that sees
the unfolding tragedy.
You are wearing your glasses,
your shirt is open
and
you are sweating a little.
Lighters, half-empty beer bottles, sugar,
computers, pencils, paper, can and bottle openers,
your favorite turquoise coffee cup with the chipped rim,
band-aids, scalpels, telephones,
corks, cold cuts, knives,
tape, CDs, bread, spoons,
pictures, books, notes, sketchbooks fill
the tabletop,
but it is the silence between
you
and
me
that’s
the drop
that makes it overflow
and spill
down onto the floor
down between the floorboards
down into the basement,
out onto the street
into the busses.
The cushions on the seats are torn.
I sit uncomfortably.
I move back and forth
but fall down between.

I suddenly notice
that I’ve vanished.
Terrified, I search
the kitchen,
the bedroom,
the hallway,
the places where I’ve lived, breathed, loved, feared
and also hoped these past months
to find
who I once was.
Did I fly out through the little window
that always stood
open,
like a tiny green bird,
one night
while I slept?
Did I run down the brown,
narrow stairs
out into the yard,
out through the steel gate
one peaceful morning,
while we drank strong coffee with milk in it
and laughed?
Did I swim down the drain
like a quick fish of all
the rainbow’s colors
along with the dirty, brown water
when you emptied the plastic dishpan
like so many times before
all the while talking to me?
Or was it your eraser
that rubbed that sketch of me
out of your notebook one day
when you were dissatisfied with your efforts?

ið sær
byrjandi sorgarleikin.
Tú ert í brillum,
skjúrtan er opin,
og
tú sveittar eitt sindur.
Tendrarar, gyltar damur, sukur,
teldur, blýantar, pappír, upptrekkjarar,
tín turkisi, brotni yndiskaffikoppur við randum,
plástur, skalpellir, telefonir,
tundur, pálegg, knívar,
klistriband, fløgur, breyð, skeiðir,
myndir, bøkur, notatir, skitsublokkar fylla
borðplátuna,
men tað er tøgnin millum
teg
og
meg,

er dropin
ið ger, at tað flýtur yvir,
rennur útav,
niður á gólvið,
niður ímillum gólvbrettini,
niður í kjallaran,
út á gøtuna,
inn í bussarnar.
Setrini á stólunum eru skrødd.
Eg siti illa.
Flyti meg aftur og fram,
men eg detti niður ímillum.

Brádliga leggi eg til merkis,
at eg eri horvin.
Eg leiti ræðslusligin
í køkinum,
í kamarinum,
í gongini,
har eg havi livað, andað, elskað, ræðst og
eisini vónað seinastu mánaðirnar
eftir tí,
ið einaferð var eg.
Fleyg eg út gjøgnum lítla vindeygað,
ið altíð stóð
opið,
sum ein lítil grønur fuglur,
eina náttina,
meðan eg svav?
Rann eg oman gjøgnum brúnu, trongu
trappurnar
út í garðin,
út gjøgnum stálportrið
ein friðarligan morgun,
meðan vit drukku sterkt kaffi við mjólk
og flentu?
Svam eg sum ein kvikur fiskur í øllum
ælabogans litum út ígjøgnum rørini í vaskinum
saman við brúna, skitna vatninum,
tá tú tømdi gula plastfatið,
eftir at tú hevði staðið og vaskað upp som so
mangan áður, meðan tú tosaði við meg?
Ella var tað títt viskileður
sum viskaði skitsuna av mær burtur
úr blokkinum hjá tær ein dagin,
tú vart ónøgdur við títt avrik?




Sissal KampmannSissal Kampmann

Sissal Kampmann (1974) was born in the small town of Vestmanna in the Faroe Islands. She earned her MA in Nordic Literature and Cultural Communication from the University of Copenhagen. Her debut poetry collection, Ravnar á ljóðleysum flogi–Yrkingar úr uppgongdini (The Silent Flight of Ravens–Poems from the Stairway), established her reputation as a prominent figure in Faroese literature. In 2012, Kampmann became the first Faroese poet to win the Danish Literary Academy's prestigious Klaus Rifbjerg Prize. Endurtøkur (Repetitions) is Sissal Kampmann’s latest trailblazing collection of poetry.

Translated from FaroeseFaroese by Randi WardRandi Ward

Randi Ward (1982) is a writer, translator, lyricist and photographer from West Virginia. She earned her MA in Cultural Studies from the University of the Faroe Islands in 2007. Her work has appeared in The Bitter Oleander, Beloit Poetry Journal, Anthology of Appalachian Writers, Vencil: Anthology of Contemporary Faroese Literature and other publications.