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NEW YEAR!

I reached my goals for this year when it comes down to showing up with some productivity, granted be that it was for the most part writing as far back as seven years that went into small print and production. I also managed to reach post number three hundred and got over five thousand followers on this blog/homepage. And, I started up www.asatruth.com again with a dozen posts.

The two books I made this year with my translated poetry; AS ONE and HUNTED IN INVIOLABLE BLOOD has been read by a few thousand and understood by too few, they will of course be read by many more; and much more interested people in the future. I also did a book in Swedish with poetry; I KLARHET     IMMA (IN CLARITY     MIST) and I had my second photo exhibition under the name 1 SIGFRIDSSON; called DUSSINFOTO (DOZENPHOTO). As my grand finale for this year I did the magazine: NEW TIME (THE SOLSTICE WELL) that gathered some of my articles, naturally I found some minor mistakes here and there after it was completed…. O! I continuously avoid perfection. 

I’m rarely as productive as I would like to be so I’m pleased anyway. (Honestly, I’m a bit humoured by how I always wait so I can start up from zero with everything I have done in my life. It has to do with that I would get bored and leave it if I didn’t keep it a bit shaky and interesting until final day of production. It gives it that unique one of a kind touch, perhaps or perhaps not… I can always fix it in the mix some other rainy day.)

I still buy and sell a few books, records and other crap now and then on the internet. I find it curious that many believe that I must be a “fan” of what I “trade” with… Trust me, I’m not a “fan” of any junk-culture. As far as I’m concerned it can all burn and be erased from this world. Why do I even touch it? It keeps my mind occupied a few hours here and there every second month or so. Maybe I just need a small hobby to avoid going out and stabbing people? (By the way, I have stopped with this small trading, I might sell a few things once or twice more…)

Earlier this year there was some goofy literature magazines that complained about that I gave them material through e-mail without treating them as very special individuals, as they all are so important that I just have to send them a few words each for their magazines that I would never read, at least not without puking. Why send them anything then? It is merely for spreading my material around a bit. I really do not wish to be in any of the junk-culture magazines. I have stopped sending out material altogether now, not a copy was sent out of NEW TIME (THE SOLSTICE WELL). I might send out something in the future, but I doubt it. (I might become forced to, for some reason or another…)

You know, if the world was perfect then I would sit and dream and write aesthetic and fragile poetry all day long. I would have some peaches with cream and some cold mineral water and then go out and smell the forest after the rain in the Spring/Summer/Autumn. Etc. I do not sit and daydream as the nightmare of the present reality in this world will take over in a few seconds… Now there is a Winter… I do not have any papers to write on… On the positive side I do have some cream in a can… It is fattening.

I figure that I’m now about 0,001% of what I should have been some twenty years ago, that is slightly depressing. At least I’m on the map for the New Time and that is more than most who lived in this sad middle-period of time have. Next year will be mine.

I will raise One fulltru-glass on New Year as a first, last and always.

 

1 S

NEW YEAR!

Unknown's avatar

NEW TIME (THE SOLSTICE WELL, ISSUE 1, 46)

NEW TIME (THE SOLSTICE WELL, ISSUE 1, 46) PDF

I finished this magazine an hour ago. It is articles and photography made into a magazine.

Unknown's avatar

DETTA ÄR HALVA STIGENS LÄNGD

”Du, du var knappast i någonting ljuvligt fylld,

 alltid en så villrådig och blygt inväntande.”

 

Och dagen…

där solstrålarna drömde sig genom hulten

och finner något tänkbart värdigt min vilja igen

 

Och natten…

när våra tårar tog famntag runtom skönhet

medan tiden vissna ner i vår nattstilla trygghet

 

Kommer tystlåtet trevande i gäckande år,

likt livgivande skuggornas uppresta syner

famlar i ljusets alla nattsnår

 

Fastnar. Ett nytt dystert, gistet ögonblick här står…

 

SKYMD! Är ett hindrat ljus, så tvinande…

Skyggande… Spelad inför mörkrets sken.

Skingras. Nedriver det sammanbrutna.

 

Fortfarande dricker brutna blicken solskenet

och väntar genom det smeksamt flimrande ljuset

 

 

(Fick här stå över ett kast

i en olöst rörelse ovilligt ljusmålad

ty detta är halva stigens längd.)

DETTA ÄR HALVA STIGENS LÄNGD

Unknown's avatar

INNAN SKÖNHETEN DÖR

Där trädan låg tillgänglig i åratal

gnistrade kallaste nattstenar; kallar

inne i hultens snötäckta mörker

innan natten växte all sin frost klar

 

Åskådar kvarlevorna sänkta ner i blodet.

 

(Mina intensiva dubbla blickar

skvallrande om tidigare liven,

minnes övertydligaste spåren.)

 

 

Följer min längtans omöjliga krav,

 

Den,

vilken aldrig någonsin omfamnar;

hugger hjärtat som tänktes hårt: Min grav.

 

Och all min skönhet är nu död, liksom er,

vilken i allt er så förrycker och förtrycker

 

Saknar mig. Min längtan är botad.

Finner. Sker. Odlad.

Är ny mognad Essens.

 

 

Släcker ner mina sårs lidanden

och vaknar, innan skönheten dör, igen.

Bild20760

 

Unknown's avatar

1 SIGFRIDSSON – HUNTED IN INVIOLABLE BLOOD (POETRY E-BOOK)

After most of these translations have been sitting around for five years, I finally got it somewhat together.

 

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TAKEN YEARS WANDERED

 Taken years wander around, 

too Bored with day and night

.

The wind hisses,

newly kindled stars gaze

.

Hugen cuts after, in me,

while clouds ignore and the birds swear

.

Are then waking the night in vain

and fathoming the moonbeams

over this bloomed out meadow

.

Surrounded traces of this life 

become gladness itself to a shimmer,

which runs 

through its ground base

before hope is expected

and avoiding

the formed heritage

where inaccessible turns,

waiting, Calling, waiting

.

One inside all the Light in here is played;

hearing wind whisper itself amongst leaves

in front of this awaited death duty plight

A rare functioning love insight

.

.

.

BLISS!

LOVE!

NECTAR!

TAKEN YEARS WANDERED

TAKEN YEARS WANDERED

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INVIOLABLE

Poured in a few warming glances for sweetly rare memories

to carry away, pity gone by, to enclose this inviolable,

yet get to sense those wet summer meadows caress my legs,

to catch the calm wind close to the corner of this stable

.

Dreamed,

I am everywhere down here called a dreamed

.

A hidden,

inside indecisions; the seasons rake me in as gone

.

Glances of Life linger on to remain inside the bitter hurted

and to guest the old property as if this life still was alive,

as if an unknown mist hanged on to this very Life perished,

as would my life still remain in Life as my own Life

.

(Coldly clear. A partly unhinged wooden gate creaks wind,

opened unto a forgotten yard whose remains can be sighted slightly.)

.

Leaned over wooden boxes filled up with potatoes and carrots,

smelling in filled bags with mealy apples in the foyer cold

which all lasted as long as Winter would hand its permission

.

(Frost stricken. The gravel path glimmers its fragile floes,

small stones set inside the frozen sand did glisten still.)

.

I am snared sorrow-wise, bilious, mild-eyed, fragile and lost

like the last apple shined witnessed left on its winter branch

sees this year’s harvest of autumn leaves beauty rolled in frost

.

I stand ended,

alone left unarmed against unreality’s gruesomeness

.

Sidling up to the charcoal kiln forgotten by the region

in thinking of friends’ swords drawn out from the field below

.

Underneath the darkness,

fresh laid snow mounds in a blue bleak winter night

.

.

.

Brewed afterglow:

Dead stars’ cries of regret in the night

beneath gleamingly lingering daybreaks remain ―

Unreachable

.

INVIOLABLE

INVIOLABLE

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LIFE IN MIGHT!

COME WINDS! STORMS!

COME LIFE IN MIGHT! IN BLOOD FROM BLOOD!

COME TIME’S FORCE ― MIGHT OF ODIN!

.

THE GODS ARE LIFE’S AND DEATH’S RULES

ALWAYS PRESENT HERE AND SET ABOVE!

.

DENY THE FRIEND-ROTTEN LOATHSOME ALL WORDS!

HEAVE AWAY HIDDEN IN DREAM AND EARLY FOR NOTHING!

LET THE TRUTH MUTE ALL OF THE DIMNESS AND DOUBT!

VIET OWNS MIDGARD ALONE AND WED IN LIFE HERE!

.

THE WAR IS TEARING ― DRIVES FORWARD A FINAL REVENGE

AND BLOOD WETS THE BARK ― RUNS IN THE RIGHT TRACKS!

.

WE ENABLE HERE TRUTH, HONOUR AND RIGHT!

WE TAKE HOME LOVE, FREEDOM AND MIGHT!

THE LAW IS THAT WE SHALL BE WHAT WE ARE!

.

COME TIME’S FORCE ― MIGHT OF ODIN!

COME LIFE IN MIGHT! IN BLOOD FROM BLOOD!

COME WINDS! STORMS!

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ULTIMATUM

O!

You so easily bought, mightless and tarned,

trapped scabby with the loss of lust caught,

fully emptied of rights: Necessarily trashed!

 

You…

 

You! Forgotten remaining in a worn and fouled

You! Eyetiredly drowned in permanent quicksand

You tracelessly left to be helpless,

you filthy weak and meek, listen up a while!

 

Long enough has wished for been searched down in unwanted

while illusions has been emptied of gladness

where false found thought-worthy qualm unthought thought

and exertedly spilled its power on the pitiful needs

 

Only misanthropists can love what our world has become

while deprived and crushed promises been mortarized

for the weed itself has scuffled in thirst after our blood,

around, and down, at the poisoned well’s places

 

And few wish little more than to qualify as wretch…

 

It is me anyway so bitingly bitter to break

with ripped apart society’s broken

where the crippled and dizzy demand Life to crippled be

 

Hardly.

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1 SIGFRIDSSON AS ONE (E-BOOK)

First book in English.