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Ishtar and Atropos: Two Poems from the North of the World.
Ishtar and Atropos: Two Poems from the North of the World.
* Hikmet Elhadj
* In her third published collection of poetry under the title "Mother's Legends", and after her previous two collections, "Maria Lucia" 2012 and "Dear Sven" 2016, the Swedish poet Elizabeth Berchtold plunged into the deep forests of motherhood, among dogs, horses and hares, mothers pushing baby carriages In front of them, in a mixture of legendAnd daily life, to write about the experience of motherhood poetry.Swedish poetry, like Swedish cinema, is incomprehensible, resembles nothing but itself. There are landscapes and animals, violence, pain, tenderness, care, abandonment and loss, woven into and out of each other. Expectations and mores also carry fairy tales. In "Mother's Legends", the legend lies behind a baby's bed, among perhaps dirty sheets, next to the baby's soft skin, smelling of talc, mixed with milk. As T. S. Elliot said: Man is nothing but birth, life and death. This book of poetry is a celebration of the details of life, the Swedish way.
Below is my translation of two poems from “The Legends of the Mother”, by the Swedish poet Elizabeth Berchtold, published in Stockholm in 2021 by Norstedes Publishing, and it is in order to introduce an important Swedish poet belonging to the postmodern trend, to Arabic readers who are passionate about Scandinavian literature, and may be That the first time.
first poem/
Ishtar..the goddess of the night
Poem: Elizabeth Berchtold
Translation: Hikmet Elhadj
Our ears hear across frequencies
other sounds,
our ears
that leans with the edge
black foliage
Light up our wireless sleep
With a pink glow..
I love you
And you
Put your hand on your cat's hairy belly
We are all sitting on the edge of the sofa
purple black night bar
Embroidered flower on the image of the eye
And the red throat still dangles in the hand
in small curves
small
in little follies
sad crochet bedspreads
spinning flowers
Plant nerves erupt
From the stitches that enter the air
Meandering replanting holds a thread
Connects the face with the sheets of greenery
The sheets bury our velvet bed
With the remaining hole patched
Behind you is what you call violets
Bring the flowers of blood back to your chest
animal shaped
From the red thread -
touch the...
* Hikmet Elhadj
* In her third published collection of poetry under the title "Mother's Legends", and after her previous two collections, "Maria Lucia" 2012 and "Dear Sven" 2016, the Swedish poet Elizabeth Berchtold plunged into the deep forests of motherhood, among dogs, horses and hares, mothers pushing baby carriages In front of them, in a mixture of legendAnd daily life, to write about the experience of motherhood poetry.Swedish poetry, like Swedish cinema, is incomprehensible, resembles nothing but itself. There are landscapes and animals, violence, pain, tenderness, care, abandonment and loss, woven into and out of each other. Expectations and mores also carry fairy tales. In "Mother's Legends", the legend lies behind a baby's bed, among perhaps dirty sheets, next to the baby's soft skin, smelling of talc, mixed with milk. As T. S. Elliot said: Man is nothing but birth, life and death. This book of poetry is a celebration of the details of life, the Swedish way.
Below is my translation of two poems from “The Legends of the Mother”, by the Swedish poet Elizabeth Berchtold, published in Stockholm in 2021 by Norstedes Publishing, and it is in order to introduce an important Swedish poet belonging to the postmodern trend, to Arabic readers who are passionate about Scandinavian literature, and may be That the first time.
first poem/
Ishtar..the goddess of the night
Poem: Elizabeth Berchtold
Translation: Hikmet Elhadj
Our ears hear across frequencies
other sounds,
our ears
that leans with the edge
black foliage
Light up our wireless sleep
With a pink glow..
I love you
And you
Put your hand on your cat's hairy belly
We are all sitting on the edge of the sofa
purple black night bar
Embroidered flower on the image of the eye
And the red throat still dangles in the hand
in small curves
small
in little follies
sad crochet bedspreads
spinning flowers
Plant nerves erupt
From the stitches that enter the air
Meandering replanting holds a thread
Connects the face with the sheets of greenery
The sheets bury our velvet bed
With the remaining hole patched
Behind you is what you call violets
Bring the flowers of blood back to your chest
animal shaped
From the red thread -
touch the...
