As promised last year, I made a website specifically for publishing my translations of Gustaf Munch-Petersen and Edith Södergran. You can find it at scandipoetry.com .
It may undergo some changes with regards to the navigation, but the content is all ready for consumption, so if you enjoyed reading the translations in the PDF files on this site, feel free to jump over to ScandiPoetry (which was the best name I could come up with on short notice) and read the updated versions in a much more eye-friendly, readable format, complete with information about both poets and each poetry collection.
I am planning e-books as well (new PDF's for a start, and later EPUB), but since this is a spare time project, I am hard pressed for time, and it may well take a while. So please be patient with me on that.
Until then, you can enjoy the online version of the updated (and now hopefully error-free) translations.
If you're a regular on this site you've probably already noticed the lack of updates. Since I decided to dive head-first into web development all of my creative energy has been transferred to code (and photography). So in effect, the only part of the fjordscene.com family that still stays strong is my photography portfolio.
I will not remove this site anytime soon, so fear not. The archive will be available for you to browse as usual.
Moreover, I am working on transferring my translations of Edith Södergran and Gustaf Munch-Petersen to a separate website where they can get the space and splendor they deserve. When I get that site up and running, you guys will be the first to know.
Meanwhile, if you've become interested in exploring my forays in web development as well, follow me on Twitter, connect with me on Google+ (both are linked to at the top of this page as well), or go check out my animation demos at CodePen.
Based on the old ships that used to be docked in my hometown, waiting for their final journey. It's strange how some things can be incredibly ugly and beautiful at the same time.
"Heart of Rust"
Old ship, come to rest,
torn yet stately,
here at bay.
Pulsing with the lapping waves
pensively at anchor
in the harbor, nested in
the middle of the city.
Red and latticed
resting in its
Like a withered leaf
in a rain puddle –
I think it even
used to be green.
This piece fluttered into my head and stayed there, incessantly buzzing around for an hour or two while I was at work, so that I was eventually obliged to take the time to write it down just to gain a measure of peace.
Fragile Dawn – I barely see you
as you shimmer through an eyelid
halfway gone before you’re here,
halfway gone while you’re here –
You bring promises with you
that, forgotten, fades with you
in the bittersweet gradient
of morning sky and clouds –
A barely registered pulse
of colour and of sounds
that goes unnoticed by and large
and passes in a glance.
A single bike whirrs by beneath my window
with the buzzing of a fly.
A factory chimney across the bay
spews rosy haze.
The sound of rustling leaves,
suddenly turned up high,
reaches me as you set the world ablaze.
Your beauty lies in this
ability you have perfected;
to make things beautiful
Yes, this is naturally about a person. Someone of a somewhat ambiguous nature whom I feel something somewhat ambiguous about.
Like a giant clumsy cat
lolloping through the snow
slightly bent and unassuming
my admiring gaze –
Your clumsy elegance
leave footprints in my heart
which survey all the marks
you’re leaving in the snow –
You’re swaying gently on in your
fast, impressive trot;
my heart will follow
where my feet cannot –
I was in much doubt about whether or not to publish this since it is deeply personal, and I am somewhat dissatisfied since it doesn't quite manage to cover the emotions it aims to express. But I feel I ought to anyway so as not to let all the effort go to waste.
Your footsteps have been covered –
succumbing to the snow –
the whirling misty snowflakes
that hide us as we go.
I watched your back diminish
and blend into the white
and watched your footsteps fade
till nothing was in sight.
The cold is all around me
yet heat alone’s within,
though it erased the snowflakes
it can’t hide what I have seen.
A pattern I - perhaps because I am an artist - see repeated everywhere. The below-mentioned occurrences are just a few snapshots.
The structure with the four seasons came all by itself with regards to Summer, Autumn and Winter... And once I realized that's how it presented itself, I felt it most right to start off the poem with a Spring section to complete it.
The buds that unfold and grow,
the dew that resumes at night,
droplets in beams of light,
dispersing remnants of snow.
The skin on the back of your hand,
the sunshine through the trees,
the veins that pattern leaves,
footprints in the sand.
The wrinkes around your eye,
the dispersing remnants of mist,
the creepers that turn and twist,
cotton wool in the sky.
The dust in a beam of light,
the hoar frost on the leaves,
icicles hanging from trees,
your breath in a winter night.