Őland

 Őland

(islands east of the Swedish mainland)

We sail past rocks that glaciers

rubbed round, so the square story

goes. Round heads of old monks,

slick heads of seals sleeping on

black-boulder islands.

We’re sailing to a land, Åland.

It belongs to water, a semi-nation of Swedes

governed by Finns, its very-own flag

air-snapped by unconquered winds.

Three old Swedish men, drinking beer

this early morning, mutter

stories of boats, ships, water, and things

that go wrong. “Panama,” they say.

And “Gävle.” “Titta,” they say: Look,

and we pass the rocks past Őland.

The rocks pass us, looking. Things can’t

go wrong with rocks but can go

wrong on them. White swans

fly by. Earth never stops whirling—

so grave story goes. “Ibland,” the men

say. Sometimes. For Ő, which is island,

say O but with tongue lifted to middle,

an island the vibrations flow past

and out through the O into air.

Å is just oh, and oh is just water.

In Waterland, land becomes a sought-after afterthought:

“Oh. . . . Land.” Ibland. Åland. Őland.

1994/2021

Words and Land, Land and Water

Rita Dove has a wonderful poem titled simply "Ö." The title of my poem below seems elaborate by comparison: "Őland." Poets are notoriously imperfect at interpreting their own poems, so with that caveat, I'll just note that I think the writing of this one came from a seam or crevice that many if not most poets explore, where the mysterious connections between land and language (and "land" is language) seem to reside.

On a more basic but still poetic topic, I'll mention that, to English-speakers, the Swedes refer to the commercial trip from Sweden to Őland as "the booze cruise," a nice rhyme.

The people who live on these island consider themselves, culturally, to be and, linguistically, are Swedish. When Russia "annexed" Finnland, it grabbed Åland, too, and when Finnland became independent again, Őland stayed with Finnland, at least officially.

* * *

Őland

(the group of island east of Sweden)

We sail past rocks. Glaciers rubbed

them round, so the story goes—round

heads of old monks, slick heads of seals

sleeping on black boulder-islands.

We’re sailing to a land that belongs

to water, a semi-nation of Swedes

governed by Finns, its very-own flag

whipped by unconquered winds.

Three old Swedish men, drinking beer

this early morning, mutter

stories of boats, ships, water, and things

that go wrong. “Panama,” they say.

And “Gävle.” “Titta,” they say: Look,

and we pass the rocks past Őland.

The rocks pass us, looking. Things can’t

go wrong with rocks but can go

wrong on them. White swans

fly by. Earth never stops whirling—

so the story goes. “Ibland,” the men

say. Sometimes.

Å is oh, and oh is water. In Waterland, land

becomes a sought-after afterthought:

“Oh. . . . Land.” Ibland. Åland. Őland.

Copyright 2007