The Myrðaling

 

 

The Myrðaling
A Ghost Story

Cold across the portal

through the shadow of the veil

the child shivers before me,

wild-walking the mirk.

She's thin as she'd never been

when she lay there, left,
tiny feet kicking in a stiff skin wrap,
taller too than when her kicking stopped

alone in the bramble where the broken light fell

as the snow wound blue around her like smoke.

Now she can walk miles

through the night from the black

back corners of the winter that rides

before and after all things,
for she's passed the doored rock

to the slaughtering shadow

that splits the soft loam, where

she blows like a seed that won't be sown

but must be milled on the stone of years

with a river of bones floating on tears.

She opens her mouth

and sings like the plague

for a name of her own to give her a grave.

Take mine I say--it's all I have

for a night sister here in the dying year,
where we've gone too far

to turn around, where too soon
we'll eat the bread of the dead,
where spirit can weigh
as heavy as flesh when the veil thins away.

Then the moon-girl came out of her pale disguise;

I saw my twin smile, and close her eyes.

~October 2014

revised and reposted October 2023 for Night of the Desperate Dead

at desperate poets

Process notes: In Scandanavian folklore, a myrðaling, (from Old Norse, 'myrða,' murder) or more properly, myling, was the ghost of a child killed by its mother in infancy, usually  the child of an unmarried woman, or of a poor family unable to provide for it, abandoned in some unfrequented place and forced to walk the earth seeking burial. The myling might appear and reveal the acts of its killer in a song, or call out for a name, when the hearer could save the spirit by saying "take mine' so that it might then rest in consecrated ground, (as in this poem) or it might vengefully possess the living, jumping on their backs and forcing the victim to carry them to a graveyard, growing heavier with each step. You can read more in this wikipedia article.

Image: The Strawberry Girl, 1777, by Joshua Reynolds

Public domain via wikiart.org

I have manipulated this image.

 

Philosopher By Moonlight

 

 

 

 

 

 

Philosopher By Moonlight

(A quadrille)

Life is a crinkle in the matrix

lapping at my edges while

ghosts browse the tombstones

eating names. Night covers me

with her firefly illusion

and her singing moon.

At daybreak we fold

like painted fans 

of Shaolin warriors, all

landscapes

and paper-covered blades.

May 2022

posted for dVerse Poets

Quadrille #153

Process Note The Steel or Iron Fan: The Chinese have a saying regarding weapons, “The shorter it is – the more dangerous.  The more ordinary looking, the deadlier it is.”...The steel fan is ...easy to carry and is inconspicuous.  When the weather is warm, you can use the fan to cool yourself and chase the flies away.  When you are in danger, you can use the steel fan as an effective weapon for self-defense because the ribs are made of steel...The fan is considered an “internal” weapon, because it uses the “soft” to overcome the “hard” and the short to overcome the long...”

Images: Philospher Illuminated by the Light of the Moon and Setting Sun, 1939 © Salvador Dali 

Fair Use

Shaolin Iron Fan, artist unknown, via internet Fair Use

Aubade Of The Scorpions

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aubade Of The Scorpions

 

 

 

At night the little scorpions come down

to watch us playing at our poison kisses

to study from the dustbath where we drown

 

the sting that sinks the deepest when it misses.

I found flowers once where you had touched me;

black poppies sown in moon-distempered hisses.

 

Now the sun is crawling through the ivy,

its dawn a flickered fire burning wishes.

You're a green ghost spitting from a tree;

 

promises float away like silver fishes

and Love's a child who suddenly confesses.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  April 2022

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 posted for dVerse Poets:

Meeting The Bar: Aubade

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images: Crustaceans c.1873 ©Raimundo Petraroja    Fair Use

The Evening Gown, 1954, ©Rene Magritte     Fair Use

 

The Myrðaling

 

The Myrðaling
A Ghost Story

Cold across the portal

through the shadow of the veil

the child shivers at me

wild-walking the mirk.

She's thin as she'd never been

when she lay as she was left,
tiny feet kicking in a stiff skin wrap,
taller too than when her kicking stopped

alone in the bramble where the light broke

as the snow wound blue

around her like smoke.

Now she can walk miles

through the night from the black

back corners of the winter before

and after all things
for she's passed the rock door.

On the slaughtering shadow

that splits the soft loam

she blows like a seed that won't be sown

but must be milled on
the stone of years

with a river of bones.

She opens her mouth

and sings like the plague

for a name of her own

to give her a grave.

Take mine I say--it's all I have

for a night sister here in the dying year,
where we've gone too far

to turn around, where too soon
we eat the bread of the dead,
where spirit can weigh
as heavy as flesh when the veil falls away.

Then the moon-girl came out of her lost disguise;

I saw my twin smile, and close her eyes.

~October 2014

reposted October 2021 for Spooktacular Weekend

at earthweal Open Link

Process notes: In Scandanavian folklore, a myrðaling, (from Old Norse, 'myrða,' murder) or more properly, myling, was the ghost of a child killed by its mother in infancy, usually  the child of an unmarried woman, or of a poor family unable to provide for it, abandoned in some unfrequented place and forced to walk the earth seeking burial. The myling might appear and reveal the acts of its killer in a song, or call out for a name, when the hearer could save the spirit by saying "take mine' so that it might then rest in consecrated ground, (as in this poem) or it might vengefully possess the living, jumping on their backs and forcing the victim to carry them to a graveyard, growing heavier with each step. You can read more in this wikipedia article.

Image: The Strawberry Girl, 1777, by Joshua Reynolds

Public domain via wikiart.org

I have manipulated this image.

Flash Friday 55 Thanksgiving Edition 2020

 

 

 

 Welcome all, to the Thanksgiving edition of the Friday 55. This year has seen so much turmoil, death, despair and anxiety that pulling anything up from a well of gratitude can be difficult, but there are indeed things to be thankful for, like those we love, the hope for change and renewal we have under a new administration, or like this gathering of writers remembering our history, our craft and an absent friend, the G-Man, who originated this meme and never lost his sense of humor or support for others in his quest for a kickass weekend for all. 

Thank you, Galen.

 

 

 

As always, this isn't a prompt about anything in particular, even gratitude. It's the 55. That is, 55 words of your choice on any subject, in any form, so long as the total comes to 55, no more no less.

Link your result in the comments below and I will be by to see what you have written.

 

Because of the holiday, the prompt will be extended from Thursday at midnight all weekend through Monday at noon.

~*~
Here is my 55:

 

 

 Over The Wind

I threw my leg over

the back of the wind,

or was it the mare

 

who gallops my sleep

your face

bounced in her bag,

 

leaves on her eyes

storms in her tail,

a jagged nightbird

 

with razorglass song,

dragon-winged

by a child's sleeping breath?

 

And I the rider

faded as fable,

lightning passing by.

 

 

 

 November2020

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images: Vintage postcard, manipulated  Fair Use

Photograph of Galen Hayes, source unknown  Fair Use

Donnerstag,  artist unknown, via internet  Fair Use

Dragon Awakens,   © Theodore Severin Kittelsen  Fair Use

 

Killer

Killer

Why do you come 

to stand in the dark kitchen, eyes

dull as shrapnel, dangling

your .22 from your hand

like a femur, no silver on you,

charity-thin?

You were the one

who wouldn't quit what killed you.

You were the one

who knew everything first.

Why do you hold

the rifle so tightly? 

I tried to save

all I could of you,

worried at the

pain when it came

with twelve

teeth of morphine, but

you screamed  

yourself away in

that minute I forgot.

I see

you still watch me

like a tilted tombstone,

staring flat-eyed, eternal

as a ghost lion's

hunger. 

Don't

drop the gun to 

hold out your hand.

 

April 2020

a  bit of surreal dream for earthweal's

Open Link

Just a reminder: On some word press blogs my comments are still disappearing. Please check your spam folder.

Images, both Untitled, © Zdzislaw Beksinki    Fair Use

Friday 55 May 25 2018

Welcome to another careen of words, carousel of craft, caravan of form and fuss--the G-man's meme, originated by a host remembered for bringing laughter and support, the flash fiction 55. As usual, there are no rules except the word count, 55 of them, no more, no less, poetry or prose, satire, lyric, or narrative, whatever brings a gloss to your ink. Link your effort in the comments below between Friday and Saturday at midnight, and I will be by to see what you have come up with. Please bear with me as I will be off in chaos country much of the time.

My 55 this week....

Absence and Dismay

By nightlight

your face withdrawn

paler than pillows

than appleblossom

warmed open

blurring for the bee

stilled in the comb.

Here, darkening

red spit of annihilation,

black ash of the curse,

 joker's smile

on mimewhite skin,

thin snow of an off-year

over the stubborn skull

and a nightbird to

sing to us

whatever is left.

~May 2018

Images: Detail, Apple Tree In Blossom, Gustave Caillebotte, 1885, Public Domain
Night, c. 1953 ©Marc Chagall, Fair Use

The Choice

The Choice

Will you come

to me from

the vault of Echo,

 even whose music is a rattle

of nonsense, or from

the folded hills of Titans' silence,

where the field is taken by

a random coup of indiscriminate stars

and night rides naked, protected

by her black birds?

~November 2015

posted for     real toads

Weekend Mini-Challenge: Eye Of The Beholder

Images:
Top: Night, 1917, by Albert Bloch, Fair use via wikiart.org
Footer: Night, 1880, by Gustave Moreau, Public domain via wikart.org