Providing Collaborative and Individual Showcasing Opportunities for emerging creatives from all disciplines and for anyone that wants to create. Specialising in collaboration, Supporting Well-being.
9 months, 23 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences
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Muspelheim
(the realm of fire)
Featuring:
Lenka Monk, Tom Murphy
and Rebecca Audra Smith
Flammable
by Lenka Monk
Inspired by story of Surt and Sinmara
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……Everything is ablaze with you in my realm. Even the stars seared themselves into the black vast canvas above. They can never go out. Not while your afterglow ignites the very last inch of me. My Twin flame you have become. I am a firefly, drawn to your inferno in an eternity of firestorms. Our power combined, forged by the fiercest heat inside a furnace consumed and spent on all levels. The embers aglow. You are my beacon to guide me through darkness. You are my lighthouse inside a storm’s eye. I burn in you. I burn with you, while everything around us still smoulders…..
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Part 7
Muspelheim
by Tom Murphy
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there is this thing like a memory a bridge between the living and the dead between past and future
this thing is in the grove this thing is in us a bond even when we’re apart
it is a thick iron chain it is a thin filament of web it is a bridge of ice melting in the fire it is a waterfall very high and very thin
this beam of sun and moon shining from the eyes holds the gaze holds everything in it’s lattice
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Baltimore Fires
by Rebecca Audra Smith
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the stars slip out of the way to show the unending tale of what is done in their names, it’s Baltimore Rocks thrown by men thrown by children thrown by police Arson is their attempt to lick the sky with flame Headlines tomorrow read, Michael Brown, Freddie Gray
In the midst of all that noise Comes the sense the fight’s still hot, quell the flames They cut the hose, when the store started burning the protestors for peace, held up their hands, said don’t shoot, but still sons are being shot, mother slaps her boy hard, you’re not Freddie Gray, Walter Scott
earth swallows the sun, the flames are burning fire, vapour and rage have made the air both crisp and dry you don’t want to be famous, known for the hands by which you died someone says it like a litany, Walter Scott, Eric Garner
I heard strange fruits being sung upon these police lined streets As she spoke of her neighbours death, body swinging, heavy tree Your name is a future hashtag when you were born dark skinned In the midst of all this noise it seems no one has had their say Protestors hold their signs up, Michael Brown, Freddie Gray.
9 months, 23 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences
Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Helheim (The Realm through which men must pass to reach Nifelheim)
Featuring:
Lenka Monk, Ross Beattie, Joanna Lee &
Lydia Allison
All angels go to hell
By Lenka Monk
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The gates open. The beast’s blood dripping muzzle welcomes me. On my sin flavoured bones the creature can feast, Along with an offer of my blackened soul. Who’s the judge and condemns me to this place? Who writes the rules and decides what is right and what is wrong? The brave warriors kill their enemy in their thousands and yet they are sitting up in Valhalla, drinking wine for eternity. Never mind the innocent they slaughtered and called it collateral damage in the name of their Gods. What God justify killing?! I have not hurt anyone I have not taken a life. I only loved. Maybe wrongly by their standards, but still only loved. In spite of this terrible place and the suffering, in my mind there’s no doubt. I would do it all over again, without question, without so much as miniscule pause. I have lived my life by my rules, not by their misguided sense of righteousness. So come! Tear at my flesh, tear at my heart, tear at everything that you find so awfully disgusting about me! And I shall laugh, for there’s nothing that you can take from me anymore. I left all that mattered, all that was good and pure somewhere else. Somewhere you cannot touch. Somewhere immortal.
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My Helheim
by Ross Beattie
When will the wolf swallow the sun ? I’m strung out again with another deadline tapping at the shade covered windows. Prompts and papers submerge the fragility of the only realm I really know. I’m trapped here. Waiting for the night. Hoping for help to cross the hills with the arrival of darkness. But as I wait, the shades will stay tightly drawn. The wolf’s scream pierces through my every half attempt to care, as I hide in the isolation. I can no longer leave, and nothing inside me desires to free. I watch the cracks below the door for the gentle flow of blood. As only then will I be safe from these endless winters and the shadow of the trembling tree might stop plaguing my mind.
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mist
by Lydia Allison
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in the place of misery of those who died happy. those who felt the soft lover press on their last breath.
the crawling surface of gjoll resembles rainfall the way water seems to reach up to break from the moving weight. straining to join the clearing air.
here. at the end of all is the source of the wind that changes life to fire and skeletons and ash. sighs through the sweeping changing wall of fog.
the breeze carries to the graves of grey souls and hits on the doors of the living like cold palms. like the desperate man who only wants to come home.
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The sybil’s lyric
by Joanna Lee
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We have lingered far too long in the land of these dead, buried beneath roots of returning sadness, longing for a new start, fair and green, for that which is hidden to disappear in the rivermud of April, for autumn to be born again.
The despair grows quiet and hungry and damp, so down and to the north beside a bend in the river of knives, under a blue back-lit moon I weigh my heart and lay myself to wait for the end of days when the watchman of the giants hunches to tune his harp.
9 months, 22 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat= a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences
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Midgard
(the realm of the people)
Vikings Ahoy!
Here we are in early May, with the deadline for the poetry and writing for the 7th realm Muspelheim due in on Monday 11th May !I shall be posting out more Helheim poems this week and next week. This month we are outlining the realm of Midgard. The deadline for all writing, poetry and mp3s for this realm is Friday 5th June 2015.
These monthly posts will draw from a range of primary and secondary source materials and focus on selected gods, themes and stories that circle around the highlighted realm. They will not attempt to cover everything, and writers can embrace any other stories and characters within their writing which is not covered. Month by month we will be building our own magical, contemporary norse world whilst exploring the themes of POWER, NATURE and RELIGION. The project’s overall intention is to embrace orality, translation, storytelling and rhythm all of which are inspired by the origins of the oral tradition of the Norse Sagas.
I may well put out little mini-posts intermittently focusing on orality and poetic form as necessary.
What is presented below is designed to inspire, present basic information and offer a starting point for individual creativity within the project inspired by the themes, characters and spirit of the myths and stories.
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Aurgelmir: Sea from Blood, Sky from Skull (2015) by Raymond Bentley, for The Nine Realms Project
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1. A brief Overview of Midgard
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Crossley Holland (xx-xxi), explains that Midgard is on the second level of the Norse universe’s ‘tricentric structure’. Midgard is in the middle, surrounded by a sea, which Snorri Sturluson (author of The Prose Edda, See ‘Things of Interest’ below) says ‘to cross it would strike most men impossible’.
When Ymir formed the world he allocated Midgard, the central region, to the human race. Midgard is ringed by a fence made out of Ymir’s eyebrows. Human’s did not make their home in Asgard until Midgard was formed where they created their palatial residences. One root of the The world tree, Yggdrasil, runs through Midgard. It is the place where Odin, in disguise, would go on a quest for more understanding of the world. Midgard is also the only realm that is seen to be visible, the other 8 realms move between visibility and invisibility.
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Líf and Lífthrasir by Lorenz Frølich
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2. Midgard Following Ragnarök
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It is said in The Prose and Poetic Eddas that, Midgard will be destroyed at Ragnarök, the battle at the end of the world. Out of this Jörmungandr, the World Serpent, will arise from the ocean, poisoning both land and sea with his venom. He will cause the sea to rear up catastrophically against the land. The final battle will take place on the field of Vígríðr. After this battle Midgard and almost all life, will have been eradicated. The earth will sink into the sea. The earth, however, will rise again, fertile and green when the cycle repeats and the creation begins again.
After the cataclysmic events of Midgard it is said that a couple (Lif and Lifthrasir) will survive the destruction hidden in Hoddmimir’s Wood, a dark cavern or forest, where they survive living off dew. From their children life will engender, and offspring will be born, repopulating the earth.
From The Lay of Vafthrudnir,45, Gylfaginning, The Prose Edda
‘In the place called Hoddmmimr’s Wood, two people will have hidden themselves from Surt’s fire. Called Lif [Life] and Leifthrasir [Life Yearner], they have morning dew for their food. From these will come so many descendents that the whole world will be inhabited. So it says here:
Jörmungandr: World Serpent by James Mackenzie for The Nine Realms Project
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2. Thor and the Midgard Serpent
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Jormungandr, the world serpent, lives in the ocean surrounding Midgard. He was so long that his tail circled the entirety of the realm. He is one of the three children of Loki. There are a number of stories attached to the serpent:
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1. Loki’s Challenge
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Where Thor comes across the serpent in the form of a huge cat, disguised in this guise by the magic of Loki. Loki challenges Thor to lift the cat as a test of his might. However, Thor is unable to lift Jörmungandr entirely, but does manage to raise the serpent far enough that it lets go of the ground with one of its four feet.
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Thor and the Midgard Serpent
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2. Thor’s Fishing Trip: Hooking Jörmungandr
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Thor goes fishing with the giantHymir. However, the giant refuses to give Thor any bait to catch the fish, so Thor cuts the head off Hymir’s ox to use as a lure. They fish for a while, but Thor wants to go further out to sea, despite Hymir’s protestations. Once further out Thor gets a strong line on which he hooks the ox’s head. The World Serpent, örmungandr, is hooked and pulled onto their fishing boat. Thor and the serpent face each other, Jörmungandr, dripping venom and blood. Thor grabs his hammer to kill the serpent, but Hymir cuts the line and the serpent goes free.
See ‘Things of Interest’ below re: The Gosforth Cross
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Máni and Sól
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4. Mundilfari, and the Sun and the Moon
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Mundilfari is the father of Sól , goddess of the sun, and Máni, the son, named after the moon. Mention of them can be found in The Poetic Edda in theVafþrúðnismálstanza 23 and in The Prose Edda (chapter 11,Gylfaginning).
Sól married a man, Glenr(‘Opening in the clouds’, responsible for driving the horses across the sky), which angered Odin. Therefore the gods, in retaliation, grabbed both Sól and Máni from Mundilfari, and placed them in the sky to guide the sun and the moon and the constellations (created by the sons of Bor). The world was lit from the sparks from Muspelheim.
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Themes, Relevance and Questions
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Stasis and Visibility
It is interesting that Midgard, the realm of the people, is seen to be the realm that is seen; maybe meant to be seen. It is the place of destruction and the place of rebirth, which to all intents and purposes could be considered a replication of the fluctuation of all living things. It is powerful that this profound dynamic is embodied within the realm of the people. of man. As if the beginning and the end is rooted in man and how humankind overcome adversity through reformation. A Norse retelling of Eliot’s ‘the end is my beginning’ perhaps?
Exploration Point: What is the relationship between humans and the gods in The Prose and Poetic Eddas? What is the dynamic and how is it manifested?
Things of Interest:
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1. Snorri Struluson
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Ynglinga Saga
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Born 1179, Hvammur, Iceland—died Sept. 22, 1241, Reykjaholt, Icelandic poet, historian, and chieftain, author of The Prose Edda and the Heimskringla.
TheHeimskringla isa history of the Norwegian kings that begins with the Ynglinga saga and moves through to early medieval Scandinavian history.
The Gosforth Cross is a large stone Anglo-Saxon cross in St Mary’s churchyard at Gosforth in the county of Cumbria, UK. The area was settled by Scandinavians some time in either the 9th or 10th century and was previously part of the kingdom of Northumbria. The cross itself dates to the first half of the 10th century.
Consists of two rhyming couplets which attempt to encapsulate the life and works of a character or famous figure. As Vole Cental puts it:
‘Exaggeration, wilful misunderstanding, and even complete fabrication or character assassination, are permitted, and perhaps encouraged. The first line is always the person’s name. ‘
9 months, 23 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences
Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Helheim (The Realm through which men must pass to reach Nifelheim)
Featuring:
Nat Hall, Shirley Golden and Jim C. Mackintosh
The Sandglass
by Nat Hall
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Don’t mistake time for gravity
Each sand grain slides between two realms, the one you toss when you feel lost, the one Nanna drowned in her tears. Vertical bridge of sand and shells, the one that never brings driftwood – the one shipbuilders curse like hell, as fingers erase their stories; the one too aware of sunsets swallowed by a wolf known as Sköll.
At either end, dead man fingers…
Now let fate toss sand grains & glass, Hel dreams of domino effect, dots, ellipsis to Ragnarök.
The mud slows his progress. But he moves; his feet and arms rake the sludge. Around him explosions, bullets like hailstones, hammer from the sky.
Annie, safe at home with their boy, Victor, he hopes. Fourteen, an only son – late, unexpected blessing. When Victor talked of signing up, he forbade it. Victor called him an old man for that, said the king needed fit, young fighters. Those were his parting words.
He surveys the ground, strewn with half-submerged bodies. Explosions flare, illuminating the dark and signalling that their raid has been discovered. Blood of the fallen, thick in his nostrils taints the back of his throat.
He can see worm paths moulded by those who’d managed to slip in before him. The damp seeps through his coat and he’s never felt so cold. He finds the edge of the trench and checks it is safe to descend. He grips his trench knife and wades towards the boom of battle.
One of the fallen men stirs as if raised from the dead. The soldier charges him in a maelstrom of screams and bullets and panic, until a ring of silence suggests spent ammunition. He scans frantically, feeling for blood, expecting pain to rip through his chest. By some miracle he’s bullet-free. He snarls and thrusts the knife towards the enemy. It sinks past cloth and flesh. He stabs once, twice, three times. The soldier’s weight falls heavy on him, and they collapse in a misshapen embrace.
He catches a boy in his arms; perhaps no older than Victor. The boy struggles to speak, blood in his windpipe, and gargles out one word: “Väter.”
He shoves the body off and staggers forward. His own heartbeat aches in his ears. He thinks this winter of war will never end.
It’s cold all the time; the sun, ingested by vaporous jaws. The earth shudders. He’d seen trees tremble, their branches split and plummet. Men, covered in sores, and who shouldn’t be breathing, somehow clawed their way back from no man’s land and begged to be shot. They are all of them evil. Shooting and stabbing. And killing. Fathers and sons.
He drops to his knees. This place is a netherworld, bodies rotting beneath strata and strata of faults through time.
…………………………………………*** But beyond we see a future field, shrouding the nameless dead. And running free, a boy weaves through countless graves; he is blood and bones a part of the remains. Decay nurtured seeds, emerged from black soil, where flowers bloom from mud in ribbons of red and gold.
9 months, 23 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences
Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Helheim (The Realm through which men must pass to reach Nifelheim)
Featuring:
Eleanor Perry, James Knight and Tom Murphy
6.
whip shrug figurations
by Eleanor Perry
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we dig grisly at the slagheap ridge | where stark proteins broke in the ash | there are high-voltage moths and tumours in the masonry | brash ga-ga- ganglia lolling in twists and graphs | and that tweed squirm in the kitchen, darting and novelizing, all sleaze and gravel shudder | we need to wake up next to the aluminium industry | pull hungry and hip reckless | our hardboard tetrahedral gods – bright and shining with their clerical safeguards | this is rock-n-surf | there are no other meat splinters in the fissuring hour of the liver | and I have put the whole galaxy into spilth and multicode | these back- lands full of weird mimiviruses frothing in the gaps | high-balling in the green of telemarketing | where I quietly slang viridians
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Hel
by James Knight
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Switch on Switch off
Silvered faces Inside the mirror
Do come in Make yourself at home
WTF! I can’t see a thing Only my face I look like a fucking weirdo What’s going on with my eyes?
Switch on Switch off
Fold yourself up, put yourself in my hand Wait
Switch on Switch off
It’s simply not true to claim that we’re the party of privilege We stand for honest, decent, hard-working
Switch on Switch off
Drive more website traffic In fact, our data shows that using a Drives 43% more engagement
Silvered faces At home
My eyes
Put yourself in my hand
Switch on Switch off Switch on Switch
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Part 6
Helheim
by Tom Murphy
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the creepy motherfucker never unchancy reeled and hollered as I removed the breath from his throat
snow crunched and swirled I crunched and swirled he grew cooler
there was a boast an insult or two breaths he should have kept to himself
blood was spilled of course coursing unbound feezing on the ground
9 months, 22 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences
Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Nifelheim (The Realm of the Dead
Featuring:
Karin Heyer and John Mansell
Choices
by Karin Heyer
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In the mists of time, Hel, goddess of the dead was the moon that drew good or evil across the water. Her gigantic power should not fall to abuse, for that was Hel’s hell.
She ruled over men on this sea of wagons with fierce piercing eyes. She could protect or destroy the apple-tree of strife under the miraculous moon’s hall, so that the brutal blood-snake would strike not in thoughtless revenge.
She was master of the dream-assembly for the sick and old, could prevent the slaughter-dew from flowing over the ruthless river-fire in the lone battle of life.
The translations of the kennings:
Sea of Wagons = earth; Apple-tree of strife = warrior; Moon’s hall = sky; Blood-snake = sword; Dream-assembly = sleep; Slaughter-dew = blood; River-fire = gold
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Nifelheim
by John Mansell
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The night stifles with moon and star-fall. The skald saunters through the throng. Arms aloft like antlers he shuffles words on his rhythmic tongue, full of soot and cinders, to fall upon the eager warriors gathered in stately enclave. The night ignited by the sparks of his recital, spreading the gloaming like bleeding flame.
“We are such as gather before the camp fires of lore. We are those who thrust to that glorious death. Yet betwixt and between there are those who crave infirmity and age. Look and you will glance their shifting eyes behind the slatted windows of hovels, fearful and stripped of dignity. No feasting halls for them. Nothing but sullen Nifelheim awaits. The mist-home. The clutch of ice and cold upon ancient flesh. The dread of the Rime Giants or the Children of the Mist. We are such as will never see those spectres.
“And lo I tell you, Nifelheim is older than the first star. It was created before earth, and at its centre Hvergelmir, the Roaring Kettle, from which nine rivers flow. That hoary land where Odin sent defiling Loki’s grotesque child Hel. That cruel daughter; half sable as night, half as you in stippled wipe of fire. And there with those whose usefulness has diminished go the evil doers, the molesters of dream. Helgrind, the Gates of Hell, ne’er more apt, that edifice entrance; that hall called Eljudnir. She strewed the minds of ambling man. Her dish was that of Hunger. Her knife the famine before her table. Her slave a slender wraith call Lazy and Slothful her serving wench in harlot stance. We are such as will not fall to her peril.
“We are such as will not see before the quivering sun, as it shudders beneath the end of the earth, the sail of her ship of death afloat from its mooring in that place that traps and spits her name as if both are one. We are such whose eyes will not stoop beneath the lowest horizon before that Mistress of Death. That Mistress of the pusillanimous hand. Not lest you be as brave Hermod whose ride to her foreboding hall entreats all glory. To release sad Balder from its mortifying hold. None must weep she said to show that he was truly loved. None at all she said. How harsh her condition as that sole giantess with eyes of granite frowned and found no tear. We are such as Hermod. We are such as defy the impossible. No Nifelhein for us. No falsifier of Death to retch our glories. For we will find the perfect deaths to attend our only Master.”
The fires had burnt low. The moon had travelled along the sky. The gathered warriors gripped in thought the silent blades. And the skald with no hint of farewell departs as if he had never been.
a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences
—
Muspelheim
(the realm of fire)
Vikings Ahoy!
Here we are in the middle of April, with the deadline for the poetry and writing for the 6th realm Helheim Thursday 16th April.I shall be posting out the remaining Nifelheim poems this week and then Helheim the week after. This month we are outlining the realm of Muspelheim. The deadline for all writing, poetry and mp3s for this realm is Monday 11th May.
These monthly posts will draw from a range of primary and secondary source materials and focus on selected gods, themes and stories that circle around the highlighted realm. They will not attempt to cover everything, and writers can embrace any other stories and characters within their writing which is not covered. Month by month we will be building our own magical, contemporary norse world whilst exploring the themes of POWER, NATURE and RELIGION. The project’s overall intention is to embrace orality, translation, storytelling and rhythm all of which are inspired by the origins of the oral tradition of the Norse Sagas.
I may well put out little mini-posts intermittently focusing on orality and poetic form as necessary.
What is presented below is designed to inspire, present basic information and offer a starting point for individual creativity within the project inspired by the themes, characters and spirit of the myths and stories.
.
.
.
1. A brief Overview of Muspelheim
Mentions of Muspelheim and Surt/Surtr are sparing within The Poetic Edda and The Prose Edda, and primarily, it seems, centred around Ragnarök
Muspelheim was to the North of Ginnungagup, the large chasm at the beginning of the world, where Surt/Surtr, ‘the swarthy one’, the fire god, stands guard with a flaming sword. It is where the Gods, as the world was created, scattered sparks across the sky as stars (Allan: 34). Muspelheim is fire; and the land to the North, Niflheim, is ice. The two mixed and created water from the melting ice in Ginnungagap. The sun and the stars originate from Muspelheim. The residents of Muspelheim are known as the eldjötnar (“Fire Giants“). They are also known by other names in Eddic poetry, such as the Múspellssynir (or Múspellsmegir — “sons of Muspell”) and the Rjúfendr (from rjúfa — “to break, tear asunder”, Destroyers of Doomsday). Seehttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muspelheim
In The Prose Edda, In chapter 4, the Gylfaginning, the enthroned figure of Third tells Gangleri (described as King Gylfi in disguise) that the flaming region existed prior to Niflheim, and is impassable to those who are not born to the realm. To protect Muspelheim Surt/Surtr is stationed at its frontier.
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2. Surt
Surt with flaming sword
Surt/Surtr plays a major role in the tra.jectory towards Ragnarök, through his battles against the Æsir, fighting particularly with Freyr. The fire that Surt engenders engulfs the Earth in its final moments of existence (before it is reborn).
Norse Academic Simek says that “in Iceland Surtr was obviously thought of as being a mighty giant who ruled the powers of the (volcanic) fire of the Underworld”,
Surt/Surtr is mentioned twice in the The Prose Edda particularly the Völuspá, where avölva (a Seer) states that Surt/Surtr will come from the south with flames, carrying a bright sword:
There are few details given about the fight between Surt/Surtr and Freyr in the Völuspá .The poem focuses more on how Odinis to be killed by the wolf Fenrir. However, it is mentioned that Surtr will go to battle against “Beli’s bane”, a kenning for the god Freyr, who slew the giant Beli.
According to the Ragnarök predictions in the Gylfaginning, the sons of Muspell , the fire giants, will break the Bifröst bridge, signalling the end of times:
In the midst of this clash and din the heavens are rent in twain, and the sons of Muspell come riding through the opening. Surtr rides first, and before him and after him flames burning fire. He has a very good sword, which shines brighter than the sun. As they ride over Bifrost it breaks to pieces, as has before been stated. The sons of Muspel direct their course to the plain which is called Vigrid…. The sons of Muspel have there effulgent bands alone by themselves.
The story goes that Surt/Surtr will come via land and ride over Bifrost, the rainbow bridge, to Asgard. Here the armies of the gods and giants will meet for one last battle. It is where Surt/Surtr remains until the end, and onceHeimdallr and Loki fight ( killing one another), Surt/Surtr flings fire over the world so that both men and gods will perish in an overwhelming sea (Ellis Davison: 38).
The sun becomes dark. Earth sinks in the sea.
The shining stars slip out of the sky.
Vapour and fire rage fiercely together,
till the leaping flame licks heaven itself
(ibid)
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4. Sinmara
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Sinmara by Jenny Nystrom
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Is a female who is often considered to be a companion of Surt/Surtr. A mention of her can be found in the poem Fjölsvinnsmál (The Sayings of Fjölsvinnr)where she is said to have a weapon called Lævateinnwhich is considered a kenning for a sword, ‘damage tree’. Her name, mara, may be linked to”(night-) mare”, and the two figures together can be seen as quite a powerful combination.
Interestingly, many connections have been made between Ragnarök and Christian Notions of Judgement Day. Fire and burning have played a large part in many religious ceremonies and rites for 100s of years. A cycling of conflict, punishment and then renewal. Fire keeps us warm, but equally fire is volatile and chaotic if untamed. Surt/Surtr and Muspelheim could be seen as a symbol for that volatility, and when they reach Asgard- might meets might!
There is something very intense and dynamic about heat, about flames. There can be warmth and comfort, but if fire gets out of control there can equally be searing, skin burning, pain. Surt/Surtr and fire are what we have at the end of the world just before the new world begins. The new world begins not with ease, but through a clash of force, devastation and power.
Exploration Point: Take a look through The Prose and Poetic Eddas and track how fire is used within the stories. Are there any patterns? What symbolism does it have?
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Things of Interest:
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1. The Road To Asgard: BiFrost:
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2. Three videos about Jesse Byock’s (the translator of the Penguin Classic edition of The Prose Edda) multi-disciplinary research which combines the sagas, history and archaeology
Part 1
Part 2
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Part 3
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Optional Poetry and Writing Prompts:
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Curtal Sonnet
Established by Gerard Manley Hopkins, and is a ten-and-a-half line form, a sonnet but three-quarters the size. Hopkins’ poemPied Beauty is an example.
9 months, 22 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences
Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Nifelheim (The Realm of the Dead
Featuring:
Ross Beattie and Nat Hall
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Send Me to Hel
by Ross Beattie
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Become for me what you became for that world. My sister is also a serpent. You protect the gates of your name and I need not pass you as my only wish is to die beside you. Many gods cannot bear how you look, eyes turn in disgust, fear creeps through the hearts of greater men than I. But I’m entranced by your beauty, your one half rotting and other already dead, it’s exactly the same as mine, but only eyes that see past surfaces can tell this when they see me. Can you see me ? I have to imagine you from what I read, but it’s not enough, I can wait no longer. I beg to gods that I’m forever unlikely to believe in “Send me to Hel” And then I catch a glimpse of my hopeless self and laugh into the mist covered morning.
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“Misty”
by Nat Hall
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Feel ice claws in the northern plains.
Out of dark North, out of blue-tainted icicles, out of the antlers of the stag,
where the living comes out & back, where dragon gnaws at the ash tree,
9 months, 22 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences
Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Nifelheim (The Realm of the Dead)
Featuring:
Joanna Lee, Mina Polen
and Shirley Golden
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If all things should weep
by Joanna Lee
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even through the thickest ice, redemption may bubble. don’t call it the realm of the dead.
say instead: that cauldron from which every man springs, and will again return.
pull up fistfuls of last year’s leaf- mould; wade the bitter waters;
sift the cold from the thaw. this is not another poem
about what to feed your dragon. serpent-sister, i no longer fear judgment,
have seen the green from your high walls. atonement is made from yeast-drops
and pomegranate seeds, shimmers, effervesces. remember
the life-beneath-frost, your nascent breakings, the roots planted in winter.
remember the strength in those you have loved, the gentle rain lost to the mists.
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Don’t follow me
by Mina Polen
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Somehow I feel that you mustn’t come it is so cold over here my feet are freezing the snow is falling
my love please, don’t follow me
somehow I feel that I might be lost the rivers are frozen I am having nightmares I don’t know what is this
my love please, don’t follow me
somehow I feel that this place is poisoned the land stinks of cadaver I feel threatened I feel lonely I feel lost
my love please, don’t follow me
somehow I feel there is no end the mist is overwhelming I feel guilt and regret this is all too much to bare
my love
please
don’t follow me.
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Cutting Out the Bad
by Shirley Golden
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They say we are sick and insist on a cure. I was hauled in when they updated legislation on crimes against beauty. For some, it’s ageing without correction or overindulging that secured them a stretch in here. Not acceptable, they say. Control it. Cover it. And if you can’t, we will. Our stay, as they call it, need not end in disaster. Consent screens flicker night and day, expecting the press of inmates’ fingerprints to smudge the surface of LCDs. And we will assent, they say, everyone caves in the end.
It’s worse than sub-zero winter, the cold bleeds into every bone and fibre. And the air is still, so still. We barely find the energy to speak or chew although she feeds us well enough. It’s a legal requirement. Some say the food is laced with drugs; others that they pump sedatives in through the vents. It explains our sluggishness and the fog which infects like gas climbing from corpses. The bad breath stench clings to the bed hangings. She calls us her children and says there are worse places, and it feels like a threat.
She’s black and white, precise, suit smart, exact. Guarding the right of her domain, she’s indifferent to protests. She acts with authority absolute. But under that veneer lurks a half-dead creature. For how could anything with a heart be immune to our pleas?
I’m allowed a mirror; it is encouraged. They say I must face my reflection, it’ll convince me to conceal the rough edges beneath a membrane, plump cheeks, smooth over corrugated flesh. It’s an old, old scar that started with a lump and ended under a surgeon’s blade; it took years to heal. I stare at discoloured tissue, the uneven track the scalpel was forced to carve; they call me offensive, offender. They fail to see it as an inscription: blunt. Integral.
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You can read the overview of Nifelheim here , and see some Nidavellir poemshere
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Find out more about Joanna, Mina and Shirley here:
9 months, 22 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences
Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Nifelheim (The Realm of the Dead
Featuring:
Jim C Mackintosh, Eleanor Perry
and Tom Murphy
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The Signal Keeps Breaking
by Jim C. Mackintosh
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I am trying to phone you from the most hellish place there’s ever been with the worst phone signal ever.
It has taken nine days to get here but all the things I gave up to get here will not buy me a fare for the nine days back.
There are so many things wrong with this place, I am not sure what to describe, or whether I should even try.
I will try texting you, that way, you will have a record of this vile land but it is no land I have dreamt of
or woken in the cold sweat of night fearing my destiny. And should I not return, I pray you will read my words.
There are so many people, dead people some dying, or not but still wandering stumbling in the sludge of putrid pools
pools that lap the edge of a cauldron its crusted rim catching the unaware pulling them into a depth I can only fear.
I tried to save an old man, grabbing his coat but he was beyond the depths my shallow cowardice would allow me to wade.
There is no sun, yet there is light enough to pick out the pain, the shadows of scars and marks across the strands of shore
where the keel marks of the dead, dragged by their souls, lead to a dragon’s bowl nestled on the bleach of suppers past.
There is no time, but there is order in this terrible chaos. Despite the mists that catch your throat like heated flints
tossed into the air by the sadness of children, seemingly lost, wandering with their blankets of belongings.
I have tried speaking to them but they stare through me except one attracted by the light of the phone
grabbed at it but when I pushed him away, he dissolved into a puddle leaving only rags and a scatter of baubles.
The other children, at least I imagine them to be children, did nothing but pick up the dissolved one’s rags and walk away
towards the dark mass of a tower, ice-cold like a frozen heart, an island of infinity drawing me towards its gate.
Down an impossible path, beaten like a flattened vein, exhausted under the burden of its purpose.
I can’t see beyond the gate but I must go beyond the daubed sign ‘Hel’ I must not falter in my step, my courage.
Through the briar, and soft ash of unspoken voices caught, discarded in the unsettled mounds by the path
to an uncertain fate. I am weak yet my resolve is strong, to face the dark beyond the buttressed edge of Hel.
I will leave these words, this dying signal with a child, to keep safe from the poisoned mists that force me –
the signal keeps breaking –
I am entering Hel, alone –
breaking –
me
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5. whorf hypothesis
insect noon, and this, the wishing element | we softly saw ruin | the other wolf moon in the mouth | and it seemed a lot of hurt | star meat sunk deep in neon sock- ets | spoon-tapped atoms like those sea lilies which drag themselves | in polished glass | since water is a human learning | and the road hums so thick | we would lung this tired space | even in obscene echoes | and the words went light like bones | blue robot vague.
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Part 5
Nifelheim
by Tom Murphy
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galloping up the hill
knuckles knotted in the mane
Draumur leaping through the waves of grass
as if surging through salt foam sea
each of these a spell
a telling of path
the three moments
embracing under the waterfall
sitting in the dark cave of mist
floating on the milk blue pond
.
the idea of north
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You can read the overview of Nifelheim here , and see some Nidavellir poemshere
To get involved contact us via any of the comments boxes on our posts/pages or @ArtiPeeps. You would be very welcome!
Vikings Ahoy! It’s The Nine Realms!
The Nine Realms: a Norse inspired interactive, combined arts experienceSeptember 12, 2015
ONGOING EPICS
THE NINE REALMS (2014-2015):
Watch this space for our next 9-month large-scale collaborative project ! Starting in the 2nd Week of October 2014. Inspired by the Norse Sagas and Norse Cosmology, Giving creative opportunities to nearly 50 creatives. We'll be combining poetry, prose, art, music and sculpting a Viking boat out of ash, Vikings Ahoy!!!
The Nine Realms Poetry Playlist
The Nine Realms Realm Music
PAST EPIC COLLABORATIONS
TRANSFORMATIONS (2013-2014)
A POETRY AND ART EPIC:
31 Creatives from all around the world and the UK showcased through 1 Contemporary Reworking of Ovid's Metamorphoses.
Making the virtual real via a poetry-art exhibition held at Hanse House, Norfolk, 12-14th September 2014,
The launch of our large-scale exhibition template to be used to give creatives from all disciplines collaborative opportunities year on year.
A Shattered Moon
Via ArtiPeeps , Hot Potato Summer 2014 : 6 Writers, 12 weeks, 1 short story. Featuring: Steve Harris, Michael Schmidt, Shannon Pardoe, Sam Grainger, Josh Kremer and Jessica Cooke. Illustrations by artist Sam Grainger
ARTIPEEPS IS COLLABORATING WITH:
Future Radio
Community Radio, Norwich
Hanse House, King’s Lynn
Home to our 'Transformations' Exhibition/Poetry Performance September 2014
Elizabeth and Lisa
2 artists from Florida USA who create great comic strips...
Deborah Services Limited
Who help us build exciting exhibition stands
The Global Twitter Community Poetry Project
Click on the image to find out more
LAURA BESLEY
SNIPPETS : An ebook Collection of Flash Fiction. Written by Laura whilst with ArtiPeeps during her feature 'Flash Fortnightly' in 2013. Congratulations Laura!
Please note: the views expressed by the creatives on this site are their own, and are not necessarily the views held by ArtiPeeps.
VERY INSPIRING BLOGGER AWARD NOMINATION
The Inspiration in ArtiPeeps is entirely collaborative. With many thanks to Ant DiMartino for the nomination
VERSATILE BLOGGER AWARD NOMINATION
With thanks to AK Anderson for the Nomination
This site's versatility rests in the diversity and talents of its contributors on an ongoing basis
Super-Sweet Blogger Award Nomination
Thank you To Soad 88 for nominating us
The Sunshine Award
Many thanks to writer Laura Besley for nominating us
Kindly providing some music for 'Transformations' September 2014
EXPRESS YOURSELF IN AS MANY WAYS AS POSSIBLE WITHOUT FEAR.THERE IS NOTHING TO FEAR.THERE IS NOBODY WHO IS GOING TO PUNISH OR REWARD YOU. EXPRESS YOUR BEING IN ITS TRUEST FORM, IN ITS NATURAL FLOW, YOU WILL BE REWARDED IMMEDIATELY, NOT TOMORROW BUT TODAY, HERE & NOW. YOU ARE PUNISHED ONLY WHEN YOU GO AGAINST YOUR NATURE. BUT THE PUNISHMENT IS A HELP. IT IS SIMPLY AN INDICATION THAT YOU HAVE MOVED AWAY FROM NATURE, THAT YOU HAVE GONE A LITTLE ASTRAY-OFF THE ROAD-COME BACK. PUNISHMENT IS NO REVENGE.NO, PUNISHMENT IS ONLY AN EFFORT TO WAKE YOU UP: 'WHAT ARE YOU DOING?' . SOMETHING IS WRONG, SOMETHING IS GOING AGAINST YOURSELF. THAT'S WHY THERE IS PAIN, THERE IS ANXIETY.
EVOLUTION IS INTRINSIC TO MAN'S NATURE, EVOLUTION IS HIS VERY SOUL, AND THOSE WHO TAKE THEMSELVES FOR GRANTED REMAIN UNFULFILLED. THOSE WHO THINK THEY ARE BORN COMPLETE REMAIN UNEVOLVED. THEN THE SEED REMAINS THE SEED. IT NEVER BECOMES A TREE AND NEVER KNOWS THE JOYS OF SPRING AND THE SUNSHINE AND THE RAIN AND THE ECSTASY OF BURSTING INTO MILLIONS OF FLOWERS.
ArtiPeeps 
