by Einar Már Guðmundsson

Whether history
is a graph or a bar chart
in the eyes of the economist
the world is
a potato in the palm of God’s hand.

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

by Linda Vilhjálmsdóttir

the word
in the beginning

then came high tide
then came low tide

and now we hear the murmur
in the distance

forceful and heavy

Translated by Sigurður A. Magnússon.

by Linda Vilhjálmsdóttir 

drop of blood
splinter of bone
patch of skin
lock of hair
clip of nail
dust of the fire
that broke out last year
and went out this yea
I send you a ghost

Edited by Meg Matich.
Translated by Sigurður A. Magnússon.

by Linda Vilhjálmsdóttir

Click — clack — click — clack — click.
The sharp ladysound softens in the final notes
of the echo when the bus makes a sudden stop
beside a greyish lamppost on a cement street.  And
the silence creeps quietly up the high heels
and black pantyhose under the tight
black dress and wraps itself around the
supple neck that tilts the head lazily
back so that the cheek touches the chilly
post.  Oh, she sights, and lets her glance
travel up the pin-straight pole.  Out of
the corner of her eye, she catches sight of
the last faint glimmer of night about to
blend into daylight.  And she lowers herself
down the pole onto the concrete street
and shuts her eyes tiredly.

Edited by Meg Matich.
Translated by Sigurður A. Magnússon.