Poem
Jan Erik Vold
A Bottle-born Letter for Robben Island
I take a felt penand draw
an
Indian
on the canvas
of the sky. That is my
monument. That is the help
we’re looking
for. I put the sketch in an
envelope
and send it
to Robben Island.
*
Even if I’ve forgotten
the zip
code. Even
if I’ve forgotten the bank
account number. Even if I’ve forgotten
the social service
number, the
passport number, the bicycle
number. I send my letter in a bottle
to be thrown
into the water.
Provided there is an ocean.
*
When the planet no longer
is the
planet. When the magnetic
North Pole
starts to move
like the
migrating
Lapps. When the iceberg falls apart
and turns into
papier
mâché. Glides harmlessly
along the hull of the Titanic.
*
The
word WAR. The word
RAW.
Against this
reality
even Wittgenstein will have to keep
quiet. Stein
gen
witt.
Travelled on to RONWAY. Erality ex
ists. No, ex
pands.
*
How to avoid
the
rain? How
to avoid
the coming
of
dusk? How to avoid
the remote-controlled ravens, released
so deftly
that they leave
no marks. Not on the bodies
of our children.
*
No one is allowed
not to
look
like us. Not
to think like us, not to smile
like us, be in doubt
like
us. Trust
God
like us. Even if every country
were a wasteland.
That is written on the bank notes.
*
Digital
one-thousand-bills, which the poor
will never lay
their hands on. Fingerprints
of people
that got their hands
cut off. The cab driver asked: You pay
cash? Yes
paper money, the passenger
said, you know, those
with a
watermark stamp.
*
Like the modern
dental
drills. The pain comes
neither
before, during or
after.
The enamel
will look like new. It’s only the gums
that have
to
be
extracted.
*
She asked: What are all
those cobble
stones
for? Those
you have tilted
up by a
lever? Do you think that the truth
hides
under the pavement? That that’s where
they keep
the tram rails
hidden?
*
Even a human
being is made
of
paper. It may be torn
to pieces, it
may be
shorn to shreds, it may be burned. May
be crumpled
up and thrown
into the bin. A piece of paper
will get
no cemetery cross.
*
Old newsreels
from
the combats
on Okinawa. Some
of
the
most
cruel throughout
World War II. Because
of
the
bayonets.
*
A handshake, a firm look, a
human body
in
the one
scale. All the world’s
stupidity
in the
other. Bad, we said, when
we were
kids, real bad. A blind mirror.
Two black gloves
in the sunset.
© Translation: 2004, Jan Erik Vold
FLASKEPOST TIL ROBBEN ISLAND
FLASKEPOST TIL ROBBEN ISLAND
Jeg tar en tusjpennog tegner
en
indianer
på himmelens
duk. Det er
mitt monument. Det er
den hjelpen
vi
venter
på. Risset sender jeg i en konvolutt
til Robben Island.
*
Selv om jeg har glemt
postsone
nummer. Selv
om jeg har
glemt
kontonummer. Selv om
jeg har
glemt fødsel- person- sykkelramme-
nummer.
Jeg sender mitt brev
pr. flaskepost.
Forutsatt at det fins hav.
*
Når kloden ikke lenger
er
kloden. Når den magnetiske
nordpol
tar til å vandre
som
flytt
samene. Når isberget styrter
og blir papp
masjé.
Stryker
ufarlig langs Titanics skrog.
*
Ordet
KRIG. Ordet
GIRK.
Mot denne
realitet
må også Wittgenstein
tie. Stein
gen
witt.
Reiste siden til GNORE. Kriveligheten
be
står. Nei, ekspanderer.
*
Hvordan
unn
slippe
regnet? Hvordan unnslippe
mørkets
frem
brudd? Hvordan
unnslippe de fjernstyrte ravnene, som løs
gjøres så nennsomt
at det ikke
merkes. Ikke
på våre barns kropper.
*
Ingen får lov
til
å ikke
se ut som
oss. Tenke som oss, smile
som oss, tvile
som
oss. Dyrke
Gud
som oss. Om alle land
lå øde.
Det står på pengesedlene.
*
Digitale
tusenlapper, som de fattige aldri
får i
neven. Fingeravtrykk
etter folk
som fikk hendene skåret
av. Taxisjåføren spurte: Betaler du
med cash? Ja
kontant, sa kunden, du vet
sånne
med
vannmerke i?
*
Som de nye
tannlege
borene. Smerten
kommer
hverken før, under eller
etter.
Emaljen
ble som ny. Det er bare
tannkjøttet
som
må
trekkes.
*
Hun spurte: Hva skal du
med all
den
brosteinen? Den du
har vippet opp
med
spett? Tror du sannheten
skjuler seg
under brolegningen? At det er der
de holder
trikkeskinnene
fanget?
*
Også et menneske
er
av
papir. Det kan rives
i stykker, det
kan
klippes opp, det kan brennes. Det kan
krølles
sammen og kastes
i kørja.
Et papir
får intet gravkors.
*
Gamle filmavis
opptak
fra kampene
på Okinawa. Noen
av de
grusomste
i hele
annen verdens
krig. Fordi det var så mye
bajo
nett
bruk.
*
Et håndtrykk, et blikk, en
kropp
i
den ene
vektskåla. All
verdens
dårskap
i den andre. Rått
parti, sa
vi på løkka, blindt speil.
To svarte
hansker i solnedgang.
© 2004, Jan Erik Vold
From: Drømmemakeren sa
Publisher: Gyldendal, Oslo
From: Drømmemakeren sa
Publisher: Gyldendal, Oslo
Poems
Poems of Jan Erik Vold
Close
A Bottle-born Letter for Robben Island
I take a felt penand draw
an
Indian
on the canvas
of the sky. That is my
monument. That is the help
we’re looking
for. I put the sketch in an
envelope
and send it
to Robben Island.
*
Even if I’ve forgotten
the zip
code. Even
if I’ve forgotten the bank
account number. Even if I’ve forgotten
the social service
number, the
passport number, the bicycle
number. I send my letter in a bottle
to be thrown
into the water.
Provided there is an ocean.
*
When the planet no longer
is the
planet. When the magnetic
North Pole
starts to move
like the
migrating
Lapps. When the iceberg falls apart
and turns into
papier
mâché. Glides harmlessly
along the hull of the Titanic.
*
The
word WAR. The word
RAW.
Against this
reality
even Wittgenstein will have to keep
quiet. Stein
gen
witt.
Travelled on to RONWAY. Erality ex
ists. No, ex
pands.
*
How to avoid
the
rain? How
to avoid
the coming
of
dusk? How to avoid
the remote-controlled ravens, released
so deftly
that they leave
no marks. Not on the bodies
of our children.
*
No one is allowed
not to
look
like us. Not
to think like us, not to smile
like us, be in doubt
like
us. Trust
God
like us. Even if every country
were a wasteland.
That is written on the bank notes.
*
Digital
one-thousand-bills, which the poor
will never lay
their hands on. Fingerprints
of people
that got their hands
cut off. The cab driver asked: You pay
cash? Yes
paper money, the passenger
said, you know, those
with a
watermark stamp.
*
Like the modern
dental
drills. The pain comes
neither
before, during or
after.
The enamel
will look like new. It’s only the gums
that have
to
be
extracted.
*
She asked: What are all
those cobble
stones
for? Those
you have tilted
up by a
lever? Do you think that the truth
hides
under the pavement? That that’s where
they keep
the tram rails
hidden?
*
Even a human
being is made
of
paper. It may be torn
to pieces, it
may be
shorn to shreds, it may be burned. May
be crumpled
up and thrown
into the bin. A piece of paper
will get
no cemetery cross.
*
Old newsreels
from
the combats
on Okinawa. Some
of
the
most
cruel throughout
World War II. Because
of
the
bayonets.
*
A handshake, a firm look, a
human body
in
the one
scale. All the world’s
stupidity
in the
other. Bad, we said, when
we were
kids, real bad. A blind mirror.
Two black gloves
in the sunset.
© 2004, Jan Erik Vold
From: Drømmemakeren sa
From: Drømmemakeren sa
A Bottle-born Letter for Robben Island
I take a felt penand draw
an
Indian
on the canvas
of the sky. That is my
monument. That is the help
we’re looking
for. I put the sketch in an
envelope
and send it
to Robben Island.
*
Even if I’ve forgotten
the zip
code. Even
if I’ve forgotten the bank
account number. Even if I’ve forgotten
the social service
number, the
passport number, the bicycle
number. I send my letter in a bottle
to be thrown
into the water.
Provided there is an ocean.
*
When the planet no longer
is the
planet. When the magnetic
North Pole
starts to move
like the
migrating
Lapps. When the iceberg falls apart
and turns into
papier
mâché. Glides harmlessly
along the hull of the Titanic.
*
The
word WAR. The word
RAW.
Against this
reality
even Wittgenstein will have to keep
quiet. Stein
gen
witt.
Travelled on to RONWAY. Erality ex
ists. No, ex
pands.
*
How to avoid
the
rain? How
to avoid
the coming
of
dusk? How to avoid
the remote-controlled ravens, released
so deftly
that they leave
no marks. Not on the bodies
of our children.
*
No one is allowed
not to
look
like us. Not
to think like us, not to smile
like us, be in doubt
like
us. Trust
God
like us. Even if every country
were a wasteland.
That is written on the bank notes.
*
Digital
one-thousand-bills, which the poor
will never lay
their hands on. Fingerprints
of people
that got their hands
cut off. The cab driver asked: You pay
cash? Yes
paper money, the passenger
said, you know, those
with a
watermark stamp.
*
Like the modern
dental
drills. The pain comes
neither
before, during or
after.
The enamel
will look like new. It’s only the gums
that have
to
be
extracted.
*
She asked: What are all
those cobble
stones
for? Those
you have tilted
up by a
lever? Do you think that the truth
hides
under the pavement? That that’s where
they keep
the tram rails
hidden?
*
Even a human
being is made
of
paper. It may be torn
to pieces, it
may be
shorn to shreds, it may be burned. May
be crumpled
up and thrown
into the bin. A piece of paper
will get
no cemetery cross.
*
Old newsreels
from
the combats
on Okinawa. Some
of
the
most
cruel throughout
World War II. Because
of
the
bayonets.
*
A handshake, a firm look, a
human body
in
the one
scale. All the world’s
stupidity
in the
other. Bad, we said, when
we were
kids, real bad. A blind mirror.
Two black gloves
in the sunset.
© 2004, Jan Erik Vold
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