Denmark

When I was a child, I wanted to go to Denmark. Though, of course, I hadn’t read or seen Hamlet at the tender age of six, I’d heard about Hamlet’s castle, and for some reason that was the place I fixated on. When I was nine I had a school project to make an itinerary for a tour of Europe. (This, I think, was an early instigator of my wanderlust.) I think I was the only person to put Denmark in my tour. When I was twelve, the first thing I studied in high school history was the bog people of Denmark. It was also when I first saw a film version of Hamlet. (I fell in love with the character of Ophelia.) When I was sixteen I started reading Seamus Heaney, including his bog poems—“One day I will go to Aarhus/ to see his peat-brown head.” A few years ago I went to Århus—and to Copenhagen, to Helsingor, to Skagan… It was a beautiful—if incredibly poor (moneywise)—week. In Århus I was staying in a hostel where I made friends with a Scottish girl who was looking for a place to live, before embarking on a year’s exchange to Denmark to improve her Danish—she was equally poor. We ended up eating meals consisting of plain pasta and tinned corn together. For some reason, I cherish the memory of these dinners, just as I cherish my memory of wading into the sea at Skagen—with the Kattegat section of the North Sea on my right and the Skagerrak on my left, wandering off the northern tip of Denmark. Also, after wandering along four kilometres of sand dunes, and then settling down in a field in the middle of nowhere to wait for a bus—that I was not completely certain would ever come!—I was delighted when the keys I thought I had lost seemingly dropped from the sky. (Okay—they’d worked their way into some odd place in my bag, and came flying out when I flung the bag on the ground… it still seemed like magic.) I wish I could have spent more time there—especially going to some of the islands (other than Zealand/Sjælland). Looking at photographs, I’m struck by all the places I missed. Another thing to go back for…

Oh, and 5 June? This was the date on which Denmark became a constitutional monarchy in 1849. Before that, there’s some interesting history. In particular: during the reign of Valdemar II (in the thirteenth century) the Danish “Baltic Sea Empire” was formed, stretching from Estonia to Norway. The 1241 Code of Jutland included concepts such as: right of property; that a king cannot rule beyond the law; that all men are equal to the law. Good stuff.

Another historic moment was Easter Sunday 1525 when the monk Hans Tausen proclaimed the need for Luther’s reforms in the Catholic Church. This sermon began a ten year struggle—Tausen was moved to an isolated monastery in the north of Jutland, where he continued to preach through the window of his lock chamber. Within weeks, Tausen was freed by followers who had first come out of curiosity, and Lutheran ideas took hold quickly—the country officially became Lutheran in 1536.

And one of my favourite things about Denmark is that when it became apparent that the Germans would come in and start removing the Jews in World War II, the nation managed to save the majority of its 6000 Jews almost overnight. Apparently families stopped the people they knew were Jewish on the street, and hid them until they could get them to Sweden and safety. Only a few isolated Jewish groups—including, tragically, a nursing home—didn’t get the message.

Both the Faroe Islands and Greenland are provinces of Denmark, but both have autonomy, and I was pleased to hear recently that the independence movement in Greenland is getting under way again.

Vikings. Amber. Jutes. Peat bogs.

For the last two years, Denmark has been ranked “the happiest place in the world.” It must be all those bicycles.

Today’s poem is by Adda Djørup, and translated from the Danish by Peter Greenwald. It’s another from New European Poets.


The Nth Day of the Nth Month

Today I upended a huge oak tree and saw
that it had no roots. Furious, I razed the whole forest.

The flowers smell as lifeless as wax.
But wax here is no more lifeless than flowers.
Wax and flowers.

I put the moon and the sun at the same height. All creation fell still.
Before too long I remembered I had done this before.
And it hasn’t amused me this time either.

I visited Libella’s grave. I created her
and killed her to have something to give me joy
and sorrow. The truth is that she left me cold.
—Can I classify that as an action?

I created the Cult of the Horse—and of the Cat.
I equipped their members with certain traits of my own
as well as the conviction that the highest of all goods
is in one case the ability to see sideways like a horse
and in the other the ability to leap like a cat.
The beginning was amusing but the outcome
was determined in advance. I didn’t stay to see the end.

Staring at the sky is the only thing I haven’t grown weary of.
I can even feel some doubt about which of us came first.
This doubt is so pleasant that I evoke it only rarely
so I can enjoy it fully each time.
If I leave it untouched long enough perhaps
it can develop a certain independence?

I took ten drops of water and filled them with infinity.
Eight turned black. Two stayed clear.
Now, how can that be? I thought and was delighted
to have a little puzzle to start the next day with.

I think I’ll move tomorrow up to today.

—Adda Djørup
translated from the Danish by Peter Greenwald
from New European Poets