ARCTIC STARFLOWER (poem) - Øyvind Rimbereid - Norway

SKOGSTJERNE

Blokk nummer 11

Hvor som helst i skogen, men gjerne fritt
omkring kratt, langs rike myrkanter
eller i løse mosen. Når skogstjernen står under
lauvtrær, er det som om den òg rasler
og kronen henter skinn fra ospebladets sølv.

Det var en blokk kalt nummer 11.
Det var et fengsel innerst i fengselet.
Det var et vindu der inne uten lyd.
Det var en ting som var å vente.
Det var en sultestraff som skulle få hoftebeinet til å skinne.

Skogstjernen sprer seg som stille skudd
under torv, med knopper og sår der en ny
stilk skal vokse. Hver stjerne åpnet for seg.
Ingen nabo. Men om natta trer kronens
tråder fram med blodårer i litt for hvit hud.

Det var en blokk kalt nummer 11.
Det var en straff innerst i straffen.
Det var sakte og som et kyss gitt av ingen.
Det var som en brudgom for Antigone stengt inne i hulen.
Det var bak et elektrisk gjerde som skulle forvandles til en vidåpen port.

Skogstjernens navn redder ingen,
og kronen har vel så ofte syv fliker som seks.
Så kall den like gjerne «historiens sprukne bandasje»,
småvokst og smakfull som et hvitt hår i munnen.
Skogstjernen gnistrer i skogen mot rustenrød bunn.

ARCTIC STARFLOWER

Block Number 11

Anywhere in the forest, but often freely
around the underbush, along rich moor edges
or in the loose moss. When the arctic starflower stands beneath
leafy trees, it’s as if it, too, rustles
and the crown draws shine from the silver of the aspen leaf.

There was a block called number 11.
There was a prison innermost in the prison.
There was a window in there without sound.
There was a thing which was to wait.
There was a hunger punishment meant to make the hip-bone shine.

The arctic starflower spreads like silent shoots
under turf, with buds and wounds where a new
stalk is to grow. Each star opened on its own.
No neighbour. But at night the crown’s threads
step forth with blood veins in a little too white skin.

There was a block called number 11.
There was a punishment innermost in the punishment.
It was slow and like a kiss given by no one.
It was like a groom for Antigone locked inside the cave.
It was behind an electric fence that was to be transformed into a wide-open gate.

The name of the arctic starflower saves no one,
and the crown has just as often seven lobes as six.
So let’s call it “history’s cracked bandage”,
as stunted and tasteful as a white hair in the mouth.
The arctic starflower sparkles in the forest against rust-red ground.