Berlín

(English translation from Danish original below)

19. juni 1983, 25 år. København.

Kupeen stille, alting…

Berlin, mit hoved…
zigzag gennem erindringens by
der står som en stille dam med guldfisk.
Hybrider af ideer skinnende i en billig farve,
på bunden rådner årenes planter.
Mit hoved, Berlin, en planet i sig selv —
der er områder lukket for levende
og steder hvor alting brænder sammen.
Berlin, mit syn, glimt af gløder i natten,
cigaretternes grå lugt
og pistolernes metalsmæld i begge halvdele.
For fanden, mine knæ, Berlin, det golde guldlys
en kunsteufori, en glæde købt og ædt.
Berlin, mit ansigt, en by uden plan,
linier uden mål,
for hvad skal jeg se hen til
og hvor skal jeg danse
når musikken presses gennem filtre
mens køn passes til form i nylon.
Berlin, mit hjerte, en pumpe for blod, ikke andet!
Og blodets veje kan forudsiges
som turisternes rejser efter souvenirs.
Berlin, måske findes der et aldrig fremkaldt billede
af en pige på Kurfürstendamm
der i et sekund så mig som mennesket i verden, Berlin,
mit hoved er så uklart
hvordan skal jeg finde hendes læber i alt det støv?

Michael Strunge

19 June 1983, 25 Years Old. Copenhaguen.

The compartment silent, everything...

Berlin, my head...
zigzag through the city of recollection
that stands like a still pond with goldfish.
Hybrids of ideas gleaming in a cheap colour,
on the bottom the plants of the year rot.
My head, Berlin, a planet in itself-
there are areas off-limits for the living
and places where everything burns fuses.
Berlin, my vision, glimpses of embers in the night,
the grey smell of cigarettes
and the metallic crack of pistols in both hemispheres.
Dammit, my knee, Berlin, the barren golden light
an art euphoria, a pleasure bought and eaten.
Berlin, my visage, a city without a plan,
lines without aim or measure,
for what am I to look forward to
and where am I to dance
when the music is pressed through filters
while sex is form-fitted to nylon.
Berlin, my heart, a pump for blood, nothing else!
And the ways of blood are predictable
as are the tourists' trips for souvenirs.

Berlin, perhaps a never developed photo exists
of a girl on the Kurfürstendamm
who for a second saw me as a man in the world, Berlin,
my head is so unclear
how am I to find her lips in all that dust?

To be beat

Dan Turèll fue un poeta muy popular en los 70 en Copenhague que frecuentaba este café que ahora lleva su nombre. Aquí pueden ver su onda "Kerouac" (original and English translation)

At være beat

"At være beat er at stå på et gadehjørne

og være sindssygt høj' - Gregory Corso

At være beat er at stå på et gadehjørne og være sindssygt høj

At være beat er at sidde i et automatvaskeri på Gl. Kongevej og pludseligt høre

Gregory Corsos stemme komme ud af tørretumbleren

At være beat er at løbe hen til en boghandler for at stjæle en blok og en

speedmarker for at kunne skrive denne tilstand

At være beat er at fyre piben og sætte sig på skraldespandene i baggården mens

vinden blæser gennem bladene

At være beat er at stå foran automatvaskeriet med psychedeliske øjne og se

bilansigter køre forbi

At være beat er at følge med tøjet ind i tørretumbleren og drycleanerens cyklusser

At være beat er at sidde på Spies' kundebænk og recorde og skulle til Algier i

morgen men uden Spies

At være beat er at acceptere og hvad der er at acceptere og opleve hvad der er at opleve

At være beat er at regne med at éns fingre nok er ens eneste fingre

At være beat er at være klar til at springe helt ud når som helst og aldrig gøre det før

At være beat er hvad som helst og selvfølgelig ingenting

At være beat er uden betydning hvis man enten er det eller ikke er det

At være beat er en af titusind muligheder i sproget

At være beat er at tone ud over gader og hustage via sin egen svimlende hånd

At være beat er en spontan tankerække startet af Gregory Corso en mulig kæde

som enhver kan tilsætte sit eget personlige bidrag

At være beat er en tilfældig indkodning som nu sprøjter ud i vilkårlige pletter på

papiret

At være beat er at være ingenting at være villig til at være hvad som helst selv sig selv

At være beat er at dreje udenad uden på forhånd at ha bekymret sig om hvorhen det

kan gå".

To be beat

"To be beat is to stand on a street corner and be stoned out of your mind" GREGORY CORSO

To be beat is to tand on a street corner and be stoned out of your mind.
To be beat is to sit in a launderette on Gl. Kongevej and suddenly hear Gregory Corso's voice come out of the spindryer
To be beat is to go over to a bookshop to steal a block and a speedmarker to be able to write about this state
To be beat is to make a chillum and sit down on the garbage cans in the backyard while the wind blows through the leaves
To be beat is to stand in front of the launderette with psychedelic eyes and watch car faces drive past
To be beat is to follow your clothes into the revolutions of the spindryere and the drycleaner
To be beat is to sit on Spies' customer-bench and record and have to go to Algiers the next morning but without Spies
To be beat is to accept what there is to accept and experience what there is to experience
To be beat is to count on one's fingers probably being one's only fingers
To be beat is to be ready to come right out whenever and never do so before
To be beat is anything at all and of course nothing
To be beat is without significance if you either are ir or are not it
To be beat is one of ten thousand possibilities in language
To be beat is to fade out over streets and roofs via one's own dizzy hand
To be beat is a spontaneous train of thought started by Gregory Corso a possible chain that anyone can add his personal contribution to
To be beat is a chance encoding that now sprays out in random spots on the paper
To be beat is to be nothing to be willing to be anything including onself
To be beat is to turn outwards without having troubled oneself in advance as to where one might end up

In The Street I Met While Walking

Seguimos con un poco más de poesía danesa. Aquí, un poeta simbolista de principios de siglo XX (English translation)

In The Street I Met While Walking (1912)

In the street I met while walking
Death ... a sight that pleased me so,
auburn locks that told of summer
fair maid’s skin as white as snow.
‘Let me live’ I death requested
in my young heart’s pangs of woe!

‘Live for just a tranquil springtime
close to your fine virgin snow!
Close to your most chaste of aspects
let me but that one spring know
with the kisses that a sweetheart
when in private would dare show!’

Dressed in lace-frills by the thousand
she was like a field of flowers.
But within her lovely shell was
winter-frozen, dead and dour.
I have asked impossibility
make a marriage bed this hour.

I have asked impossibility
deck herself as bride so chaste.

I have asked of death a springtime,
Therefore I must be erased.

Sophus Claussen

Et DEJLIGT, skønt UHYGGELIGT digt af Claussen!

Don't let it fall

Det gamle træ, o, lad det stå (That Ancient Tree, Don't Let it Fall)

Det gamle træ, o, lad det stå,
indtil det dør af ælde.
Så mange ting det husker på,
hvad kan det ikke melde.
Vi det så fuldt med blomster så,
de friske grene hælde.
Det gamle træ, o, lad det stå,
det må I ikke fælde!

Nu vil jeg da på vandring gå,
men det kan jeg fornemme,
man rejser ud for hjem at nå,
thi bedst er det dog hjemme.
Når træet her har blomster på,
det vil min hjemkomst melde.
Det gamle træ, o, lad det stå,
det må I ikke fælde!

Hans Christian Andersen (1851)

That ancient tree, don't let it fall
Until old age is knelling;
So many things it can recall,
What tales it could be telling.
We once did see its blossom-haul
Each branch with fruit was swelling.
That ancient tree, don't let it fall,
You must not think of felling!

Now to be journeying I yearn
But yet the truth in part is
One does but travel to return,
For home is where one's heart is.
When this old tree stands blossom-tall,
I'm nearly home it's telling;
That ancient tree, don't let it fall,
You must not think of felling!

Barcarole

Natten er saa stille,
Luften er saa klar,
Duggens perler trille,
Maanens Straaler spille
Hen ad Søens glar.

Bølgens Melodier
Vugge Hjertet ind,
Suk og Klage tier,
Vindens Pust befrier
Det betyngte Sind.

Johan Ludvig Heiberg (1829)

(Calm the night, unstirring,
And the air so clear
Pearls of dew uncurling,
Moonlight rays unfurling
’Cross the glassy mere.

Dulcet waves appeasing
Heart that yearns for rest,
Sighs and sorrows ceasing,
Breath of wind releasing
Mind so long oppressed)

The Starling

Ah starling! Most welcome, you bird of good cheer!

Are we to have all your pranks again here?
Where have you stolen last winter your wine?
Last time you dined down at Mosel and Rhine,
Now you’ve most probably been at the Cape,
And with Constantia sampled the grape;
Or, flying salesmen, with tricks up your sleeve
Frequented Madeira, perhaps Tenerife.
By grapes enlivened, you’ll maybe foretell
That spring we’ve yearned for and wanted so well;
Clack like the stork, chirp like swallows that wing,
Or like the thrush and the nightingale sing.
But, if I listen most carefully too,
All’s imitation and never quite you;
Though you’re no expert, I am even so
Willing to give you the name of Pierrot.
Though not the tail-end of copies by far
With the original you’re not on par:
Yet you sweet memories of it provide,
With dreams of spring you my heart do revive.
And, as all know, a dream often can be
Lovelier than any reality.

— Steen Steensen Blicher, poeta romántico, en la foto en la versión original en danés (1838)

Hay una hermosa tierra

"Himlen sortner, Storme brage!
Visse Time du er kommen.
Hvad de gav de tog tilbage.
Evig bortsvandt Helligdommen."

(Skies grow dark, the storms awaken!
Certain hour, your word is law.
What they gave has been retaken.
What was sacred is no more.

Adam Oehlenschläger, últimas líneas de su poema "Guldhornene" (The Gold Horns). Es el autor de la canción "Der er et Yndigt land" ("Hay una hermosa tierra") que se ha convertido en el himno nacional de Dinamarca.

Y vaya si es una hermosa tierra...

Last virtues of a dying society

"Η ανοχή και η απάθεια είναι οι τελευταίες 'αρετές' μια θνησκουσας κοινωνίας."
Αριστοτέλης

Coaching y Liderazgo Personal

 

The one

"...Saa forgaae da, Natur, liig Feberens grundløse Blendværk,
Og helbredet fra dig, langsomt, med Tidernes Løb,
Stræbe det affødte Liv til Verdens salige Hjerte,
Og i Eenhedens Skjød, sonet, Bevidstheden døe."

("...So may you die, nature, like fever's groundless delusion,
And cured from you, slowly, with passage of time,
May life that now is endengered strive for the world's blessed heart,
And in unity's lap, atoned for, may consciousness die.")

Ending of Schack Staffeldt's poem "Det Eene" (The One), 1808.