Ingibjorg Elsa Bjornsdottir

An Opus for my grandmother - Ópus handa ömmu

I am trying to publish a book of my own poetry in Icelandic. I say farewell to modernity and assert myself as a 21st century Romantic poet. Like William Blake I prefer the company of Angels to the company of men. My poems are not just interesting, they are simply sublime.

Frostnótt

Það litla líf sem í fangi mínu sefur.
Sá andardráttur einn sem Guð mér gefur.
Að elska litlar hendur og litla fætur
er hjúfra sér upp að móðurhjarta
í skugga nætur.

Er helblátt himinhvolfið hrímar seint um nótt
móðurhjarta verður ekki rótt
nema það geti fundið eld og yl
sem hlúir að því litla lífi
sem er til.

En ást mín er svo heit af funa
að hún þolir allt heimsins frost
og íssins bruna.
Í norðurheimskauts nótt
ég bý til skjól
svo hvíla megir þú og sofa rótt.

Ingibjörg Elsa Björnsdóttir (2014)

I write the Sistine Chapel in verse.
I construct Pyramids in dative.
The gates of Jerusalem stand wide open,
he is back.

The bells toll from afar,
Toscana stands in cherry bloom.
A Madonna with child
passes out of a church
in Florence.

We never actually thought this would happen.
We never actually thought this could happen.
We never actually, really, really believed.

Now we see him,
standing in line at The Church of Peter
holding a tourist brochure.

The tower of Pisa stands straight.
The sun is moving in circles.
The moon does not want to appear.
The stars are immovable in awe.

The pope is praying in Rome.
The cardinals are in a meeting.
He is back.

Ingibjörg Elsa Björnsdóttir (2014)