Babe, come onto me
Lo, the oogly woogly wiggly toes of my puffinous pinkster! Lo, the perpetual whirlpool of his gung ho rainbows! Lo, the sabre-dancing jiggifunk of his eyeyeyeyeyes! Behold his umpteen-breasted olympic warrior, mother-of-it-all, and recognize! »
Do what your wife tells you
I’ve just read some of your poetry and liked one line about the swastika in somebody’s nazi soup. All the rest strikes me as happily as receiving “GROW YOUR PENIS 3 INCHES LONGER AND THICKER” spam. I don’t have a penis, so haven’t the yearning to grow it longer and thicker; nevertheless, spamfolk, most... »
Killing yourself with poetry
‘Twas the eve of Nýhils 2nd international poetry festival, late autumn 2006. I was the manager for the second year in a row. For some reason I can’t remember we didn’t have any microphones. The Norwegian poet, Gunnar Wærness, had misunderstood his flight-information and missed his flight. The Swedish poets Anna Hallberg and Jörgen... »
The Word is a Virus
Imagine a poem so robust and resourceful that it could survive humanity. Imagine that the Americans finally go completely bonkers and rip the globe apart with liberational glee, the nuclear dust finally settles and all that’s left of mankind is poetry. The mark of craftsmanship has always been durability. A good cabinet has a... »
Poetics Anonymous
I became a poet for more or less the same reason everybody else did: I’m lazy and I wanted to sleep late. That was the job description. You get to sleep late, drink late and most people won’t ever find out you’re stupid because what you do is beyond comprehension anyway – your roots... »
Scream Readings
Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Last monday night (July 13) I performed with Paul Dutton at the Scream Literary Festival Mainstage outside in the warm but comfortable summer evening (the days here are not as comfortable). Paul and I were doing an expanded repeat of last years performance and I for one thoroughly enjoyed it despite... »
Award this!
A few years ago the Icelandic poetry world was rocked by a tectonic scandal that nobody noticed for weeks (and by now, everyone’s forgotten about). The country’s most prestigious poetry award, Ljóðstafur Jóns úr Vör, was given to the wrong poet. A young man from one of Reykjavík’s neighbouring towns was called up and... »
Poetry – to the death!
As I may have mentioned before, poetry was (in Iceland) once considered a gift from God, the misuse of which could result in the loss of said gift. Thus 17th century poet Æri-Tobbi had his gift taken away for giving false directions (in verse) to a group of tourists (all of whom died as... »
Two thousand krónur’s worth of freedom
Your language is somebody else’s property. Not only does it get dealt with in grammar books, by officials making official rules for how things can and cannot be – but everytime anybody gets a good idea for a phrasing, a metaphor, a pun or a pickup line sooner than later someone is going to... »
Warning: You don’t need poetry
Anyone who gets a rudimentary education in the western world, or at least in the places I know anything about, is taught that poetry is like vitamins – it’s good for you. It’ll enlighten your mind, make you more aware of your emotions, your sensibilities, the entire scope of your inner life. It is... »