S E A R C H I N G F O R T R U E O R T H

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S E A R C H I N G F O R T R U E O R T H

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Photographs by Geir Jordahl

Introduction by Margaretta K. Mitchell

Afterword by Karen Kienzle

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Poems by Rolf Jacobsen

Translation by Roger Greenwald

Edited by Kate Jordahl


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22 23

plate 7

Sacred Banyon Tree, Padandtegal, Ubud, Bali

plate 8

Primeval Giant, Hoh Rainforest, Washington, USA


34 35 36

plate 18

Saltstraumen Suite: Allegro (Norway)

plate 19

Saltstraumen Suite: Fortissimo (Norway)

plate 20

Saltstraumen Suite: Moderato (Norway)


52 53

plate 34

Waterfall, Hornvik, Iceland

plate 35

Franz Josef Glacier, New Zealand


106 107

plate 83

Kannon, Soujiji Temple, Japan

plate 84

Borgund Stavkirke, Lærdal,Norway


114 115

plate 90

Kalalau Lookout, Na Pali Coast, Hawaii, USA

plate 91

Granite Fissures, Taft Point, Yosemite, California, USA


134 135

plate 108

Ancient Olive Tree, Pont du Gard, France

plate 109

Campanile Reflected, Pisa, Italy


138 139

plate 111

Table Rock, Eastern Sierra, California, USA

plate 112

Monkey Temple, Bali


142 143

plate 115

Three and one-half Umbrellas, Nikko Kegon-no-taki, Tochigi, Japan

plate 116

Marker, Vega Archipelago, Norway


144 147

plate 117

Ancient Palms of the Daintree, Queensland, Australia

plate 118

Daintree National Park, Queensland, Australia


langsomt——

Bilder av umåtelige land,

sandflukter, bronceaktige himler

skal stå til tidenes ende, vinden

letter det lille sandkornet opp på en sten,

regnværet skyller det bort.

Således er jordens ansikt mellem stjernebildene

dekket av glemsel—langsom

som stenene er Guds gjøren med oss,

slowly——

Images of measureless lands,

sand dunes, bronzelike skies

will last till the eons end; the wind

lifts the little sand-grain onto a stone,

rain washes it away.

This is how the earth’s face among the constellations

is covered by forgetfulness—slowly:

God’s dealings with us are as slow as the stones.

One day will come like a rose—one day like a flame;

everything has its time.

In a thousand years

the snail will have reached the tree.

I see ancient rain walking bent across evening’s land

and searching with thin hands for the forgotten things,

what no one notices anymore—the stillness between blades of grass,

half-uttered words, fragments of loss, thoughts

almost no one has thought, the silent

roads of grass and sleep that lead forward

from age to age.

Where do we find now

a way to connect what is scattered.

154 en dag skal komme som en rose—en dag som en ild.

The trail in the stars, the compass needle’s course

155

Alt har sin tid.

or the lines in girls’ hands

Om tusen år

that are like the wind through the roses.

er sneglen kommet frem til treet.

For it is late

Jeg ser et gammelt regnvær gå bøyd over aftenens land

og lete med tynne hender efter de glemte ting,

det ingen enser mer—stillheten mellem strå,

halvsagte ord, bruddstykker av fortapthet, tanker

nesten ingen har tenkt, de tause

veier av gress og søvn som fører frem

fra tid til tid.

soon the river will carry off my images;

hillsides, reflections of houses, a beloved face—

it will carry them out to sea. Everything will be cleared off

without a word and the planet will calmly

turn its shoulder toward night and day.

Somewhere the wind is already rushing morning into the forests,

somewhere the outline of a rocky cliff passes gradually into night.

Hvor finner vi nu

det som kan binde sammen det spredte.

Stien i stjernene, kompassnålens veier

eller linjene i alle pikers hender

som ligner vinden gjennem rosene.

For det er sent

snart bærer elven mine bilder ut,

åssider, speilinger av hus, et elsket ansikt

bærer den ut til havet. Alt skal ryddes

uten et ord og kloden bøyer

rolig sin skulder mot natt og dag.

Et sted suser vinden alt morgenen inn i skogene,

et sted går omrisset av en bergvegg umerkelig inn i natten.

plate 127

Moonrise at Sunset, Great Basin, USA

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