Senses

My translation of Pia Tafdrup's Senses pentalogy (five-volume collection), on which I have been working with the author during the past few years, is now complete.

Coming Up

 

Titles to look forward to from Bloodaxe Books in March Maria Stepanova (trs Sasha Dugdale): War of the Beasts and the Animals (PBS Translation Choice) Pia Tafdrup (trs David McDuff): The Taste of Steel / The Smell of Snow Seán Ó Ríordáin (trs Greg Delanty): Apathy Is Out: Selected Poems (Irish-English dual language edition) All these titles will be available direct from Bloodaxe Books in March.

https://bloodaxebooks.com

The Smell of Snow

Me reading my translations of 'Ånd', 'Prana' and 'Rimtåge' from Pia Tafdrup's LUGTEN AF SNE.

The Bat Effect

by Pia Tafdrup

We have learned that a wing-beat

from a butterfly on one

side of the globe

can cause a storm

on the other,

we now also know that a virus

has transmitted itself

from a bat to a human

at a market in Wuhan,

the sick person’s coughing has spread

a swirl of Covid-19 to the rest of the world

without discriminating

between gender, ethnicity or religion.

A storm of corona, a storm of infection,

tiny particles like invading parasites

in living cells

induce coughing, fever, difficulty

with breathing,

lead to slow suffocation.

Suspected cases are quarantined, the rest of us

forced into a time-warped community

where we have in common

each being confined to our homes,

unless at high risk

we’re performing essential tasks.

Day 16

My translation of Pia Tafdrup's poem 'På alle sprog' (from the Bloodaxe volume Salamander Sun and Other Poems) was chosen for Day 16 of National Poetry Month here in the UK.

The Taste of Steel and The Smell of Snow

My translation of Pia Tafdrup's collections SMAGEN AF STÅL (2014) and LUGTEN AF SNE (2016) is scheduled for publication as a single volume by Bloodaxe Books in November 2020:

https://www.bloodaxebooks.com/ecs/product/the-taste-of-steel-the-smell-of-snow-1242

Nightdress

by Pia Tafdrup

The nightdress you want to be buried in

hangs white and newly ironed

on a hanger in the closet,

the sight

almost makes me cry,

even though you’re alive, mother,

standing next to me

to show me that nightdress,

that looks most of all like a wedding dress

under the transparent plastic.

You raise the nightdress to the light

like a mirror for death

I can’t see into,

when you are with me.

I have to imagine

you lifeless

in this nightdress, see my life

without you,

but I cannot now.

NATKJOLEN

Natkjolen, du vil begraves i,

hænger hvid og nystrøget

på en bøjle i skabet,

synet

får mig næsten til at græde,

selv om du er i live, mor,

står ved siden af mig

for at vise mig netop den natkjole,

der mest af alt ligner en brudekjole,

under den gennemsigtige plastik.

Du løfter natkjolen frem i lyset

som et spejl for døden,

jeg ikke kan se ind i,

når du er hos mig.

Jeg skal forestille mig

dig livløs

i denne natkjole, se mit liv

uden dig,

men det kan jeg ikke nu

(from Synet af lys [The Sight of Light], Gyldendal, 2018)

translated from Danish by David McDuff

The Sight of Light

The third part of Pia Tafdrup's series on the five senses, Synet af lys, has been published by Gyldendal. Berlingske writes: "80er-englen og akademimedlemmet er tilbage med sin måske allerbedste digtsamling indtil nu."

Taste and Smell

In collaboration with Pia Tafdrup I have now made complete English translations of the first two books of her  "Senses" series - The Taste of Steel (Smagen af stål) and The Smell of Snow (Lugten af sne). The project is currently at the "reading through" stage, and at some point in the not too distant future we will need to assess the situation regarding publishing. Bloodaxe Books have earlier published five collections of Pia's work, including two volumes that each contain two books - Tarkovsky's Horses and Other Poems (containing The Whales in Paris and Tarkovsky's Horses), and Salamander Sun and Other Poems (containing The Migrant Bird's Compass and Salamander Sun), forming a quartet, all in my translation. We are now hoping that Bloodaxe will continue with the "taste" and "smell" volumes of the "Senses" series.

World Poets

Among the participants in Bloodaxe's new DVD anthology World Poets, which presents work by 30 poets together with films of interviews and readings featuring the poets themselves, are Pia Tafdrup and Tua Forsström. There are also poems by Tomas Tranströmer. While it's good to see Nordic poets included here, some of Pia Tafdrup's poems inexplicably appear in Swedish translation, rather than in the original Danish. There are also some glitches and typos in the Swedish texts. It would have been useful to see proofs before publication, but apparently Bloodaxe considered it O.K. to skip that step.

Pia Tafdrup translation project

I've been endeavouring to start a Patreon page for my Pia Tafdrup poetry translation project. The page is now online, and I'm hoping to attract a few supporters for the task I've set myself of completing an English version of Lugten af sne (The Smell of Snow, Gyldendal, 2016). So far I have only three patrons, all of whom are very welcome, but perhaps in the course of time some more may arrive. The Patreon concept is new to me, and I'm still not entirely sure how well suited it is to a project of this kind, which depends not on images, graphics, videos and multimedia but simply on words and (often) virtual paper. At any rate, this is an experiment, and it will be interesting to see how it works out over the course of the next few months. Donations need not be large - in fact, I set a minimum of $1 - and all contributions are gratefully received. I am still deciding what to offer my patrons by way of Patreon rewards, and will post my decisions here (and there) in due course.

By the end of the project, I should have complete translations of Smagen af stål (The Taste of Steel, Gyldendal, 2014) and Lugten af sne. You can follow some of the progress of the work on the Patreon page, and I may from time to time post some draft versions here on Nordic Voices.

Pia Tafdrup audio recordings

News that Pia Tafdrup is currently recording readings of all her poetry collections, which will be distributed as sound files for download over the Internet.

Under Cirrus Clouds

UNDER CIRRUS CLOUDS

  

As blood springs out on a forehead,

radiant, red clouds of ice crystal

high above the earth, before the sun goes down,

compact smell of pine needles

is brought on a breeze from the trees further away.

A swarm of insects hangs in the air,

I remember how it was to be kept awake

by a story without fighting sleep, just watch

lips in motion, listen to words from a mouth,

feel the warm breath flow towards me,

keep me hovering in the light of the lamp

like the insects in front of me.

Only after the story did I land in the dark,

which was good,

left to myself

words kept constantly bubbling out.

I’m present, and listen to my breathing in the middle of the path

where I’ve stopped,

as I heard my breathing in the dark as a child

without calling for anyone. My lungs

swelled out when the lamp was switched off,

in those days the stories had no conclusion,

they kept on, incalculably,

there was no goodbye,

no one talked about anything ending.

When one story ended, the next one continued,

there were only beginnings, genesis, openings,

as if the stories needed me

in order to unfold, or I needed them

in order to have life breathed into me, to draw breath,

so my lungs reached the sky, expanded

as now in the breeze under the cirrus clouds.

UNDER FJERSKYER

Som blod springer

frem på en pande,

lyse, røde skyer af iskrystal

højt over jorden, før solen går ned,

kompakt lugt af fyrrenåle

føres med en brise fra træerne længere borte.

En sværm af insekter hænger i luften,

husker, hvordan det var at blive holdt vågen

af en historie uden at kæmpe mod søvnen, bare følge

læber i bevægelse, lytte til ord fra en mund,

mærke den varme ånde strømme mig i møde,

holde mig svævende i lampens lys

som insekterne foran mig.

Først efter historien landede jeg i mørket,

der var godt,

overladt til mig selv

piblede ord uophørligt frem.

Jeg er til stede, lytter til mit åndedrag midt på stien,

hvor jeg er standset,

som jeg hørte min vejrtrækning i mørket som barn

uden at kalde på nogen. Lungerne

spilede sig ud, når lampen blev slukket,

historierne var uden slutning dengang,

de blev ved, uberegneligt,

der var intet farvel,

ingen talte om, at noget ville ende.

Når ét eventyr sluttede, fortsatte det næste,

der var kun begyndelser, tilblivelse, åbninger,

som om historierne behøvede mig

for at folde sig ud, eller jeg behøvede dem

som nu i brisen under fjerskyerne.

så lungerne nåede himlen, videde sig ud

for at få pustet liv i mig, for at trække vejret,

som nu i brisen under fjerskyerne.

Pia Tafdrup - from LUGTEN AF SNE (THE SMELL OF SNOW), 2016

translated from Danish by David McDuff

The Smell of Snow

Pia Tafdrup's new collection Lugten af sne (The Smell of Snow) will be published by Gyldendal in May 2016.

One of the poems from the new book can be read in my translation here.

Caught in the Act

by Pia Tafdrup

The fish catches its food

and itself is caught, has its head

cut off with a cracking sound,

the smell of fish blood rises while

under the knife the fish still twitches.

The light bones and feathers

lie scattered among grass and stones,

where the bird circled in the air,

smelled its way to earthworms in the soil,

before the marten consumed its meal.

On the grassy plains a hungry wolf

goes after the sheep's bellies and guts,

on the carcasses the ribs

are gnawed away, flies and worms

take care of the last remnants.

In the dust among the rubble of war

the wounded lie,

I recognize the smell,

when an angel is grazed.

In the dust among the rubble of war

lie the dead,

victims of a bloody hour, who once

lay in wombs,

must now be placed in the grave

infinitely close to our hearts.

Breathing, collision,

the locations accumulate,

rocks and clods of earth,

the whole world is a crime scene.

translated from Danish by David McDuff

Cyclical

Kineserne betragter metallet som et element. Jeg holdt mig til den vestlige tankegang i kvartetten, men metallet blev ved at spøge og dukker op i denne bog, hvor den knytter sig til smagssansen. I digtet vises forbindelsen mellem flere elementer, dels når de forholder sig produktivt til hinanden, dels destruktivt. En cyklus, der kan gå begge veje. Det produktive kan afføde mere positiv produktion, men kan også slå om i sin negation, så det destruktive tager over. Det er to sæt af kræfter, vi må forholde os til, to forskellige kræfter, der griber ind i vores liv.

The Chinese view metal as an element. I stuck to the Western way of thinking in the quartet, but metal continued to haunt it and it shows up in this book, where it is linked to the sense of taste. In the poem the connection of several elements appears, partly when they relate productively to each other and partly when they do so destructively. A cycle that can go either way. The productive can generate more positive production, but can also turn into its negation, so that the destructive takes over. There are two sets of forces we must relate to, two different forces that intervene in our lives.

- Pia Tafdrup, in a note on her new collection Smagen af stål (The Taste of Steel), Gyldendal 2014

Two Collections

Here are links to the Amazon pages for the forthcoming Bloodaxe collections One Evening in October I Rowed out on the Lake by Tua Forsström and Salamander Sun and Other Poems by Pia Tafdrup, both in my translation. Both books are scheduled for publication on January 25, 2015.

Pia Tafdrup: Snow Flowers

SNOW FLOWERS

The snow has settled on the branches, filled
the empty bird nests in trees and bushes along
roads that all lead to the church.
The March sun dazzles, the snow on the ground dazzles,
shadows fall where we walk,
flocks of crows circle high up above us.

The cold in the church, the cold round our feet, silence
swirls giddily in the vaulted space,
where no sounds from outside
penetrate.
Having to lose is what we can’t make ourselves ready for.

The dead woman
we have come to bury is not here. No tracks
lead anywhere.
An invisible frontier is crossed, a part
of our life is gone,
a chapter of Europe’s history over.

We must bury the body she left behind,
she herself carried on,
though we see her in the open coffin, give thanks for
what we received.

We see the dead woman,
see her dressed in travel clothes, see the dead woman
with  mouth closed and lips pressed together,
though in life she was always laughing and talking,
muscles robbed of movement, skin like stone.

There was a time when it was to us
she laughed and talked.
The loss we must all bear, it
does not make it any less hard.

We see and don’t understand. We are present here
and don’t understand.

We lay flowers, stand
in the smell of incense with lighted candles.
Except that her head is not tilted,
the dead woman resembles

the image of the Virgin Mary in the icon
that is placed in the open coffin.

The funeral is
for the living, the dead woman's soul
has already gone.
Several days ago it vanished for us.

Dear soul,
We bury your body, but you are free.

The language we speak is not the same as before,
the snow falls into me,
snow flowers drift cold in the blood.
We look and look at the dead woman.
The sight of her face is imprinted
forever, the wax candles are burning down.

Now it is us. Now loneliness shines.
Star-visited night,
many-multiplied arrival,
frost-lit fields, ice-bound soil,
loss burns itself into the mind,
a strange and unfamiliar freedom.

SNEBLOMSTER

Sneen har lagt sig på grenene, fyldt

de tomme fuglereder i træer og buske langs

veje, der alle fører til kirken.

Martssolen blænder, sneen på jorden blænder,

skygger falder, hvor vi går,

flokke af krager cirkler højt oppe over os.

Kulden i kirken, kulden om fødderne, stilhed

hvirvler svimmelt i det hvælvede rum,

hvor ingen lyde udefra

trænger ind.

At skulle miste kan vi ikke gøre os klar til.

Den døde,

vi er kommet for at begrave, er her ikke. Ingen spor

fører nogen steder hen.

En ikke synlig grænse er passeret, en del

af vores liv er væk,

et kapitel af Europas historie slut.

Vi skal begrave legemet, hun efterlod,

selv fortsatte hun,

skønt vi ser hende i den åbne kiste, takker for

hvad vi fik.

Vi ser den døde,

ser hende iført rejseklæder, ser den døde

med lukket mund og læberne presset sammen,

skønt hun i live altid lo og talte,

muskler berøvet bevægelse, hud som sten.

Der var en tid, hvor det var til os,

hun lo og talte.

Tabet skal vi alle bære, det

gør det ikke mindre svært.

Vi ser og fatter ikke. Vi er til stede her

og fatter ikke.

Vi lægger blomster, står

i duften af røgelse med tændte lys.

Bortset fra at hovedet ikke hælder,

ligner den døde

billedet af Jomfru Maria på ikonet,

der sættes i den åbne kiste.

Begravelsen er til

for de levende, den dødes sjæl

er allerede rejst.

For flere dage siden forsvandt den for os.

Kære sjæl,

Vi begraver din krop, men du er fri.

Sproget, vi taler, er ikke det samme som før,

sneen falder i mig,

sneblomster fyger koldt i blodet.

Vi ser og ser på den døde.

Synet af hendes ansigt prentes ind

for altid, vokskærterne brænder ned.

Nu er det os. Nu lyser ensomheden.

Stjernebesøgt nat,

mangedoblet ankomst,

frostbelyste marker, isbundet jord,

tab brænder sig ind i sindet,

en sær og fremmed frihed.

(from Smagen af stål [The Taste of Steel], Gyldendal 2014)

translated from Danish by David McDuff

Molossus

In its World Poetry Portfolio series, Molossus literary quarterly has published a selection of poems by Pia Tafdrup in my translation.

No Man's Land

by Pia Tafdrup

My grey cat vanishes,

or has it acquired a new life

   at Nivå Brickworks?

At night I hear it calling…

Search for it, search again the next day.

Live in a vacuum, while my father

looks for another farm,

but learn in sun and dust to cycle,

shoot myself forward like a mainspring,

   ever further out

on Vibevej, along the residential gardens.

Lilacs, laburnums,

an olfactory orgy to sweep past.

Shall I vanish like the cat,

for there is no one to play with,

   and over the summer

I lose

    tooth after tooth in my hollowed hand.

When my mother takes an afternoon nap

with no hands on the clock 

the first one falls out,

   white,

but leaving

      a bloody hole

the tongue’s tip wants to drill down into

– instead of calling, speaking.

Taste of iron in the mouth. Blood words.

Cave language. Tongue pit.

A tooth

   white

as a daisy growing in the grass

in the garden of the house we rent

   and under whose roof my mother in the rain

now and then sings

                      "Solitude Road".

In the house with creaky stairs

and smells of strangers

   there is a studio

we may not enter, my sister and I,

   there I seek refuge –

sit for hours on the floor, contemplate

the radiant pictures’

                  vanishing grey.

translated from Danish by David McDuff