by Luke Maguire Armstrong
There are a number of theories out there about why Iceland is such a land of blossoming poetic. Though I met one expat, living there who thought the famed of the Icelandic poetry tradition was hype, my experience was that Iceland is a place where poetry lurks around every corner.
In Iceland one poet, when he told his parents that he was going to be a poet, was met with elation, not despair as I can imagine this conversation going in many Western households. In Iceland everyone is reading and writing. Everyone is a musician or a painter; everyone has someone in their family who has written a book.
Iceland is a country of majestic landscapes containing sheep speckled countrysides. The surroundings fueled my pen to jot scores of poems there. I learned as much as I could about the poetic tradition of Iceland, so rich it is.
Icelandic Poetry
I am writing this brief tour of the Icelandic Poetry Tradition from a loft in New York, where I am being visited by a poet I met in Iceland, HEK. He is also a musician, and was just signed yesterday. Not bad for five days in New York. The assessment of the current poetry scene in Iceland comes from HEK. The summary of the tradition comes from careful Googling.
In Iceland one and ten people will publish a book in their lifetime. Many of these are personal memoirs. Icelandic people are proud of their Icelandic tradition and they like learning about their history. Their history is one partly told through their poetry.
The Icelandic Sagas are prose stories that recount the history of early Viking voyages.
Icelandic Skaldic poetry tradition was written by skalds, which referred to Icelandic poets. Skaldic poetry was sung to honor nobles and kings, and to recall historic events or battles. Many are satirical and witty, using employing quirky language and humor. These poems are known for their complexity. Each has eight lines, each with six syllables and the lines are rhymed utilizing, alliteration, half rhyme and full rhyme.
These poets were not the pale sorts that haunted libraries. They were warrior poets recounting their victories. This is as example from the 55 chapter of Elgis saga Skallagrímsson, the saga of Egill Skallagrîmsson, a warrior poet from the 10th century:
It was a warrior’s
Work, to hang this gold band
Round an arm where the hawks ride
Ready to do my will.And see how I make my sword
Summon the ring to its
Arm. There’s skill to this. But
The prince claims greater praise.”
Icelandic Eddas
Before Skaldic poetry there was the Eddas, which is an Old Norse word that means great-grandmother. These were written in the 10th century and are a collection of poems of Norse mythology and legends.
Icelandic poets, like poets everywhere at the time, eased off during the Dark Ages. But there was certainly poetry still happening then. The arrival of Christianity caused the themes of poems to switch focus from kings and warrior to Christian themed praise of religious figures. An example comes to us from Eysteinn Ágrímsson, who was a monk and Scald poet active in the mid fourteenth century. His poem The Lily is considered the perfection of the Skald tradition. Here is a translated excerpt:
Mary! Of mothers you are the dearest.
Mary! Nobly on high you live.
Mary! In mercy you are the clearest!
Mary! The scourge of sin you relieve.
Mary! Many were the failings.
Mary! Watch the tears and grieve.”
Eggert Ólaffson was a poet active in the 18th century who was heavily influenced by the Enlightenment when it swept through the Icelandic tradition. This is an expert from his Travel Verses:
We have travelled far across the land,
marshes, deserts, lava, sand,
glaciers, rivers, mountains steep,
caves, cliffs and chasms deep –
a comfortable journey from start to end.”
But in the 19th Century the romanticism that was invading the world arrived in Iceland and poetry returned in full force to the elf swept lands. The tradition in this period developed from the Old Icelandic Poetry before it. These poems utilized alliteration, steadfast rhythm, and a coherent length of line and stanza. Imagery comes from old mythology and medieval literature.
In the late 1950s and 1960s a new generation of poets took the scene in Iceland, that altered the language and subject matter of the poetry. This was the first time that taboo elements were introduced to the tradition and it was marked by a change in vocabulary and style. Following the World Wars was a time of great shift in the Icelandic economy. Vhildren of farmers began flocking to Reykjavik for an urban existence. Touching on this theme is the modern Icelandic poet Sigurdur Pálson in her poem Wild Youth:
Crumbling bread behind the sofa
Plucking the buds from the most optimistic flower
Cursing in church as much as you dare
Making garlands of swearwords in the meadow
Blocking the waterbutt Darting after the chickens
Throwing rocks into the yard Pissing on the dog
Then going inside and kissing mother, smiling.”
This brief trip through Icelandic poetry is a scratch in a rich tradition. Today, Iceland continues to publish poetry books by the volume, many have been translated into English. Their population may be small, but their contributions to literature are unrivaled.
Landmannalaugar and Hekla Volcano Guided Day Tour from Reykjavik
If You Go:
♦ Iceland’s International Literary Festival happens annually in September.
♦ Those interested in Icelandic sagas can check in Saga Trail a website designed to connect with saga-related sites.
♦ In Reykjavick the Eymundsson Bookstore is an iconic bookstore founded in 1872 with two locations in the capital which carry a number of Icelandic translated works in English.
About the author:
Luke Maguire Armstrong is an author and travel writer who has spent the last six years working in human rights and development from Guatemala to Kenya to The Bronx. His work was featured on ABC news 20/20 with Christiane Amanpour and in The Huffington Post, among other mainstream TV, radio and print media. He is a speaker and author of four books, including “How We Are Human” and “iPoems For the Dolphins to Click Home About.” Follow him @LukeSpartacus and he will sing you songs.
All photos by Luke Armstrong.
On the climb to the entrance of Font-de-Gaume, we are told Cro-Magnon man was not so different from us. If he was in a suit and got on a bus today, you would not think twice about it, the guide delightedly relays. In the cave, one of the last in France with polychrome paintings still open to the public, the guide constantly reminds us to not touch the walls or brush against the paintings. Many have deteriorated with age and some are marred by graffiti. It’s dark and damp but when the lights shine on a frieze, there are audible gasps of appreciation at the vitality, colours, and exactness of scale of the animals. Some outlines are engraved while others make use of the rocks’ curvatures to give depth. Bison, reindeer, mammoths, and little black-brown horses are mixed with a variety of undeciphered symbols. Some figures are static and others portray motion quite effectively. A favourite scene features a long-antlered reindeer licking the head of another kneeling opposite in a moving display of tenderness. After leaving the darkness of Font-de-Gaume, we meander northwards along the Vézère River to Lascaux II, a cave near Montignac.
Grotte de Lascaux’s streams of ochre and black bison careening over its walls are the classics of cave paintings. They are the earliest known examples of representational art at a mind-boggling 17,000 years old. Access to the originals is highly restricted as the cave was closed to the public in 1963 to protect the paintings from further deterioration caused by visitors’ body heat and breathing. The French government built Lascaux II nearby, a precise centimetre-by-centimetre replication of two galleries of the original cave. The public can again browse the tableaux detailing the story of a hunt. In some places, entire sections of the walls and ceiling are teeming with stampedes of stags, horses, ibexes, and long horned bulls. As stunning as the display is, it is difficult to forget we are not in the original and the visit feels somewhat stilted. I want another “real” cave to visit.
We head for Grotte du Pech-Merle by the Lot River. Photo 2 On our way south, we pass through towns perched precipitously on hilltops; golden-stoned Turenne and the pilgrimage destination of Rocomadour. Photo 3 & 4 The region is known for truffles and foie gras so food is elevated, as only the French can, to almost impossible culinary standards. Even small country restaurant menus have one or both of those luxurious ingredients prominently featured. Did our prehistoric relatives hunt for truffles to garnish their bison?
I believe the title of that conference couldn’t have been more appropriate and topical. The island of Cyprus is divided into two parts, despite the international community does not approve this division. The north has been occupied by the Turkish army in the Seventies, and since then there is a government that totally depends on Ankara.
Later on, the south of the island gained its independence but Turkey never gave up the northern territories despite the international community condemned the occupation. That’s why no international flights are scheduled to Northern Cyprus (complete name: Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus) and Ercan Airport is not listed in any official document that regulates the international air traffic. All the flights to Ercan originate from Turkey and, according to the international law, they technically invade the air space of a sovereign country (the Republic of Cyprus, member of the European Union) and land there illegally.
Early in the morning I walk from the guesthouse to the conference center. At eight o’clock it is already warm and the valley which extends beneath the campus towards the south seemed a strip of desert painted in watercolors that gently merged with the Troodos mountains. To the west, the deep blue of the Mediterranean Sea pops up from a remarkable distance. The sunbeams reflected by its surface must have looked exactly the same way 10.000 years earlier when human settlements were already spread throughout the island, making it one of the oldest signs of civilization.
Kyrenia is probably the Cypriot town that better shows this extraordinary heritage at once. On the initial slope of the mountains located right on its back, an imposing Gothic structure known as Bellapais Abbey offers a 3 miles view over an unexpectedly luxuriant vegetation, white villas and turquoise sea. Bellapais is also famous because it’s linked to the British novelist Lawrence Durrell, who lived in that village for some years while he wrote an autobiographical work titled Bitter Lemons of Cyprus.
The inner courtyard of Kyrenia castle is vast and adorned by blossoming plants and palm trees, which grow at the margin of a dusty field. Somewhere, in a privileged position, it is possible to spot two imposing loggias with lancet arch from which the king and the queen used to watch the games organized on this big open space. The first level of the castle hosts the living quarters, a shipwreck museum and some amazing rooms that offer an authentic medieval atmosphere. Finally, from the circular bastion on the upper level it is possible to admire the picturesque harbor, usually full of ships docked next to the terraces of many bars and restaurants. It’s a lively image of people and colors, hectic tourists walking back and forth or lazy patrons sprawled on wicker chairs sipping cocktails in the mid-afternoon.
Once the conference was over, it was time for me to fly back home. The taxi drove along the motorway through the countryside. The dominant color was due to the yellowish vegetation; the light outside was blinding even despite the tinted glasses of the car. I passed the security check and boarded. The plane took off and climbed out of Ercan’s runway. I tried to spot from that height the campus, the castle and olive groves but something else caught my attention instead: a pair of giant flags drawn on the mountains. The drawings depicted the Turkish flag on the left and, next to it, a rectangle with reversed colors that has been adopted by the Northern Cyprus as their national symbol. A motto accompanied the flags: Ne mutlu Türküm diyene (“How happy is the one who says I am Turkish”).
The Tour will start near Leeds Town Hall, built between 1853-1858 to the design of the Paris-trained Hull-born architect Cuthbert Broderick. The 225-feet high building was the tallest in Leeds for nearly a century. It was opened by Queen Victoria, and copied across Britain and the British Empire.
The museum is housed in the old Mechanics’ Institute, which was also designed by Broderick. The City Museum dates from 1821, but moved and closed several times, before reopening in its current home in 2008. It has free entrance.
Returning to the city centre, the Corn Exchange is another Broderick-designed building. It is one of only three Victorian corn exchanges still being used for retail, with stylish shops and restaurants now trading under the oval glass roof.
Leeds races fundraising in honour of Jane Tomlinson usually pass down Briggate. Her athletic achievements and fundraising efforts while battling cancer between 2000 and 2006 raised the profile of Leeds endurance events, and along with several Leeds and Yorkshire medallists at London 2012, helped bring the Tour de France to Leeds. Leeds is also home to the Yorkshire cricket team, with the English and Welsh league formatted around counties. Yorkshire has won the most county championships in the league’s history. The last was in 2001.
There is now a Brownlee triathlon in support of Macmillan cancer support at Harewood House, and this is an example of how nature and sport go hand in hand together in Leeds and Yorkshire.
Our trip began with a short walk from the bus stop at Saint-Jean-du-Gard, treading the bridge over the historic Gardon River, to the the small square abutting the quaint train station. Our locomotive was already huffing and puffing in anticipation; its passengers choosing their carriages with puzzled analysis. Chatter proved easy between travellers and we struck up conversation with a gentleman from a small town in England who popped down to the south for a brief one week junket as he was wont to do on occasion.
Slowly we ground to a halt for the Bambouseriae (Bamboo Garden) where those wishing to do so disembarked for a tour of this unique jungle that pulls in 150,000 visitors per year. The 10 hectare walk can eat up an hour and half easily so a visit takes some planning and scheduling. Fortunately the return trip comes through two hours later. From our perch high above the park we could espy the tangled canopy and winding trails.
We were catching the bus back to Nimes from Anduze and so had leisurely time to explore this historical gateway to the Cevennes. For those taking the train back they had time for at least a quick stroll about town. Home to a population of 3000, down from its formative years, the Anduze area has evidence of habitation from prehistoric times and was a Gallo-Roman settlement. Here, in the 10th century, the Siegneurie of Anduze was established.
Anduze and its area was long a Protestant holdout during the terrible religious wars of France and suffered for it.
