Today we are writing translation poems as described on the
NaPoWriMo blog. This is a bit of an odd one, which ended up like this:
Skullhammer
Haggard ones of
Burville
with laudanum wit,
even a Sultan goers numb
a summer of heavy
guitar
and here are hired
diners
Hands on a
fast-held din, a seat
of gothic add-ons,
after
instinct; you, I,
everyone is lost.
A whore’s karma
stands, a rapier left behind
I, vegetarian
continuum
once of an old spy
tower
Little
Skullhammer, I eventually tire of you
of life, of her
amid prattle and
common laughter
up, I walk
and become blind.
___________________________________________
So, this weirdness was based on this poem, the real translation is below. I was really pleased to read the translation and find that I particularly liked this poem.
NORÐUR
Hægt eins og
búrhveli
líðum við gegnum
sortann
sem er hvítur
hér á heiðinni
Hann er
fastheldinn á sitt
og gefur aðeins
eftir
eina stiku í einu
Örskamma stund
leiftra þær
í vegarkantinum
eins og eldspýtur
litlu stúlkunnar í
ævintýrinu
og lýsa okkur
þar til við komum
aftur
upp í vök
að blása
North
Slow as sperm
whales
we glide through
the gloom
which is white
here on the heath
It holds fast to
its own
conceding only
one post at a time
For an instant
they flash
on the side of the
road
like the little
girl’s matches
in the fairytale
lighting us
until we return
to the hole in the
ice
to breathe
