Mitten-clad hands opened beer bottles with a key and we sipped from them while trampling the snow in dress shoes. We walked single-file through the graveyard, holding on to each other so no one lost their way among the gravestones. Beyond the graveyard followed a sharp, steep hill, which we didn’t realize until we had half-rolled, half-ran down it. Still we landed on our feet and stood in the backyard of a house. Made a racket under the bedroom window and smoked a bunch of cigarettes. We sprinted over Tjörnin’s sheet of ice, letting ourselves glide across, fell and hurt ourselves more than we expected. Kept going and kept falling. There were stars in the sky but we didn’t see them for the street lights. Anyway, we didn’t want to see anything in this ice cold gale. — Arngunnur Árnadóttir, Meðgönguljóð (Partus Press), 2013
whispers from the winter darkness of Reykjavík from a poetry collective returning to the radical roots of self-publishing, bravo! (The Grapevine published a long profile on them in English.)