a letter for my selkie sister

for Sarah

sister, witch
stirrer of cauldrons,

I have heard
you are a bridge
and a wild river.

I have heard
I am sword
and whetstone both.

I have heard that
the shiny things are always sharper
and that
wounded animals
won’t weep, but,
dear, go ahead and weep,

you are not weak-
not in this our onomatopoetic guild
of warrior women. nor are you cold
or failing, or failed. nor are you
falling. no, you are beautiful,
and intimidating; reckless in your strenght:

you are a kraken on stilts
hovering far above common fearful fish.

you, sister, are comprised of panoramas depicting ancient mountains and stars.


we are the dead alive,
the ones who’ve already died

we are mermaids, animals
we are strange colours sleeping underwater at dusk,
so they fear us



so they should



the dreaming princess

once, previously thought of as the future 
now considered illusions past
we thrived and strived in our mutual drive
towards endings of beginnings;
finalizations of ends

we own the glory of gone by nights,
days forgotten;
promises drowned in beating sun,
curses spoken in sweaty rain,
absurd allegations of truth and
words like lie
used for all we knew as too true

because how else is it
even done, handled, managed,
made and
like a pill of pure starlight;
the beautiful truth would sear
your throat to ash, unwillingly kill
you in all its
ruthless splendour

now here we are
met again
on the path towards a thousand endings

help me make
the one crystalline;

the most appealing apocalypse
ever to befall anyone

not flawless, not radiant
but worthwhile


the antihero speaks in the final act

my secret being this:
yes I am a ghost
but I was never a human being

I am the ghost of a goddess;
previously never really alive
nor ever truly dead

omnipresent and inexplicably existent,
wayward and liminal,
with gilded hands, a sword on my breath

the ghost of a goddess:
moon-bound, world-weary
wary of life

strong and soft;
like water

call me what name you like- what ever words may fit your mouth-
the silence is my sister, so is the fear, the deer, all tiny birds, and
the stars which burn
in your eyes, too, even after


I hold all truths in this the claw
of my one and unbroken gentle mind


I will always endure.


at least no one will ever
anything opposed
to that

breaking points

when it comes to the matter of
my own death; I would like
for it to be

I’d like to linger through the
unavoidable rains;
water and stars and stones and bullets,
watch what I have created come to an end,
tip my own gilded scale and
move through the liminal mind of day.

I’d like to be what I am:
in love, full and fractured, whole and wholly distorted;
a very light dark underwater,
crescendo sunset, velvet lined morning glory;
kind hands sharp words old and cold and burning-
paradoxes and paradigms, palindromes and anagrams;
a collection of brand new and used up, empty boxes and full mirrors.

I’d like my own death to wait
in the wings of this my one and only present. I’d like to
live for all times; a story written in blood and eyes and dust-
like in
all the places upon your body
where my mouth breathed this
one word: remember.


(  for Pan )

There’s a great god walking these lands
He maps routes
in human flesh and feathers he
drew a map out of this my one and only skin he
made roads in dead country where water flows and
flowers (now)
grow. I have always
known him, somehow
his breath like a shift in the fabric of the world,
the silhouette in opposite suns
a windowless desert the voices of
every ghost town and all dead lovers in their immense and
stories. But
he carries no mediocre heart through time.

I was tired when I
met him.
And I was lonely
but was always lonely
I defy
emptiness with
life with my lack of dignity with
hot blood and in rapid irregular pulse. Yes,
I was
always lonely and in my way: free yes freed yes;
I was
nothing which is everything.

Then i met him.

like a dead man he came
an echo of past dreamscapes a
creature made out of gold leaf and gentle cruelty cruel gentleness
and greens blues fire-reds and
of love. I saw, like
in a mirror how
the colours come together transcending the transient;
how awe is what spirit looks like seen through eyes of
eternal creatures, gods and
the dead

and then
I saw
how it comes together
and what gives it life.

I cupped that life in my palms. Imagine a well or floods raging and
silver-coloured moondrops – nordic winters passed – lost languages re-created into
new undaunting noises unreachable unhearable but


the holy grail in bodily fluids- dirt under fingernails like gold I
cupped that life in my palms and drank it with every hollow with every
ridge; these strange crevices and unfamiliar – yet known (now known, eternally unfamiliar)

places and spaces that is called my body like it was ever known. To him, it was, I think-
no no- i believe (i am sure) I was.known
to him; always, ever – forever – before and after: known. I am I am I am I am known

the dream of Dafydd Barry

the sons of selkie-women;
inhabitants of blue-rimmed cauldrons;
kingly coracles made to burden
the back of but a single man;
carried towards the river-mouth,
laid to rest until met by the tongue
of the tide;

they shall one day inherit the ocean,
the inmost ocean;
the shimmering vault of worlds underfoot;
which, as legacy dictates, they have protected,
with lives and death and loneliness and loss.

old men of thousand seas; blessed are they;
with insight;  secretive dreams of bloated fish,
belly up; blessed are they,
with knowledge; the horizon mirrored in scales
is no mere reflection- of this the sea-men are keepers;
thus honoring the sacrifices of broken waves;

death, which shall be reclaimed by all depth;
waters edge and bottom; endings; just like
those of selkie-womens sons;
who shall be rewarded with sleep;
in a motherly embrace.

endings, thus, are beginnings;
for those who first opened their eyes
washed up among strangely shaped rocks;

beyond our reach;
beyond everything land-born men
may fathom; are allowed to fathom, every
truth, which, by universal law, is hidden;
unto times’ end, or beyond-

like the secrets of fish, the language of seagulls and
the invisible light in the Marianus trench,
we have no access; no-one has;

except the sons of selkie-women;
with their kind bladderwrack-hands,
their gentle, fluttering cockerel-hearts.

on the subject of pride and humbleness-You, Me and Dylan Thomas is promoted by eminent organisations


I can’t believe that so many help spreading info about the You Me and Dylan Thomas  retreat. It’s simply amazing!





And still-please help spread the event!

The magnificent artwork is done by Håkan Eklund, swedish painter and poet.