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

Week of Bird Poetry: #1: With Holm in Hofsos by Bruce Noll

With Holm in Hofsos

We were in a little village
on the north coast of Iceland
when Bill, who lived there
part of each year, invited me
for a ride in his old Chevrolet.
“I want you to see
a place I go when I need
to get away,” he said.
Odd, I thought, already we were
on the edge of the Arctic Sea.

In a mile or two he turned off
the narrow road onto an open flat
on the edge of the fiord.

“Now, when we get out, move
slow and be careful to follow me.
Watch where you step . . . ”

Terns flew up by the score,
hovering a few yards above nests,
like marker flags above the rough.

“Don’t get to close, came the
warning, their beaks are sharp
and their determination quick.”

The simplicity of place
is, as it should be,
a guarded space.

Bruce Noll
(For Bill Holm…1943-2009)

Missing Iceland: Black Glacier

I’m missing Iceland, which I was looking forward to a year ago. I remember when Kath and I moved into the apartment in Laugervatn–there was an odd black dust on the balcony…well, of course it turned out to be volcanic ash. When we drove to Vic, and saw the black glacier, the ash was still so thick that it was being removed hourly from the highway. I was recently thinking about that Icelandic wind–an open car door resulted in outward rush of maps, candy wrappers, cups, bathing suits…everything.

***

Black Glacier

intimation of ice sheet
volcanic ash covers the highway

black waves on the black beach
rush like terrifying horses

red church at Vic
or the stone monument to lost seamen

at the southernmost tip
shape of a rune poem

name of this dipthong
which is either god or barley corn

(or both)

volcanic islands, striding trolls
turned to stone by daylight

although you longed eventually for darkness
black headed gull and the arctic terns

spelled out an alphabet of birds
on the sea’s black page.

Keflavik

Keflavik

The satellite dish
In Iceland
Tracks sputnik
And my childhood
Hiding under the desk
From Russian bombs
Tracks dream
Tracks the inner fire
Of planets and the coldness
Of asteroids

The abandoned army base
With its bulbous tower striped white and red
Domes, geodesic structures,
Its tanks with haunting moonshell staircases
Seagulls perched on streetlamps
Barracks now full of students
Jets taking skyward
And everywhere the smell of the sea…

Tracks departure
Tracks my dead grandparents
Spooning borscht
Tracks how Russian
The Russian Jews still are
As packed and dressed
I must return and sit for a moment
In the apartment by the lake
So I’ll return
To Iceland

Tracks muffled oars
Mist
New found land
Earth’s satellite
The moon
I haven’t seen emerge
Even once
In a month of these white nights…

***

There is actually a B & B on the former Nato base where I slept my last night in Iceland.

Riddle

A Riddle

not dawn or dream
but in-between

a mossy field
a clefted rock

fissure, split
harelip, gap

fire’s element
path of the serpent

hillock or stone
home to the elf

the giant is husband
to the giantess

what you can’t touch
cannot caress

for it is neither craft
nor art

some say the deepest of crevasse–
the human heart