Ljóðheimar og sagna
vefsíða Pjeturs Hafsteins Lárussonar

Aftur á forsíðu



Sleep sinks its hook
into the deep night of spring
lured I am and take
the bait of sweet dreams.
Raindrops dancing on the street
gentle the mind.
Otherwise town is silent,
waiting for day
to come from behind
the bonfire of heaven and sea
which mildly redden the East
away from dream and wake.

Translation - Karl Guðmundsson

Man and Dog's Freedom in the City

Your freedom, dog,
Equals the length of the lead
From your neck
To the hand of your master.
No more can be exacted.
But consider
That a master´s freedom
And a dog´s collar
Stem from the same root
The length of the lead.

Translation - Haukur Ágústsson

Pat Johnson

Pat Johnson is a singular man.
He came from the west, from America,
More exactly from Willihamsport, Pennsylvania,
And settled in the town
To collect postage stamps,
For this sole purpose
He left his friends and relatives
And quit a fine position
At that power plant in the west,
A man in his prime
A singular man, Pat Johnson.
He rented a small cubicle in the Shadow District,
Sustains himself mainly on soup and bread,
Is sluggishly dressed
And does not show himself abroad
Except in postage - stamp shops
And at the Post Office, where he goes
On the issue day of new postage stamps.
No, it can hardly be denied,
The old mossback, Pat Johnson,
He is a singular man.
But don´t ask me
What is his singularity?
For truth to tell
I have never seen any indication
That he stands out from the crowd.
A singular man, Pat Johnson

Translation - Haukur Ágústsson

At the Graveyard

The constant steps
That hither led your feed
Sans hope or desire
For going back
They guide me on
The path that all find fleet
Leading to this yard
Home to you

Translation - Haukur Ágústsson


I miss neither the leaf
nor the song of  birds
though both are delightfull.
They vanish from me, the summers
one after the other

but they never go far.

Translation - Bernard Scudder

Summer Morning

Dawn smiles,
lips attractive,
luring to work and ply.
In the clockwork of habit
the cogs engage
in battle for hands and works.
An old man drops a drunk a nickel.
Each has his own story
to treasure and forget.

Translation - Hallberg Hallmundsson

Fall Night

The night is deep
it´s an ocean
an eye
a whispering voice.
Fall is nostalgia—a wait
between green memories
and a white desert.
Now snow is falling
and old tracks vanish.
A scream or a silence
who can tell the difference?

Translation - Hallberg Hallmundsson

Rainy Evening at a Pub

Softly creeps the shadow
through the city rain
time inching along.
All you forgotten days
you drunken nights.
The moon sails the murky seas
of clouds, hiden to eyes.
The rain sings to the sidewald
its rhythmic aimlessness.
In an emptied glass
loneliness vanishes
through the fingers of a pale hand.

Translation - Hallberg Hallmundsson

An Indian Girl on Route 2

Her eyes dark forests.
Swelling in her bosom
ancient Indian lands.
A tiger lurking
in the black hair of the forest.
On the Square the bus stops.
The ancient world gets up from the seat
and disappears into Reykjavík; s fall rain.

Translation - Hallberg Hallmundsson

Two Shadows

Each man has his shadow
that follows him wherever he goes.
So it was with the mother and her son
nothing could pry them apart.
Together they tramped the streets
he, this middle-aged beanpole
she, a tiny old woman
whit the firmness of mountains rooted
in her manner and miem.
They delivered the papers
as much a fixture of the town´s existence
as the papers themselves.
When the old woman died
her son turned in the delivery bag
and became a hot-dog vendor on Laugavegur.
This was at the beginning of Beatlemania
and he, who had always worn modest attire
began dressing like a dandy in colorful clother.

It´s the old story:
        death enlivens.

Translation - Hallberg Hallmundsson

Aftur á forsíðu