What makes a poet?

Can you, in a paragraph or two, state what you think are the primary qualifications to be a "poet?" Send email to koonwoon@gmail.com with the subject "Poet." Thank you and we will give you the consensus.

Dispatches from David Gilmour in Iceland

gilliemot@net-venture.com 11:42 AM (10 minutes ago) to me So you put out my short piece on the last day in Faroes and arrival in Reykjavík. I had to use the other email, Apple, from lack of service. It worked OK, but that damned autofill is an auto-pain. It’s exasperating! Two days of wintry rain made tourists colorful in their ponchos and wool hats, staggering along with humped backpacks. Good luck to them in the winds and rain of the countryside. I am staying in a stopping-spot hostel for many adventurers, having brief engagements at breakfast, very good talks actually, not frivolous. Venturing forth, taking alternate roads in the city maze, I wended my way to the underground museum The Punk Museum, like the Louvre in Paris when you go, it said ”CLOSED TODAY.” This is strange since many more people have flooded Reykjavík from Europe’s holiday month, and now they don’t open. Typical counterintuitive punk, kicking against the pricks. It is the cheapest museum in town, set in an funky underground public restroom, down a narrow flight of stairs, garbage littering the way, a couple of posters on the slimed walls. Very seductive in an underground-toilet sort of way. The door was black and shut tight. I banged and kicked at the panels, yelled a few FUCKS! You know, an angry offloading. I thought I heard a scream from inside. Then I beat it to get a fix of an non-alcoholic beer, Viking brand, at a bar down by the government buildings, away from the tourist merch-marts. In the Bar and Grill I was told it was only groups today, but all I needed was a quick, refreshing beer, so the concierge let me sit at the bar on a stool. Finishing a coffee, two Aussies from Denmark, South West Australia, a town of 6000, spoke of leaving their Antarctic winter to vacation in the summer of Iceland, presently in a winter mode. It was 9 degrees Celsius. They felt at home immediately upon arrival. Unfortunately they had a car and Tammy, the wife of Steven, left to add some IsKrona to the parking meter. [N.B. Don’t rent a car in Iceland or the Faroes, if you want to see the life of the city. They are lands of walking haunts and buses are everywhere; free in the Faroes. Passing by, I see more people ganged around cars, looking stressed, discussing how to pay and wondering if they’ll find their car again. Hundreds of autos look alike and some have to find electric plugs, payment there too. Until recent years, Faroes did not permit rental cars.] Back to the Punk Museum, shit! it’s OPEN, a 65-year-old prune-wrinkle-faced man, sporting a luminescent green spiked Mohawk, let me in some swinging doors, that said No Public Shitters here. Inside a very narrow space I paid my fee, and shouted HELLO, YOU’RE FINALLY OPEN. He nodded. Perhaps he had to find a real public shitter. “No Pissing in the Cubicles” ordered a prominent sign; “Watch Your Head” and “Look for Punk History on the Ceilings,” another couple of pieces of advice. Immediately in the black, I banged my head against the first set of headphones dangling from a chain like a torture hook. Some rage was evident in the phones, but I passed on that to make room for other visitors to get in the tight corridor. A video screen screamed with a thrashing band, a bleeding chest of Sid Vicious on a stage of broken beer bottles and silver trash bags. Sex Pistols! Right, right, yer bloody well right! John Louden, the mastermind of the anarchic message, “Don’t you dare shit on me!” Otherwise a fair Rolling Stones narrative history of Icelandic Punk was written and pasted on the walls and ceiling, in 24pt. black Icelandic and below in 24pt. Red Arial. I followed the chronology and listened in on the dangling headphones to early bad Punk and as it proceeded to later years to more mature bad Punk, nothing as polished as Bjork’s screaming jazz riffs, nothing as rock-rhythmic as The Clash’s “London Calling,” or “I’m Lost in a Supermarket.” Eventually the time came for the smash hits of Sugarcubes with Bjork’s vocal artistry and dopey narcissisistic videos, all that writhing on the stage, licking cows udders or something resembling fingers in red rubber dishwashing gloves. The accumulative sound was deafening at times, and new visitors quickly fled past when they saw I was occupying the toilet cubicle, bent down in seated position, reading the lower history cards, room for one only, unless twirking or brushing together was kosher. Young blonde-haired kids with perfect faces, eyes the size of saucers, whisked through the ghost-train carriage, strobe lights blinking red and blue, a screaming, laughing skull with eyes a-popping on a skate board, RKL, Rich Kids on LSD, “Much Love Butter” (or Batter) and a blob of something next to Butter. NO WARS:NO POWERS, PONKSAFN ISLANDS (Punk Museum of Iceland), KILLEMBILLY ROCK N ROLL. SUBHUMANZ, FUCK THE PRETTIES, LOVE THE PRETTY UGLIES, NICK CAVE AND THE BAD SEEDS. After a half-hour of deafening mixes, I thought it best to let others into the cubicles, though many eschewed the history, for poster browsing and video watching. Bjork did signify, was profound and a generous contributor to and leader of the movement, joining various bands to give them a leg up through her influence and fame. Punk history in a defunct funky underground toilet dungeon, how can you go wrong? A tad anarchic, their ethics, but on the hole [sic] right on in a hard left wing ideology. To balance out the afternoon I visited a distinguished high art museum, The House of Collections. There I sat quietly gathering myself together, coming to my senses, watching a 15-minute video of two identical cod fish, silver sheen on their flanks, as still as a still life photograph against black velvet. After a minute one gyrated spasmodically, flexing its jaws, then, as if prompted, the second cod mimicked the gesture, finishing with jaw flexing. They were both out of water, almost out of life, except for a shimmer and an electric spasmodic flick of the tail and flex of the head and mouth. Two American visitors from Grant Woodsian Nebraska breezed through in front of me, they halted and looked left. “A live video in progress,” I advised. They turned to watch, no motion, they motioned onward with a wave, and then the fishes flexed again. They’d missed it. In the children’s creative rooms, since no one was on hand, I sat and created a cut out fish on the “Ocean” floor, and sketched an Ogre on the Folklore floor. (See images if I can send them.) Once again I was alone in an art museum, outside throngs of weather protected tourists packing the merch streets, but at least I was not lost in a supermarket, high on E. (How do you spell Ecstasy?) or Ketamine.—David On 2025-08-03 3:45 am, Koon Woon wrote:

Dispatch from David Gilmour

gilliemot@net-venture.com 7:18 AM (3 hours ago) to me Koon, Without my cardio pills that have been nearly 10 days en route, I am periodically winded and dizzy. My robust strolling gait has been reduced to an amble for fear of overdoing the heart-throbbing affibrillation. Me no worry, me no fear, the reality is here up front and I walk on in a more riverine line of direction, barely able to keep to the lay of the flagstones. It’s an old person’s waddle, for which I find alternate side-streets for safe passage. Early at breakfast, every guest I speak with at the Gasthus has car and some boat passage, a cruise vessel to take them where they go, whether whale or puffin watching. After the break in the Punk Museum (more details on that later), I balanced it out with a tour of the House of Collections, offering an ecological art exhibition of Air, top floor, Land (mid-floor) and Ocean, bottom floor. Famous sculptures, paintings, and electronic art pieces were very high class. Interactive art rooms for children where I spent a 20-minute rest to cut our a fish (see picture in next email). While I rested in a chair to watch a video of shimmering cod fish, which twitched ever so slightly in odd moments, a couple from Grant Woods’s Nebraska strolled through, never stalling for a look-see. even though I mention I was watching a video of still living codfish, they did not wait to see the spasmodic flashing movement as the camera light illuminated the scales. Downstairs in the basement was a series of charcoal sketches, horror folk tales of Ogres and Trolls snatching at young maidens and boys. No whole stories were related on the cards but one picture reminded me of Cyclops Polyphemus grasping at Odysseus in his cave. At the craft table I drew a picture, a 5-minute black pencil sketch. (If I kept a shot I’ll send it.) Not another soul in the place, I looked at the books and bought the exhibition poetry and prose art book. Outside, the streets were thronged with boisterous tourists looking for fish and chip shops, and into the fray I ambled, carefully pacing the steps to the street. I found a bar serving salads, which I chose for my early dinner before returning to my room to crash. My legs, strong as they have been, are wobbly after hills and restless leg syndrome has set in because I have run out of magnesium tablets. My count for meds was off by four days. A cautionary tale for people on meds; take extras just in case. First poem of the Museum book: Long I for a long dream / that enters nature and night and into morning / and another that starts by day and lasts till night / dreams filled with light that melts. (vv. 12-14) Translated by Vala Thorodds from original “Skuggi minna api” “Ape, my shadow,” by Asta Fanney Sigurdardottir. In Goetuhorn, (Crossroads): Skaltextar innblasnir of Islenski myndist. “An Anthology of Art Inspired Writing.” A UNESCO supported project with the National Gallery of Iceland and the city of Reykjavík. (2025)

Email from David Gilmour

David Gilmour 4:26 AM (2 hours ago) to me Iceland again, a more urban vibe: distanced people, fixed faces, more gadget orientated, less verbal noise, more traffic whooshing, fewer bird cries. It rained thunderously, streets running like arroyos (sp?), but a bus brought me from the airport to my Gasthus, a cheap hostel, inhabited by young backpacking folk staying a night before hiking forth. Having slept two hours before my 5:00am flight taxi and early takeoff, I was sleepy-eyed all day and too tired for touring. I walked on in my dreams, two steps backwards, one forward, arduous slogging, moonwalking. The last night of Faroes I ferried to Nolsoy, a tiny village island, a huddle of colored houses, weathered to seaward, where my host has a small home. It is meters above the shoreline, the closest habitation to the harbor water. Very tranquil scene except for bird cries: fulmars, terns, guillemots, razorbills, black-backed gulls, the crows of shorebirds, and grebes of various stripes and colors. In the waving waves a seal’s head bobbed up curiously, further out porpoise backs arched, a whale fin appeared while the eyes gazed unthinking, best to catch sight of when mind not actively watching. The way we remember the forgotten conversational word others crave to Google. Give the doubting mind time and the word comes in from the wings. How calming it is to sit before the scene with a coffee in hand, dazed, as the house floated in relative motion to the sea, birds skooting by mere feet before the window, Pink Floyd’s Echoes droning on the boombox. I caught the last ferry back to Torshavn at 10pm, home by 11:30 for a short sleep before departure from my home away from home. Give a vacation time and spare the rushing to attractions, one can dip into a comfort zone of living there, being here now. The art of slowing down. —David

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David Gilmour ---- water

Koon, It is wonderful how free-running water flows unblocked everywhere on these islands. It Taoist to a T. Nothing resists the running water, nothing contends with it, it waters the land from high in the green escarpments, it runs like water chasing water. Slip of the Faroes Dreamworld lost on this foggy commons, watered green in uncontending streams. Silver slivers slip through palisades’ cracks down escarpment crevices, ravines ripped apart showing the way on watered stone. Summer broke, fifteen minutes ago, it’s a Monday, One Eleven to One Twenty— Six post-meridiem, opening a nanocluster of snow-blind diamonds before irises found purchase on late imagined electrics, late July liminal with general magic sparks. Water runs in sun sparkles following the path.

Note from Iceland by David Gillmour

Dear Woonians, In the Faroe Islands, the Streymoy Island capital town of Torshavn, I have been fascinated by a small river that runs like a rushing, babbling brook through the town from high in the hills. Locals give directions to various places by its course, naming it simply the little river; it runs like one and has noisy falls down basalt rocks in places. The splash of narrow cataracts is prominent in one area particularly, the City Park. Built for people to experience a woods on a treeless island, the planners shaped the arboretum around the brook. It is magical, an Arcadian coppice, thickets among ferns and sprawling deciduous trees, the canopy merely feet above the wanderer’s head with leaves dripping from recent rain showers. The paths are likely damp and soft underfoot with perambulator tracks marking the course of nannies’ walks with infants, who so early in their sensory life can enjoy nature’s ambient sounds: the aviary of twittering, clacking, cawing and whistling birds, the little river babbling and hissing beneath the ferns, and friendly engaging gossip of nannies’ crossing paths in the maze of trails, which are steep from the incline of the escarpment the park was planted on. If any of you know the experience of Tacoma’s Pt. Defiance Park, similarly riven with damp trails hammered down to rocks and roots from years of runners and tramping hikers, this island’s version of it has the advantage of the waterway. Having spent time meandering along the maze of paths, encountering a statue of a nixie maiden or the memorial to local fishermen lost to U-boats in WWll, or sitting by a bridge when it isn’t raining, taking in the birdsong, my destination is the Faroe Islands National Art Gallery, situated at the north end of the park. Here I might reference Seattle’s Volunteer Park and its art museum and botanical conservatory, but they are in plain view and the road through it with parked cars and the lawns with scads of picnicking families often make it a people’s crowded commons. The Torshavn park with its gallery secreted in the woods is like a maze, barely frequented even now in tourist season; and so I am able to enjoy it like one of Theocritos’ shepherds, expecting to hear Pan piping around a corner. The gallery, once discovered, is a must see for art lovers. On one occasion, I had a private viewing of the collection, no other soul had arrived. The attendants did not want to engage about the exhibition, and the coffee server looked shocked when I asked how she liked the collection. With no one to discuss the art, I felt some slight disappointment. I asked if people, especially tourists, know how to get here, given the maze test for entry. A shrug of the shoulders was my response. OK, this wasn’t my only visit.Back to the idyl and the Enchanting Brook and Koon’s admonition to “Look Beyond.” My host, whose bnb house I presently stay in, told me about his boyhood years paddling in the town’s little river and being cautioned by his mother not to pick the watercress or bring frogs home. He and his friends spent long hours in the summer playing and splashing in the cool stream. Sometime lieing down in it and having it stream over them. Later he learned it was a sewage runoff in the old days, downhill from the sheep pens, when he was unconcerned to notice the flotsam and jetsam that floated by. He was amazed that none of his gang ever had E.coli infections. Myself, I played in such a city “stream” in England which ran through cow pastures, rich in brown patties and portobello mushrooms, which—only the latter, mind you—we kids often collected. Besides that, I would gather big bunches of watercress from the cow-tromped banks, and my grandmother said, “Lovely! Good lad!” And tea-time salad was made with the cress and even fresh dandelions from the back yard, where I, short-trousered, often took a quick pee before dashing back to the street games. In those days, hygiene was optional, never a precaution, and cleanliness was next to the torture of a rough kitchen-sink wash before Sunday school. The taste of ash on toast fallen from the fork into the grate or the mud on carrots plucked and chomped fresh from the garden was considered a dose of protective medicine: “A bit of dirt never hurt” was my grandmother’s proverb about probiotics; her looking out for me, looking beyond. We played football (Soccer) in cow pastures and besides coming home slimed up, we often had a few choice, shiny dung beetles in a jar to add to our frog spawn collection. Though I say truthfully, I never was inclined to drink from the neighborhood frog pond. —David