Faroe Islands

Remember the Faroe Islands? That little cluster high above Scotland, halfway to Iceland? Today is Olavsoka in the Faroes—St Olaf’s Day. Olav is the patron saint of the Faroes, and this is one of the parts of the world where that is a big deal. Saint days for specific places allow the same kind of celebration of national culture that Independence and National days do elsewhere. Whenever I look at pictures of the Faroe Islands I want to go—they don’t look like a place to go partying, but a pretty, quiet place. The perfect location for a writing cabin? Maybe. Oh, and Tinganes, the seat of the islands’ government, is a beautiful colour red, located right on the water. Lovely.

The Faroes are officially an autonomous province of Denmark—apparently this makes them a member of the Rigsfællesskab, which I have just learned is just the Danish term for the relationship between Denmark and its self-governed insular regions—Greenland, then, is also a “member.”

The history that we do have of the islands starts, of course, with some Irish monks. (All good history should…) Some hermits took themselves to the island, bringing sheep and oats with them (and then, I hope, ignoring each other in proper hermit-style) as well as the (early) Irish language. Also, Saint Brendan (you don’t remember when he lived? 484-578. Now study up on your hagiography, dear readers) is said to have visited the islands more than once. (More recently, Bill Clinton visited too. He clearly didn’t want to be outdone by Saint Brendan, who didn’t even have the advantage of Atlantic Airways.)

In the 7th century, Vikings set up shop, replacing the monks and other settlers, and replacing the Irish language with Old Norse—modern Faroese comes from this language. (My Old English teacher, to invoke him again, says that the Faroese language is still recognisable if you know Old Norse: in the more isolated regions, the language changes less, as it has less outside influence. There are a few islands off the coast of Maryland and Virginia in the US where it is said the inhabitants speak something similar to the Elizabethan English of the early settlers in the US—again, isolation. Why don’t you test it out? Study up on Old Norse, go to the Faroe Islands and pick up the local newspaper. Tell me what you can understand.)

Norwegians had control of the islands until Norway entered the Kalmar Union with Denmark, and when the union between Norway and Denmark ended in 1814, Denmark got custody, so to speak, of the islands. Oh—and until the 18th century, the population never exceeded 5000. These days its close to 50,000.

As nationalist movements were happening around Europe in the late 19th century, so too did nationalism hit the Faroes: the first step was built around keeping the Faroese language alive. The next step was political, with the foundation of local political parties early in the 20th century. Now the islands are autonomous, and take care of most things themselves—Denmark is in charge of defence, the legal system and foreign affairs. Interestingly, under stipulations in European Union treaties, inhabitants of the Faroes aren’t considered Danish nationals, and so they’re also not citizens of the European Union. Having now found out that all those living in the various French collectivities and departments are the world are in the European Union, I guess I find that a little surprising.

Still wondering about Saint Olaf? He was king of Norway from 1015-1038 (he was known as Olaf the Stout). He declared himself king, wiped out the kings to the south, married the Swedish Princess Ingegerd Olofsdotter without her father’s approval, and when Ingegerd died he married her half-sister, the illegitimate Astrid Olavsdttr, also the daughter of king Olof Skötkonung of Sweden. So where’s the saintliness?

Well, he Christianised Norway, and made efforts to establish greater church organization. Isn’t that enough? He was only officially canonised in 1888, but had been considered a saint long before that. Though he’s also the patron saint of Norway, the Faroe Islands are the only country/territory that keep St Olaf’s day as a holiday.

Looking around from a poem from the Faroe Islands I found this small piece by Christian Matras—translated from the Faroese by George Johnston. It originally comes from here.



Far Off the Sea

Softly falls the night

and children are in the field below the fences.

They run for the haybarn door

where shrunk boards leak

sweetness into the dusk.

Far off the sea whets his roar

in the hushed night between the hills.

—Christian Matras
translated from the Faroese by George Johnston

Iceland

Recently I was reading about icefish, and I’m surprised my mind didn’t stray to Iceland. Of course, the icefish I was reading about were from the Antarctic region, so my mind was down south, but still… Iceland has always been a magical idea to me—increasingly so when I read about its geological wonders and the Icelandic sagas. On 17 June Iceland celebrates its National Day—the anniversary on which, in 1944, they Iceland became a republic.

It’s amazing to think that Iceland has been settled since 874—it seems like one of those outposts (not as isolated as St Helena or other southern islands, but still…) But even as a seeming outpost, when the volcano Laki erupted in 1783-1784, not only did the eruption cause a famine that killed a quarter of the Icelandic population, but dust clouds and haze appeared over most of Europe and spread as far as sections of Asia and Africa for months after the eruption.

In the 13th century, Iceland came to be under Norwegian sovereignty; in the late 14th century, possession of Iceland passed to the Denmark-Norway union. In contrast to their current status, during the middle ages Iceland became one of the poorest countries in Europe. When the black death arrived in Iceland, it killed about half the population. Later, in the 18th century, a smallpox epidemic killed a third of the population, before Laki wreaked havoc all over again.

Cheerily, when Denmark decided to impose Lutheranism on Iceland, the last Catholic bishop of Iceland was beheaded. Not surprisingly, the Icelandic population subsequently became Lutheran, and this is still the dominant religion. And when the Denmark-Norway union broke up after the Napoleonic Wars, Iceland remained a Danish dependency. Following this, an independence movement arose—led by Jón Sigurðsson—which led, incrementally, to Iceland’s independence. In 1874, Iceland was granted home rule; this was expanded in 1904. In 1918, Denmark recognized Iceland as fully sovereign, under the Danish king. This agreement expired in 1943, and in 1944 Icelanders voted on whether to remain in union with Denmark, or to become a republic. The republic won out—with an emphatic 97 percent of the vote—and the republic was formally inaugurated on 17 June, 1944.

And, with the Icelandic sagas, of course Iceland has a place in the literary canon. (Incidentally, when Pico Iyer writes about Iceland he tells us that the best seat on an Icelandair flight will be in Saga Class.) More recently, Halldór Laxness won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1955.

Today’s poem is by Kristín Ómarsdótter, and comes from New European Poets.


Closed Bridal Night

A veil cushioned the bottom of that coffin.

In a grave lies a bride
with gifts in
her lap.

Ribbons in pale colors and white
tissue paper.

Visiting cards.

Dressed

in a crocheted dress,
lace stockings, shoes
and gloves.

Serpentine locks.

A veil cushioned the bottom of that coffin.

A face of salt
and sensitive
dusty eyes.

A veil cushioned the bottom of that coffin,

Many messages from bottles
were written there.



—Kristín Ómarsdótter
translated from the Icelandic by Bernard Scudder
from New European Poets

The Åland Islands

The Åland Islands are an autonomous province of Finland, and on 9 June they celebrate Självtyrelsedagen, or Åland Self-Governing Day: this is the anniversary of the first congregation of the regional government. While it’s not quite independence I thought it would fit the scope of this project because Självtyrelsedagen celebrates a recognition of a different group of citizens within the Finnish nation. Åland is, interestingly, a monolingual province—and the language isn’t Finnish. They speak Swedish in the Åland islands. Åland consists of the main island, Fasta Åland, and over 6,500 other skerries and islands. There is only one land border among the islands—the uninhabited islands of Märket is shared by the Åland and Sweden.

The islands belonged to Sweden for the period prior to 1809—before they came under the control of Imperial Russia. They became part of the Grand Duchy of Finland, the predecessor to the modern nation, while the region was still part of the Russian Empire. Early in the twentieth century, the Åland islanders worked towards the goal of having the islands ceded to Sweden—reportedly, over 95 percent of Åland’s adult population signed a petition for secession—but Finland wasn’t willing for this secession to take place. Instead, in 1920, the islands were granted extensive autonomy, which was reaffirmed when Finland entered the European Union.

As well as its own government, Åland has its own national flag—and it issues its own postal stamps too. (I have to admit, this project is making me want to restart the stamp collection I had as a child…)

It took some searching, but I found a poem by an Åland writer—Katarina Gäddnäs. I found the poem online here.



Finlandia II
— a polyphonic work for symphony orchestra, metal band and large choir

Through the darkness you must go, through the forests and the tarns’ black waters.
Through the sauna you must go, through the beer, the sausages, the birch twig whisks.
Through the drinking you must go, through the vomit and the knife-fights.
Through wood pulp, steelworks and telephones you must go.
Through November cities and the extinguished windows of the village shop.
Through Moomin Valley you must go, through symphony orchestras, opera and monster rock.
Through glass birds and bentwood furniture you must go,
through large-patterned fabrics and traditional knitwear.
Through vodka, reindeer hides and cloudberry liqueur you must make your way
Through tar-smelling jetties and glittering summer bays boulder fields, swamps and fells in their autumn tints you must go.
Through ski-jump slopes, hockey fields, running circuits you must go
Through jazz and tango festivals, light summer nights, bird migration times
Through elk-hunts and bear fever you must go.
Through all the languages we are silent in, you must go
Through the refugee camps, and the wars,
through the wars you must go.
Through hunger, famine and rationing
you must go as the ice-breakers go.
Through all the ages you must go ages that rest like earth’s primordial creases
in the faces of the old.
Through the children’s laughter and the games of playgrounds you must go.
Through the moss in the swamp you must go
Through the darkness, the forests and the tarns’ black waters.


— Katarina Gäddnäs
Translated by David McDuff

Sweden

Strindberg. Bergman. Garbo. Pippi Longstocking. And—who could forget that Eurovision smash?—ABBA.

Oh, and Beowulf. Now I know at least some of you must have read at least some of this—and not just in Seamus Heaney’s translation. Yes, the poem is in Old English, but it describes Swedish-Geatish wars.

So, 6 June is Sweden’s national day. It was officially made the national day by the Riksdag in 1983—before that it was known as the Swedish flag day. The country began celebrating the date early in the twentieth century—it honours the 1523 election of King Gustav Vasa (which ended the Kalmar Union ruled by Denmark), considered the foundation of modern Sweden. The day only became an official holiday in 2005.

The Kalmar Union, affecting the union of Sweden, Norway and Denmark, occurred in 1397, though in reality most power was help by local regents though the country was officially under Danish rule. When King Christian II of Denmark tried to enforce Danish rule in Sweden, he ordered a massacre of Swedish nobles known as the 1520 “Stockholm blood bath.” This had the effect of inspiring resistance among the Swedes, and led the 1523 crowning of King Gustav Vasa.

Hey! The population grew significantly in the 18th and 19th centuries. Apparently this was attributed to “the peace, the vaccine, and the potatoes.” (The vaccine was smallpox.) This pithy explanation of the population increase was made in 1833.

So, Sweden was officially neutral in both World Wars. Though the country was under significant German influence in World War II—blockades isolated Sweden from the rest of the world, and the government felt it couldn’t openly contest Germany.

Today’s poem is by Tomas Tranströmer. Throughout his professional life he has worked as a psychologist, and since his first book of poems was published in 1954 he has been a major voice in contemporary Swedish literature.

Sketch in October

The towboat is freckled with rust. What’s it doing here so far
       inland?
It is a heavy extinguished lamp in the cold.
But the trees have wild colors: signals to the other shore.
As if people wanted to be fetched.

On my way home I see mushrooms sprouting
                                                   up through the lawn.
They are fingers, stretching for help, of someone
who has long sobbed to himself in the darkness fown there.
We are the earth’s.

—Tomas Tranströmer.
translated from the Swedish by Robin Fulton
from The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry

Denmark

When I was a child, I wanted to go to Denmark. Though, of course, I hadn’t read or seen Hamlet at the tender age of six, I’d heard about Hamlet’s castle, and for some reason that was the place I fixated on. When I was nine I had a school project to make an itinerary for a tour of Europe. (This, I think, was an early instigator of my wanderlust.) I think I was the only person to put Denmark in my tour. When I was twelve, the first thing I studied in high school history was the bog people of Denmark. It was also when I first saw a film version of Hamlet. (I fell in love with the character of Ophelia.) When I was sixteen I started reading Seamus Heaney, including his bog poems—“One day I will go to Aarhus/ to see his peat-brown head.” A few years ago I went to Århus—and to Copenhagen, to Helsingor, to Skagan… It was a beautiful—if incredibly poor (moneywise)—week. In Århus I was staying in a hostel where I made friends with a Scottish girl who was looking for a place to live, before embarking on a year’s exchange to Denmark to improve her Danish—she was equally poor. We ended up eating meals consisting of plain pasta and tinned corn together. For some reason, I cherish the memory of these dinners, just as I cherish my memory of wading into the sea at Skagen—with the Kattegat section of the North Sea on my right and the Skagerrak on my left, wandering off the northern tip of Denmark. Also, after wandering along four kilometres of sand dunes, and then settling down in a field in the middle of nowhere to wait for a bus—that I was not completely certain would ever come!—I was delighted when the keys I thought I had lost seemingly dropped from the sky. (Okay—they’d worked their way into some odd place in my bag, and came flying out when I flung the bag on the ground… it still seemed like magic.) I wish I could have spent more time there—especially going to some of the islands (other than Zealand/Sjælland). Looking at photographs, I’m struck by all the places I missed. Another thing to go back for…

Oh, and 5 June? This was the date on which Denmark became a constitutional monarchy in 1849. Before that, there’s some interesting history. In particular: during the reign of Valdemar II (in the thirteenth century) the Danish “Baltic Sea Empire” was formed, stretching from Estonia to Norway. The 1241 Code of Jutland included concepts such as: right of property; that a king cannot rule beyond the law; that all men are equal to the law. Good stuff.

Another historic moment was Easter Sunday 1525 when the monk Hans Tausen proclaimed the need for Luther’s reforms in the Catholic Church. This sermon began a ten year struggle—Tausen was moved to an isolated monastery in the north of Jutland, where he continued to preach through the window of his lock chamber. Within weeks, Tausen was freed by followers who had first come out of curiosity, and Lutheran ideas took hold quickly—the country officially became Lutheran in 1536.

And one of my favourite things about Denmark is that when it became apparent that the Germans would come in and start removing the Jews in World War II, the nation managed to save the majority of its 6000 Jews almost overnight. Apparently families stopped the people they knew were Jewish on the street, and hid them until they could get them to Sweden and safety. Only a few isolated Jewish groups—including, tragically, a nursing home—didn’t get the message.

Both the Faroe Islands and Greenland are provinces of Denmark, but both have autonomy, and I was pleased to hear recently that the independence movement in Greenland is getting under way again.

Vikings. Amber. Jutes. Peat bogs.

For the last two years, Denmark has been ranked “the happiest place in the world.” It must be all those bicycles.

Today’s poem is by Adda Djørup, and translated from the Danish by Peter Greenwald. It’s another from New European Poets.


The Nth Day of the Nth Month

Today I upended a huge oak tree and saw
that it had no roots. Furious, I razed the whole forest.

The flowers smell as lifeless as wax.
But wax here is no more lifeless than flowers.
Wax and flowers.

I put the moon and the sun at the same height. All creation fell still.
Before too long I remembered I had done this before.
And it hasn’t amused me this time either.

I visited Libella’s grave. I created her
and killed her to have something to give me joy
and sorrow. The truth is that she left me cold.
—Can I classify that as an action?

I created the Cult of the Horse—and of the Cat.
I equipped their members with certain traits of my own
as well as the conviction that the highest of all goods
is in one case the ability to see sideways like a horse
and in the other the ability to leap like a cat.
The beginning was amusing but the outcome
was determined in advance. I didn’t stay to see the end.

Staring at the sky is the only thing I haven’t grown weary of.
I can even feel some doubt about which of us came first.
This doubt is so pleasant that I evoke it only rarely
so I can enjoy it fully each time.
If I leave it untouched long enough perhaps
it can develop a certain independence?

I took ten drops of water and filled them with infinity.
Eight turned black. Two stayed clear.
Now, how can that be? I thought and was delighted
to have a little puzzle to start the next day with.

I think I’ll move tomorrow up to today.

—Adda Djørup
translated from the Danish by Peter Greenwald
from New European Poets

Norway

Ah, Norway. 17 May marks Norway’s Constitutition Day, and gives me a chance to think about fjords, and the Northern Lights. Officially, it’s the Kingdom of Norway, and as well as the country itself includes Svalbard and Jan Mayen—as I’ve written before, Svalbard is one of the places that I’m fascinated by. I often seem to find myself looking up its history, and pictures of the place… The sovereignty of Norway over Svalbard is based upon the Svalbard Treaty of 1920. Norway, you will no doubt be pleased to know, tied with first place in the human development index in 2007, and was also ranked as the most peaceful country in the world last year.

From the archaeological evidence, it looks like Norway was first colonised about 12,000 years ago. It’s early known history was a time of petty kingdoms; tradition has it that Harald Fairhair (Harald Fairhair!) brought to these kingdoms together in 872 AD with the Battle of Hafrsfjord, thus becoming the first king of a now-united Norway.

Scandinavia of course also brings to mind Vikings, and I’m interested to learn that it was people of Norwegian origin who founded the Irish cities of Dublin and Limerick. Also that the third king of Norway, Haakon the Good (Haakon the Good!), was Norway’s first Christian king.

Alliances and kingdoms among the Nordic nations weren’t continually independent after the early unification of Norway: in the fourteenth century Norway, Denmark and Sweden all came under control of the Danish Queen Margrethe I, and though Sweden broke away in the 16th century, Norway remained part of this union until 1814. (1814 also saw Norway on the losing side in the Napoleonic Wars.) Independence in Norway, as well as bringing a constitution based on American and French models, also brought about the election of the Danish crown prince Christian Fredrik as king. On top of that, war broke out with Sweden—they’d been promised Norway as a reward for aiding the winners in the Napoleonic war, but their army wasn’t strong enough to defeat the Norwegians outright. Norway instead agreed to enter a personal union with Sweden (which I have now learned means there is “relationship of two or more entities that are considered separate, sovereign states, which, through established law, share the same person as their respective head of state.” Again, thankyou Wikipedia.) This union ended in 1907.

Norway remained neutral in World War I, but was invaded by the Germans in World War II.

There are two official written Norwegian languages (who, besides the Norwegians, knew?)—Bokmål and Nynorsk. Both officially have equal status and are both used in public administration, schools, media etc—but Bokmål is the language used by the majority. There are also a lot of dialects spoken, as well as some Sami languages, especially in the north. (Do yourself a favour. Look up the Sami people. Interesting stuff.)

Today’s poem—ah! getting to the point!—is by the Norwegian poet Pedro Carmona-Alvarez, and is translated by Roger Greenwald, who is probably the major translator of Norwegian literature into English. It’s another from the new book New European Poets, which I cannot praise enough.

60 Minutes

There’s a war, it starts and is already missing
from histories, tales
under the light of lamps that sparkle
and lean over bodies
There’s a war and there are pebbles. The presence
of myths, blood running from the forehead puddles
in the eyes
resembles make-up and puddles in the eyes resembles war
in the eyes that tremble from being windows,
shaking from knowing the inside

There’s a war and all the generals have drowned.
There’s a war
and my sweetheart comes home
her hair pulled up in a knot that tightens her face
till it’s unrecognizable.
There’s a war and the ones who know are heading home
to watch themselves on screens.

Make me happy and it won’t help much.


—Pedro Carmona-Alvarez
translated from the Norwegian by Roger Greenwald
from New European Poets