The poet is a cow

In nineteen playful, apparently simple lines the poet transforms himself into a cow, turning the rich, grassy fields of the unconscious into the milk of poetry. Like that easily spooked beast, the poem skitters between different rhyme schemes and varying rhythms.

The jury's task was to find a stand–alone poem that contained the following elements: the poet's theme developed and skilfully contained within a form that fits and is an echo, though not necessarily an exact replication of the poet's; a voice that is fresh with rhythms that complement the ‘story’; images which belong organically; no linguistic awkwardness — no rhymes, images, lines, tortured to fit – and a sense of the original's lightness and irony. Has the translator caught the surreal aspects of poet–into–cow while capturing, the gentle final image?

From the beautiful ‘lying here on folded legs’ through to the quietly satisfying end couplets, David Colmer has shown the mild bemusement of Achterberg's poem. The jury particularly liked his witty solution in ‘The farmer's milking is such bliss/I overlook his avarice.’ Naturally we read all the poems aloud and this poem flows with much of the fluency and variation of the original.

In Paul Vincent's version we enjoyed ‘lying next to my four feet’ and the gate which ‘grows sleek with grease and age as time goes on’ To ‘shy’ is a pleasing, cow–like verb, which showed the translator had got inside the puzzled cow's skin.

Judith Wilkinson has a strong capacity to use rhyme and metre effectively which produced a light–footed translation, one which worked particularly well in the lines describing the astonished cow gazing at her own image.

Gerard Forde's and Erik Honders' translations, both considered in the final line–up, each captured some of the strange magic of the original.

Congratulations, too, to other contestants. We found many good things in these attempts to translate a difficult and beautiful poem.


Kate Foley
For the jury.

The Poet as a Cow               

Grass… and having grazed,
lying here on folded legs
with eyes amazed
that I don't need to take a step
yet find my mouth as full
as when I walked the field.
It must have slipped my mind again
what kind of animal I am.
Reflected in ditches when I drink,
I see my head and think:
why is that cow so upside down?
In time the gate I use to rub against
grows old and grey and greasy smooth.
I'm shy of frogs and children and they
of me: they find my tongue too rough.
The farmer's milking is such bliss,
I overlook his avarice.
Quite unaware, I dream in mist at night
that I'm a calf, resting by its mother's side.

Translation: © David Colmer, 2008

The Poet is a Cow

Grass… and beyond the grazing
lying next to my four feet
I find it quite amazing
that the mouthfuls I lie here and eat
are as big as those that were my feed
just now while I was roaming about,
I've forgotten yet again no doubt
what kind of a beast I am – I meet
my shape in ditches when I drink,
and looking at my head, I think:
how come the top is underneath?
The gate I rub myself along
grows sleek with grease and age as time goes on.
I shy away from frogs and from the young
and they from me: I've got too rough a tongue,
the farmer's milking, though, is so divine,
that I don't even think: the greedy swine.
At night, in fog, I dream all unaware
that I'm a little calf, safe in its mother's care.

Translation: © Paul Vincent, 1980

The poet is a cow

Grass… and past the grazing
I lie, my four legs by my side,
My eyes surprised, it is amazing
that now I'm chewing mouthfuls, lying low,
As big as what I ate when on the go.
I am an animal, but which?
I do forget, although the ditch
reflects my image when I drink,
I watch my head, I frown and think:
that cow, what put her upside down?
The fence I rub myself against with time
gets old and smooth with grease and grime.
It's frogs and children make me wary,
in turn they find my coarse tongue scary,
but there's the farmer, milking me so sweet
not even once I think of it as greed.
At night in mists I dream, forgetting what I see:
I am a calf and rest, my mother's there with me.

Translation: © Erik Honders, 2008

The poet is a cow

Grass… and the grazing over
by my four legs I'm lazing
and goggle–eyed discover
how now I'm lying ruminating
same–sized mouthfuls without walking
as on my feet I've just been eating,
I guess that I must have forgotten
what animal I am – the water
reflects my image when I drink,
then I look at my head and think:
how come that cow is toppled over?
The gate `gainst which I rub my coat
grows gradually greasy, smooth and old.
Children and frogs, they always put me off
as I do them: they think my tongue too rough,
the farmer, though, milks me so heavenly
I never ever think: he is so greedy, he.
When day is done and misty night has come
I dream that I'm a calf, close to its mum.

Translation: © Renée Delhez, 2008

The poet as cow

Grass… and all day I've grazed.
I've put my four feet up and still
I munch away and am amazed
to find that I can have my fill.
I need not walk to eat and eat,
and every mouthful is a treat.
Who am I? I can't always tell
and yet my image rings a bell:
the ditch reflects it when I drink,
and I look at my head and think:
that cow is topsy–turvy – why?
The gate I rub against grows old
and smooth and greased as time unfolds.
Frogs scare me, as do kids, and I
scare them — my rough tongue makes them shy.
The farmer's greedy for my milk –
I'm needy of his hands of silk.
At night, in fog, with dreams I'm blessed:
a calf again, with my mother, at rest.

Translation: © Judith Wilkinson, 2008

The Poet is a Cow

Grass… and after grazing,
lying on my four legs
with astonished eyes
because I'm grand.
Mouth full, I eat without running
though still, I ran to eat.
Of course I've forgotten
what kind of animal I am — then
I lower my head to drink and think,
"Why is that cow upside down?"
The fence against which I scour myself
turns old and greasy.
I recoil from frogs and children
and they from me: my tongue rubs them the wrong way;
the farmer alone milks me so exquisitely
that I never once think of his greed.
At night, in a fog, wholly unconscious, I dream
that I am a calf by his mother, resting.

Translation: © Chris Wilson, 2008

The Poet Is A Cow

grass… and beyond the grass
I lie by my four limbs
and I don't believe my eyes
I lie eating identical
mouthfulls without excuse
I was moving and eating not a moment ago
I'm sure I've forgotten
what kind of animal I am – the ditches
mirror my image when I drink,
I look at my visage and I think;
"How did that Cow get upside down?"
the gate on which I scrape myself
becomes old and smoothe and greased with time.
for toads and kids I become shy
and vice versa; my toung is hence too rough.
only the farmer milks me so lovingly
that I never ponder his Greed.
at night I dream unperturbed
that I'm a calf, sleeping with mother undisturbed.

Translation: © Alex Archbold Jones, 2008

The Poet Cow

Grass… and beyond the grazing
I lie by my four shanks
and find it so amazing
that still I'm chomping luscious hanks
of grass — great mouthfulls, stationery,
no longer perambulatorily
it must have slipped my mind again
what kind of animal I am — the ditches
do reflect my image when I drink
then I peruse my head and think:
how now, is that cow upside down?
My rubbing post eventually
goes smooth and worn and leathery.
Of frogs and sprogs I am twice shy
and they of me; for them my lick's too tickly.
The farmer alone milks me so deliciously
that I never once think it's lasciviously.
In the mist of night I dream in oblivion I rest
a calf again, at my mother's breast.

Translation: © Leda Lornie

Grass… and when I stop grazing
sprawling my shanks I look in amazement
How can the mouthfuls on which I chew,
be just like those from pastures new?
it must have passed me by again
the kind of animal that I am
streams fracture my face as I drink,
and looking down it makes me think:
how did that cow become upside down?
The gate I scrape to scratch at my itch
is smoothed with aged and covered in grease
I shy away from frogs and the young
they too from me: its the roughness of my tongue
only the farmer milks me sweetly,
the way he does without being greedy
Then night mist falls and away I dream
Nestling by my mother I'm a calf again

Translation: © Gareth Budden, 2008

The poet is a cow

Grass… and when the grazing's done,
time for lazing in the sun.
Chew it over, ruminate
on mouthfuls large as those I ate
while eating on the hoof. But how?
There I go again. What a fool!
I'm a cow, of course! — The pool
reflects my likeness as I drink,
then looking at my head, I think:
how come that cow is upside–down?
The old fence on which I rub
could really do with a good scrub.
Of frogs and children I am wary,
and they of me: my tongue's too scary.
The farmer milks me with such care,
that I never think: don't take my cream!
By misty nights I quietly dream
that I'm a calf again and mother's there.

Translation: © Gerard Forde, 2008

The poet is a cow

Grass… and after having grazed
I am lying with my four legs
amazing my eyes,
because now I am eating again
equal mouthful without walking,
while just before I was walking and eating,
I must have forgotten again
what kind of animal I am – the ditches
throw back my image when I am drinking,
then I watch my head, and think:
what turns this cow upside down?
The fence I rub myself against
is gradually getting old, smooth and greasy.
I shun frogs and children
and they shun me: my tongue is too rough for them,
only the farmer takes my milk so divinely,
that I don't think once, how very greedy he is.
At night, in the mist, I dream completely unaware
that I am a calf, resting with the mother.

Translation: © Edward Krabbendam & Henny van den Steen van Ommeren – Krabbendam, 2008

The poet is a cow

Grass… and beyond the grazing
by my four legs I lay
my eyes amazing
because I eat now, just as big'
a mouthful without walking,
while just before, I was walking
and eating
I must have forgotten again
what kind of animal I am —
the ditches reflect my image when I drink,
I then look at my head and think:
how did that cow get upside down?

The fence against which I shrug
becomes old, slick and greasy in the end.
I get intimidated by frogs and kids
and they by me; my tongue is too rough to them,
only the farmer milks me so gently
that I do not once consider him too greedy.
At night, in the fog, I dream completely unconscious
of being a calf that rests with its mother.

Translation: © Lilith Kenis, 2008

The poet is a cow

Grass… and after grazing
I ly by my four legs
my eyes dazing,
because now without taking steps
I eat as full a mouth
as when I was walking about,
I must have forgotten surely
what kind of animal I am – the ditches
reflect my image when I drink,
then I watch my head, and think:
why is that cow upside down?
The fence against which I grate
is getting old and greasy of late.
To frogs and children I am a little shy
and they to me: my tongue is too dry,
but when the farmer milks me so divine,
not once do I think: hands off, this milk is mine.
At night, in the fog, I dream quite unaware
me as a calf, resting with its mother over there…

Translation: © Piet de Jonge, 2008

The poet is a cow

Grass… and after I have grazed
I lie down, four legs stretched out
incredulous, so amazed,
because my mouth is filled and I eat
again and again without moving,
when earlier I ate on the go,
I must have forgot again, I know,
what animal I am – the ditches
reflect my image when I drink,
I look at my head then, and think:
how did that cow get so upside down?
The fence I rub myself against
grows old and smooth and greasy over time
Frogs and small children alike make me as shy
as they are of me: my rough tongue is why,
only farmer milks me so divine
I never once think: that greedy man takes all that's mine.
At night, unawares, I dream in the mist:
I am a calf, resting with its mother, such bliss.

Translation: © A.B., 2008

The poet is a cow

Grass… and beyond the grazing
I lie with my four paws;
in my eyes I am amazing
because I now again munch
great mouthfuls without walking
a second–time round of eating.
I have forgotten again for sure
what kind of animal I am — the ditches
bounce back my image when I drink
then I look at my head, and think:
how did the cow become upside down?
The fence against which I rub
during my time becomes polished, greasy and old.
I am shy in front of frogs and children
and they in front of me: my tongue for them is too coarse;
only the farmer milks me so contentedly
that I don't once think: isn't he greedy.
Nights, in the fog, I dream totally heedless
that I am a calf that by my mother sleeps.

Translation: © Eleonore Schönmaier, 2008

The poet is a cow

Grass… and after grazing
I tuck up my four feet
and watch myself amazed
because there's so much to eat,
mouthfuls and mouthfuls eaten
without effort when just a moment
since I was walking round and eating,
I've obviously forgotten
the creature that I am — I'm reflected
in ditches whenever I drink,
and then I gaze upon my face and think:
what's that cow doing there upside down?
I rub myself against a boundary
which grows smooth and old and greasy.
Children and frogs frighten me off.
They're afraid of me too: my tongue is too rough,
but the farmer brings such bliss touching me
for milk that I don't even think: how greedy.
At night, in the mist, without conscious desire,
I'm a young calf, at rest by its mother.

Translation: © Antoinette Fawcett, 2008

The poet is a cow

Grass… – and beyond the graze
I lie next to my four feet
while both my eyes amaze
themselves, because I eat
mouthfuls, though this time, indeed,
I don't walk. Just now, I did,
but I must be forgotten – I submit –
what animal I am: the brown
water reflects my picture when I drink,
then, watching my head, I think:
how come that cow is upside down?
The gate I scour myself along
gets old, and sleek with grease as time goes on.
I'm shy for frogs, and also for the young
so they for me: I've got too rough a tongue,
the farmer though, milks me in such a way,
I don't think once: he's so greedy, today.
At night, in fog, I dream unaware and dumb
that I'm a little calf, resting next to mum.

Translation: © Karel Vissers, 2008

The poet as a cow

Grass… and past the grazing
I lie among my legs
and find it so amazing
that I am eating yet again
mouthfulls of food, lying still
and yet I ate on the go just then,
it must have slipped my mind
what animal I am, what kind –
the pond reflects my image when I drink
I peer down at my face and frown:
why should that cow be upside down?
The wooden fence, my rubbing post
gets greasy, old, and smooth almost.
Frogs and children are scary stuff
and I scare them: my tongue's too rough
but the farmer milking me feels so delicious
I never think: Why, the man is avaricious.
In the misty night a hazy dream will come
that I'm a calf, resting beside my mum.

Translation: © Barbara Cowan

The cow is a poet

Grass… and then the grazing done
I lie with my four legs recumbent
my eyes amazed
because I'm chewing,
my mouth now just as full
as when I had to walk about to eat,
I must have forgotten once again
what kind of beast I am — the ditches
when I drink, give my reflection back,
and there's my head, I look at it and think:
how did that cow come to be upside down?
The gate I rub myself against
is getting old and smooth and greasy now.
Of frogs I'm wary, and of children too,
as they of me: they find my tongue too rough.
The farmer though, it's lovely when he milks me,
I never think, hasn't he had enough.
In the night mist, half woozy, then I dream
that I'm a calf and resting by my mother.

Translation: © Sarah Greeves, 2008

THE POET IS A COW

Grass… and beyond the grazing
I lay me down at my four feet,
my mouthfuls are amazing
my eyes that I still eat:
did mastication of this kind
not go with walking at some speed?
It must again have slipped my mind
what sort of beast I am – the fleet
reflects my image when I drink,
and looking at my poll I think:
how come that cow is upside down?
The gate I grate my body by,
turns greasy, smooth, when long enough.
Of frogs and children I am shy,
and they of me: my tongue 's too rough;
the farmer milks me to such bliss,
I never think: the grasping's his.
I dream, unconscious, in the fog at night,
that I'm a calf, that rests at mother's side.

Translation: © Bert Tolkamp, 2008

THE POET IS A COW

Grass —my grazing done
I lie beside my folded feet,
my wondering eyes grown big with gazing:
how come my mouth's this full?
I'm so replete
I might be pottering in the field to eat.
I've clean forgotten who I am —what sort of beast?
I frown to see the ditch reflect
a strange cow's head and ask,
how is it upside–down?
Rubbed, over time, a patina of age and grease
darkens the fence, my scratching place.
I skitter away from frogs and kids,
and they from me — my tongue's too rough; it grates.
Yet when the farmer, hard hands gentle now,
splashes down my milk, I never think
for him I'm only a cash cow –
and nightly, dreams once more enfold in mist
a deeply sleeping calf that by its mother rests.

Translation: © Frances Whybrew, 2008