Reykjavík Grapevine - 06.03.2009, Blaðsíða 12

12 | REYKJAVÍK GRAPEVINE | ISSUE 3—2009
POETRY
Not much is known about 17th century poet Þor-
björn Þórðarsson or his life, even his identity and
name are up for debate. His early poetry is more
or less forgotten, although it is said to have been
rather plain—uneventful yet skilful—and his art
occasional and his subject matter being (as was
common) everyday life. Through an unusual act of
divine intervention, this all would change.
But this we do know: one day Þorbjörn was
minding his blacksmithing business in Skógarnes at
Löngufjörur, when a group of travellers approached,
looking for a safe way to cross Haffjarðará River.
The travellers greeted Þorbjörn heartily, seeing as
here they’d found a local man who could advise
them on their journey through terrain they knew
very little of. Þorbjörn was by all accounts having
a bad day. His blacksmithing was tiresome and not
moving along with the expediency he would have
wished. Perhaps he was, like many contemporary
poets, fed up with his day job and wishing to have
the time necessary to hone his poetic skills.
When the travellers asked where they should
cross the river, he answered (as was poets’ wont in
his time) with a poem. More precisely, a quatrain:
Though with hammer to iron I cater
‘tis all for naught I slammer.
Take the course for Eldborg-crater,
and cross at Þóris-hammer.
This would all have been well and good, had the
advice Þorbjörn gave to the travellers, in his mind-
less irritation toiling away with the iron, not been
a bit inaccurate. Or to put it plainly (we do strive
to make it simple): his advice was dead-wrong, er-
roneous, false, reprehensible and vicious—put it
how you will: Þorbjörn sent the travellers towards
an impassable part of the river, straight into the
rapids of hell. The travellers, however, being suffi-
ciently naïve to believe a poet’s pretty words, tried
to cross where they were told. Needless to say, they
all drowned.
In those years God was not the forgiving fel-
low we’ve come to admire in later years, and he did
not at all enjoy having to receive the all-too early
travellers (perhaps he wanted time to work on his
poetry). So he smote Þorbjörn with a curse: He be-
reaved him of the ‘gift of poetry’. But Þorbjörn, be-
ing of stubborn stock, wouldn’t take no-poetry for
an answer, and kept at it, poesying like a madman,
quite literally. No matter how he toiled away at his
quatrains and tercets, they all turned out nonsensi-
cal, full of words that weren’t words, sentences that
alluded meaning, leaning on nothing but the verse-
framework:
Loppu hroppu lyppu ver
lastra klastra styður,
Hoppu goppu hippu ver.
hann datt þarna niður.
Some of the words in the first three lines can be
seen as having ‘meaning’, while some are ‘mean-
ingless’—the context is complete nonsense, beau-
tiful nonsense, soundbouts in rounds galore—less
literati than alliterati, or even illiterati, and yet it
sounds like something a fisherman-blacksmith
would write; it sounds like a fisherman-blacksmith's
vocabulary, never mind you that the words don’t
mean anything—they SOUND.
The final line was all Þorbjörn had left of
more traditional poetry, word-by-word: he fell there
down. From the moment his curse became real-
ity, more often than not, only Þorbjörn’s last lines
would be ‘readable’. As his poetic career contin-
ued, Þorbjörn got to be known as ‘Æri-Tobbi’, Tobbi
being a nickname for Þorbjörn and ‘æri’ meaning
‘crazy’ or ‘insane’—and so he's known today.
Little did God know on the day he smote
his curse on Þorbjörn that he’d be giving birth to
Iceland’s first avant-garde poet—a sound poet, no
less, whose control of Zaum is first-class, putting
him in a category with such 20th century greats as
F.T. Marinetti and Hugo Ball.
God Makes
Poet Go Bonkers
BY eIRíkuR ÖRn noRÐDAHL
DESTINATION BY SIguRÐuR kJARTAn kRISTInSSon — pHoToS BY gAS
As I squinted my eyes behind the wheel, trying to
see further than the five metres allotted by the bliz-
zard, several gigantic trucks rushed by and almost
thrust us off the road. So although we missed the
champagne we obtained a genuine buzz of our
own: narrowly escaping death on an Icelandic
highway.
Eventually we arrived in the sleepy hollow
and after settling in at the cosy and small hotel we
hit the sleazy, but homey, diner we’d dreamed of on
our travels along the peninsula. And it sure looked
like the whole town was there. Once we’d gotten
a few beers into our system we woke up, sort of.
And quite a way to wake up it was, for DLX ATX had
just begun their set at the bar. Describing them as
dynamic would be an understatement, really. Once
they had basically ejaculated all over the crowd,
dance trio Sykur appeared to swab the residue off
the stage. Sykur aroused the local ladies intense-
ly—they now have loyal pack of Grundarfjörður
groupies following their every move on MySpace.
ExPERIMENTAL, ANIMATED AND wEIRD
Surely ridding oneself of a hearty hangover via
freezing shower is a good idea. However, the man-
agers of our Grundarfjörður hotel should bear in
mind that most people prefer their cold showers
optional, not mandatory. When the shivers stopped
we headed off to the stables right outside the town
where the Weird Girls, an Icelandic all-female art
group, had set up their camp. We didn’t stop for
long, but the whole instalment seemed colourful
and energetic while a small crew of photographers
and cinematographers captured the flock on film
as they skipped around splashing homemade paint
over their bizarre, one-eyed costumes.
We finally arrived at the screening centre as the
animations were to begin. They were as many as
they were different, all foreign. All in all it was a
fulfilling run of amusing as well as intriguing shorts.
Next in line were the experimental shorts, but the
most conspicuous one was by a German-American
woman who amusingly mocked Guantanamo Bay
and other facilities of the sort with a looping clip.
Her thorough explanations of her intent and ideas
after the show felt patronizing, however.
90S fRENzY AND SUbSTANCE AbUSE
That Saturday night the main fête was thrown in the
screening hall, but when we entered it seemed as
the 1500 ISK entry fee had thwarted some of the
festival’s attendants from appearing. The hall was
half-empty. Anonymous blasted gorilla techno that
was defiantly enjoyed by the few on the dance-
floor, but the rest seemed fulfilled by observing the
Weird Girls, still bizarrely uniformed, moving and
dancing in mysterious ways on the floor. As the
night passed, the horde grew and at the peak you
could even pass it off as crowded. This was most
likely due to the super-spunky 90’s hits that filled
the room courtesy of DJs Kitty von Sometime and
Mokki. When the lights were lit people seemed a
bit drowsy and moseyed home to prepare for the
main screening the day after. We found out when
we got back that our next-door neighbour seemed
intent on keeping us awake by shouting “I love you”
and “I’m coming” in a incredibly loud manner, re-
peatedly. Finally, though, she came. And we fell
asleep.
The Icelandic shorts screened at the festival
were of incredibly good quality and made you
realise that this is somewhat of an underestimated
field here in Iceland. Those I cherished most were
The Nail by Benedikt Erlingsson, a hysteric tell-
ing of the Icelandic PM falling on a nail causing
him to act barbaric (he even gives raping a fellow
minister a whirl), as well as Gunnur Þórhalls de-
piction of a bulimic wonder-family. The crème de
la crème, though, was Rúnar Rúnarsson’s “Little
Birds”, which told a tragicomic story of puppy love
in a rural village, adding a dash of substance and
physical abuse. So it was no wonder that Rúnars-
son received the first prize. The festival certainly
gives some much needed attention to the under-
represented side of Icelandic cinema, and hope-
fully we’ll be able to frequent the festival in coming
years.
An Oasis in the Snow
The second Northern Wave Film
Festival was launched flamboy-
antly last Friday with champagne,
caviar and speeches; the whole
nine yards. Or so I’ve heard. The
truth is that while the last atten-
dants of the opening ceremony
were being dragged up to their ho-
tel rooms by twitchy better halves,
several-too-many drinks in, I was
stuck mid-blizzard in the waste-
lands near Grundarfjörður
we founD ouT wHen we goT BAck
THAT ouR nexT-DooR neIgHBouR
SeeMeD InTenT on keepIng uS AwAke
BY SHouTIng “I Love You” AnD “I’M
coMIng” In A IncReDIBLY LouD MAn-
neR, RepeATeDLY. fInALLY, THougH,
SHe cAMe. AnD we feLL ASLeep.
The 2nd Annual Northern Wave Film Festival