Plovdiv

by Laus Strandby Nielsen

There are no clouds over Plovdiv

today. They all followed Orpheus

down to the dark where they were late

for the concert. What should they do?

The door to the music was closed. Or-

pheus, Orpheus himself sounded like

an echo you could hear but faintly.

There was scarcely room for them

all in this uppermost part of the under-

world in which they had landed, just

like a flock of desperate refugees

before a bristling barbed wire fence,

so did they huddle together not knowing

inside from out. Here the transformation

took place: the clouds flowed like water

down to the underworld, making chaos

and mud. For a long time, Orpheus kept

his singing head above the hazardous

mud, but his mouth was filled,

his eyes and ears, and when at last

through the mud he heard the beloved’s

whisper like a strangely bubbling sound,

it was too late. Too late is the not

so cheerful motto of this story.

Der er ingen skyer over Plovdiv

i dag. De fulgte alle efter Orpheus

ned i mørket hvor de kom for sent

til koncerten. Hvad skulle de gøre?

Døren til musikken var lukket. Or-

pheus, selveste Orpheus lød som

et ekko man kun svagt kunne høre.

Der var næsten ikke plads til dem

alle i denne øverste del af under-

verdenen hvor de var havnet, ganske

som en flok fortvivlede flygtninge

foran et hegn af flænsende pigtråd,

sådan trykkede de sig sammen og

vidste hverken ud eller ind. Her skete

forvandlingen: skyerne flød som vand

ned i underverdenen, skabende kaos

og mudder. Længe holdt Orpheus sit

syngende hoved oven over det farlige

mudder, men hans mund blev fyldt op,

hans øjne og ører, og da han til sidst

gennem mudderet hørte den elskedes

hvisken som en underligt boblende lyd,

da var det for sent. For sent er det ikke

så muntre motto for denne fortælling.

translated from Danish by David McDuff

from Laus Strandby Nielsen: -- og andre steder, Asger Schnacks Forlag, 2019

Laus Strandby Nielsen: Two Poems

RECOGNITION

I’m the only person
in the whole world
who sees the world
with my eyes.
And now I see
myself see myself
almost as a kind of
central heating system
with pipes and thermostats,
calcifications
and insurance policies
where everything
is written in small print
in medical Latin.

I see myself
see myself
as a chemical factory
with a built-in power station
and without exaggeration
a lot of electronics.

I see myself
see myself
as a very
advanced computer
which is rather primitive
in certain respects.

I see myself
see myself as
an investment
and an investor,
sohelpmegod
as a market,
whimsically logical
swinging
from one form
of hysteria
to another
and back again,
forced against
an equilibrium
that is impossible.

I see myself
see myself
as a bank.
But how could it
go so wrong?
And can it happen
again? Here?

I see myself
see myself
as a small
and yet dizzying
swarm of small devils
that hide
behind one another
when they realise
they are being seen. Easy,
take it easy, say the
ones in front that are the
smallest, while they
swarm away, easy now.
There is no reason
to exaggerate.
Absolutely no reason.
A little smile is enough.

But I don’t recognise
the eyes that see me.

(It must be both
complete and incomplete,
says the spin
doctor, but
it’s all very well for him to say so
sitting there
in that rain-sodden tree
advertising
himself
with his yellow beak.)


GENKENDELSE

Jeg er den eneste
i hele verden
der ser verden
med mine øjne.
Og nu ser jeg
mig selv se mig selv 
nærmest som en slags
centralvarmesystem 
med rør og termostater,
forkalkninger
og forsikringer 
hvor det hele 
står med småt
på lægelatin. 

Jeg ser mig selv 
se mig selv 
som en kemisk fabrik
med indbygget elværk 
og uden at overdrive
en hel del elektronik.

Jeg ser mig selv
se mig selv
som en meget
avanceret computer
der er ret primitiv
på visse punkter.

Jeg ser mig selv
se mig selv som
en investering
og en investor,
gudhjælpemig
som et marked, 
lunefuldt logisk
svingende  
fra en form 
for hysteri
til en anden
og tilbage,
tvunget imod 
en ligevægt
som er umulig.

Jeg ser mig selv
se mig selv
som en bank.
Hvordan kunne det
dog gå så galt?
Og kan det ske
igen? Her?

Jeg ser mig selv
se mig selv
som et mindre 
og dog svimlende 
mylder af smådjævle
som gemmer sig
bag ved hinanden
når de mærker
de bliver set. Rolig,
bare rolig, siger de
forreste der er de
mindste, mens de
myldrer løs, rolig nu. 
Der er ingen grund
til at overdrive.
Absolut ingen grund.
Et lille smil er nok.

Men jeg genkender 
ikke de øjne der ser mig.

(Det skal være både
afsluttet og uafsluttet,
siger kommunikations-
rådgiveren, men det
kan han sagtens sige
som han sidder der
i det regnvåde træ
og reklamerer
for sig selv
med sit gule næb.)




PORTRAIT OF A FULL STOP

When it’s dark it gets light.
When it’s light it gets dark.
When it’s dark it does get light
at some point, but at some point

it gets dark again of course.
Then it gets light. Then it gets dark.
Light. Dark. Something is wrong. It’s
completely wrong. It’s going too fast.

In the dark-light I stumble into the light-dark
and hit something soft, the darkness falls,
I’m covered by a fur coat of light. Here

you can reflect that what you say
may end up in a poem, and if you can’t
recognise it at all, what then?


PORTRÆT AF ET PUNKTUM

Når det er mørkt, bliver det lyst.
Når det er lyst, bliver det mørkt. 
Når det så er mørkt, så bliver det lyst
på et tidspunkt, men på et tidspunkt

så bliver det selvfølgelig mørkt igen.
Så bliver det lyst. Så bliver det mørkt.
Lyst. Mørkt. Der er noget galt. Der
er noget helt galt: Det går for hurtigt.

I mørkelyset snubler jeg ind i lysmørket
og rammer noget blødt, mørket fælder, 
jeg er dækket af en pels af lys. Her

kan man tænke på at det man siger
måske havner i et digt, og når man så
slet ikke kan genkende det, hvad så?


© Laus Strandby Nielsen and David McDuff 2019

translated from Danish by David McDuff

Laus Strandby Nielsen: Two Texts

MR. SAFE

Mr. Safe has chosen his 600 kilo weight pseudonym because the elevator can just about carry him. The combination he has forgotten. Perhaps a stamp collection has been lost. He watches the news continuously. It is always new. His forgetfulness wins the race against the whole flock of repetitions. Every time. That is how he forestalls his loneliness. Once he had an anxious future. Now he is in time’s fullness of abundance. Absolutely alone. Absolutely modern. Like in the good old days. His daughter is his mother. His grandchild is also him. His time has come. It goes no further. How can he be lonely?

His real name is Hansen. More real than that it does not get. It is far from certain that it is enough. It takes at least three people to change the diaper on his 120 kilo weight body. Free will lives somewhere nearby. Like a king in his castle. It’s some old shit, but it's his old shit. There must be a meeting. There must be several meetings. There must be implementation. But from now on he represents your blind spot. His heirs are called Cause and Effect.


HR. PENGESKAB

Hr. Pengeskab har valgt sit 600 kg tunge pseudonym fordi elevatoren så lige akkurat kan bære ham. Koden har han glemt. Måske er en frimærkesamling gået tabt. Han ser nyhederne uafbrudt.  De er hele tiden nye. Hans glemsomhed vinder kapløbet mod hele flokken af gentagelser. Hver gang. Sådan kommer han ensomheden i forkøbet. Engang havde han en ængstelig fremtid.  Nu er han i tidens fylde af overflod. Absolut ikke alene. Absolut moderne. Som i de gode gamle dage. Hans datter er hans mor. Hans barnebarn er også ham. Hans tid er kommet. Den går ikke længere. Hvordan kan han være ensom?

Hans virkelige navn er Hansen. Mere virkeligt bliver det ikke. Det er langt fra sikkert at det er nok. Der skal mindst tre personer til at skifte bleen på hans 120 kg tunge krop. Den frie vilje bor et sted i nærheden. Som en konge på sit slot. Det er noget gammelt lort, men det er hans gamle lort. Der skal holdes et møde. Der skal holdes flere møder. Der skal implementeres. Men fra  nu af forestiller han din blinde plet. Hans arvinger hedder Årsag og Virkning.



THEY NEVER PUT THE LIGHT OUT IN THE CORRIDOR

Because life goes on with trolleys and racks
in the light and the dark, in spasms that clutch something
almost nothing of what remains, it spreads
out like that snoring in the universe you call
your neighbour. You must go closer. Through the fair
fluttering worlds that are what you can see
in the birdsong’s grey-flickering cuts in the grief.
The wet and the dry monsters wag their tails.
If they’ve been allowed to keep them. There’s
a big circle when the animals say goodbye.
While the  pretty, capable ambassadors of the future
submit their credentials to my white
blood cells. There’s a burning in one foot.
There’s an emergency vehicle on its way in the oesophagus
in a southbound direction, I repeat: Dr. Carrot
and Dr. Stick are in a meeting, this is the last call
for passengers to The Old World. All
others are asked to stand up and say thank you for the ride.


DE SLUKKER ALDRIG LYSET UDE PÅ GANGEN 

Fordi livet går videre med rulleborde og stativer
i lyset og mørket, i kramper der knuger noget
nær ingenting ud af det der er tilbage, det breder
sig ud som den snorken i universet du kalder
din næste. Du skal tættere på. Gennem de fagre
blafrende verdener der er hvad du kan se 
i fuglesangens gråflimrende rifter i sorgen.
De våde og de tørre monstre logrer med halen.
Hvis de har fået lov til at beholde den.  Der er
en stor rundkreds når dyrene siger farvel.
Mens fremtidens smukke, dygtige ambassadører
afleverer deres akkreditiver til mine hvide
blodlegemer. Det brænder i den ene fod.
Der er et udrykningskøretøj på vej i spiserøret
i sydgående retning, jeg gentager: Dr. Gulerod
og Dr. Stok sidder i møde, det er sidste udkald
for passagerer til Den gamle verden. Alle
andre bedes rejse sig og sige tak for turen.

translated from Danish by David McDuff

Laus Strandby Nielsen: Two Texts

THE TITLE GEYSIR

Seen from a distance in backlight it looks like a slightly informal funeral.
But the yellow, red, blue, purple, black, incidentally not green
windcheaters and raincoats and not least the cameras tell
a different story about the incidentally 19 texts without a heading
that stand around a mud hole. Which one must not touch.
19 different open texts, cryptically unfinished, muttering
with a planet in their mouths and the sky for a handkerchief.
Can they read one another? No. Can they read themselves? No.
They are waiting for the title, and so they cannot get down
to the text. And then it is there. A fountain of boiling water
shoots high in the air. The cameras click. An expected
surprise, called Geysir, makes the texts meaningless
and briefly closed...


OVERSKRIFTEN GEYSIR

Set på afstand i modlys ligner det en lidt uformel begravelse.
Men de gule, røde, blå, lilla, sorte, tilfældigvis ingen grønne
vind- og regnjakker og ikke mindst kameraerne fortæller 
noget andet om de tilfældigvis 19 tekster uden overskrift
der står rundt om et mudderhul. Som man ikke skal røre ved.
19 forskellige åbne tekster, kryptisk uafsluttede, mumlende
med en planet i munden og himlen som lommetørklæde.
Kan de læse hinanden? Nej. Kan de læse sig selv? Nej.
De venter på overskriften, og så kan de jo ikke komme ned
i teksten. Og så er den der. En fontæne af kogende vand
skyder højt op i luften. Kameraerne klikker. En forventet
overraskelse, kaldet Geysir, gør teksterne meningsløse
og kortvarigt afsluttede…


AVANTGARDE

The stiffest clothes are not as stiff as they were. So now a plaster cast is needed. But I anticipate the course of events. As always when one lags behind. The whole class came and wrote their names on the plaster leg. This temporary monument, assailed by doubtful presence. Who will come now with the family album of X-rays? The loft must be cleared. The house must be vacuumed and fumigated. And yet the new tenants will complain because they are bitten by the old fleas. They are not all there. They are obsessed with the thought of fleas. They scratch themselves where the skin bubbles up around a bite. Material sense never fails.


AVANTGARDE

Det stiveste puds er ikke så stift som det har været. Så nu skal der gipses. Men jeg foregriber begivenhedernes gang. Som altid når man er bagud. Hele klassen kom og skrev deres navne på gipsbenet. Dette midlertidige monument, bestormet af tvivlsomt nærvær. Hvem kommer nu med familiealbummet af røntgenbilleder? Loftet skal ryddes. Huset skal støvsuges og gasses. Og alligevel vil de nye lejere klage fordi de bliver bidt af de gamle lopper. De er ikke rigtig kloge. De er besat af tanken om lopper. De kradser sig hvor huden bobler op omkring et bid. Materialefornemmelsen fornægter sig aldrig.


translated from Danish by David McDuff

Two poems

by Laus Strandby Nielsen

Idyll

Let it be now. Good old now. While the cat is asleep, and the mice are gnawing at the electric cables. Before the wide-awake deep water turns into a sleepless puddle. While the background still keeps in the background and there is peace and quiet in the freezer.


Melancholy

Just after dinner time the phone rings while I am cooking. It’s a faithless old friend who wants to sell me a garden sofa. I get rid of him by promising to call him back later. But when I actually do – having made certain that the garden is still there and still does not have time to talk to me – I get a consultant on the line:
- You only need one battery, so it should all work fine, and now allow me to let you in on a secret, young man: If you keep what you promise, you will have your hands full!
- Young man! I think, hang up and give my dinner to the house pet, my little bear, who eats it with relish. He is cute and strong, my bear, and he will never be quite tame.

translated from Danish by David McDuff

from: Hvis der ikke er sandstorme, så er der nok noget andet, Gyldendal, 2010

Sandstorms

Gyldendal have published Laus Strandby Nielsen's latest collection of poetry, which bears the title Hvis der ikke er sandstorme, så er der nok noget andet (If there aren't sandstorms, there's probably something else). Translations of some of these prose poems have already appeared in this blog:

Here
Here
Here
Here
and
Here

Laus Strandby Nielsen: Prose Poem

When you have understood the map, you have lost your way.

When you stick your head in the Mouth of Truth and sing in the mouth the song that has swallowed you, only then do you realize where you are.

Where the roads continue after they've found one another. Where time stands still when nothing ends. Where the road disappears until you have reached your destination. Where the roads divide after they've disappeared.

When you stick your head in the Mouth of Truth and sing in the mouth the song that has swallowed you, you realize once more where you are.

When you have understood the map, you have lost your way.


From: Den Fynske Forårsudstilling 2009. Catalogue. Prose Poems by Laus Strandby Nielsen.

Poem translated from Danish by David McDuff

Prose Poem
Prose Poem
Prose Poem
Prose Poem

Laus Strandby Nielsen: Prose Poem

A picture goes sideways through the world. Stops. While you decide - as only you can - if you want to marry it or not, it moves forwards and backwards at the same time. But how long can one take to decide?

A picture is a stone. The first. But so far the stone is invisible. First we see an abandoned anthill that isn't there. But it has been there. We see. Until the stone goes through the mirror. With toothpaste and all the rest. No messages written in lipstick. But a kiss of flesh and blood. Pine-needle scent.

From: Den Fynske Forårsudstilling 2009. Catalogue. Prose Poems by Laus Strandby Nielsen.

Poem translated from Danish by David McDuff

Prose Poem
Prose Poem
Prose Poem

Laus Strandby Nielsen: Prose Poem

You throw a stick in the water, but it sinks to the bottom. You throw a stone that skims on the water before it sinks to the bottom. You find another stone, but see at once that it's not a stone. It is an internal organ in a relatively living creature. -- That's a lie! you say. And yes, it is, the stone is a stone, but the first stick that was the last was an internal organ inside the invisible dreaming monster you are struggling with. -- Was? Yes, precisely. The whole thing is a reconstruction. -- The whole thing? Yes, precisely. Why else would one be throwing sticks and stones in the water?


From: Den Fynske Forårsudstilling 2009. Catalogue. Prose Poems by Laus Strandby Nielsen.

Poem translated from Danish by David McDuff


Prose Poem
Prose Poem

Prose Poem

While the grass grows, loneliness dies. Look: They are dancing, all the old friends with their doubtful prognoses, each with his skeleton, each with his inimitably crumpled-up longing. See this molehill, and come closer to the sky. While the grass grows, the pictures tear themselves free of the paper. See through this mirror with anything other than your own eyes. While the landscape listens, the grass grows.

From: Den Fynske Forårsudstilling 2009. Catalogue. Prose Poems by Laus Strandby Nielsen.

Poem translated from Danish by David McDuff

Mens græsset gror, dør ensomheden. Se: De danser, alle de gamle venner med deres tvivlsomme prognoser, hver med sit skelet, hver med sin uefterligneligt sammenkrøllede længsel. Se dette muldvarpeskud, og kom tættere på himlen. Mens græsset gror, river billederne sig løs fra papiret. Se med alt andet end dine egne øjne igennem dette spejl. Mens landskabet lytter, gror græsset.

Prose Poem

A picture is on its way elsewhere at the very moment it comes into view. It lights a fire under the darkness that burns a hole in the head. – Whose head are we talking about? you ask, of course. – What do you think you’re looking out of? the picture answers. It is a picture, after all. It is time to prevaricate. Time to change direction. Time to see the difference between people and pictures. But the difference is also a picture.

From: Den Fynske Forårsudstilling 2009. Catalogue. Prose Poems by Laus Strandby Nielsen.

Poem translated from Danish by David McDuff