Ivery day, reboarn / Kvar dag, attfødd

Ivery Day Reboarn

Rönas Voe

Wir prammed ithin kayaks, peerie waavellin
wirlds, tensed tae da ocean. Canyoned abön,
Rönas Hill slips by, haddin her böried haert:
red granite aawye, slow revelation fae da dark.

Ice is steepened her face, da sea roughed her up.
Daday, i da cleft o her voe, Atlantic masons
salist; but hammer an chisel still at da ready
ta taper a pillar, sklent a stack, cloor oot a cave.

Is hit a game der set for wis, ta waeve atween,
dodge danger? Watter swittles an swinkles,
slaps affa da side o da craft, tilts her;
wir sense o depth is in a snurl: hit's lik

wearin someen idder's glesses. We mak on
wir wint wi aeons, ken whaar wir gyaain,
can defy danger. Wir seen shappit baas afore,
taen risks. But dis is laernin ta see things

a different wye. We scrimp trowe dark cracks
inta da licht, lugs tuned tae da snush
an snyirk o da sea, da lap, da gentle clap.
Lie back, hadd in your paddle, pass trowe

da eye o da needle, nug trowe da dark trenkie,
kyistit, while da tide's low, while der a meenit.
Look deep time i da eye, shaa hit faerlessness
as hit comes in apön you, aa but trottles you.

Dig in, poo troo, keep her trim; come oot
da tidder side, inta da blue, smilin.



Every Day Reborn

Rönas Voe

We're crammed in kayaks, tiny wobbling
worlds, tensed to the ocean. Canyoned above,
Rönas Hill slips by, holding her entombed heart:
red granite all the way, slow revelation from the dark.

Ice has steepened her face, the sea roughed her up.
Today, in the cleft of her fiord, Atlantic masons
take a break; but hammer and chisel still at the ready
to taper a pillar, slice a stack, claw out a cave.

Is this a game they've set for us, to weave between,
dodge danger? Water splashes gently and swallows,
slaps off the side of the craft, tilts her;
our sense of depth is distorted: it's like

wearing someone else's glasses. We pretend
we're familiar with aeons, know where we're going,
can defy danger. We've seen submerged reefs before,
taken risks. But this is learning to see things

a different way. We scrimp through dark cracks
into the light, ears tuned to the sniffy snort
and creaky sounds of the sea, the lap, the gentle stroke.
Lie back, hold in your paddle, pass through

the eye of the needle, nudge through the dark passageway,
coffined, while the tide is low, while there's a moment.
Look deep time in the eye, show it fearlessness
as it comes in on you, almost throttles you.

Dig in, pull through, keep her trim; come out
the other side, into the blue, smiling.



Kvar dag, attfødd

Rönas Voe

Stappa ned i kajakkar, små voggande
klodar, vaktande havet. Ravinar over oss,
Rönas Hill glir forbi, held fast eit gravlagt hjarte,
berre raud granitt, sakte gjort fri frå mørket.

Eit isbrote, stupbratt andlet, hamra av havet.
I dag, i rivjene av ein fjord, kviler Atlanteren sine
steinhoggarar, men hammar og meisel ligg klare for
å forme ei søyle, kløyve ein stolpe, klore ut ei grotte.

Er dette ein leik dei har gitt oss, å smette imellom,
freiste fare? Vatnet skvatlar og skveljar,
daskar mot skroget, voggar det,
kjensla av djupne er i spel, som å

prøve lånte briller. Vi lest vere vane
med æver, lest vite kvar vi skal, lest
kunne trasse farar. Vi ser fluene framføre,
tek sjansar. Dette er å lære å sjå tinga

på nytt. Vi spinkar oss gjennom mørke rivjer
inn i lyset, øyrene fangar sutlet
og surklet av havet, klapset, det lette stroket.
Len deg tilbake, hald åra fast, gli gjennom

nålauget, riks deg gjennom den mørke porten,
som ei grav, ved fjøre sjø, når sjansen byr seg.
Sjå det rett i auga, vis at du er uredd
når det kjem mot deg, nesten stryper deg.

Åra ned, drag deg gjennom, hald han stødig,
og ut på andre sida, ut i det blåe, smilande.

Christine De Luca, Ura Forlag, 2017

Reviews

  • "Important... necessary... fascinating... rich... inclusive..."Sindre Ekrheim, Dag og Tid, January 2018
  • "It is fascinating how intense the poems are marked by the sense of place without being excluding, rather the opposite."Jim Maitland, The New Shetlander, No 283, Voar 2018
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