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Black stone juts out over greying ice,
A mass of alpine greenery,
Half bare, half masked in white;
The motion of a turner painting,
Colours cast through Lowry's eyes.

Camouflaged upon a riverside
With no sign of Lutheran ambition,
As faith faltered, medieval to Christ,
A small church modestly mirages,
Casting simplicity into Nordic pride.

The excitement of the northern lights
Over the precipice of these continents,
American and Eurasian plates collide.
The Langjökull Glacier screams
Witnessing its own untimely demise.

The remoteness captured in the landscape
Starkly contrasts to us who bear witness to it
And in the mirroring of the landscape
A lonely civil dwelling knows nothing
Of war between nature and humankind.
Zywa Mar 2019
Like wild geese, fishermen
and monks landed here, others

sailed on and discovered America
but they came back

by the north, Thule
where it rains glowing stones

where the land burns and the rocks
swim between boiling fountains

there are the gates of hell
and the paths to heaven

invisible above the clouds
around huge curtains of ice

They came back to tell
about these wonders, too biblical

to want to keep it secret
from their family and friends

and the new world
they forgot
Connemara, Thule, Brendan (AD 500)
All of my targeted ads remember
that we wanted to go to Iceland
in winter
to see the Aurora Borealis,

and they bombard me relentlessly
as if marketing in memories.

This instance is not unique.

It seems
no matter how many buttons I push
in attempts to subdue
these bright incursions,

I can't mute you completely.
Isabel Aghahowa Nov 2018
when the earth settled
i would feel the horse  
by the side of empty roads
walking behind hills of weak grass
and every time i would catch a glimpse of its eyes
it would shatter into a million smooth pieces of metallic light
and as i looked through and into the empty spaces around it
it would return to form
as if nothing happened
like how a tyrant pretends to be an innocent man
for his infant daughter

holy Icelandic horse of heart
oh how you defy my line of sight
and catch off guard
my mental stride
on highways and on silky main roads
you make me paralysed
underneath those power lines
that the birds always seem to find
horses have beautiful eyes, i always think about them when i imagine visceral beauty, they are strong, beautiful creatures and i just love them. They are amazing creatures that are simply stunning to just gaze at for hours. Wanted to write a poem about one, was feeling inspired for some reason...
Agnes Black Oct 2018
She came from the egg that was cracked and broken
Brought with her language that was unspoken
Far north she she found land of ice and fire
that quenched her soul's deepest desire
It washed her away with wind and rain
to forget the sorrow of her silent pain
*
The moment that came then faded away
She now looks for more to come her way
Amongst darker days and longer nights
Resumes she stronger her darkest fight
On a New Year's Day in Reykjavik
I stood at the very top of that old city,
intending to visit the Cathedral there.

All at once, there it was. And it was in charge.

A gust of wind so strong that it grabbed and
  slid me, speeding across several metres of ice,
only to slam, face first, into the broad chest
of a resident British Embassy staffer.

Genially, he smiled down and introduced
himself with gentlemanly aplomb.
No wonder they had an empire. At least for a while.

Oh, that wind! Ever seen snow moving horizontally?
Or felt a hole being drilled, in one ear, almost out the other?

Deep in the ancient countryside, on the way to the sea,
is a lonely valley, held captive by the power of a brutal
Gigantic troll. There, this wind has its greatest rival.

Even if you can't see them, just tell me you don't feel them...

In Reykholt now, that bullying wind buffets a cozy house,
but to no avail, for angels watch over a newborn baby girl.

Her mother, just a girl when we first met,  
now sings tenderly to her own new daughter.
Both are princesses of this beautiful island country.

Finding kindness, that tough old wind has sent
Halldora's lullaby across the open ocean,
  over wide blue skies, and onto this snowy prairie
where I hear it and cradle it softly, and so gently, to my heart.
In honor of a newborn Icelandic princess
©Elisa Maria Argiro
Nellie So Jul 2015
my baby’s gonna have a loud mouth
like her namesake, katla, boiling lava lips
the two of us will scale those green spines
or ashy asphalt flumes

my baby’s gonna spit when she’s not fine
and fight the men twice her size
she’ll take them up the river
moonlit collarbone show, and pink wine

but my baby’s gonna be a strong guide
she’ll see the world, spreading magma riots,
smiling, soaked in smoke,
erupting all the time.
i thought of iceland and the kind of daughter i would like to have (enjoy)

— The End —