I carve the dusk with broken nails
I claw at lack of light, I cry
between my death and fever dreams
with soil in soul and ash to blaze
in embers of regrets, I wake
entangled in my bed-sheets-shroud,
November comes, my bed, my grave
to sounds of shovels as
my mouth is filling up with sand.
From deeper shadows shines
the charcoal cinder of her lidless eyes
November reeks of mud and rot,
still, I am forced inside her grasp.
Today I host dVerse live at 8 PM CET (3 PM EST) and we will be live and read our poem to the open mic,
October 29, 2020
Björn Rudbergs writings 
How captivating and dark this piece is. It’s extremely well written with such brilliant descriptions to describe a passion or love as dark as this. It also fits Halloween as well. Amazing writing!
I know that feeling: November is full of squid-ink blackness for me!
I love the sounds in the opening lines, Björn, and the overall darkness of the atmosphere, especially in the lines:
‘in embers of regrets, I wake
entangled in my bed-sheets-shroud’
and
‘November reeks of mud and rot,
still, I am forced inside her grasp.’
The nightmarish imagery of being buried alive, being overpowered, clawing at lack of light, adds to the madness of this “November love.”
I love the two levels of this poem–and a perfect description of November. Late November here always seems so dark and dreary. I enjoyed hearing you read this!
Love this especially; “I claw at lack of light, I cry between my death and fever dreams with soil in soul and ash to blaze in embers of regrets.” Deliciously dark and just perfect for November! It was a pleasure co-hosting with you today 💝
Hearing you read this aloud added an extra level of depth to the darkness, Bjorn. Thank you for hosting!
This just blew me away when I read it, then it stomped all over me when I heard you read it and, now — reading it again — I am seriously scattered to ash. Thank you “bigly”, as our Pumpkinhead Of State” would say.
Old November seems a hoary beast, and your poem nails the lid on it. Most of us don’t appreciate the extent and depth of Swedish winter darkness.
A truly scary scenario her.e for sure! Covid Nightmares reign in November with no way around… only through.
even our winter is never this dark, it resonates with many!
Nightmarish and claustrophobic, the inability to evade it makes it worse. I like the bright room you were in today. Maybe trick your mind into believing it is sunlight coming in the window.
Darkness closing in without escape. I especially like,
‘November reeks of mud and rot,
still, I am forced inside her grasp.’
Carving the dusk with broken nails …. an opening that kept me rivetted and looking for more depth in the rest of the poem.
Reblogged this on Reena Saxena.
The coming of winter can seem just like this–along sleep, a slow death. (K)
Oof, that is heavy with the weight of six feet of soil
Loved hearing you read this dark November poem. “bed-sheets shroud” oh dear. That paints a grim picture for sure!
November has never felt so dark …. bravo Bjorn.
Ooo! Very halloweeny! Nice imagery!
Pat
Ooo! Very halloweeny! Nice imagery!
Pat
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You make dark beautiful.
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