Translated from the Norwegian by Robert Hedin & the author

RETIRED PRIVATE DETECTIVE

He could hear this sound deep inside himself, a munching sound, like someone gnawing on a leg bone. He suspects his ex-wife, then his neighbor. A few months later he begins to limp. Maybe the limp was planted there. He moves to another city, changes his name. He can still hear the munching. He grows older. He grows shorter. He suspects everyone. People die and leave him trinkets in their wills. Other parts of him go limp. He loses his hair. He investigates himself. Each morning he wakes to a silvery plane buzzing out of the sun, dropping breakfast in his mouth without spilling.

OSIRIS 64

A BEAUTIFUL OVAL

My voice is quiet, with a single bird
as its companion, somewhere in the tree,
here in the wind, altogether lost
in the forest with the dreams of oaks
and beetles, bark and wounded cedars.

And here one sees the silence the moon
sinks into its caves and craters,
its gouged-out skin with a reptile’s surface
and its jagged edge of a file flaring
like flint, the stone that brings fire.

Then the voice takes off with the bird, ogling
the moon, a beautiful disc with painted eyes.

OSIRIS 64

Winter Oasis

It is snowing violently behind my eyes

as I try to sleep,

out there the dancing prairie falcon

is pressed into the ground,

the bright hawk

flamboyant as a kite in the sun

turns raven against the clouds

and the solitaire, a grey ghost

peers through the French windows to see me pass

and does not, and is at his most alone.

It is snowing behind my eyes

with more determination

than the snow shows outside: a childhood toy

glass ball filled with a city drowned in flakes.

The mountains sleep fiercely behind clouds

we wait for their liberation with impatience.

Soon, I will go down into the arroyo

lined with tall piñons where the owl

threads his secret way when I wake him.

I will be more asleep than I ever am

enclosed in the moving walls of dream

before the moments fall again, one after one,

glinting in sunlight, each one like a knife.

Osiris 22, 1986

La voix ne meurt jamais.

PAGE BLANCHE

fourmis sur le plancher en bois

porte entre-ouverte

s’égare une hirondelle

le grand fleuve charrie des vagues

la houle nous soulève 

jusqu’au firmament des heures

mouvement perpétuel

nous sommes essoufflés

au désert d’une page blanche

où ne s’épanouit aucune palmeraie

buée sur la vitre    herbe en appel d’air

l’aube retarde le jour

aucun détour n’est possible

la hâte suit un chemin de hasard

parmi les épis de blé

les feuilles de bouleau

l’espoir du bruant chanteur

fenêtre ouverte 

je glisse doucement

(comme en tes bras)

vers un ciel étoilé à l’infini

flaque de soleil sur le parquet 

sur la table des jours

s’étiole un bouquet de roses

je perds quelque chose

(les élans de mon cœur

ma respiration)

comme les clôtures en bordure des champs

ne retiennent aucun vent

ni le vent les oiseaux

Nous ne connaîtrons jamais leurs noms.

For the mind, the spirit, the soul of the world.

Il fait un rêve…

Il fait un rêve d’olive noire. 

Tombé au pied de l’arbre porteur, pressentant le désert 

avant d’en effleurer le sable, sa peau se ride. L’absence 

du regard de ses semblables le colore, et sa forme

qui roule s’arrondit lorsqu’elle s’épuise.

Cette nuit, la frayeur crée le noyau.

Osiris 101, 2025

June 15-September 1, 2026

Please send 3-6 previously unpublished texts and a 50 to 75-word biblio-bio. Translators must include a letter of permission from the original publisher or author and copies of the original texts.

osirispoetry@gmail.com

Osiris does not publish any text written with the aid of AI, nor do we publish previously published material. We believe in the integrity of the writer and in the integrity of their work. The hand of the writer, their spirit, their vision, their quirks and idiosyncrasies are all part of the text. Let us continue to celebrate the beauty of imperfection.