Ice-dragon

Far, far away, 

to the east of the sun and the south of the moon, 

lies a land,

where a fine story took place long ago, 

a true legend 

impressive and grand.

Little red Drago lived deep down a cave 

in a mountain as tall as the sky,

spending his days growing big, 

growing brave, 

and preparing to learn how to fly.

Fjallkonan, the Personification of Iceland

Fjallkonan
The Lady of the Mountains

Vigdís Finnbogadóttir 

President of Iceland 1980-1996 

I think of you often,

Lady of the Mountains,

with your rising gold crown

reflecting in the white of your veil

like the midnight sun on snow-covered peaks.

I think of you and your gown of black silk

that shines like frozen rhyolite

and lava,

fashioned into fearsome images

of trolls and ancient gods.

I think of your belt of gold,

red gold,

that falls heavy from your waist

like liquid fire,

like red hot magma

pouring.

I think of the flowers that flow in golden borders

around the hem of your garment,

reminding me

of your bright summer nights

when birds and sun forget to sleep

and salmon fly your falls upstream.

I think of you, motherland,

often.

Steady Rhythm

‘Do not be afraid!’

The words sooth as they trickle,

cool

and gentle,

deep into her spirit.

‘For nothing is impossible

for God…’,

he continues.

And she believes.

‘Do not be afraid…’

she whispers to the little one,

soothing

the unborn,

cooing

her love song

as she feels him move deep within-

Steady rhythm

beating the ground;

careful, gentle donkey-hooves

drumming,

adding to her humming

rhythm

and peace.

She stills her breathing.

Hand beneath her heart

she feels the tempo rising–  

beating,

pounding deep inside.

She knows her time.

Through throbbing pain

she hears the cattle lowing;

sees starlight-thrown shadows

cross the floor.

Black shadows.

Fear consumes–

then

she remembers...

‘Do not be afraid…’

The words echo down through time,

cool and gentle in her spirit

as hammers fall 

width steady rhythm.

Haibun

Loyal troops assault with heavy guns as battles rage both east and west of town - rebels have gained ground. While fighter jets spray death around and helicopters fly unleashing hell, the people gather in the streets below - dark smoke and flames reach high into the evening sky each time a missile finds its mark

and the desert blooms

 in crimson coloured patches, 

celebrating death

Migration

Prologue

For more than a millennium, the Icelandic nation has endured in the harsh conditions of the Arctic North. Long dark winters filled the national psyche with a strong faith in the supernatural, the mysterious and hidden. Intertwined with Christianity was a deep-rooted belief in the Hidden People, the White-elfs, who occupied a parallel dimension.

Believed to be Christian, and near indistinguishable in looks and lifestyle from their human counterparts, these often reflected the deepest needs and longings of the people.

In the dark of winter at New Year, groups of the Hidden People could often be seen migrating to warmer, brighter regions…

I

When northern lights with mystique glow,

in eerie colours shine and gleam,

reflecting light on ice and snow

as thousand diamonds sparkle, beam.

In eerie colours shine and gleam

the elfen hordes that move below;

as thousand diamonds sparkle, beam,

their faces strong resilience show.

The elfen hordes that move below

the migrant’s path are forced to tread,

their faces strong resilience show,

towards their destination led.

The migrant’s path are forced to tread

all those who find the struggle hard,

towards their destination led

with hopes and dreams forever marred.

All those who find the struggle hard

on new horizons come to gaze,

with hopes and dreams forever marred

uncertain future forced to face.

On new horizons come to gaze

like elfs in new-year migrant mode,

uncertain future forced to face

all those who travel down that road.

Like elfs in new-year migrant mode

with hopes and dreams in tow, transformed,

all those who travel down that road

to distant shores, by sun re-warmed.

With hopes and dreams in tow, transformed,

the migrant’s heart with fire burns,

to distant shores, by sun re-warmed,

the soul with quiet longing yearns.

The migrant’s heart with fire burns

reflecting light on ice and snow,

the soul with quiet longing yearns

when northern lights with mystique glow.

Iceland

There is no finer place than this

fay land of ice and fire.

A place where sea and shore’s soft kiss

betray a deep desire.

A land where nature causes death,

yet people still admire.

It is only fitting that my first post pay tribute to the beautiful land which has inspired the name of this site. A land of ice and fire, Iceland has inspired generations of poets and creative writers since settlement began on the island in the tenth century.