Showing posts with label Kristjana Gunnars. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kristjana Gunnars. Show all posts

Thursday, May 5, 2022

Zero Hour (1991)


Grief might be the prevailing condition of the 21st century. Or maybe it has always prevailed, going by a different name, subsumed by other names like melancholy, malaise, ennui. Was it that great critic of the Enlightenment Friedrich Nietzsche who predicted despair would come for us before Death does?

Much of what we call grief is related to death -- or in Nietszsche's case, what happens to us when our values die on the vine. Trauma is another kind of death. A living death that, we have come to understand, can be inherited.

More than landscape, language and identity, grief is the great unifier in this country's literature, and there is something suspicious about the writer (at least those interviewed on the CBC) who do not step naked from bed each morning and walk directly to the cafe in tears, stopping only to talk -- to confess -- to whomever might listen. (To extend the fantasy: if Cafe Grief has a boss barista, her name is Shelagh Rogers.)

Nordic people are often characterized as emotionally cool sorts. Cool without the neurosis of the English. Björk makes a burlesque of this. But Björk (b. 1965) has transcended the human and appears to most of us in spirit form, a visitor from Helheim.

Like Björk, Kristjana Gunnars (b. 1948) was also born in Iceland, but she seems closer to an emotionally cool sort, and I think that's why I have such a fondness for her lyric memoir Zero Hour, which unfolds in its time-shifting, braided way to tell of her father's passing and of her own life changes as she enters her forties -- a book as much about writing as the truth-to-emotions carried within it.

I was prepared to say more about Zero Hour, when out of nowhere I was hit with a heaviness I have come to associate with -- despair. So let me leave you with this, an excerpt from Zero Hour:

"The hospice people left a sheet of paper with us when they visited my father one day. The sheet said Symptoms of Grief. Do not be alarmed if the following conditions occur, it is normal when a person experiences grief: excessive fatigue, inability to cope with noise; severe changes in sexual habits; depression; development of the symptoms of the deceased; lethargy; fear of people; a desire to hide; excessive weight on symbolism; a need for ritual; bouts of weeping; hot flashes; inability to cope wth everyday details. Do not try to hurry the process. Understand what is happening." (p. 108)

Monday, November 30, 2020

Wake-Pick Poems (1981)


The year 1981 is not among the more resonant years in recent history. Of course stuff happened in 1981, indeed everything happened in 1981, as it does every year, but it is not a year where many of us are prone to say, Oh, that was the year the AIDS virus was identified, or the year the word "Internet" was first uttered, or the year the UK, under the government of Margaret Thatcher, began the privatization of nationalized industries, or the year the Iran Hostage Crisis ended, or the year of the general strike in Poland, the first flight of the Space Shuttle Columbia, the assassination of Anwar Sadat, Post It Notes ...

For those in Canadian literary circles, 1981 saw the launch of Icelandic-Canadian poet Kristjana Gunnars's Wake-Pick Poems (Toronto: House of Anansi, 1981), which I picked up yesterday at Pulp Fiction Books. How nice to finally add this book I have looked for for so long to another of my companion books -- Gunnars's Settlement Poems 1 (Winnipeg: Turnstone, 1980). What is a wake-pick? A wake-pick is a small stick used by Icelandic women to keep their eyes open while knitting. Historically, to fall asleep while knitting is to fall behind on a quota designed for their very survival. 

Here are lines 15-24 from Gunnars's "wake pick 1":

tonight again I pretend

to be salt

i separate myself again

fine from coarse

die another death tonight

 

& when I’m dead

i turn to knotweed on the knolls

to starlings in the rain

i turn to blood, hair, bone

i turn to stone