltet, vandet skyller forbi mine lukkede øjne. Jeg vælter billederne ud, tømmer alt ned i floden, indtil der intet er tilbage, andet end hjertet, der høres, andet end lungerne, der ånder - ind, ud ... Det er ikke mig, der skal bevæge mig af sted, men floden, når jeg sidder ved dens bred. Et lysstyrt af perler bliver floden, et vandlys der skælver - hjertet behøver knapt at slå - et spejlbølgende lys, et frit fossende vand, som intet gitter skal spærre. Det prikker i huden, pulserer svagt, og inde i lyset, det violet blå i en levende flamme, og inde i det violet blå, et øje der ser, at jeg giver efter og forsvinder, giver efter og kommer til stede, ser at floden bliver lys, at lyset bliver dis, at disen svøber sig om mig, indsvøber mig i et erindret favntag, at jeg langsomt fyldes af tomheden, at floden er gledet ud af mit synsfelt, at intet når mig, at kroppen er tungt, tungt svævende, at lyset vibrerer hvidt, før det står stille — at det summer og stikker under hårrødderne, når jeg ankommer til mig selv, let som tågen, der tidligt om morgenen løfter sig fra jorden, - slår øjnene op og betragter verden: Hemmeligt nær og krystalskarp.