The Mountains of Kong: New and Selected Prose Poems

from The Mountains of Kong by Dag T. Straumsvåg

Det tapte landet

Etter å ha reist i tre veker kom eg endeleg fram til staden der eg blei fødd. Ved den nedlagte bensinstasjonen ser eg ein mann på min eigen alder. “Eg voks opp i huset der borte,” seier eg, peiker på ein tom stad i ugraset. Han svarar ikkje. “Du og eg var bestevener, vi leika indianar og cowboy kvar dag, grov etter naziskattar i det forlatne grusholet. Hugsar du ikkje?” Han svarar framleis ikkje. “Vi klatra opp Mount Everest saman, kryssa Sahara på sykkel, patruljerte den kinesiske mur... Nei, eg tullar berre. Eg har aldri sett deg før.” Då lyser andletet hans opp. “No hugsar eg alt. Det var ei fantastisk tid. I årevis har eg hatt denne tomme kjensla inni meg, ei stor sorg. Eg glei som ein drake over eit utbrend landskap, ingenting anna enn rykande kol og døde tre. Det var frykteleg. Du anar ikkje kor mykje eg har lide.” Han grip handa mi og lovar at denne gongen skal han skrive, denne gongen skal han ikkje gløyme.

The Lost Land

After three weeks of travelling, I finally arrive back at the place where I was born. By the boarded-up gas station, I see a man my own age. “I grew up in that house over there,” I say, pointing to the vacant lot of weeds. He doesn’t say a word. “You and I were best friends. We played ‘cowboys and Indians’ every day, we searched for Nazi treasures in the abandoned gravel pit. Don’t you remember?” He still doesn’t answer. “We climbed Mount Everest together, we bicycled the Sahara, we patrolled the Great Wall of China. No, I’m just kidding. I’ve never seen you before in my life.” Then his face lights up. “Yes, I remember now. It was a fantastic time. For years I’ve carried around this emptiness inside, a great sadness. I was soaring like a dragon over a scorched landscape, nothing but smoking charcoal and dead trees. It was terrible. You have no idea how I suffered.” He grabs my hand, promising this time he’ll write, this time he will never forget.

Ei stille veke

Det har vore ei stille veke i hola, og neandertalaren fingrar med ein hårball han fann i magen på ein moskus. Det er ein feittete hårball, og han oppdagar at han kan forme den til figurar, kva som helst fingrane hans er i stand til å skape. Han klappar ballen til ein firkant, rullar runde kuler av talg og kliner dei i eit tilfeldig mønster på kvar side. Nydeleg. Det er noko moderne over forma, nesten minimalistisk. Ei perfekt form for vår tid, tenkjer han, enkel og tydeleg. Han kastar firkanten i lufta, legg den på hovudet, rullar den over holegolvet. Han klarar knapt å ta auga frå den. Kva for mønster vil vere synleg når den stoppar? Han kastar den ein gong til og prøver å gjette. Etter fem kast gjettar han rett. Han pustar ut, reiser seg, går bort til holemunnen. Dette er noko heilt nytt. “Betyr det at vi må ta eit nytt steg opp på evolusjonsstigen?” sukkar kona hans. “Dette er turbulente tider,” seier han, “alt muleg kan skje.”

A Quiet Week

It’s been a quiet week in the cave, and the Neanderthal fingers a hairball he found in the stomach of a musk ox. A greasy hairball, and he realizes he can mould it into any shape he wants, whatever his hands are capable of making. He pats the hairball into a cube, then makes pellets out of tallow and smears them in random patterns on every side. Beautiful. There’s something modern, almost minimalistic, about the form. It’s perfect for our times, he thinks, simple and clear. He lobs it into the air, balances it on his head, rolls it across the cave floor. He can hardly take his eyes off it. What pattern will show up when it stops? He throws it one more time and tries to guess. After five attempts, he gets it right. He exhales, stands up, walks over to the cave door. This is something completely new. “Does this mean we’ll have to climb one more rung on the evolutionary ladder?” his wife sighs. “These are turbulent times,” he says. “Anything can happen.”