Why a man who is born, raised and still lives in a large villa in the best part of the country’s largest city and who only in exceptional cases and then with strong discontent moves outside that part of the city has got it into his head that he should write his poems in a dialect from the Outer Hebrides is not easy to understand. The fact that his command of that dialect is questionable does not make it all the easier to comprehend.
Severin Kjartan is otherwise as one might expect of a poet. Introverted, socially awkward, melancholy, fond of fortified wine, shallow skinned, frequently rejected and financially dependent on his family, who in his case is his mother. But he is the apple of his mother eye and she can tell all and sundry that one day Severin Kjartan will overshadow the country’s greatest poets. Now, mothers’ reliability in such matters are as we all know dubious, so the statement should be received with plenty of scepticism.
Severin Kjartan always has a small orange notebook in the inside pocket of the vest along with an equally orange pencil in case inspiration should appear, which it exceptionally rarely do. But what does that matter, they both live well on the widow’s pension his mother has received since her husband General Sievert Solvang Sylte kicked the bucket.
As most poets Severin Kjartan has in a way not found his niche in life. His poems are blatantly obvious both in their choice of words and rime, without substance and boring into the soporific. In light of that it is reasonable to assume that he could have made some success writing lyrics for one or several dance bands. Lyrics for songs for some Free Church he would also have been able to handled on a reasonably satisfactory level.
But artist souls like Severin Kjartan is steadfast in their belief in their own greatness and is convinced that sometime in the near future, some of their poems will please some publishing consultant and the hard times will be over forever.
Retrorambling 
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