Poem
Rune Christiansen
A SHEET OF PAPER LIT UP BY MEMORY
But still – the poem’s patient independence, and the shallow depths near heaven, a phrase I have from Ekelöf (‘As in the ballad’ published 10 October 1964), perhaps simply to remind myself that the draught from the open kitchen window, and the thin, cold drizzle, snowflakes almost, set the scene for an awkward perspective that evening. The year was 2003. How would it go with us?
And on the grey respatex table, next to a black dice, lay the photograph of father, a picture that had once been stapled to a public document unknown to me. I noted that we did not resemble each other, but when I turned my face towards the twilight I found the way home all the same.
And on the grey respatex table, next to a black dice, lay the photograph of father, a picture that had once been stapled to a public document unknown to me. I noted that we did not resemble each other, but when I turned my face towards the twilight I found the way home all the same.
© Translation: 2011, David McDuff
ET ARK OPPLYST AV ERINDRING
ET ARK OPPLYST AV ERINDRING
Men fremdeles – diktets overbærende uavhengighet, og det grunne dypet nær himmelen, en frase jeg har fra Ekelöf («Som i balladen» publisert 10. oktober 1964), kanskje bare for å minne meg selv om at vinddraget fra det åpne kjøkkenvinduet, og det tynne, kalde yret, snøfnugg nesten, satte i scene et ulenkelig perspektiv den kvelden. Vi skrev 2003. Hvordan skulle det gå med oss?
Og på det grå respatexbordet, ved siden av en svart terning, lå fotografiet av far, et bilde som en gang var stiftet til et for meg ukjent offentlig dokument. Jeg noterte meg at vi ikke lignet hverandre, men da jeg vendte ansiktet mot skumringen fant jeg likevel hjem.
Og på det grå respatexbordet, ved siden av en svart terning, lå fotografiet av far, et bilde som en gang var stiftet til et for meg ukjent offentlig dokument. Jeg noterte meg at vi ikke lignet hverandre, men da jeg vendte ansiktet mot skumringen fant jeg likevel hjem.
© 2011, Rune Christiansen
From: Jeg har tenkt meg til de elysiske sletter
Publisher: Forlaget Oktober, Oslo
From: Jeg har tenkt meg til de elysiske sletter
Publisher: Forlaget Oktober, Oslo
Poems
Poems of Rune Christiansen
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A SHEET OF PAPER LIT UP BY MEMORY
But still – the poem’s patient independence, and the shallow depths near heaven, a phrase I have from Ekelöf (‘As in the ballad’ published 10 October 1964), perhaps simply to remind myself that the draught from the open kitchen window, and the thin, cold drizzle, snowflakes almost, set the scene for an awkward perspective that evening. The year was 2003. How would it go with us?
And on the grey respatex table, next to a black dice, lay the photograph of father, a picture that had once been stapled to a public document unknown to me. I noted that we did not resemble each other, but when I turned my face towards the twilight I found the way home all the same.
And on the grey respatex table, next to a black dice, lay the photograph of father, a picture that had once been stapled to a public document unknown to me. I noted that we did not resemble each other, but when I turned my face towards the twilight I found the way home all the same.
© 2011, David McDuff
From: Jeg har tenkt meg til de elysiske sletter
From: Jeg har tenkt meg til de elysiske sletter
A SHEET OF PAPER LIT UP BY MEMORY
But still – the poem’s patient independence, and the shallow depths near heaven, a phrase I have from Ekelöf (‘As in the ballad’ published 10 October 1964), perhaps simply to remind myself that the draught from the open kitchen window, and the thin, cold drizzle, snowflakes almost, set the scene for an awkward perspective that evening. The year was 2003. How would it go with us?
And on the grey respatex table, next to a black dice, lay the photograph of father, a picture that had once been stapled to a public document unknown to me. I noted that we did not resemble each other, but when I turned my face towards the twilight I found the way home all the same.
And on the grey respatex table, next to a black dice, lay the photograph of father, a picture that had once been stapled to a public document unknown to me. I noted that we did not resemble each other, but when I turned my face towards the twilight I found the way home all the same.
© 2011, David McDuff
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