Edith Södergran

***

En fågel satt fången i en gyllene bur
i ett vitt slott vid ett djupblått hav.
Smäktande rosor lovade vällust och lycka.
Och fågeln sjöng om en liten by högt uppe i bergen,
där solen är konung och tystnaden drottning
och där karga små blommor i lysande färger
vittna om livet, som trotsar och består.

"En fången fågel", ur Dikter (1916)

Utsusemi

***

Utsusemi is a beautiful manga serial by Visual Kei artist Nheira, inspired by Yosano Akiko's tanka collection Midaregami (1901).

Yosano Akiko was a feminist poet, daring to ascribe passionate emotions to women, spurring them to act in matters of love and politics. While the modern comic is very beautiful, it switches the woman's position from subject to object - the stepsister seems unaware of her older brother's feelings. I doubt that this was Yosano's intention. Her accompanying poems sound, to me, written from a specifically female perspective, daring to approach the lover (of indeterminate gender) fully aware of hope and danger.

Hot blood flows underneath my soft skin.
But you only talk of morality and do not touch my flames of passion.
Are not you lonely?

Translation from the Utsusemi site.

Incidentally, I wonder if it isn't the same poem as this one, from Mike Lidgley's blog.

やは肌のあつき血汐にふれも見でさびしからずや道を説く君

Having never felt
the hot tide of blood that throbs
beneath this soft skin
even you who seek the Way
must know what you are missing.

It is interesting to compare the translations, and both make me think of Falco, of course. But the poem ends with the pronoun "kimi" - a form of honorific "you" that is mostly used by young men. This would seem to undermine my theory of an active female voice! Perhaps Yosano felt that a change of grammar was necessary to empower a new female voice - perhaps an "anata" was too deferential. "Kimi" is used by young men to men and women alike, if they are of the same status. "Anata" refers to a husband or a lover. But I don't know enough about early 20th century Japanese to argue this.

Yosano Akiko

***

与謝野 晶子
(1868-1942)

The day the mountains move has come.
I speak, but no one believes me.
For a time the mountains have been asleep.
But long ago they all danced with fire.
It doesn't matter if you don't believe this,
my friends, as long as you believe:
All the sleeping women
are now awake and moving.

Published in the women's magazine Seitô, 1911

Top 3 Swedish Poets

***

Dan Andersson (1888-1920)

När de gamla såren heta tära,
när din kind är vätt av ensamhetens gråt,
när att leva är att stenar bära
och din sång är sorg som vilsna tranors låt,
gå och drick en fläkt av höstens vindar,
se med mig mot bleka, blåa skyn!
Kom och stå med mig vid hagens grindar,
när de vilda gässen flyga över byn!

"Gässen flytta", ur Kolvaktarens visor (1915)

Harry Martinson (1904-1978)

Har ni sett en koltramp komma ur en orkan -
med bräckta bommar, sönderslitna relingar,
bucklig, stånkande, förfelad -
och med en skeppare som är alldeles hes?
Fnysande lägger den till vid den soliga kajen,
utmattad slickande sina sår,
medan ångan tynar i pannorna.

"Har ni sett en koltramp..." ur Spökskepp (1929)

Joe Hill (1879-1915)

My will is easy to decide
For there is nothing to divide
My kin don't need to fuss and moan
"Moss does not cling to a rolling stone."
My body? - Oh. - If I could choose
I would to ashes it reduce
And let the merry breezes blow
My dust to where some flowers grow
Perhaps some fading flower then
Would come to life and bloom again
This is my Last and final Will
Good Luck to All of you

Joe Hill

Zu Tee und Tanz

Zu Tee und Tanz - Band 11
Originally uploaded by punalippu

I found this amazing Weimar era music album in a local second hand book store. It's a potpourri of fox trots, tangos, schlagers and operetta hits.

"Wann kommst Du zu mir?"

Text von Karl Farkas; Melodie von Franz Steininger. 1927

Wo ist die Frau, die heutzutag'
dem Andrang wehren kann?
Sieht sie nur halbwegs aus,
sieht sie ein jeder an.
Der Smoking-Dandy wandelt sich
zum Liebesseladon
und macht ihr gleich die Proposition:

Wann kommst Du zu mir?
Wann kommt die Stunde, die uns vereint?
Ich sehn' mich nach Dir,
wenn Nachts der Mond in mein Zimmer scheint!
Die wahre Licht, die uns selig macht,
wird durch die Nacht erst an den Tag gebracht.
Kommst heut Du zu mir,
dann bleibst Du sicher bis morgen hier!
Wann ...

Man denkt natürlich nicht daran, daran zu denken je,
und sagt dem Rendezvous im vorhinein ade.
Doch andern Tages kommt ein Briefchen rosa oder blau,
und drin steht: "Hochverehrte, gnäd'ge Frau!

Wann ...

Der Tor und der Tod

Wie wundervoll sind diese Wesen,
Die, was nicht deutbar, dennoch deuten,
Was nie geschrieben wurde, lesen,
Verworrenes beherrschend binden
Und Wege noch im Ewig-Dunkeln finden.

- Der Tod über die Menschen. Hugo von Hofmannsthal (1893)
Holzschnitt von Frans Masereel, aus der Serie Die Stadt (1925)

Verschwörungstheorien

Hast Du Angst, Erich? Bist du bange Erich?
Klopft dein Herz, Erich? Läufst du weg?
Wolln die Maurer, Erich - und die Jesuiten, Erich
dich erdolchen, - welch ein Schreck!
Diese Juden werden immer rüder.
Alles Unheil ist das Werk der .'..'. Brüder.
Denn diese Jesuiten, Erich - und die Maurer, Erich -
und die Radfahrer - die sind schuld
an der Marne, Erich und am Dolchstoß, Erich -
ohne die gäbe es keinen Welttumult.
Jeden Freitag spielt ein Kapuziner
mit dem Papste Skat - dazu ein Feldrabbiner;
auf dem Tische liegt ein Grand mit Vieren -
dabei tun sie gegen Deutschland konspirieren ...
Hindenburg wird älter und auch müder ...
alles Unheil ist das Werk der .'..'. Brüder.

Kurt Tucholsky an Erich Ludendorff, 1929

"I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings"

Maya Angelou (1969)

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind
and floats downstream till the current ends
and dips his wing in the orange sun's rays and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage
can seldom see through his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

***

For the enthusiastic student

(Painting by Laurel Lehman)

Sympathy

Paul Laurence Dunbar (1899)

I know what the caged bird feels.
Ah me, when the sun is bright on the upland slopes,
when the wind blows soft through the springing grass
and the river floats like a sheet of glass,
when the first bird sings and the first bud ops,
and the faint perfume from its chalice steals.
I know what the caged bird feels.

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
till its blood is red on the cruel bars,
for he must fly back to his perch and cling
when he fain would be on the bow aswing.
And the blood still throbs in the old, old scars
and they pulse again with a keener sting.
I know why he beats his wing.

I know why the caged bird sings.
Ah, me, when its wings are bruised and its bosom sore.
It beats its bars and would be free.
It's not a carol of joy or glee,
but a prayer that it sends from its heart's deep core,
a plea that upward to heaven it flings.
I know why the caged bird sings.

***

For the enthusiastic student

Painting by Iberia Lebel

Byzantium

W. B. Yeats (1930)

The unpurged images of day recede;
The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed;
Night resonance recedes, night walkers' song
After great cathedral gong;
A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains
All that man is,
All mere complexities,
The fury and the mire of human veins.

Before me floats an image, man or shade,
Shade more than man, more image than a shade;
For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth
May unwind the winding path;
A mouth that has no moisture and no breath
Breathless mouths may summon;
I hail the superhuman;
I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.

Miracle, bird or golden handiwork,
More miracle than bird or handiwork,
Planted on the star-lit golden bough,
Can like the cocks of Hades crow,
Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud
In glory of changeless metal
Common bird or petal
And all complexities of mire or blood.

At midnight on the Emperor's pavement flit
Flames that no faggot feeds, nor steel has lit,
Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame, .
Where blood-begotten spirits come
And all complexities of fury leave,
Dying into a dance,
An agony of trance,
An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.

Astraddle on the dolphin's mire and blood,
Spirit after Spirit! The smithies break the flood.
The golden smithies of the Emperor!
Marbles of the dancing floor
Break bitter furies of complexity,
Those images that yet
Fresh images beget,
That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.

Painting by Nicholas Roerich, Corona Mundi (1921)

Sailing to Byzantium

William Butler Yeats (1928)

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

The Second Coming

William Butler Yeats
The Second Coming
(1919)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Images:
Ando Hiroshige (1797–1858), Ten Thousand-Acre Plain at Suzaki Fukagawa, from the series "One Hundred Famous Views of Edo"

Walter Gramatté (1897-1929), Die Schwarze Sonne [3](1919)

See also: Der Untergang des Abendlandes