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