LIVING THE SEASONS

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!

 

LET ME!

 

Remaining here was this heart

in its anciently dormant well

to retrieve, open and carry

 

Raising myself

 

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

 

Raising myself

 

It takes a while before the veils bend down

 

 

Gone

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.

 

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 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.

1 S

LIVING THE SEASONS

WITH CLEAR VIEW

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.

 

 

AS A FROST MOTH IN NOON-DAY THAW

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.

EN LÖVRESA

Famlar fram, föst mot skogsbrynets vajande trädgrenar
medan åskan letar över trakten med klarsynen stark
till löven redan tillhörande slagregnen på slagmark

där tiden skänker skickligt varje syfte sina orsaker:

Vinner att fortsätta vara framsynt.

(Fångad illa sliten. Tydda är ögonens resor.)

 

Är en åldrad lövflagas virvlande ofärd
vilken har samlat margfaldiga kvarlevor
i denna trasade skepnad; frostbitet lärd,
resande längs med vattenfallens klivande,
följande ner, runt den gamla vindlande ån;
alltid marken och skyarna tilldragande.

 

Hämtar mer önskad estetik och välfunnen sorgkritik
att ur vindsmekta nattsnön, vackert vilande, levas:

Nötta stigar blänker i ett tröttande töväder
åt en klargrämd rot ― ler långsamt ― tar ner sorgens drivkrafter,
återbördar stammen till marken att mista sitt mörker

och denna värld saknar makt över mitt döende liv.

PÅ TIDENS ENDA VÄG

(Solen kastar bort imman stärker Klarheten.)

 

Årens tankar återvända lika träd vilka lagts att multnas,

länge grävande i färdigblommat och Vinterbonat

att ur markens vishet från Världarnas krav återlämnas.

 

Rotas. En stam har alltid medvind och motvind. Håller fast.

 

Tar upp mer värde.

 

 

 

Tidens enda väg är Stigen där tagna steg tar sitt ansvar

intill uppresta vallar bräddfyllda Löv, Vatten och Vind,

och föga glest är mellan att få trugas med Gudarnas Svar.

 

Är nästgårds nu.

 

Sänder i förtid ner Edert botande kärleksverk

att enligt Naturen omforma våra tillgångar:

 

 

 

Äger ännu hjärtat som vägrat Livet vara ett fuskverk;

och fick höra att Viljan satt uppe i trädtopparna

så slitsamma att nå få överkliva bli till mitt livsverk.

 

Vill till sist med blodet hugga fram Heiliga Vetandets Bro,

finna värdiga Viet vara samlade i vår värld

där vi rastlösa kan hämtas hem till Asgård; sann frid och ro.

 

FORCED WILL CHOSEN

Acknowledging my honour and sweetest high-lineage,

I stop smoothing over my well-deserved nuisance:

 

Scoffing at the revolting; useless to this world,

remaining in solved questions and hardened riddles.

 

Agreeing with truisms and people’s will,

when that fully and gratuitously has been attended.

 

Stabbing dead meaningless opinions!

Axing down bumptious pretences!

Leaving sense against wicked deeds!

 

Gather thoughtful goods:

Know that Truth, Honour and the Rights of Might,

don’t serve our foes as weaponry

as all here now is owned by Viet.

 

Reasons for an honourable Life is Life’s claim

 

Remember that rich owns the Light:

Caring for Life’s Goodness;

path to insight and dearest life value.

 

Truth is our sufficient property.