Sommerfugledalen

The valley of the butterflies

Inger Christensen

Inger Christensen

Translated by John Irons

John Irons 2003

De stiger op, planetens sommerfugle

Skywards they swirl, the planets butterflies,

som farvestv fra jordens varme krop,

like coloured dust from earths warm tenement:

zinnober, okker, guld og fosforgule,

cinnabar, phosphorus, gold, ochre they rise

en svrm af kemisk grundstof lftet op.

to form a swarm of chemo-elements.

Er dette vingeflimmer kun en stime

And is this shimmering of wings a seeming

af lyspartikler i et indbildt syn?

shoal of imagined particles of light?

Er det min barndoms drmte sommertime

Is it my summer hour of childhood dreaming

splintret som i tidsforskudte lyn?

fractured as time-warped lightnings might?

Nej, det er lysets engel, som kan male

No, its lights angel, able to unveil

sig selv som sort Apollo mnemosyne,

itself as black Apollo mnemosyne,

som ildfugl, poppelfugl og svalehale.

copper, poplar-admiral, swallowtail.

Jeg ser dem med min slrede fornuft

I see them with a mind but half aware

som lette fjer i varmedisens dyne

as feathers in a heat-haze eiderdown

i Brajcinodalens middagshede luft.

in Brajchino valleys searing midday air.

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II
v

I Brajcinodalens middagshede luft,

In Brajchino valleys searing midday air,

hvor al erindring smuldrer, og det hele

where recollections crumble and the scene

i lysets sammenfald med plantedele

in lights coincidence with plant-lifes green

forvandler sig fra duftlshed til duft,

changes from scentlessness to scented glare,

gr jeg fra blad til blad tilbage

I trace from leaf to leaf a backward gaze

og stter dem p barndomslandets nlde,

and add them to the land of childhoods nettle,

naturens mest guddommelige flde,

natures divinest snare on which to settle,

der fanger hvad der fr flj vk som dage.

that catches what before flew off as days.

Her sidder admiralen i sit spind,

Here the red admiral still sits entwined,

mens den fra forrsgrn, forslugen larve

while from spring-green and greedy caterpillar

forvandler sig til det vi kalder sind,

it changes into what we would call mind,

s den som andre somres sommerfugle

so it, like other summers butterflies,

kan hente livets ttte purpurfarve

can fetch lifes concentrated purple colour

op fra den underjordisk bitre hule.

up from the bitter caverns sombre dyes.

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Op fra den underjordisk bitre hule,

Up from the bitter caverns sombre dyes,

hvor kldermrkets frste drmmekryb

where the first cellar-darks dream-crawlers sit

og al den grusomhed, vi helst vil skjule,

and all the cruelty we would disguise

lgger bunden under sindets dyb,

lay the foundation under minds deep pit,

op stiger Morfeus, ddninghoved, alle,

up ascend Morpheus, a deaths head, all

der vender aftensvrmersiden ud,

that turn their moth-coat inside out and what

og viser mig, hvor bldt det er at falde

they show me is how soft it is to fall

ned i det askegr og ligne gud.

into the ash-grey and resemble god.

Klsommerfuglen fra en eng i Vejle,

The cabbage white from one of Vejles meadows,

den hvide sjl, som har en tegning malet

that soul of white whose mirror-wings display

af altings flygtighed p vingens spejle,

a drawing of lifes all-elusive shadows,

hvad vil den her i denne dystre luft?

what is it doing in this gloomy air?

Er det den sorg, mit liv har overhalet,

Is it the grief my lifes passed on its way

som bjergbuskadset dkker med sin duft?

that mountain scrub hides with a scent so rare?

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IV

Som bjergbuskadset dkker med sin duft,

That mountain scrub hides with a scent so rare

at blomstringen har rod i alt det rdne,

that flowerings rooted in all that decays,

det skyggefulde, filtrede og ldne,

the shadowful, the tangled, matted hair,

en vild og labyrintisk ufornuft,

a wild and reason-unfrequented maze,

kan sommerfuglen med sin flagren dkke,

the butterfly conceals by fluttering

at den er bundet til insektets krop,

that its imprisoned in an insects frame,

man tror det er en blomst der flyver op,

youd think it was a flower that took to wing,

og ikke denne billedstorm p rkke,

and not this whirring image-storm untamed,

som nr en svrmer, spinder, mler, ugle,

as when a carpet, owlet moth or bombycid

der hvirvler farvens tegnfigur forbi,

that swirl the spectrums cartoon figure by,

tilkaster os en gde som skal skjule,

throw us a mystery that is to hide

at alt hvad sjlelivet har at hbe

that all our mental life can hope for through

hinsides alt er sorgens symmetri

and beyond all is griefs stark symmetry

som blfugl, admiral og srgekbe.

as admiral and camberwell and blue.

Som blfugl, admiral og srgekbe

As admiral and camberwell and blue

i farvens periodiske system

in colours periodic system can

ved hjlp af blot den mindste nektardrbe

with just the smallest nectar droplets hue

kan lfte jorden op som diadem,

lift like a diadem the earths whole span,

som de i farvens klare sorglsheder,

as those in colours carefree tones of bright relief,

lavendel, purpur, brunkulssorte,

lavender, purple, lignite-black, when caught

prcist indlejrer sorgens skjulesteder,

precisely fix each hiding-place of grief,

sknt deres gldesliv er alt for korte,

although their life of joy is all too short,

kan de med deres sommerfuglesnabel

they can imbibe with their probosces all

opsuge verden som en billedfabel,

the world as picture fable and recall

s let som med et krtegns glideflugt,

the glide of a caress with their soft touch,

til alle glimt af krlighed er brugt,

till every glint of love is used as such,

kun glimt af skrk og sknhed gr i ring,

but glints of dread and beauty circling fly,

som pfuglje flagrer de omkring.

as peacock butterflies they flutter by.

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Som pfuglje flagrer de omkring,

As peacock butterflies they flutter by,

jeg tror jeg gr i paradisets have,

I feel as if I walk in Paradise,

mens haven synker ned i ingenting,

while all the garden sinks away and dies,

og ordene, der fr var til at stave,

and words that could be spelt before like ice

oplser sig i falske jepletter,

dissolve into false eyelets seen in flight,

dukatfugl, terningfugl og Harlekin,

scarce copper, burgundy and Harlequin

hvis gglerord om kiselhvide ntter

whose conjured words of silicon-white nights

forvandler dagens lys til mneskin.

transform the light of day to moonlike sheen.

Her gror de stikkelsbr- og slenbuske,

Here grow the bushes, gooseberry and sloe,

som ligegyldigt hvilke ord du spiser

that make, whatever words you eat away,

gr livet sommerfuglelet at huske.

life butterfly-light to recall and know.

Skal jeg mske forpuppe mig og mbe

Shall I perhaps pupate myself and drool

ved alt, den hvide Harlekin fremviser

at all pied Harlequin can now display

og foreggler universets tbe.

and make believe the universes fool.

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Og foreggler universets tbe

And make believe the universes fool

sig selv, at der er andre verdner til,

himself to think that other worlds exist

hvor guderne kan bde g og rbe

where gods can rant and bark and call us all

og kalde os tilfldigt terningspil,

a game of dice, a chance flick of the wrist,

S mind mig om en sommerdag p Skagen

then just remind me of a summers day

da engblfuglen under parringsflugten

in Skagen when the meadow blues all flew

flj rundt som himmelstumper hele dagen

when mating like small scraps of sky all day

med ekko af det bl fra Jammerbugten,

with as its echo Jammerbugtens blue,

mens vi, der bare l fortabt i sandet,

while we, who just lay lost there in the sand,

s talrige som nu kun to kan vre,

as numerous as only two can be,

fik kroppens elementer sammenblandet

had our two bodies elements now mixed

af jord som havs og himmels mellemting,

with earth as that which is twixt sea and sky,

to mennesker, der overlod hinanden

two people placing in each others hands

et liv der ikke dr som ingenting.

a life that does not simply choose to die.

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Et liv der ikke dr som ingenting?

A life that does not simply choose to die?

Hvordan hvis vi i alt det menneskeskabte,

What if we have to see in works of man,

naturens sidste selvoptagne spring,

in natures last, self-centred leap on high,

m se os selv i det p forhnd tabte,

ourselves in what is lost ere it began,

m se den mindste stump af krligheden,

to see the tiniest scrap of love, or sign

af lykken i en formlsls proces,

of joy in a process that no aim can save,

g ind i billedet af menneskeheden

as part of the great picture of mankind

som grsset, selv nr det er gravens grs.

as grass, although the grass is of the grave.

Hvad skal vi med den store atlasspinder,

What goods the atlas silk moth to us, his

hvis vingefang udbreder jordens kort,

wing-span that unfolds the earths great map,

den ligner mest det hjernespind af minder,

he looks most like a web of memories

vi kysser som ikoner af de dde,

we kiss as we would icons of the dead

med smag af ddens kys, der rev dem bort.

with taste of deaths kiss which did them entrap.

Hvem er det der fortryller dette mde?

Who is it that transforms this meeting stead?

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Hvem er det der fortryller dette mde?

Who is it that transforms this meeting stead?

Er det min hjerne, som er bleg og gr,

Is it my very brain, so pale and drawn,

der selv fr lysets farver til at glde

that makes lights many colours glow and spread,

som andet end den sommerfugl jeg s.

that differs from the butterfly I saw.

Jeg s Auroras stnk af paprika,

I saw Auroras speck of paprika,

dens blege skr af pebergr savanne,

its pallid gleam of pepper-grey savanna,

og tidselfuglens trk fra Afrika

and painted ladys flight from Africa

den lige vej til jordens vinterlande.

its trail to winter climes a streaming banner.

Jeg s en mnemlers fine rids,

I saw a lunar thorns clear-cut obverse,

de sm halvmneformers sorte rande,

its charcoal-edged small crescent moons each fixed

der sad p universets vingespids.

upon the wing-tip of the universe.

Og det jeg s var ikke kun forfljne

I saw not simply visions or a guise

syner, som en hjerne selv kan blande

such as a brain itself can think up, mixed

med strejf af sjlefred og sde lgne.

with hint of peace of mind and honeyed lies.

Med strejf af sjlefred og sde lgne,

With hint of peace of mind and honeyed lies,

med dunet skr af grn smaragd og jade

with emerald and jadestones downy weave

kan irislarverne, der selv er ngne,

larvae of purple emperors devise,

efterligne piletrets blade.

naked themselves, to look like poplar leaves.

Jeg s dem de deres eget billed,

I saw them eat their image till, distended,

som s blev foldet sammen til en puppe,

they folded up into a chrysalis

til sidst hngt op som det det forestilled,

that lastly hung as what it represented,

et blad blandt andre blade i en gruppe.

a leaf amongst such other leaves as this.

Nr sommerfuglen med sit billedsprog

If by their imagery butterflies

kan overleve bedre ved at stjle,

have better chances to survive by theft,

hvorfor skal jeg s vre mindre klog,

why should I ever choose to be less wise

hvis det kan dulme angsten for at de

if for whats desolate it dulls the dread

at kalde sommerfuglene for sjle

to name the butterflies as souls now left

om sommersyner af forsvundne dde.

and summer visions of the vanished dead.

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Om sommersyner af forsvundne dde,

And summer visions of the vanished dead,

hvidtjrnens sommerfugl, der svver

the black-veined white that hovers in mid-flight,

som en sky af hvidt med stnk af rde

a cloud of white with just a dash of red

blomsterspor, som lyset sammenvver,

flower-traces, interwoven by the light,

min bedstemor i havens tusind favne

my grandma in the gardens thousandfold

af gyldenlak, levkj og brudeslr,

armfuls of wallflowers, stocks and bridal veils

min far, der lrte mig de frste navne

my father, who to me the first names told

p alt hvad der m krybe, fr det dr,

of all that creeps and crawls before it ails,

gr med mig ind i sommerfugledalen,

walk with me into this enchanted vale,

hvor alting kun er til p denne side,

where all that is is only on this side,

hvor selv de dde hrer nattergalen,

where the dead also hear the nightingale,

dens sange har en srt bedrvet svingen

its songs all have a strangely mournful swinging

fra ingen lidelse til det at lide,

from lack of pain to pain and more beside,

mit re svarer med sit dve ringen.

my ear responds to this with its deaf ringing.

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Mit re svarer med sin dve ringen,

My ear responds to this with its deaf ringing,

mit je med sit indadvendte blik,

my eye too with its introspective look,

mit hjerte ved, at jeg er ikke ingen,

my heart is well aware I am not nothing,

men svarer med det kendte lille stik.

but answers with that well-known snagging hook.

Jeg spejler mig i frost- og lvfaldsmler

I see myself in orange moths and winter

en aften i novembers egekrat,

moths one evening in Novembers brush,

de reflekterer mnelysets strler

they mirror the moon-rays refracted splinters

og leger solskin i den mrke nat.

and play at sunshine in the nights dark hush.

Jeg spejler mig i deres puppedvale,

I see myself in their long pupal sleep,

hvorfra de ndeslst befries, nr nden

from which theyre ruthlessly released when dread

er strst i kuldens spejlbelagte sale,

in mirrored halls of winter colds most deep,

og det jeg ser ved selvsyn, spejlets ngne,

and what I see from gazing in this wise,

fortabte blik, er ikke bare dden,

this stripped, lost mirror look, is not just death,

det er dden som med egne jne.

it is no less than death with its own eyes.

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Det er dden som med egne jne

It is no less than death with its own eyes

vil se sig selv i mig, som er naiv,

would see itself in me, who am naive,

en indfdt, som er bundet til den ngne

one native-born who has unyielding ties

selvindsigt i det der kaldes liv.

to naked self-insight in whats called life.

Jeg leger derfor gerne skovhvidvinge

I therefore like to play at wood white, bring

og sammensmelter ord og fnomen,

and fuse phenomena and words once lone,

jeg leger perlemler for at bringe

play at light emerald so I can string

alverdens leveformer ind i en.

a myriad of life forms into one.

S jeg kan svare dden, nr den kommer:

Then I can answer death as the latecomer:

jeg leger sandrandje, tr jeg hbe,

I play at grayling, can I dare to hope

at jeg er billedet p evig sommer?

that Im the image of eternal summer?

Jeg hrer godt, du kalder mig for ingen,

I hear quite well that you call me a nothing,

men det er mig, der svbt i kejserkbe

but it is me, in silver-washed royal robe,

ser dig an fra sommerfuglevingen.

looking at you from butterflies when winging.

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Ser dig an fra sommerfuglevingen,

Looking at you from butterflies when winging

det gr jo kun lidt sommerfuglestv,

is what some coating dust does whirling past,

s fint som intet skabt af ingen,

as fine as nothing ever made for flinging,

et svar p fjerne stjerneformers lv.

an answer to the fronds of distant stars.

Det hvirvles op som lys i sommervinden,

Its swirled aloft as light in summers wind,

som glimt af perlemor og is og ild,

as ice and fire and mother-of-pearl host,

s alt hvad der er til i sin forsvinden

so all that is when nothings left behind

forbliver sig selv og aldrig farer vild,

remains itself and never will be lost.

s det som ildfugl, iris, isblfugl

As copper, emperor, amandas blue

gr regnbuen til jordens sommerfugl

it makes earths butterfly from rainbow hue

i jordens egen drmmesynske sfre,

in earths own visionary, dreamlike sphere,

et digt som nldens takvinge kan bre.

a poem the small tortoiseshell can bear.

Jeg ser, at stvet lfter sig en smule,

I see the dust ascend before my eyes,

de stiger op, planetens sommerfugle.

skywards they swirl, the planets butterflies.

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De stiger op, planetens sommerfugle
v

Skywards they swirl, the planets butterflies

i Brajcinodalens middagshede luft,

in Brajchino valleys searing midday air,

op fra den underjordisk bitre hule,

up from the bitter caverns sombre dyes

som bjergbuskadset dkker med sin duft.

that mountain scrub hides with a scent so rare.

Som blfugl, admiral og srgekbe,

As admiral and camberwell and blue,

som pfuglje flagrer de omkring

as peacock butterflies they flutter by

og foreggler universets tbe

and make believe the universes fool

et liv der ikke dr som ingenting.

a life that does not simply choose to die.

Hvem er det der fortryller dette mde

Who is it that transforms this meeting stead

med strejf af sjlefred og sde lgne

with hint of peace of mind and honeyed lies

og sommersyner af forsvundne dde?

and summer visions of the vanished dead?

Mit re svarer med sin dve ringen:

My ear responds to this with its deaf ringing:

Det er dden som med egne jne

It is no less than death with its own eyes

ser dig an fra sommerfuglevingen.

looking at you from butterflies when winging.