The head of a woman is not heavy

The head of a woman is a
…………………………..snowwhite
…………………………..downy
…………………………..wisp

The head of a woman sails
over bright-blue sunday-skies
and laughs

.

.

.

The head of a woman?

Bathed in tears
sweat
blood

Rushing
through a dark night

With no
hope of
resurrection?

.

.

.

Flying through the night
the head of a woman lost its bearings
and its way – but the sun
carried on regardless
accustomed to the wiggling laughters of
tulips
and moths

.

.

.

While the head of a woman
is not heavy
it’s nevertheless often
hard to hold

not to mention
the face

.

.

.

Some days
the woman
would take her head
off a pedestal
and keep it
between her legs
for a while

.

.

.

Sugar-white
head on a clothesline
flutters in the breeze
eyes closed
hair
long and smooth
coiled around the clothesline
- the sun shines in a clear sky

.

.

.

The head of a woman will dance
in Klambratún-park tonight
under an inebriated moon
and half-naked trees
accompanied
by the composers of autumn

waddling
pecking
shrieking
composers of autumn

.

.

.

Surely — yes
surely
it would be better
– in sensitive moments –
to be allowed to rest
one’s weary nape
in rugged hands

to not always have to
drive it back
stiff
hard
stubborn

Surely
Sometimes

.

.

.

In her head the woman still keeps
the din of days that passed
in euphoric dreams and died
so woefully later

The ships still sail through seas of night
and meet, crawl silently
out of darkened fogs
and meet

Ingibjörg Haraldsdóttir

………..Translation: Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl

………..Posted on the occasion of International Women’s Day, March 8, 2009.

58

The blood does
not taste any longer
only this resounding colour ill
tempered all over town
drunk on sweat and nails
and the aftertaste of past cheap
tricks and so pink-lucid
in the city-bone yet
the porcelain-eyes keep theirs
rolling the rim of a glass and the hand
jerks and wassails anew
to exalted nylon-legs
and whatever falling
might fall our way and this
wink see the comprehensive glint
coming from the steel-fit
heels the currents of solidarity
the moaning that trails through
the long hip of
leather.

Zombie
it’s perfected
is it not.

And the hand forward
with theatrical majesty
and half-germanic salute
strong hands of the drowning
and the rabble defeated.

So yes
not as if
someone bit you
in the back of the atlas
Zombie.

59

All the same
and the ice out onto
saddened salacious eyes
and handsomely I feel
this likens her and eventually
achieves her haughtiness
strong fragile glint
and escaping mirages
the x-ray visual sequence through
the life-long shards of ruins in
our city stepping on particles
of spent days Zombie and the curse
slowly getting better as it should
and the smile and the words polished
in a palm and indecipherable then
this desperation or whatever
in the fingerspeak of
windowpanes.

And titillation
in the atmos deceased
smells and stone cold in the puddle
Zombie it’s made of water
this bartender and his
black highness she’s
growing in the corner
cheers
and white-square-bishop
en regalia and someone
is making it sound out
Only the lonely which makes
lonely as fuck in the
tongue of my forebears – your
black highness and a growing
growl in the emptiness outside rust-red
cogwheels and turning closer
on the blight-red scale
of colours.

60

And Zombie
when you’ve reached
the bottom of your
humiliation
you automatically reach
but not for the gun
no
but the mirror.

Sigfús Bjartmarsson

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

and we thought the morality of men
had been changed by the great battles
waged by the conquerors of
the great battles against the conquerors of
the great battles in the century passed
since there’d be no despairing had the morality
of men changed in the century
that is passing at the great
battles in the conquerors of the great
battles because of the conquerors of the great
battles in the century that’s passing during
which the morality of men did not improve at all

.

.

one gissur þorláksson of flugumýri
climbed into a tub of sour-whey at flugumýri
long before the imperialists started
burning imperialists and long
before other men found out that
gissur þorláksson earl of flugumýri
would always find a burning tub of sour-whey at flugumýri
and would always get away from imperialists
who wanted to burn imperialists
and get out of the burning ruins alive

.

.

in the year 1550 jón arason was crucified in skálholt
where jón arason was crucified and where
later a church was built to further commemorate
the event that was considered significant in skálholt
where jón arason was crucified and where they found
a bishop in a coffin of stone and another in a wooden coffin
and finally one severely crucified in a coffin of stone
from whom no words would come but turned out to be
jón arason bishop in a stone-coffin in skálholt
crucified to commemorate and found
where jón arason built a church in the year 1550 in skálholt

.

.

in every life lost from lacklove
yearning after life that yearns a life to save
from lacklove yearning for life that yearns
is a yearning that’s also a yearning for a lacklove
life to lose and yearn and then for a long
long time and lose again and find and lose
and yearn and find and lose and find that
in every life lost from lacklove yearning
is a yearning to find and lose and yearn on end

Böðvar Guðmundsson

Translation: Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl

the poet was feeling doubtful about the state of poetry and attended a meeting and then the poetry was in a meeting many poetries together and the poetry was in sentences and questions and the poetry rose from the dead without ever having died or is this some sort of joke the poetry thought quickly descending the cliff and the poet would gather eggs from the cliff face and inside the eggs were words and the poet would suck ’em out and the poetry would broom through the skies and attend the meeting and the poetry had sat down to laugh in a sentence at a question and then they had recess and the poetries swung from the chandeliers and were sober and would fall into the redwine-glasses becoming their own rubbish and the poetry would slurp wine through a pink laststraw and floated on ice in the ocean and you’re all a bunch of pinko faggots the poetry jabbered calmly and haughtily and the word froze and everybody pretended they didn’t hear and the poetry broadly smiling went into hiding and I am above your petty bickering said the poetry and got all bummed out down in the straw which became shaped like a poetry or am I maybe an international medium of expression sounded up out of the straw or am I a novel or some punk-fad or a bird who flew or video performance art or am I a painting or an internally rhymed redondilla or a motorbike or a meeting or am I a painting or long or short or propaganda or divine inspiration am I a movie am I perhaps prose am I perhaps rhymed prose the poetry hissed and waded in its glow-in-the-dark rubber boots through poetic rain and fell into deep thinking splashing poetrily from dirty puddles and the poetry knew there was no question there had to be a question or am I supposed to be found in a definition so that the poets can find themselves these poor wretches and the rain became more poetic at the end of the street and the poetry saw a skinny cat disappear into a yard and I
am no question whispered the poetry
and looked up at the centennial cliff
I am the poetry said the poetry am a poem and tiptoed naked into the final words of the meeting in ballet-shoes and the poetry walked barefoot from the meeting and asked the ballet-shoes to come along
the poets remained
but the poetry left giggling
white ballet-shoes were seen impulsively climbing the cliff
we must have another meeting the poets said poesilessly
and check about this state of poetry thing added the literary scholars helpfully
(but) the poetry travelled by speed of light naked in yellow shoes with diver’s goggles and gregorian music in its walkman and a parachute in the other pocket,
went where it wanted to do what it wanted
… I should be banned I should be banned the poetry sang heartily.

Elísabet Jökulsdóttir

Translation: Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl

1

What lies what dishonesty what historical disasters.

And despite this the morning still amazes us
like before resembles bright and wide mornings
south wind ocean storm in a city mostly made up of dreams.

Dreams: at their bottom we sensed the merciless attack of reality.

How distant they now seem the endless spring eves
that were truth at the time
for us that strolled along the practically untouched beachfront
in the center of the most improbable city in the world
all all all
is forgotten and erased and becomes new.

.

2

What ship lies anchored by the harbour-mouth
at midmorning between mountain and mountain …
on which wholly new day did we step ashore here
… will we step ashore here?

No risk of encountering machine-guns and rags on this harbour.

Will we perhaps here meet the excessive gleam of imminent death
and other obsolete judgments like it?

Will we forget that this place is linked to others
thread on a chain with other places?
Peculiar chain: here it was forged from gold and silver
there it was processed from the blood of the disgraced.
Everywhere it is ornate with high ideals
of morality and freedom.
– Let us now forget that the chain is one
since here it wasn’t forged from oil’s exclusive freedom
and the ennoblement of sugar-fields.

I once heard the speech of an elderly greek poet
he was breathing his last
and died
a few months later.
When I was becoming a man on the isle of Crete
we all knew that evil existed without condition
we never doubted its whereabouts
and we knew how we should fight it.
This is what he said: for the time being this concept
had lost its theological meaning
and gained a closer meaning which children could grasp
and actively grasped every day
on the island.

I surely know that the din of time is persistent
compared to the momentary haste when a nation’s life
runs onto the solitary blade of justice.
I do not mean to say that time can not just as well
be a different creation.
I know that the messengers of justice are ineffectual
until the audience is willing.
And even though it were some other way
caution must be taken and remember
that nothing is more terrifying than justice.

Still we’ve witnessed that the time eventually arrives
when all our options are hard.
The day will come when deception is deception
disgrace disgrace
no matter how splendid it’s lair once was
no matter how deep the noble idealists
would bow before it into the dirt.

Then and there (for example in Crete sixty years ago
or here and now) the evil becomes real
and not both good and evil.
And the fire that burns is fire
no matter how simple it may seem to the ears
of those that say: the times have changed
but forget to note
that the times keep on changing.

What day of joy rises in suffering:
thousands of voices and millions in harmony
overwhelming the totalitarian voice of tepidity
and the hollow morality of the immoral.
We have seen this happen
– when the nobleminded had proven
that from now on everything would remain motionless –
and surely we will keep on seeing such events
when complicated concepts become tangible like iron
and the opressors soft hand is an opressors hand –
yes: this hand was always sweet to somebody
and as a rule the traitors needed pity more than anyone
yet the day eventually arrived
when we could not show them leniency.

.

3

Oh how strange learnings are revealed
when he recalls anew all the hurt
he thought he’d always known equally well!
… Here your life was decided
your body adjusted to the variations of air
and every season grown into you
every moment of the day kept rhythm to your being.

– Now you may search: seeking keen-sniffing and blind.

What comparison
– in time and space –
is fully valid and worthy
to him who’s neither unfamiliar
nor fully versed?

Will we walk in faint twilight
past the shadows of houses?
neither the glow behind them
nor the open breeze crawling down the street
nor the loud colourlessness and cold hospitality of the surroundings
none of this
yet all of this
is incomparable to anything
and was erased and forgotten.

A moderately developed society – halfbuilt country
even those words are not fully true.
The hurt is true the compassion is true
the familiarity with the most distant
and the least respected
is true.

.

4
……………………………………………………..Corrumpe et impera

“They used to say: thou shalt first sunder then rule –
but we bring a new and sweeter commandment.
Our commandment is magnificent
simple and brilliant
and clear as daylight itself.

Ruling does not agree with our ideals:
subjected nations
have a safe place
in our heart.
We bring a word of peace for those asundered
and we bring comfort for the poor.

We are exponents of freedom:
our liberality is so comprehensive
that it demands freedom for the oppressor
peace for the ruins
right of life for death.

…………….*

Your nation is corrupt
your nation is corrupt in the depths of its being.
But we have a unique touch and rare patience
to play with your nation’s corruption.

Such play comes easy for us
but does indeed not suit others.
Confidentially: if your nation wasn’t fully corrupt
we could provide it with
a little corruption
for we believe in corruption
feed and are fed on corruption.

Afterward we’ll say to you softly:
dear friends
your nation’s corruption is so radical
that even we are hardly able
to deal with it.
And then we’ll also prove to you with statistics
that we and not you
have the strength to fondle
the inescapable congenital and invariable corruption.

This reveals our originality and deep insight
this is where our genius cleaves the cliffs
our insight lights up the oceans.

Homemade shackles
are the strongest shackles.

When we enchain our beloved friends
it is customary for us to stipulate
that they beg us for them
for we feel that it’s the only way seemly for us
and worthy of them.

We need not employ our force
we do not show our fists
(not counting the utmost exceptions
in places
where our fist-force is justified by historical right):
you shall come crawling you shall come crying
and ask us to protect you from yourselves.

Such is the magic of our simple commandment
our predecessors never
learned as well as we
that the neck that spontaneously bows to the yoke
is the one most securely bent.

Yes we believe in the god of corruption
– but in arduous moments
our nerves are gnawed by superstition
and unpredictable mispredictions
sneek up on our historical memories.

Only this surpasses our understanding:
we believed the god of corruption
we saw him rule almighty
at the same moment they rose up
and they rose up.

Only this surpasses our deep insight:
where did they hide from our god
they who rose up?”

Sigfús Daðason

Transl. Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl

In a banker’s waiting room
funds drip down aged tender.
Funds spawned by funds.

Rinsing raincoats,
pouring from boots into bathtub
turning black from the letters,
bleating black sheep.

Found funds,
my hound a showerhead
drives them into the hole.

Þórunn Erlu-Valdimarsdóttir

Translation: Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl

I dream of shit. It’s no
secret. I dream of shit.

I can fearlessly spend my anticipated
lottery-winnings during the day.
Most nights I dream tons upon tons of shit.

Exactly how much shit I dream is nobody’s business.
The curious ask if I have any to spare.
Please allow me to phrase my answer neatly:
I hope I have enough shit for me and mine.

Is it then worth the bother to bend down for a coin on the street?
Economists may answer how they will, but I want to
use the opportunity to call attention to life’s details.
Who among us has not woken happy
from a dream about the outhouse of his youth?

I dream of shit. And some nights the glory
gets the better of me. I’m knee-deep in shit. I drown in shit.

And who would then make me out to be a criminal?

My investments are pure excrement.
My foreign bank accounts are bullshit.
In all honesty I have nothing but the children.

The kitchen asks: How will it be with the next downpayment?
How will it be with the electrical bill? How
will it be with the weekend-shopping and the daycare?

I won’t be flushed down so easily.
Tonight I may dream of a manure-depot.
Tonight I may dream of the blue canals and the city’s sewage.

I dream of shit. It’s no
secret. I dream of shit.

Anton Helgi Jónsson

Transl. Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl