My street lamp is so glacially alone in the night.
The small paving stones lay their heads down all around
where it holds up its light umbrella over them
so that the wicked dark will not come near.
It says: We are all far from home.
There’s no hope anymore.
translated by Robert Bly
20th Century Norwegian poetry
Guardian Angel by Rolf Jacobsen
I am the bird that flutters against your window in the morning,
and your closest friend, whom you can never know,
blossoms that light up for the blind.
I am the glacier shining over the woods, so pale,
and heavy voices from the cathedral tower.
The thought that suddenly hits you in the middle of the day
and makes you feel so fantastically happy.
I am the one you have loved for many years.
I walk beside you all day and look intently at you
and put my mouth against your heart
though you’re not aware of it.
I am your third arm, and your second
shadow, the white one,
whom you cannot accept,
and who can never forget you.
translated by Robert Bly
Road’s End by Rolf Jacobsen
The roads have come to their end now,
they don’t go any farther, they turn here,
over on the earth there.
You can’t go any farther if you don’t want
to go to the moon or the planets. Stop now
in time, and turn a wasp’s nest or a cow track,
a volcano opening or a clatter of stones in the woods—
it’s all the same.
They won’t go any farther as I’ve said
without changing, the engine to horseshoes,
the gear shift to a fir branch
which you hold loose in your hand
—what the hell is this?
translated by Robery Bly
Old Age by Rolf Jacobsen
I put a lot of stock in the old.
They sit looking at us and don’t see us,
and have plenty with their own,
like fishermen along big rivers,
motionless as a stone
in the summer night.
I put a lot of stock in fishermen along rivers
and old people and those who appear after a long illness.
They have something in their eyes
that you don’t see much anymore
the old, like convalescents
whose feet are not very sturdy under them
and pale foreheads as if after a fever.
The old
who so gradually become themselves once more
and so gradually break up
like smoke, no one notices it, they are gone
into sleep
and light.
translated by Robert Bly
Memories of Horses by Rolf Jacobsen
The lines in the hands of old people
gradually curve over and will point soon toward earth.
They take with them their secret language,
cloud-words and wind-letters,
all the signs the heart gathers up in the lean year.
Sorrow bleaches out and turns to face the stars
but memories of horses, women’s feet, children
flow from old people’s faces down to the grass kingdom.
In huge trees we can often see
images of the peace in the sides of animals,
and the wind sketches in the grass, if you are happy,
running children and horses.
translated by Robert Bly
The Old Clocks by Rolf Jacobsen
The old clocks often have encouraging faces.
They are like those farmers in the big woods or in the mountains
Whose whole being contains some calm acceptance
As if they belonged to some other race than ours.
A race that has fought its way through its time down here
And has seen its unhappiness shrink back like grass
During that earlier period when the Earth was earth.
They are guests with us this time and they nod in tune to our distress
Next to our bed with their mild wisdom: it’s OK,
oh yes, oh yes, it’s OK, it’s OK.
translated by Robert Bly
Sssh by Rolf Jacobsen
Sssh the sea says
Sssh the small waves at the shore say, sssh
Not so violent, not
So haughty, not
So remarkable,
Sssh
Say the tips of the waves
Crowding around the headland’s
Surf. Sssh
They say to people
This is our earth
Our eternity.
translated by Robert Bly
Don’t Come To Me With The Entire Truth by Olav H. Hauge
Don’t come to me with the entire truth.
Don’t bring the ocean if I feel thirsty,
nor heaven if I ask for light;
but bring a hint, some dew, a particle,
as birds carry only drops away from water,
and the wind a grain of salt.
translated by Robert Bly
Midwinter. Snow. by Olav H. Hauge
Midwinter. Snow.
I gave the birds a piece of bread.
And it didn’t affect my sleep.
translated by Robert Bly
The Dream by Olav H. Hauge
Let us slip into
Sleep, into
The calm dream,
Just slip in–two bits
Of raw dough in the
Good oven
That we call night,
And so to awake
In the morning as
Two sound
Golden loaves!
translated by Robert Bly
Leonard Durso 