Geirlaugur Magnússon

A little reflection on writing

Many people think poets are continually writing about their own lives, like a zealous Catholic who goes to confession if not every day, then at least every week. But that isn´t true. The speaker of the verse, whoever that may be, rarely presents a reflection or self-portrait of the poet, and at least as far as I am concerned is a person I hardly want to recognize, though I may nod to him if I am dressed in my finest bourgeois garb. He could be the cousin who ended up in prison or the schoolmate who got locked up in an asylum. Who knows? But that is not to say that his words are sheer nonsense or fabrication; I once heard a quote from an author whose name I have long since forgotten, that even though the events and characters in his works were fictional, no one could write about emotions without having felt them himself.

So what can be written about writing? I can only answer, writing, because I relish writing, like a boy who always goes down to the beach although he is strictly forbidden from going there and is always being told how dangerous it is when the tide comes in.

To conclude these scant words I would like to quote the British poet (and librarian) Philip Larkin:

I don´t understand those chaps who go around American Universities explaining how they write poems: it is like going around explaining how you sleep with your wife.

Geirlaugur Magnússon.

Translated by Bernard Scudder.

Anti-haiku, Romanticism and Politics: The Poet Geirlaugur Magnússon

I

In Safnborg (Collective City) (1993) by Geirlaugur Magnússon there is a poem called “andhækur” (“anti-haiku”) subtitled: “óskari árna”. The poet Óskar Árni is known for his promotion of the eastern poetical form of the haiku in Iceland (see article on Óskar Árni Óskarsson on this website). The haiku usually contains tranquil beautiful ambience, appearing very simple at first but revealing a whole world of symbols on a closer look. Geirlaugur’s anti-haiku certainly partly fit this description, while it is also safe to say that here we witness a rather more pessimistic and more banal moments than those readers have learned to expect from the haiku:

starbjört mýrin
enginn fugl
brosir mót myndavél

þokuslæðan
niðrundir augnabrún
finnsk vaðstígvél

dagblað
grotnar í vilpu
hvergi starf laust

í morgunkaffi
vestur alla götu
valla viðræðuhæfur

bókavörður
mæðist
yfir íbúatalinu

hækusmiður
ilmar af
hafragraut

(marsh full of straws
no bird
smiles for the camera

veil of fog
down to the eyebrows
finnish gum boots

newspaper
mouldering in the slough
no job available

for breakfast
west the whole street
barely fit for society

a librarian
worries
over the population register

haiku craftsman
fragrant with
porridge)

There is something amusingly bleak about these haiku, who are in addition all rather off - the bird, a symbol of freedom, smallness and heights, is far away, the fog is not a mysterious veil, rather it hangs in the eyebrows of the gum booted narrator, the newspaper offers no good tidings and then finally this fragrant porridge emerges.

This bleakness of the everyday is one of the characteristics of Geirlaugur’s poetry, appearing often in succinct lines of pessimism and cynicism, sometimes accompanied by pathos. A good example of this is the poem “Hversdagur” (“Everyday”) in Geirlaugur’s third book of poetry, Undan öxinni (Under the Axe) (1980), where “rósfingraðir vísar vekjarans” (“the rosy fingered hands of the clock”) attack the dreamless sleep of the narrator and the days begin, “þreytandi” (“tiring”), “þrúgandi” (“languorous”), “sállaus” (“soulless”), a watery coffee and more watered out stories of sex; “ölvaður sjónvarpsgeislanum / dett inní draumlausan svefn” (“drunken from the tv-beam / fall into a dreamless sleep”). Here the everyday is actually the subject of the poem; however, it is more common for it to appear in other ways in the poems, often amusingly mixed with somewhat high-flown reflections, almost always bound in hearty language, as in the poem “17. júní á eystrasalti” (“June 17 on the Baltic sea”) from Þrítengt (Triconnection) (1996). The narrator starts by saying that he has left “miðnætursólina eftir heima / hjá söddum lömbum / og nautheimskum folöldum” (“the midnight sun behind / with full lambs / and stupid foals” who are waiting for the summer. Thus he makes his escape before they start “grenja þjóðsönginn / klæmast við fjallkonuna / míga utan í ingólf” (“screaming the national anthem / talk dirty to the woman of the mountains / piss at ingólfur’s pedestal”). The last verses seem to take place on the journey, we meet with a toll keeper and the truck driver caron who “kveikir í tveimur vodkaglösum” (“lights two glasses of vodka”) and all ends with “plastmánar speglast í grugguri höfn” (“plastic moons reflecting in a muddy harbor”) and the fairy lady whom the narrator tried to loose is nowhere to be found. Clearly, the reader is not likely to stumble over optimism and joie de vivre here!

II

This sharp and abrasive use of language makes the poems somehow swollen with the spirit of narrative and this is one of the things that make Geirlaugur’s poetry interesting and memorable. Geirlaugur is a productive poet and has also turned his hand at translations, particularly focusing on Polish poetry. He has also applied himself to the poetry of young poets, encouraging them by reviewing their books. Geirlaugur is also referred to as one of the so-called ‘northern’ poets (others include for example Gyrðir Elíasson, Óskar Árni Óskarsson, Sigurlaugur Elíasson), and some of his books were published by Norðan° niður (North° down, not really a publishing press, more like a signature). In his poetry, Geirlaugur often refers to these poets - in fact he refers to myriad of poets, as allusions to poets and their poetry is a common theme in Geirlaugur’s poetry. Geirlaugur is, as already said, particularly known for his succinct and often harsh language and is in the possession of many cool and impressive words.

This usage of language often creates an ambience of a much tighter form, metres, rhymes and rhythm, than is actually present. In fact Geirlaugur does writes in such traditional form in between. Some of the poems in Dýra líf (Animal/Expensive Life) (2004) are a good example of this, appearing very tightly bound, looking like sonnets, without actually fulfilling all the rules of that form. There is though some rhyming and suchlike, but still it is mainly the large, and I allow myself to call them masculine, words that take over like in the poem “grimmdardagurinn” (“the cruel day”) where we meet with a “meinhornamúsík í meinvarpi / mínusar út meint meinsæri / helsæri og öll þín særindi / rofin hryglunni í meinsemdinni” (“malicious music in the mean-radio / minus-ing out the meant perjury / lethal injury and all your grievances / ruptured by the rattle in the malignancy“). On its own this is delightfully thrilling and refreshing, but I have to admit that after having read through ten poems of this kind I had had my fill. Perhaps it is best to taste one at the time rather than plunging through the book like it was a buffet?

This is not saying that such rampant language is Geirlaugur’s only expression, he can also write refined and disciplined poetry. The first part of the book Sannstæður (True-standing/piles) (1990), also called “Sannstæður” is a collection of short cool poems; many of those are among the poet’s best. They may not all be meekly expressed as the poem “undir yfir og altumkring” (“under, over and all-around”), where “banvænir skógarþrestir” (“lethal thrushes”) fly aimlessly around the “brunarústir dagsins” (“burned ruins of the day”), also we meet with “vængstýfð ránfygli” (“birds of pray without wings”) and “elliær ljón” (“senile lions”). This is the “síðasta hljómkviða / saklausra skógarpúka” (“last symphony / of innocent fauns”). Probably it is the word “senile” that makes me feel like I am present at an old people’s home, where the guest is rather uncomfortably reminded of the burned ruins of life. Part of these poems seem like a kind of an ode to the body, such as “innan í vefnum” (“inside the web/tissue”) where “leifar ókominna daga” (“the remains of days yet to come”) and “mergur stórra drauma” (“the marrow of big dreams”) appear:

keiluspil kúpunnar

hugleikur vona
í glitrandi vef

(the bowling of the scull/dome

hopes’ play of thought
in a glittering web)

It is not easy to say what is going on her, are we located within the tissues of the body, or even the glittering web of the spider? The line about “the remains of days yet to come” could be a follow-up on the hopes’ play of thought, which seem to be stuck in the web, like the future is already mapped out, a thread in the hands of the norns of fate - or what? It can be great fun to grapple with Geirlaugur’s poetry; the words are tickling and the imagery powerful and cool. Poems like “utan úr skógi” (“from the woods”) are considerably easier. There we meet a miserable and weaponless hunter and a wolf: “draumsóleyar fórnarlygar / drambarfi kynslóðanna” (“dream-buttercups sacrificial lies / the arrogant inheritance of the generations”) and this is supposed to be little red riding hoods past. But is this really that much easier? Here we have a wolf, a hunter, flower and little red riding hood, all what we need for a fairy tale, but it does seem that something has gone wrong on the way, the hunter is not much use in a struggle, the wolf has been granted truce and the flowers have turned into sacrificial lies. Little red riding hood’s past is apparently bound in this sacrificial lies and inheritance of arrogance.

We meet again with Little Red Riding Hood in the book N er aðeins bókstafur (N is Just a Letter) (2003) in a section called “út’er ævintýri” (“And here the story ends”). The poems of this part are completely different from the short sharp ones, they are verbal and fast, almost excited. Little Red Riding Hood has become rather more realistic and the narrator is placed in her shoes as he looks at the dark and cold forest. However

hún amma var bara heima eins og öll hin skammaðist
í pabba fyrir að drekka svona mikið á hverjum degi
fer ég inn í skóginn þar sem er kalt og myrkt er ekki kalt og
myrkt hjá þér þarna fyrir norðan þaðan sem þú komst
og þú dylst væla þar ekki úlfar meðan ég lýg að þér og
drekk of mikið eins og hann pabbi þinn

(grandmother was just at home like all the others railing
at dad for drinking so much every day
I go into the forest where it is cold and dark is it not cold and
dark where you are in the north where you came from
and you hide do wolfs not cry there while I lie to you and
drink too much like your father)

III

This play with the fairy tale, where something has gone wrong while the fairy tale is simultaneously used as a symbol, is an interesting symptom in Geirlaugur’s poetry. He refers much to legends and folk tales - dragons and princesses are for example an amusing leitmotif through all the books: the hero on the white horse sleeps while the nails of the streets of hope “vinna á drekunum” (“bring the dragons down”) in “Vonarstrætin” (“Streets of hope”) (Nýund (Newish) 2000). He sleeps and dreams about the princess - “þá eðlu ósnertanlegu frú” (“that noble and untouchable lady”) and “vaknar loks innst í þyrniskógi / hvar sækja að honum / skjaldarmerkjaljón og púkar” (“finally wakes up in a forest of thorns / where he is attacked by / blazoned lions and demons”). An example of a recurrent theme from legends is Icaros, appearing for an example in the poem “flug” (“flying”) (áleiðis áveðurs (onwards windwards) 1986), where the narrator reflects on the gravity holding us to the earth and announces his displeasure in birds: “sjálfselskir eiginhreiðursdútlarar / og svanasaungurinn tilfinníngalaust garg / sem og annar skáldskapur” (“selfish nesters / and the singing of swans callous shriek / like any other poetry”). Then he compares himself to Icaros, saying that both trust “blint / því sem leysist upp / í sólskini” (“blindly / what melts / in the sun”). According to the legend Icaros was killed because the wax holding his artificial wings together melted when he flew to close to the sun. We are again reminded of the bird who did not appear in the anti-haiku, here Geirlaugur is still against traditional symbols of poetry - the singing of swans - while he also uses them, for Icaros is often figured as the symbol of the artist, the one who wishes to fly so high, but must also risk the crash.

In Ítrekað (Iterated) (1988) we meet with two characters from tales, the little girl with the matchsticks, who lights herself in the beginning of a “ferð” (“journey”) which ends with the road turning into a string around her neck “brátt herðir ferðin að” (“soon the journey will tighten”). Later the deacon of Myrká, from the classic Icelandic ghost story with the same name, appears in the poem “fylgd” (“escort”), which is a very smart variation on the story:

einhver
á ferð gegnum nóttina

hundur hans
túnglið
hríngsnýst
um latræknar stjörnur

gjammandi túngl

á ferð gegnum nóttina
leiðin öll
leiðarendi

marrar í nýsnævinu

einhver á ferð
ekki jólasveinninn
álfakonungurinn

sér hvergi
í hvítan blett á hnakka.

(someone
is traveling through the night

his dog
the moon
spinning
around the lazy stars

howling moon

traveling through the night
the whole road
end of the road

crunch in the new snow

someone traveling
not santa claus
the king of fairies

a white spot in the back of the head
is nowhere to be seen)

Those who know the story will probably become a bit surprised at the end, when the ghost of the deacon actually does not appear as would have been exepected - much as in the tale of Little Red Riding Hood, we are not really where we thought we were.

The folk tale - legend, fairy tale - also appears in the words and metaphors and plays a considerable part in the rich language of the poet. After a long journey in a night-train with screaming teenagers in the poem “Næturferð” “(“Night-journey”) in Nýund, childhood appears “undir morgun / með neðansjávarborgir / græn tígrisdýr og dverg í hverjum steini // að færa þér huliðshjálm” (“in the morning / with underwater cities / green tigers and a dwarf in every stone // bringing you a cloak of invisibility”). In Þrítengt we meet sea folk; a girl with a sealskin and a merman in the poem “Blá mynd á kyrri nótt” (“A blue image on a still night”), where a cave awaits its sea folk who are a girl who has lost her sealskin, a crying big-eyed fish and the merman of dreams. The ocean is seething and dark eyed sharks swim there “í leit að / væntumþykju og ævintýrum” (“looking for / caring and friendship”): “bláar raddir gára nóttina / öldukjökur gjálfrar við sand” (“blue voices ripple the night / the cry of the wave gurgles by the sand”).

In Þrisvar sinnum þrettán (Three Times Thirteen) (1994) the “fylgjurnar ekki allar brosmildar” (“fetches are not all smiling”) in the poem “Leiðarminni” (“Leitmotif”) and in “Kreppa” (“Depression”) “margur álfakóngurinn / fjarri / viti og kletti // finngálknið / társtokkið / fingurgullið týnt” (“many an elfen king / is far / from his wisdom and his rock // the finngálkn monster / tearful / the ring lost”). And in Þrítíð (Tritimes) (1985) we find ourselves at “ókunnum fjöruborðum / í / leit að // löllum mórum skottum” (“strange shores / looking / for // sea creatures old ghosts female ghosts”). In all these examples the imagery of the folk tale is used for a different purpose, the folk tale in “Næturferð” is clearly a symbol of childhood memories, “Blá mynd” is an atmospheric poem about the ocean, a kind of a blues, “Leiðarminni” and the poem from Þrítíð project loneliness, and “Kreppa” is a political censure.

Christian imagery is also widely evident. In the first poem of Dýra líf, to take an example, the poet is like Jesus at the last supper. The poem is called “til lesenda” (“to readers”), and the narrator greets all twelve of us, wishing, however, that “á stórhátíðum / í tertu og gjafastað / að ykkur fækki um einn” (“at high holidays / instead of a cake and presents / you will become one less”). He seeks the taste of poison on his lips and “er vart snúinn frá / þegar þyrpist að myntsláttunni / þar sem greiddar eru út þrjátíu í senn” (“has barely turned away / when crowds appear around the mintage / where thirty are being paid out at a time”). Here the poet is joking cynically about his readership. Thirty coins also appear in the poem “í grasgarðinum” (“in the garden of Gethsemane”) and Christmas night appears to us in “nóttin ágæt ein” (“that special night”), it is full of “drottningum / hröfnum óðum hundum” (“queens / ravens mad dogs”).

IV

Despite those bleak undertones the reader cannot help experiencing a certain kind of romanticism in Geirlaugur’s poetry, which should perhaps be called anti-romanticism in the spirit of the anti-haiku. This (anti)romanticism appears most clearly in reflections about the poet’s image and existence and is at time related to the theme of the mundane. In Fátt af einum (Nothing Newsworthy) (1982) we meet the romantic poet and its death in a nameless poem. The narrator asks why the great poet and genius recognized all the flowers; “vart til að detta / dauðadrukkinn í stiga / að slíkt / yrði tíska / allsráðandi yfirþyrmandi / nýjasta / tíska” (“hardly to fall / drunk down the steps / that this /would become fashionable / dominant overwhelming / latest / fashion”). There are more references to the Icelandic poet Jónas Hallgrímsson (1807-1845) in Geirlaugur’s poetry in the book, later there is still a greeting “til þín / á laugaveginum / sértu ekki komin til hafnar” (“to you / on laugavegurinn / if you are not already in copenhagen”). And it is this aura of drunken poets that I am calling (anti)romanticism. We have already met with in the anti-haiku where the “barely fit for society” narrator has appeared for breakfast. In “Hversdagurinn” (“The Everyday”) we also come across drinking, and hangovers, vodka and piss-up is the theme of “17. júní á eystrasalti” ("june 17th in the baltic sea") and in Sannstæður we are “innan um veigarnar” (“among the beverages”):

píkuskrækirnir brotnu glösin
samviskubitið kvalalostinn

skáldamjöðurinn

göróttur klígjukenndur
blandinn skaðvænu litaskyni

(the feminine shrieks broken glasses
guilt sadism

the mead of poetry

pungent nauseating
mixed with a maleficent sense of colours)

Here we witness the traces of romanticism mixed with the legend, the mead of the poetry with all its pain and hallucination is after all, a matter of good poetry. The poem “frelsi” (“freedom”) from Safnborg also presents drinking at the edge of poetry, were the narrator “dvelst” (“dwells”) “löngum á kránni” (“long at the pub”) where the drunks bring news about the Viking attacks on the shore. It is late and someone starts to “falbjóða hengilása / gljáfægja martraðir / feta einstigi hræðslu hungurs / aðeins í hlekkjum færð varist / aðeins í dýflissu er vært” (“offer padlocks for sale / polishing nightmares / tread the narrow path of fear hunger / defense is only possible in chains / only the dungeon offers peace”). The reader can not help suspecting that the chains and the dungeon is the alcohol, which also seems to be connected with freedom. “Þankar miðaldra drykkjumanns í miðbæ Reykjavíkur” (“The Thoughts of a Middle-Age Drunkard in the Reykjavík City Centre”) is the name of a long poem in Nýund, starting thus:

1.
morgunógleðin
ekki þó sú stórra væntinga

birtir of snemma of ört
órói á þilinu öllum hvelum
og líffærum

ljótasti köttur bæjarins
orðinn að stoltu tígrisdýri

lítur ekki við hvaða bráð sem er

(1.
morning sickness
though not the one of great expectations

daylight too early too fast
restlessness on the wall all domes
and organs

the ugliest cat in town
has become a proud tiger

does not bother with just any pray)

Again we see how the contrasts play with each other, and again we see some strange image of the wild freedom amidst the despair and desolation.

In the poem “Að vakna” (“To Wake Up”) from Þrisvar sinnum þrettán a drunken man falls down the stairs again ...

V

Politics, as already stated, are also a thread in Geirlaugur’s poetry, already witnessed in the poem about the depression. The political censure is also related to the theme of the mundane, painted by Geirlaugur in such strong bleak colours, and this might even be seen as some kind of a social realism; when I speak of politics I am also referring to a social criticism. In the first poem of Geirlaugur’s first book, Annaðhvort eða (Either Or) (1974) we meet Mao, Che and Marx in the love-poem “Til þín” (“To You”). “Sigur” (“Victory”) from Undir öxinni (Under the Axe, 1980) describes the imagined dream-revolutions of poetry and adventures: “byltíngar / sem heppnuðust / í heilaberkinum / þá lýkur / hniprumst / undir valdastólnum” (“revolutions / which succeeded / in the cortex / when over / curling / under the chair of power”).

In “Vorljóð” (“Spring-poem”) in the book Ítrekað, Geirlaugur uses the imagery of a revolution to protest against spring which threatens “að eyða gjöreyða / myrkrinu úr hugskotinu / og reka glám / tryggðavininn eina / í útlegð” (“to destroy mass-destroy / the darkness from the corner of the mind / to expel glámur / the faithful only friend / into exile” (glámur is a evil ghost from the Icelandic Sagas)), yes “þyrpumst út á göturnar” (“lets pile unto the streets”) to prevent this misfortune! The values of the bourgeoisie get thumped in a poem from Þrisvar sinnum þrettán, where the narrow straight road of “blindrar réttsýni” (“blind righteousness”) is walked, extinguishing “í augum lífstíðarglampa” (“the flame of a lifetime in the eyes”). In Nýtíð the target is “samtökin að elska náunga sinn” (“the organization to love your neighbour”) in “Samtök” (“Organization”), the myth about Baldur’s death seems somehow implicated. “Fundur” (“A Meeting”) in the same book is also a political poem studded with folk tale themes, “mættir / uppskafningurinn ódámurinn meðaltalsróninn / skoffínið afi skoffínsins” (“present / the upstart the bastard the average bum / the skoffín the skoffín’s grandfather” (skoffín is the progeny of a female cat and a male fox)) as well as revenants and the brothers of Bakki (folk-tale clown-figures):

hvarf ég heim eða að heiman jesús hafði tólf lærisveina
tólf voru riddarar hringborðsins klukkan tólf og tólf fylgdu
castró til fjalla fögur er fjallasýnin í þoku pólitísk viðrini
hugmyndafræðileg úrhrök leita algildis í sexinu eru hálfir
tólf fyllist og uppfyllist kringlan og jarðkringlan nægilegt
óplægt land á júpíter plútó mars

(gone home or from home jesus had twelve disciples
twelve where the knights of the round table at twelve and twelve escorted
castro to the mountain beautiful is the view of the mountains in fog political freaks
ideological outcasts looking for absolute value in the sex are half
twelve prospering and full-filling the disk and the earth-disk plentiful
unharvested land on jupiter pluto mars)

Yes, there is plenty going on in this text and not easy to see what is being criticized, or whether this is a criticism at all, could it perhaps rather be called a kind of an appraisal? Or even a satire. Good examples of highly satirical and titteringly funny satirical poems are found in the first part of Dýra líf. There we meet with “mömmudrengurinn” (“the mother’s boy”) who is “nær / alblindur því það augað sem ekki / nælt í bankabókina límist fast við / morgunspegilinn” (“almost / totally blind because the one eye that is not / pinned to the bank account is stuck to / the morning mirror”). And then he demands confirmation fiestas on a regular basis! Here Geirlaugur is making fun at the little yuppies in delightfully nasty and well written poetry. “Hagsvínið” (“The Economic Pig”), for an example, lives “samkvæmt fræðikenn / ingunni að þjóðarhagur sé / eigin hagur” (“according to the academic / theory that a national profit is / his own profit”).

VI

While this article has stressed certain lines in Geirlaugur’s poetry it would not at all be correct to infer that these exhaust the capricious life of his poetry. Geirlaugur has written beautiful and tranquil poems about little birds (in one of them the little bird is actually a cannibal), love, words and the poem itself, his narrators wrestle with angst, loneliness and self-destruction, and of course, poetry itself. I would like to end this overview on one such poem about poetry, the ninth poem in the long poem “Dúfnaútgerð” (“Dove-fishery”) (Nýund) which describes so beautifully the poet’s earth-bound approach to the art of poetry - the everyday of the fisherman - and is also studded with humour, beauty and depths:

IX

ósköp lítil útgerð
einn skræpóttur
ljóðtogari

sem lónar í landhelgi

smýgur milli
landfastra neta
kastar smáriðnu

eftir dumbrauðum ljóðfiskum

flötum og blindum
milli steina
á illfærum botni

kankvísir og eiturslungnir

að smjúga
hvert net
tæta hverja vörpu

og nást aldrei
nema kafað sé eftir þeim

(IX

hardly an enterprise
one gaudy
poetry-trawler

lazing in territorial waters

slipping between
the nets, bound to land
throwing the small-meshed one

to catch the dark-red fish of poetry

flat and blind
between the stones
on the ill traveled bottom

arch and devilishly clever

to slip
though each net
tearing every trawl

and are never caught
unless you dive for them)

© Úlfhildur Dagsdóttir, 2005

Nomination

2005 - The Icelandic Translator´s Prize: Lágmynd by the Polish poet Tadeusz Rózewicz.