Poem
Henrik Nordbrandt
The city of violinmakers
Every time that you returnI could kill you for it –
out of envy at the view
I never gained a glimpse of, the river
that wound its way through the city and out
into lush countryside
unless it was a stream of blue horses
the snow of the mountains and the local
language, the inside jokes
they made about their kings.
‘The city of violin makers’ I have often
christened the place where I search
for your soul’s preferred haunt
your melancholy’s woodland floor, and the special
tint in the light across your cheek
the one that drives me mad in late-winter
or in other words: I know nothing of death
but I ascribe such powerlessness to the dead
such an undirected yearning
that no picture can be made
despite the frame that is always present:
Throughout the night downriver
we nevertheless lay awake on deck
listening to the string music
borne out to us from invisible banks.
© Translation: 2000, John Irons
Violinbyggernes by
Violinbyggernes by
Hver gang du kommer tilbagekunne jeg dræbe dig for det
– af misundelse over den udsigt
jeg ikke fik set, floden
der slyngede sig gennem byen og ud
i et blomstrende landskab
medmindre det var en strøm af blå heste
bjergenes sne og de indfødtes
sprog, de indforståede vittigheder
de fortalte om deres konge.
‘Violinbyggernes by’ har jeg ofte
døbt det sted, hvor jeg leder
efter din sjæIs foretrukne tilholdssted
din melankolis skovbund, og den særlige
tone i lyset over din kind
den som gør mig gal sidst på vinteren
eller med andre ord: Om døden ved jeg intet
men en sådan afmagt tillægger jeg de døde
en sådan genstandsløs længsel
at intet billede kan gøres
på trods af rammen, som altid er der:
Hele natten ned ad floden
lå vi ikke desto mindre vågne på dækket
og lyttede til strygermusikken
der blev båret ud mod os fra usynlige bredder.
© 1999, Henrik Nordbrandt
From: Egne digte
Publisher: Gyldendal,
From: Egne digte
Publisher: Gyldendal,
Poems
Poems of Henrik Nordbrandt
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The city of violinmakers
Every time that you returnI could kill you for it –
out of envy at the view
I never gained a glimpse of, the river
that wound its way through the city and out
into lush countryside
unless it was a stream of blue horses
the snow of the mountains and the local
language, the inside jokes
they made about their kings.
‘The city of violin makers’ I have often
christened the place where I search
for your soul’s preferred haunt
your melancholy’s woodland floor, and the special
tint in the light across your cheek
the one that drives me mad in late-winter
or in other words: I know nothing of death
but I ascribe such powerlessness to the dead
such an undirected yearning
that no picture can be made
despite the frame that is always present:
Throughout the night downriver
we nevertheless lay awake on deck
listening to the string music
borne out to us from invisible banks.
© 2000, John Irons
From: Egne digte
From: Egne digte
The city of violinmakers
Every time that you returnI could kill you for it –
out of envy at the view
I never gained a glimpse of, the river
that wound its way through the city and out
into lush countryside
unless it was a stream of blue horses
the snow of the mountains and the local
language, the inside jokes
they made about their kings.
‘The city of violin makers’ I have often
christened the place where I search
for your soul’s preferred haunt
your melancholy’s woodland floor, and the special
tint in the light across your cheek
the one that drives me mad in late-winter
or in other words: I know nothing of death
but I ascribe such powerlessness to the dead
such an undirected yearning
that no picture can be made
despite the frame that is always present:
Throughout the night downriver
we nevertheless lay awake on deck
listening to the string music
borne out to us from invisible banks.
© 2000, John Irons
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