Lögberg-Heimskringla - 23.09.1965, Page 2

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LÖGBERG-HEIMSKRINGLA, FIMMTUDAGINN 23. SEPTEMBER 1965
Reis úr hafi óvænt eyja
(Ort er neðansjávargos myndaði nýja eyju nálægt Vest-.
mannaeyjum. Eyjan hlaut síðar nafnið, Surtsey og breytti
þá höfundur síðasta erindi kvæðisins í samræmi við það,
en svona var það birt í ísl. blöðum.)
Risin eyja er úr hafi
efni dregið neðra frá.
Gulu slegin glóðatrafi,
greidd og þvegin köldum sjá.
Dagur var risinn úr dimmbláum öldunum,
dreymandi nóttin að þoka frá völdunum.
Árdegis geislamir glóðu á Eyjunum,
gjálfruðu bárur við kinnunga á fleyjunum.
Snögglega vábrestur kvað við í kyrrðinni
knúði fram bergmálið lengst útí firðinni.
Tröllaukin reyksúla hóf sig úr hafinu,
hraundröngum þeytti úr sjóðandi kafinu.
Það var, sem Loki hefði losnað úr böndunum,
liðtækur reyndist og þreif nú til höndunum,
jarðskorpu berglögum bylti og rótaði,
byggingu á hafsbotni ákvað og mótaði.
Lærður og alvanur eldmennsku störfunum,
ólmast hann lengst niðri í hyldýpis hvörfunum,
hóstandi, hvæsandi, herðir á kraftinum,
hrækjandi stórbjörgum langt upp úr kjaftinum.
Sporðdrekar úthafsins spyrna við uggunum,
spyrja hvað valdi þeim ferlegu skruggunum.
Líta upp úr hafinu, lízt ei á blikuna,
lafhræddir flýja þeir sjóðandi kvikuna.
Loghærðum eldmeyjum laust uppúr dökkvanum,
leiftrandi kvikar, þær dönsuðu í rökkvanum.
Risu og hnigu með rjúkandi leginum,
runnu út í flauminn og hurfu að deginum.
Gosmekkir þeyttust úr gapandi fjallinu,
gneistamir sindruðu af brennandi gjallinu.
Tugþúsund metra sig hófu í hæðunum,
hér og þar lýsti af rafblossa-glæðunum.
Bólstrarnir hringuðust, hnykluðust, sundruðust,
horfendur agndofa staðnæmdust, undruðust.
Sprengingar buldu á heyrenda hlustunum,
hæst uppi kvöldroðinn ljómaði á burstunum.
Fræðimenn alls konar, flugtækni beitandi
flykktust á gosstaðinn, tíðinda leitandi.
Hugstæðum spumingum hreyrðu á vörunum,
hér mátti trúlega búast við svörunum.
Vesturey heitirðu, vaxin úr öldunum,
verða mun lyft af þér eimyrju-földunum.
Fjórtándi nóvember, frumvaxtar dagur þinn,
sem fæðingarvottorð þitt gilda skal bragurinn.
Sveinbjörn Ágúsi Benónýsson.
Mrs. Hilda Croui í McCreary, Maniioba er sysiir höfund-
ar þessa kvæðis og segir hún í bréfi iil riisijórans:
Þegar ég var heima á íslandi í júní í sumar varð ég fyrir
þeirri sorg að missa minn góða og gáfaða bróður Sveinbjörn
Ágúst Benónýsson frá Vestmannaeyjum. Hann var mjög vel
skáldmæltur og margt af kvæðum hans hafa birtzt heima í
blöðunum og eins í Húnvetningaljóðum, sem voru gefin út
fyrir fáum árum. Hann orti kvæði um nýju eyjuna Surtsey,
sem fyrst var kölluð Vesturey.
Vinsamlegasi,
Hilda Croui (Benónýsdóiiir).
THORVALDUR JOHNSON:
Glimpses
iii.
UP THE KAGHAN VALLEY
At 8 o’clock on the morning
of July 8th I had packed the
suitcase and placed the bed-
roll at the door. For those
who do not know, a bedroll
is composed of the mattress,
blankets, sheets and pillow,
items indispensable at the
rest houses which normally
supply only the bedstead. A
few minutes later Moham-
mad Fazil arrived with the
landrover at the top of the
hill. So as not to hurt his feel-
ings I waited for him to come
down the steep path to the
cottage to carry up the lug-
gage. In a few minutes we
had picked up Meraj with his
bedroll and luggage and were
coasting down the steep road
to Rawalpindi 37 miles to the
south and 5000 feet below us.
For some reason, perhaps
merely social, Meraj had to
call at his uncle’s house in
Rawalpindi, “just for a few
minutes.” But the laws of
hospitality convert a few
minutes into at least a
couple of hours: for the
routine of “tea” must be gone
through, and the host find out
how many children one has
and various other family mat-
ters. The host was a charming
old man with sparkling eyes
and excellent command of
English, who in the days be-
fore partition in 1947 had held
some sort of government in-
spectorship in India before
the whole family had to flee
to the newly established
Pakistan.
But we were off again
shortly after 11 o’clock and
arrived in Abbotabad about
12.30. There, after a short
search, we found Dr. and Mrs.
H. who had just arrived from
Lahore to join us for the trip
up the valley to Naran. While
the H.s had lunch in a hotel
Meraj and I went to a native
restaurant where we had rice
and mutton curry for 1.5
rupees (about 35 cents). —
About one o’clock we left for
Balakot with the H.s and
Sulyman preceding us in the
landrover the latter had
brought from Peshawar. The
day was sunny and warm.
The wheat, which had filled
the broad valley at the time
of our earlier trip at the end
of April was gone, replaced
by maize or rice, the latter just
planted or being planted in
the water-filled terraces. At
half-past six we were in
Balakot where the mountains
close in to form the narrow
and precipitous Kaghan
Valley. Here the motor road
ends and the narrower jeep
road begins, hugging the
mountainsides to terminate in
Of Pakistan
the Gilgit Valley of the Hima-
layas. But our trip was to end
at Naran, 53 miles beyond
Balakot.
The Kaghan Valley is in
most places more of a gorge
than a valley, with the
Kunhar River forming a tor-
rent at the bottom. But
here and there it widens into
a narrow valley; and wherever
that happens the sloping
mountainsides have been
converted into terraces, now
filled with. water and recent-
ly planted rice. For most of
the way the jeep; road is
carved out of the mountain-
side at heights ranging from
20 to perhaps 2000 feet above
the river. Looking down on
the waterfilled terraces from
the higher stretches of the
road, they looked, in the sun-
light, like a series of elongated
mirrors fitted into the moun-
tain slopes.
As one looks across the val-
ley the grass-grown slopes
present an interesting criss-
cross pattem of white lines.
These are the innumerable
tracks made by goats and
sheep pasturing in the moun-
tains, for these are the high
mountain pastures in which
the local inhabitants and the
nomads who come up from
the plains in spring pasture
their livestock. Doubtless, the
jeep road on which we
travelled is merely a
widening of one and another
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of these paths, following the
lines of least resistance. This
road, constantly under repair,
is too narrow for two-way
vehicular traffi'c. Hence
traffic is by jeep caravans,
one way at a time, under the
control of the manager of
the Government Transport
Service. There is a saying
that this is a road on which
a driver makes only one
mistake. But there are few
accidents, probably because
the drivers are well aware of
the danger.
Travelling north was a slow
process, paxtly because the
road was mostly uphill, and
partly because the traffic was
by no means one-way.
Though we met no vehicles
we were constantly encoun-
tering caravans of camels
transporting timber down to
Balakot from the higher,
wooded mountaih reaches. Or
we were passing other camel
caravans carrying grain to
Gilgit. In addition, there were
the long processions of
nomads driving their cattle,
goats and sheep to the higher
mountain pastures. These
always tried to arrange their
animals in single file hugging
the mountain wall as our
jeeps crawled slowly past
them. My first reaction was
one of pity for these people
many of whom were walking
barefoot over the stony
mountain road, women and
children often carrying young
lambs in their arms. But the
Framhald á bls. 7.
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ISIANCS!
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