Jóhann
Hjálmarsson (Iceland)
1939-2020
Jóhann
Hjálmarsson is the author of 22 books of poetry, three chapbooks, six books of
translations, and two volumes of critical essays on Icelandic literature.
Hjálmarsson published his first book of
poems when he 17 years old and working as a printer’s apprentice. Critics
recognized the talent of this young poet, and he was encouraged by Jón úr Vör,
one of Iceland’s foremost Modernist poets, to go abroad to study. Hjalmarsson
applied and was accepted at the University of Barcelona, where he studied
Romance languages. At this time he also began to translate Federico Garcia
Lorca into Icelandic. His reading led him subsequently to translate the French
and Latin American surrealists and the French Symbolists.
.jpg)
By his third, and seminal, book, Malbikud
hjortu (Heart of Asphalt), he was recognized as being one of the leading
avant-garde writers in Iceland. At this time he was also hired by Iceland’s
largest newspaper, Morgunblaðið, as a literary and art reviewer as well
as a travel writer. In this job, he traveled around the world—more than any
other poet of his generation in Iceland. Wherever he traveled he sought out the
leading poets of the country and translated their work into Icelandic. This
discipline honed Hjálmarsson’s own poetry, while also introducing new literary
influences to young Icelandic writers.
In the early 1970s, Hjálmarsson turned his
attention toward reading and translating contemporary American poetry.
Hjálmarsson was looking to mine the stories of his family, and by doing so
exploring the socialist/communist influences in Icelandic culture from
pre-World War II through to Iceland as a modern society, and many American
poets inspired him. Here, Hjálmarsson did what no Icelandic poet had done
before—use a “confessional” voice to speak directly of the privacies of
mind—something no other poet within Icelandic literature had ever expressed
through prosody. This American influence led Hjálmarsson to write two
book-length poems: Myndinn af langafa (Portrait of Great Grandfather)
and Fra Umsvolum (Daybook from Umsvali). No other Icelandic poet had
ever written such ambitious and controversial works.
Hjálmarsson has received numerous awards
for his work. He was awarded the 2000 Nordic Literary Prize for his third book
of a trilogy of poems, Hljóðleikar (Sound Play), based on Eyrbyggja
Saga, whose events take place in the region of Iceland where his ancestors
settled. He was presented with the 2003 Icelandic Parliament Award in
recognition of his outstanding contributions to Icelandic literature as a poet
and translator. Now semi-retired, Hjálmarsson lives with his wife in a
townhouse overlooking the Smoky Bay.
Hjálmarsson died in 2020.
--Christopher
Burawa
BOOKS
OF POERY
Aungull
í tímanum
(1956); Undarlegir fiskar (Heimskringla 1958); Malbikuð hjörtu
(Bókaverslun Sigfúsar Eymundssonar, 1961); Fljúgandi næturlest
(Reykjavík: Birtingur, 1961); Mig hefur dreymt þetta áður (Reykjavík:
Almenna bókafélagið, 1965); Ný lauf, nýtt myrkur (Reykjavík: Almenna
bókafélagið, 1967); Athvarf í himingeimnum (Reykjavík: Almenna
bókafélagið, 1973); Myndin af langafa (Reykjavík: Hörpuútgáfan, 1975); Dagbók
borgaralegs skálds (Reykjavík: Hörpuútgáfan, 1976); Frá Umsvölum
(Reykjavík: Hörpuútgáfan, 1977); Lífið er skáldlegt (Reykjavík: Iðunn,
1978); Sjö skáld í mynd (Reykjavík: Svart á hvítu, 1983);
Ákvörðunarstaður myrkrið (Reykjavík: Almenna bókafélagið, 1985); Gluggar
hafsins (Kópavogi: Örlagið, 1989); Blá mjólk (1990); Skuggar (Kópavogi:
Örlagið, 1992); Rödd í speglunum (Reykjavík: Hörpuútgáfan, 1994);
Marlíðendur (Reykjavík: Hörpuútgáfan, 1998); Anímónur til Ragnheiðar
(Kópavogi: Örlagið, 1999); Hljóðleikar (Reykjavík: Hörpuútgáfan, 2000); Með
sverð í gegnum varir: úrval ljóða 1956-2000 (Reykjavík: JPV, 2001); Vetrarmegin
(Reykjavík: JPV, 2003)
ENGLISH
LANGUAGE TRANSLATIONS
Of
the Same Mind,
trans. by C. M. Burawa (Claremont, California: Toad Press, 2005)
Forest
Wind
The
wind drops
like
a green sail on a skiff
crossing
the smiles of women—
who
can summon the sea?
It
always returns
out
of each tree, brake
and
out of itself
from
a great height.
The
men threaten it with hammered knives.
The
women shelter it,
shutting
it away
in
the idle cloud.
These
women drink of its physics
and
await the result,
which
fills them with currants and flame—
enough
to ignite a forest.
The
men can only look at the ground
and
say:
I
believe it is gathering into a fresh storm.
The
women groan
or
become silent
out
of anger and stroke
the
wind’s brow
as
if it was an old lover.
The
men stand.
The
forest wind drops the sail,
changes
to dew
so
the squirrel in the mast
can,
at last, spell out its name.
—Translated
from the Icelandic by Chris Burawa
The
Forest
The
forest avoids my certainty
gives
me assurances
The
forest shuns my quiet mind
gives
me the wakefulness of trees
I
fill the forest with my breath
I
fill the forest with song and heartbeat
The
birds jubilantly sing like the sky does
The
forest’s sky that intrudes into my dreams
—Translated
from the Icelandic by Chris Burawa
On
the Death of a Poet
The
summer sunsets only give off red and here I extend
my
hands that cannot even lift a bayonet
It
would be better if I had some power over them
like
a daring soldier over his metal snap-together weapons
But
I’ve inherited an inadequate vocabulary
and
most of the words I’ve lost
on
my walks around the block
The
sunsets are red and my sorrow and joy
are
laid up in them
Blue
is the color of distances
that
the sunsets rust along the way
—Translated
from the Icelandic by Chris Burawa
Evening
in Barcelona
Here
come the shadows
with
their truth of green trees
Antonio
reflects on their sadness
while
in his refuge of palm trees
Wheat
bread on the table
and
red wine in the bottle
are
flesh and blood
of
Antonio of Granada
The
ants set off
communicating
a thousand messages
that
are found deep in Spanish earth
the
genius of expectation
In
the city square, Plaza de Cataluña
I
rejoice at the complaints of the pigeons
and
refuse to think in this late light
about
your sad shadows
—Translated
from the Icelandic by Chris Burawa
Squalls
1.
We
are fishermen of death. We’ve never imagined ourselves hauling up polished cod
on cold mornings or in the small dimensions of night, bringing our catch back
to land. We never make land. But we won’t give up. Catch yourself a man. The
warm-blooded fish. Newly laid out. We want the hands to poke out of the
sleeves. We trawl for death. No one gives us a thought until it’s too late. The
cheeky moon drawing men to its light. Little Agna is willing, out of hate and
love. She sings all the songs she dances to, in hopes of changing the
situation. The music that creates the fullness of this moment, it worries that
she knows the source. A tremble on the hook. So we drink purple wine. Set a
table on the sea’s bottom. There are more of us than barbs on all the snow
crabs. Let the crabs live in the carcasses, help themselves to a bloodless
body. Leopard seals look into the eyes of the drowned, weep at the calm. The
buoyed seaweed is a good, proposes play. We are the fishermen of death. We
arrive on the scene just as you seize.
2.
The
blessings of life turn into two rounded stones. They visit the sea with the
same joy as you engage breasts and their blooms. Your hand gropes for God’s
hand, and finds God. The breath finds the hand of God. But God is smaller than
you can account for. He is a period to which all lines attach. Shout,
illuminating your sorrow or joy. You tremble as you touch each new emotion with
your fingertips. How you love. I know that love is lonely. A beggar who
patiently waits, collects sugar cubes knocked to the floor. I’ve overheard
conversations about the blessings of life. I can only understand this concept
as something interpreted by the self. I cannot perceive of God, because I am a
reflection of God’s imagination. The blessings of life become two worn stones.
Some day a mob may bash your skull in with them. You will lie in your own
blood. Maybe then you will find the blessings of life.
3.
The
dead call on us. Death is everywhere. On the coffee table. In the green eyes
that I love. Death is like the bay I now row over. The years go by without my
noticing them. I aim for a spit of land. The dead have lined up like torches
along the pebbled shoreline. There hands direct me. I see no face. The front
door of the house is open. Fingers strum a dusty guitar. The blue moon acts as
a lookout? Life is like the song of the red flounder, found only at great
depths. The dead come to us saved through the eye of a needle.
4.
All
at once the universe has new stars. The darkness crowded out, comes back. The
lights were simply embers from the crematorium. In town there are more
tombstones than villagers. The carpenters don’t have it in them to build
coffins anymore. The priests asphyxiate on the flat bed of eulogy. You say that
the world is suddenly alive. But then a heavy darkness collapses at the window.
The optimists lead their old dogs around the cemetery. These house pets lift
their left back legs and strain. Mankind’s fall is no longer pure madness. It’s
nature’s work. We are thirsty, brother. The cocktails almost always change.
Again, the universe fills with the lawns swallowing their tongues.
5.
Poison
collects along the curbs, runoff of our anger that includes our children. The
cafés, the troughs of the city, document it. The women and men expect it to
glow from fingertips. Life could be more charming. We have forgotten about the
nobility of scarred mountains and the innocence of flat lakes, say the minor
poets. But the poison has come to our aid. We cannot decide among ourselves why
happiness has turned in on itself and now cares more about contentment than
about childhood. We wait around with sunglasses in the rain. Really, life
should be a captivating drama.
6.
Certainty
makes up only a small fraction of our lives. Clown-like fedoras strewn about.
The coliseum is reserved for something more enticing. What’s true must be a
component of laughter. Distort this, and you discover a brute. And the brute
won’t have sex with the simpletons. He sits on the cat and tries to groom its
tail. Truth won’t talk about trips it’s taken abroad. You might as well set up
a playpen, cram it full of toys and gewgaws. It’s comforting to be able to
glimpse it as you emerge from the tub. Be sure you dry your back. Have you lost
your own scent? Certainty doesn’t answer disagreeable questions. You and
delusion skip through the house. Go ahead, you can watch the acrobat, the man
in the ape costume, spinning around a rope. To this day your wife still hangs
the keys from black sewing thread. You’d better scoot down to the basement. The
rats at their folk dances dance across the floor. You chase after them with a
twig. You shoot straight for a place by the least likely means of
transportation available. Truth lifts you up as a monument, erects you in the
town square. The people are in favor of you. Certainty drowns in your tub. You
love it so tightly you can’t perceive of it in yourself. You take a bath in the
bath. Then, something tragic happens.
7.
Why
I was a witness to their fall, I cannot say. They set off at once. A fire
burned through their eyes. Stones creased at their steps. A rainbow aureoled in
support of their courage. Mountains were in agreement, but had been before
this. So they hoofed it to the seashore. Why they wanted to walk into the sea I
still don’t know. Ships stood idly in the bay. They didn’t know this place.
Went directly ahead. The water was calm after the rain, and the shore smelled
of seaweed. I watched them high-step through the shallows. All at once they
changed color. I was watching myself. You hesitated. I saw nothing more. The
sea swallowed then. I couldn’t do anything but laugh. Their look of dread
reminded me of something very funny. Later, I pursued the algae dream of shrimp.
It was wonderful to find them climbing up an arm, clustering around a left
breast. That night, I lied down in the marooned seaweed, watched the bodies
drifting one by one out to sea, enjoying myself.
8.
Through
the dead silence, the nights observe the domestic lives of birds. Earthworm
songs cut the air. Shred at the feet of lovers. Their blood-driven hopes drift
in the storm. The gallows is plumb. Your ships neatly in a row. Where is the
executioner? He’s always the first to cheer up the vultures. There on the
gibbet floor he speaks of the victory of humanity. Two ancient boulders can no
longer keep their peace. They trick themselves into a promenade around the
corpse. The river began grieving when blood streamed down the inside of the
window and door. Through the dead silence, you witness the nights of the birds’
domesticity.
9.
Cats
lay fearlessly by your feet. The blade that terrorizes the autumn hay relishes
their blood. What really frightens them is a freelance demon. But they can’t be
subdued, and instead smoke their pipes out of resignation. My pen disappears
there where I know two doves have taken cover under a rock, just like children
who dive for flasks at the bottom of a lake. They make their grandparents ill
with this water. These patients remember their own children whenever they drink
from the flat bottles. Resigned, we recall our own children because what we
choose to keep is long and tiring. Darning needles knit our lips together so
that we cannot speak or kiss, let alone find out what’s wonderful about each
other’s lips. As the smoke from our brave pipes sketch the likeness of heaven.
10.
The
morning light plays a monotonous sonata about the merits of suicide. The
world’s cowl must be night. You see something in the silence that drinks from
the wakes of ships. A poem dies suddenly of doubt. A bus continues on its way
without knowing any of this. The quiet retracts at the hawking of the newspaper
boy. The wine has altered. Doesn’t trust you to provide a proper memory of God.
Perceives of your suffering, and believes in this memory. I don’t believe in
you. You should find another ear. The answer is nowhere to be found, yet you
insist on frying an egg in the same pan. Eyes like slugs climbing a ladder.
Absolve me of manifold truths so that I may join the abandon of the squall. My
nights linger there. A knife slicing songs of praise in half. An eel thrashes
about in a puddle. The fishermen of death sail into the bay.
—Translated
from the Icelandic by Chris Burawa
_______
English
language copyright ©2009 by Christopher Burawa. Reprinted by permission of the
translator.
.jpg)