River Ghost: A Poem

Gazing into the astrology
Wishing for what there could never be
“All of the stars I dedicate to thee,
the spirits of the forest and the songs of the sea”
She, the River Ghost of his long lost dreams,
singing mournful songs among the silent streams
Pale, dark eyes uplit by white moonlight beams
Beware, the fate of her is not what is seems
Frozen flowers, sunset eves
Deathcold breeze in the icy leaves
Autumn goddess surrenders and then she leaves
for Lady Frost to conquer a world that grieves
Her the River gave in to and turned to ice
Restless fay gave up a scream towards the pale blue skies
Fooled by a vision of Winter in disguise,
she lies down to final sleep in the white of her despise
He, the sun, weeps silently at her lonely grave
The lost dreams did not die with the River wave
Missing, longing for the water’s song, the happiness it gave
The sun mourned the frozen River, that its warm light could not save


This is a poem I wrote back in 2004 while I was still in senior high. However, I still like it very much and I hope that you do as well. 🙂

The Shadowsmith

I read about the artists
who sold their souls for skill
in trade with darker forces
that always have their will

I read the works of masters
now long lost, gone and dead
and relish in their worlds that now
reside inside my head

I too have struck a bargain
not once but now and then
where souls have been involved to
make sharp enough my pen

But I don’t need dark forces to
inspire me to write
I smith my words in shadows
so what I need is light

I meet them at the crossroads
and listen to their plea
I grant them inspiration
and they inspire me

And as they build their artworks
I work on my own draft
inspired by their fervor
in practicing their craft

When thus wrought masterpieces
have reached their final line
the authors of those stories
become characters in mine

For nothing is as perfect
to make my stories whole
as to lock in them a mortal
who has volunteered their soul

And thus my inspiration and
the sharpness of my pen
depends on souls of artists and
the vanity of men

So meet me at the crossroads
and sell your soul tonight
I smith my words in shadows and
for that I need your light

Oh, I just had to…

Did I mention I am working on a novel in Swedish? Well, anyways, I am.

And while writing some today, I decided to start the process of a chapter with a sketch (if you can call it that). I simply wanted to line up what was going to happen in the chapter before I got started writing it. The sketch, however, ended up looking almost like poetry. And while the project is in Swedish, I still felt I had to share this accidental poem in some way. So I translated it. Without context it makes little sense – but then again, must it really?

Here goes:

#13.53

Abstract illustrations of bliss.

More concrete plans for the night?

The present: a visit from A, starting to suspect something is wrong.

The truth hatches, a moment of realization and rational thought.

Then the world falls. Abstract again, emotions, metaphors.

Out. Some kind of poetic darkness to build atmosphere.

In the middle of this a phone call from the private place that is dark now.

The close is a promise and a gunshot. Decides, this must end.

On the floor in the room with all the pictures. Affected by memories, emotions and substances.

Disconnected thoughts between substantial dialogues where the answers don’t make any sense.

A dead bird outside the window. They take the bottles and the pills. Rage.

Wants out, but they calm him with sleep. Darkness.