by Vilborg Dagbjartsdóttir

The sun: a big red lollipop, swirly
The clouds: whipped cream
The tide: a little girl, laughing

You
are on the shore
baking sandcakes
it chases you
farther, farther
all the way to the pebble beach
gobbling up the cakes
one after another
and, ornery,
splashes
you

The stones smile, too. 

Translated by Meg Matich.

by Vilborg Dagbjartsdóttir

When I have done the washing up
When I have taken the rubbish out
When I have cleaned the kitchen floor
When I have polished the corridors
When I have done the vacuum-cleaning
When I have done the dusting
When I have done the washing
When I have done
I shall go out on the balcony
to brandish the brush
in the moon’s face
no woman has been sent there
with the CLEANING RAG

not yet

Translated by Bernard Scudder.
Originally appeared in Icelandic Poetry by Bernard Scudder,
published by Saga Forlag, EHF. 

by Dagur Hjartarson

Wind season, last night
marked the trees in our garden
with black bags
to find its way back

and it finds its way back
the next night
howling something nobody understands,
upheaves seaweed, algae,
nightmares with wings
from the depths of the Atlantic 

the next morning, the water’s surface
glossy, black
as if someone had tried
to pave the path down
to the bottom

and opened a pass for the fierce wind
to rise out of the sea
as the voice of those
who lost caches of words in the passage of ages

we watch the new path
and wait for them to come to land  

Translated by Meg Matich.

by Dagur Hjartarson

Segulómun
MRI

Before you disappear
into the MRI
they inject contrast into your veins 

and so it begins
first, the clumsy drone
then hammering
then drone, hammer

as if someone were stuck
inside the cylinder,
struggling to get out

but that’s not true, is it? 

it’s simply the sound
that comes with seeing the core
of another person

when you slid out
it all seemed a ludicrous joke

the conclusions come later;
black and white photographs
of a fragile landscape

Translated by Meg Matich.