Island Seventeen - Isle of All-Fathers Malt-Surf

(Extract from: Muse of the Long Haul Thirty-One Isles of the Creative Imagination)
Copyright, Dr Ian Irvine, 2013 all rights reserved. All short extracts from the texts discussed are acknowledged and used under fair usage related to review and theoretical critique under international copyright law. Image: Spitting the Mead of Poetry, by Jakob Sigursson, (18th century, Iceland) artist. This image is in the public domain. [Explanation: Odin spits the mead of poetry into several vessels whilst being chased by Suttungr.]

Publisher: Mercurius Press, Australia, 2013. NB: This piece is published at Scribd as part of a series drawn from the soon to be print published non-fiction book on experiential poetics entitled: Muse of the Long Haul: Thirty-One Isles of the Creative Imagination.

Island Seventeen Isle of All-Fathers Malt-Surf

In the Skaldskaparmal (part of Snorri Sturlusons Prose Edda) there is a remarkable section detailing the way in which the Gods, and through them humanity, acquired poetry from the giants. Its a colourful tale full of misanthropy and grotesque humour. Early in the narrative we are told of a great battle between the Aesir (the Gods) and the giant Thiassi. The giant is defeated and there follows a description of the way in which his fathers inheritance of gold had originally been divided among the three childreni.e. Thiassi, Idi and Gangafter his death. Bragi, one of the narrators of the piece, then says to the other narrator, Aegir:
We have this expression among us, to call gold the mouth-tale of these giants, and we conceal it in secret language or in poetry by calling it speech or words or talk of these giants.1

Musing on this statement, Aegir asks: How did this craft that you call poetry originate? Bragi, answers that the Gods had had some conflict with a people called the Vanir. When a truce was affirmed between the two groups members of each had to spit into a vat. Bragi continues, saying that the gods were loath to waste the accumulated spittle and thus decided to make a man out of it. The man was named Kvasir. Now Kvasir was infinitely wise and decided to tour the land as a teacheri.e. a dispenser of divine knowledge and a master of poetry. Unfortunately he was not wise enough to discern the intentions of two dwarves, Fialar and Galar, who lured him to a private conversation then promptly killed him. At this point Bragis version of the origin of poetry descends into the macabre and grotesque since we are told:
They poured his blood into two vats and a pot They mixed honey with the blood and it turned into the mead whoever drinks of which becomes a poet or a scholar.2

From such a perspective I perhaps drank (accidentally, for I do not remember doing it on purpose) such a brew (mead)i.e. blood of the divine spittle man mixed with honeyat some point in my teenage years! To return to Bragis narration, however, the dwarves, not being particularly sociable types, decided to continue their killing rampage by doing away with two other giants, Gilling and his wife. This time however they bite off more than they can chew and the couples son, Suttung, seeks vengeance. He captures the two churlish dwarves and threatens to kill them. They in turn seek atonement for their actions by offering Suttung the inspirational mead (of poetry and knowledge). The narrator of the tale, Bragi, comments: That is why we call poetry Kvasirs blood or dwarfs drink or dwarfs transportation, because this mead brought them deliverance.3 Aegir, a little bamboozled by the story, asks Bragi how the Aesir eventually came upon the mead. Bragi relates that the god Odin became interested in acquiring the mead and decided to seek the favor of the giants who owned it. He sought out Suttungs brother, Baugibut not before tricking nine of Baugis slaves into cutting each others throats. Unfortunately there are
1 2 3

Snorri Sturluson, Edda, p. 61, Everyman, 1995. Snorri Sturluson, Edda, p. 62, Everyman, 1995. Snorri Sturluson, Edda, p. 62, Everyman, 1995.

no dwarves around to mix their blood with honey! Next Odin worked for Baugi for an entire summerthe wage being a mouthful of Suttungs magical mead. Baugi makes no guarantees, however, since it is his brothers property. Eventually Odin and Baugi part company after Suttung refuses a single drop of the mead to Odin. Odin, however, now knows where it is stored and decides to sleep with its guardian Suttungs daughter Gunnlodwho is apparently so happy with his lovemaking that she allows him to drink of the mead. This he does with great gustoguzzling the lot and turning into an eagle. Puffed up, no doubt, with the magical mead, Odin flies back to the Aesir with an angry Suttung (also taking the form of an eagle) in angry pursuit. The Aesir quickly assemble three gigantic vats for Odin to spit into. Bragi concludes this tale of theft, murder, debauchery and grotesque cooking practices by saying:
Odin gave Suttungs mead to the Aesir and to those people who are skilled at composing poetry. Thus we call poetry Odins booty and find, and his drink, and his gift and the Aesirs gift.4

Bragi later relates that many major poets used terms drawn from the above story whenever they spoke about the craft of poetry. Arnor, for example, was partial to describing poetry as AllFathers malt-surf. Though at first reading this ancient Viking explanation for the origins of poetry seems to be the product of a mind itself sodden with too much mead, at second glance there is a certain robust honesty to the talewith its depictions of Gods, dwarves and giants behaving badlythat accurately depicts the life-world origins of creative inspiration in wayward passions, sex, aggression, greed, thievery, indeed all manner of human vices. To a Freudian the tale depicts poetry and art as pursuits closely linked to ID energiesindeed a veritable smorgasbord of ID impulses are on display throughout the tale! All things human, good or ill, are thus admitted as possible subjects for poetry and artand this to me is as it should be. The tale serves as a fitting introduction to the chaotic, experimental atmosphere surrounding the bunch of Central Victorian street and performance poets Sue and I became involved with around 1994. Parallel to my last year or so in Goyas Child, Sue and I began attending monthly poetry readings held at local Bendigo venues. One of the poets, Sean Stanyer, and his girlfriend at the time, an artist named Deanne Bail (now Eccles), organized the evenings and their home quickly became the rallying point for every young bohemian in Central Victoria.5 Naturally Sue and I were drawn to the scene. For one Sue and Deanne hit it off well as creative women determined to forge a career in some aspect of the arts, regardless of the hurdles thrown in their way by society, etc. The scene attracted a different group of people to the music scenethere were more artists and writers involved, for example. Participants also tended to be more thoughtful about the world and their place in it and many had done fine arts, creative arts or humanities degrees. Similarly,
4 5

Snorri Sturluson, Edda, p. 64, Everyman, 1995. Besides Sue and I the following poets, writers, artists and songwriters participated (apologies are due in advance: Im terrible at remembering surnames and have probably missed some contributors out completely): Scott Alterator, Deanne (Bail now Eccles), the Beekeeper, Rod Blackhirst, Matt Chapman (Chappy), Donna, Karen Hepworth, Cath Holton, John Holton, Scott Hunt, Joe, Jules, Shane Kendall, James Mannix, Matt (the DJ), Nicole, Sarah , Sean Stanyer, Liam Thorpe, and Gareth Williams.

women were very much seen as equals (compared to the alternative rock scene), rather than as adoring observers present to watch the men perform. The dominant art-form of this group turned out to be performance poetry. I had to learn a range of new skills in order to entertain audiences in this domain. For one there were only words to work with, no melodies attached to the words (though there were rhythms and all the devices of the actor) and no musicians with instruments that I could hide my voice behind. I felt nervous, once again, before performingeven a two minute poem made me sweat and tremble. I really enjoyed the communality of the experience and for the first time in my life felt creatively grounded and part of a community of passionate writers and poetry performers (one that Sue could also be a part of as a recognized artist in her own right). It often felt more meaningful, in the end, reciting poetry in half-empty pubs than it did performing original music to large gatherings of people. The personality pressure (audience demands for exuberant extroversion) that necessarily accompanies fronting even a local rock band were much diminished and I could return to myself as a young writer with lots to learn. Stanyer was, in truth the educator in this realma tall Nordic looking guy with an open smile and a friendly demeanor . Under his guidance the group brought contemporary literature to life in profoundly exciting and innovative ways. Stanyer was mainlining European industrial music, the Beats and other international avant garde poetries, and had long since moved on from T.S. Eliot and the staid modernists and Romantics wed been introduced to at La Trobe. My friend John Holton now a successful short story writer, poet, journalist and editoralso became involved in the group. My experiences with this group of poets, artists and avant garde song-writers also allowed me to rediscover the raw, rhythmic, revolutionary energy of the Beats. More importantly, given Stanyer loved Bukowski, I had to explore the possibility that poetry could arise out of substance abuse, misanthropy and failurea dangerous lesson, true, but the mood of the group could be summarized by the saying nothing human beneath us. We also had a lot of fun togetherlove of absurdity and comedy balanced the darker creative explorations some of us were engaged in. The poetics of the group, and I only realized this much later, revolved around creating modernist and postmodern avant garde poetry performance hybrids. Very little of what we were doing was theorizedthough everyone had their favourite poets, musicians and writers that they disseminated to others in the group. We interviewed each other and staged happenings like the Situationists and Fluxists of the 1960s. The highlight turned out to be a group performance around 1995 at a Castlemaine pub as part of the towns Fringe Festival. In a group performance tracing the history of the word from the primordial forests to the internet, I had to dress up as an ape and munch on a bananalater, someone leapt on stage with a live chainsaw. Some of us even played netball togethersuitably arraigned in gothic black surprisingly we even had frequent victories! It was all very Dada, in truth, innovative and experimental, exactly what Sue and I needed to develop ourselves as writers and poets. And the word writer as a term of self-definition was, importantly, part of the group-speak. We were in reality apprentice writersrather, writers and performers of writings. And so it all went until Deanne and Sean broke up and Sean left Bendigo for a period in Bruswick, the bohemian capital of Victoria. I remember feeling very down after he leftthe group had lost its leader. For my part the difficult transition to life as an adult writer was under wayculminating in a crisis year in 1998-1999. All this fiddling around with words was all very well, but how the hell on earth were Sue and I going to convert such obsessions into sustainable

vocations that could put food on the table, pay the rent, pay the maintenance bills, etc.? It all looked very difficultpost-University wed seen others fall like flies in the face of 9-5 jobs and the other inevitable pressures of conventional living. How were we going to make writing (or the arts generally) a significant part of our lives? It was probably time to assemble a body of work and seek out an audiencei.e. it was time to get professional and seek publication. The movement from youthful enthusiast or dabbler to established adult practitioner (suggestive of the idea of vocation) is always a major testing period for would-be writers, poets, etc., in part because the shift demands that others in society take you seriously. Not being an overly populist artist/writer etc. makes the task even more difficultespecially in places like Australia and New Zealand. In late 1997 I was still a thirty-three year old enthusiast, a dabbler, a student. A career in the creative arts still seemed a distant mirage to me.
Author Bio (as at May 2013)
Dr. Ian Irvine (Hobson) is an Australian-based poet/lyricist, writer and non-fiction writer. His work has featured in publications as diverse as Humanitas (USA), The Antigonish Review (Canada), Tears in the Fence (UK), Linq (Australia) and Takahe (NZ), as well as in a number of Australian national poetry anthologies: Best Australian Poems 2005 (Black Ink Books) and Agenda: Australian Edition, 2005. He is the author of three books and co-editor of three journals and currently teaches in the Professional Writing and Editing program at BRIT (Bendigo, Australia) as well as the same program at Victoria University, St. Albans, Melbourne. He has also taught history and social theory at La Trobe University (Bendigo, Australia) and holds a PhD for his work on creative, normative and dysfunctional forms of alienation and morbid ennui.