Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

Filíocht Nua: New Poetry

2012; Philosophy Documentation Center; Volume: 16; Issue: 3 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1353/nhr.2012.0044

1534-5815

John F. Ennis,

Linguistics and language evolution

Filíocht Nua:New Poetry John Ennis Longship 3 tomorrow, any day, Jón See him off now raiding the inarticulate, flexing upper, nether lip,His voice in the high latitudes where the sun knows little sleep.He is the mast, the sail, the kerling, the sunstone of Icelandic spar.The petals close round him, the chords of Sìgur Rós, like clinker.His longship is off into future mists, horizons that volcanoes dim,Wish him well and all the hands that sail with him.He is making the landings in us look easy, a clean sweepIn our midland waters only a few metres deep.Pray his thin hull holds forever and forever and forever with our loves,His inch-thick oaken planks rived from old-grown oaks in their groves.In his music, traveller, bow and stern are both symmetricalNegotiate whatever's sent. Icebergs, sea-ice, squalls of hail:Jón, come back home safe to your space, Gambla Borg, with its ástarpungarWaffles, family. Whatever's needed to ward off the desperate hunger. [End Page 60] Sæglopur (Lost at Sea) torrentialfaces gleamfork lightningsheet, adrenalindespair, then hopecrew exultant, what usecries above squallsand the windsquadriptychwaves wavesfrenzy gripsorri pounding onsouls sinkingdecks awashorri shakingvisibly upsetlightning far offthe wind pourstop hat party crêpegets to jónwe're with himbut can't beprow gone underjón at itprow down downwhere is jónsinging from light breaks the squallsbut their compressedlungs and heartsare fathoms deepdeath's personallife to each one, jónrescues their voices.A pure moon gleams.Empty waves. [End Page 61] In reykjavík the lads raceon their bikesback and forth over rampsin the morning sunlightbut the lost, they're lostor not, forever Gambla Borg (A Small Café) Watch for the child's milk tumbler now or it will fallOff the café table where plates of cakes, waffles, ástarpungarFill the transformed lucky ones as on Mount Tabor,A long straight road over wetlands, bridges, has led to this hall—Film melting into the white ceiling above Amiina, Sìgur Rós.Now you must play your very hearts out for a Nora WallFront row with her girls, and others who have suffered, suffer, lossPacked in like sardines people in Iceland are just so judgmental.You need not have worried. Even before the first number fades into silenceThe old, electrified. Teenagers transfixed. This is not music but translucence.Now can grief be plumbed in an eating house, transformedInto joy at the end ovation, the proud self-conscious bows,Gratitude made visible as in a full congregation time to timeWhen all are fed and there's plain adoration on their brows.Sóldrún plays cello. Orri, tristeza. But when he touches percussion,Jón settles and soars into von, O we just know something big is on. [End Page 62] Dauðalagið (Death Song) This little port free for everyonethe ferry coming and goingdocked for now: its passengers looking on in concert, their turn comes to boardcourting couple already at it in the wake of the crowdthis place of ferries, Georgkeep your krónur handycoins for Charon Seydisfjördurthe arc lights are ambulance blueOrri brings finality again and againeach death blow to percussion but Jón sings on the pulse of the strings is low Amiina's blood flow mutedKjartan's glockenspiel is playerlessno taste for food at the end Kjartan's keyboard is keeping pace races like a heartthe passing car lights are redderas darkness fallschances are someone's fading not far away Seydisfjördur this port of ferries the ferry turns round for the passenger it misses it always does Jón, your thirteen minutes makes the passage easierglósóli in the arc light blinds outside the blue chapelapplause, as for a life lived best it could [End Page 63] Letter for Jón P. Birgisson...