The train is late Very, very late Making everyone sigh and grumble Making every stomach rumble Creeping past endless white fields and forests Blanketed by a coal black cloudy sky Begging the question if there even is a destination Or if we’ll just keep traveling for the rest of life’s duration
Looking for a post to fit both Wandering the Archives Wednesday and the Advent Calendar I came across this from February of this year. And I wanted to share the wonder of a snowy winter.
Suddenly there’s swirling snow Chilling to the bone Painting pale skin icy blue Driving us back home Thawing by the fire Peeling off our cold soaked clothes Your curves I admire
Where did the pale spring sun go Snatched by white Jack Frost Raging around house and wood Is Ostara lost? Strum tunes on the lyre Dance and song will bring her back Your wit I desire
As the embers softly glow Shielding us from cold As we wait again for day Green spring myths are told Your tales me inspire Maybe you’ll favour the bold A kiss I’m afire
This is a wholly new form for me, so took some work, but you know me. I like these intricate forms. :-)
The Seguidilla began as a popular dance song of Spain. The verse form was established and branched into variations by the 17th century. It has an alternating long short rhythm.
The Seguidilla is: • stanzaic, written in any number of 2 part septets. (7 lines) • syllabic, 7-5-7-5 : 5-7-5 per line. There is a slight pause between L4 and L5 suggesting L4 should be end-stopped. • rhymed by assonance xAxABxB or xAxABAB. x being unrhymed. True rhyme is generally not used. • composed with a volta or change in thought between L4 and L5. • sometimes serves as a conclusion for another verse.
Centre de Documentació i Museu de les Arts Escèniques, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Dawn breaks on the cabin blanketed in brilliant unbroken snow. Sea of white clasping emerald conifer gems. A blank slate for us to fill with whatever takes our fancy.
Playing like kids in the snow until we’re hot, cold and rosy. Peeling off the isolating layers. Waking the embers from their dozing. Snuggling close to the fire. Exploring each other’s lust.
Free to live a shared fantasy. As winter night falls, silvery moonlight plays on skin. Wolves howling passions release sing. Soaring counterpoint to the warmth within.
As two heart’s find safe rest in the dream cabin in the woods.
Inspired by a comment about snow as blank paper, another comment about seeking new paths, daring to dream new dreams. The winter vistas I’m surrounded with, and the image at The Sunday muse #145.
It’s been mostly poetry lately so I felt like writing prose and flash fiction. Choosing the 100 word length.
Holy Midwinter Night Your long dark cold is hard Lonely stars sparkle and shimmer Dream dust glimmer on all sleeping In house and barn, the dog in the lonely yard Lending light to inky night, hours deep Think toiling late into midnight hours
Vigil kept by the Moon Bathed in her silver boon, as she wanders her silent whir Midwinter night, when the snow glows white painting on pine and fir Inky shadows and bright light, as snow glows white Shimmering stars on roof thatch All dreaming, only Tomten keeps watch
In the snowy night all is silent Gaia sleeping is White blanket over wood and plain Hiding all life Snug in barrows, as out there All is still, all is frozen
Slowly from afar only The murmur of the waterfall Dreamt as much as heard Winters death as slow soughing
To thrumming of deep meaning Tomten listens, half awake and half in a dream Midwinter Night’s eternal seem Giving visions to hear The ebb and flow, life’s echo, of the eternal time stream
Tomten wonders, from where life came and where it’s going Tomten wonders, if Gods or humans where the source of where the world is is flowing
I had a different vision. But the influence of Tomten was undeniable. And I felt the kind, caring gaze of the farmwifes of my childhood. Living in just that type of isolated farm. Learning me old folktales mostly forgot. They would have smiled at my folly. Hugged me. And told me, if I put myself in the attention of the unseen, I’d best be willing to pay my due. So, I sent a message via my muse that all I wanted was to share the wonder of Midwinter, to give Tomten his chance to deep brooding and rest. Without all those Lutheran work ethic lessons.
The poem is a Golden Shovel. The last words of each line are, in order, words from a line or lines taken, another poem. For my piece I choose the first and the penultimate verse of Tomten by Viktor Rydberg. I started with translating them, since I found no translation I thought good enough. Below you’ll find those two verses.
Midwinternight’s cold is hard Stars sparkle and shimmer All sleeping in the lonely yard Deep into midnight hours The Moon wanders her silent whir The snow glows white on pine and fir Snow glows white on roof thatch Only tomten keeps watch
Silent is wood and plain, all life out there is frozen From afar only the waterfall Heard as slow soughing Tomten listens, and half in a dream seem to hear the eternal time stream Wonders, where it’s going Wonders, where the source is flowing
After untold hours reading I decided to keep the Swedish word Tomte. Even Astrid Lindgrens prose version from 1961 is titled “The Tomten”. Simply because there is no equivalent in English. Tomten is neither gnome, goblin, elf or Robin Goodfellow as in this old translation. Tomten might be mischievous or outright revengeful if treated badly. But mostly he was seen as part of the place, a valued knowledgeable farmer, a paragon of Lutheran work ethics.
Today we see Tomten with a red cap, but Tomten of old was not so garishly dressed – then everyone would have seen him all the time. The poems second verse start with – “Stands there so gray by the barn door, gray against the white drift”
There is also the word Nisse, which today is much conflated with Santa’s Elves. Anyhow, a Nisse was so to speak, never the Tomte in charge on a farm, at least in Sweden.
The world according to RedCat 
