Norse Gods and Goddesses Prose Poems – #35 The Power of the Runes
A stunning new approach to the myths the Vikings loved; enlightening and challenging for the novice and veteran alike.
The Gods and Goddesses of the Nordic Mythos Prose Poems were created following research for Gods Bless Ya!! Rock Opera with Alda and Sigrun Bjork Olafsdottir and a forth-coming book with SigRun Viking Art & Design.
The Power of the Runes.
Óooooðin looked down from his great stone slab and he saw Mimir. Mimir the head was guarding his pool. I must seek out the power of this pool thought Óooooðin.
He knelt. What is this place? He asked. The drugged herbal head of Mimir it mumbled. It took many attempts until Óooooðin understood him and making his hands like a cup went to drink there. There is a cost was the mumble from Mimir and it was a terrible cost that we now know Óooooðin by. He must pluck out an eye. So One-eye was wise. Now he knew everything, was all wise and all powerful this was his reaction to his mind being so full and in tune.
No wait murmured Mimir you have not got a rune. You will be needing these song things, the runes of the underworld. Down where witches are shaman-like living an undeath. Buried among them is the rune power you need. As Óooooðin he requested how best to procure them Mimir murmured that you have to be dead.
Nine nights long Óooooðin hung from a tree with his head down, a spear in his side caused a dread wound and his life force unwound. He was dead. With the wisdom of the immortals he dream-like reached forward and from the magic women of the underworld he snatched out the rune power. Then he came back alive again. To Asgard he returned with all of the power he had. Now he really was a God.
A stunning new approach to the myths the Vikings loved; enlightening and challenging for the novice and veteran alike.
The Gods and Goddesses of the Nordic Mythos Prose Poems were created following research for Gods Bless Ya!! Rock Opera with Alda and Sigrun Bjork Olafsdottir and a forth-coming book with SigRun Viking Art & Design.
Mimir
Herb-head Mimir. Wisest of all but one he is just a head, he didn’t see that coming. His final duty before Sun rises on a new world will be, “Óðin, go out there and die.” For now, the platter-sitter appears whole in your mind and he can read you like a nursery rhyme. Raise his glass for him
Norse Gods and Goddesses Prose Poems – #33 Wisdom Pool Wonder
A stunning new approach to the myths the Vikings loved; enlightening and challenging for the novice and veteran alike.
The Gods and Goddesses of the Nordic Mythos Prose Poems were created following research for Gods Bless Ya!! Rock Opera with Alda and Sigrun Bjork Olafsdottir and a forth-coming book with SigRun Viking Art & Design.
Wisdom Pool Wonder
How the guardian of the pool of wisdom could become just a head.
They spat. The gods spat. They spat in a barrel. An oath of peace *spit spit spit*
And they traded gods
Óooooðin was most unhappy to receive old Njord and his unholy offspring. Hoenir would be a good swap as he was a real God, strong and brave, that is what they needed. Ah, If they like wise old men, they can have Mimir, he can mumble for them.
It worked. When they were together, for Mimir would mumble into Hoenir’s ear.
But it all went wrong. Mimir went away to tend his magical spring from where all wisdom flowed.
Mimir Was Away
While he was away, we can imagine it went something like this; “A farmer is praying to us he would like more apples?”
“Slice him through with an axe like chopping a tree ho ho ho ho.”
“Sailors are praying for a safe journey.”
“Throw a big boulder into their ship to give them something to worry about hahahaha”
They were enraged, a sword blade sliced at Hoenir’s neck. Mimir came back. The blade went right through him. Plop.
“Oh I’ve got his head, I better take it back.”
Mimir’s Head
Óðin cradled the head of the ancient one and sang sad ancient songs. He preserved the head in herbal balm and sang and sang.
A mumbled voice joined in. Mimir was back. Well just his head, his wise old head.
Odin Power
Óooooðin looked around at his great city of Asgard and his great and powerful gods. “I shall seek out magic. I will find ancient powers. I will gather great wisdom and knowledge. And then I truly will be a god. The greatest of all the gods. The All-Father God.”
Norse Gods and Goddesses Prose Poems – #32 Lay of Hymir
A stunning new approach to the myths the Vikings loved; enlightening and challenging for the novice and veteran alike.
The Gods and Goddesses of the Nordic Mythos Prose Poems were created following research for Gods Bless Ya!! Rock Opera with Alda and Sigrun Bjork Olafsdottir and a forth-coming book with SigRun Viking Art & Design.
Lay of Hymir
Celebrating, commiserating, unifying, wedding, blessing, mourning, peace-making, marking, recovering, suffering, winning, losing, drawing there are many reasons for drinking and drinking is a thing that they do, do gods. Being a God is a reason for drinking and there had been so many reasons as of lately. There was no drink now. This was a first for the gods, something new. Something not good at all to endure, especially if there might be a few hours of it. This was something to drink to commiserate in fact, if there had been any drink to be drinking with, but there wasn’t any; no ale, no wine, no porter, no mead, no nothing to be drinking with.
Thor was especially upset. Upset for the others he said, but he was definitely turning red; redder than to be expected even when drink-filled. This was anger, desperate anger and he had an idea. To go to Aegir who always had beer. All of the Gods would be following and then all of them would be getting together on his call and would be drinking, drinking. Tyr went with him.
They went to Aegir’s hall beneath Hlesey over by Rocking Oceans deep beneath they went and to Aegir they went.
The dipped blood of the small animal swiftly killed had splattered to send them here, rune-shine in moonshine had told them of Aegir.
We have food, food a plenty, they said, feasts of it, but with nothing to drink with it they choked on it, it all is so dry on the throat without ale with it. All the Gods know this.
These feasts they could bring to him. Share with him, all of the Gods.
He had sent all his beer and all of the Gods and the Goddesses together was quite a lot. Not to mention they drink a lot. What, could they brew it in? Nothing would hold enough, quick enough, big enough.
There was a look in the eye of the Thunder God that would cause all of a serpent hoard to quail and subside. Aegir had been eyed. The hammer was thrumming, the whetstone was sparking, the shackles were rising; Aegir nearly blinded.
Tyr had an idea, it was his turn now. For long ago far away father the giant Hymer he had a cauldron that brewed beer. It was the biggest thing a God could imagine and Gods could imagine quite well. It was miles deep, we shall fetch it. Well said Aegir now, if you fetch it I shall brew in it. This was expected and recollected as they went for it.
Far over lands and seas did they travel. Away to the east, beyond the stormy waves of the Elivagar; eleven rivers of oceans of rocking wild waters.
One-hand as they travelled explained that his father the giant grisly Hymir had a cauldron that would do the trick, five miles deep it was but we already knew that so conversation was limited until they were nearer.
At Egil’s farm the goats were left and at last in search of the Water Whirler they spied now a mountain stood close to the sea.
Tyr now had a warning to give of how they might meet his grandmother, she who had heads a plenty, really too many and even Thor might be wary of all nine hundred of her heads, this is what was said.
In they sped anyway and if Thor had a slight tremble it was best not to mention and there in the halls there were many a fine cauldron. Stairs could be heard thundering plenty soon the door would be opening. Nine-Hundred-Head would be biting them dead.
Backing up smartly the two gods were a tight knit party and they headed without looking right into a shelf unit. There were the cauldrons the myriad cauldrons, buckets and barrels and boilers and brew bins, every one of them massive and of the thickest strong clay. They all were gigantic and stacked up to the back roof.
All of them tumbled as the shelving gave way. One and by one by one by one by one on down, down fell each cauldron, smashing on the heads they hit as they tumbled on two Gods below them. Banging and crashing and cracking and damaging.
Nothing was left of this selection of brewing items, and little was left of the senses and sensibility of these two, groggy to say the least. Then down fell the last. This was the daddy of the lot of them, it fell right onto them.
This was the actual cauldron, the actual one, this is the reason they had gone and it had just fell upon. It really did cover them They were in to depths of the bottom of a cauldron five miles deep and they howled with an echo that reached, well, everywhere actually, it far reached.
Then. There were footsteps, this was the Grandmother, nearing the cauldron, they quaked at the thought and were looking for somewhere bigger to hide. She was lifting it, steadily lifting, she knew what was inside.
It wasn’t the grandmother, it was the mother, they were looking right at her. She only had one head, had rather beautiful features, with a skin more wonderful than the whitest of flowers. This pale lady she laughed sweetly and welcomed Thor here with quite honeyed words.
Thor was all of a tremor. All she wore was golden and she was all of a glimmer. Necklaces, jewellery were all she had on her.
Even better, she had beer. She filled for them over and over great golden goblets brimming with beer. Good beer.
Then Hymer came home. He was here from his hunting and carried many dead trophies, with icicles all down his beard and his eyes filled with mist.
She sat them quickly behind an oak pillar so to introduce them slowly. She announced of their son being here and named his friend here as Veur. Hymir stared at them baleful, glared at them firefully and as his ice beard was melting the prop that hid them was smouldering. Above it was another shelf and as it gave way more cauldrons fell. One by one they all smashed on Thor’s head.
How Hymir laughed and called for three oxen. Thor he ate two with lots of beer then they all slept.
As Thor has such an appetite it was felt they must hunt. Fishing was the wish of them and Hymir sent him for bait. Off came the head of the best bull of the lot of them; Heaven Springer died with a snap of his horns as Thor took him for a lure.
Veur/Thor rowed far and Hymir pulled in two whales, then was matched by the catching of the biggest sea-serpent the huge winged beast Jormungand. It was wrestled by the one so strong and then flew from his hands.
Once they had rowed back to land Thor took the boat in hand and also the great whales and dragging them with the boat by their huge tails he went in for breakfast.
If you are so strong my friend then take this glass goblet and let it be wrenched apart. Thor took it and threw it, it bounced off a stone pillar and fell perfect to the floor there. How Hymir laughed, then his wife whispered (for she had a soft spot for Thor) to let his head be the target. That smashed it, Hymir Hard-head was hit upon head by the goblet and the glass smashed upon it much to his anger.
What is mine is yours he said as the strength of him left him, the power of the glass thing was what had held him, it, broken now, drained him he had to give in.
He gifted his last mighty cauldron and with it the brewing words. Tyr went to pick it up and with all of his one-hand strength he managed to wobble it while Thor tried and swing it up over his shoulder to perch there and he wandered. They left there. Left Hymir with his anger.
He could not just let them he sent a whole army after them, every one of the many-headed, the men who were monsters, the Giants of Hymir.
Thor saw them all coming and set too with Mjolnir one by one topping them, hitting head after head so before they were even near him the lot of them were dead.
There is more to this story but let us just finish with, the Gods had a great party.
A stunning new approach to the myths the Vikings loved; enlightening and challenging for the novice and veteran alike.
The Gods and Goddesses of the Nordic Mythos Prose Poems were created following research for Gods Bless Ya!! Rock Opera with Alda and Sigrun Bjork Olafsdottir and a forth-coming book with SigRun Viking Art & Design.
Týr
Always God, never-changing North Star he who buys peace with a limb was all before and anew now. When worlds end remember his agonising hound-bitten death was for you. Thank Tyr for the beer barrel that made the party possible.
Of The Sky
Sky God, fostered of Óðin, born of giants; Tyr Hymirsson Óðinsson
Norse Gods and Goddesses Prose Poems – #30 Loki’s Monsters
A stunning new approach to the myths the Vikings loved; enlightening and challenging for the novice and veteran alike.
The Gods and Goddesses of the Nordic Mythos Prose Poems were created following research for Gods Bless Ya!! Rock Opera with Alda and Sigrun Bjork Olafsdottir and a forth-coming book with SigRun Viking Art & Design.
Loki’s Monsters
The shape changer god no longer knows what he is. The change of shapes so often, takes away the god-like sense of human-form, until a part of him is monstrous.
Even at his birth, when lightning took away his mother, he had to survive, he had to change. To hunt, to hide, to feed, to climb.
What monster in a god’s form entered Asgard?
He was embraced as blood-brother. Here he could be equal, and, he loved; his beloved wife and children, to them he was fair and loyal and true. Yet he felt the call to share his love, to fly away – He went with Giant-woman Angrboda. Went with her often. They had children.
If ‘children’ is what they were. A snake. A wolf. A half dead daughter. There wildness, there corruption, the danger of them spread as word to gods. They must be stopped.
Now. Jormungand the Midgardyrm is cast into the sea, to grow and fume and wait. The wolf they could not kill, they tricked it: tied it down to howl and wail and strain with magic dwarven ribbons holding him. The daughter; blackened half, commandingly beautiful in half; she was cast to the very deep.
“Become the queen of all the death, the cowardly dead, the trickster dead, the oath breaker. – Keep them, keep them.” So hollered High-seat god of all the worlds.
How Loki fumed. It turned his heart. They were not monstrous to him. They were his monsters. They were his offspring. See ahead how bitter are his deeds because of this. “My children! My monsters! My offspring!”
Norse Gods and Goddesses Prose Poems – #28 Loki’s Salmon
A stunning new approach to the myths the Vikings loved; enlightening and challenging for the novice and veteran alike.
The Gods and Goddesses of the Nordic Mythos Prose Poems were created following research for Gods Bless Ya!! Rock Opera with Alda and Sigrun Bjork Olafsdottir and a forth-coming book with SigRun Viking Art & Design.
Loki’s Salmon
Óðin tires of godly powers and wishes for adventure away from the pool that reflects the sun.
Loki suggests that they and Honir turn human and travel in Midgard.
The adventure goes well, Óðin enjoys walking along the banks of a river watching the birds diving for fish.
But then a belly ache like nothing he has ever felt before overcomes him. ”What is this terrible pain?”
“That,” Loki explains, “is hunger. I will hunt for us.
He spies a salmon leaping from the water. So he throws his spear. His aim is true, but as he throws an otter leaps from the bank.
The spear goes through both. How Loki laughs. How they all laugh. Two for the price of one throw. Loki makes a bag from the otter and Óðin picks up the massive salmon to eat. “No wait,” cries Loki, “it will be far better cooked.”
Just over the hill they can see smoke rising, so Loki says to climb. There is a cottage, so they knock at the door. The farmer Hreidmar was most welcoming, of course they would cook and share the salmon, and bring them bread and beer to accompany it. As they entered though he seemed to change, he whispered to his two sons and casting spells of weakening they three of them leapt upon their visitors. They took their magic items and bound the three of them upon the floor. “Why do this?!” cried Óðin.
I am a magician and every day I change the shape of one of my four children and as an Otter they go down to the river to catch us a salmon. So you have killed my son!
