A week ago the village of Hólmavík in the West Fjords held the first-ever Disaster Days festival. Following is a poem about the event.
Our village deserves some attention.
It’s time that we held a convention.
I think it is safe to presume
We’re experts in sadness and gloom.
We need a good name for the meeting
A name that our guests like repeating.
“Disaster Days” doesn’t sound bad;
The mood will be somber and sad.
Our local, ambitious committee
Arranged for a class in self-pity.
We’ll cry and complain as a team.
“Our life is a mess” is the theme.
There will be a book competition.
You’ll read from your latest edition.
No thought in the book may be deep.
The winner will put us to sleep.
On Saturday night we’ll serve dinner.
The chef is a total beginner.
The menu will hardly impress:
Your stomach will be in distress.
But if you can stand after dinner,
You could be the ballroom dance winner.
Don’t worry—we will not have pros:
You’ll win just by stepping on toes.
You’ll all get to practice your voices;
We’ll offer you several choices
Of lessons by lovely Miss June.
She’ll teach you to sing out of tune.
On Sunday, the mass will be boring.
The normal reaction is snoring.
Our priest has no humor at all.
He’ll say life is hopeless for y’all.
And then you’ll go home in a hurry;
You’ll leave with no care and no worry.
One day you’ll be back, we assume.
Our town is a dumpsite for gloom.
© Vala Hafstad