As I mentioned in my Wednesday Re-post I have have had two hours dance workshop tonight. On my way home I took a long walk through city. To stretch tiered muscles, feel the puls of the city (haven’t been much of that for what feels like ages) and enjoy the beautiful sunset.
Few things makes me as happy as dancing.
As sunset clouds glow My mind fills with happy flow Rehearsing dance show
The day after the grand opening the international press coverage was damning.
“Welcome to football in the orange blob.” “Guns N’ Roses to play in an orange.” “Stockholms new arena in a big gob.” “In Sweden the sun is dirty orange.” “Swedes have no idea a word in one language may have a different meaning altogether in another.” “Not one official working for Stockholm city speaks English at a preschool level.”
The city quickly changed the name to the Prince Bertil Arena, but the damage was done. For years to come, Stockholm was the laughing stock of the event industry.
Inspired by the Friday Fictioneer prompt picture and an article I read as the decision to rename the Globe Arena to Avicii Arena was announced. The architects of the largest hemispherical building on Earth suggested the name Prince Bertil Arena, but the city wanted something different so they held a contest. 4.756 entries came in, but none of them won.
In the end the choice fell on a descriptive name. It was spherical, so why not name it Stockholm Glob Arena! Glob is swedish for Globe. The name was registered and protected, before someonethankfully realized that glob would not be as internationally acceptable as first thought. And saved the city by adding an e to the name.
The reference to the Sun is because the building represents our star in the Sweden Solar System, the world’s largest permanent scale model of the Solar System.
Written for Meet the bar waltzing at dVerse. Have been humming waltz rhythms since yesterday. This is written to be sung to the count of three even if the first lines in each stanza have 4 syllables and the rest 5 syllables. It’s all a matter of how a word is sung.
The blue forest of remembrance is full of quavering echoes Whispering through the trees susurrations of memory Wandering among the trees dreaming soul shadows Most lost in pensive reverie Reliving, rethinking, re-choosing life through hindsight’s windows It’s all part of sleeping souls nightly recovery
Whispering through the trees a multitude of echoes Joy and happiness, sorrow and pain Most lost to the wind blown shadows Others fall as antique white petals rain All part of how memories lights the windows How dreaming souls lead their wake selves to staying sane
Joy and happiness, sorrow and pain through the trees echoes Some souls dream of floating in happiness rainbow bright Others fall ensnared in clawing painful shadows Losing another nights fight How dreaming leads to the memory windows How souls fare in the forest, changes every night
I especially liked Looking for Clues by Merril D Smith and the VillanelleSylvia by Tim Fellows.
Written in the same poetic form as Mind Finds Soul Fearlessly Shines. One of two invented by me. Because I realized a form used but once, might not be a form at all, so I had to see if I could use it again. I’m glad to say that it worked.
I’m still unsure of how to denote it so that anyone but me could use it. How do you denote a line (2, 4, 6) that only partly repeats in the next stanza? Is it a refrain? Or that the last word in lines 1, 3, 5 repeat in every stanza?
Next I have to see if I can repeat the form used in Moonsea.
likes drawing and painting children, animals, landscapes and food. She specialises in watercolour, mixed media, coloured pencil, lino cut and print, textile design. Jane can help you out with adobe indesign for your layout needs, photoshop and adobe illustrator. She graduated with a ba(hons) design from Glasgow School of art, age 20.
She has exhibited with the rsw at the national gallery of Scotland, SSA, Knock Castle Gallery, Glasgow Group, Paisley Art Institute, MacMillan Exhibition at Bonhams, Edinburgh, The House For An Art Lover, Pittenweem Arts Festival, Compass Gallery, The Revive Show, East Linton Art Exhibition and Strathkelvin Annual Art Exhibition.
Her website is: https://www.janecornwell.co.uk/
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.
Right now life feels small, cold and lonely for many, and for me. So I tried for some hope, light and life in today’s Advent Calendar poem.
The midwinter darkness has felt exte oppressive lately. The unseasonable warmth keeps the skies grey and foggy rather than the crisp, nipping, sunny air the season should have (unless there’s snowfall of course). Today I read that the instruments in Stockholm and several other cities have measured ZERO sunhours in December.
So a warming climate makes the winter darkness more oppressive, by denying us the few hours of sunlight, robbing us off the white cover, starving us from reflected moonlight. A full moon can make a clear snowy December night brighter than an overcast December midday.
Some days I have hope for a new spring, perhaps next summer without a pandemic looming. A world coming together on the pandemic and the climate. Other days, when the sun has not been seen for more than a week. I feel cold desolation, touch deprivation and failing hope. A world gone to smoking cinders, cascading ecological disaster, all ending in an egotistic whimper.
Not knowing to hope or despair, over the fact that the human race has its destiny in its own hands.