Håheller

A poem by Synnøve Spangelo

Over the fjord east, you will see fromthe boat on your way to Lyseboth, a beautifull spot. There is a house, a vestige from older times. The place was in the 17th century the main stop for travellers (in their boats) to stop and eat and sleep. It is a sunny place and was one of the most livable place in the fjord, as others like Kalleli and Kallestein.. Those three places are roadless. Kalleli is the only one which has inhabitants living all year long. The two others are deserted and fall apart.

Synnøve Spangelo who studied art at the university in Bergen, has visited Hå Heller an did some picture collage, and worte a poem.

Håheller

Eg sov på stranda under teltet
av målingsplast. Og torde ikkje
gå inn i huset før daggry.
For der var stilla etter folka
som hadde ete, krangla,
elska, vorte fødd, levd og døydd,
og sjeldan har nokon kome sidan
og laga lyd.

Der var rullesteinsmurer langs
heile sjøkanta, og bugnande
frukthagar. Eg tok ikkje meir enn
eitt par moreller,
for  det var ikkje mitt,
og om eg hadde ramla ner frå
den morkne stigen eller,
då eg var inne i huset, trødd
gjennom loftsgolvet, så ville ingen
ha merka noko..

Så frydefullt og så skremande det er,
å kjenna så klårt at livet
kviler berre på deg, der du står åleine

i dei døde si fråflytta verd.Då eg hadde komen derifrå,
trefte eg ei dame som fortalde at
dei aldri plukka bær på Håheller,
der var for mykje orm.
Det er eg glad eg ikke visste.

—————————————–

Håheller

I slept under a cover
made of  industrial plastic.
And did’nt dare to enter  the house until dawn.
For there were the silence after the ones
who had  eaten, quarreled,
loved, been born, lived and died,
and seldom had anyone come after
and made any sound.

There were  walls of boulders along the shore,
and bulging orchards. I did’nt take more than
a couple of cherries,
for they were not mine, and if  I’d fell down from
the rotten ladder or,
when I was inside the house,
stepped through the attic floor,
no one would have noticed.
How  joyful and how terrifying it is,

to feel so heavily that life
clings only to you, where you stand alone
in the  abandoned world of the deceased.

When I was back from there,
I met a  woman who told me they never
went for picking berries at Håheller ,
there were too many  snakes.

I’m happy I did’nt know that .

                                   S.S.

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