eskil_douglas

In a luxuriously leather bound notebook in neat and precise scripture there are poems written by young Mr. Douglas.

Homeless

To lose the soul's home and to wander far
and then be unable to find anything else,
and feel that one's forgotten what truth is,
and fancy one is made of nought but lies,
be sickened by oneself and hate oneself -
yes, that is easy, that is very easy.
Sorrow is easy, but joy is proud and hard,
for joy, it is the simplest thing of all.

But he that seeks for himself a home
must not believe that it exists just anywhere -
he must go wandering homeless for a time;
and he that's made of lies and would be well,
must hate himself until the day he knows
of truth what others as a gift receive.
What point is there in grieving so for it?
Wait then, my heart, and have some patience yet!

You Are My Purest Comfort

You are my purest comfort,
my most steadfast shelter,
you are the best I have,
for nothing hurts as much as you.

No, nothing hurts as you.
You ache like ice and fire,
you cut like steel my soul -
you are the best I have.

Dream vision

Dream vision, dream vision,
sun-clear revelation,
lit for my gaze by a single
human creation,

dream vision, dream vision,
sweet among fighters maimed,
sweet in a torn-apart
world of pain.

dream of a race
growing forth through the ages,
proud people, who play their way to
victory in battles' rages,

flowerlike grown
unhesitatingly harmonious from each root,
trusting calmly in a holy
earth beneath each foot,

whose flesh is spirit,
whose spirit is flesh -
flowerlike grown
like a strange person I met.

ANXIETY

Deceit, deceit -
other was never my life.
All my shame,
pen, poor thing, write.
Write of roads far, far
from my truth away,
write of a wall round all that was best...
No, stay.

Threat of unfathomed darkness
fills my mind.
thunder-oppressive budding time
is still mine.
I want to be still,
wait and see a while,
wait for the sun,
softly smile.

What is happening in the darkness,
as I smile in vain?
Is my soul dying?
Will I never come home again?
God, God,
only keep secure
a glint of my intention
pure, pure!

Tonight the heaven has no garb

Tonight the heaven has no garb.
He shivers naked.
And never saw I yet his gaze
so all-too waking.

Say, when you fall asleep tonight:
A day is won.
On the road where one loses all
a rest's begun.

Then you will live from day to day
and lose, lose fast,
and yet desire still to remain
until the last.

Then you will find life strong,
if you can burn.
Then will each loss become a gain -
for you shall turn

ever further towards that ground of life
that gave you birth,
and beyond all dreams' deceit
the cause is there -

until in the hour of your greatest loss
your soul, burned down,
goes to the place of extinguished lights.
A day is won.

In the dark

In the dark I lie and hear
bells that outside thunder near
with long and heavy, even strokes,
like deep breaths the darkness takes.

They deaden all and make all sleep
and free each object's misty shape
in long and heavy, even boom
that thought will never be free from.

I am amongst those who scarce exist
and only know and reminisce
about old darkness's beating heart
that hopes to see no morrow start.

That fears no morrow or its start.

I Want To Meet ...

Armed, upright and shielded in armour
I went forth -
but from fear was the coat of mail cast
and from shame.

I want to throw down my weapons,
sword and shield.
All the stark hostility
was my coldness.

I have seen the dry seeds
finally grow.
I have seen the light green
unfurl.

Mighty is the tenderness of life
stronger than iron,
driven out of the heart of the Earth
defenceless.

Spring dawns in winter regions,
where I froze.
I want to meet the forces of life
weaponless.

Confession

Never meant to be a rebel,
and yet it was forced on me.
Why is my fate not private?
Why can I not let it be?
Or, if now I must fight,
why is there torment there?
Why not with sounding music,
when at last I am forced to dare?

Blood of my blood, that judged me harshly
and cast me out into shame,
I knew when I was ejected,
that I broke on a whole all the same,
felt a sacred communion
behind the condemning words,
knew with anguish: you are I -
and was bowed down to the earth.

But as I lay and believed myself mute,
I heard the darkness whine.
Souls from the same torments' room
were breathing by my side.
I heard my own cry for help
rise up from deserts void,
knew with dread: I am you -
and could not be quiet.

Cowardly, cowardly, thrice cowardly,
All the same, I must fight,
be struck to the ground and rise again
with all my nerves snapped.
must feel like branding irons
the judgements of the stark -
and obey and obey a scorching fire
that blossoms out of the dark.

[[Disclaimer: None of this poetry is mine but Esse is a far better poet than me so I am shamelessly claiming that the work of Swedish poet Karin Boye, translated by David McDuff, is actually Esse's work.]]