HANGED UPON WISHED FOR BRANCH

Heaving up the trashed and torn roots

right here next to the old gallows pole hill

 

 

 

Dig inside my soil.

 

 

 

Every glance is taken like a last solidified picture;

 

Released with the dew-drops in a morning haze.

 

Autumn’s shrouded leaves flicker.

 

 

 

(Daylight in its rising counts itself as old annual rings

finding me in the uncertain emptied; filled with real need.)

 

 

 

Time continues

 

 

 

To willful use for the eye

meets the entrance by the edge of the woods

where soaking wet leave mounds glimmer

 

from the same dawn to dawn enclosed

 

in the greyed trees, the bluish skies

watched and awaited; Time continues.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Juniper bushes, which stood on the slopes

treads on the longed for forest grounds

up the duskily pine-needle filled paths.)

 

 

 

Feel the presence.

 

 

 

Harshly appears the cold ways

denying cloud covered days,

which felted all my time here.

 

 

 

The wind hisses bodefully.

 

 

 

 

(Out-witted as an autumn-adorned branch

taken down with the now icing night-wind.)

 

 

 

 

 

Hear me clearly; Time continues.

HANGED UPON WISHED FOR BRANCH

WHERE STONE SHARDS STAND

Choice is stone on flowers

or flowers on stone

 

YOU THERE! Follow me here and step on meandering ant-tracks

continuing down through the meadowland; in just this spring

which now remade by the meltwater runs over into…

 

Summer, went past reflecting other little summer memories

up here on juniper tree hills and field islands; down by the creeks

we turn our embraces around full-grown wild strawberry ditches

 

 

The water-mirror slumbered stuck further down in the old hollow

with its pine-needles and dust swimming on after― So prettily teasing

 

We will see invisibly lifted stone shards there behind the glade

by saddened hardened in each corner ― Yet they’re playing

 

 

The views are here allowed to be us stretched far and wide,

reachable, for us hastily taken in right before…

 

Autumn, a scent around blot wood and mushrooms in damp moss

from a silent hiding-place where one single leaf has hanged itself on;

following true life-gladness in search after worth seeing; stainless.

 

 

It died down meanwhile the river silenced below the ridge

and beside me sat a frosted fog denseness in a smile;

in its cold and snowfilled winterarms winterfairest shine

 

 

We return home inside the soll!

 

We strike forward our years on mountains!

 

We break Earth’s veins!

WHERE STONE SHARDS STAND

AFORE BEAUTY DIES

Where fallow stayed accessible for years

gleaming in its coldest nightstones; calling

inside the forests snow-covered darkness

as night grew all its frost ready; to cling

 

Watching the remains sunken down in blood.

 

(My intensive double eyes

telling about my earlier lives,

remember now my clearest traces.)

 

 

Following my longings impossible demands,

 

That,

 

which never at any time will caress;

cutting a heart that thought too hard; My grave.

 

 

And all my beauty is now dead, as yours,

which in all of you so wrench and aggrieve

 

 

Missing me. My longing is cured.

FINDING. AM. BRED.

I am the new essence matured.

 

 

Extinguishing all my wounds suffering,

and awake, afore beauty dies, once more.

SPRING FLOWERS 1

IN A TIMELESS

Wide awake.

 

Taking over dawning,

kicking around down in the sand ―

sighting a grey-barn stand among summers ruins

 

Stepping up to the ledge of a still asleep stone bridge

when a grey wagtail flee away with a quenched cry

almost unheard in our consent of silent wind-throws

 

(It hurts to be so greatly charged with suspicion.)

 

 

It cuts hard into my insight.

 

Sad to say, I am an all too easily harmed, an turned inside irascible

that been lured to train myself balanced, to hurt myself galled,

be a vulnerable and at the same time avoid hardest pain

 

(Being all wounds intact and lulling my fairest dream again)

 

Have ragged myself to come down to the others alikeness;

to obstinately be on exception as an unknown curiosity

But… One thing will lead to the last ― In to an unsolvable

 

(Remained left in a late set autumn, in a capricious ― In a timeless)

 

 

Finally my anguish cuts me done.

 

It is late.

 

Care not to carve in overripe wood more now.

 

 

 

Wide awake.

IN A TIMELESS

IDENTITY AND IDEALS

I lived my life for more than a decade without clarity in my identity and my Knowledge; without much of any thoughts about ideals or truth, for forced upon reasons. I might as well have been dead. I did not have any kind of ideal in mind at all and to explain away this would be insulting to the current and normal low-life; if that could be insulted, for I did not find much in anyone or anything I could admire, or just find any kind of “respect” for.

The ideals that I now hold, again, since close to nineteen years back, are based on what I recall from past life’s experiences: Truth, honour and my name. With side dishes as gladness, strength, knowledge, intellect, you know the drill. All values that can be found high and tasty will make the plate. I will true that it’s much less costly to just live inside these ideals and not walk around as too much of a “normal weirdo”. But, the strength to live these; for a real human quite average ideals, when personal will and lust for anything readily available in the current society is made into brainwashed garbage is nearly impossible.

I hate this controlled, fake and sick society that our foes control more than anyone can imagine. And, I would rather cave in than feed it in any way. We all had to live in this period just before people will get their minds back, and we sure do have problems now with the collective mindset… Should I make a list for you? Many listen to the tune of; “Others think this and that”, and are thus led away to become accepted as part of being “normal”, and since a long period ago it is a killing joke. Also, when blindfolding Life to never see or live beyond what words can hand over within them to feel or understand, then there is a huge problem. Reacting strongly to these words, or not at all? That really is of no concern. Truth is always pretty and everything we got. Know it. Go and live it. Words are nothing if never lived, as I’m sure you know.

I am from Uppsala, which is the strongest place there is for identity in this world, being the place of Odin and the Gods since way back in time. But, as everywhere the identity “on the street” is taken from days and times gone by. When I visit or live in my hometown, every now and then, I see people that wish to have their identity shared in some way; most notably have some part of the Viking Age and walking around in “Old Uppsala” to gather strength and honour from the last time real humans could be the normality. Any strength and honour shared from a past that would transfer without having any strong and active belief in the Gods; or even knowing what bloodlines, or even down to what Folk they are part of, is unlikely to give much. (Some of us of course know from other sources where we belong.) Anyway, this kind of identity reminds me a bit of the “We went to the moon-thing”. I remember hearing this motivational reminder a lot in school when I was younger, so we all had to think back sitting in Apollo 11 and looking out the window back to earth and then stepping around on the moon… Do you remember doing that? “We” invented all culture and all inventions; “We” even invented our own forefathers the Gods… “We” are really great then. I wish. To take identity from the highest and greatest imaginable is nice, if you truly know what that is, and you actually have a real part of it… “We as humans”; and that is a quote, have what we are and do.

I met this woman that had been acting as a völva, sadly in some seriously warped belief in how a völva was supposed to act, at some tourist spot up north. After that she had “understood” that she actually was a reincarnated völva. This is nothing to doubt. People are helped to find other reincarnated people they can give or get help from in the Oddest ways. Ideally and in reality a völva is a holy woman that is kept pure and untouched by people, her inherited gifts are to foresee time and make remedies from herbs, and other things to help. We met once and walked around a few hours, with a mutual friend, and visited old burial mounds, a cave and some other places up north. These women spoke about these places as if it was their ancestors in the burial mounds. It was mostly Sami and Scythian remnants, which people that live there now tend to “forget”. Not that it matters greatly today as all the old “northern” tribes are a bit mixed. That is what spitting in the same bucket would mean. She told me that she did not really like Odin, influenced by propaganda in a book or two, and was all for “Jord”, that is sort of “Mother Earth” in some warped sense of a “Goddess” that is “the soul” of soil and rocks… Jord is another name for Frigga, and she is not soil and rocks, I have met her a few times. It was more of a thing that this “völva” wanted to identify with a “woman”, not knowing the very basic fact that a völva, like a valkyrie, is a follower of Odin… That type of deranged thinking from this low time when some try to become what is imagined to be closest to your ego to identify with is pitiful. That “thinking” has no place in Life at all. Identities are too often taking a share of credit where there is none to be taken.

Moving on…

I would hate to be young again and only have my youth as a fake resource handed down as a present for my identity from the junk-society to live on. Being “young” is currently an excuse for behaving immature and retarded, and anything past twenty years of age can absolutely not be called young, so do not be fooled. We have all been told that; “Everything is in the mind.” I understand it my way. I see people that do nothing good at all and still hold a belief that they are important and all wrongs they do can be traced to the fault of others, and they sure can be right about that. It happened to me. Others believe that dragging others down is making them bigger and better somehow, without putting any real effort into making something of value for Life. (Do not wonder where this deranged thinking in society comes from…)

I recall that I was told to think that my productivity and producing was equal to my life. “What I do is who I am…” Naturally, any kind of productivity is just a survival tactic. I really didn’t work that hard on producing most of the time…Anyhow, I don’t want anything in life for my ego other than maybe to walk in the forest alone and feel good from rain or sunshine, write a tiny bit. That would be my egoism in full, to get by with. And, I am not alone with having a humble and modest need. Any grander thoughts I have to spell out here and there, as the slightly unrehearsed modern day shaman that I am, is for love and protection; good against evil in Reality. I do not want much for myself, and I really do not care enough to get “a common good life down in the lies”. I can easily have that. But, it is worth nothing if the world is rotten to the core.

My life is not normal by any standard; it is greater in all valuable aspects and at the same time it’s been made into a horror of bitterness. Well, to do anything right in a world that now is so wrong in most aspects, if not all aspects, takes Knowledge and a lust for life. Anything else is of course futile; a time-consuming nonsense. We need to fight the Illusion. Just clean it out and find your identity: Your Life.

 

DAGAZ

DAGAZ

WINDSIDES

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 evening

down under raking forest tree tops underneath the greyspeckled skies

was springs-ground seen turning home to barrenly (and slowly) drink thaw

 

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 from 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.

WINDSIDES

WINDSIDES

 

BITTER OCH RÄTTVIS

Det är nu länge sedan mitt liv blev olidligt. Milt sagt outhärdligt. Nåväl, eftersom jag inte finns kvar i det fattbara, likt ett skogshallon eller varför inte en gräsmatta, så föder min sorg och de korta sekunderna av solkad glädje inga blommor. Kanske olikt sipporna som försvann i just denna natt och väntar ett år på att göra sitt ärevarv, men innan de kan leva igen så kommer jag att le igen. Svagt, men jag kommer säkert att le någon gång inom det kommande året. Visst, ett grumlat leende, men det räknas.

Finner högsta giltiga skäl att håna och äcklas av denna myggsvärm av smutsigaste tänkbara dumhet kallad ”samtiden” (Sic!). Ser en död fågel ätas av insekter; vilka ska ätas av fåglar. Det har varit långvarigt pågående. Ja, det där överflödiga kretsloppet. Men, luder har väl å andra sidan aldrig tidigare varit så attraktivt i en så stor omfattning som just nu?

Vi är molnens blod, rinnande

Sorg dammar i sorg

Liv är död.

Forsarna, även åarna, ja, alla vattendrag; bryter sällan fram något nytt och intresseväckande. Livslögnerna flockas, så säkrast är att ljuga ljust och glatt, så körar en käck och hålögd skara dödsdömda. Men, låt andra vara nu! Ingen vill veta något viktigt! Vi har mat på bordet, sa julgrisen! Ögonen glittrade medan hon speglade sig i andras ögon och anpassade sig efter den rådande efterblivenheten. Tänk, tänk på att inte tänka och skada livsviljan, smällarna kan man ta när man blir gammal och har tid för dylika eftertankar, peps fram med eftertryck. Fel. Fel. Fel. Fel. Fel.

Tänker ibland. Hittar tillbaka till de missade möjligheternas land. För mig var det ett slagfält. Hade trots allt, i all misären jag tyvärr är tvingad att kalla mitt liv, trenne riktiga skönheter (av dussinet existerande.) vilka nästan var värdiga mig; och om de spenderade dagarna där hade varit år hade mitt liv varit, eh… gladare. Jag vet att det är ett val, ett val att leva i nuet dvs bearbeta klart och färdigt eller förtränga sina passerade dagar och nätters olustiga lidanden. Själv förträngde jag helt mina dagar efter att de olika besvikelserna blivit till realiteter och vinsten blev sedan till förluster; och det medges att ingen är dummare än undertecknad i vardagens meningslösa, men ack så sorgligt nödvändiga, eh… liv.

Vi män, även en del av de halva männen som skönhet aldrig sett åt, söker den högsta renhet och skönhet som går att finna. Denna ytlighet är, eh… sund. Tyvärr är vi just nu kvar i det sjukaste samhälle som existerat; där det fagra ska besudlas och all verklig skönhet i ”kropp och själ” förnekas och dras ner till förmån för… Ja, det äckligaste och fulaste som går att finna, ”i jämlikhetens namn”. Det är långt värre än bara hat och mord.

Så kväljande och skrämmande,

självsäkert tar ideligen illusionen plats

och kallar sig prövande och förnyande nödvändig…

Min vegeterande tillvaro har haft sina liggsår. Som spelman var min karriär kort och omsusad. Mina världsomspännande resor blev en lek med döden, som slutade ännu värre. Men, jag klandrar bara min framtid för mina tidsresande misstag. Och fiendens orena sökande efter att besudla tar ständigt samma recept…, som om de lögner och fabrikationer de sprider kunde få fastna i Verkligheten. Som om de inte fastnade på fabrikören… Är spådd, förutsagd, lämnad ensam i farleder där skären är mig skenbart övermäktiga. Men, jag är på stranden och tänder mitt dödsskepp till en seger ingen ännu kan ana eller se. Så är min makt.

1 SIGFRIDSSON AS ONE (E-BOOK)

First book in English. 

1 SIGFRIDSSON I KLARHET IMMA

 

WRITING POETRY

(Reblogged, rewritten and now included in THE SOLSTICE WELL.)

A writer writing about writing. How very original of me. You can skip by this article…

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 shock I gathered bits here and there, and it felt natural for me to write. I had to. It was really all I had at that time.

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 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. 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 as 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 fourteen years of age, I found it to be smarter to let others produce the normal junk and me mostly working with their junk instead. Sadly, few people did have interest in making their junk for me to handle at first, so I had to go down the drain first… (Story of my life.)

I never had the common thinking that if I take part in anything that it would have any shared part of me. The “guilt by association”, or if good a “shared status”. That is a retarded thinking, in most cases. Of course, if I did produce something negative with intent to harm or hurt something that is positive then it would be despicable. I guess, or rather I know, that I more just liked to picture myself as a writer than actually being one. I guess most writers do, the writing is not something any good writer like to do… 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; 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 life, and all that plain nonsense that is thrown around in general, it is 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, or care, what I write, but they will.

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 the poets; these visionaries, these Truth-seekers, the highest thinkers, the hunters in the ultimate quest to bring beauty, real freedom and Knowledge back to this world. Is it all 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 boring dumb junk in all literature. I remember twenty years ago when I sent my poetry manuscripts (Under a taken name, as I was not really content with my writing at all. Still kind of 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 really completed 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 should have kept that one. Nah.)

I do see a real future for “poetry”. A future where it lyrically will never again be seen as just equal to the often empty lyrics made for music. Never to be seen upon as personal problems voiced by the angst-ridden in their need. Not as just some 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.)

 

POETRY FLOWERS!

POETRY FLOWERS!