by Ísak Harðarson

Skáldpabbi
PoemDaddy

At sundown,
daddy went on the hunt for poems.  

Armed with a tiny brown notebook
and three ball point pens
he disappeared from our line of sight
dissolved into the orangered horizon. 

Hopefully he’ll get lucky
and come home with many plump poems
safely fastened on the page . . .

Yes, hopefully, not like the time
his night prowl got him so worked up
that he composed himself in the foot

— although that foot, as a matter of fact,
was the bestselling foot that Christmas.   

Translated by Meg Matich.

by Ísak Harðarson

Nútímalíf
Contemporary 

I sit at a table.
Turn on the television.
My wife knits.
The kid’s asleep in a cradle.
A warming fire
in the hearth.

The baby is turned on.
My cradle sleeps in my wife.
I knit.
The television sits in front of us.
Warmly on fire
the world. 

Translated by Meg Matich.

by Ísak Harðarson

Dómsdagsviðbragð
Doomsday (1)

They say nuclear war’s on the way.
Advisable to sell off your stocks? 

Translated by Meg Matich.

by Gyrðir Elíasson

We’ll never know anything
unless the killer at slaughter
is reborn as a lamb
driven through the autumn chill
into the cold bed of a truck
by biting dogs

Translated by Meg Matich.
Originally appeared in EuropeNow journal.