The Icelandic Language -- Bill Holm

(Poem #1349) The Icelandic Language In this language, no industrial revolution; no pasteurized milk; no oxygen, no telephone; only sheep, fish, horses, water falling. The middle class can hardly speak it. In this language, no flush toilet; you stumble through dark and rain with a handful of rags. The door groans; the old smell comes up from under the earth to meet you. But this language believes in ghosts; chairs rock by themselves under the lamp; horses neigh inside an empty gully, nothing at the bottom but moonlight and black rocks. The woman with marble hands whispers this language to you in your sleep; faces come to the window and sing rhymes; old ladies wind long hair, hum, tat, fold jam inside pancakes. In this language, you can't chit-chat holding a highball in your hand, can't even be polite. Once the sentence starts its course, all your grief and failure come clear at last. Old inflections move from case to case, gender to gender, softening consonants, darkening vowels, till they sound like the sea moving icebergs back and forth in its mouth. -- Bill Holm

Icelanders are very protective of their culture: of their literature and
language in particular. It used to be (and possibly still is) the law in
Iceland that babies have to be given traditional Icelandic names;
immigrants, likewise, are required to change their names to Icelandic
ones [1]. New concepts and imports are not described using modified
forms of foreign words (the way Japanese, for instance, has 'terebi' for
television and 'hochikisu' for stapler [2]).

No wonder, then, that speaking (or reading) Icelandic can seem like
stepping back in time. This is what Bill Holm is talking about in
today's poem, and a marvellous job he does of it, too. I especially like
the last stanza, wherein the progression of what is and isn't possible
in the Icelandic language comes to a magnificent and stirring climax.

thomas.

[1] an exception - the only one - was made for Vladimir Ashkenazy.

[2] from the name of Connecticut manufacturer E. H. Hotchkiss, who
invented the modern stapler.

[Links and stuff]

Here's a nice oveview of the Icelandic language:
 http://www.nat.is/travelguideeng/icelandic_language.htm

Pico Iyer's "Falling Off The Map" captures the beauty and mystery of
Iceland very, ermm, evocatively. Also strongly recommended is his "Video
Night in Kathmandu" (not about Iceland).

The Icelandic sagas are masterpieces of world literature. Penguin
recently published a compulsively readable edition of the entire corpus
(edited by Ornolfur Thorsson, with a preface by Jane Smiley). Various
translations of the Elder Edda and the Prose Edda are also available.

Bill Holm has written a travel book, "Eccentric Islands", in which he
describes his journeys to and through five islands. Iceland is one of
them. Mr Holm, though born in Minnesota, is of Icelandic ancestry; the
name "Holm" actually means 'island' in Icelandic. I haven't read the
book itself, but online reviews seem mostly positive.

Incidentally, "The Icelandic Language" forms an interesting companion
piece to my previous post to the list, David Huddle's "Ooly Pop a Cow".
The former depicts the majesty and power (and yes, occasional
impracticality) of a language that has refused to be swept along in the
current of modernity; the latter captures the joy and energy (and yes,
occasional shallow vulgarity) of a language that's constantly changing,
mutating, evolving. A lovely contrast, and a though-provoking one.