Παρασκευή, 22 Αυγούστου 2014

ΣΙΜΟΥΣ ΧΗΝΥ!




SEAMUS HEANEY


NORTH

I returned to a long strand,
the hammered curve of a bay,   
and found only the secular
powers of the Atlantic thundering.

I faced the unmagical

invitations of Iceland,
the pathetic colonies
of Greenland, and suddenly

those fabulous raiders,

those lying in Orkney and Dublin   
measured against
their long swords rusting,

those in the solid

belly of stone ships,
those hacked and glinting
in the gravel of thawed streams

were ocean-deafened voices

warning me, lifted again
in violence and epiphany.
The longship’s swimming tongue

was buoyant with hindsight—

it said Thor’s hammer swung
to geography and trade,
thick-witted couplings and revenges,

the hatreds and behind-backs

of the althing, lies and women,   
exhaustions nominated peace,   
memory incubating the spilled blood.

It said, ‘Lie down

in the word-hoard, burrow   
the coil and gleam
of your furrowed brain.

Compose in darkness.   

Expect aurora borealis   
in the long foray
but no cascade of light.

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