ASSORTED POETRY (translations and originals)

By Sandra Dermark

LESSONSFROMSPRINGTIME
AnEastergreeting,writteninApril2014

Let every year's April showers

bring forth colourful May flowers,
let the sun shorten each night
and fill every day with light...

When summer comes in the end,
we'll finally comprehend
that hope's reborn every spring,
for children and bards to sing.

And, when cold and gloom return,
we won't forget that we learn
to stay hopeful and secure,
for spring will return once more.

By Sandra Dermark

Happy Easter
and may every springtime last
more than all the winters past!

THEOLDGERMANDENTIST(INCONTEXT)(Anonymousbroadside,Leipzig,1631)
SnippetstranslatedfromtheGermaninNovember2013

Thefulltitleofthiscomicpanelreads"TheOldGermanDentist,whoharassesor
bettersaidcureshypocritical,insincereDefectorsandCandyEaters(whogetcavities)la
modeandbetterthananyCharlatan".Alongbutmeaningfultitle,isn'tit?
ThepicturedepictstheendoftheBattleofBreitenfeld.Catholicloserscomeinthrongstothe
surgeon'sintheSwedishcamp.Allofthemappeartobesufferingfromcavities(luckily,Ihave
neverhadcavities,theclosestthingbeingmycurrentlypushingupwisdomteeth,andthatis
searingpain!).Thereisaqueueinaccountofrank,theGeneralissimosittingonthechairwitha
JesuitandaCardinalbehindshouldthisbethelastdance.AfterTilly,thelessergeneralslike
PappenheimandAltringenarewaitingfortheirturn.
ButourattentionisdrawntotheWalloononthechairandtheplumedfigure,tongsinhand,
readytotakeonthosecavities.Andmyreactionis"OMG!ThedentistisGustavus!!"Nowthatis
gonnahurt!
AboveGustavus,wecanreadatranscriptionoftherantthatheisdelivering:"Halt, my lad! It's
for all that candy..."ImagineGustavussayingthatwiththevoiceofCleese(think"Freshfruitnot
goodenoughforyou?!"orinFawltyTowersasMr.Fawltywhenirate)...
Nowbothfoesappeartobelockingeyes,butthepoemthataccompaniedthiswoodcutgives
another,darkerinterpretationofthisproximity.ThewholepoemistherantGustavusgivesTilly
whilepullingtheveteran'scavitiesout.ItappearstobewritteninaquiteCarrollianor
Shakespeareanstyle(mytranslationfromtheGerman):

"I just can't seize your teeth, no pincer seems to fit.

You should, for your own good, between my legs now sit".

Homoeroticinnuendo,theimageofbeingsexuallyabusedbythevictor,ensues.Havingone's
teethtakenoutcouldstandinforcastration(throughaFreudianlens):anotherequallypainful
andemasculatingoperation.AndthereistheideaofTillybeingpasthisprime,defeatedbythe
youngerandstrongerSwede.Thereismorethanmeetstheeyeinthisbroadsideballad.
ThepoemcontinueswiththeoldWalloonfaintinginhischairastheSwedepullsthecavitiesout
withhisownfingers(orificeinvasion,anothermetaphorforhomoeroticrape).Thatmustbe
bloodypainful:havingthatdonewithoutanyanaesthetic,notevensurgeon'sbrandy(Jean't
Serclaeswasnotonlysworntotemperance,butalsoadevoutCatholicandaveteranwarrior,
usedtosustainpainfulinjurieswithoutasinglecomplaint)...byone'sworstenemywithhisown
hands,soclosetohimthatyoucan'tfigureoutwhathe'sgoingtodonext...Afterthat,hecomes
to,toheartheVasaproceedwithhisrant:

"Hey, Old Corporal! If the pull has been in vain,

I know a recipe that will make you fit again.
Those gums are bleeding sore from marzipan excess,
and thus, under your belt, all that stays in that press
is ready to come out the one or other way...
Thus, cavities and aches and pains do come to stay.
And that would also explain the ringing in your ears,
and the pale and gray skin, and the cold sweat and tears."

Takethat,Jean'tSerclaes,CountofTilly!FromSwedenwith"loooove"!!

SAXONSWEETS(Anonymousbroadside,Leipzig,1631)
TranslatedfromtheGerman

A table was once lavishly set on a broad field,

where there were two heroes who didn't know to yield...
A scoundrel came along, spurned by hate and greed,
to whisk the sweets away, and stuff himself indeed...
The great General whose deeds were proclaimed in cheers,
his Croatians, Walloons, and faithful Cavaliers,
those vast, Count-less Germanic ranks made of playing cards,
did either run away or lay down, slain, in shards.
In my opinion, this to a proverb doth bring:
that one can have too much of a rather good thing.
And that one's expectations prove actually deceits:
think of Tilly when he went to Leipzig for sweets!
O Good Lord who with poison the candy had laced,
and around the world, thus, you're eternally graced!
To you honour and praise, and our thanks and the Light,
from the crack of the dawn to the fall of the night.

GENERALTILLYSTHREEVIRTUESTURNEDTOVICES(GeorgGloger,Leipzig,1631)
TranslatedfromtheGermaninDecember2013

Until today, the Catholic Faith's sword, Count Tilly,

was defined by three virtues (they left all others be):
Never with wench or maiden had he had a good cheer.
Neither had he lost reason through liquor, wine, nor beer.
Third and most renowned: never a battle did he lose...
when born, his destiny did him for victory choose.
I believe that, through virtues so powerful three,
from threat of brains and brawn of foes he sure was free.
For a reward will always be waiting for the chaste:
those who restrain themselves overcome foes with haste.
The same for temperance: who steers clear of the cup,
in front of enemies will always win and stand up.
Since he got drunk on blood, and his reason waylaid,
and, thus intoxicated, raped the Saxon Maid,
he couldn't make a stand upon the battlefield,
and thus, he's forced to flee, to the foeman to yield.
Those who get drunk on blood have surely got no measure,
those who rape maidens don't have good fortune nor pleasure.
They now call him what he deserves, that's old Count Tilly:
a rapist, a drunkard, and a loser forced to flee.

(Remarkbythetranslator:the"SaxonMaid"referstoeitherLeipzigorMagdeburg)

REQUIEMFORTILLY

REQUIEMFORANOLDSOLDIER
on the 381st anniversary of his lamentable death.
A eulogy written in iambic pentameter
by Sandra Dermark on the 29th-30th of April, 2013

There once was a commander long ago,
an old Walloon, with silver locks and beard,
not overcome by drink, nor wench, nor foe,
unwed, to God and Kaiser true alone,
a scourge to foes, a father to his men.
Such was one Jean 't Serclaes, Count of Tilly,
who had, after harsh Jesuit boarding school,
for decades served the Habsburg dynasty,
given command over the Catholic League.
Yet, after six-and-thirty victories
against the Protestants and their allies,
his fortunes would take a turn for the worse.
For Sweden's ruler, younger and more free,
recently landed, was ready to fight
for the Protestants' freedom of belief.
And thus, on the vast plains of Breitenfeld,
both armies clashed with all their bravery.
Gustavus, with advanced technology,
and new strategy plans recently known,
made himself the sole master of the field.
Over the League set the September sun:
two thirds of men had died, and Leipzig fell.
Tilly would rather have been slain than lived.
Such a debacle shattered his career.
And thus, sternly pursued by Swedish ranks,
defeated by the Vasa constantly,
he was obliged to flee back south again,
until he reached the ford across the Lech,
in the springtime of 1632.
There, the League finally entrenched itself.
The Swedes showed soon up on the other side,
determined to cross to Bavarian lands.
Would Count Tilly let such a foe succeed?
He saw a wooden bridge raised by the Swedes,
who then began to cross the confluence.
Despair tore at his bosom painfully.
Alas, were he but slain at Breitenfeld!
Within, a repressed wish of suicide
found its way to his very consciousness.
He knew that there was no deadlier sin,
but the stain on his good name left no chance.
Sword drawn, ready for one last rendezvous,
there he gallops, leading the Catholic ranks,
ready to keep the bridge across the Lech!
Now they battle the Swedish ranks! What now?
Tilly falters and falls, pale, from his steed!
Carried off by Croatians and Walloons,
who retreat, letting the Swedes cross the bridge,
he's examined: they find a bullet hole
in his right thigh, precisely above the knee!
Ablaze with fever, seized with searing pain,
the old commander now contends with death.
Though he's been wounded many times before,
he can't resist: there is no hope for life.
Tears are shed by both officers and men
as the surgeon, a blond, rosy young gent,
tells them their leader is about to die.
And then he bursts into warm tears himself,
and turns his steps towards the Swedish camp:
he is the surgeon to the King of Swedes,
by his liege to the hold of Ingolstadt
sent, to tend to the wounded Count Tilly.
Gustavus seizes the physician tight,
and decides to mourn such a worthy foe,
while, on his deathbed, in the locked hold,
the elderly commander shuts his eyes,
as blue as the Bavarian skies above,
and, pale as his hair, ceases then to breathe,
lulled into rest for all eternity.

GUSTAVUSADOLPHUSATLTZEN

Gustavus Adolphus at Ltzen

Carl Wilhelm Bttiger (late nineteenth century)
Translated from the Swedish by Sandra Dermark in January 2014


The Golden King his doublet took,
and then got on his steed,
and he reviewed his vanguard ranks
so gallantly indeed.
"Your breastplate!", they advised him.
"God shields me!", he demised them.

And like last year at Breitenfeld
against old Count Tilly,
the Swedish army was arranged,
a light to guide the free.
Before the bluecoats' right wing,
encouraged them the Light King.

When all the ranks are sure arranged,
with caring, loving glance,
he greeted all the warriors:
they stood ablaze, in trance.
He was so modest, yet so great!
Each heart was sworn to Crown and State!

"Today may be the final stand!"
"Hold on!", they heed his call.
The "Gott mit uns!" resounds once more,
yet whispers stir them all.
"Stirred is our Liege's nutbrown steed..."
"The Lord alone knows why, indeed..."

"All troubles and sorrows be banned!
It's time to sing and pray!
Do not despair, my little band!"
That song won't fade away.
"And to the field, after we sing!
Glory to us, after our King!"

Onward! onward! The battle seems forever!
King Gustavus on the frontline did lead.
His last words: "Hold on, boys! It's now or never!"
The fog hid both royal rider and steed.
His left arm broken, chest and back sore bleeding,
his hand lets the reins go, life is receding.

Oh, sorrow! Oh, despair! Oh, is there any
good Swede to take and cherish his last sigh?
Young Lbeling alone, out of so many,
sore wounded, by his hero's side doth lie.
He rises. Though his blood itself is surging,
His Majesty the youth to rise is urging.

Lbeling's soft hand by a rapier's broken,
yet to his precious treasure doth he cling.
Yet Gustavus falls, not a word he's spoken,
everything turns dark for the Golden King.
Soon enemies over the spoils are fighting,
Croatian riders on his form alighting.

Then, his brothers in arms feel suffocated,
their arms and hearts oppressed by despair.
"The King is bleeding!" His ranks know he's fated,
he's no more seen, he'll nevermore be there.
His stallion Streiff, saddled, without a master,
gallops forth alone, heralding disaster.

Yet, right before their faithful hearts are frozen,
revenge sets the officers' hearts on fire.
Feeling no pain, heroic death they've chosen,
within, a royal voice is heard inspire.
No mourning shall there be, unless victorious
they end the fight: consoled they are, and glorious.
They swear: "O'er Ltzen's moors, the setting sun
shall witness that the Swedish army won!"

The oath was held. The battle kept on raging,
Count Pappenheim through Swedish fire did fall.
Gustavus, after dark, kept on war waging,
the victory won by his spirit's call.
His golden and blue boys, before the twilight,
when lying slain on the moors 'neath faint sky-light,
carved the victory runes, on Schwedenstein,
that, in our days, on Ltzen's moors still shine.


THEBATTLEOFLTZEN

THE BATTLE OF LTZEN

A historical tableau by Carl Snoilsky
translated from the Swedish by Sandra Dermark
on the 2nd of September 2013

(Dedicated to Juan Carlos Ruiz with sincere admiration)

With thunder and lightning, two armies have clashed
at daybreak, one autumn morrow.
Through thick gray fog, gunfire has violently flashed,
stifling the woundeds cries of sorrow.

On winning, on winning, on daring to dare
is hell-bent the mind of each rider,
though he lose the grip on the reins of his mare,
and rashly dismount, in a stride, her.

As the heavy cuirassier falls to the ground,
the pikeman, who would stand defeated,
sees his chance and thrusts his blade, turning around:
thus, rider and steed are mistreated.

The common soldier rushes into the fray:
his duty reads dying or slaying.
The commander watches his men the game play,
and soon heavy cards hes seen playing.



There he rides, his blue plume flutters! Lovely lad!
Cool eyes, every muscle in tension!
The tall, dashing figure in bright doublet clad
draws friends and enemies attention!

Thus he takes command of his faltering wing,
exposed like a leader of twenty.
Like a young lieutenant, risks takes the blond king:
his swords drawn, his scabbard is empty.

Hes shuttled by thunderstorm wings through the ranks,
into the fog, into the fire.
Like hail, many a bullet on a breastplate clanks
where enemy units conspire.

Onward, my brave Swedish cavalry!
Onward, comrades of German breeding!
In vain they cant catch up their leader dont see...
then, suddenly, hear: The Kings bleeding!

Into the dark bosom of Wallensteins troop
no one the wounded rider followed.
The yellow doublet was, at one fell swoop,
by the clanking iron wave swallowed.

Then, a rising clamour sears flesh and bone:
Gustavus! Our father! Our leader!
Thus, his brigades combine: he wont die alone.
They roar, rushing forward, dear reader.

Croatians retreat and Walloons take to flight,
and, buried in heaps of slain sinners,
the Friedlanders cannons are hidden from sight:
the martyrs men shall be the winners.

The last word was missing in his epic song:
the word that crowns every achievement.
The mourners have done their duty, right or wrong:
they wrote it in blood and bereavement.

Theyve won. On the fields, with a lovely parade,
they honour their beloved leader,
but most of them have fallen within the glade:
the living are few, my dear reader.

On the plains of Ltzen, by faint evening light,
in cold, foggy early November,
I saw such a bloody, violent sight,
that I, to this day, still remember.

CHRISTINA
A seventeenth-century tableau by Carl Snoilsky
Translated from the Swedish by Sandra Dermark
in 2012

Through fully draped black velvet curtains,
the sun casts a fine ray of light.
In that sole note of light and colour,
dust-bunnies dance and move aright.

Theres, day and night, a mourning lady
by sorrow always torn apart.
A golden shrine holds her sole treasure:
her late beloved spouses heart.

A little girl of six is reading
kneeling before her skirt, below.
In those large steel-blue eyes resides
a strange, enchanting, eerie glow.

She turns, and turns, and turns the pages
of her book, but no fairy tales:
The Great Gustavus killed at Ltzen,
yet Protestant glory prevails.

Rarely, precocious, clever glances
dart from the pages forth and back,
so coldly and curiously resting
upon the weeping one in black.

Knocks on the door are heard, its opened
quite carefully, and then our clan
of two is observed from the threshold
by an objective gentleman.

He wears black tights on legs developed,
collar and cuffs are lined with lace,
a goatee streaked, gray, white and worthy,
on his aged, venerable face.

He salutes them just like a courtier,
trying the lady to relieve,
but something tells that shes his vassal:
appearances do not deceive.

Tears doth the dowager respond in,
then the blond child, on bended knee,
the serious gentleman approaches,
addressing her: Your Majesty.

WHATMOURNINGISLIKE
OriginalbySandraDermark

5- 5- MMXII

If loved ones breathing and quick pulse
have silenced within,
if winter frost has lent its cold
and pallor to the skin,
if that person looks fast asleep
but never will awake,
you wonder what has happened then,
whatever it could take.
This poem tells the grieving one
is not alone at all;
a queen with daughter held in grasp
was torn by dutys call
from spouse who did on Ltzens field
one tragic day recline,
and thus his embalmed heart she held
within a gilded shrine.
And Austrias glorious Kaiserin
did many times wear black
for absent relatives long gone
who never would come back,
from dear Charles and Franois Etienne
to many children born,
yet stalwart ruler she remained
with spirits stained and torn.
Should I relate Madame Curie,
who won the Nobel Prize?
Or Jack and Elsie Kipling, then?
No faith in paradise
I have, though I firmly believe
theres solace to be found
as long as there is one who breathes
and treads on solid ground.

PEASEPORRIDGEHOT
Anonymousnurseryrhyme
adaptedbySandraDermark
225MMXIII

Peaseporridgehot,
Peaseporridgecold,
Peaseporridgeinthepot,
9 days old.
Somelikeithot,
Somelikeitcold,
Some like it new,
Some like it old...


ATISKET,ATASKET
anonymousnurseryrhyme
adaptedbySandraDermark
261MMXIV

ATISKET,ATASKET,
ILOSTMYYELLOWBASKET...
wasitgreen?
NO
wasitred?
NO
wasitblue?
NO
ATISKET,ATASKET,
ILOSTMYYELLOWBASKET...
wasitmauve?
NO
wasitpink?
NO
wasitorange?
NO
IWROTEALETTERTOMYLOVE
AND,ONTHEWAY,IDROPPEDIT.
ONEOFYOUHASPICKEDITUP
ANDPUTITINYOURPOCKET...
notme
not me
notme
IWROTEALETTERTOMYLOVE
AND,ONTHEWAY,IDROPPEDIT.
ONEOFYOUHASPICKEDITUP
ANDPUTITINYOURPOCKET...
not me
not me
hereitis
WHERE?
inthisli'lyellowbasket,inmypocket
ICAN'TTHANKYOUENOUGH
you'rewelcome...
(KiSs)

STRUWWELPETER
ByHeinrichHoffmann
TranslatedfromtheGermaninMarch2014

See,herestandsthiscreature.
Eww!ItsStruwwelpeter.
Onbothofhishands,
hisnails,ashestands,
haventbeencutforayear.
Neitherhashecombedhishair.
Eww!Whatacreature!
AwfulStruwwelpeter!

THESTORYOFTHEBLACKLADS
ByHeinrichHoffmann
TranslatedfromtheGermaninMarch2014

Therecameawalkingthroughapark
aMoorwhoseskinwasravendark.
ThesunshonehotonourOthello,
soupwenthisnicegreenumbrella.

Ludwigcame,withthespeedoflight,
wavingPrussiasflagatthesight.
Kasparcametothespotaswell,
carryingapretzel,youcantell.
AndWillididtheynotoutsing:
hebroughtwithhimhisstickandring.
Andallthreelaughedatlineofsight,
becausehisskinisblackasnight!

ThencametheMightyNicholas
1
withhisgreatinkstand.Lord!Alas!
Youchildrenwontlistentome!
Whynotcalmdownandleavehimbe?
Suchracistjokesareallunfair!
Itsnothisfaulthisskinsnotfair!
Buttheylaughedlouderthanbefore
atthepoorravenpitchblackMoor.

ThenGreatNickturnedwickedwithrage,
justseethepictureonthispage!
Hecaughtthefairhairedchildrenthree,
theircoats,theirarms,theywerenotfree.
Kasparfoughtback,criedOpenfire!,
butNickdismissedhimasaliar.
Intohisinkstand(Lord!Alas!)
dunkedthemtheMightyNicholas.

1
TheMightyNicholas(DergrosseNikolas)isportrayedasagiantwizardwithaninkstandtomatch.

Lookatthemnow!Whatasoresight!
Allthreearereallyblackasnight.
Hadtheyshowntoleranceandcare,
Ibettheirskinwouldhavestayedfair.

THESTORYOFKONRADTHETHUMBSUCKER
ByHeinrichHoffmann
TranslatedfromtheGermaninMarch2014

Mrs.Mumsaid:Konrad,son,
rightnowshoppingIllbegone.
Youreabigboy.Thus,noquips,
andkeepyourthumbsfromyourlips!
OrtheSchneider willarrive
2
beforeyoucancounttofive,
cutyourthumbsoffwithscissorshard,
asiftheyweremadeofcard.

AssoonasMumwasoutofsight,
hetuckedinhisrightthumbaright.

Thud!Someoneopensthedoor,
andthen,withoutwarningbefore,
theSchneidersprings(thislookssobad!)
towardsKonrad,thesuckerlad.
Scissorsflashatlightningspeed,
bloodflowsonthefloorindeed,
Withsharpscissors!Cold,hardsteel!
AndsuchapainKonraddoesfeel!

WhenMumhascomehomeagain,
herchildbleedslikeafountainpen.
Withoutthumbs,frozen,therehestands:
bothhavebeenseveredfromhishands.
2
Schneidertranslatesasbothtailorandcutter,apunimpossibletotranslate.

THESTORYOFSOUPYKASPAR(EXCERPT)
ByHeinrichHoffmann
TranslatedfromtheGermaninMarch2014

Onthefourthday(poorlittlething!)
Kasparwasslenderasastring.
Heweighedlikeonesolecrumbofbread
and,onthefifthday,hewasdead.

THESTORYOFRENLYBARATHEON,WHOMADETHEWRONGKINDOFLOVE
Originalpoem
31stofMarch2014

TheStoryofRenlyBaratheon,whoMadetheWrongKindofLove

Ayoungladsoftasaripepeach
camefromtheStormlandstotheReach.
Ifnotfordarkerhairtotell,
youdswearRenlywasaTyrell.

Yearslater,hesstubbled,wellfed,
toMargaeryTyrelljustwed,
buttheonewhodoeshisheartflaw
isoneofhisbrothersinlaw!

WithLorashedrathercaress.
TotheTyrells,thatsnodistress.
Theyvecometolovehimastheirown,
andevenofferedhimathrone.

YethedseekLorasandentwine
theirlimbsinanarborofvine.
Now,ridingcomesaladyfair,
andasksIsyoungKingRenlythere?

Thetidingsleavenooneunharmed,
theresareasontobealarmed.
ForStannishasleftDragonstone,
andseizedtheStormlandsashisown.

Theflamesofwararefannedawake,
theSevenGodsburnedatthestake,
thegodswoodtooCome,Renly,lead,
forthosestrangezealotstorecede!

TheyleavetheReach,thosegallantranks,
withrainbowcloaks,eachbreastplateclanks.
Soon,theyencampbeforeStormsEnd:
Iwasbornhere,Loras,goodfriend!

Youwerebornhere,andsoisthefoe.
Hesolderthanyou,asyouknow.
Surejealous,asolderbrothersare.
Notachancehestands,hewontgofar.

Thecampfireslit,theflagonspassed,
RenlyandLoraslie,caressed.
WithinStormsEnd,byfaintmoonlight,
StannisBaratheonviewsthissight.

Thereyouare,lovingagentleman!
Nowyoureassinfulasyoucan!
Thisaintforgiven,littlebro!
Yoursweet,shortlifewillendinwoe!

RenlyBaratheon,youngTyrell,
standkissingbeforethefarewell:
coldsteelisthrustinRenlysback,
andeverythingforhimturnsblack.

Thebladestiprisesfromhischest,
hefalls,noweveryonesimpressed.
ToStormsEndtheslayerreturns:
nooneincamphisfeatureslearns.

Thenextday,onthebattlefield,
LorassrankstoStannisyield.
SoonyoungTyrellisonhisown:
hissweetheartslostlife,love,andthrone.

AndtotheReachLorashasfled,
withlifelessformofRenlydead.
Goldenrosetreeswatchnowwithgrace
hislasteternalrestingplace.

Everytwilight,andeverymorn,
theTyrellsgathertheretomourn.
HadRenlylovedhisdarlingwife,
hewouldhavelivedalongerlife.

TOMARACALZADA,MYOWNWATERLOO
OriginalPoem
20thofApril2014

InEnglishlandsthistaleyoumaybereading,
toyournameonthelineabovejustheeding,
orthinkingofmewithyourheartandsoul,
faintlywhisperingfromafar:
"I'dgiveyouthebrighteststar
foranightlight
tograceeacheveningormidnightsight".

CHAPTERHEADINGSFORTHECURSEOFECHO
OriginalPoetrytoapublicdomainstorybyElsieFinnimoreBuckley

Alightmaidenangersapowerfulqueen:
thepunishmentisquiteacruel,unjustscene.

Afacelikeapeachhidesahearthardassteel:
nopassionforothersthisyouthseemstofeel

Whilequenchinghisthirst,aflame'skindledatlast:
forloveofhimself,lifeisjustasidecast.
Asforthemaiden,shepinesawayintheglen,
torepeateverycallthereagainandagain.