Poem
Inger Elisabeth Hansen
Not a wheel of fortune left
Not a wheel of fortune left, the wheel of fortune is scattered to the four winds
and the market is scattered to the four winds, not a market left, the market stalls swept
away, and all the cheap garments in the market stalls, the bastardised folklore,
the coarse, fingered and haggled over inheritance swept away, not a garment left,
not even Asia’s might, Asia’s immense sewing machine, not even the marching
hordes of needles and the swift little hands, the swarming Asiatic fingers
which steer the hands under the sewing machine needle, the swarms of seamstresses with their eyes glued fount
to the pattern, the globalised incision in the eyes of the sewing girl, as small as she can be,
a pretty little thing
not even the sweetest virgin, not even the loveliest bride can sew the blouse
in the stall back together again, not even the smallest fingers can sew it back together again,
blown to pieces is the blouse, and all the other garments in the market stalls, blown to pieces
are the stall in the marketplace, scattered to the four winds are the trousers and the shirts,
the skirts and the shawls, and all the localising names on the skirts and the shawls,
from here not a single garment shall be inherited.
© Translation: 2012, May-Brit Akerholt
Not a wheel of fortune left
Ikke et lykkehjul igjen, lykkehjulet er spredt for alle vinder
og markedet er spredt for alle vinder, ikke et marked igjen, markedsbodene feid
vekk, og alle de billige plaggene i markedsbodene, den bastardiserte folkloren,
det grove, beklådde, nedprutta arvestoffet feid vekk, ikke et plagg igjen,
ikke engang Asias velde, Asias veldige symaskin, ikke engang de marsjerende
hordene av nåler og de kjappe små hendene, de myldrende asiatiske fingrene
som fører plaggene under symaskin-nålen, mylderet av syersker med blikket festet
på mønsteret, det globaliserte snittet i øyet på sypiken, så liten som hun kan få blitt,
en deilig liten sak
ikke engang den yndigste jomfru, ikke engang den deiligste brud kan sy blusen
i boden sammen igjen, ikke engang de minste fingre kan sy den sammen igjen,
blåst i filler er blusen og alle de andre plaggene i markedsbodene, blåst i filler
er bodene på markedsplassen, spredt for alle vinder er buksene og skjortene,
skjørtene og sjalene, og alle de stedfaste navnene på skjørtene og sjalene,
herfra skal ikke ett plagg gå i arv
© 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
Close
Not a wheel of fortune left
Not a wheel of fortune left, the wheel of fortune is scattered to the four winds
and the market is scattered to the four winds, not a market left, the market stalls swept
away, and all the cheap garments in the market stalls, the bastardised folklore,
the coarse, fingered and haggled over inheritance swept away, not a garment left,
not even Asia’s might, Asia’s immense sewing machine, not even the marching
hordes of needles and the swift little hands, the swarming Asiatic fingers
which steer the hands under the sewing machine needle, the swarms of seamstresses with their eyes glued fount
to the pattern, the globalised incision in the eyes of the sewing girl, as small as she can be,
a pretty little thing
not even the sweetest virgin, not even the loveliest bride can sew the blouse
in the stall back together again, not even the smallest fingers can sew it back together again,
blown to pieces is the blouse, and all the other garments in the market stalls, blown to pieces
are the stall in the marketplace, scattered to the four winds are the trousers and the shirts,
the skirts and the shawls, and all the localising names on the skirts and the shawls,
from here not a single garment shall be inherited.
© 2012, May-Brit Akerholt
From: Trask, forflytninger i tidas skitne fylde
From: Trask, forflytninger i tidas skitne fylde
Not a wheel of fortune left
Not a wheel of fortune left, the wheel of fortune is scattered to the four winds
and the market is scattered to the four winds, not a market left, the market stalls swept
away, and all the cheap garments in the market stalls, the bastardised folklore,
the coarse, fingered and haggled over inheritance swept away, not a garment left,
not even Asia’s might, Asia’s immense sewing machine, not even the marching
hordes of needles and the swift little hands, the swarming Asiatic fingers
which steer the hands under the sewing machine needle, the swarms of seamstresses with their eyes glued fount
to the pattern, the globalised incision in the eyes of the sewing girl, as small as she can be,
a pretty little thing
not even the sweetest virgin, not even the loveliest bride can sew the blouse
in the stall back together again, not even the smallest fingers can sew it back together again,
blown to pieces is the blouse, and all the other garments in the market stalls, blown to pieces
are the stall in the marketplace, scattered to the four winds are the trousers and the shirts,
the skirts and the shawls, and all the localising names on the skirts and the shawls,
from here not a single garment shall be inherited.
© 2012, May-Brit Akerholt
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