viernes, 15 de marzo de 2013

JORGEN GUSTAVA BRANDT [9457] Poeta de Dinamarca



JORGEN GUSTAVA BRANDT
Nació el 13 de marzo 1929, fallecido el 1 de diciembre 2006, fue un autor danés y traductor que escribió poesía, cuentos, ensayos y novelas.
Jørgen Gustava Brandt, miembro de la Academia Danesa, hizo su debut literario en 1948. Ha publicado más de un centenar de obras en varios géneros, incluyendo poesía, novela, cuento, ensayo y memorias. Ha ganado numerosos premios literarios, entre ellos el Premio Frescobaldi en 1992, y su trabajo ha sido publicado en Inglés, francés, hebreo y otros idiomas. Durante los últimos siete años ha publicado una nueva colección de poemas cada año - dos en 2004, su año 75.

BIBLIOGRAFÍA:

Korn i Pelegs mark (dikter - 1949)
Tjørneengen (dikter - 1953)
Dragespor (dikter - 1957)
Janushoved (dikter - 1962)
Stof (noveller - 1968)
Dudigte (kärleksdikter - 1971)
Den finske sømand og andre noveller (1973)
Her kunne samtale føres (dikter - 1978)
Hop (dikter - 1982)
Denne kønne musik (dikter - 1998)
Kærlighed kan trylle (dikter - 2004)
Begyndelser (dikter - 2005)






De la nada vienes  

De la nada vienes andando
como en un sueño
de la nada vienes
andando suavemente
de la oscuridad surges
como una sombra de luz
no de sol, no
de la noche de las lámparas
sino de la nada, andando suavemente.

1.967

Poesía Nórdica. F J Úriz. Ediciones de la Torre 1.999









Sound of the Bell

They extinguished her lamp, which kept out the city
from their meeting. In an alluring wall a bell struck firmly
against the evening mists in the Botanical Gardens (over there)
and the skydark grew tight up to the two who were together.

The bodies of their souls, the souls of their bodies met,
that is to say: they screwed like angels
and they exchanged their secrets with lips, tongues, visages, and sex.

Then came the hush. Shapes approached. In the window
the extinguished houses, three trees, with the faceless gray,
awaiting... But far out there a street glided away, shiny, empty,
cold, sliding into distance and miles...

He has forgotten her face. She has forgotten his face.
He has forgotten her name. She has forgotten his name.








Night Hour of Suchness

Night hour of suchness
your plans are forgotten
you barely live in someone’s dream
and the day lies distant, in the past.

Night hour of delight
even book, music, cigar and forgotten
you come past your name, the names
the familiarity of the notes, the cessation of sound
the smoke’s movement, the ash –
now you are on the other side of stillness.

Night hour well on into the small
hours. The last talk incomprehensible
distant distraction, lies back there
in historical impenetrability
like the first Christian centuries of the North.

Night hour where everything near is sleeping
and space of space seems to be awake.

Night hour of the soul’s anesthesia
the smallest things peeled away to suchness
the whatness of the details of objects
the pattern of the caning on the essential
marvelous chairs, charred matchsticks’ charredness
but also large flower-on-the-windowsill’s
flowerlargeness
and out there, under the streetlight streetlight
the shadows more shadowlike
and the house next door more closed and dark and houselike.

Night hour where the least creaking
of the boards, the wood of the furniture
would be the deepest violation
of everything that is important
an inadmissible cry of dissonance
– or perhaps just
the wood’s sigh, the timber’s complaint
of homesickness for the forest.

Night hour when all the doors are locked
and awareness opens like a worktool’s workshop.

Night hour of grace
where nakedness is the only possible clothing.

Night hour where the remembered words
about truth, about beauty
are diffused in the air
where your oars are the channels of silence
where you breathe in suchness like a scent
where all your effort like the distant day
is the taperecorder’s sigh
frenetic scarcely audible whirring
and where the direction of your prayer doesn’t matter.






Come Aboard

Your bluedazzling glance
from the boat
the lakeshore’s glittering leaves
behind your face, shining
with natural joy

In the high woods noisy naked children run
horizontally they flicker past
through the verticals

The world opens to me
as I come aboard to you
and yet everything is as it is

I see my shadow darting under me
in the water
and under my shadow another
– gliding under us
as I step into the boat

The moment flashes white
We are only smiles
in each other’s smiles:
face to face
in the boat

– My love.







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