A notable poet of post-WWII Denmark, Erik Knudsen’s poetry has not been widely translated. Knudsen’s work reflects his social activism, especially his opposition to the Vietnam War. This poem is translated from the Danish by Michael Goldman. The original Danish follows the English translation.
Minotaur
How did this happen? How did this start?
Full moon, grapevine slopes, the old linden tree – suddenly the scenery came crashing down, and we saw right into Teutoburgerwald.
Burgeoning Brunhilda stepped forward – her waistcoat tore open, and out flew a storm of grenades. Crystal chandeliers exploded and fell like fireworks. The harp player took to the sky on the wings of song to light the victor’s double suns. The mothers gave birth to wild pigs with radar instead of eyes. Siegfried liquidated the inner secretion. The poet’s armored fist was more beautiful than words. The philosopher stood with a flamethrower, defending the necessity against a massive attack from the burial mounds’ piles of shoes.
There was no god in the grapes. There was horsetail everywhere. Marshbirds. Furry bodies. Saber-toothed tigers dressed like freight cars. Rows of bats. Colossal statues with warty skin. Burning salamanders. Gorillas with the same blood type as angels.
And the whole time you could hear the gnashing of Heidelberg-jaws.
When the morning dawned a hundred years had passed. People cleaned with chlorine and scrubbed with ammonia, but death’s needle had scraped too deep.
Those remaining looked askance when talking together.
“We have to atone!” shouted a voice. “We have to win!” yelled the ruins’ echo.
Some thought: Is it possible to live with these pictures on our retinas?
Minotauros
Hvordan gik det til? Hvordan begyndte det?
Fuldmånen, vinbjergene, det gamle lindetræ – pludselig ramlede kulisserne sammen, og man så lige ind i Teutoburgerwald.
Svulmende Brynhilde trådte frem – livstykket revnede, og ud blæste en storm af granater. Krystalkroner eksploderede og faldt som lysraketter. Harpespilleren for til vejrs på sangens vinger for at tænde sejrens bisole. Mødrene fødte vildsvin med radar i stedet for øjne. Siegfried likviderede den indre sekretion. Poetens pansernæve var skønnere end ord. Filosoffen stod med flammekaster og forsvarede nødvendigheden mod massive angreb fra gravhøjenes dynger af sko.
Der var ingen gud i druerne. Der var padderokker overalt. Sumpfugle. Lådne kroppe. Sabeltigre forklædt som godsvogne. Kolonner af flagermus. Kolossalfigurer med vortet hud. Brændende salamandere. Gorillaer af samme blodtyper som engle.
Og hele tiden hørte man Heidelberg-kæbernes knasen.
Da morgenen brød frem var hundred år gået. Man skylled med klor og skured med ammoniak, men dødens nål havde ridset for dybt.
De efterladte så til siden, når de talte sammen. – Vi må sone! råbte en stemme. – Vi må sejre! skreg ruinernes ekko.
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