Á strondini finni eg ein fuglaskølt.
Vit finna ongantíð beinagrindir av fólki.
Eygnaholurnar eru svartar.
Vit hava slept teimum deyðu í eitt hol í jørðini
uttan fyri kirkjurnar.
Tað ger meg syrgnan.
Í París sá eg einaferð stakkar av skøltum.
Eg kenni ikki fuglarnar her.
Tá John James Audubon
var 34 ára gamalur,
avgjørdi hann at mála allar fuglarnar í Amerika
við vatnlitamyndum.
Frá 1827-1838 kom bókin Birds of America
spakuliga undan kavi.
Audubon málaði yvir 700 fuglar
ið hann skeyt og drap.
Fuglarnir láta ikki her,
teir skríggja av pínu.
Eg gangi fram við brúnu sniglunum,
ið eta
hvønn annan
stillisliga.
Fram við sjónum.
Framkalli tíðir.
Í 1756 teknaði sveisarin Albrecht von Haller
eitt avskorið mannahøvd.
Í Hallersa Fysiologi komu vøddarørslur
ikki av mekaniskum orsøkum,
men av onkrum sum virkaði hinumegin tilvitið,
tí kunnu avhøgd høvd blinka við eygunum
og deyð djór spjálka við ørmum og beinum.
G.F.W. Hegel helt fyri,
at sanna óendaligheitin
kann ikki fatast,
at alheimurin er ein elementarpartikul
í einum størri alheimi.
Tú ert mín alheimur.
Gleði meg at vera sum deyði fuglurin.
Rúmi mínum evarska lítla leikluti í øllum.
Her eg og bløðini,
sjógvurin.
Hetta landslagið framkallar meg.
Eg læri meg at bíða.
Reyða setrið í bussinum er enn heitt,
tí onkur hevur sitið í tí.
Ein rødd lesur andlát í útvarpinum.
Vit tiga eina løtu.
Aftur skulu vit granska konfirmatiónsmyndir frá
Oyndarfjarðar kirkju
várið 1954.
Ræstan fisk og kaffi omaná.
Millum barnavognar, líkbilar og tjóvskar krákur
fer dagurin á glið.
Tann seinnapartin, tú læt eyguni aftur,
rann ein føroysk kvinna maraton í Prag
við tíðini 2:50:57.
Mannfrøðingar kundu staðfesta at Homo sapiens og
Neandertalarar fingu avkom,
teirra ílegur eru í okkum.
Granskarar í Geneve komu nærri at finna Higgs
boson í CERN royndarstøðini,
sjálvt um hetta kundi skapt eina nýggja galaksu
og sprongt jørðina.
Enn koyra býarbussarnir við reyðum setrum.
Døggin inni í bussinum
fær øll at líkjast komandi spøkilsum.
Mín íbúð er tóm, bert ein hvít súla
heldur loftinum uppi,
elektriskar perur hanga
niður á gólv, sum eitt lýsandi likam
toygt millum tøgn og tímar
lýsa tær á myrku fýrakantarnar,
ið myndirnar hava sett á veggin,
sum eitt palimpsest.
Skjótt býr onkur annar her,
sum onkur annar búði her undan mær,
ið eg heldur ikki kendi.
Ein pera undir loftinum blinkar,
hon er við at bresta.
Eg taki fotomyndir niður av vegginum.
Á einari svart-hvítari mynd situr tú sjálvur
í grønum gummistivlum aftan fyri garasjuna
tvey ára gamal og etur smáar steinar.
Eg havi nú blakað tríggjar konteynarar
av minnum burtur,
søgan skal byrja umaftur,
eg vil síggja heimspartar fara framvið,
men sambandið millum øldir
er ikki so gott,
sum eg helt tað vera.
Eg vil byggja ein vegg
av smáum fýrakantaðum jarnkassum
í mínum hugaheimi
og gera eitt arkiv yvir alt,
sum eg gloymdi her.
Aftaná klæðini eru brúkt,
húsini eru givin til onnur,
gøturnar hava skift nøvn,
er eitt fjall av klæðum,
myndum,
sloknaðum perum.
Eitt savn av hjartasláttri
millum hitt farna
áratúsundið
og
hetta.
Til oyggjabúgvar,
ið hoyra aldurnar í nátt
og vita,
hvussu tað er
at vera menniskja
eina løtu millum hav og fjøll.
Til altjóða brøðra- og systrafelagsskapin
hjá teimum svøvnleysu
(klokkan 04:48 taka flest lívið av sær).
Tey, hvørs kenslur hava vit og skil
og eitt hjarta, sum hugsar.
Tit, ið væl vita,
at tað eru eingi verulig landamørk
á okkara gongustjørnu.
At sjálvt altjóða heimsrepublikkin av bókmentum
hevur ikki somu linjur á kortinum
sum restin av heiminum.
frá Hvat hjálpir einum menniskja at vakna ein morgun hesumegin hetta áratúsundið
Kim Simonsen
Listen to an excerpt of the original Faroese read by the poet:
I was a graduate student in the Faroe Islands when I first met Seamus Heaney at a reception in Tórshavn. All these years later, my approach to translation is akin to Heaney”s in the way, as Tess Taylor puts it in her “More Than Beowulf” review, he “thought less of carrying over the so-called literal, and more of finding the pitch and resonance that help an audience receive a poem.”
The six poems featured here are from Kim Simonsen’s 2013 collection, Hvat hjálpir einum menniskja at vakna ein morgun hesumegin hetta áratúsundið. In the first half of the book’s rhetorical title, I read “What helps a human to wake up” but understand it as “What good does it do for a person to wake up” in the context of the poems; as the Faroese speaker of the collection works through the vicissitudes implied in the latter, he generates the holistic worldview that enables the former.
I chose “a person” for “einum menniskja” here in the title—rather than “a human,” or “a human being”—because much of the crisis experienced by the Faroese speaker is rooted in the alienation he feels as a person. The speaker experiences this isolation as layer upon layer of increasing uncertainty and loss. He finds solace in contemplating the interconnectedness of his humanity across time, space, and materiality—all the while grappling with his looming mortality and the legacies of Enlightenment-era paradigms.
Simonsen designed What good does it do for a person to wake up one morning this side of the new millennium’s layout and spent the better part of seven years creating the work. Under the title on the front cover, the Faroese word “SAVN” stands before the author’s name: COLLECTION KIM SIMONSEN. Both are situated above an anatomical illustration of a severed head with a curiously chill expression on its face. This copperplate engraving of Albrecht von Haller’s drawing appears in Icones anatomicae (1756). By the time Icones anatomicae was published, Haller had long been bitterly at odds with Carolus Linnaeus over his Linnaean system of taxonomy. Haller advocated for a system that was not based on strict hierarchies: a system more focused on revealing the many connections among species.
The six poems featured here are from Kim Simonsen’s 2013 collection, Hvat hjálpir einum menniskja at vakna ein morgun hesumegin hetta áratúsundið. In the first half of the book’s rhetorical title, I read “What helps a human to wake up” but understand it as “What good does it do for a person to wake up” in the context of the poems; as the Faroese speaker of the collection works through the vicissitudes implied in the latter, he generates the holistic worldview that enables the former.
I chose “a person” for “einum menniskja” here in the title—rather than “a human,” or “a human being”—because much of the crisis experienced by the Faroese speaker is rooted in the alienation he feels as a person. The speaker experiences this isolation as layer upon layer of increasing uncertainty and loss. He finds solace in contemplating the interconnectedness of his humanity across time, space, and materiality—all the while grappling with his looming mortality and the legacies of Enlightenment-era paradigms.
Simonsen designed What good does it do for a person to wake up one morning this side of the new millennium’s layout and spent the better part of seven years creating the work. Under the title on the front cover, the Faroese word “SAVN” stands before the author’s name: COLLECTION KIM SIMONSEN. Both are situated above an anatomical illustration of a severed head with a curiously chill expression on its face. This copperplate engraving of Albrecht von Haller’s drawing appears in Icones anatomicae (1756). By the time Icones anatomicae was published, Haller had long been bitterly at odds with Carolus Linnaeus over his Linnaean system of taxonomy. Haller advocated for a system that was not based on strict hierarchies: a system more focused on revealing the many connections among species.
Kim Simonsen (b. 1970) is a Faroese writer and researcher from the island of Eysturoy. He completed his PhD in Nordic literature at the University of Roskilde and has authored seven books as well as numerous essays and academic articles. He is the founder and managing editor of Forlagið Eksil, a Faroese press that has published over twenty titles. In 2014, Simonsen won the M.A. Jacobsen Literature Award for his poetry collection Hvat hjálpir einum menniskja at vakna ein morgun hesumegin hetta áratúsundið (What good does it do for a person to wake up one morning this side of the new millennium; Mentunargrunnur Studentafelagsins, 2013). This collection is forthcoming in English translation from Deep Vellum Publishing in late 2024. Simonsen’s latest poetry collection, Lívfrøðiliga samansetingin í einum dropa av sjógvi minnir um blóðið í mínum æðrum (The biological composition of a drop of seawater is reminiscent of the blood in my veins; Verksmiðjan, 2023), is currently nominated for the Nordic Council Literature Prize.
Randi Ward (b. 1982) is a poet, translator, lyricist, and photographer from West Virginia. She earned her MA in cultural studies from the University of the Faroe Islands and has twice won the American-Scandinavian Foundation’s Nadia Christensen Prize. Her work has appeared in Asymptote, Beloit Poetry Journal, Words Without Borders, and World Literature Today; her work has also been featured on Folk Radio UK, NPR, and PBS Newshour. She is a recipient of Shepherd University’s Appalachian Photography Award, and Cornell University Library established the Randi Ward Collection in its Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections in 2015. For more information, visit randiward.com.
