#danish poetry

[haveyoureadthispoem-poll]

"De stiger op, planetens sommerfugle / I Brajčinodalens middagshede luft..."

(translation by submitter: "They rise up, the planet's butterflies / In the midday heat of the Brajčino Valley...")

Read this in the original Dansk (Danish) here | Read an English translation of one of the sonnets in this sonnet cycle here

Reblog for a larger sample size!

[imaginationstimulation]

Så Tag Mit Hjerte

Sa tag mit hjerte i dine Haender, men tag det varsomt og tag det blidt, det røde hjerte - nu er det dit.

Det slar sa roligt,det slar sa daempet, for det har elsket, og det har lidt, nu er det stille - nu er det dit.

Og det kan sares og det kan segne, og det kan glemme og glemme tit, men glemmer aldrig, at det er dit.

Det var sa staerkt og saa stolt,mit Hjerte, det sov og drømte i lyst og leg, nu kan det knuses - men kum af dig.

So Take My Heart

So take my heart in your hands, but take it carefully and take it gently, the red heart - it is now yours.

It beats so quietly, it beats so softly, for it has loved and it has suffered, now it is quiet - now it is yours.

And it can get hurt, it can languish, and it can forget, and it often does, but never will it forget that it is yours.

It was so strong and so proud, my heart, it slept and dreamt in joy and play, now it can be broken - but only by you.

Tove Ditlevsen was a Danish poet. She was born in 1917 in Copenhagen. Her debut as a lyricist dates back to 1937, when one of her poems is published in the newspaper Vild Hvede. A couple of years later, her first poem collection is released with the title “Pigesind” (“Female Mind”). In that period of time, she was in charge of the Danish newspaper Familie Journalen’s column “Smaa Hverdagsproblemer” (“Small Everyday Problems”) after the death of Edith Rode. The following poem, “Så Tag Mit Hjerte”, is taken from Tove’s poem collection “Lille Verden” (“Little World”), released in 1942.

[manwalksintobar]

A life  // Henrik Nordbrandt

You struck a match and its flame blinded you so you couldn’t find what you were looking for in the darkness before the match burned out between your fingers and pain made you forget what you were looking for.                            

[literaryvein-reblogs]

A List of "Beautiful" Danish Words

for your next poem/story

Åndeløs - breathless

Ærlig - honest

Bagstiv - waking up drunk from the night before

Efterår - autumn

Fløjl - velvet

Forelsket - euphoria you experience when you’re first falling in love

Forgårs - the day before yesterday

Forhåbningsfuld - hopeful

Fraværende - missing, absent

Hygge - an atmosphere of warmth, wellbeing, and coziness when you feel at peace and able to enjoy simple pleasures and being in the moment

Kærlighed - love

Kirkegård - cemetery

Læsning - reading

Mareridt - nightmare

Medfølelse - compassion

Orke - when you can’t be bothered to do something or that you don’t have the strength or energy for it

Solsikke - sunflower

Spøgelse - ghost

Sympatisk - when you have a good gut feeling about someone you have just met

Tilbedelse - adoration

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or send me a link. I would love to read them!

Sources: 1 2 3 ⚜ More: Word Lists

[artemlegere]

Rinaldo and Armida

Artist: Antonio Zucchi, RA (Italian, 1726-1796)

Date: 1773

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: National Trust Collections, United Kingdom

Description

A classical scene from Tasso, II Canto 17 – 20, with lovers under a tree and two soldiers behind them, the reflective mirror has been casted aside. In the background are the two Danish Knights, who are about to persuade Rinaldo to quit Armida. One of a set of six over-door paintings by Antonio Zucchi, previously, erroneously, attributed to Angelica Kauffman.

A scene from Torquato Tasso's epic poem, Gerusalemme liberata (1581) and inspired by Ariosto's Orlando Furioso. The sorceress Armida has been sent to stop the Christians and is about to murder the First Crusade soldier, Rinaldo, but instead she falls in love. She creates an enchanted garden where she holds him a lovesick prisoner. Eventually two of his fellow Crusaders find him and hold a shield to his face, so he can see his image and remember who he is.

[guessillcallitart]

new aroace character dropped✨ Signe, my Danish poet baby🧡💛🤍🩵💙 Also candyfloss star (Reverie and Luz)🪩💞

taglist: @aloeverawrites, @your-absent-father, @rbbess110, @yesireadbooks, @full-on-sam, @anonymousfoz, @the-mindless, @the-void-writes, @aalinaaaaaa, @mr-orion, @1socially-awkard1, @athenswrites, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @albatris (ask to be added or removed)

(moodboard pics from pinterest)

[strangementalitycrown]

First poem of the year, Happy new year’s:

Each New Year’s Eve was a shadow — a quiet corner in a loud room, a countdown that dragged on endlessly, time slipping into overflowing darkness. Glooming time that he deemed to have left. The fireworks would bloom in the sky, but their colors never dared to reach him. He sat in the stillness, watching the world celebrate something he couldn’t quite grasp. But this year was different. This year, he wasn’t alone. They stood beside him, their voices rising in laughter, their warmth melting the cold he had carried for so long. As the clock struck midnight, he sat on the sofa, watching true loves kiss, companions cheer, and something unfamiliar ignited in his chest. For the first time, it felt like a beginning, not just the end of another year. He looked around, at the faces he never wanted to lose, at the kindred souls who made the passing year feel a like more than fleeting time. The fireworks still lit the sky, but now they lit his heart, too. This was what he had been waiting for— without even knowing he had been waiting.

[etapereine]

the world will never be the same

"Alexander Hamilton", Hamilton: An American Musical | Jonas Vingegaard on the podium of the 2021 Tour de France ©Jean Catuffe/Getty Images | Jonas Vingegaard on the podium of the 2022 Tour de France ©Etienne Garnier/ATP/Getty Images

[creative-insolvency]

Et sted i mørket

Another language in my brain

Y estoy cansado al centro

Er jeg helt alene

It feels like an infection

El síntoma de la alienación

Jaget af monstre gemt i mine tanker

Like I am helpless to it

Pero... sigo, debo!

What they couldn't have expected; este no puedes saber; hvad ingen har tænkt endnu:

Ya estoy muerto; and yet...

Jeg ligger stadig her. Alive. Respirando.

[kanmanikkebareheddesigselv]

livet

mit liv

brudstykker

af livene mine

afkyggelser eller efterladenskabelser

af alle de

mine liv der er gået i stykker

>> men 555

som om det drejes og samles igen

som om det hele kan splintres og samles på en dag som på et år

[blinkbones]

i thought you all might want to see the very professional analysis i wrote in my copy of hamlet in a fit of drunken joy

i hope you agree. because im right

[femb0td111ary]

Jeg er ikke min diagnose

Jeg er de blomster jeg plukker

De mennesker jeg elsker

Jeg er solen på min latexhud

Og lugten af regn på en tung sommerdag

Eng//

I'm not my diagnosis

I am the flowers i pick

The people I love

I am the sun on my latex skin

And the smell of rain on a heavy summer day

[deathelegy]

Iska Dinesen (Danish Author)

- i usually don't share another poet's work over my page but this is worthy enough to do so. she just summoned the whole in a 12 small words. every poetry in this world will still remains a subset of it.

[youngmrshudson]

Danish Poem called “the night machine” by Michael Strunge (Danish Poet)

I love this poem, its very beautiful 🥰 ✨🥲

[duo-slew-the-danish-devs]

[artemlegere]

Ossian Singing His Swan Song

Artist: Nicolai Abildgaard (Danish, 1743-1809)

Date: 1780-1782

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: National Gallery of Denmark, Copenhagen, Denmark

Description

The Danish artist Nicolai Abraham Abildgaard, like many of his contemporaries, merged influences of Neoclassicism and Romanticism in his work. He was very fond of both classical and Nordic literary motifs. Ossian played a major part in his work, and his Ossian Singing his Swan Song has almost become the defining image of the blind bard.

The last section of Ossian, entitled Berrathon, presages Ossian's death and tells of what will be his last song:

"Such were my deeds, son of Alpin, when the arm of my youth was strong. Such the actions of Toscar, the car-borne son of Conloch. But Toscar is on his flying cloud. I am alone at Lutha. My voice is like the last sound of the wind, when it forsakes the woods. But Ossian shall not be long alone. He sees the mist that shall receive his ghost. He beholds the mist that shall form his robe, when he appears on his hills. The Sons of feeble men shall behold me, and admire the stature of the chiefs of old. They shall creep to their caves. They shall look to the sky with fear: for my steps shall be in the clouds. Darkness shall roll on my side.

Lead, son of Alpin, lead the aged to his woods. The winds begin to rise. The dark wave of the lake resounds. Bends there not a tree from Mora with its branches bare? It bends, son of Alpin, in the rustling blast. My harp hangs on a blasted branch. The sound of its strings is mournful. Does the wind touch thee, O harp, or is it some passing ghost? It is the hand of Malvina! Bring me the harp, son of Alpin. Another song shall rise. My soul shall depart in the sound. My fathers shall hear it in their airy hail. Their dim faces shall hang, with joy, from their clouds; and their hands receive their son. The aged oak bends over the stream. It sighs with all its moss. The withered fern whistles near, and mixes, as it waves, with Ossian's hair.

'Strike the harp, and raise the song: be near, with all your wings, ye winds. Bear the mournful sound away to Fingal's airy hail. Bear it to Fingal's hall, that he may hear the voice of his son: the voice of him that praised the mighty!'"