I live in Scandinavia where the changes of the seasons are clearly felt and are very visible. All seasons here have their charm; we have all heard that said a few times. As well as the words about that the season we prefer mostly are the one we were born in, that could be for some… My seasons of choice, or choices, are the late autumn and the first half of winter. In general I like to overdress myself, cover myself a bit, and I like being active just a little bit to keep my temperature.
In my teens and a bit further on, I lived in the center of towns and very rarely went out to visit any forests. I found the seasons in the towns I lived in to be a nuisance and the summer was mostly too hot and dusty, all the winters were too cold and dark, ice annoyed me when it was hard to walk as it had been snowing and then frozen with hundreds of people walking it rough and rugged…
I always look at trees, any tree I will glance at with an aesthetic mind. The ugly buildings everywhere and all the sick people are painful to my eyes, but trees and their changing will always soothe me. It took some time to really get to know nature again, through the years after been cut off from being one with nature. I felt that nature was just not paying off any effort given in material goods, I pretended that I didn’t need any kind of spiritual connection in the pitiful life I had… I have since then lived secluded and very close to nature for many years, walking and taking photographs and enjoying the different seasons as they enter and leave; to the point that I actually got bored of it all. Still, it is in my senses and I live with the seasons.
LET ME SEARCH FOR FOUR-LEAF CLOVERS
Let me be in all the days
where wild strawberries are attached to straw,
where lilies of the valley gleam white in the glades
and my chanterelles glow yellow from the groves
Let me search for four-leaf clovers
Let me gladly drown the sorrow
and become the real in me
Let me inoculate a leaf on a three-leaf clover
Let me create four-leaf clovers!
Remaining here was this heart
in its anciently dormant well
to retrieve, open and carry
Letting me newkiss the wetlands’ sun-warmed cloudberries
in the wilderness where the deer’s dances nightly with elks
while these stars in this night are set guard over the sparks
and the rowan berries solemnly sail across the forest lakes
It takes a while before the veils bend down
are dusted membranes
In all my four poetry books I’ve had a theme that runs through all the seasons. And, I lived within the changes in the seasons for around twenty years. I needed to stand in; to live in each season to know it and then embrace it into myself for love, comfort and Knowledge. I truly did sense the nature and its seasons change: The flowering of the almond-trees and the taste of wild strawberries, the autumn-leaves falling beneath painted skies, all of life in its different shades and aspects, the gentle flower-filled meadow in the summer. Then again, the beauty in the seasons through nature is far from everything that holds value in Life, but in this world today, many minds clearly lack the ability to be one with nature.
Living merely in my autumn leaves, watercourses and clouds,
like a kissed harvest pulled by longings silenced promises
and as unwillingly begged, hard nightflowered and teared
The forest sun-striated (Dreamed in Life’s Windsnare)
meanwhile the raining leaned in slowly, hesitent steps
(Watching melting, hectically dripping under springsun’s might)
In stonelee will soon the violets be placed harrowed here again
and then fade, shyly slouch, under the night-time’s journey
(Enough about that.)
Stepping up a daily route and got beautiful together with dawning
and when later the rain carefully fell asleep weary beside the dusking
down under raking forest tree tops underneath the greyspeckled skies
was springs-ground seen turning home to barrenly (and slowly) thaw drinking
Gazing miles wide around over the halfway snow stained mounds
where furrowed fields stood silent as frozen, stopped sea waves,
while the Winds hit, took headway from all four sides, then suddenly!:
At precisely the right time beams of the Sun broke in over the district
The springtender light lit carefully (Warmed the last years grass)
and little shadows flickered themselves quickly over creek and river
I have eye-caressed the pinebedded grounds fairest days
before nocturnal fog arose around tender forestshadows
Beneath rainpines’ dripping greeted my sight modest flowering,
together with the rain teared down with most broken branches
Indulgent crop on sweet forest ploughed strips, stay here.
I know that the two poems above are quite loaded with imagery, and that was part of the point and perhaps their sole strength when I wrote them a few years back. It is a pressing on, a forcing down of an overload of images, to compress the beauty I saw and wanted and then stressing that very beauty against the senses. We all have to live without that much beauty being present in everything, and we also need to fill ourselves with a clear understanding of what beauty in nature through the seasons give to our lives. Or, we will have next to nothing in our life outside ourselves and egoism when we live in this world. Seasons? I’m all in for it.
Am a resting windfall the storm rifted and hid
next to clean ― opening ― flowing cold wells.
Remain being sought after and true ― All that you have dreamt of.
Still aiming after the lingering clouds’ steps,
after the tentative winter sun over the spruce stripe
in glances fleeing away from this place underneath…
(Laying thoughtful seated in the ascent,
alone reluctantly agreed to leave my tracks here.)
No more faking being content, poking around in Life’s shrubs,
saying gently that the hard to interpret is your ignorance;
that the core was carved hard in my last death years
A small misty look-in from the passed peaks:
(The hardest growth rings, rarely richly useful,
when only and always; Truth as the answer remains.)
In its dream state stuck the frost onto the dusted grey
spillage from the branches power ― wandered to The Gods’ might ―
entering over the grounds threshold: The skies recess.
Cultivated to be a Knowledgeable: An ennobled wild.
Att det tagit mig tre månader att nu få upp denna diktsamling, min sista, är ju märkligt. Har slutat med att skriva poesi så detta är det sista ni får ur mig.
Winter-shrouded wooded ground ― bitterly cold ―
plodding snowed over paths.
Whirling snow kisses. Helping me live.
Cutting in ― setting traces in time ―
hearing a frozen to death stone rapture.
Sensing emotions colden.
Future now stands here in the trace-meeting ―
knowing the inner in your voice ― in our two parts:
Let me become the most beautiful spring-freed leaf you’ve seen.
När minnen livnär,
framtvingar det oförklarade att vara självklart.
Och vad som anstår vårt värde kommer Viljan att följa.
Så lite det krävs att ge liv.
Men när minnen illa skär:
Sökte en medkänsla; fick kalla, okunniga ord
till ett tomt skal där en oförändrat upplyst borde bo.
Så lite det krävs att ge död.
minnets samlade resultat från levda stunder, lyss:
Våra liv handlar om att förtjäna vår identitet.
Härled din närvaro med vår lämnade tillvaro,
häromkring tillåt insikternas sötma bli motgiftet.
Här. Vi kan rensa felen och vända världen rätt för oss.
Rygga aldrig tillbaka!
Skyll inte tveksamhetens kedjor!
Men, finn vår repulsion mot ideal utan den normala insikten:
Inne i de andra Världarna visas all vår olikhet klarlagd.
Vinterinsvept skogstrakt ― smällkallt ―
pulsar översnöade stigar.
Yrsnö kysser. Hjälp mig leva.
Hugger in ― sätter spår i tiden ―
hör en ihjälfrusen sten rämna.
Känner känslorna kallna.
Framtida nu står här i spårmötet ―
känner ditt inre i din röst ― i våra två delar:
Låt mig bli det vackraste vårutsprungna löv ni sett.
Är ett vilande vindfälle stormen rämnat och gömt
invid rena ― öppnande ― flödande kallkällorna.
Kvarstår vara eftersökt och sann ― Allt det ni har drömt.
Siktar ännu efter de dröjande molnens steg,
efter trevande vintersolen över granranden
med blick flyende bort från denna plats nedanför…
(Ligger tankfull kvar i sluttningen,
ensamt motvilligt ense om att lämna mina spår.)
Slutar att fagermätt peta runt i Livets snår,
säger mjukt att det svårtydda är er okunnighet;
att kärnan ristade hårt in mitt sista dödsår.
En liten immig skymt från de gångna glanspunkterna:
(Hårdaste årsringarna, sällan rikligt användbara
när endast och alltid; Sanningen till svar återstår.)
I sitt drömmeri fastnade frosten på det dammgrå
spillet från grenars kraft ― vandrande till Gudarnas makt ―
instigande över markens tröskel: Skyarnas vrå.
Odlad vara en Vetande: En förädlat vild.