Svartifoss

Judit Hollos

As the charcoal lace of lava columns quietly unfurls on the horizon,
I finally catch sight of the Black Falls, or Svartifoss, a playfully gurgling child cuddled by dark grey pillars. 
Embraced by the hexagonal sanctuary, 
I can sense how strange of a dance floor it must have been for all the trolls 
and huldufólk who gathered on this field after sunset 
and how they looked similar to us, imperfect humans.
Breathing in the petrichor, I feel tempted to lead Death on,
to waltz into my own trap inside this maze of fairy-shaped rocks, 
wondering if my existence makes any sense in the big picture, 
or if I’m simply here as a result of an error in the machine,
and after I’m gone, nothing will be left to remember 
what I’ve never truly had.

From behind the rainbow veil of the waterfall, 
a young woman emerges, approaching in slow-motion, 
a carefully sculpted replica of my best version, 
except her fresh chestnut locks are still sweeping her shoulders, 
those mid-life hormone changes have not yet kicked in, 
and her torso has not lost its curves over the years. 
What does she know about how it must feel to speak several languages 
but hardly ever understand a word on your own? 
To grow memories rattling like the chains of a broken childhood swing?
Or sitting in a roller coaster car frozen in rust at the peak of your lifetime?
Delving into her hazel eyes, I can re-live all the hardship I endured,
there they glimmer, one by one, 
tiny shards of trauma, inside a warped mirror, 
an imaginary friend who disappeared while we were playing
peek-a-boo in the schoolyard one afternoon. 

Legend has it Svartifoss was once used as a playground for the elves and ogresses 
who decided to throw the most magnificent party in a thousand years, 
only to turn into giant stones at the sight of the first sun rays.
And so, my doppelgänger offers her hand,
only to drag me on an endless round dance behind Svartifoss.
I finally break loose from her firm grip 
while the stars enshrined in the sky slowly start to blur into one, 
the trickling water turns into silver stone drops 
at the first rays of the chortling sun, 
as deep wrinkles begin to plough furrows in my withering skin.

The Science

Teetering between science and folklore, my piece ’Svartifoss’, draws on ancient Icelandic legends and folklore. Meeting her alter ego, a sort of long lost imaginary friend, the narrator of the poem attempts to ask the question if consciousness exists after one has gone (or before one is born), and if the strange simulacrum a magical creature offers harbours the same memories, desires and thoughts a human can have.

The Poet

Judit Hollos (she/her) is an emerging playwright, poet and essayist based in Budapest. Some of her short stories, poems, translations and articles have been featured in English and Swedish in literary magazines, periodicals and anthologies. She is the author of two chapbook collections of Japanese-style poetry and short prose. Her monologues and short plays have been produced and received staged readings at theaters and festivals in Glasgow, San Francisco, New York, London, Leicester and Kyiv. As well as poetry, she is fascinated by history, archaeology and ethnology.

Next poem: The Identity of the Identity by Antonio Irre