| Kom
til Jorda |
Come to Earth |
For et par år sida ramla en
duggdråpe ut av et av
kronbladene i liljetapeten
i det avstengte rommet i det
fraflytta huset ved
kysten. Den eneste som var tilstede
og kunne registrerte
dette fenomenet var en døende
flue i vinduskarmen.
Jeg fjerna den flua for halvannet
år sida
mens jeg tenkte på en episode i barndommen:
jeg falt og slo i stykker en tann mot en betongvegg.
Jeg husker at jeg gråt et kvarter. I natt
sov jeg mellom
faren og sønnen min. “Jeg
drømte jeg var en
sommerfugl, som ble sugd
inn i en vaskemaskin. Og jeg
døde der.” |
It was two years ago. A dewdrop ran from the throat of a lily in
the faded wallpaper of that locked house on the coast from
which we have now flitted. The single witness to this event: a
housefly, dying on a nearby windowsill.
Eighteen months back, when I swept away this corpse, I was
thinking about the time I toppled into a concrete wall, and
broke my tooth. I was only a child, and I cried a long time,
maybe fifteen minutes.
Last night I slept between my father and my son,and it
seemed to me that I dreamed I was a man dreaming he was
a butterfly, then a butterfly which had been sucked into the
spin cycle of a new washing machine.
And there, I died. |
| |
| Henvendelsen |
Approach |
Verden forklarer seg som skritt
i grusen, sollys,
en kvinne gjenkjenner faren sin (en berøring
og litt varm pust, savn uendra gjennom x antall
år).
Men hvordan framstår minnet i hukommelsen;
pappas nakke, gjennomskint morgenluft.
Verden forteller at sjela er stoff, siden den
kan skades
av et våpen, som jo selv er stoff.
En kvinne sier: en hvilken som helst bekymring
forløser,
men hva flyr bort uten å ta med seg den
minste vekt:
bare muskler og sener, ord og kjærtegn,
bare det. |
This world explains itself as
footsteps on a gravel path,
sunlight, and a woman who recalls her father,
(a finger brushing her cheek; a tremor of warmth;
a loss unaltered through these many years).
But how does the recollection appear
in memory: Daddy's skin; the shimmer of morning
light?
As the world is explained, the soul is material
stuff,
something that might be destroyed by worldly means.
Though a woman will say that nothing can be redeemed
except what is stripped to its purest, unweighted
essence:
to muscle and sinew; to language; to practised
love. |
| |
Mor
Jeg har ropt på min egen mor |
The Mother
I have called on my own mother |
Sorgen river meg i stykker
skjærer med jern i ryggen
klorer opp brystet
Og der
hvor han var i ni måneder
akkurat der har en smertestein lagt seg
Den skulle jeg fått føde
fram
Men veene mine
borer steinen rundt
i meg, djupere i meg
Blir man vant
går det an
å bære på
smertens stein
som et foster?
Søvnen spjæres
av mine egne skrik
Dag og natt går i ett
Drømmene tvinner seg inn i dagens strev
Dagens strev i alt som trykker
Og jeg spør meg selv:
Var jeg samme mennesket
før dette?
Jeg har ropt på min egen mor
og hennes mor
og mormors mor
Jeg har bedt om råd
spurt hva jeg skal gjøre
når de glemte å fortelle
hva man gjør
når dette skjer
Er jeg her
regnes jeg lenger med?
Jeg har gått på besøk
gått i butikker
rørt ved folks blikk
Mange
mange har stanset opp
fortalt meg at jeg fremdeles finnes! |
Grief tears me in pieces
cuts with iron into my back
rips up my breast
And there
where he was for nine months
right there a stone of pain has been laid
That I should give birth to
produce
But my sorrows
cut the stone round
into me, deeper into me
Does one get accustomed
it is possible
to carry the stone of pain
like an unborn?
My sleep is torn
by my own screams
Day and night become one
Dreams become tangled with daily toil
That toil in everything that burdens
And I ask myself:
Was I the same person
before this?
I have called on my own mother
and her mother
and grandmother’s mother
I have begged for guidance
asked what I should do
when they forgot to say
what one does
when this happens
Am I here
do I still count?
I have paid calls
gone into shops
attracted people’s attention
Many
many have stopped
told me I am still here! |
| |
air
an fhàinne, fada bho ‘shàbaid’
rovaniemi, suomi, am faoilleach,
1998 |
on the
circle, far from ‘the sabbath’
rovaniemi, suomi, january 1998 |
| mac is athair
dol tarsuing na h-aibhne gil
o bhruach gu bruach
san tìr a tuath
a coiseachd bàrr an uisge
mheanbh-shreamach shèimh
eadar baile nan solus
agus a choille ghorm
seirm nan glag dòmhnaich
sanas air an cùlaobh
muinntir dhé gan gairm
dhan tional eòlach
mac is athair
paisgte mar phàisdean
an clòimh ’s an gàire
eadar faiceall is faodail
anail air an àile
braonach ris ‘an fhìrinn’
a laighe sgrath de shiùcar
air màilin agus ciabhag
coigrich anns an t-saoghal seo,
a leantainn làrach bhonn,
mise ‘s mo mhac
a cur earbs anns an fhuachd
ar n’air’ air nì ach
taobh thall a ruigheachd,
(eadar cur is cur)
agus tilleadh dìon |
son and father
cross the white river
from bank to bank
in a northern land
walking on the water
on its rippled stillness
from a town of lights
to the green forest
a sunday carillon
sings lightly behind them
god’s people called
to routine assembly
son and father
wrapped like infants
in wool and laughter
between caution and windfall
breath on the air
misty as ‘the truth’
laying crusts of sugar
on eyebrow and forelock
and, strangers in this world
stepping where others have,
my son and i
put our faith in the cold
our only objective
the other side
(between snowfall and snowfall)
and safe return |
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