Day 17: a phonetic translation?

Today we are writing translation poems as described on the NaPoWriMo blog. This is a bit of an odd one, which ended up like this:

Skullhammer

Haggard ones of Burville

with laudanum wit, even a Sultan goers numb

a summer of heavy guitar

and here are hired diners

Hands on a fast-held din, a seat

of gothic add-ons, after

instinct; you, I, everyone is lost.

A whore’s karma stands, a rapier left behind

I, vegetarian continuum

once of an old spy tower

Little Skullhammer, I eventually tire of you

of life, of her

amid prattle and common laughter

up, I walk

and become blind.

___________________________________________

So, this weirdness was based on this poem, the real translation is below. I was really pleased to read the translation and find that I particularly liked this poem.

NORÐUR

Hægt eins og búrhveli

líðum við gegnum sortann

sem er hvítur

hér á heiðinni

Hann er fastheldinn á sitt

og gefur aðeins eftir

eina stiku í einu

Örskamma stund leiftra þær

í vegarkantinum

eins og eldspýtur

litlu stúlkunnar í ævintýrinu

og lýsa okkur

þar til við komum aftur

upp í vök

að blása

North

Slow as sperm whales

we glide through the gloom

which is white

here on the heath

It holds fast to its own

conceding only

one post at a time

For an instant they flash

on the side of the road

like the little girl’s matches

in the fairytale

lighting us

until we return

to the hole in the ice

to breathe