ICELAND I

Jagged rock,
Barren, ragged shores,
Born of earth's core,
Created by the tortures
Of her bowels.

Child brought by misery,
Spewed forth in volcanic glee,
Rock of tortured form,
Knotted in blood-red design,
A story told of forces run wild--
Bastard child!

Like its people,
Cold, alone, aloof,
Forsaken even by God.

No trees, few flowers.
Fields hewn
From its rough terrain
By human hands.

Each foot of soil
A treasure.

Without
The fruits of the sea,
Existence bare.

This is Iceland,
Strong and arrogant
In its barrenness,
Its illegitimacy,
Taking, never giving.

Land of tornadic winds,
Howling, shrieking,
Furious winds,
Raping, tearing,
Tortured winds,
Biting, raging,
Violent winds
Waging destruction,
Venting its wrath,
Pitting invisible strength
In ceaseless struggle--
Against what

1997 by Pasqual S. Schievella