In 1961-62 I lived in Riverton, Manitoba. It was a memorable year. The one thing I didn’t do was meet Guttormur. I regret that. I was already writing. Already wanted to be a published author. I knew of his poem “The Winnipeg Icelander” but really didn’t know anything about the author. Part of that is being busy in my first job teaching high school, being young, being recently married. It’s a time of life when one’s focus is more inward than outward.
An opportunity missed. Guttormur was born in 1878. He died in 1966. He was born in New Iceland and his interests and concerns in his poetry was largely about the settlers. These are the people he knew. He was in a different situation from Stephen G. Stephenson, the Alberta poet who was born in Iceland and didn’t come to Canada until his late teens.
I always regarded Riverton as a bit wild. It was something of a frontier town. For a long time it was the end of the road. Here is where the horse and cat trains left for their hard journeys north along Lake Winnipeg. This was their first civilized stop on the way back. The Riverton Hotel was famous (notorious) for the hard drinking and fighting that went on there.
Surprisingly, or maybe not, it turned out highly intelligent, successful students. My classes were memorable for the abilities of the students. For in the frontier -roughness was a culture that valued learning and literature. It was a place where the bar room brawler could also talk knowledgeably about the sagas or quote verses from Havamal.
It was a place where someone like Guttormur could live and write.
If there is one thing I admire more than others about Icelandic Canadians it is their ability to laugh at their own foibles and Guttormur, in “The Winnipeg Icelander”, does just that. He hears on a daily basis how Icelanders have adapted their Icelandic and have mixed it with English. However, they say it in Iceland, in New Iceland it’s a mix of Icelandic and English “on Main street with my five dollar cheque.” And you may be able to say “út í marshi‘ but what do you do with “moose”. There ain’t no moose in Iceland. There is a story told about the first settlers not having any idea what a moose was thought that when it was suggested they go hunting for a moose to feed themselves that they thought it was mice they were looking for.
Eggert Peterson left me a message on my blog site asking me to post the entire poem. Here it is. He says that when a relative of his used to read it out loud at gatherings, he laughed so much that he could hardly finish reading.
Guttormur, you’ve been gone awhile now. However, we haven’t forgotten you. This is a tip of our hat to you. Thanks for the poems you left behind. Some people leave death, destruction and pain behind them. You, like many poets, left love and laughter. Thanks.
Eg fór on’ í Main street með fimm dala cheque
Og forty eight riffil mér kaupti
Og ride út á Country með farmara fékk,
Svo fresh út í brushin eg hlaupti.
En þá sá eg moose, út í marshi það lá,
O my- eina sticku eg brjótti!
Þá fór það á gallop, not good anyhow,
Var gone þegar loksins eg skjótti.
Að repeata aftur eg reyndi’ ekki at all,
En ran like a dog heim til Watkins.
En þar var þá Nickie með hot alcohol.
Já, hart er að beata Nick Ottins.
Hann startaði singing, sá söngur var queer
Og soundaði funny, I tell you.
Eg tendaði meira hans brandy og beer,-
You bet, Nick er liberal fellow.
Og sick á að tracka hann settist við booze,
Be sure, að hann Nickie sig staupti.
Hann hafði’ ekki í lukku í mánuð við moose
Af Mathews hann rjúpu því kaupti.
-Í Winnipeg seg’r ann að talsverðan trick
Það taki að fira á rjúpu
Og sportsmann að gagni að gefa ‘enni lick,
En God – hún sé stuffið í súpu.
Við tókum til Winnipeg trainið-a fly,
Nick treataði always so kindly.
Hann lofði mér rjúpuna’ að bera’ upp í bæ
Eg borgaði fyrir það, mind ye.
Svo dressaði Nick hana’ í dinnerin sinni
Og duglega upp ‘ana stoppti,
Bauð Dana McMillan í dinnerinn sinn,
„Eg drepti ‘ana,“ „sagði’ ann, „á lofti.“