Benny Andersen, currently Denmark's most popular poet, is virtually unknown in the United States. He is a poet of remarkable versatility, whose voices range from reflective to whimsical. His imagery is original and often surprising; his humor is delightful. To introduce Benny Andersen to English readers, Alexander Taylor has worked with the poet, selecting and translating poems from the eight books now available in Danish. The poems are presented here in their Danish versions and in English translations that capture the spontaneity and excitement of the originals.
In both versions the poetry is evocative and refreshingly direct. The imagery is vivid, and the poet's inventive use of diction and syntax creates startling effects. Perhaps most characteristic of Andersen's work is the fusion of complex, often conflicting emotions within a single poem.
Born in Copenhagen in 1929, Benny Andersen published his first book of poetry in 1960, to immediate public and critical acclaim. In addition to poetry, he has written a novel, short stories, children's books, filmscripts, television plays, and essays. He has received several awards.
Originally published in 1976.
The Princeton Legacy Library uses the latest print-on-demand technology to again make available previously out-of-print books from the distinguished backlist of Princeton University Press. These editions preserve the original texts of these important books while presenting them in durable paperback and hardcover editions. The goal of the Princeton Legacy Library is to vastly increase access to the rich scholarly heritage found in the thousands of books published by Princeton University Press since its founding in 1905.
Benny Andersen
Selected Poems
By Benny Andersen, Alexander TaylorPRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS
Copyright © 1975 Princeton University Press
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-691-01319-0Contents
PREFACE, vii,
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS, xiii,
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE, xv,
A NOTE ON THE TRANSLATIONS, xvii,
from "The Musical Eel",
Rural Station, 3,
Analysis, 5,
The Forgotten Son, 6,
Morning Prayer, 8,
Winter Prayer, 9,
Table Prayer, 10,
Skeptical Prayer, 11,
Tenderness, 12,
Obituary, 13,
Headliner, 14,
Widescreen, 15,
Photographs, 16,
Sleepless Hours in the Summer House, 17,
The Musical Eel, 18,
The Critical Frog, 19,
from "The Inner Bowler Hat",
Goodness, 20,
Friendship, 22,
Slug-a-bed, 24,
Happiness, 26,
It's High Time, 27,
Smile, 29,
Memories, 31,
from "Camera With Kitchen Privileges",
Charity Concert, 32,
Relaxation, 33,
Jelly Fish, 34,
High and Dry, 35,
In the Bar, 36,
Autonomous, 37,
Optimist, 38,
from "Portrait Gallery",
This Is, 39,
Certain Days, 41,
M., 43,
The Pampered Mermaid, 44,
The Hanged Informer, 45,
The Persistent Worshipper, 46,
from "The Last Er",
Experiences, 47,
Just to Be Sure, 49,
Dear Enemies, 50,
Dear Friends, 51,
Alcoholism, 52,
Generation Gap, 53,
Earthworm, 54,
This Uncertainty, 55,
Between Us, 56,
Your Dress Without You, 57,
The Last Er, 60,
from "Here on the Reserve",
All This, 61,
Love Declaration (woman to man), 62,
Love Declaration (man to woman), 63,
Now It's Said, 64,
Time, 66,
from "Personal Papers",
Life is Narrow and High, 68,
Sabina, 69,
Melancholy, 71,
A Hole in the Earth, 72,
CHAPTER 1
Rural Station
One March day you're sitting
numb in a cold train.
With a hyperdermic needle
you are shot into the heart of Jutland.
The train suddenly halts,
tossing you out of yourself
here where dark and
light blood meet.
Muddied fields
with blots of snow
keep a despondent eye
on heaven's white doors
like small boys
who haven't eaten
all their porridge and are afraid
of their mother.
A constellation of wild geese
streaks across the heavens.
Is it my name that in their harsh,
mocking and distorted way they fling down?
Hesitating, as if to investigate
how much you still dare see,
a cow loose from her tether comes
toward you through the mud.
Silently gives birth to a calf in the snow.
You turn back, dizzy,
lose your way in this strange land.
Forget path and errand.
Notice only how the thick earth of Jutland
clutches your shiny shoes.
Analysis
Two voices through the wall awaken me,
one dark and tired,
one zealously explanatory.
Sounds, intonations, not words.
A waterstain on the ceiling over the bed
resembles a rare orchid —
but what good is it on the ceiling?
First and foremost it resembles a waterstain.
At the top of the window a little bit of blue.
But what does that say about the weather tomorrow?
Yesterday's weather I have to remember myself.
Who knows if it is raining in Rønne?
Last night I found my philosophy,
and never have I slept so good.
But where will I find an excuse
for my having overslept?
The Forgotten Son
Cocksure my brother sallied forth into the world,
sang himself away between arms and dice.
Gladly he accepted the world on its terms,
which for him was the whirling maelstrom.
It cast him up on various coasts.
Bit by bit, by different detours,
he was drawn back to the family farm.
Here it was he first put himself together —
what a meeting — he merged with his defeat,
which Father came out and kissed.
O Father, had you only waited one day, one hour!
But nothing but the fatted calf would do
to feast such a welcome defeat.
Have I myself chosen the small victories,
whose meat long ago has been chewed white and dry?
Have I myself rationed your love,
these small treacherous love-rations?
Harmless for others certainly
like throwing snowballs at a tree,
like boys spitting against the wind.
Thy will be done, my Father.
My bundle is tied, in it a fat white thigh,
a three days' love-ration.
Then I'll be lost
between mountains and springs.
Thus will I flee from the smoke of my offering
which was never beaten to earth
but stood up stiffly like a pillar of shame.
Years will pass, Father,
years without love,
years without fatted calves.
And then when I have saved
a pocketful of defeat,
when my clothes are smeared with grime,
then I will approach you
with fierce tired steps:
Then you will have to love me!
Morning Prayer
Vibrant morning,
separate the sour from the sweet,
the inside from outside,
let knives of light scrape away
my core of sour pride
so that I can fear
when fear's hour strikes,
so that I can hear
where I...
