#6 Kristín Ómarsdóttir (1962 – )
Icelandic National Poem
This is my room, we call it
Iceland. It’s chained to Europe with
a marine cable and to and from
here airplanes fly with their
ink-cartridges full of people.
Here I dwell in a matchbox
that I care for so dearly
since I painted the inner walls
last winter.
Life goes on as usual.
In the store everyone meets and laughs
and pats eachother on the back.
Most are hoping a robbery will happen soon
and enjoy their faithful security service.
The insides and the bones are expensive.
The people at the hospital lent me a
battery so that I could enjoy my
success longer – and therefore I carry
a battery on my back
instead of wings like the others.
That’s fine.
I sleep while they recharge.
The safe-guarding of the future and the past
weighs heavily on the shoulders of our authorities
who encourage us with
convincing care.
That’s good. That’s fine.
They say that exercise and a healthy
diet will keep the years from coming on.
I show up at their doorstep with
my alarm-clock
and they set it for me.
That’s fine.
I hang up my pyjamas next to
the wedding gown. The young people
get plenty of time to decide
whether they want to be a corpse or
a bride when they grow up.
Then you could also go the full distance:
become both corpse and bride
and choose both
the orange and the apple.
A story was told of a woman who changed
the lightbulbs in dreamworld
and now she feels much better.
A story was told of a man who shot down
all the lightbulbs in dreamworld
and now he feels much better.
Bridegroom. Corpse. Orange. Apple.
Dog. Cat. Pepsi. Coke.
But now it’s high time to crawl out
and get some coffee in a cup.
A doughnut, a pretzel or a bun
and say hi to the cutest sun:
Hi, cutest sun!
Now everyone feels much better.
Kristín Ómarsdóttir
Translation: Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl