Showing posts with label Susanne Jorn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Susanne Jorn. Show all posts

Saturday, 23 July 2022

Snapshots

Spuyten Duyvil of NYC have published my translation of Susanne Jorn's Andalusiske øjebliksbilleder i November/Andalusian Snapshots in November. This is really a collaborative venture, and the book is bilingual, with facing Danish and English texts. 



From dark mood

to light mood

Pastel yellow Photosensitivity

Wednesday, 10 October 2018

Drachmannlegatet


The painter and poet Holger Drachmann was born on October 9th, 1849. Drachmann was among the first artists who travelled to Skagen and he was a prominent member of the artists’ colony. Since 1917 a literary prize, the Drachmannlegatet, has been awarded on Drachmann’s birthday. This year's laureate is the Danish poet Susanne Jorn (b. 1944). As has been the case in recent years, the Plesner Galleries at Skagens Museum will be the venue for a celebration of this year’s laureate on October 19th.

https://skagenskunstmuseer.dk/blog/2018/10/09/susanne-jorn-modtager-drachmannlegatet/

Wednesday, 26 January 2011

Susanne Jorn: poems

A POMEGRANATE
A SMALL TORTOISESHELL
A POMEGRANATE

*

Most wonderfully lovely pomegranate tree.
Most wonderfully beautiful pomegranate.
Love’s pomegranate-red fruit.

Nothing more.

*

It is said
that pomegranates
cleanse the body
of hatred and jealousy.

If it is said
that poetry
is the breath of the soul
then pomegranates must
be love poems
all of them


*

Granada is the place
where many pomegranate trees grow.
Granada is the place
where the Alhambra palace is.

I got lost in the Alhambra.
And
suddenly stood
in the Alhambra’s secret chamber.

In one corner of the chamber I could sense
a man’s presence in the thick darkness.

I sat down in the opposite corner of the chamber
and whispered my secret to him.

Only then
could I
continue along
that fate-determined road.

*

SIESTA
CIRCULAR SAW
SIESTA

*

In endless, deep minutes
of penetrable transparency
I’m united with my poems in koans

while
two ink-black daytime-owl-eyes
just
stare and stare and stare
mysteriously
straight through me


(from Andalusiske øjebliksbilleder i november, 2010)

translated from Danish by David McDuff

Thursday, 1 April 2010

The Last Goodbye in Grötlingbo on Gotland

By Susanne Jorn


I

My father died on May 1, 1973
Everyone knew it - except me.
Because I lived all the way over
on the other side of the Atlantic
and my siblings did not phone.

When I was told I wore mourning white far into May
and slept like a Sleeping Beauty for 28 years.
Slept black – until a Danish man planted
a kiss on my lilywhite lips
and I woke up ...


II


First the stalkers erected a gravestone
for Asger Jorn in Grötlingbo on Gotland.

Then Asger Jorn's youngest son removed the stalkers’ stone
and put up another for his father:
A base for his father's bronze sculpture
that bears the inscription "Kontemplatione Fatigata" ...

It went black and white for me
at Grötlingbo cemetery
as I stood before my father's grave:
the bronze sculpture "Kontemplatione Fatigata".

I ran a fever and my eyes stung as I unsuccessfully spoke to my father's ashes.


III


At Grötlingbo cemetery next day
I called out again –

addressing my father's ashes
in Erik Nyholm's blue urn.

The lid sprang open.
Up came the Spirit
my father's ghost in the sky.

Only then
was I able to say
The Last Goodbye.

Reaching out for
the spectral-blue ghost --
but it was already invisible.

Since then
my mood has been neither
black nor white,
but all colours.

translated from Danish by David McDuff

Monday, 8 February 2010

The time is set

by Susanne Jorn

January

This rotating earth.
This olive tree.
These roads.
Labyrinths
in crunching cold.

February

Growing
lightlonging.

Midnight blue.

March

Torture
somewhere
in screaming black terrordarkness.

Survivallaughter.
Prisonecho.
Buddinglife.

April

To believe in something
trust someone,
is to be one
who loves.

May

Pas de deux.

Cat ballet
in the moonstripe.

June

FLAME-COLOURED
Lifebreath –
SIMPLY

July

Buddhasmile
in cornflower field.

Is everything okay.

August

Longing
The lips

The pomegranates.

September

The uncertainty about
the future’s
mystery.

The certainty of
the sky’s
vitality.

October

War.
No!
Ethnic cleansing.
No!
Suicide bombers.
No!
The Danish flag trampled and burned
No!

Peace.
Yes!
Freedom.
Yes-yes!
Tolerance.
Yes-yes-yes!
Cosmopolitanism.
Yes, please!

November

Fog-blue daylight.
Almost no verdigris towers.

Wintry figures in snail gallop.
They are cycling home.

December

Year
at its zenith.

The lines of life.

translated from Danish by David McDuff

Sunday, 24 January 2010

Integration Poem. February 2006

by Susanne Jorn

I

They shout
“Death to Denmark”
and mean me too.

They burn Danish embassies
and burn me too.

They trample on the Danish flag,
and trample on my damned Danishness.

II

At Easter 2000 I stood
in Kastrup Airport
with the papers for my existence
in my hand baggage.

Stood for a long, long time
on the runway,
but knew that the first step
into my fatherland
was in the right direction.

First came foothold.
Then roothold.

III

The first time
they called me an immigrant
I was proud as a peacock.

The second time
deeply hurt –

The third time,
incandescent with rage.

IV

When Danes trample
on my expatriate Danishness,
they trample on my heart.

They can’t see it.
They don’t want to see it.


(from Med et halvt øje  [With Half An Eye], Forlaget Sohn, 2006)
translated from Danish by David McDuff

See also: Two Poems
Susanne Jorn: Two Poems
A Speech

Thursday, 21 January 2010

A Speech

In 2008 Susanne Jorn gave the following speech in English at the Tokyo Poetry Festival:
IF I WERE TO MAKE STATUS of the poets in the world, I believe that all poets one way or another write poems to live and to survive.

IF I WERE TO MAKE STATUS of World Poetry, I must say that it will always survive, no matter what happens in the world. A few years ago I went to Istanbul and saw a tiny clay table from Sumerian times behind glass at a museum. It had cuneiform characters on it, that I did not understand. On a little sign it said that this was the world’s oldest love poem. As no translation was attached, it was then up to the spectators to guess what the love poem was about. I take it that since love between people is eternal, a love poem way back then and today would have the same essence of human daily life.

I also believe that World Poetry has the power to make people survive. One example of this is the famous story of a Chilean woman who survived the most painful moments of torture in a basement during the Pinochet regime by reciting love poems by Pablo Neruda.

Last year I participated in the 46th Sarajevo Poetry Days and met Goran Simic. Following Sarajevo Poetry Days, I wrote Goran Simic and asked him how Sarajevo Poetry Days happened during the civil war in the 90’s, he answered ... ”I was the main organizer of Sarajevo Poetry Days in 1992 and also in 1993, when we actually read poems in a basment. For each other mostly, because there had been severe bombings all day long. It was a protest, but essential to keep poetry alive”

IF I WERE TO MAKE STATUS of the World Poetry scene in Denmark today, less Danish poetry collections get published every year, compared to the 90’s. This is the case of foreign poetry collections as well. The problem in Denmark is that there is not enough focus on World Poetry translated from non-Western languages.

However not so long ago there was a World Poetry Series which included poetry collections from the 20th century. The series started in 1999 and of the twelve poetry collections that did get published, in fact Shuntaro Tanikawa was the only non-Western poet included. When the series stopped in 2004, an unusual selection of 10 New Chinese Poets came out, including both Chinese poets living in China and Chinese poets in exile.

Nonetheless I have translated poems from Chinese and Japanese for decades and the economy of words in my poems in fact stem from the influence of Chinese and Japanese poetry.

IF I WERE TO MAKE STATUS of my own poetry, all my poems have epigrammatic qualities. I boil the Danish language down to short poems, consisting of a few words. This minimalist approach allows me a space to express myself. At the same time, it opens up for a spontaneous, abstract visuality.

My poems start with one picture followed by another picture in succession like in a film. This flow is dominated by painterly qualities like colors, lines and figures. Every single poem of mine is luminescent.

The visual element is intrinsic to my poetry and most of my poetry collections are illustrated by visual artist as well. Yasse Tabuchi and Pierre Alechinsky are some of them. There was also a time in my life, when I wrote poems to visual art. In Tracks in Sand, I was asked to write poems for the Icelandic artist Sigurjón Ólafsson’s sculptures. These sculpture poems were written in English and translated by Kazuko Shiraishi into Japanese.

For me all poetry is music one way or another. Therefore I naturally focus on sound in my poems. Every single one of my poems has its own melody then. A song for to live - and to survive.

Susanne Jorn

Wednesday, 20 January 2010

Susanne Jorn: Two Poems

Summer Song

It was in the light of the year's longest day,
that people gathered for better or worse.
They sat silent in the shade of beech trees.

Life is colourful.
Lovely, lovely.

It was in the darkness of the year's shortest night.
people said to one another,
tomorrow things will go the wrong way,
tomorrow winter will come.


Winter Song

It was in the darkness of the year's longest night
that people gathered for better or worse.
They sat silent in the light from their lamps.

Life is colourful.
Lovely, lovely.

It was in the light of the year's shortest day
people said to one another,
tomorrow things will go the right way,
tomorrow summer will come.

(from Med et halvt øje  [With Half An Eye], Forlaget Sohn, 2006)
translated from Danish by David McDuff

See also: Two Poems

Thursday, 7 January 2010

Two poems

by Susanne Jorn

Peace

The snow falls
softly, softly tonight.

I stand in the middle of
Kongens Nytorv
in Copenhagen.

Sparkling snowflakes,
twinkling snowflakes:

Snow me into my stars.


*

- - -

Worry is blackest
Sorrow, whitest.

Happiness is purple.
Unhappiness, grey.

Hope is primordial yellow.
Revenge, blood-red.

Non-violence is turquoise.
Violence, pale orange.

Lies are green.
Truth, violet.

Prose is pink.
Poetry, blue.

Death is colourless –
Life, a many-coloured painting.

(from Med et halvt øje  [With Half An Eye], Forlaget Sohn, 2006)
translated from Danish by David McDuff
NB read Lev Hrytsyuk's Ukrainian translation of the second poem here.