Lögberg-Heimskringla - 21.03.1997, Side 7

Lögberg-Heimskringla • Föstudagur 21, mars 1997 • 7
Eitt ógleymanlegt “Minni ”
Flutt á Frónsmóti í Winnipeg 21. feb. 1934, (og víðar)
OETRY CZORNER
One Unforgettable Memorial
Það er að verða íslenzk hefð
Að yrka fryir sérhvert mót: —
En oftast bull; — sem illa skilst
Og allt of langt í þokkabót
En þetta ljóð er bljúgt sem bæn
Og bæði skiljanlegt og stutt
Og allir vikna undir þvi,
Það er svo dásamlega flutt. —
Að yrka og ræða um ekki neitt
Er almennt talið kraftaverk
Þeir heyra það, sem hlusta á mig
Og hlýddu’ á undirmiðlungs klerk
Sem átti að vera leiðarljós
Og lýsa upp okkar sálarhúm
En sleppum pokapresti, mér,
Og pólitískum kjaftaskúm.
Vér endurnýjum ennþá hér
Vort alþjóðkunna bræðralag,
Og handtakið er hlýtt og þétt
Og hafið yfir þras og jag;
Og samstillt er í eina þrá
Hvert andartak og hjartaslag
Þótt einhver gestur gangi um,
Með glóðarauga næsta dag.
Og hér skal verða kátt i kvöld
Að kreppunni vér hendum spott
Svo ótrúlega ásátt með
Að eitthvert líf, — sé skratti gott
Og seinna þó að þrengi að
Og þokisf út á y^rsta stig;,
Þá ætti’ að vera hægt um hönd
Að hengja, — eða skjóta sig. —
Og “landinn” hefir lag á því
Að lenda’ í eitthvert náðarskaut.
(Svo ættum vér að vita það
Að vonin bætir hverja þraut).
En sýnum að vor lund er létt
Og leikum eins og fugl á kvist,
Og hugsum bæði hátt og lágt
Og höfum bestu matarlyst.
Og enska þjóðin öfundsjúk
Sér inn um lítil skráargöt
hvar landimm sest við blómskreytt borð
Og bryður snúða’ og hangikjöt
Og kjamsar yfir kökudisk
Með kaffibolla’ og hrópar, skál!
Og aldrei var jafh yndislegt
Að eiga þetta spari-mál. —
Og Bretar undrast yfir því
Hvað íslenskan er mjúk og fín,
Og það er ósköp eðlilegt
Að aumingjarnir skammist sín.
Þá skortir ljúf og liðug orð
Að lýsa vorri tign og rausn
En fagurgalinn, — fer þó vel
Og friðar eins og syndalausn.
Það líður eflaust allt of fljótt
Hjá okkur þetta skemmtikvöld
Við tillitsblíðu, og töfrasöng,
Við tónaslátt, og ræðuhöld. —
Og síðast hver með sína frú
Mun svífa út í léttan dans,
Þótt færi kannske um flesta best, —
I fangi’ á konu annars manns.
En sizt er þetta sagt til þess
Að saka — menn — um nokkuð ljótt
Sem halda vörð um hegðan, orð,
Og hugsun sína: dag og nótt.
En ef að snerting eða bros
,Fær eina vöku’ um helming.stytt;,
Þá yrði sælla að hverfa heim
Og hátta oní bólið — sitt.
Og þó að líði þúsand ár
Er þetta “minni” nógu gott. —
Með sæmilegri sótthreinsun
Og sunnudaga kattarþvott.
En það er eitt sem enginn veit
Að undanskildum sjálfum mér
Að það er hægt að hafa það,
Við hvaða lag sem fyrir er.
Lúðvik Kristjansson (Ljóðakom 41)
Delivered at a Frón gathering in Winnipeg, February 21, 1934, etc.
The custom of our countrymen
Is writing poems for events.
Though often far too long, and then
Not even making any sense.
This short one will be smooth as prayer,
Can easily by understood,
The listeners should be impressed,
The presentation is so good.
To speak of ryme of nothing much
Is surely classed as quite a chore.
The audience apprieciates
Both me, and one who spoke before.
His message was of Heaven’s light
That shines upon our troubled ways;
But let’s forget both him and me
And politicians full of praise.
We shall renew this evening here
Our true ancestral brotherhood.
The handclasp is so warm and true,
Suppressing all that’s less than good.
A common longing joins our group,
Our heartbeat and our heaving sigh —
Though some of us may walk around
Tomorrow with a blackened eye.
Tonight we’ll be a jolly crowd,
And joke about depression woes.
We know that life is very sweet
And learn to say — “That’s how it goes.”
But if things go from bad to worse
With nothing left upon the shelf,
There’s still the opportunity
To hang or else to shott one’s self.
Our countrymen have long endured,
And learned to find a cosy spot.
We know that hope is all we have,
Just knowing that should help a lot.
Tonight we’ll show our lighter side,
We’ll hop around like birds in trees.
Our thoughts can range from low to high;
We dine, our appetites to please.
The English, how they envy us;
They’re at the keyhole peeking through,
To see our tables flower decked
Where “hangikjöt” on bread we chew.
We gossip over plates of cake,
With cups of coffee “Skál” will ring.
How wonderful our language is —
A precious extra thing.
The British wonder how it is —
That Icelandic is smoothe and fine.
I wouldn’t doubt they are ashamed,
And wish for tongues like yours and mine.
They have no words that can describe
How highly noble is our kin.
Sweet-talking is a rememdy
As healing as release from sin.
This evening passes much too fast —
The entertainment we enjoy,
The comradeship, the singing and
The speakers who their wits employ.
Then later, every man will take
His wife, and lead her in a dance.
Though some would think another’s wife
Would lend the evening more romance.
But I don’t mean to criticize —-
And not accuse in any way.
These men aré perfect gentlemen
In word and deed both night and day.
But if a touch or someone’s smile
Should make the heart just skip a beat
Then it is best to hurry home
Into your bed, to make retreat.
And though a thousand years may pass,
This small memorial will keep.
With just a touch of antiseptic
Cleansing, or a hurried sweep.
There is a fact you do not know —
That no one understands but me; —
That this , my poem may be sung
To almost any melody.
Ludvik Kristjansson (Ljodakorn 41)
Translated by Dora Sigurdson
PITCH-IN
WEEK
May 5-11
A national program of
PITCH-IN C/sÍJADA
and this newspaper
www.pltch-in.ca
MESSUBOÐ
Fyrsta Lúterska
Kirkja
Pastor Ingthor I. Isfeld
1030 a.m. The Service
First Lutheran Church
580 Victor St., Winnipeg
R3G 1R2 Ph. 772-7444
It’s a dirty job...
Continued from page 4
occasion when his job was anything
but boring.
“There was this time once when the
rubbish in the back of my truck caught
fire and the fíre brigade couldn’t put it
out,” he said, laughing. “I was down-
town when it happened. I had to drive
with a police escort, smoke trailing, fire
engine behind me, all the way to the
dump. The wind was feeding the flames.
I wasn’t nervous, actually it was fun.”
With approximately 102,000
Minnist
í ERFÐASKJ3ÁM YÐAR
inhabitants in the greater Reykjavík
area, 70 sanitation workers are needed
to clean the city each week. The 12
crews collect around 26,000 tons of
household rubbish per year and wheel
around 47,000 plastic rubbish bins each
week to their waiting trucks. Every
Reykjavík neighbourhood is visited
once a week and although the men
knock off work early Bjamason says:
“Nobody quits until the town is clean.
Each of the 12 crews has its own area
to clean up. When their route is done
the driver radios in to see if that crew
can assist in another area.”
Clean city, beautiful city, and The
streets are not a rubbish tip are two
slogans that have appeared on the sides
of Reykjavík’s refuse collection vehicles
recently. Bjarnason and Reykjavík’s
conscientious refuse collectors take ob-
vious pride in achieving those aims. □