Poem
Inger Elisabeth Hansen
A wanderer wanders here
A wanderer wanders here, but why should she accept that it is here
she wanders, she would rather have stayed at home, nevertheless it is she
who wanders here, it is here she must walk, bound to this path along the frozen lake,
the ice slushy, soaked bluish like forgotten milk in a bowl, in the landscape
that lifts this lake which reflects nothing, in the landscape which holds
this bowl with soured milk in its hands and lifts it towards the sky
towards the sky, towards the sky which hurls clouds towards south, towards south south-east
the clouds rush like ribbons, like rags and bandages unwound from a body, a body
in south south-east, so why should she have taken the time it takes to find a name for
this lake, the time it takes to find a map or the old man who has sawn
a hole in the ice and jigged three four fish which don’t have names either, he might have sat there
for the time it takes for a lake to get a name and get rid of it again, he might have sat there
for the time it takes for a fish to get a name only to get rid of it again
© Translation: 2012, May-Brit Akerholt
A wanderer wanders here
En vandrer vandrer her, men hvorfor skulle hun godta at det er her hun vandrer, hun ville heller blitt igjen hjemme, allikevel er det hun som vandrer her, det er her hun må gå, bundet til denne stien langs den frosne sjøen, isen forsørpet, fortrukket blålig som glemt melk i en skål, i landskapet som løfter denne sjøen som ikke speiler noe, i landskapet som holder denne skålen med surnet melk i hendene og løfter den mot himmelen mot himmelen, mot himmelen som slynger skyer mot sør, mot sør sør-øst farer skyene som strimler, som filler og bandasjer viklet av en kropp, en kropp i sør sør-øst, så hvorfor skulle hun tatt seg tiden det tar å finne navnet på denne sjøen, tiden det tar å finne et kart eller den gamle mannen som har sagd et hull i isen og pilket tre fire fisk som heller ikke har navn, han kan ha sittet der den tiden det tar for en sjø å få et navn og å bli kvitt det igjen, han kan ha sittet der den tiden det tar for en fisk å få seg et navn for så å bli kvitt det igjen
© 2003, Inger Elisabeth Hansen
From: Trask, forflytninger i tidas skitne fylde
Publisher: Aschehoug, Oslo
From: Trask, forflytninger i tidas skitne fylde
Publisher: Aschehoug, Oslo
Poems
Poems of Inger Elisabeth Hansen
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A wanderer wanders here
A wanderer wanders here, but why should she accept that it is here
she wanders, she would rather have stayed at home, nevertheless it is she
who wanders here, it is here she must walk, bound to this path along the frozen lake,
the ice slushy, soaked bluish like forgotten milk in a bowl, in the landscape
that lifts this lake which reflects nothing, in the landscape which holds
this bowl with soured milk in its hands and lifts it towards the sky
towards the sky, towards the sky which hurls clouds towards south, towards south south-east
the clouds rush like ribbons, like rags and bandages unwound from a body, a body
in south south-east, so why should she have taken the time it takes to find a name for
this lake, the time it takes to find a map or the old man who has sawn
a hole in the ice and jigged three four fish which don’t have names either, he might have sat there
for the time it takes for a lake to get a name and get rid of it again, he might have sat there
for the time it takes for a fish to get a name only to get rid of it again
© 2012, May-Brit Akerholt
From: Trask, forflytninger i tidas skitne fylde
From: Trask, forflytninger i tidas skitne fylde
A wanderer wanders here
A wanderer wanders here, but why should she accept that it is here
she wanders, she would rather have stayed at home, nevertheless it is she
who wanders here, it is here she must walk, bound to this path along the frozen lake,
the ice slushy, soaked bluish like forgotten milk in a bowl, in the landscape
that lifts this lake which reflects nothing, in the landscape which holds
this bowl with soured milk in its hands and lifts it towards the sky
towards the sky, towards the sky which hurls clouds towards south, towards south south-east
the clouds rush like ribbons, like rags and bandages unwound from a body, a body
in south south-east, so why should she have taken the time it takes to find a name for
this lake, the time it takes to find a map or the old man who has sawn
a hole in the ice and jigged three four fish which don’t have names either, he might have sat there
for the time it takes for a lake to get a name and get rid of it again, he might have sat there
for the time it takes for a fish to get a name only to get rid of it again
© 2012, May-Brit Akerholt
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