Opnaðu hug þinn. gakktu hjóðlega.
Open your mind, tread softly.
– a sign at the start of the walking paths on Hrísey
While attending an art residency on the island of Hrísey I felt compelled to write poetry again. There was little wonder why this happened. The island’s landscapes whispered inspiration at every turn.
A long path led the traveler through fields of mountain grass, heather, evergreens, and dwarf birch. Eventually, the fjord came into view, hugging the island in its dramatic embrace.
The winding path leads you to the sea cliffs where Eiders gather and Fulmars soar. The air here was thick with the pungent smell of the sea, and the waves crashed where the water met land.
In the spring, the island comes to life with bird song. Jubilant red wings, peeping oystercatchers, and the haunting cries of the Gullimots fill the once-silent nights.
It was a magical place, far away from Iceland’s mainstream tourism and bustling waterfalls.
It felt like home.
Three Poems from Hrísey
The Screams
It was a barefoot climb over the cold-pressed slab and stones
Crashing waves
Laughing gulls
None were silenced by my screams;
The deep blue of the ocean
Salted air, sun-kissed skin
Snowy fjord
Silver glimmering sea;
Face the sun I said
Face the sun, I did
The grasses burned golden.
Akureyri
I thought of you often
In the listless summer nights
When thunder crackled
And the fire burned bright
When the sky danced green
When the sun painted the peaks in light
Who dares to measure the weight of a broken heart
A feeling unrequited
A lonely walk in the dark.
The Old Lady and Where the Ocean Meets the Land
She smoothed the wrapper
I took this as a sign of contemplation.
She always did this before she began.
The tick of a clock filled the silence as I waited.
Her eyes glazed.
I knew she was distant like this place she spoke of.
I found it fascinating how her memory failed her.
Daily tasks, names, her home,
yet she always recalled this place where the ocean met the land.
When she spoke
Her voice changed,
as if her youth returned with the story.
“The smooth pebbled shore
The tumbling clouds
Pink and blue, and white
The chattering redwings
Black sand and salted air
The winding path was smooth
Fringed with heather and mountain grass
That burned golden in the sun
It begged you to linger,
and so I did.
By the evergreens;
At the log with the mountain views;
And the boulders besides the sea cliffs;
The texture of the long grass
And soft lichen
I can feel it now.
Eventually I would reach a cliff where I could go no further
The dragon head, I called it.
Waves crashed
Eiders cooed
And the fulmars circled past.
The sun glowed between the fjord
And the ocean glimmered silver in the light
If I close my eyes, I can see it now.”
Her fingers, arthritic, and knotty, gripped the table cloth and then released.
She was gone in the heather fields.
In 2021, my journey to write my first novel took me to Iceland. I was fascinated with the myths and the sagas. Since then, I have returned to the country ten times, even delivering a talk on Nordic Mythology at Midgard Base Camp. As my travels continue, I realize my personal story is developing. Reminiscent of a novel, Iceland gifted me with a plot twist that has enriched my life beyond words. Like the volcanic landscapes, lively winds, and glaciers that shape the landscapes here, the land of fire and ice has done the same for me.
May your wanderings be lucky enough to take you here.
