From Umsvällir # 64509
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From Umsvälar. Poem by Jóhann Hjálmarsson.
You must listen. You must be empty.
JMG Le Clézio.
1
From Umsvällur I see the ravens in the sleet.
When I arrived in the village
I walked down to the sea.
There is a post office on the sea ridge.
and from there I sent my words.
You have to listen.
You must be empty.
I heard the ravens
and then I knew
that I was on earth.
I followed their flight.
Now I see them in the sleet
and ahead is a cape
where white waves break.
I am empty,
but the landscape fills me;
not my own voice.
The sea is gray.
as far as the eye can see.
The weather noise is suddenly in here,
the houses in their place,
the cars on the street,
no people
except in the books
and it says:
You have to listen.
You must be empty.
Later, the shrimp boat arrives.
Later the plane arrives with one passenger,
a few letters, two boxes of wine.
She's like a toy car,
flies low over the land,
feels like a sled
over the white mountains
or like an old bus
about the highway.
When you hear it
is driven in a jeep to the airport.
Two young men with glasses
don't say good morning.
They silently accept the luggage.
and hand the mail to the pilot
as the postman by the sea
has stuffed into a canvas bag
and sealed with the scent of seaweed.
Loki the dog
who has a Scottish father
and a Siberian mother
standing on the steps of Umsvällur
at Regina and Ella's
who have been to Australia and Algeria
and in Texas where the grass is tall and dry
and the skortites sing so beautifully.
The bird here is the raven.
in the sleet,
in the soul
and in these words.
The one who listens
is not empty.
You must listen. You must be empty.
JMG Le Clézio.
1
From Umsvällur I see the ravens in the sleet.
When I arrived in the village
I walked down to the sea.
There is a post office on the sea ridge.
and from there I sent my words.
You have to listen.
You must be empty.
I heard the ravens
and then I knew
that I was on earth.
I followed their flight.
Now I see them in the sleet
and ahead is a cape
where white waves break.
I am empty,
but the landscape fills me;
not my own voice.
The sea is gray.
as far as the eye can see.
The weather noise is suddenly in here,
the houses in their place,
the cars on the street,
no people
except in the books
and it says:
You have to listen.
You must be empty.
Later, the shrimp boat arrives.
Later the plane arrives with one passenger,
a few letters, two boxes of wine.
She's like a toy car,
flies low over the land,
feels like a sled
over the white mountains
or like an old bus
about the highway.
When you hear it
is driven in a jeep to the airport.
Two young men with glasses
don't say good morning.
They silently accept the luggage.
and hand the mail to the pilot
as the postman by the sea
has stuffed into a canvas bag
and sealed with the scent of seaweed.
Loki the dog
who has a Scottish father
and a Siberian mother
standing on the steps of Umsvällur
at Regina and Ella's
who have been to Australia and Algeria
and in Texas where the grass is tall and dry
and the skortites sing so beautifully.
The bird here is the raven.
in the sleet,
in the soul
and in these words.
The one who listens
is not empty.