The Anger of the Busy
The anger of the busy
bucket-sinker, a true pansy,
all-heathen, is about
as terrible to my eyes
as if, fair-sized, outside,
worst of all when guests arrive,
(I swell the poetry) at the pantry-door
an aged pantry-dog fretted.
It Was Different
It was different in former days, when
I made fine sacrifices to the mind-swift
(change has come to the fortunes of men)
Lord of Hlidskjalf himself.
He lumbers (like a fulmar
swimming) to his bed,
the shearer of fjord-flame
(herring-stuffed on the foam-path),
before he, beguiler of scythes,
unlovely, dares to slide,
(with the Gunn of lace he’s not swift
into bed) under the blankets.
Translated by Diana Whaley