Skærur Vindur – Sunleif Rasmussen

1. Sig mær, hví er foldin føgur

1. Sig mær, hví er foldin føgur

Words: Stéfan Hørður Grímsson 
Music: Sunleif Rasmussen
Faroese Translation: Karsten Hoydal
English translation: Jette and Gunnar Hoydal

Sig mær, hví er foldin føgur, hví er ljósagrønur bøur, tá ið summarsól sær heitt?
Hví í tøgn man blóma mæla, hví man eingin urtin tala? Harrin hevur deyðum veitt sælan frið og leiðir leitt.
Hvat kann vakrari tær fjala, tá tú liðugur ert at tala og tá deyðin nemur teg, enn tær blómur, smáar, rættar, sum á foldum standa tættar, lið um lið og níga seg fram við deyðans dapra veg.

Tell Me Why the World is Pretty
Tell me why the world is pretty, fields all green outside the city. when the summer’s sun is bright, why in silence flowers sing, why no sounds from herbs do ring. God has given death its might, restful peace to lead us right.
What more lovely as a blanket, when you finished have life’s banquet and when death puts out his hand, than the many simple flowers bending softly to the powers of the wind along the land, path to darkness where they stand.

2. Kvøldvísa um summarmála

Words: Karsten Hoydal
Music: Sunleif Rasmussen
Translation: Jette and Gunnar Hoydal

Yvir royðufjallið stavar bláhvíta ljósið frá nýmána bleikum á brá.
Út fyri brúnari fjøru vestfallið spælir í lognini ljósu á hørpu í djúpum sjógv,
hørpu sum leikar undir várkvølds slørdansi dapurt og glaðlynt í senn.
Moldin døkka sum goymir lík av týndum blómum blómum sum hond tín nam frísk.
Aftur er hon fjálg
og skýming fellur á eygu kvøldsins
og onnur bláari eygu
handan fyri horvin vár
verða til eitt, renna saman kvøldið
og mynd tín still og vøkur sum eitt minni
rein og hvít sum ein bøn.

Evening Tune in April
Blue-white light is falling
on the redstone mountain
from the new moon’s pale complexion.
Off the darkish brown shoreline
in the shining calm
the currents are playing
on harps in the deep, deep sea harps played so lightly
under the springtime dance of veils in sadness mingled with joy.
Soil so black is now hiding corpses of withered flowers
flowers once touched by your hand soil again so mild and fresh.
Twilight falls on the eyes of the evening and other eyes beyond springs gone by unite, melt into one
the evening and your image calm and lovely like a memory pure and white as a prayer.

3. Syngjandi grót

Words: Karsten Hoydal
Music: Sunleif Rasmussen
Translation: Jette and Gunnar Hoydal

Meðan tú bíðar tolin og tómur, dvølur í tøgn sum sáōkyknan rein, syngjandi fuglar og grøs og blómur fjølgast í lívd við gráan stein.
Røkkur himin at vátum gróti, sólbjørt glæman úr hellu slær, heimurin skínur tær undir fóti, sólin úr deyðum fær aftursvar.
Ótolið bróstið stendur á tambi, búgvið við máli, alspent hvør spong,
– hevði nú niðan at hægsta kambi grótið vaknað og skorið í song. –
Loysir tú tøgn, fært steinin at svara, eigur tín songur anda og mót,
tá kanst tú laða ein livandi varða: fuglar blómur og og syngjandi grót.

Singing Rocks
While you are waiting patient and empty, dwelling in silence, a seed on your own, birds and the grass and flowers in plenty gather for rest by the sheltering stone.
Sky and water and rock combining glittering strokes from the stony ground, under your feet the world is shining, flashes of sun make all dead things resound.
Deep in your chest the hidden fountains ready and ripe for language and tongue,
– if from the shore to the highest mountains stones could wake up and burst into song.
If but your song has force and entices tones to give answer and silence unlocks, then from your hands a living cairn rises: Birds and flowers and singing rocks.

4. Sóljurnar og náttin

Words: Karsten Hoydal
Music: Sunleif Rasmussen
Translation: Jette and Gunnar Hoydal

Millum sóljukoppar
rann hvør kovi fullur
av tí bláu nátt.
Nú er tímin komin,
bonskir blómutoppar
fingu bundnan mátt.
Tryggast sóljuveitir nú
ið náttin tamdi dagsins gylta ris
–løgd í bláan farra ljómandi gull-heitir,
tálmað í turkis,
glógva ikki longur við ovdýrum litum meðan dimmið er.
– Ógvisligi drongur, genta tín hon grætur
– sóljur henni ber.

Marsh Marigolds and the Night
Flooding through the marshes
filling every flower
ran the blue of night.
Now the time has come
when tops of simple flowers
get their hidden might.
Marigold in ditches
safe now night has softened daylight’s golden eye,
in the haze of evening all the burning colors tamed in turquoise lie.
They no longer glowing with too precious fervor while the dark unfolds. –
oh young boy, impetuous,
hear your girl
crying,
bring her marigolds.

5. Blátt

Words: Steinbjørn B. Jacobsen
Music: Sunleif Rasmussen
Translation: Birgit Remmel

Himmal og hav møtast í bláum sjónarringurin
hitt svarta bergið er blátt
tær grasgrønu líðirnar
eru aftanfyri eitt blátt tám viðhvørt.

Blue
Sky and sea meeting in blue the horizon
the black cliff is blue
the grass green slopes
are behind a blue haze sometimes.

6. Fyrsti sálmur Davids

Music: Sunleif Rasmussen

Sælur er maður
ið ei fylgir vondra manna ráði. Sælur er maður,
ið ei stendur á syndara vegi.
Sælur er maður, ið ei situr í spottara lagi.
Sælur er maður, hvørs hugur stendur til Harrans lóg
og yvir lóg hans grundar dag og nátt. Hann er eins og træið, plantað við áarløkir
og hvørs leyv ei følnar.
Alt ið hann ger honum eydnast skal.
Ikki gongst soleiðis vondum monnum; men eins og bos teir eru, ið fýkur fyri vindi. Tí skulu gudleysir ei standast í dóminum og syndarar ei í rættvísra liði.
Tí Harrin kennir veg teirra rættvísu, og vegur teirra gudleysu ber av leið.

Psalms, Book 1, 1
Who does not take the wicked for his guide nor walk the road that sinners tread nor take his seat among the scornful;
the law of the Lord is his delight, the law his meditation night and day. He is like a tree
planted beside a watercourse, which yields its fruit in season and its leaf never withers:
in all that he does he prospers.
Wicked men are not like this;
they are like chaff driven by the wind. So when judgement comes the wicked shall not stand firm, nor shall sinners stand in the assembly of the righteous.
The Lord watches over the way of the righteous, but the way of the wicked is doomed.

7. Vár

Words: Karsten Hoydal
Music: Sunleif Rasmussen
Translation: Jette and Gunnar Hoydal

Vit hoyrdu várið kalla og viltust bæði burtur, úr bygd og mannaeygum eitt lognarkvøld í mai og gingu tætt tilsamans ígjøgnum grønar dalir og eftir brúnum høvdum so langt so langt av leið.

So rúsandi ein rørsla
í øllum heimsins lutum
í luft og mold og vatni og mannasálum rann, tað var sum túsund nálir við mjúkum silkibløðum
í okkar’ blóði spruttu við villum vakstrarlag.
Á vegnum lomb og blómur
og brostin egg í reiðri, tað leikaði og livdi
á vølli og í mold.
Við ungum, spentum sonsum
vit numu vársins undur, hvørt bragd av lívi boðan um lukku og um ást.
Tú ikki meir enn átjan
von sum eitt fagurt landslag, so mjúkar likams-lægdir og bróst so túgvurund,
títt hár sum gras í bjørgum
ið floymir út av torvu, og hold á hálsi tínum
av mold og vætu reyk.

Og varrar mínar trýstar brátt ímóti hálsi tínum
tær kendu blóðið spæla títt heita hjartaslag,
tá gjørdust hendur mínar
sum leysar frá mær sjálvum
og leitaðu í blindum
at søtum loyndum fram.
So runnu sálir saman
í bráðum leiki brustu
og róku út í rúmið inniliga í eind
sum sirm og summarlykka
og tungur blómuangi – ein flóð úr teirri keldu sum lívið streymar úr.

Spring
We heard the springtime calling and lost ourselves when turning away from eyes and houses one evening calm in May, we walked so close together through green and growing valleys and over heights and hillsides so far so far away.

A wave of life was streaming and everywhere a motion, in air and earth and water and in the minds of man,
as if a thousand seedbuds with silky leaves of softness were in our blood unfolding with wild and willing growth.
Lambs in the field and flowers and shells of eggs in bird’s nest, all living and rejoicing in mould and in the grass. With tense and youthful senses we met the springtime wonder,
a tale in every turning of happiness and love.
You, hardly more than eighteen, fair as a lovely landscape,
so soft your body’s lowlands, like tender mounds your breasts, your hair like grass in mountains from ledges softly flowing, and from your skin the flavors of water and of earth.

My seeking lips so gently against your neck revealing in tenderness of touches
your warm and beating heart, then went my hands astraying as from myself released
and found in total blindness their way to secrets sweet.
And there our souls together burst boldly into playing and into space they drifted united all in one,
like gentle summer moisture with heavy scent of flowers –
a flood was streaming forth from the very source of life.

8. Skærur vindur

Words: Rói Patursson
Music: Sunleif Rasmussen
Translation: Jette and Gunnar Hoydal

ljósið blaðar í teimum heystligu bløðunum
vindurin er skærur og gulnar í tínum hári
nú heilsa vit farvæl
frá hvør sínum bera teigi
uttan at geva okkum til kennar

Pure Winds
autumn leaves are slowly turned by the fingers of light
wandering winds are pure and grow yellow in your hair
now we take leave of each other from each our bare field
telling nobody a word of ourselves

9. Tid, ild, baglæns

Words: Hans Holten Hansen
Music: Sunleif Rasmussen
Translation: Séan Martin

“Et flammesug, en voksende væge, stearin bliver til. Et lys.”
“Damp og røg siver ind i aske. Et træ.”
“Mennesker fyldes med lort, og brækker sig til bestemte tider. (Og de stakler, der ikke har noget at kaste op.)”
“En maskine, der renser typerne af papiret.”
“Trommehinden, der frembringer lyd. Højttalerens blafrende øre.”
“Situationer, der mystisk opstår på skærme på én gang overalt i landet, de sendes til ét sted, hvor nogen står klar til at være medier
for strømmen. (En sand demokratisk kunst.)”
Det er blevet mekanik
Jeg trækker min fremtid tilbage
tager nu’et i mig igen
følger mit spor, dekreerende med fremtiden i hælene: en vred hund, der gradvist umærkeligt fortærer mig
Da jeg skjuler mig i en varm hule følger den med
Til sidst går jeg i stykker. To
(Den bogstaveligt talt skizofrene kan intet sandt berette, men kan – sjovt nok – spille virkelighed med sig selv.)
Det umulige, en baglæns forbrænding
Kan man brænde sig på baglæns ild

“A recoiling flame, a lengthening wick, paraffin wax is formed. A candle.”
“Clouds of steam and smoke retrace their billowing patterns, curling backwards and downwards into the fibre-forming embers. A tree.”
“Men and women stuffed with garbage regurgitate at regulated intervals. (Not to mention the miserable wretches trying to puke on starved bellies.)”
“A machine that wipes the sheet clean, leaving no trace of a single character or comma.”
“The vibrating membrane that emits sounds. The pulsating ear of the loudspeaker.”
“Situations that mystically occur on flickering screens – at exactly the same time and nationwide – are redirected to a single location where someone is on standby, ready to serve as a medium for the current. (A truly democratic art.)”
It has become a mechanical matter
I revoke my future
resetting my inner dial to the here and now
tracing the tracks I left behind, de-creating with the future at my heels:
a ferocious dog that gradually and imperceptibly devours me
When I hide
in the recesses of a warm cave it tags along
Finally I crumble into fragments. Two
(The person suffering from “literal schizophrenia” is incapable of narrating anything truthfully, but can – oddly enough – play reality with himself.) The impossible: immolation as a backward-flowing process
Can a fire in reverse inflict burns?