at night lit up
like a beacon
of salvation
A nation divided. At the point of civil war.
A heathen Priest, who everyone trusted and respected who was called upon to decide. After hours of meditation, he proclaimed that we should believe in one God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. And we should to keep our pagan sacrifices and the eating of horseflesh private. It was agreed. People were baptised and the Priest throw his statues of the Norse gods into the waterfall, now know as Godafoss.
Closed to air plane traffic, cracks in the asphalt house dandelions and buttercups. Radio silence. Zero fumes. Thingeyri airport ceases to welcome travellers.
And yet drop by on a Tuesday night, and you will hear music. The last accordion men in the hanger play as if the traditional dances of Iceland are in full swing still. Grey haired, stooping, hoarse men of age put their arms and fingers and memories through their paces. Their beautiful youth moves through each moaning note. No music is written down. Unless a boy is amongst them this merry-go-round music will die with the last accordion man.
Over the roar of the engines
and the thumbing of the wheels
the wheezing heart of old switches
The worship of fish, for subsistence and profit, declines in response to the fishing quota system. Villages hugging the shoreline struggle with time and the departure of the young. At Thingeyri, out there in the fjords are three massive green nets holding artificially reared super fish. Trout. Not native to the area along with the multinational< company owning them.
One day, a hole is found in one net. How many fish escape, no one knows. How the fish survive in open water, if any, no one knows. If the escapees mate with the other fish, no one knows. It’s not the companies problem. It’s not an issue worth investigation. The hole is mended. The trout continue to be farmed to yield their optimum value. White white flesh to satisfy the foreign customer’s tastes.
red headscarf tied tight
bent and slow
she walks to harbour
Still walking to work, I am drawn to these buildings. Apparently these were termed ‘super flats’. Part of the St. Mark’s Redevelopment program, these flats were built in the 1950s to replace the old terrace houses within the Laygate area of South Shields.These flat, centrally heated, were three stories high. These flats of the future split up communities that had lived together for generations. Close families and friends were distributed between different new developments of the area.
Further research is needed, but while passing by this week, it looked like at either side of this glass passageway doors had been opened. Doors I hadn’t noticed before.
I’ve also going in for a closer look by exploring the doorways, steps and the concrete underpass/bridge under this glass passageway. This building holds my attention and curiosity and make a monotonous walk more enjoyable. The work will continue.
‘Let’s feel what the Massa sees in you,’
he whispers,
like a snake’s belly on hard sand.
He takes me in.
His rough stubble tears at my thighs,
as greedy palms, with raised moons,
kneed my belly. His smell is
stale sweat mingled with
the heavy wet perfume of dirt
turned over with my hoe.
His high shiny leather riding
boots are still on.
from: The White of the Moon (2007-8)
They’ll only ruin me if I let them. ~ wild soul woman
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