onsdag 23 juli 2014

Högt värderade är Island och Hamburg

Andra dagens sjupoängare tilldelades Matthias Göritz, Lag Hamburg, för den originella dikten om fågelkatalogen. Men gårdagens högsta poäng (10), inkl. 4 språkpoäng, gick till estländaren Jörgen Rooste för den humoristiska dikten "At Work". Jag kände igen mig i raderna ...

at home they expect me
to bustle about
like an eager daddy penguin

Det innebar att vi har delad ledning efter dag 2. Såväl Lag Hamburg som Lag Island har fått ihop 13 poäng.

Team Content Language Day 2 Total Heat 3
Iceland 5 1 6 13
Hamburg 7 2 9 13
E14 4 2 6 12
Estonia 6 4 10 12
Wales 2 2 4 9
Oregon 1 2 3 7
Rheinland 3 2 5 6


Onsdagens dikter handlar om något Historiskt.

HAMBURG : Krogrum på landet (Svensk översättning) / Jan Wagner

bakom bardisken mittemot dörren
det inramade fotot av fotbollslaget:     
leende hjältar, till synes oberörda
av rostande spikar i sina tröjryggar


RHEINLAND :  from My Mother / Ursula Krechel

When my mother had been mother
for a quarter of a century and wife, but she could
forget that in time, when she had become
just like a respectable wife should be
wiser than her grandmother, more devoted than her aunts
thriftier in the kitchen and in love than a woman
whose fortune fell into her lap
when she had flicked enough crumbs from the tablecloth
when she had buried her hope of ever being a lady
in furs as in those prewar fashion magazines
she still kept safe in the back of the pantry


E14 : ur Svävare (diktsamling) / Lars Lidén

havet är svart
havet är vitt

det var några somrar som flimrade genom den lilla
svartvita tv:n nu är nästan allt sammanblandat och ibland
hörs skriken från de hårt pressade motorerna,
glöm mig inte, inte
vi seglade förbi
klippan med huset har blivit kvar
det passar in
man tänker sig en hård västan och dagarna som följer
torra som krita, följer mig


WALES : from Not yet my mother / Owen Sheers

Yesterday I found a photo
of you at seventeen,
holding a horse and smiling,
not yet my mother.

The tight riding hat hid your hair,
and your legs were still the long shins of a boy's.
You held the horse by the halter,
your hand a fist under its huge jaw.

The blown trees were still in the background
and the sky was grained by the old film stock,
but what caught me was your face,
which was mine.


ESTLAND : from Come into my cave, matter! / Maarja Kangro

On the manor house clad in scaffolding,
a flag is waving like a rag.
A national flag. Torn and shabby,
it doesn't care which nation it belongs to.
The fabric, worn by wind and rain,
the threads, sickly. It doesn't want
its tired molecules to represent anyone.
I stand under it on the asphalt
and say: "Come into my cave!
Come away, into my cave, matter!"
The Nike running shoes on a happy daughter: slave work
has given birth to pink, despised polyurethane.
Paper in the cupboards of anxious academics and clerks:
their life's beautiful, pale and silent victim.


ISLAND : from I think of you / Einar Mar Gudmundsson

I think of you
amongst the brown sugardrops of memories
which I admit are often black as liquorice
of you
when the sandpit was hollywood
and the little plastic cars in the solemnity of a dream
drove us into the smart homes
from glossy magazine advertisements
that the dentist kept in his waiting-room
I owned
the orange villa on snob hill


OREGON : from Iron / Michael McGriff

My blood fills with so much iron I’m pulled
to a place in the hard earth where the wind
grinds over the ridge bearing the wheels of tanker trucks
oiling the access roads, where deer ruin the last of the plums,
where the sloughs shrink back to their deepest channels,
and I can turn away from nothing.

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