When I was a child, I was told that my father wrote poetry. Strange poetry, my mother said, that no one can understand. He’s not very good, she said. It’s all just very strange.
I never really knew my father. I never read his poetry.
Yet here I am, writing strange verses. They aren’t very good, I am sure my mother would say. Because it is all very strange, and no one understands them.
Yesterday I pulled a couple of poems out of my bag, and actually showed them to someone.
She stared at the words on paper, stared and slowly nodded.
“This… sure looks like poetry to me,” she said. ” I mean I don’t know anything about poetry, but this looks like it.”
Hardly high praise, but it’s enough. Considering what pieces I chose a perfectly valid response could have been “This is gibberish” or “What have you been smoking?”, so that it’s even recognizable as poetry is a bit of a victory.
The words fall short, though. To call the pieces ‘poems’ feels entirely inadequate. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that few would understand them either, though a sad fact it is. Regardless of what you think of the result, I need to keep writing.
Words of mine, though not my own. They are important.
Blood. I’m bleeding. I hurt, am torn apart.
Mind and body, torn apart.
I search for meaning,
meaning beyond hope.
Am I meant to be crushed?
Am I meant to accept that
life is not for me?
I find myself writing odd poetry. Heathen poetry with a sprinkle of spell work, in a style I have not touched before. It feels right. It feels like I don’t care if people understand it or not, weird or not it is just as it should be.
It’s an interesting feeling. When being able to let go of what is normal and ‘correct’, and instead finally coming to express raw meaning.
Yes, I like this.
ja’Katta ho’ klös
tecken i trä
å gull henna klä
fri a fina.
Words that came to me last night as my mind reached for Freya. Forgive me, but I am not going to translate this to English. It’s meant to be this way, I think. A song. A rhyme. Or perhaps, just perhaps, a spell.
Spinning, spinning, it’s spinning.
Try to step off the ride.
Try to not get caught in the spin.
When you run with the raging whirlwind
reality gets blurred and
even clear minds and good hearts
get caught in Twisted Visions.
Try to step outside.
It is the only way to see
what really is.