Jan Erik Vold Poems

Temple
bells
ringing. Buddha smiles. Jesus
bleeds. Buddha

talks
about
suffering. Jesus
about

salvation. Buddha
talks about the road. Jesus
about
the goal.

*

Buddha
says: It hurts
all
the

time. Jesus
says: At the end
salvation
will come. Buddha says: At best

the
deleatur
of
everything.

*

Water
won't
change
its mind. Water doesn't have

to
be
asked
twice. Water

follows
the thermometer. Ice. Liquid. Steam.
What
do I care?

*

Cloud.
Sea.
Glacier. What did I
care? Water

rising. Water
sinking. Water will polish
every
thing

round. What's jagged
becomes
round. What's jagged becomes round. Then
the light went out.

*

He was shooting
in order
to kill. He fastened
his bomb belt

in order to
kill. His thought
is on
the trigger, on the

release. That is no
thought.
That is
compulsion.

*

We murder the
mountain
people
by compulsion. The mountain people

murder
us
by
compulsion. We

because we have ideas. Ideas
are made
of air.
The mountain people belong.

*

Cliff wall
against
cliff wall, and you'll
have

an echo? But when one mountain
blows
the other
into pieces? Or blows

itself into pieces? Then you must
retreat into caves
and wait. Until the mountain can be shaped
into a pyramid.

*

The lowest
is the
highest, in the mirror's
reflection. But when the mirror

is
broken? The mirror
can't
be

broken, can't be broken, can't
be
broken. If it is
an ocean.

*

The mirror
can't
be shattered
by a

long-range scope rifle. The mirror
can
only
rise. Or

sink. If the mirror sinks, we will
all
rise, upside
down.

*

If the mirror
rises, we will
all
drown, for real. Not each

and every
one. Only the poor. When the
poor
vanish, others will

appear. In the end
it'll be
our
turn.

*

When the
Empire State Building
beams
like a lighthouse in the ocean. Then

we'll
know
what
the word

TERROR means.
Then
there'll be
no need for martyr pilots.

*

We keep quiet
about
what
we

know. The wise
keep quiet. The
dumb
keep quiet. There is no difference

between dumb
and
wise. Mirror
doesn't know. Ocean knows.
...

Et nytt møte - og all den
smerte

dét
innebærer. Likevel

gleder vi oss, likevel
trekker vi

i alle salighetens
spaker håndtak og hendler, jackpot

på jackpot!
mens myntene raser

ut, de er flere og kommer fortere
enn vi kan samle

dem opp - la gå
med det, la gå med det.

Å veksle
disse sjetongene inn, det er der

det virkelige
arbeidet ligger.
...

A new meeting - and all
the pain

bound
to follow. Even so

we're happy about it, pulling at
all the

handles, levers and sticks
of joy, jackpot

upon jackpot!
while the coins gush out

so fast
and so many that we cannot

collect them - never mind about
that, never mind.

Cashing in
these chips, that's where

the real work
begins.
...

Når sorgen kommer, har sorgen
ikke noe

språk. Den er
en sorthet, et fravær, et savn - mange navn

har sorgen, men ingen
av navnene er sorgen. Å bære sorg

er å ikke ville stå opp
om morran, ikke klare løfte

foten fra fortauet, ikke komme fri
fra det samme stikk i brystet

som i går, i forgårs, dagen før der igjen
hver gang du passerer

de og de stedene i byen, de og de landskap
i sjelen, de og de navn

på hva det var du mistet: en kropp, en latter, en letthet
- et blikk å møte. Har de

øynene navn? Heter de Oscar? Heter de
Kathinka? At O eller K er borte

er ubegripelig, ubegripelig, ubegripelig
- har det noe navn? At

K eller O aldri mer skal legge
hendene på pannen din gjør ubeskrivelig vondt

- har det noe navn? At fuglene ikke
synger. Den sorthet

vi kaller
sorg. Varer sjelden mer enn syv år.
...

When sorrow comes, there is no
language

for it. Sorrow
is blackness, is absence, is yearning - many names

can be used, none of which
equals sorrow. To bear sorrow

is not to want to get up
in the morning, not to manage to lift your foot

from the sidewalk, not to be able to escape
the same stab in your heart that you felt

yesterday, the day before yesterday, two days
before yesterday, every time

you pass those spots in town, those landscapes
of mind, those names

for what you lost: a body, a laughter, a lightness - a pair
of eyes to meet your own. Do those eyes

have a name? Are they called Oscar? Are they called
Kathinka? The fact that O or K is gone

is incomprehensible, incomprehensible, incomprehensible
- is there a name for it? The fact

that K or O shall never place a calming hand
on your forehead brings pain

beyond words - is there a name for it? The fact
that no birds

sing. A blackness
called sorrow. Lasts seldom more than seven years.
...

1
Du kan kalle meg en
elg. Jeg
er ingen elg men jeg har
en elgs

tålmodighet
utholdenhet
styrke - en elgs
godmodighet. Jeg sparker hardt

men sjelden.
Bare
når
nødvendig.

2
Du ser meg
på
trafikkskilt
i skogbrynet, på olje

malerier
under stormende sky, i
kontur
mot en kanadisk

solnedgang. Selv er jeg
et
annet
sted.

3
At jeg bor
i en novelle
av Tarjei
Vesaas. Med høy nakke

og søkende mule, som vet
hvor
barken
smaker. At jeg ikke

lar meg lokke
av landeveiens
små
listige speil.

4
Det fins
en innertier. Den er ikke alltid

der du
tror.
...

1
You may call me an
elk. I am
no elk but I have
the patience

endurance
strength
of an
elk - an elk's goodnaturedness. I kick hard

but seldom.
Only
when
necessary.

2
You see me
on
road signs
by the wood's edge, under

the thundering skies
of an oil
painting, outlined against a Canadian
sun

set. But I dwell
some
place
else.

3
That I live
in a story
by Tarjei
Vesaas. With a long neck

and an eager
muzzle that knows where to look
for the juicy
part of the bark. I'm

not to be
fooled
by the highway's
tiny and tempting mirrors.

4
Yes, there is
a bull's eye. Not always

where you'd expect
it.
...

Jaroslav Seifert
fikk Nobelprisen, et leit slag
for hjemlandets
myndigheter, som nå

hvor nødig de enn
ville, så seg
tvunget til å godta iallfall et smalt
utvalg av diktene

oversatt
til andre
språk. En person høyt oppe i hierarkiet tar opp saken
hjemme hos dikteren, ber

treogåttiåringen forstå
hvilken vanskelig vurdering det er
for Kulturkontoret å velge
de rette

diktene. Seifert sier ja og ha
og hører tålmodig
på.
Plutselig spør han

mannen fra Administrasjonen: Husker forresten De
hva kulturministeren
under Balzac
hette? Byråkraten

stusser, stanser
og medgir
at det gjør han faktisk ikke. Nei
nettopp, sa Seifert.
...

Mr. Jaroslav Seifert
received the Nobel Prize, a sad blow
to his country's
authorities who unwillingly

found themselves
forced to accept
at least
a small portion of his poems

translated into
other
tongues. A high-ranking official
comes to visit

the poet in his home, asking
the 83-year-old man to understand
the difficult decision
the Cultural Committee is faced with, having to select

the proper poems. Mr. Seifert, patiently
listening, agrees to
everything
said. All of a sudden

he asks the man from the
Administration: Do you happen to recall
who was the Minister of Culture
under Balzac? The bureaucrat, somewhat

puzzled, is taken aback
and has to admit
that no, he doesn't. Well, Mr. Seifert said, there
we are.
...

1
Kan
altså ingenting
erstattes
med

ingenting?
spurte prinsen. Ja, det ser
slik
ut, sa fuglen

fra Kapingamarangi, for den som lar
være å skjelne
mellom
ja og nei.

2
Lar våre
å skjelne mellom ja
og
nei, spurte

prins Adrian, hvordan? Nei, det gjelder
å finne fram til
et ekte
stykke ingenting. Da merker du

det koster
ingenting
å gi det
bort, ingenting å holde på det.

3
Adrian
spurte: Hvordan vet man om ingenting
at det er
ekte? Fuglen

høynet nebbet
og sa: Når det
som fins er like virkelig som det
som ikke fins, når

det som ikke fins
er like virkelig som det som fins - that's
when your heartache
comes to an end.

4
Det var en vakker
dag. Bølgene
brøt
om den vesle øya, ute

i havet. Prinsen lå på stranden, under
solen, utenfor
språket. Han gned seg
i øynene, nikket

på hodet, da fuglen
sa: Prins
Adrian, jeg har fløyet langt, helt
fra Kapingamarangi - det

har jeg gjort for å synge
ingenting-sangen
for
deg: "Når ingenting

møter ingenting
oppstår ingenting, oppstår ingenting.
Når ingenting
savner ingenting, ønsker

ingenting - da er
alleting
i
ro." Solkverna malte, sanden

den glødet, prinsen
visste ikke
hvor han var. Prinsen han
lo.
...