Psychodorm Song
Translated by Esther Greenleaf Mürer
Duet by about-to-be-released inmate and prison chaplain. Both have been popping pills through out the preceding dialogue. The meter and rhyme scheme suggest that Bjørneboe had in mind the tune “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.” --E.G.M.
A gift of God is Psychodorm,
A strength and consolation.
It keeps you in good working form
Whate'er your call or station.
This little pill right here
Will banish all your fear;
It makes your pulse decrease
And brings you inner peace—
It is our strength and solace.
If you're psychotic or abnormal,
Drunkard or stark raving,
The tranquilizer Psychodorm'll
Still your every craving.
Take Psychodorm today,
Get normal right away.
Both prisoner and priest
Find Psychodorm a feast—
It is our strength and solace.
Our world it doesn't smell so very good—
Strictly between you and me
Our life is mean, dirty and banal
and sick and raw
and brutal as can be.
Of course what ails our society
Is moral VD and sclerosis,
And terminal senile decay.
Here is my doctor's prognosis:
That blood transfusions
And hormone solutions
And all the profusion
of antibiotics
and vitamin shots
Are medicine thrown away.
Flowers for Genet
Translated by Joe Martin
Maria, mother of all affliction
Name our names in your benedictions
We're all bearing crowns of thorns
We are, each one, sons of yours.
Procurers and sodomites
Exhibitionists and transvestites
Pederasts, fetishists
Poets and masochists
Morphine addicts, alcoholics
Virgin, all afflictions' mother
Console Genet, our poor brother
He too bears a crown of thorns.
Thieves, whores and Genet
We hanging one side and the other
Of your son on afflictions' tree
Know what the world's savior suffers.
Virgin mother, only we
Know what the cup of mercy means:
The coronal thorns turn to roses.
Jens Bjørneboe, “Blomster for Genet.” Samlede Dikt, 1995 ed, p 129 (Til Lykke med Dagen, 1965). ©1977, 1995 Gyldendal Norsk Forlag A/S. Translated by Joe Martin. English translation ©1996 by Peter Lang Publishing, New York. Used by permission.
Thou shalt not the law defy
Thou shalt love the law's command
Know the law comes from on high
Know the law is in God's hand!
Show respect for regulations
All are equal for the law
If God's given you a prisoner
He craves silence evermore.
Policemen go in gangs to bludgeon
An eye for an eye the law's demanding
If God's given you a truncheon
He will give you understanding!
If God's given you a truncheon
He will give you understanding.
Jens Bjørneboe, “Respekt for loven.” Samlede Dikt, ©1977, 1995 by Gyldendal Norsk Forlag A/S. Translation from Janet Garton, Jens Bjørneboe: Prophet Without Honor, p. 27f. English translation ©1985 by Janet Garton.
The Good in Me
Translated by Solrun Hoaas
I
Oh, brother, you may not believe this:
Once I was quite antisocial
I raped, assaulted, stole and whored
On this our lovely earth
Until prison wakened my faith in good
I was deviant and almost mad
Until made normal in solitary confinement
Oh brother, you may not believe this!
Oh, brother - you my brother!
II
My new being was born through trials
Morality was taught me in the jailyard
The good in me born behind bars alone
In solitary I became sociable
My new being longed for something higher
The environment wakened my faith in good
Oh, brother, you may not believe this!
But listen to what a matured man will tell you:
Prison arouses all the best within you!
Jens Bjørneboe, “Ded gode i meg”.Samlede Dikt, ©1977, 1995 by Gyldendal Norsk Forlag A/S. English translation ©2002 by Solrun Hoaas.
Elegy for a Hanged Queer
Translated by Esther Greenleaf Mürer
I
O nature's allness, here is your son
Our youngest brother who is lost.
We found him behind a prison wall.
We bring him here with this our prayer
to you who are in truth his mother:
Take him back, O nature's allness
Turn him to water, ash and earth!
II
We found him and we carry him
As he was carried by his mother
As pure and unused as a lamb
We found him and we have him here
Turn him to grass and wind and trees
And sweetbriar and rowanberries
A full-grown lad of nineteen years
We found him behind a prison wall
Take him back, O nature's allness!
Take care of our youngest brother.
III
Now we have brought our youngest brother
We found him behind a prison wall
Take him back, O nature's allness
He was your handwork, you his mother
Take care of our youngest brother
Turn him to ashes, wind and earth.
Jens Bjørneboe, “Elegi for en hengt soper”. Samlede Dikt, 1995 ed p. 134. From Til Lykke med Dagen!, 1965. ©1977, 1995 Gyldendal Norsk Forlag A/S. English translation ©1998 by Esther Greenleaf Murer.
Song of Death
Translated by Joe Martin
When the day has come and the hour has come
And you're put to the wall where you'll bleed upright
And those who cared for you
Long since have gone from you
Then you will see it is lonely to die!
For the day will come and the hour will come
And you'll color the sand you are standing on red
And when they come for you
Remember I told you
My brother! It's strange how it's lonely to die!
Jens Bjørneboe, “Dødssangen.” Samlede Dikt, ©1977, 1995 by Gyldendal Norsk Forlag A/S. Translation from Joe Martin, Keeper of the Protocols, 117. ©1996 by Peter Lang Publishing, New York. Used by permission.
When the day has arrived and the hour has arrived
For facing the guns, a last look at the sky,
And all those who've known you
Reject and disown you,
You're going to see: It is lonely to die.
For the day it will come and the hour it will come.
Your blood will run free, it will harden and dry.
And when their sights hold you
Remember I told you:
Oh brother, it's horribly lonely to die.
Jens Bjørneboe, “Dødssangen.” Samlede Dikt, ©1977,1995 by Gyldendal Norsk Forlag A/S. English translation ©1970,1999by Timothy H. Schiff. Used by permission.
Mercedes' tracks in every land,
they cover every road and street!
Without Mercedes cars on hand
a business wouldn't be complete.
Fly Lufthansa and get much more:
Relieve the tension, ease the pace.
Take off the moth in Singapore!
Good Marks are honored everyplace!
A Volkswagen for everyone
throughout the north, the south, and west!
Where inexpensive autos run
the “people's car” is always best.
In fields like iron and pharmacy
we've earned a name for goods of class,
With Krupp's and Bayer's industry,
And crematoria and gas!
Our ovens are built with quality:
They'll never leave a trace of meat.
The experts of the world agree:
Our furnaces cannot be beat.
(new melody)
It is amazing what our people do:
Obedient, industrious, persistent!
Though Goethe's countrymen have faults, it's true,
the output of our ovens is consistent!
Jens Bjørneboe,
“Fedrelandssalme.” Samlede Dikt, ©1977,1995 by Gyldendal Norsk
Forlag A/S. English translation ©1970,1999 by Timothy H. Schiff. Used by
permission.
Nothing is as guiltless as our lovely feathered friends.
We will not be happy until hunting of them ends.
Birds, we love them ardently,
Let them fly forever free!
Just listen to their chirping and twittering on high!
For their safety and protection we would gladly die.
Let their hearts be light and gay,
Free and safe in every way!
Swallows flying in the sky and seagulls on the sea,
Sparrows in the meadow and magpies in a tree!
Eagle, hawk, and peregrine,
Buzzard, kite and vulture's kin!
Birds are sweet and kind, but man is mean and full of hate.
Anyone who kills a bird will earn a tragic fate!
Buzzard, kite and vulture's kin,
Eagle, hawk, and peregrine!
Jens Bjørneboe, “Fugleelskernes
sang.” Samlede Dikt, ©1977,1995 by Gyldendal Norsk Forlag A/S. English
translation ©1970,1999 by Timothy H. Schiff. Used by
permission.
We march. We destroy.
We march the soldier's way
from Moscow to Paris,
from Karasjouk to Arles and Nice,
Dunkirk and Tripoli.
Before Stalingrad there stands a battalion,
the remnants of our best division.
We march and we master,
we conquer and march,
from Cairo up to Hammerfest,
from Brussels up to Budapest,
from Copenhagen to Bucharest.
Before Leningrad there stands a cannon,
the remnants of our last battalion.
We march. We destroy.
We master Czechoslovakia,
Vichy and Algeria,
Hungary, Luxembourg and the Hague,
in Denmark and in Prague.
Up in the Karels lies a pair of skis,
the remnants of our last company.
We march. We destroy.
We devastate and we conquer.
We march through storm and snow
from Smolensk to Calais,
from Omsk to Zuyder Zee.
Back home in Dresden there stands a doorway,
The remnants of our last cathedral.
Jens Bjørneboe, “Soldatersang.” Samlede Dikt, ©1977, 1995 by Gyldendal Norsk Forlag A/S. From The Bird Lovers, translated by Frederick Wasser (Los Angeles: Sun and Moon, 1994). English translation ©1994 by Frederick Wasser.
Christmas of nineteen forty-one
Was quite a celebration:
Our wounded never had such fun,
They got new medication.
Presents came from all around
From mothers, girls, and boys,
Of books and clothing by the pound,
Things that everyone enjoys.
Benno got a music box,
Giovanni rolls and marmalade,
Carlo got a pair of socks,
Michele got gloves of suede.
Benno was deaf as he could be,
Giovanni had no guts at all.
Carlo's legs were gone at the knee,
Michele had lost his arms that fall.
Jens Bjørneboe, “Lazarettsangen.” Samlede Dikt, ©1977,1995 by Gyldendal Norsk Forlag A/S. English translation ©1970,1999 by Timothy H. Schiff. Used by permission.
I recently heard it, it hasn't been long:
“Where is the man who has never done wrong?”
Is any man living who has no flaw,
Who doesn't feel guilty before the law?
That is the wisdom in which I trust:
May God show mercy before being just!
I hope that God in heaven will say:
Justice, my children, another day.
Ask me about guilt! A horrible word!
We share guilt in everything, rest assured.
We all must lower our heads in shame:
For the sins of one, we are all to blame.
And when we saw innocence, blood was spilt.
All we've got left is our shame and guilt.
We've allowed evil and watched it take place.
For evil's been done in every case.
We have been wronged, but we've caused our own plight.
And we all became killers that very night.
Man's conscience is clear. Man lives in the mud.
And everyone's red to the elbows with blood.
The laws are all made in our hearts, of course.
But every one must be maintained by force.
We stare at life through the eyes of a souse:
We have made this planet a slaughterhouse.
Yes, we must recognize, mankind is small;
The justice of God puts fear in us all.
Is anyone human who cannot see:
We need the Lord's mercy and leniency.
I recently heard it, it hasn't been long:
“Where is the man who has never done wrong?”
Jens Bjørneboe, “Mea maxima
culpa.”
Samlede Dikt, ©1977,1995 by Gyldendal Norsk Forlag A/S. English
translation ©1970,1999 by Timothy H. Schiff. Used by permission.
It was a lovely morning
In Hiroshima town,
One summer morn in nineteen five and forty.
And the sun, how bright it shone
From a sky without a cloud,
One summer morn in nineteen five and forty.
The little girls they played
Neath the trees and on the grass,
And everything they did just like the big ones.
They dressed their dollies up
And they washed their dollies' dresses
And the women sliced the bread back in the kitchen.
And there were many children
Yet lying in their beds,
For this was still an early morning hour,
And the dew lay on the meadow
In the lovely slanting sunlight,
And the crowns had barely opened on the flowers.
It was a lovely morning
In Hiroshima town,
One summer morn in nineteen five and forty.
And the sun, how bright it shone
From a sky without a cloud,
One summer morn in nineteen five and forty.
Jens Bjørneboe, “Vise om byen Hiroshima.” Samlede Dikt, ©1977, 1995 by Gyldendal Norsk Forlag A/S. English translation ©1997 by Esther Greenleaf Mürer
I
The first commandment's easy, quite:
The majority is always right.
II
Always think what folk will say.
Side with the strongest, day by day.
III
When in doubt, just shut your trap
Until you see for whom they clap.
IV
Think what opinions you should hold.
Alone, you'll be out in the cold.
V
Don't give your lofty instincts rein,
But stick to what will bring you gain.
VI
Tell people what they want to hear;
Move quietly through every sphere.
(For truth brings sorrow on your head,
While daily lies earn daily bread.)
VII
Never walk upright. Sidle forth
And warm yourself at every hearth.
VIII
Praise everybody to the skies;
A flock of friends will be your prize.
(This in-group paradise will be
Your best insurance policy.)
IX
Of gossip save up every bit
For your superiors' benefit.
(But not a hint from the consumer
Should reach the subject of the rumor.)
X
If you this last commandment heed,
Then your future's guaranteed:
Boldly espouse each cause in season,
But always act with prudent reason.
Stride bravely forward in life's war
One hour before your time—no more!
Jens Bjørneboe, “Ti bud til en ung mann som vil frem i verden”.Samlede Dikt, ©1977, 1995 by Gyldendal Norsk Forlag A/S. (Originally published in Dagbladet, 1963; reprinted in Politi og Anarki, 1972.) English translation ©1998 by Esther Greenleaf Mürer
Row, row to fishing-reef
All little children sleep.
No one knows where Daddy lies
Below the billows deep.
Three hardy sons once set sail
In a boat they went to sea.
Their Daddy went along with them—
All Mummy did was weep.
They traveled out to fishing-sea
And Daddy fell into the blue.
Daddy was dead, and gone from sight,
So far from the mainland, too.
Row, row to fishing reef
Old Daddy's fast asleep.
Among the many fish they took
From the salty deep.
The catch was absolutely great:
Many thousand kroner.
Money's what a wife and kid
Wait quietly at home for!
Everyone said "Of course, of course
Time and fish is money.
Daddy we must put on ice
To stop him from smelling funny!"
Row, row to fishing-reef
Boys will still be boys.
They'll sell the fish for plenty
And buy themselves big toys.
The first day out was pretty cold
And then it stayed that way.
But Dad was thoroughly salted down
And gutted, sad to say.
The fishing it went on and on,
Nobody'd time to quarrel.
It paid to put ol' Daddy down
Inside a herring barrel.
Row, row to fishing-reef.
Washed, well-shaven, billeted,
Ol' daddy's resting quietly
Neatly cleaned and filleted!
The flag was hoisted up on high
And Daddy's clever sons
Had salted fish for cargo now
In barrels by the tons.
The youngest of these clever boys
Said, "First let's empty out the boat.
Then we'll take the barrel out
Where Daddy's resting quartered.
The barrel that I'm talkin' 'bout,
The one where Dad's asleep,
Has a label with a herring on
With an anchor underneath."
Big brother was morose that night
And managed but some moans:
"I'd like to skin your flesh!" he cried,
"From all your bloody bones!
I somehow knew that this would take
A very nasty turn.
The label that you've just described
Is the LABEL OF THE FIRM!"
Row, row! At the fishing-reef
Your prayers will not go far.
'Cause no one can find Daddy now
Where all the barrels are!
They came ashore and sent the fish
To buyers 'round the globe.
How could they ever pick their Dad
From barrels that were sold?
Buyers and exporters there
Bought every single gram.
Sending fish, as Norsemen do,
To every single land.
Row, row to fishing-reef
Throughout the world so large
No one knows where Daddy is.
Daddy, bon voyage!
In a country graveyard
In a province by the sea
There stands a little white-washed church
Where Daddy rests in peace.
But no one knows except his sons
That what they were really burying
Was hardly Daddy's true remains
But 80 kilo of herring!
Oh, the world's so wide, so very wide.
In the distant town of Pindu
Gruesome traces were later found
Of a sadly murdered Hindu.
A salted herring importeur
Bought barrels of some herring.
When cross-examined by police,
He prayed and did some swearing.
But after awful torturing
He confessed to the killing,
And at the city's public wall
Got a painful grilling.
The executioner's branding iron
Singed and roasted him.
Whereupon he was dismembered
Limb from skinny limb.
In a church in Norway's North
Where mainly widows roam,
Three brothers can be seen to stand
Silently, at home.
Row, row to fishing-reef
The rain beats against the window.
No one knows that Daddy is
Buried as a Hindu.
Jens Bjørneboe, “Siste reis, norsk vuggevise”.Samlede Dikt, ©1977, 1995 by Gyldendal Norsk Forlag A/S. Originally published in Asje Vind og Jord (Gyldendal 1968). English translation ©2002 by Solrun Hoaas and Roger Pulvers
Epigraph to We who
loved
America (1970)
Translated by Esther Greenleaf Mürer
What is the sense of complaining
in a time
when tragedies are only sold in cartloads?
Who asks
about the child's doll in the grass
where this morning the parents were shot against a wall?
Who asks about details
of procedure
when the arrested are numbered in the millions?
Who asks for proof, or
whether the judges were qualified
when the condemned are executed and burned
whole nations at a time?
Who asks: right or left
when the question is:
do you stand among the murderers or the victims,
among the judges or the judged?
What is the meaning of justice
in days
when folk are simply waiting for the moment?
what does it signify that
surviving children too should have parents
in a time
when all revolves around landing
a Russian or an American idiot
on the moon?
©1970, 1976 by Pax Forlag A/S. English translation ©1990 by Esther Greenleaf Mürer. (NOTE: this is not included in Samlede Dikt, but in Samlede Essays: Politikk (Oslo: PAX 1996), 42.)