The last couple of weeks I have been reading, selecting, and translating the poems of Danish author Rolf Gjedsted.
Today I found out that he died four days ago.
Two months ago, in May, we met for the first and what would be the only time.
I was in Denmark on a trip with my wife, our son, and his fiancee, to visit family and do a bit of book promotion for my recent translation of Tove Ditlevsen’s short stories. I had contacted Rolf in advance of our arrival to Copenhagen, and we agreed to meet at his place at Nyhavn 33 at noon. Nyhavn is one of the premier tourist sites in the city, and the historic building where Rolf lived has its own wikipedia page.
I walked toward the colorful canal of Nyhavn from our rented apartment on Peblingesø, and arrived about ten minutes early. Checking the house register, I saw Rolf lived on the top floor. There was a restaurant /cafe on the ground floor, and the tables were full there and all up and down the canal strip. I continued walking amid the tourist throng, and stopped briefly to write, sitting on the concrete canal edge. Later Rolf gave me a tour of the restaurant, because he once lived on the first floor. But when the restaurant arrived, he moved upstairs. When the restaurant found out he was an artist, they paid him to paint the large inset panels on every one of their walls with his abstract, bright, primary color images.
When I returned at noon, Rolf was sitting on the stoop in shorts and a short sleeve shirt reading the newspaper, alongside a bag of books, a bottle of white wine, and two glasses. We greeted one another and moved across the sidewalk to sit on the concrete edge above the canal. The sightseeing boats were packed with tourists from all over the world on this pleasant, sunny day. People strolled by, speaking many different languages.
Rolf told me he had lived here for 35 years, that he was used to there always being commotion. When he went up to his apartment it all disappeared and didn’t bother him at all. He told me he had a stone cabin in Spain for many years as well, a place where the poet Garcia Lorca had lived.
I handed him a copy of my translations of Benny Andersen as a gift, and he gave me copies of ten of his poetry collections. I knew he had written more than that, but he said these were the best ones.
We talked about Benny, who died four years ago. Rolf missed his good friend the Danish national poet, who had read poems at every one of Rolf’s gallery art openings. Benny’s poetry had inspired Rolf at a young age to write himself. When I told Rolf my story of meeting Benny back when I was a carpenter and just starting to translate, it became evident that we were both following in Benny Andersen’s shadow. It felt as if we were brothers in a way.
Rolf asked me how I had found him, since he knew he was not a household name. I told him I had bought two of his poetry books in two different used book stores, and that I liked so many of his poems that I decided to seek him out. It was the quality of his writing that resonated with me. He told me the secret to his writing was in finding the music inside of it. He was also a musician – a guitar player – as well as a master of karate, which he taught for many years.
I told him about my recent translations. He had met other authors I had worked with, including Knud Sørensen and Tove Ditlevsen. He said Tove was quite shy and reserved, unless she had been drinking.
We briefly touched on world politics, and he told me it made him sad when Russia invaded Ukraine on February 24, because that was his 75th birthday. Now he doesn’t think of his birthday in the same way. Then I shared with him the poem I had just written on the canal edge. I read it out loud in English. We had been speaking only Danish up to that point. He commented that it was one of the heavy kind.
What’s so surprising
The way to better life might be
a car or a vitamin.
Fixes tend to be
less than advertised.
If only we could accept deceit
as the status quo,
take the outrage obliquely,
not waste years investigating.
Instead proceed directly
to whatever end is just,
which gets more difficult
all the time.
Finally Rolf invited me up to his apartment, which was filled with treasures – magnificent relics from the Far East, gorgeous art on the walls, Buddhist symbols, an altar, tons of books, and many guitars.
It was fascinating and almost overwhelming to walk through his rooms. I got the impression that here was a man who had lived and who knew what he valued in life. He was also sad, mentioning that he felt alone, as his closest friends and family had died.
It was time to leave – it had been a thorough meeting. We had gotten to know one another quickly and deeply. I was looking forward to reading more of Rolf’s poems, and finding a voice for them in English.
That was a fateful day, when Rolf passed on to me what he felt was the best of his poetry, so it could move beyond the Danish borders for the first time. I regret that he did not live to experience the joy of seeing his writing find new readers.
Main photo: ‘En dråbe af en engel’ by Rolf Gjedsted. Courtesy of Rolf Gjedsted.
