Life on the Westside: Laundry, Art, and Repetition

A glorious Santa Fe day, and even though it is the end of the semester with lots of grading due I decided to take Saturday and enjoy my urban/suburban life here on the Westside.
Even laundry and dry cleaning give satisfaction, but the best was a visit to the nursery. A Moorish garden by definition is walled, and has big blue pots, and roses, as well as an evergreen. I had everything but the last. Now have a dwarf spruce in one of those pots.
Popped in to Lannan Foundation to see the show AGAIN: Repetition, Obsession and Meditation. Agnes Martin grids, and more of the like. Never ceases to intrigue me–visual artists seem to not be afraid of repeating themselves, while writers are. Both have obsessions, but as a poet I tend to try and prune out redundancies–but why?
Here is a piece I love by Danish-Icelandic artist Olafur Eliasson–lighthouses in Iceland, I believe. I wonder if I’ll get to go back–I’m scheming too. Something I long to repeat.

Review of the Novel “The Tricking of Freya”

THE TRICKING OF FREYA by Christina Sunley is an exquisite book that came highly recommended, but it too me several years to actually read it. When I was in Iceland, the playwright Hline suggested it, and I bought it. The cover was intriguing–a goddess or child floating in glacial waters that would kill a mere mortal in seconds. But the book stayed in the pile as I was distracted by murder mysteries, scientific books on genetics, statistics, and sand, collections of French poetry, and more. I’m not a disciplined reader. But one wintry afternoon last week, THE TRICKING OF FREYA rose to the top.
And I’m glad it did. Set partially in a realistically drawn Iceland, much of the action is in an even more obscure setting–the Icelandic diaspora in Canada. A little known immigrant group, Icelanders fled a 19th century volcanic holocaust that destroyed farmland. The heroine of the novel, Freya, named for the Norse goddess, is raised partially in the U.S. and partially in the Canadian/Icelandic town of Gimli. When her aunt Birdie kidnaps her the plot is off and running–to Iceland, to a search for Birdie’s lost child, and to a quest for self understanding.
The rich language and literature of Iceland plays its own part. In what other archaic poems are there literally a thousand ways to say sword? The characters here are often poets or scholars, drunk on words, inebriated even to the point of mania. Manic depression is a haunting motif, an illness that haunts even characters in the sagas.
The novel is beautifully plotted and described. It treads a path between the literary and the just plain readable. And it was an inexpensive way for me to re-visit Iceland!

All Places Are the Same: Is the San Luis Valley like Atlantic City? Iceland like Wyoming? What goes in the poem?

This week, I’ve been wanting to writing poem about something that happened over 20 years ago. But I’m not sure exactly how to approach it.
Robert and I were driving in he middle of the San Luis Valley.Two enormous mountain ranges framed us in with their snow-capped peaks.
“This reminds me a lot of Atlantic City,” he said.
I was utterly flabbergasted.
He tried to explain…it had the same…feeling…or, well, something.
Boardwalk? I asked sarcastically. Hotels? Beach? Atlantic Ocean? What!!!
I gave up. Maybe it was because he was a Zen Buddhist priest. Or extremely nearsighted.

***

Two years ago, I had the same experience with Kath in Iceland. As follows:

Kath says–this looks like Wyoming.

It does not, I say.

I point to the lava fields, the geothermal plant billowing steam, the kilometers of red pipe. Nothing like Wyoming.

Look at the volcanic cone, she says, the shape of the mountains.

It looks nothing like Wyoming, I re-iterate.

Then I realize: I have never seen Wyoming.

***

So here is my question–do both parts of this belong in the same poem?

Where Would You Go?

Once, when our kids were little, a friend of mine asked me–where would you go? I knew what she meant without elaboration–where would you go to just disappear, to escape from your responsible life.
North,” I said. I was imagining Salida, in the mountains. “You?”
“Mexico,” she answered.
I’ve often thought if I had to vanish–the why less clear than the where–it would be into the southern Rockies. A little town. I’d get a job at a hot spring. Lose the past.
Now of course I’m publishing my secret destination, but that it is because it has already begun to change. I knew being here would erase an imaginary place and substitute a real one, with Safeway, and the wonderful public pool, and acquaintances. Also, this is no longer the furthest most mysterious point I can imagine.
After all, I’ve been to Iceland.
Where would you go?

Icelandic Rune Poem

We are working on alphabet poems in poetry class.

Anna Garforth

***

The Icelandic Rune Poem
(in Old Icelandic)
Fé er frænda róg
ok flæðar viti
ok grafseiðs gata
aurum fylkir.
Úr er skýja grátr
ok skára þverrir
ok hirðis hatr.
umbre vísi
Þurs er kvenna kvöl
ok kletta búi
ok varðrúnar verr.
Saturnus þengill.
Óss er algingautr
ok ásgarðs jöfurr,
ok valhallar vísi.
Jupiter oddviti.
Reið er sitjandi sæla
ok snúðig ferð
ok jórs erfiði.
iter ræsir.
Kaun er barna böl
ok bardaga [för]
ok holdfúa hús.
flagella konungr.
Hagall er kaldakorn
ok krapadrífa
ok snáka sótt.
grando hildingr.
Nauð er Þýjar þrá
ok þungr kostr
ok vássamlig verk.
opera niflungr.
Íss er árbörkr
ok unnar þak
ok feigra manna fár.
glacies jöfurr.
Ár er gumna góði
ok gott sumar
algróinn akr.
annus allvaldr.
Sól er skýja skjöldr
ok skínandi röðull
ok ísa aldrtregi.
rota siklingr.
Týr er einhendr áss
ok ulfs leifar
ok hofa hilmir.
Mars tiggi.
Bjarkan er laufgat lim
ok lítit tré
ok ungsamligr viðr.
abies buðlungr.
Maðr er manns gaman
ok moldar auki
ok skipa skreytir.
homo mildingr.
Lögr er vellanda vatn
ok viðr ketill
ok glömmungr grund.
lacus lofðungr.
Ýr er bendr bogi
ok brotgjarnt járn
ok fífu fárbauti.
arcus ynglingr.

***

The Icelandic Rune Poem
(in Modern English)
Wealth
source of discord among kinsmen
and fire of the sea
and path of the serpent.
Shower
lamentation of the clouds
and ruin of the hay-harvest
and abomination of the shepherd.
Giant
torture of women
and cliff-dweller
and husband of a giantess.
God
aged Gautr
and prince of Ásgarðr
and lord of Vallhalla.
Riding
joy of the horsemen
and speedy journey
and toil of the steed.
Ulcer
disease fatal to children
and painful spot
and abode of mortification.
Hail
cold grain
and shower of sleet
and sickness of serpents.
Constraint
grief of the bond-maid
and state of oppression
and toilsome work.
Ice
bark of rivers
and roof of the wave
and destruction of the doomed.
Plenty
boon to men
and good summer
and thriving crops.
Sun
shield of the clouds
and shining ray
and destroyer of ice.
Týr
god with one hand
and leavings of the wolf
and prince of temples.
Birch
leafy twig
and little tree
and fresh young shrub.
Man
delight of man
and augmentation of the earth
and adorner of ships.
Water
eddying stream
and broad geysir
and land of the fish.
Yew
bent bow
and brittle iron
and giant of the arrow.

***

There were several rune poems in Old Norse, basically set up as alphabet poems. Like many alphabet poems, they don’t attempt to create holistic narratives but essentially are a way of remembering the order of things. This one is so beautiful, though, with its tiny definitions that seem like the answer to riddles, that I know I won’t be able to resist its influence in terms of my own writing.
The work is off the web–no translator given–but thanks to whoever did it.

Jokulsarlon by Genevieve Fitzgerald

Jokulsarlon

 
Jokulsarlon, the glacial lagoon, floats strange muted icebergs, in a country that’s boiling inside. 
Unlike Greenland or Antarctica, those with towering mountains frozen, these icebergs though cold, hard, streaked with black, are somehow more gentle.  Their edges are softened, as if they know they could melt, indeed they have started; their jaggedness worn.  Opposing attributes, warmed cold, inextricably linked, create a new kind of existence, some clear like Coke bottle glass, some speckled, some striated. 
Hundreds of years part of a glacial mass, the bigness of ice separates now, adrift in the glacial lagoon.

Should I Take My Name “Mir” out of this poem?

I wrote this in Iceland two summers ago. A writer I respect just told me to remove my nickname “Mir”from the second to last line. What do you think?
***
In The White Night

something is beneath the surface
a dragon in the lake

how else does this steam rise
from the black volcanic beach

the sun won’t set but makes its round
strolling a circle of horizon

we stayed up so late talking about the past
it was like an extra dawn breaking

on the promenade in the white night
old couples, baby carriages, wheelchairs

I was surprised by the indifference I felt
for my old best friend–sleep

you said: you’re going to like the waterfall
because the road ends there

how did you know
I like being able to not go further

and you said: Mir
I’ve known you for a very long time

Iceland Poem by Genevieve Fitzgerald

Until reaching
                       
By the ocean…………………water lapping
Frigid water
He goes in.
Distracted……………………water lapping
Disconsolate                           
he goes in.
 
From the cliff edge…………..surf as background,
Puffin counting,
Ingi spies,
Ankle deep now……………..water lapping
Surf besotted,                        
Bjorn, his son:
 
Like he’s dancing
Hula dancing
Hips responding
To the waves
 
Scrambling shoreward………water pounding
Ingi feels the
sound of surf
Mesmerizing…………………water lapping;
In the ocean
In the waves
 
Reaching out as                      
Bjorn goes under,
Ingi finds a bit of cuff;
From the ocean’s
Heaving, lulling………………water lapping;
Hauls him gasping until reaching the black basalt stone and sand beach.
 

Iceland Green by Kerry Trautman

Iceland Green

Mom, you always told me that
Greenland is icy and
Iceland is green.
Green with birch trees and moss.
Because of the geysers
and steam
under the crust
under the green.

Then you should have known
about him,
about the green,

about the depth of green
and roots planted in crust,
in lava crust that crumbles loose
and gives way
and explodes
with a little pressure from
underneath.

Mom, you should have
known,
should have told me
more
about Iceland.

Icelandic Knitting

When I was in Iceland, one thing I really noticed was that knitting supplies are everywhere. There are huge sections devoted to yarn in an average supermarket, and every tiny convenience store also boosts wool and needles. Here is an excerpt from the NY Times on Icelandic knitting.I also learned that women often cut and then knit their own hair in the 19th and early 20th century! I actually saw capes made of knit hair in little local museums.
***
The knitter’s name was Ragga Eiriksdottir, and ever since the crash, she has been earning a living with her knitting….She started a business that publishes books and produces popular DVDs on the art of knitting. She also runs a series of “knitting tours” in which she escorts knitters from all over the world on trips around Iceland. Eiriksdottir’s first book came out around the time of the crash. The timing was perfect, she said, because Icelanders finally realized that “we weren’t good with money and that we should do something that we are actually good at.”
“Knitting is the opposite of idolizing money,” she explained. “Knitting embodies thriftiness and is something old that has been with the nation forever. In the 1800s, the state actually published documents that outlined how much citizens should knit. It was said, for example, that a child from the age of 8 should finish a pair of socks each week.”
Eiriksdottir continued with her work. I noticed that she was using a bizarre-looking needle.
“Is that a bone?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s a cow bone,” she replied, explaining that this is what they used in the old days. “I prefer it to the modern needle, especially with all the fuzzy Icelandic yarn.”
By JAKE HALPERN
Published: May 13, 2011
New York Times