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Nature - the theme for this weeks Poetry Monday reminded me of a Danish Autumn song with which I have a love-hate relationship. It it beautiful. The pictures it paints, the description of the Danish countryside in Autumn are exquisite and almost perfect. The tune is an earworm ... but that last stanza ...
Well read and listen for yourself:
Septembers himmel er så blå - Lyt / Listen - September's Sky is oh so Blue (in Danish).
Tekst - først Alex Garffs original fra 1949.
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The words, Alex Garff wrote this in 1949 (English below).
Septembers himmel er så blå,
dens skyer lyser hvide,
og lydt vi hører lærken slå
som før ved forårstide.
Den unge rug af mulden gror
med grønne lyse klinger,
men storken længst af lande fór
med sol på sine vinger.
Der er en søndagsstille ro
imellem træ'r og tage,
en munter glæde ved at gro,
som var det sommerdage.
Og koen rusker i sit græs
med saften om sin mule,
mens bonden kører hjem med læs,
der lyser solskinsgule.
Hver stubbet mark, vi stirrer på,
står brun og gul og gylden,
og røn står rød og slåen blå,
og purpursort står hylden.
Og georginer spraglet gror
blandt asters i vor have,
så rigt er årets sidste flor:
oktobers offergave.
De røde æbler løsner let
fra træets trætte kviste.
Snart lysner kronens bladenet,
og hvert et løv må briste.
Når aftensolen på sin flugt
bag sorte grene svinder,
om årets sidste røde frugt
den tungt og mildt os minder.
At flyve som et forårsfrø
for sommerblomst at blive
er kun at visne for at dø,
kan ingen frugt du give.
Hvis modenhedens milde magt
af livet selv du lærte,
da slår bag falmet rosendragt
dit røde hybenhjerte.
Og så på engelsk. Min oversættelse / gendigtning.
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And in English. I did the translation/rewrite.
September's sky is oh so blue,
its clouds are shining brightly,
and now we hear the warbling lark
as in the days of spring time.
The sprouts of rye grow forth so green
from earth so newly turned.
The stork already flew away
with sunlit wings a-beating.
There is a quiet Sunday peace
between the trees and branches,
The cheerful joy of growing things,
as in the days of summer.
The cow is munching in the grass
while juices stain its muzzle,
The farmer's driving home with loads,
that shines a sunny yellow.
And every stubble field we see,
Stands brown and yellow golden,
The rowan's red and sloe is blue,
And purple is the elder.
And dahlias they grow and bloom
With asters in our garden,
So rich the last bloom of the year:
Octobers sacrifices.
The apples drop off easily
from tired apple branches.
And soon the leafwork lightens up
With every leaf that's falling.
When evening sunshine on its flight
behind black branches fades,
Of this year's last red fruit
it heavily reminds us.
To fly just like a spring time seed
To be a summer's flower
Is just to wither for to die
And no fruit you deliver.
But if you learned from life itself
The gentle power of ripening,
Behind those faded petals red
your rose hip heart is beating.
Og hvad er der så i vejen med at være et forårsfrø og blive til en sommerblomst, der fryder og fornøjer? Og den får jo også frø, der fryder kommende generationer ... suk. Det er måske bare mig, der ikke fatter meningen, men jeg aner Janteloven og den protestantiske nyttemoral stikke deres fælles hoved frem.
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And what is so wrong about being a seed in spring, turning into a summer flower that brightens up the world with its beauty? And summer flowers give off seed that will bloom for generations to come ... Sigh! It might be only me not getting it, but I'm afraid it is the Danish law of Jante and the protestant utilitarian ideals rearing their composite head.
