NOMINERT TIL NORDISK RÃ…DS LITTERATURPRIS
THE VALEYRI WALTZ A NOVEL IN STORIES, 2011
by Gudmundur Andri Thorsson Nominated for The Nordic Council Literary Prize 2012 Chosen as one of the 50 best books published in Denmark 2014 In a little village the paths of peoples’ lives are variously interwoven, and even though many are very familiar with each other, no-one knows what lies hidden in the next person’s head, in the memory palaces of the mind. In sixteen closely-linked stories all happening during the same two minutes, Thorsson presents people of flesh and blood, familiar folk who battle with life and an existence which is at times grey and cruel but at also incomparably wonderful. In an exceptionally chiselled and beautiful text which is bound to touch many people deeply, characters and sentiments spring to life, resulting in an entertaining and lively short story cycle or unconventional novel, where the great is reflected in the small, the whole of Iceland in a little village. The author cites Sherwood Anderson's seminal 1919 short story cycle Winesburg, Ohio as his favourite example of the form, a book known as one of the earliest works of Modernist literature, placed midway between the novel proper and the mere collection of stories. 168 pp SOLD TO Germany (Hoffmann und Campe), France (Gallimard), Denmark (Batzer & Co), Norway (Orkana); Poland (Wielka), UK (Peirene Press) GUDMUNDUR ANDRI THORSSON (b.1957) is one of Iceland‘s most respected writers, praised for his superlative style and writing skills. He is the editor of the literary magazine TMM and a columnist for Icelands biggest newspaper, besides working as an editor for a publishing house. He has also translated several works of fiction into Icelandic. For further information
Forlagid Publishing, Iceland, sif@forlagid.is; vala@forlagid.is; www.forlagid.is
Icelandic reviews
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* * * * four stars out of five “… he captures the imagination, simply fires up the senses. The Valeyri Waltz is a delightful read from cover to cover.” Jon Agnar Olason / Morgunbladid
* * * * four stars out of five “… here is a writer who loves his subject, the daily bustle of simple everyday folk who are not busy with great undertakings, children of God whom the author treats with understanding and warmth while demonstrating and explaining their flaws, so that we understand these, our brothers and sisters in the village.” Pall Baldvin Baldvinsson / Frettatiminn
“It is simply impossible to put [The Valeyri Waltz] down before the whole interwoven wreath has been unravelled and/or re-braided … The book is fantastically well written.” Svavar Gestsson / svavar.is
“The best book I’ve read so far this autumn.” Gudmundur Gunnarsson / eyjan.is
“It is the author’s warmth and fondness towards his characters – even the unsuccessful ones – that characterise this book … The Valeyri Waltz is, above all, a very human story about individuals and the community they create.” Asdis Sigmundsdottir / Vidsja, National Broadcasting Service
* * * * * five stars out of five “An exquisite story, fragrant with sunshine and salt and human longing.” Thorunn Hrefna Sigurjonsdottir / Frettabladid
“The heartache resides in the style, the fabric of the story material and the characters’ destinies. A bittersweet sensation which caresses the reader and draws him into a calm stillness which pervades the book. It is also full of music, the singing of the locals, the music in their lives, the music in the words – sometimes tender, sometimes rough.” Hjalti Hugason / Hugras.is
* * * * four stars out of five “This is a beautiful, human, warm and gently styled work by Gudmundur Andri – a truly enjoyable read.” Ingi Freyr Vilhjalmsson / DV
“A work of melancholy and heartache … This is a very beautiful book.” Kolbrun Bergthorsdottir / Kiljan, National TV
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Danish reviews “A gem that contains humour, depth and a wonderful command of language. Bright and light as the summer, while also steeped in a perception of the innermost parts of human nature. Such an enjoyable experience that you cannot wait to share it with others.” Committee of Librarians
“Take note of the name Gudmundur Andri Thorsson – still an unknown in Denmark, but after his nomination for the Nordic Council Literature Prize he will soon conquer the world.” Weekendavisen
“The Valeyri Waltz is an absolute gem.” Berlingske Tidende
“Thorsson’s narrative arc is like a polyphonic choir whose voices mingle as effectively in complex works as in simple songs.” Politiken
“Imagine being able to capture life in this simple and lucid manner, so poetic and pure. The Valeyri Waltz, in a masterly translation by Erik Skyum-Nielsen … and the word “pearl” describes it perfectly … is an altogether wonderful work, pure and dazzling, its tiny sand grains of loneliness and sad fortunes formed into sixteen close-ups of the people who inhabit the remote fishing village of Valeyri – all enclosed in a framework as beautifully shaped as a seashell.” Kristeligt Dagblad
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Longer synopsis
“I see the secrets. I see the people cooking and pottering about, pissing, being silent, skulking. Some are crying, some are listening, some are staring. I see the people screaming into their pillows, throwing out rubbish and useless memories, and I do not look away. I never look away.”
Kata is cycling to the community hall in the little village of Valeyri where she is conducting a choir concert this evening. On her way she spots the famous man from the South looking at her from the steps. Kalli sits alone in his barn surrounded by tools and memories; he is very excited about the concert, where he will be singing solo. Reverend Sæmundur, on the other hand, cannot bear gatherings of any kind at the moment, nor can Sveinn, the well-mannered and hard-working foreman in the Freezing Plant, who today has locked himself indoors, as he sometime does when the past threatens to overwhelm him. Husband and wife Anna and Jói from the Valeyri Works are planning to go, even though today they are not speaking to each other as she cannot forgive him, while Lalli Puffin tries to remember why he has gone for a walk... In a little village the paths of peoples’ lives are variously interwoven, and even though many are very familiar with each other, no-one knows what lies hidden in the next person’s head, in the memory palaces of the mind. In sixteen closely-linked stories which all happen the same two minutes, Thorsson presents people of flesh and blood, familiar folk who battle with life and an existence which is at times grey and cruel but also incomparably wonderful. In an exceptionally chiselled and beautiful text which is bound to touch many people deeply, characters and sentiments spring to life, resulting in an entertaining and lively short story cycle where the great is reflected in the small, the whole of Iceland in a little village.
5 From the author “I am an advocate of small literary forms, and the short story cycle is a particularly fascinating one,” says Gudmundur Andri Thorsson of his critically praised new book, Valeyrarvalsinn (lit. The Valeyri Waltz). The work offers sixteen discrete glimpses into the lives of residents of the fictional town Valeyri – all taking place within the same two minutes. The book's cover describes it as a short story cycle – a collection of stories that together form a larger, interlinking whole. “The idea is that each story should be able to stand on its own as a traditional short story, but can simultaneously be seen as part of the larger picture,” Gudmundur Andri says. “The stories reference each other in various ways: One story gets a brand-new ending later in the book; a character makes a phone call, and in a later story we hear the particulars of the call. One story ends with a fly zipping out of a window, but another one starts with a fly coming in through a window. Taken as a whole, these stories are all part of one overarching narrative: the story of the village of Valeyri, of which the reader should be able to piece together a mental image.” Gudmundur Andri cites Sherwood Anderson's seminal 1919 short story cycle Winesburg, Ohio as his favourite example of the form. “A friend of mine gave me that book years ago, telling me I should translate it, it would be right up my alley. I was noncommittal at the time. But maybe The Waltz of Valeyri is that translation, after all!” http://www.sagenhaftes-island.is/en/news/2012/02
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Chapters 1, 2, 4 and 12:
1 It comes off the sea ... It comes off the sea and slides along the spit. As the day recedes the fog creeps up the fjord as it ever does in the summer, it noses around the hillocks, looks behind knolls, glides into the village, where it licks the corners of the houses before lifting itself upwards just enough for me to be able to peep through windows. I see the secrets, I see the people cooking and pottering about, pissing, being silent, skulking. Some are crying, some are listening, some are staring. I see the people screaming into their pillows, throwing out rubbish and useless memories, and I do not look away. I never look away. Jósa is alone, she sips lukewarm beer from a can as she scans in her old class photos to put them on Facebook. Kalli is relaxing in the barn, he’s been struggling with yet another washing machine. Anna and Jói are not on speaking terms today. Doctor Jónas sits, head drooped, Lalli Puffin has gone for a walk and is about to bump into his sister Lára whom he has not spoken to for years and years . . . Here is Sveinsína scratching herself between the shoulder-blades with a wooden spoon, she is going to pop over to Jósa to celebrate, but by then I will have vanished with the fog. Before long I will have vanished with the grey fog.
7 We creep on past the corner of a house. The fog goes before me as if it is supposed to be somewhere else by now and is fed up with my loitering, yet we linger by the little red house with the grey roof where Ása’s children’s colds are getting better and little Una has at last stopped crying. All the secrets in a small village – they are admittedly not important, not all at any rate and not always, but the fog and I are nevertheless here, peeping through windows like an inquisitive biune God who cannot stop reassuring himself that daily life continues and takes its course, even though He has bestowed free will unto Man. It comes off the sea and slides along the spit. Chill accompanies it and it is welcomed by nobody. Smyrill the Poet nonetheless feels inspiration come upon him as we approach, gets up from his toils and takes out his shabby brown notebook, strolls into the kitchen and gazes out of the window into the blue yonder and scribbles down a few ideas for his cycle of poems Aroma of Ashes. The fog is the blue yonder which suddenly embraces you. It is pliant adversity. It is the law of nature itself. It comes off the sea and slides along the spit, and the people here feel it is everything that is grey, the cold silence which at times creeps in over the life here just as it has now draped Svarri, the mountain that overlooks the village. And then it is evening. And then it is night. And in the night comes the rain. Love awakens, flowers die, people give up halfway up the hill, headlights disappear into the blackness of the evening, a candle flickers in the breeze from a window, moments remain in the mind but days pass on. Months pass on, weeks, feelings and years. I see the blue in the sky in April and the green in the grass in May. I see the beat of wings as the south draws near; hear a new resonance in the swish of the grass. I see the red in the children’s cheeks in spring when they have been out playing all day. I see the autumn weathers in the closed expressions of peoples’ faces. I sense the smell of winter as the fog steps from the sea in late autumn and death spreads over the land. Petrol pumps stand alone in wintry snowdrifts . . . The silence of the village during white, dark days . . . The silence of the mountain . . . The bleakness between the houses . . . I have seen love awaken in eyes and die in deeds. I have seen
8 an abandoned child cease crying. I have seen men drown and boys hang themselves. I have seen a pregnant woman murdered and buried. I am long since dead. I should have been extinguished long ago, and perhaps have been and simply have not realised it yet. I am just an awareness. I come in off the sea and slide along the spit and soon I will have vanished with the fog. I am the afternoon breeze and I visit folk around half past four in the afternoon and then blow away somewhere an hour later to my dwelling which is in that what is the past; it is in the grass that stirred a few minutes ago, it is in the seeds of the dandelion clock that float to a new place, it is in the folds of Kata’s dress as she cycles down Strandgata on her way to the Village Hall.
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2 The Clarinet and the Double Bass She senses how the hum of children mingles with the afternoon sun. The air is heavy with the smell of food, the clatter of a motorboat out at sea is echoed by the sound of garden mowers, shore birds hover in silent arches, busy waders run about, the seeds of the dandelion clock drift to the ground: the afternoon pulsates. All this life empowers her as she pedals through the village, it gives her rhythm and swing and hope; she feels the life force flow through her. The houses are watching her but that is fine. Old men with garden shears wave and call: “Hello Kata!” and that is good. Children squeal and bounce on the trampolines that bulge by each house – and wave – and in the distance women kneel in flowerbeds and wave with earth-caked yellow gloves. Sidda sits in a group with Andrés and Fríða and others, she will have a special wave for her. The runner from the bass section is standing on the steps of the Old Doctor’s House with a pipe in his mouth and he watches her but does not wave. In two minutes she will be at the Village Hall. The Valeyri Choir is giving a concert tonight and though they sing together at church services every Sunday this is very different because the programme is ambitious: they will be singing Icelandic choral songs such as Night and Fair Little Friends and favourites such as Be Ready When Springtime Calls and Och jungfruen går i ringen but also Locus iste by Bruckner and Sicut locutus est by Bach where nothing must go adrift and turn it into a shambles in spite of the endless Monday evening rehearsals. She has sat at the piano and rehearsed the voices patiently, again and again – said: “And again” in such broken Icelandic that you cannot help but take notice. At times she has felt in the Bach as if she is trying to juggle fifteen balls at once, if one falls they all fall. But she has managed to get them to sing loud and firm, and then ever so soft. She has felt that delicate sound between the palms of her hands. The Valeyri sound.
1 0 Now she means to get there a bit early, before Sidda, Fríða and Anna arrive to arrange the chairs. She wants to have a moment to herself, try out the piano, sit down somewhere and shut her eyes and feel within her a kind of resonance. Then the people will arrive. The choir will be downstairs in the dressing-rooms and she will have them stand together in a tight group, hold hands and hum Sleep My Little Darling. Then they will walk in and arrange themselves on the platform the way they have practised, she will enter, take a bow, turn to the choir, lift her hands and look into the eyes of each and every one, the choir as one being, finally give the signal, and they will sing as one, create a new place: Locus iste, a Deo factus est … Everything is so bright. The evening is still to come and yet the day is gone. Existence vibrates at the edges. She is barelegged and barefoot in her sandals and she feels a little cold since the afternoon breeze passed by but it is not an uncomfortable coolness rather an invigorating one, just as the eyes of the houses are not staring but encouraging. Everything is singing in the bright light. The sun sings, the sea, fishes, telegraph poles, cows, flies, horses – dogs – the old red bicycle Kalli and Sidda gave her. She feels the day will come when her brown hair will again have its red lustre. Again her eyes will sparkle. Again she will sing inside herself as she plays the clarinet. Again there will be life in her existence. Again she will be loved. She is wearing the white dress with blue dots she bought the day she was loved. It was the day she knew that Andreas was going to propose to her that evening in the pavilion in the big public park in the centre of Trnava. It is her only best dress, the only one she will ever have. She has not taken it out since that evening. It has lain carefully folded waiting for this June evening in her little red suitcase and inside countless wardrobes. It has accompanied her round the world on her travels through the labyrinths of purgatory. From her little street in Trnava to Bratislava, to Prague, Cologne, Rotterdam, Moscow, Copenhagen, Hamburg, Reykjavík ...
1 1 It has stayed there all the time in its patient folds at the bottom of the red case beside her silent clarinet. She would have been loved. After the rehearsal she was just going to slip home with her clarinet and change – put on the new dress – and Andreas was going to take his double bass home and then they were going to meet at ten o’clock beneath the old poplar in the old park down town where they had always met after school ever since they were youngsters; the clarinet and the double bass. He would say to her that she gave meaning to his life. She would believe him. He would ask if she felt ready to marry him and share her life with him. She would say yes because she would believe him. And the evening would pass and the night, days and weeks and within a few months they would be living together in the old district. He would play the double bass in the symphony orchestra and the little jazz band from school, Trnava Stompers, which they still kept going, the old friends. She would play the clarinet in the symphony orchestra and do a bit of teaching and would deliver post in the mornings in their old district to eke out their income like her mother had done before her. Days would pass and months. They would practise in separate rooms until lunchtime and then go out for a bite to eat because they could not be bothered to cook just yet – not until the children arrived, one, two, three. Days would pass, months and years. Little by little the days’ wishing hours would become fewer, little by little their tiny flat would grow too small for them, sometimes food would be scarce and sometimes she would find it difficult to practise the clarinet in the mornings because of the children but she would nevertheless press on because her mother would help her with the children so she could keep her job in the symphony orchestra. Andreas would manage that too despite drinking too much and coming tipsy home in the evenings having played in all kinds of pubs with Trnava Stompers. He would say that she gave meaning to his life. And she would believe him. Life was like that after all – this is how his father would have been and her father and their grandfathers, these menfolk were like that. The years would pass, grey days, wearying moments. They would argue
1 2 because too much money would be spent on beer, the small flat was too cramped for them, he did not pay enough attention to the children. But that was how it would be. It would work and she would believe him. She would still keep the red tinge in her brown hair that was reflected in the sparkle in her brown eyes and her radiant smile that Andreas always said gave him strength to wake up in the mornings. And he would always be just as handsome a fellow in his red jumpers even if his belly got bigger with every beer-filled evening with Trnava Stompers. They would sometimes be merry on Sundays, the whole family, while the food simmered in a pan and the vacuum cleaner danced round the rooms and they had their own private moments the two of them during quiet walks in the old park down town where they always sat down beneath the old poplar as they had done when they were youngsters and as they would also have done that evening when he would have asked if she would marry him and where they would sometimes have a sandwich which he would have smothered in much too much butter and a spicy sausage holding hands and he would tell her that she gave him the strength to wake up in the mornings and she would believe him. The clarinet and the double bass. She would have been loved. She was just going to slip home with her clarinet after the rehearsal and Andreas was going to take his double bass home and then they were going to meet in the old park down town on the seat beneath the old tree.
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4 The White and Wonderful Dimension He is thinking about the Great Northern Diver he saw in the valley at Lake Valeyri yesterday evening, its majestic glide along the lake and its long dive for fish, as if careless of time, as if free. She is somewhere in the middle of Biggi’s guitar solo at that gig in Austurbæjarbíó, the solo he said later that night had been for her alone. They are sitting at the kitchen table munching custard creams. He drinks his coffee, the colour of a puddle that’s lain for weeks, from his special milk glass, the one he always uses. He slurps it through a mouthful of biscuit, enjoying the sensation when the biscuit softens and crumbles, and the tastes of coffee and cream filling mingle. He is thinking about the Great Northern Diver he saw last night and the Barnacle Goose someone has told him about and which he plans to look out for, later this evening. His mind glides from bird to bird, as he gazes out the window at the afternoon pulsating in the sunshine. He hears the redshank go chew-chew-chew, which makes him think of the oystercatcher going cleep-cleep-cleep as if wanting to hurry you along – he wonders whether they understand one another, the redshank and the oystercatcher. He has never thought of that before and yet he often thinks about birds, and always watches them when he is ashore or on holiday in the summer. The other day he spotted a Little Auk, and it felt as good as a big catch, being able to watch this tough little bird that had the sense to leave Iceland ... Then he starts thinking about all the lads in his crew and their latest successful fishing trip, about the new guy, an undergraduate from down south with whom he had enjoyed discussing mysticism – a nice lad, though not nearly as wellread as he seemed to consider himself – about Gardar the coxswain and his gallstones – he really should just get on and have them removed – about Bangsi and whether he should be worrying about him. She takes a biscuit, snaps a bite as if decapitating it, then swallows it halfchewed as if regretting the whole thing. She looks out of the kitchen window and
1 4 watches Kata Choir passing down the road on her bike. She is thinking about Biggi and his blond hair, always so clean and thick, and his guitar solo in Austurbæjarbíó, how it seemed it would never end, must never end, just got louder and louder, faster and faster, soaring further and further in ever newer directions, louder, faster, longer. After the concert, everybody was talking about his solo, how he had seemed to abandon his body and enter some white and wonderful dimension. Somebody had written just that in the Thjódviljinn newspaper the following day: “…into some white and wonderful dimension.” She is thinking what a pity he never recorded it properly – never recorded anything at all properly, come to that, how nothing remains of what he did or could have done, how he never made much of anything, how nobody but she remembers him. She hears the solo in her head, enters it, stays there for a moment engulfed in the bright glow of its majestic chaos, soars. Then she asks if he would like more coffee. “Yes, thanks, love.” She half-fills his glass, gets milk from the fridge and tops it up. “Fancy a pastry?” “Yes, thanks, love.” She goes to a cupboard to fetch a bag of pastries, and arranges them on the plate around the custard creams. He says, “Sveinsína, I’m a bit worried about our Bangsi, he seems rather down, maybe we should invite him and Gugga and the kids here for supper?” “Yes, sure. Just call him. He can come after the concert tonight. I’ve got a party ham in the fridge, I’ve plenty of time to stick it in the oven if you call him now. Was it a good trip, by the way?” “We caught a bit,” he says. He is thinking about the Great Northern Diver, its black head, its red eyes, its chequered back, how it glides haughtily across the lake, how it suddenly dives whenever it pleases and stays underwater as long as it pleases and catches whatever it pleases. He thinks: I wish I knew what it is like to be free. She is thinking about that long winter when Biggi died. Bangsi was only five years old at the time. They were living in a block of flats in Ljósheimar in Reykjavík
1 5 and Biggi had started working in the Landssmiðjan metalworks, and at weekends he played at Hótel Borg with the Binni Frank band, a bunch of old charlatans who played the notes mechanically off the page and never allowed him any proper solos – they wouldn’t let him soar. She and Biggi had been just young kids and he was like a bird that had got trapped in oil. “What are you thinking about, love?” he asks, dunking his pastry in the pale brown coffee. “I’m thinking about our Biggi,” she says and strokes the handle of her cup. “About his last winter.” “Yes,” he says. “It wasn’t much of a life.” “Ah, no,” she sighs. “Ah, yes,” he replies. “Do you really think Bangsi is on a downer?” “I hope not. No, probably not. It’s just a feeling. Silly of me. No, no. He’s holding up.” Their front door stands open. They can hear their kinsfolk: Bangsi and Gugga’s kids squealing, the clattering of the motorboat Bangsi VA as it approaches land, the distant din of the ocean that blends with the salty smell of the sea. They hear the redshank go chew-chew-chew, the distant screeching of the arctic tern, the impatient oystercatcher’s cleep-cleep demanding an end to all this feasting. The sun streams in, fills every corner and illuminates their full, fleshy faces; thick-set, broadcheeked, eyes narrowed against the light, they are ox-sturdy and can lift anything, settle anything, deal with any problem. “What about you, Gudjón dear?” she asks warmly, putting her palm over his hand and pressing it. “What are you thinking about?” “Nothing special, really,” he replies. “Isn’t it about time we tackled these window-frames?” “That’s a good idea,” she says. “I’ll help you. How about doing a bit of scraping now, before the concert?” “Yes, let’s do that.”
1 6 ~~~ He is thinking about the Great Northern Diver on Lake Valeyri and how it glided about in the pale summer night, filling the valley with its mournful wail – or was it laughter? Then suddenly dived, on impulse, just as if it knew how to be free, to be in unaccustomed solitude. She is thinking about Biggi and the long winter when he died, that winter in Reykjavík, in that godforsaken block of flats, and Bangsi was only five and followed his daddy out onto the balcony and watched him climb over the rail on the seventh floor and jump, watched his daddy soar through the air a while before crashing into the tarmac. He had sometimes spoken about it when he was in his cups, said he remembered it, but she was not certain this was true. He said a lot of things, did Bangsi. Of one thing she was certain: his soul could soar, but could also plumb dark depths. He had been conceived in the rapture following the Austurbæjarbíó gig, where Biggi took the guitar solo that went on and on, soared higher and higher, faster and faster, the solo everybody talked about – and which was for her. Every day she hears it. Every night, before she falls to sleep, she sees Biggi on the stage in Austurbæjarbíó, wearing the purple shirt with frills, his thick, long hair that was always so clean, and then she hears the music, bright and free, and it transports her into this white and wonderful dimension ...
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12 The Valeyri Waltz Last night when the sun had set and the wind had abated and the eider had tucked their beaks under their wings while a lone seagull soared towards its cliff and the timeless waves burbled on seaweed and stones and seals yawned peacefully on outer skerries and the people slept and there was noone about except him and the sheep and a few mice and perhaps a woman out on a farm who couldn’t sleep, Smyrill the Poet sensed how vast is poetry, how open the world and how immeasurably broad and high his own mind soared. He sensed within himself the restless creation, the sky and the earth, the wind and the sun – the grace of it. He sensed how, in the vaults of his mind, flickers of light came alive flashing between eternities. He sat on a rock and watched with closed eyes the pictures gliding through the vision of his mind. All kinds of people he had never seen and would never see: a blonde woman in a violet dress with earrings like apricots, her short hair tucked behind her ears, a girl with a clip in her hair and a sulky expression, who seemed to be waiting for a lollipop; a boy in a blue sweater, a cross-eyed man in a striped dressing gown with a comb-over . . . people that didn’t mean anything to him slipped into his consciousness almost carelessly and he didn’t know where they came from, whether they existed, whether they had existed, and he let them slip away unattended to their own dimension and focused his senses back to the night, the sky, sea, rippling grasses, swish of the breeze and birds. He heard a resonance. He sat on a rock and watched the sandpipers run around the seashore like words dropped by God. His mind was immeasurable and for everything that existed at this moment there was a response in the expanse of things, he could perceive all that was happening, in his mind everything became a line of verse; the glide of the
1 8 seagull became a sonnet, the pit-pat of the ringed plover a quick free verse, the rippling of grass falling dactyls, the maroon sky a hexameter. He heard a resonance. When the sun had set and the wind had abated Smyrill the Poet heard and sensed that the poem was on its way to call on him, it came from the sea and slid along the spit, it was his most beautiful poem. It was about the shoots, the buds and the joy. It was about all that must be. It was about the low ebb on the shore which he felt drew nearer with the poem; it was about the gliding of the birds, the grasses of the earth and the gurgling of the waves, it was about the shape of the conch-shells and God’s living sleep. It was about the spirit that keeps vigil in the waves of the sea and makes the sand-hopper jump, the bird soar and the bluebell droop. It was about the women who had touched him, soft and gentle with hands that cared for him and lips that opened him up and breasts that kept him warm during cold nights. It was about Unnur. It was about the power of grace. He heard a resonance. He worked quickly to write all the flow of his thoughts into his little brown book, sensing and hearing that the poem was about to come to him, it was his most beautiful poem – it would come flying to him on its wings. He was both excited and calm, like an old hunter who knows that things can go either way but senses that now is a good time to hunt. He sat on a rock and watched the sentences run swiftly around the shoreline, busy finding their place, trying to settle into the right structure in their right molecules in order for a poem to emerge. He scribbled quickly. The words flowed from his pen, forming pictures which did not look like the words they referred to, and yet they were. He wrote ‘straw’, he wrote ‘sea’ and he wrote ‘shore’. As he wrote these words he created straw by a sea, on a shore. He wrote ‘hands’ and ‘mine’ and ‘open’. He wrote ‘bird’. He drew a bird. He watched the seagull glide about in sonnet arches, the waves heavy with the thousand-year schemes of the ocean currents, clouds that on the deep blue sky suggested white yearning. He watched the wind, watched the straws in the wind, saw the wind in the straws. He put the pen down for a minute while he waited for the poem to come to him in its right form with the right
1 9 words in the right structure. He began again to write, fast and indistinct, the words creeping forward like flightless birds tied to the book. He wrote ‘her hair’ and ‘in mountain cave alone’ and ‘in woods I watched at dead of night’. He wrote ‘Unnur’. He wrote ‘thou’ and ‘from the south’ and ‘breathe’ and then he wrote ‘straw’ and ‘shore’ and ‘blue’ and ‘lands’. He wrote ‘be thou’. He sat for a long time and continued to write and look inside himself at people that floated within, promising nothing, at the sea and the sky and at his own sense of loss. He thought about what had happened to him during his time, some of it beautiful, some ugly. He thought about the people with whom he had made, then lost, contact with during his time – the tender women, the good friends. He wrote ‘straw’ and ‘shore’ and ‘sea’ and these words described everything he had lost. The sea was deep, the shore was deserted, the straw stood out. The sea was loss, the shore was loneliness, the straw was pain. The sea was cold, the shore was rocky, the straw was fixed. The sea was here and there, the shore was here but not there, the straw would not be here and never there. He heard a resonance. The low ebb passed. * He stands in the kitchen at his writing desk, lifts his pen and waits. In front of him he has a folder with his poetry cycle Aroma of Ashes and he wants to add to it a poem he can read later at the meeting. He would like to read something new, and he waits for the poem. When it arrives, it will recognise itself. He has everything here. His books that cover every wall, including the basement. His old harmonium he used to compose at when he was still doing that sort of thing, including The Valeyri Waltz, which continues to bring him royalties. The postcards he collects. The stones he brings back from the shore. His paints. All his past shadows. He has long since turned into a barnacle in this place, as he says when people ask him why he doesn’t move to the south. Here he has his own life – and Unnur’s too, even though she
2 0 passed away long ago. And the poem will recognise itself when it comes fluttering on to this white sheet of paper. He lifts his pen expectantly, sips the cold coffee and looks up from the white sheet, wrinkles his forehead, strokes his beard. He looks out of the window at Kata Choir gliding past on her bike, her forehead wrinkled, deep in concentration. He smiles and picks up his pen to scribble into the notebook lying next to the white sheet of his manuscript. He writes ‘sea’, ‘shore’, ‘straw’. The poem fluttered away into the coming dawn, it abandoned him. It disappeared into the lands of limpid blue. He knew it had wings, sails, time, directions and tone. All goes. And tonight when the sun has set and the wind abated and the eider have tucked their beaks under their wings while a lone seagull soars towards its cliff like a sonnet, Smyrill the Poet returns to the shore, sits on a stone with pen and notebook and waits patiently for his poem. Then he hears a resonance. It is the song of the stars that resounds along the pathways of worlds.
Translation: B & A Cauthery
ISBN 978-82-8104-258-2
www.orkana.no