The Icelandic Canadian - 01.04.1988, Blaðsíða 14

12
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
SPRING, 1988
To him all the world was a fantasy place;
The power of storms in his thinking;
With his flash he can lift you to mountainous
heights,
Or join you with gods in their drinking.
He so overwhelms you, you’re hardly
prepared,
His art can beguile with its magic;
Thus Brutus reflected his soul, and MacBeth,
And all that was comic or tragic.
His characters always in tune with themselves,
When least it’s expected we wonder,
That landsliding violence erupts on the stage
And volcanic bursting and thunder.
The stuff of his work was unique to himself,
And shows what man hates or he praises;
The poet affirming the right to explore
And measure men’s souls with his phrases.
The honor of nobles, its curse and reward,
He amply received for his art,
And choosing the lot of a magical thief
With kingliness stole from each heart.
Stephansson did not succumb to the magic
of Shakespeare, who had the good sense to
borrow or steal from the thoughts and ideas
of other men whatever he thought he could
make good use of — and his use more than
justified the offence.
In 1964, when, in his own words, “I had
behind me five years of university, a year’s
sojourn in Iceland, two years at King
George Hospital “Chess Club” (polio ward)
and six years of teaching English.”10 Paul,
began his translation of “Sandy Bar.” Six
years later it was finished. He sent an early
draft to Guttormsson. In reply, Guttorms-
son wrote him saying that “Sandy Bar,”
despite several attempts, was untranslatable,
but he added: “There are many indications
that the writing of original poetry is more
in your line than translation (you are not
alone in this respect) and I would encourage
you (to use your talents) accordingly. I
wish you good success.”11
Those who have read Paul’s numerous
original poems that have appeared in the
Icelandic Canadian will certainly agree
with Guttormsson. Speaking personally,
in the time-honored way of school teachers,
I would give a star to many of his original
poems. Here are two of them — both
short. This is the first:
EQUITY
What does it matter —
To wash with a Bendix,
Or scrub crude cotton,
Like an Arab, with his feet —
Which is right?
What does it matter —
Diamonds flashing,
Blue-cold fire,
Coiled on the neck
Of a vain debutante;
Or beads of teeth
Torn from a tiger,
Snaking between
The potent breasts
Of a Nubian virgin —?
Are we whites
The wise people?
Is there no ignorance
In sophistication?
Sometimes I feel
Life’s true meanings
Are saved for the hungry,
The weary, the simple,
The sad, the lost and the pained.12
The intellectual and emotional implica-
tions of this poem are great.
A poet gives himself away every time he
takes up his pen. We know that this poem
was written by a man who is not on the
side of the big battalions, a man who has a
deep fellow feeling for the humble and the
lowly, who gives his allegiance to the indi-
vidual, not the crowd, who does not judge
a person’s worth by his ability to make
money, who has questioned the way this
weary world is wobbling on its course.
Here is the second:
UNCERTAINTY
Above, the hawk awaits its prey,
Below the songbird bravely sings;
Its one defence on freedom’s way
Are fragile wings;
The only payment for its lay,
Its warblings.
Do I hear the echo of its rapture,