Wrote this poem to express my awe and fascination for Blåjungfrun or The Blue Maiden, a bewitching island arising out in the middle of the vast Kalmar Channel, an island that is closely associated with witchcraft and sorcery. This long awaited trip to the island was most fulfilling and the experience was unforgettable.
I have been to a sacred place of magick*
and felt a myriad of pulse,
quivering from the core of its granite heart,
finding a passage, thus finding me.
Ageless stories floating in the wind,
of hunters and warriors
of witches both black and white.
That which the sea shapes
into most confounding contours
must be older than age itself.
O Blue Maiden! what one sees
is but a mirage across the steel grey sea.
A cold dome of simmering blue from afar,
but eye to eye a mighty titian mound.
Balmy and seductive
in the month of the sun,
speckled with twisted trees
branches frozen in an eternal dance.
The yeilding ground below bedded
with remains of dead barks, pulverised;
nourishing life of cavorting trees.
Life and death go hand in hand,
yet what meets the eye
may from truth be far,
of your cold unforgiving side,
your frigid vengeful heart.
Your unsympathetic core,
the velvety facade where
seagulls no longer perch,
the black guillemot no longer roost,
the grey seals no longer rest.
Yet we shall not be kept away.
Massive hanging boulders
joining heads together,
a ghostly cavern in its base,
where the wild wind whispers
a catena of prayers
or a string of malediction.
There in your mighty chamber
O Blue Maiden!
with the red rock above my head,
I hear your whisper in the wind.
“Walk through my labyrinth
and help me melt my icy core.
Walk through it with a heart full of truth,
and return thus blessed with my luck.
Whisper a prayer for me within its circles
but beware the unwrinkled enticing stones.
Take heed. Pray! do not carry it home.
for they all carry a forbidding doom.
Things uprooted carry relentless ire,
that shall alight your life with a destructive fire.”
My boat sways in the blackest of waters,
my heart weeps from a silent departure.
Up and down the ruthless waves toss,
brackish water my form awash.
I leave behind a red granite promontory,
in its reckless disheveled beauty.
But within my veins, it now runs,
the silent victory that I have won,
my heart with strong pulse it beats,
with unfurling new petals of magick*.
*magick is an early modern spelling in English which was used in the mid 1600s. Occultist Aliester Crowley chose this spelling to mark the difference between occult and stage magic.