min ungdoms hjältar: Werner Aspenström, svensk poet 1918-1997

Hur muskulös den lilla flugan känns
i knutna handen.
Hur den brummar och stångas
som en motorgräsklippare.
Hur vingarna växer och växer
och tvingar handen plana ut sig
till ett flygfält
och flugan, fri men med blessyrer,
startar.

How muscular the little fly ..

SARDINEN PÅ TUNNELBANAN

Jag vill inte tvätta mig med den där tvålen.
Jag vill inte borsta mig med den där tandkrämen.
Jag vill inte byta till det där elbolaget.
Jag känner inget behov av det där toalettpappret.
Jag är inte intresserad av den där pensionsförsäkringen.
Jag vill inte välja skola åt mina barn.
Jag har ingen lust att se den där filmen.
Jag vägrar stiga av vid Skärholmen.
Sardinen vill att burken öppnas mot havet.

the sardine wants the can to be opened against the sea”

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Winter in Poetry/ vinter i poesin

Tomten
Viktor Rudberg 1881

Midvinternattens köld är hård,
stjärnorna gnistra och glimma.
Alla sova i enslig gård
djupt under midnattstimma.
Månen vandrar sin tysta ban,
snön lyser vit på fur och gran,
snön lyser vit på taken.
Endast tomten är vaken.

Står där så grå vid ladgårdsdörr,
grå mot den vita driva,
tittar, som många vintrar förr,
upp emot månens skiva,
tittar mot skogen, där gran och fur
drar kring gården sin dunkla mur,
grubblar, fast ej det lär båta,
över en underlig gåta.

 

This in Sweden famous poem written by Viktor Rydberg,
was hard to translate.
Its about a small grey helper at the farm, called the tomte.
for his help with the animals you need to give him porridge.

The Tomte

The midwinternight is cold and hard,
the stars are glittering and gleaming.
Everyone sleeps in faraway house
deep under the midnight hour.
The moon is walking his silent path,
the snow shimmer white on  pine and fir,
the snow shimmer white on the roofs,
only the tomte is awake.

Standing so grey at the door of the barn,
grey against the white collor of snow,

looking like many winters before
up at the bowl of the moon,
looking at the forest, where spruce and pine
draw around the farm its dark wall,
puzzled over a riddle so strange,
as the answer might not be found.

the midwinter night  is cold and hard

Den första snön av Stig Dagerman/ The First Snow is the Whitest by Stig Dagerman

IMG_9223

Den första snön är vitast
av allt som vindar drev
en morgon ligger jorden
beströdd med vita brev.

Olästa över dagen
vila myr och lund
så mycket post fick ingen
som vinterns första stund.

men varje brev ska brytas
var fråga få sitt svar
och vargens gång ska läsas
av den som ögon har.

och mänskas spår ska visa
en broder var hon bor
för ingen är så ensam
som hon om hösten tror.

Stig Dagerman, ur Dagsedlar 1954

Den här dikten kan jag utantill. Hur många dikter kan du?
Sist jag läste den högt var för en andraklass i småskolan.
Jag stannade efter andra versen och möttes av en applåd av eleverna.
Vi hade just läst om posten i samhället …
och det var på den tiden vi fortfarande skickade brev till varandra.
Nu sitter jag vid fönstret och ser snön falla.

The first snow is the whitest
of all what winds have found
one morning the earth lies sprinkled
with white mail on the ground.

Unread throughout the day
rest moors and grove
so much mail got no one
as the first moment of the winter wove.

This poem by Stig Dagerman  was hard to translate, but anyway I have made an attempt.
You are welcome to help me make it better.

 

förlorat och funnet/ lost and found

beware-black-buzz

Inspired by Austin Kleon I made this picture poem. Try it out yourself, use your intension or let the chance be the creator, to surprise you and let you find something that you didn´t know were there.

Kleon created poems by taking newspaper articles and reducing the words with a black marker, he published  them  in the book “Newspaper Blackout”. He take something old and make something new, it´s happening all the time, and it´s a good thing. He has a ver y nice idea about sharing, in these days that other tends to say “Don´t touch, it´s mine!”.

Look into his web page and read his books:
“Steal like an artist” and “Show your work”

http://austinkleon.com/

into my heart/ in i mitt hjärta

oak tree

Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

A.E Houseman 1859 – 1936 “”A Shropshire Lad”

In till mitt hjärta blåser dödens vind
långt bort från fjärran land:
men vilka är de, minnets blåa berg,
och vilka torn och gårdar är det där?

Det är mitt land av det jag mist och fått
De lyser klart, jag ser,
de lyckans vägar där jag gått
och dit jag aldrig kommer mer.

översättning Lisbeth Nordin

Jag hörde först några rader av den här dikten i en engelsk deckare, då den ene polisen reciterar den sista strofen när han plötsligt stöter på sin barndomsvän i Oxford.
När får vi höra en svensk polis citera Ferlin eller kanske Lars Forsell, då mörkret sveper in över Stockholms mörka trottoarer och de skötsamma gått och lagt sig i miljonprogrammens fågelholkar?

I heard the first lines of this poem in an English detective story, when one police recited the last lines, as he encountered a childhood friend in Oxford.
When will I hear a Swedish police quote Ferlin or maybe Lars Forssell in a detective story, when darkness sweeps across Stockholm sidewalks?

Twas the night before Christmas.

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

e spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

Clement Clarke Moore (1779 – 1863) wrote the poem Twas the night before Christmas.