Ævi hringast um endalokin
Þegar snjóflóðið ryður burt
húsinu og henni með
hættir tíminn að líða
og verður að kristöllum
Fortíð nútíð og framtíð
verða að einni svipan
fjall sem heitir þremur
nöfnum í einum firði
Í tíma hennar myndast
lítil manneskja í legvatni
sem vaknar þegar höggbylgjan
skellur á sofandi líkamanum
Hún sér þessa manneskju
þegar augu hennar opnast
eftir að snjófljóðið stöðvast
og þegar hún fæðist
Horft til Snæfellsjökuls úr kyrrstæðum strætó
Rakt pappírsrifrildi loðir við himininn
ég fletti Snæfellsjökli af rúðunni
og 11 punkta hjá mér það sem ég
hefði átt að segja við þig
1) undir gljáspegilsléttu yfirborði
er grjót sem er grjót
2) snjór bráðnar
verð fell sem er fell
Snæfellsjökli verður fleygt í ruslatunnu
mun brotna niður innan um bananahýði
pappamál gosdósir nammiumbúðir
úrgang sem er úrgangur
3) ljóð skjalfesta landslag
tilfinningar rotna
Snjóhljóð
Snjókorn bráðna í
blauta mold næturþögnin
hverfur í hlátur
Hvörf Snæfellsjökuls
Mars
Segl sem siglir án skips
og bólgnar í hviðum
byrs sem lemur himininn
og kæfir grænt hafið
ást sekkur
ást brotnar
nei
ást hverfur í skýjunum
og brotnar
Apríl
Tveir þríhyrningar
annar ofan á eða innan í hinum
en hliðrað um nokkra sentimetra
tveir toppar
lína sem sveigist niður á við
er dregin á milli
aðeins gegnum óreiðu
sjást formin skýrt
hafið er lárétt lína sem skilur
milli ástar og ástar og tíma
Maí
Könguló nálgast aðra
fetar sig eftir ókunnum þræði
í átt að miðjum vefnum
elskhugi bíður hreyfingarlaus
á sjóndeildarhringnum
pörun hverfur í grábláma
skipt í haf og himin af hring
sem aðeins er til í augnbotni
Júní
Margfætla með spennta kryppu
skríður eftir laufblaði
fálmandi angar fara á undan
étur upp lífríkið kringum sig
skilur eftir sig ís og hraun og auðn
og ást með margfætlum innan í
sem bíða þess að klekjast út og éta
heiminn út að endimörkum
þess sem er séð
Júlí
Elskhugi skrúðgengur út
úr sofandi herbergi eins og rótlaust þang
á svifi langt frá þurrum ströndum
og lífvana klettum sem brotna á haföldum
áður en tíminn færir augastein úr stað
sem sér ekkert bara auðn
eigin augnhvítu
Ágúst
Augu eyru nef munnur á dýri
sefur étandi með augun hálflokuð
það opnar munninn og allt
tætist sundur og raunveruleikinn
er litleysa á fölbláum grunni
sem tyllir sér á sjóndeildarhringinn
eins og sólskríkja sem lýsist upp
þegar ástin nálgast í líki einskis
nema augna eyrna nefs munns
September
Kolkrabbi með útglennta arma
flýtur um í bláu gleri
hvorki er víst né óvíst
hvort dýrið sé spegilmynd
en kolkrabbinn er áhyggjulaus
og reigir aftur búkinn
svo skuggar falli á föla arma
sem faðma ástfangið glerið
Október
Hreifi rífur glugga
á himininn þegar hann
brýst gegnum yfirborð
sjávar og hverfur
Amorsbogi jökulsins
er flattur út í brosi
tunga sleikir skýin
Nóvember
Amorsboganum er miðað
örlítið fyrir ofan Reykjavík
ein ör til að hæfa heila borg
fjallahringurinn tennur
í hlæjandi munni
þúsund tungur og hundrað sinnum
þúsund tungur í einni borg
sem allar mætast í tveimur punktum
Desember
Glóandi sveigja þar sem mjóbak
verður að rassi
brekka í huganum
Amor rennir sér hraðar
hraðar niður fjallshlíð
sem hverfur inn í himin
skuggi við sjóndeildarhring
stækkar og leysist upp
skella á himninum
fægð í burtu
Janúar
Hvítur kjólfaldur hvítt slör
kóróna á höfði er varkár yfirlýsing
ástkonu í landslagsmynd
sem fellur inn í sjónsviðið
bak við innan í framan við
hinum megin við það
sem augað sér frá Reykjavík
skuggamyndir flytja skilaboð
bara í eina átt
Febrúar
Gráminn bak við landslagið
blæs burt í vindi
ástkona tekur ljósmynd af
umföðmuðu landslagi
vindur lyftir kjólfaldi
grípur slörið með sér og ber
í átt að skellu á himninum
sérðu haf já
sérðu fjöll já
sérðu jökulinn hverfa
já já alltaf já
frá Jökulhvörf
Kári Tulinius
Listen to “Upon Seeing Snæfellsjökull Glacier from an Idling Bus“ read in the original Icelandic by the poet:
I’ve known Kári Tulinius for a little over eight years. He was, as it happens, my first real friend in Iceland. He was also the first author to whom I confessed my aspiration to learn and translate Icelandic who didn’t give me the wry, indulgent smile that one might give a child who tells you they want to be an astronaut when they grow up. Instead, he invited me to a literary salon, took me on a trip to a local bookstore to give me a crash course in contemporary Icelandic literature, and encouraged me to hone my fledgling skills as a translator by not only translating his work but by also discussing those translations with him, in great detail.
These early interactions and not always successful attempts at translation laid the foundation for one of the most rewarding, most challenging, most exciting collaborations of my career. They taught me, quite literally, how to think as a translator, how to be cognizant of the ways in which I impart my own subjectivity onto each text that I translate. There is no better reader of my translations of Kári’s work than Kári, and this is definitely not something that can be said of every author–translator relationship. When I’m working with Kári’s writing, every poem and piece of prose I translate goes through a very active, very collaborative editing process. We debate word choice; we discuss the ways in which the syntax of our respective languages creates different shades of meaning and intentionality. We have semi-impassioned arguments about contractions and comma placement. In so doing, I not only learn about the text itself: I learn about the very fabric of the languages I’m working in and between. What greater gift could a translator receive?
As you have likely gathered, Kári is one of the most generous authors I work with, but he is undoubtedly also the most exacting, the most precise. Each of his writings is informed by incredible specificity—a precise memory of a precise conversation; a real place at a real time; a factoid learned that led to a mountain of research that became the kernel of a poem that may only have fifteen lines but contains within it a whole world of backstory and deliberateness and truth. My job is not only to capture what is happening in the moment, but also what happened in the lead-up to that moment. There is no fudging, no best-worst solution. Translating Kári’s work has taught me how to keep picking at a knotty passage or seemingly “untranslatable” wordplay. To keep refining and refining and refining until it’s just right.
Kári is also—and I say this as a very sincere compliment—one of the weirdest authors I work with. (Not as a person, I hasten to add.) His work embraces the odd phrasing, the strange tense shift, the unusual form, and the unexpected—and yes, weird—image. As a translator, I have learned to embrace this weirdness, to resist the urge to smooth out a wording or make a metaphor more predictable. Because nothing you will read in a poem by Kári Tulinius ended up there by chance.
These early interactions and not always successful attempts at translation laid the foundation for one of the most rewarding, most challenging, most exciting collaborations of my career. They taught me, quite literally, how to think as a translator, how to be cognizant of the ways in which I impart my own subjectivity onto each text that I translate. There is no better reader of my translations of Kári’s work than Kári, and this is definitely not something that can be said of every author–translator relationship. When I’m working with Kári’s writing, every poem and piece of prose I translate goes through a very active, very collaborative editing process. We debate word choice; we discuss the ways in which the syntax of our respective languages creates different shades of meaning and intentionality. We have semi-impassioned arguments about contractions and comma placement. In so doing, I not only learn about the text itself: I learn about the very fabric of the languages I’m working in and between. What greater gift could a translator receive?
As you have likely gathered, Kári is one of the most generous authors I work with, but he is undoubtedly also the most exacting, the most precise. Each of his writings is informed by incredible specificity—a precise memory of a precise conversation; a real place at a real time; a factoid learned that led to a mountain of research that became the kernel of a poem that may only have fifteen lines but contains within it a whole world of backstory and deliberateness and truth. My job is not only to capture what is happening in the moment, but also what happened in the lead-up to that moment. There is no fudging, no best-worst solution. Translating Kári’s work has taught me how to keep picking at a knotty passage or seemingly “untranslatable” wordplay. To keep refining and refining and refining until it’s just right.
Kári is also—and I say this as a very sincere compliment—one of the weirdest authors I work with. (Not as a person, I hasten to add.) His work embraces the odd phrasing, the strange tense shift, the unusual form, and the unexpected—and yes, weird—image. As a translator, I have learned to embrace this weirdness, to resist the urge to smooth out a wording or make a metaphor more predictable. Because nothing you will read in a poem by Kári Tulinius ended up there by chance.
Kári Tulinius is an Icelandic poet and novelist. He and his family move back and forth between Reykjavík and Helsinki. If you search for his name online, you will find fiction and poems in translation and even author photos and book covers, if you like that sort of thing.
Larissa Kyzer is a writer, Icelandic-to-English literary translator, and teacher of translation. Her translation of Kristín Eiríksdóttir’s A Fist or a Heart (AmazonCrossing, 2019) was awarded the American Scandinavian Foundation’s 2019 translation prize. The same year, she was one of Princeton University’s Translators in Residence. In 2020, Kyzer and her frequent collaborator Meg Matich cofounded Eth & Thorn, a chapbook press dedicated to Icelandic poetry and short fiction in translation. Kyzer is co-chair of PEN America’s Translation Committee and runs the virtual Women+ in Translation reading series Jill! Visit her website here.
