People at work sometimes ask me what else I do and I don’t want to tell them. It’s not relevant to our work, and they might have notions about the impractical character of poets. My poems are made for people who are curious about themselves, not about me. Maybe I’m afraid my work is no good, or maybe I know what misinterpretations it can bear. Sometimes I think people at work are normal and I’m not, and I’m not part of their world; I don’t understand it in the least, or maybe I understand it too well. Oft him anhaga are gebideð metudes miltse þeah þe he modcearig geond lagulade longe sceolde heran mid hondum mrimcealde sæ wadan wræclastas.1
- Often the lonely one hopes for help,
his maker’s mercy, although he mindwearily
over the sea way has had for a long time
to stir with the hands the rime-cold sea,
travel the way of exiles.