I moved to Iceland a week ago (read more about my adventures on my new blog). I am one week into a three week language course in Ísafjörður, a small fishing town in the Westfjords (the northwest of the island). When it is over, I will head back to Reykjavík for my two year master’s program. One of the interesting things about iceland is their poet per capita number. They have a proud tradition of literature, and celebrate all art forms. Within the first few days of being here, I caught the inspiration of the beautiful northern daylight (about 18 hours of light every day right now) and mountains. So here’s a little poem I wrote about being in Ísafjörður in the summer.
At the best times of the day
when the light is disctinct upon the hills
and you are certain it is imagined or unreal
when there are little children
singing little songs as they skip rocks
into the cold, blue fjord
and play happily with the freshly caught fish,
at these times
to watch the light from the shore,
it feels, it is not quite enough
simply observing the light dissolve
into a passing cloud and nod behind
the sloping green.
One wants to be the land,
to sink into the land
to rest from the largeness of the world
in the mountain roots,
in the grandeur of this land.