Poem for Roger, Who Listens to Snow
Ah, your Northerners,
The Norsemen poets.
Denmark, Norway,
Perhaps Iceland,
Finland
And the Faeroe 's.
Scandinavians all,
Swedes all.
Like unto
Each other
In their nine worlds,
Under the branches of
Yggdrasil.
They struggle against
The ice,
The isolation,
Far from the sunny
Gods of the Greeks.
Here the gods are not
Capricious,
But likewise, not
Immortal.
Baldr dies and
The Inevitable
Is mourned.
Comitus is valued,
Life is measured and
Mostly tough.
There is no promise
Of redemption,
The wolf is
Already at the door.
They are distant
From my universe,
And it shows in
Their poetry.
Familial, peaceful,
Cautious,
Loki
The only
Scalawag
Among them.
I exist in
A reckless land of
Heat,
Spices,
Olive oil
And flagrant
Hope.
I know they
Are there,
Perhaps singing,
But I
Cannot
Hear them.
Ah, your Northerners,
The Norsemen poets.
Denmark, Norway,
Perhaps Iceland,
Finland
And the Faeroe 's.
Scandinavians all,
Swedes all.
Like unto
Each other
In their nine worlds,
Under the branches of
Yggdrasil.
They struggle against
The ice,
The isolation,
Far from the sunny
Gods of the Greeks.
Here the gods are not
Capricious,
But likewise, not
Immortal.
Baldr dies and
The Inevitable
Is mourned.
Comitus is valued,
Life is measured and
Mostly tough.
There is no promise
Of redemption,
The wolf is
Already at the door.
They are distant
From my universe,
And it shows in
Their poetry.
Familial, peaceful,
Cautious,
Loki
The only
Scalawag
Among them.
I exist in
A reckless land of
Heat,
Spices,
Olive oil
And flagrant
Hope.
I know they
Are there,
Perhaps singing,
But I
Cannot
Hear them.
RSS Feed