SPRING 07: Niels Hav
He has travelled widely in Europe, Asia, North and South America. His work has been translated into several languages, including English, Spanish, Portuguese, Turkish and Italian. His credits include five volumes of poetry and three short story collections. He's also been the recipient of several national awards. His forthcoming book is an English translation of Here We Are, published by Book Thug.
Women of Copenhagen
I have once again fallen in love
this time with five different women during a ride
on the number 40 bus from Njalsgade to Østerbro.
How is one to gain control of one's life under such conditions?
One wore a fur coat, another red wellingtons.
One of them was reading a newspaper, the other Heidegger
--and the streets were flooded with rain.
At Amager Boulevard a drenched princess entered,
euphoric and furious, and I fell for her utterly.
But she jumped off at the police station
and was replaced by two queens with flaming kerchiefs,
who spoke shrilly with each other in Pakistani
all the way to the Municipal Hospital while the bus boiled
in poetry. They were sisters and equally beautiful,
so I lost my heart to both of them and immediately planned
a new life in a village near Rawalpindi
where children grow up in the scent of hibiscus
while their desperate mothers sing heartbreaking songs
as dusk settles over the Pakistani plains.
But they didn't see me!
And the one wearing a fur coat cried beneath
her glove when she got off at Farimagsgade.
The girl reading Heidegger suddenly shut her book
and looked directly at me with a dirisive smile,
as if she'd suddenly caught a glimpse of Mr. Nobody
in his very own insignificance.
And that's how my heart broke for the fifth time,
when she got up and left the bus with all the others.
Life is so brutal!
I continued for two more stops before giving up.
It always ends like that: You stand alone
on the kerb, sucking on a cigarette,
wound up and mildly unhappy.
Kvinderne i København
Nu har jeg igen forelsket mig fem gange
i fem forskellige kvinder på en tur
med bus nr.4o fra Njalsgade til Østerbro.
Hvordan får man styr på sin tilværelse
under de forhold?
En af dem var i pels, en anden i røde gummistøvler.
Den ene læste Ekstra Bladet, den anden Heidegger
- og gaderne drev af regn.
Ved Amager Boulevard steg en drivvåd prinsesse ind,
euforisk og hidsig, hende faldt jeg pladask for.
Men hun sprang ud ved Polititorvet og blev afløst
af to dronninger med flammende tørklæder,
som talte skingrende sammen på pakistansk hele vejen
til Kommunehospitalet, mens bussen kogte af poesi.
De var søstre og lige smukke,
derfor tabte jeg mit hjerte til dem begge to
og planlagde prompte en ny tilværelse i en landsby
nær Rawalpindi, hvor børnene vokser op
i en duft af hibiscus,
mens deres desperate mødre synger hjerteskærende
i skumringen over de endeløse pakistanske stepper.
Men de så mig ikke!
Og hende i pels græd bag sin handske,
da hun steg ud i Farimagsgade.
Pigen der læste Heidegger lukkede pludselig sin bog
og så direkte på mig med et hånligt smil,
som om hun med ét fik øje på hr. Hvemsomhelst
i egen lusede person. Og således brast mit hjerte
for femte gang, da hun rejste sig og stod af
sammen med alle de andre.
Så brutal er tilværelsen!
Jeg fortsatte to stoppesteder, før jeg gav op.
Og sådan ender det altid: Man står alene ved kantstenen
og suger på en cigaret, højstemt og lettere ulykkelig.
In Defence of Poets
What are we to do about the poets?
Life's rough on them
they look so pitiful dressed in black
their skin blue from internal blizzards
Poetry is a horrible disease,
the infected walk about complaining
their screams pollute the atmosphere like leaks
from atomic power stations of the mind. It's so psychotic
Poetry is a tyrant
it keeps people awake at night and destroys marriages
it draws people out to desolate cottages in mid-winter
where they sit in pain wearing earmuffs and thick scarves.
Imagine the torture.
Poetry is a pest
worse than gonorrhea, a terrible abomination.
But consider poets it's hard for them
bear with them!
They are hysterical as if they are expecting twins
they gnash their teeth while sleeping, they eat dirt
and grass. They stay out in the howling wind for hours
tormented by astounding metaphors.
Every day is a holy day for them.
Oh please, take pity on the poets
they are deaf and blind
help them through traffic where they stagger about
with their invisible handicap
remembering all sorts of stuff. Now and then one of them stops
to listen for a distant siren.
Show consideration for them.
Poets are like insane children
who've been chased from their homes by the entire family.
Pray for them
they are born unhappy
their mothers have cried for them
sought the assistance of doctors and lawyers, until they had to give up
for fear of loosing their own minds.
Oh, cry for the poets!
Nothing can save them.
Infested with poetry like secret lepers
they are incarcerated in their own fantasy world
a gruesome ghetto filled with demons
and vindictive ghosts.
When on a clear summer's day the sun shining brightly
you see a poor poet
come wobbling out of the apartment block, looking pale
like a cadaver and disfigured by speculations
then walk up and help him.
Tie his shoelaces, lead him to the park
and help him sit down on the bench
in the sun. Sing to him a little
buy him an ice cream and tell him a story
because he's so sad.
He's completely ruined by poetry.
Til digternes forsvar
Hvad skal vi gøre med digterne?
Dem er det synd for,
de er så hjerteskærende i deres sorte tøj
blåfrosne af indvendige polarstorme.
Poesien er en frygtelig pest,
de smittede går rundt og jamrer sig,
deres skrig forgifter atmosfæren som udslip
fra mentale atomkraftværker. Det er så psykisk.
Poesien er en tyran;
den holder folk vågne om natten og ødelægger
ægteskaberne,
den driver mænd ud i øde sommerhuse midt om vinteren,
der sidder de forpinte med høreværn og halstørklæder.
En hæslig tortur.
Poesi er en plage,
værre end gonoré - en grusom pestilens.
Men tænk på digterne, de har det hårdt,
bær over med dem!
De er hysteriske som højgravide tvillingemødre,
de skærer tænder i søvne, spiser jord
og græs. De står i timevis udenfor i blæsten
plaget af ufattelige metaforer.
Hver dag er en højtid for dem.
Åh, hav barmhjertighed med digterne,
de er døve og blinde,
hjælp dem i trafikken, hvor de vakler rundt
med deres usynlige handicap: De husker
alt muligt. Af og til standser en af dem op
og lytter efter en fjern udrykning.
Vis hensyn.
Poeterne er som sindssyge børn
jaget hjemmefra af den samlede familie.
Bed for dem;
de er født ulykkelige -
deres mødre har grædt over dem,
søgt lægehjælp og juridisk bistand,
indtil de bare gav op
for at frelse deres egen forstand.
Åh, græd over poeterne!
Dem er der ingen redning for.
Befængt med lyrik som hemmeligt spedalske
er de spærret inde i deres egen fantasi -
en uhyggelig ghetto, fyldt med dæmoner
og ondskabsfulde spøgelser.
Når du på en klar sommerdag med strålende sol
ser en stakkels digter
komme vaklende ud fra en opgang, bleg
som en dødning og vansiret af spekulationer -
så gå hen og hjælp ham!
Bind hans snørebånd, tag ham med
over i parken og sæt ham på en bænk
i solen. Syng lidt for ham,
giv ham en is og fortæl ham et eventyr;
han er så ked af det.
Han er helt ødelagt af poesi.
Hunting Lizards in the Dark
During the killings unaware
we walked along the lakes.
You spoke of Szymanowski,
I studied a rook
picking at dog shit.
Each of us caught up in ourselves
surrounded by a shell of ignorance
that protects our prejudices.
The holists believe that a butterfly in the Himalayas
with the flap of a wing can influence the climate
in Antartica. It may be true.
But where the tanks roll in
and flesh and blood drip from the trees
that is no comfort.
Searching for truth is like hunting lizards
in the dark. The grapes are from South Africa,
the rice from Pakistan, the dates grown in Iran.
We support the idea of open borders
for fruit and vegetables,
but however we twist and turn
the ass is at the back.
The dead are buried deep inside the newspaper,
so that we, unaffected, can sit on a bench
on the outskirts of paradise
and dream of butterflies.
At fange firben i mørke
Under myrderierne gik vi
intetanende tur langs søerne.
Du snakkede om Szymanowski.
Jeg studerede en råge,
der hakkede i en hundelort.
Enhver er fanget i sin eget,
omgivet af en hård skal af uvidenhed,
som beskytter vore fordomme.
Holisterne tror, at en sommerfugl i Himalaya
med et vingeslag kan påvirke klimaet
i Antarktis. Måske er det sandt.
Men der, hvor kampvognene ruller ind,
og kød og blod drypper fra træerne,
er det ingen trøst.
At søge sandheden er som at fange firben
i mørke. Druerne er fra Sydafrika,
risen fra Pakistan, dadlerne er dyrket i Iran.
Vi støtter ideen om åbne grænser
for frugt og grønt,
men hvordan vi end vender og drejer os,
vender røven bagud.
De døde begraves dybt inde i avisen,
så vi uanfægtede kan sætte os på en bænk
i udkanten af paradis
og drømme om sommerfugle.
© 2007 Niels Hav
© 2007 Niels Hav, Per Brask, Patrick Friesen
Latest news
-
16.02.24
-
09.02.24
-
01.02.24
-
25.01.24
-
18.01.24