Sthephan G. Stephansson Poetry
– THE MAN CURSED NEVER TO DIE –
I.
He lived like a poem from the mists of the past,
he had neither family nor friend.
He was burdened with age when his life at long last
with King Olaf drew to an end.
And on this earth his life had been long
though he looked no older than forty.
He struck out in battle, his harp smote in song,
with the Volsungs and champions mighty.
For three hundred years he had gloriously served
with the warriors of famous nations.
Memories in abundance he preserved
of their triumphs and tribulations.
Then King Olaf's men said: That ancient harp
would be toneless by now and tarnished –
So he plucked forth music, resounding and sharp
to epics of heroes long vanished.
Gold from the dawn of the ages he hoarded –
and thought it more precious than treasure
from the time he lived now. But others regarded
that which is newer more pleasure.
And he knew stories and ballads of wonder.
He clung to the candle whose light the witch gave –
and when its wick had burnt down to a cinder
he could walk free of his curse to his grave.
He dwelt far away from country and kin
Deprived of contemporaries for two hundred years
– his own soil was Graening in Denmark, but in
Norway he died, as a guest, without peers.
II.
Likewise I live with my poems where
men are deaf to their beauty and glories –
like the man who was cursed not to die but to share
his harp and his poems and stories.
Gold from the ages gone by I hoard –
considered more precious than treasure
from the present. But young people now regard
that which is newer more pleasure.
But both seem to me to be treasures the best
and their worth I appraise as the same,
and I keep them as long as with poems I am blessed
and my candle remains aflame.
Written in 1895
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