Three poems

I have amused myself with translating into English a couple of poems by Arvid Mörne, one of the foremost Finland-Swede poets. He lived 1876-1946 and published no less than twenty collections of poems, beside his educational and political activities. The subjects for most of his poems were taken from the archipelago along the southern coast of Finland where he spent his summers. This archipelago is populated by Finland-Swedes who in Mörne’s time made a living mostly by fishing and small scale farming.

In his poem “Three Cairns”, written during World War II, Mörne connects the present with the past, alluding to the half-razed cairns from the Viking era that can be seen here and there in the archipelago and in the coastal area.

The subject of the poem “The Fell” is the scenery somewhere in Jämtland, in northern Sweden where “fells” (mountains) alternate with “dales” (valleys), a landscape reminding of the archipelago in many respects.

For comparison I present also a poem by a Finn on a profoundly Finnish subject, “The Waste Land” The author is the literary historian Professor V.A. Koskenniemi (1885-1962) and his poem renders his imagination of what life in the backwoods of Finland in the 19^th century would have looked like. He himself lived far from the backwoods.

Here follow the poems:

Arvid Mörne:

Three cairns

(English rendering by C.N.)

Just at the point where the waves

break and rub against the strand,

there once stood three viking graves,

three cairns to manifest high hand.

Naval kings, scourges of the sea,

armed with their shields and swords,

once buried in a solemn glee,

interred by their vassal lords.

But the sea withdrew its power;

inch by inch advanced the wood,

the cairns were lost in a bower,

each under a thick green hood.

And now--coppice on all the cairns

anemones grow there in spring.

In summer a crowd of bairns

pick berries above each king.

When in fall the leaves whirl round

and the sea is in frantic rage,

in red, then, is clad the rowan,

who stands sentry in thes new age.

Yes, here they entered harbour,

our forefathers, now lying alone

in the midst of this lush arbour

under a heap of moss-grown stone.

And who would grasp today

that a world once shook with fright

of viking warriors under way,

seeing their reign as an evil plight?

Tre kummel

(Mörne’s original)

Det stod engång, där vågen bryts och skavar

mot stenig strand, tre kummel: vikinggravar.

Sjökungar, forna tiders skräck på haven,

där lades ner med sköldar, hjälm och glaven

Men havet drog sig undan tum för tum,

tills skogen gömde dem i gröna rum

Och nu - vart mossigt kummel översnåras

och pryds med anemoner, när det våras.

I hallontiden springa barn med stop

på plockning här och skogen fylls av rop.

När löven virvla bort och havet rasar,

kläs kumlens unga rönn i röda klasar

och håller vakt, där forna krigsmän bo

i dödens stilla frid och skogens ro.

Ja, här de löpt i hamn från bistra väder

och blodigt hantverk, våra ättefäder.

Vem vördar nu tre kummelkrönta gravar?

Den röda bödeln radar lik i travar!

Och vem kan fatta att en hemsökt värld

i bävan darrat för ett vikingsvärd?

Arvid Mörne:

The autumn fell

(English rendering by C.N.)

The fell in his autumn cloud hood,

over boundless tracts a moss-gray king,

now seeks to make himself look good

dressing in broad, mauve belts of ling.

Down in the dull, sluggish dale

(sleepeing after harvest, off duty)

the red rowan-tree burns like a bale,

he too being stark mad on beauty,

While dreamy lakes yield from their laps

reflections of the even clouds that sail

to seek position as mountain caps,

or otherwise, perhaps, to hail.

The dale, the fell, the fell, the dale!

I value each of them so well

But leaning now on my shed-loft rail

which one will I choose, dale or fell?

Jämtlandshöst

(Mörne’s original)

Fjället i sin höstmolnshätta,

öde vidders mossgrå kung,

skrudar sig i violetta

breda skärp av ljung.

Nere i den trötta dalen,

hässjad, bärgad, tom och bar,

röda rönnen skönhetsgalen

höjer sitt standar,

medan drömska sjöar spegla

i sin stilla, djupa famn

aftonmolnen där de segla

till ett fjäll i hamn.

Dalen, fjället, fjället, dalen!

Vilketdera blir mitt val

från min bänk i bodloftssvalen

mellan fjäll och dal?

V. A. Koskenniemi:

In the waste land

(English rendering by C.N.)

Tell me, my dear, darest thou walk by my side

far into the wood, where my cabin is tied?

I know not thy cabin, and I know not the track

but if the bird finds it, it’s not far aback.

My dear, dreadst thou the moor when darkness comes there,

when the wolf’s eye gleams and the night trolls stare?

The dreads of the waste come to naught, when I hear

he sough from the spruce on the grounds of my dear.

Say, dear, darest thou tread upon frost-bitten grounds,

when the harvest is scarce, and bare need abounds?

I dread not the black frost, nor the lack of grain;

the share will plough deeper when worked by twain.

Then join me, my dear, come share my cot and my barn.

We’ll row there by the mickle mere and the deep little tarn.

Korvessa

(The Finnish original)

Sano, armas, uskallatko mun tulla seuraksein

pois, kauas korven syliin, ma kunne majan tein?

En tideä, miss’ on majas’, en mistä käypi tie.

Jos sinne lintu lentää, ei kaukana se lie.

Sa armas, etkö pelkää, kun korpi pimenee,

kun kiiltää hukan silmä, yön kauhat uhkailee?

On kaikki korven kauhu mua vastaan voimaton,

kun sitä kuusta kuulen, jonk’ alla majas’ on.

Sa armas, uskallatko mun tulla mukaisin?

On usein halla ollut ja puute vieraanain.

En puutetta ma pelkää, en uhkaa hallayön.

Ja syvemmät kuin yhden, on vaot kahden työn.

Niin kanssain korven yöhön sa lähde, armahin,

niin selkää järven kymmenen sun soudan kotihin!.

---

Carl O. Nordling