Reykjavík Grapevine - 12.08.2016, Blaðsíða 70

It’s a shame that poetry today is
(wrongly) associated with only
sensitive weirdos and angsty
teens. The poets of the early days
were nothing short of utterly ba-
dass, as is demonstrated by The
Saga of Gunnlaugur Serpent-
Tongue, a nickname which here
means “Shit-Talker.”
Bird-brains
As any story of manly, virile po-
ets fighting to the brutal death
should, this one starts out poetic
as fuck. In the most obvious of
metaphors, a dude named Þorste-
inn has a dream. He happens to be
the son of Egill Skallagrímsson,
one of the most famous poets in
Icelandic history and title charac-
ter of a painfully long Saga that I
will recap whenever I get around
to dragging myself through its
thornbushes of boredom.
In his dream, Þorsteinn sees a
beautiful swan on a rooftop, who
is soon joined by a majestic eagle.
They totally dig each other. Then
another eagle comes along and
picks a fight with the other eagle
and they tear each other apart like
coked-out dudes at a shitty night-
club until they fall dead. The swan
is sad until a falcon comes along
and they live birdily ever after.
Cool story, right? Well it’s a fuck-
ing spoiler.
But daaaaaaad
Not to reinforce any stereotypes
here, but Gunnlaugur’s story
starts when he’s fifteen. He wants
to travel abroad, but his dad is all
like “Nope, not until your behavior
improves,” so he runs away from
home. He ends up being taken in
by Þorsteinn, whose daughter,
Helga, happens to be very swan-
like if you know what I mean. They
fall in love but Þorsteinn won’t let
Gunnlaugur marry her.
After three years, Gunnlau-
gur returns to his father to ask
for supplies to travel abroad and
his father not only agrees, but
helps him convince Þorsteinn to
offer Helga’s hand in marriage if
Gunnlaugur returns to Iceland
after three years abroad. Nobody
asks what Helga wants because
patriarchy. So Gunnlaugur sets off
to slake his wanderlust and win
glory for himself and his beloved
by talking mad shit around the
world.
Praise kings,
get bling(s)
Court culture was pretty dope for
poets of this age, called “skalds.”
Their job was to travel around the
world reciting poems to kings and
earls about their own greatnesses.
In exchange for these verbal blow-
jobs, they would be given great
gifts. So Gunnlaugur does this, at
first to Earl Eiríkur of Norway who
is totally not impressed. Gunnlau-
gur gets all salty with him, saying
he better pray he doesn’t die like
his father (who was killed by his
own slave while hiding in literal
pigshit). Ooh, sick burn!
He’s chased off from Norway
and goes on to recite to the Kings
of England, Ireland, and Sweden,
and an Earl of Orkney. Skaldic po-
etry seems complex and beautiful
but once you peel all metaphors
away, the poems are stupid, bor-
ing, and all the same: “This dude
was rich and cool.” As a poet my-
self, I’ve improvised a couple mod-
ern ones:
The King of Ireland
has a beard so silky,
I would use it as a wig
were I a drag queen
(but I’m not, I just look
fabulous in this red cloak).
Or:
The King of England
has a dick larger
and more destructive
than Þorr’s hammer
(not that I would know,
I only service him verbally).
Along the way, he encounters an-
other Icelandic poet named Hrafn,
which ironically means “raven”
and kinda mixes metaphors in
this whole bird business. They
both recite poems for the King
of Sweden who makes them diss
each other’s poems, thus begin-
ning a rivalry. Hrafn sneaks back
to Iceland to marry Helga behind
Gunnlaugur’s back while Gunn-
laugur has voided his three-year
agreement by agreeing to stay in
England an extra summer by the
king there, who has taken quite a
liking to him for some reason.
Talk shit,
get hit
Gunnlaugur returns to Iceland to
find his love marrying his least
favorite asshole, Hrafn. He gives
Helga his beloved red cloak before
engaging in combat with Hrafn,
first poetically (think medieval
rap battle) and then physically.
They are evenly matched. Then
dueling is conveniently outlawed
in Iceland, so they’re like, “Meet
me at the flagpole (in Norway) at
two (months from now) to finish
this.”
You’ve already read the bird
shit, so you know they kill each
other. Gunnlaugur lops off Hrafn’s
leg with the King of England’s gi-
ant sword (not a metaphor), and
Hrafn snakily asks Gunnlaugur to
get him some water but stabs him
in the head when he complies in a
gentlemanly fashion. Helga mar-
ries some other poet and the saga
ends with her gazing longingly
at the red cloak that totally looks
better on her anyway..
SHARE: gpv.is/saga15
Morals of the story: 1. Talk-
ing shit can get you plac-
es, but it can also get you
killed. 2. Be nice, maybe.
S01E15:
The Tale of
Jökull Búason
SAGA RECAP
Words GRAYSON DEL FARO
Art INGA MARIA BRYNJARS DÓTTIR
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 10 — 2016
68
MADE IN ICELAND www.jswatch.com
With his legendary concentration and 45 years of experience our Master
Watchmaker ensures that we take our waterproofing rather seriously.
Gilbert O. Gudjonsson, our Master Watchmaker and renowned craftsman,
inspects every single timepiece before it leaves our workshop.