Best Nordic Poems
Lament
Brooding days,
Vanquished in the unconnected gloom,
Shower frost,
Standing watch at dawn to pierce the morning
With an artic tempest,
Swirling ‘cross a land lost in forgetfulness:
Sighing
Beneath borderless views of snow unbroken,
Where nothing dare disturbs
The unchanging vision
But a single line of footprints
When skies of grey and bleaker daylight
Lean so close to earth
They lay their heaviness upon a homeless wood sprite
Wandering in the raw breath of twilight dawning,
Caught by phantom gusts
Spiraling down,
Shivering as the brumaled wind
Runs its fingers
Through the marrow of the soul
Where slumber languishes,
Icebound
As plodding steps
Frantically searching groves of tangled silver linden,
Pursued
And haunted
By the relentless midnight sun;
Errant fugitive,
Followed by the wispy remnants of a golden morning,
Trembling
As barren aspen branches
Beneath bright errant bursts of fiery lights -
Racing
Across
The northern sky -
Taunting
Tortured
Eyes
Seeing only to remember;
Grasping
For a single crocus
Plunged into yearning
Until the boreal shadows
Touch
The depth of darkness
Bidding nordic sprite to sit,
To rest,
Curled up against a frozen birch of black and white,
Taking final flight on tattered winds
Heralding the touch of sunlight.
Godspeed my friend
He walks alone, a shadow cast
By memories too fierce to last,
A warrior once, now lost, betrayed—
By time, by fate, by war's parade.
His brothers, bold, now rest below,
Their blood, their courage, still they glow,
In Valhalla’s hall, where feast and song
Echo the names of those who’re gone.
He’s left behind, the living scar,
The weight of grief a constant war.
Guilt gnaws within, a ceaseless ache,
For those he loved, for those who break
In battle’s grip, their lives forfeit,
But he—he lives, alone, unfit
To join them where the mighty dine,
To sit at Odin's table, fine.
No glorious death, no final cry,
He wonders if he even tried—
To die a soldier, fierce and true,
Instead of breathing, pulling through,
The weight of days, a burden great,
A soul betrayed by twisted fate.
The Valkyrie don’t call for him;
He’s left to fade in silence grim.
He hides his pain beneath the mask,
A hollow face, an empty task.
No family close, no friends to trust,
He’s walled himself in quiet rust,
Each day a blur of hollow fight,
Against a world that knows no night.
Around him laughter, life, and light,
While he longs for one last glorious fight.
The battlefield, his home, his kin,
Where death was certain, pure of sin—
He yearns for it, though it’s too late,
To walk that path, to seal his fate.
But still he waits, and still he pleads,
For death to come and end his needs.
To die a warrior, proud and tall,
To join his brothers at Odin’s hall.
So he moves through life, a quiet ghost,
Drowning in what he loves the most—
The battle cries, the blood, the pain,
The longing for a final gain.
And when his time has passed, he’ll pray,
That Valkyrie will lead the way,
To Valhalla’s feast, where none will fear,
Where brothers wait, and joy is near.
Until then, he carries on, concealed—
A warrior’s heart, forever healed
By hope that one day, in the end,
The battle will come, and he’ll ascend,
To dine with them, beneath the sky,
Where guilt and shame no longer lie.
For in Valhalla, free from pain,
He’ll find his peace, and there remain.
nordic light show
night of auroras
swirling fiery spirals spin
snow buntings call soft
purple green flashes
leap across the artic night ~
silver solitude
celestial outbursts
magnetic sparks pirouette ~
pink shadows on snow
scarlet reds cascade
crazy northern lights unleashed ~
ephemeral mauve
gossamer rainbows
jubilees of cosmic dust ~
nocturnal side show
rhapsodies of lights
aurora leaps star to star ~
dance of the artic
11-17-22
ODE TO THE AVALANCHE QUEEN
Brisk Arctic morning --
Where the giants gods rule
Nordic Dawn Queen ( clad in her fragile ice apparel)
Twirls and rumbles through the ragged mountains
Seeking the object of her wrath and her affection.
Graceful in bold glory she strides
Mountain top to Mountain top--
Grinding bites of granite in lieu of breakfast
Imagining a Reckoning with the mad guile of a goddess--
Sharpening her Rage
with terrible anticipation.
She screams in Jealousy
Fierce and beautiful--
Surrounded by the petals of snow flower patterns
snowflakes sharp as shark's teeth
Pulsing from mountaintops
Reaching deep into the bottomless ravines--
Berating her feckless, but ador'ed spouse, The North Wind--
Gentle-hearted by nature, she has no intent to harm the innocents.
Blazing Northern Lights she guides the unwary homeward.
Even in her terrible power
She bellows Warnings--
Shakes the skies, tossing tons of icy brilliance
Echoing
Advice for wise souls to
Take Shelter--
Huddle safely, tucked away.
Bewildered humans
Buffered with ancient
Fireside stories to protect them with the magic of
Thor's hammer and his Ravens of Marvel
Here the weary humans are Safe by their fireside--
Feasting on magical
Sugared oatmeal and dried apples
with just a
sprinkling of
cinnamon.
V. Anderson Throop 2014
Through forded streams, nostalgia seems, to be a sense of Nordic Dreams
The pathways to yesterdays, appear to retreat to ample schemes.
Broken nails and nightingales lighten up your brooks and streams.
Take a lock of broken stock to see what truly seems.
Lilt repose in lily throws, is knocking at my silken chair
Through the slits, the moonlight sits, its gaze upon my flaxen hair.
Opportunity flaunts as debutantes, in appearance gracefully debonair.
Gentle words floating from the birds, act upon me without a care
As a white dove from above, with beads of honey running wild
I withdrew to be with you, for words that are Coleridge styled.
They come in turn, to gently discern, and then gather into a pile.
In a continuum, within this kingdom, they come at us all the while.
Though they seem as in a dream, to be of pure fantasy;
if I believe, I may conceive, to have them become reality.
They may seem far as a distant star, but may be in propinquity.
Permanence in ascertainments, can be a hallmark of destiny.
They address as they coalesce, the storefront pretentiousness
in giving description, within inscription, with literary prowess.
Words convey, contained in a foray, upon the domain of impressiveness,
they are contained as they remained, as acknowledged in cohesiveness.
All the rhymes during the times, taste as sweet as butter creams.
As a scribe would inscribe, the essence of moonbeams
In our yesterday, and today, written on papyrus reams
Both fantasy and reality, within the nostalgia of Nordic Dreams.
NORDIC ECSTASY
You asked me a question, a nostalgic one
Where I was in the seventies
I was in the land of the midnight sun
With the descendants of the Vikings.
Looking at Norwegian rocks, their structure
Along the corrugated coast of the North Sea
I found myself on the lap of pristine nature
As beautiful on earth as it could ever be.
The ice-age glaciers have all melted away
Carving deep valleys for the fjord networks
To enter the lofty land the sea gets waterway
Where on azure clarity the sky disembarks.
Summer sun touches the arctic horizon
Goes up unset at the midnight hour
The sunshine on the night hangs on
Making the body clock go haywire.
The grey sky flushed with the aurora flare
Gleaming winter nights danced on the snow
I could still feel the Nordic ecstasy of the air
Though it touched me such a long time ago.
February 22, 2018.
The small orioles from Tennessee have
migrated North, their yellow breasts
match the bright daffodils in the grove,
in the meadows, or in the plain's vastness.
It's very late April and the Nordic spring is
in full bloom today; there's little to envy,
although the deep South has more beauty
and warmth than of all New York springs.
Cherry and apple trees show much vibrancy,
eastern bluebirds gather in their branches
and chat among themselves, a language
they only understand; I love the diversity
of species that dwell here in modern age...
without their presence Nature laments.
Over the years the landscape hasn't changed,
the calmness and the lively mood persist;
if this isn't Paradise, which other place is?
I stroll under the scented blossooms that
undulate spreading more delightful wafts...
while butterflies and bees seem captivated.
Wait until sunset paints everything in red,
scarlet roses and lilacs will blend so eloquently,
making it resemble a red sea from inland;
here's where I like to lay down for the eternity.
The ghosts of fallen heros
Oftern visit me in my dreams
Telling me whats approaching
Telling me of there deeds
They encourage me to fight on
Making sure that i win
Their spectral presence surronding me
As i fight every battle on a whim
I dont know what they want of me
I dont know why they care
But each battle they protect me
You can see their mist in the air
These ghosts are Viking warriors
They protect me proud and true
For one day i will join them
In the great hall my mead cup will be filled
Lyriktribute to Anzu Furukawa
AURORA BOREALIS (Satis Shroff)
The sky was bathed
In fantastic hues:
Yellow, orange, scarlet
Mauve and cobalt blue.
Buto dancing,
In this surreal light,
On the stage,
Was magnificent.
Your heart pounds higher,
Your feet become light,
Your body sways
To the rhythm
And Nordic lights
Of the Aurora borealis.
Akin to the creation
Of the planet we live in.
And here was I,
Anzu Furukawa.
Once a small ballet dancer,
Now a full grown woman:
A choreographer, performer,
Ballet and modern dancer,
Studio pianist.
‘The Pina Bausch of Tokyo’
Wrote a German critic
In Der Tagesspiegel.
Success was my name,
In Japan, Germany, Italy,
Finnland and Ghana:
Anzu’s Animal Atlas,
Cells of Apple,
Faust II,
Rent-a-body,
The Detective of China,
A Diamond as big as the Ritz.
I was a professor
Of performing arts in Germany.
But Buto became my passion.
Buto was born amid upheavals in Japan,
When students took to the streets,
With performance acts and agit props.
Buto, this new violent dance of anarchy,
Cut off from the traditions
Of Japanese dance.
Ach,
The Kuopio Music et Dance festival
Praised my L’Arrache-coer,’
The Heart Snatcher.
A touching praise
To human imagination,
And the human ability
To feel even the most surprising emotions
I lived my life with dignity,
But the doctors said
I was very, very sick.
I had terminal tongue cancer.
I’d been sleeping over thirty hours,
And stopped breathing
In peace,
With my two lovely children
Holding my hands.
I’d danced
At the Freiburg New Dance Festival
Only twenty days ago.
I saw the curtain falling,
As we took our bows.
I bow to you my audience,
I hear your applause.
The sound of your applause
Accompanies me
Where ever my soul goes.
I’m still a little girl
In an oversized dress.
I ran through you all
In such a hurry.
* * *
The Nordic Tribe
There is a great movement of Scandinavians
going to the South of Europe, they have their church,
cafes and shops selling the type of food sold in
the North. The Spaniards, say, accept and ignore them
because these strange northerners came here for
the sun and not take anyone’s work.
You can call the economic refugees, it is cheaper here
and that also keeps the heating bill low.
The people of the North dislike refugees coming to their
country a place to live and they protest loudly.
One day, when the economy in the south is par with
the Nordic one, the will leave, or seek other shores
where they can live as kings among the poor;
the Northerner’s are racists by nature but do follow
the money and its fluctuations and they have the ability to
see the local people where they have temporarily
sought shelter, as foreigners.
Blond Nordic queen whom I would die for; care
not my pulse beats fast ever wanting thee?
Or care desire is more than I can bear
when by chance you at times walk close to me?
Blue eyes that make both knees to shake in hope
that smile from thy angelic face might show.
Perhaps, words may pass; I can’t rightly cope
with silence --- queen set my heart-flame aglow.
Tormenting visage ever burning my
poor hurting soul and captive mind in sleep.
Put name of finis ending my sad cry;
drink I strong poison nevermore to weep?
All seems but useless longing queen’s love nigh;
what better way to make end by last sigh?
Though you feel all alone.
Please know that there are people out there sending well wishes to you.
Some people will have lived through your pain, your anguish and fears.
These people will look into your eyes and send you their strength to help combat your tears.
Though you feel all alone how can that be true?
When strangers are gathering the power and strength of their love and sending it to you.
Rans nets, which bind and trap.
Ensnare and incapacitate all who swim in the oceans of life
I tangle thy golden skeins.
Your pearlescent webs that move in the voids between the 9 dimensions.
Your webs of final fate that float and dance between the worlds.
Ensnaring everybody in the 9 planes and all existences
may your golden Webs ensnare the wrongs
done to me and right them.
I bought boots for Christmas to tread the icy plains.
I bought toys for Christmas with Santas in my trains.
I lit my home for Christmas with a Cedar bright.
I made cup cakes for Christmas for my love's delight.
I bought Jane a dress for Christmas with ribbons pink.
I bought for my grandma a cozy Christmas mink.
I bought for Jill two amazing Christmas Sparrows.
I bought for Jack a toy quiver full of Arrows.
I bought an Elk for Christmas with nose giving light.
I bought for Christmas, candles for a solemn night.
I made for Christmas a warm and sweet lemonade,
and I sang on Christmas morn, a sweet Serenade.
The Nordic Pyramid
Up north, where I was born
there is a mountain in the shape of a pyramid
of course, it is much bigger
dwarfing the Egyptian´ones.
It is snow-capped looks desolate
but every year I have noticed the snow crown
is getting smaller
now it is the size of a French beret.
Soon the snow will disappear and
the mountain will look like a pyramid.
A testament that once the human race lived here,
but they like the Tasmanian tiger
disappeared from the planet.
They will never come back again.