by Bragi Ólafsson

þögnin
the silence

finally then — but not
until then — at the end of summer,
when the excavators, saws, drills and high
pressure pumps were silenced,

were we able to go out in the yard
and sit down, as we had originally planned
when we bought the house, but then already

fall was beginning to settle in,
the sun not as high in the air
as in early june,
when the drills were switched on, and excavators

driven into the neighboring yards,
saws started up and high-pressure pumps
on the highest setting

Translated by K. B. Thors.
Originally appeared in, Circumference, Poetry in Translation.

by Aðalsteinn Ásberg Sigurðsson

The earth is too big
for little men
too little for
big men, with
growing impatience
for the masses;
it’s far too delicate
for all manner
of oracle.
But it is my Earth
our Earth.

Translated by Meg Matich.

by Aðalsteinn Ásberg Sigurðsson

Maybe everything has already
been mapped in the old atlas,
and imperceptible hands
simply usher us through life.
but we continue to believe
that we have control
over the turning points,
that one course is better chosen —
and we settle on a direction.
The deviation, no farther
than will allow us
to remain in sight of land.

Translated by Meg Matich.

by Einar Már Guðmundsson

The young girl opens her suitcase
in her room in the fish-workers’ hostel,
poses her doll dressed all in pink upon the shelf,
hangs her best dress on a hanger.
Mum and Dad smile from a frame on the wall.

She looks around the cafeteria:
Roughhewn faces blow thick clouds of smoke
at each other,
the chairs are orange,
the tables light grey.
Women in white move through the clatter of crockery.

Outside are mountains.

After the first week the suitcase
is gazing sadly toward the door,
The face of the pink-clad doll is stained with tears.
Mum and Dad’s smile is anxious.

The best dress hasn’t been worn.
But soon the postman brings the pink plush sofa
and Friday is payday.

She looks out of the window:
The mountains are in the same place today
as they were yesterday.

Days pass, nights pass:
The wallpaper is tattered like an old newspaper,
the sofa vomit-stained, the doll naked.
Someone’s left a pair of sunglasses behind,
someone has forgotten one sock.
The glass that shields Mum and Dad is shattered
like a frost-flower over their smiles.

In the cafeteria:
Roughhewn faces blow thick clouds of smoke
at each other.
The chairs are orange,
the tables light grey.
Time passes,
a woman in white through the clatter of crockery.

Mountains: on the point of erupting.

Translated by Bernard Scudder.
Originally appeared in, On the point of erupting : selected poems
by Einar Már Guðmundsson.