First book in English. Share and comment.
Som titeln på blogposten antyder så läser jag ur ARKR. En vald tredjedel av ARKR vill säga. Spelade in detta i Höstas som ett test och lyssnade på det först igår, så man kan kalla detta ganska lågprioriterat. Om jag är nöjd? Absolut inte i närheten av nöjd. Varsågoda.
(Reblogged, rewritten and now included in THE SOLSTICE WELL.)
A writer writing about writing. How very original of me. You can skip this…
Anyway, I have been writing some kind of poetry for over twenty years now and I clearly remember the first words penned down that were found a little too good to throw away. After that initial chock I gathered bits here and there, and it felt natural for me to write. I had to. It was really all I had.
Initially, it was mostly about my personal suffering, what I could remember bits of and get hold of at that time, with my empty hope attached to it. Little did I acknowledge how bad my life really had been, was and were to become… I still write a bit like that today. I guess that it would be seen as very egoistic to do that kind of self-indulgence if I didn’t, big hearted as I am, include everyone and everything within that aspect of myself. Right? Right. I was walking around thinking and planning poetry in the supposedly intellectual town of Uppsala and later in the supposedly “arty and semi-intellectual” part of Stockholm, Södermalm, for a few years. Dressed in black of course, just like right now… I did write some manuscripts that took forever and three or four days to make. Later on that got burnt up in mysterious fires, set by myself. I planned on starting up a small book publishing company. I have always been more attracted to planning the “business side” more than the actual writing. I think that at some point in my life, around fifteen years of age, I found it smarter to let others embarrass themselves by producing the junk and me working with their junk instead. I never had the thinking that if I take part in anything that it would have any part of me. It does not have any part of me if I produce a book written by someone else, or records with music by someone else, if and only if I am kept unaware of what I am doing. The “guilt by association” is for retarded thinking, in most cases. I guess, or know, that I more just liked to picture myself as a writer than actually being one. I do try to avoid telling people that I write a bit, not only as I have published so little, it is more about the questions that follow suite. Also, the notion that if you write you must be really smart. I have a problem with that as I’m really dumb.
I often hear that most poets are amateurs, seeing that they rarely can sell enough to be called professional writers. This is mostly from people that seldom can find anything of value other than what kind of money something can bring in order to set food on their table. Otherwise it is just air. They might be right in a sense. Anyway, this degeneration in sales of poetry is nothing to wonder about at all. Poetry today is mostly crap that has nothing interesting to say to anyone. And, it has been that way for hundreds of years due to the lack of Knowledge, a lack of everything really. That poetry has gone even more downhill since the Second World War ended is hardly worth noticing, but that is just my universal and valid opinion. All these personal scribbling’s about love and suffering, all these simple and not knowledgeable thoughts on society, and all that plain nonsense that is thrown around in general, it is all offending to me. For those that use poetry as a dumpster, where they with great exaggeration express “feelings”, really should start to search for other playgrounds as it deeply harms poetry. These “poets” have given up on poetry as the vehicle for Truth. Now they are writing poetry for the sake of writing and posing with it as “poetry”. Am I better than these described hazards? It is a question of reference points. Most do not understand what I write, but they will. Or die a horrible death. I am not better. I am just more.
Have the poets given up to be the leaders for their folk? Do they try to be the teachers or would that just be impossible in today’s sad state of it all? We as poets, these visionaries, the Truth-seekers, the highest thinkers, the hunters in the ultimate quest to bring beauty, real freedom and Knowledge to this world. Is this lost as a goal for most to at least try? Is this a fait accompli? I personally see very little of interest in verse and rhyme, it is more or less the same silly melodies again and again, and then again. Most of versed and rhymed poetry is to be read like songs for children even if it deals with death and suffering. With free verse we have another problem. It is mostly just prose in hiding. Foul and boring. Have you heard anyone complain that poetry is boring? I have heard myself say that in my mind so many times now that it’s not even funny.
Strangely enough, other forms of literature, that all at some point in history have been derived from poetry, have much more impact on society at the moment. These are trends of little significance, I might add. The form is slightly different, but the content is more or less just average stupidity in all literature. I remember fifteen years ago when I sent my poetry manuscripts (Under a taken name, as I was not really content with my writing at all. Still wished to be published though…) to publishers, that they actually told me to write some kind of detective novels, or at least novels instead. Never. I wouldn’t defile myself with low class writing like that. Ha! Never! I guess I share this with most people that write poetry. We are so proud. (Well… I did write a “novel” that took me over two years to write, and was never finished or seen by anybody other than me. That one is gone in a fire since long ago now. It was not a sell-out…)
I do see a real future for “poetry”. A future where it lyrically will never again be seen as just equal to the empty lyrics made for music. Never seen upon as personal problems voiced by the angst-ridden in their need. Not as simple structures to please the simple minded sing-a-long-people with. Poetry will become a strong weapon against nothingness itself. I will of course be the leader. Where will you be?
(All irony to be found here is very unintentional.)
Awaken in the moment mists climb the mountain
Writing three words; Not a word ―
on molten fragile leaves the winds have thrown around
I hasten there, up to, close to almond trees in its new,
refilling calm and leaving behind tears from a joyous
that will soon trickle me away fast against this world
as missed moments of beauty finds sorrows for days
Eagles and ravens follow through the valley glen
home to how Wind caresses the clouds slightly ― Home
Here ― over these chamomilestrewn tracks that meanders
on a gathered freodpath far away from the wound’s revilers
Hold me as one always awaited, present and sorely missed,
owning these memories that was worthy to be left alone
and continue to blossom sweetly here, even after my death
Moving eyes between Light and the afterglow of darkness
The night has torn itself, sending lovewords to the Universe again,
kissing the stars eyes softly, tenderly, without any frailty to remain
Here all eyes begin
and take us from seeing
of sagacious similarities
home to the realities
Strewing you with thistles,
for that to be sieved is already dead
Taking my blue away from your eyes
A slab of meat left
Taking those mirrors of shallowness
Striking the laughter you gave
Duped remained your life
Given you have been by the hours of light
which trickled down here through the clouds
as you were destined to among us be found,
but step by step your betrayal was nurtured
I spoke straight to the carrdrowned
where the bitterness of his grave met:
Your blanket was of a cloven glory
while Oaths gone and freely piggied
and strolled around after suckling
Now denied you cry in your sty
Core falling on stone
Now the meat ends
Ripping Önd from The Path
To die right is the greatest
You have come to The Path’s end.