For this week’s post, I’m going to share a poem. A bit unusual, especially if you know me – I’m not a poet, and I don’t pretend to be. I wrote a poem for a writing contest for the Iceland Writers Retreat. I didn’t win the contest, but I wanted to share the poem anyway. It’s all about two of my favorite things, stories and Iceland.
Stories swirl through my mind,
like wind over rocks.
The wind is unceasing, eternal, over these fields
like the stories that came to this island of rocks and moss,
rivers and beauty. Stories sung
by the ancient men in their longboats and
the women weaving by candlelight.
Trolls in the mountains
and elves in the rocks
joy in the water, despair in the ice.
The stories have always been,
like the teeth of the mountains and the lust
of the sea
as the ancient men in their boats become
the glass and concrete villages of modern progress.
The mountains breathe fire,
and the land of rocks and fields and joy and despair
And lava and ash become rock once again, leaving
land changed, but unchanged
Ancient men of songs and the sea are but
stories to us today. Stories, like
trolls hiding in the jaws of the mountains or the
rivers of lava that remake the land. But
as those stories, they still live.
Joy and despair and rivers
of beauty and ice on the rocks
All are stories
All are eternal.
Aren’t we all stories?