HAUGE, Olav H.


Across The Swamp

It is the roots from all the trees that have died

out here, that's how you can walk

safely over the soft places.

Roots like these keep their firmness, it's possible

they've lain here centuries.

And there is still some dark remains

of them under the moss.

They are still in the world and hold

you up so you can make it over.

And when you push out into the mountain lake, high

up, you feel how the memory

of that cold person

who drowned himself here once

helps hold up your frail boat.

He, really crazy, trusted his life

to water and eternity.

I read a poem

I read a poem, but as I knew right

away, it was a letter; one alone

should read it, that was clear as carved in stone.

She saw no other way out of her plight,

than grabbing pen and pen and paper – write and tell

it to whomever – yet if only he

could read it, he! As if through flames ran she.

Her words, however, captured me as well.

To understand, that's all I need to know.

My message in a bottle, once I throw

it out, God knows if it will reach its aim.

For none can tell how wind and weather turn.

My words go to those who want to learn.

I'm sure she 'll think they are a bloody shame.


Briar Rose

The rose has been sung about.

I want to sing of the thorns,

and the root--how it grips

the rock hard, hard

as a thin girl's hand.


Everyday

You've left the big storms

behind you now.

You didn't ask then

why you were born,

where you came from, where you were going to,

you were just there in the storm,

in the fire.

But it's possible to live

in the everyday as well,

in the grey quiet day,

set potatoes, rake leaves,

carry brushwood.

There's so much to think about here in the world,

one life is not enough for it all.

After work you can fry bacon

and read Chinese poems.

Old Laertes cut briars,

dug round his fig trees,

and let the heroes fight on at Troy.


To My Fingers

Oh, you fingers,

how many hours you've had

to slave for a cold brain

and a dead body!

And if I didn't write then

you would take to whispering.

Didn't the poems become good then!

When you were speaking with tongues of fire!


Don't give me the whole truth

Don't give me the whole truth,

don't give me the sea for my thirst,

don't give me the sky when I ask for light,

but give me a glint, a dewy wisp, a mote

as the birds bear water-drops from their bathing

and the wind a grain of salt.


It's the Dream

It's the dream we carry in secret
that something miraculous will happen,
that it must happen –
that time will open
that the heart will open
that doors will open
that the rockface will open
that spring will gush –
that the dream will open,
that one morning we will glide into
some little harbour we didn't know was there.

Translated by Robert Fulton

You Are The Wind

I am a boat

without wind.

You were the wind.

Was that the direction I wanted to go?

Who cares about directions

with a wind like that!

Translated by: Robert Bly