Der Berserker der See

Ein Donnern von den Klippen her,
aufgewühlt ist heut das Meer.
Weit draußen kämpft ein Schiff mit hohen Wellen,
während Blitze aus den Wolken schnellen.
Das Wasser, das schlägt über Board
und trägt Männer der Besatzung fort.
Was hat die Asen so erbost,
dass der Ozean schäumt und tobt?

Und am Ruder steht ein Mann,
den man kaum beschreiben kann.
Groß und wild, berserkergleich,
viele Narben zählt sein Fleisch.
Er trotzt den Göttern nach wie vor,
für ihren Groll hat er kein Ohr.
Er stellt sich stets ihrer Wut,
erfüllt mit Grimm und Kampfesmut.

Fest hält er das Ruder in der Hand,
sein Ziel, das ist Haithabus Strand.
Da erfassen wilde Wogen den Knorr
und ein Blitz stößt aus dem Himmel hervor.
Getroffen bricht der Mast in zwei,
zerbarst durch des Thors Raserei.
Und während die Besatzung durcheinander rennt,
sich der Berserker nicht vom Ruder trennt.

Da eilen die Töchter der Ran heran
und überspülen Schiff und Mann.
Der Berserker hält das Ruder noch,
klafft auch im Schiff ein großes Loch.
Eine Sturmflut steigt empor
und treibt gen Klippen wohl den Knorr.
Da, ein Blitz, leuchtend grell!
Und am Fels das Schiff zerschellt.

Die Sonne kommt von Osten her,
rot wie Blut leuchtet das Meer.
Und dort, am weißen Ostseestrand,
liegt der Berserker im Sand.
Und da, dank seinem scharfen Sinne,
hält er noch ein Stück Ruderpinne.
Und traf ihn auch des Blitzes Schuss,
er hielt das Ruder bis zum Schluss.

Thank you very much.

It's really great. The rhymes are well done, I couldn't have done it better.

The story to this poem: On one winter day in year 2007 I was bored. I was made a education to Medical documentation assistent. It was the second lesson on this day, English or German (i don´t know) and I looked out off the window. From our education school we had a very nice view.I saw the snowy meadows of a neighbor village near my hometown and suddenly I remembered this poem:


Winterheld


Der Schnee fällt leise,
bedeckt Wiesen und Wald;
bedeckt den blutbefleckten Boden
mit einem weißen Kleid.

Blutend aber schmerzlos
steht der Held
auf dem Schlachtenfeld,
um ihn Tod und Leid.

Noch einmal spürt er
den Winter kalt auf seiner Haut,
sein Herz erfüllt mit Freude,
so zieht er in den Streit.

Der Schnee ist sein Totenbett,
blutverschmiert
wartet er auf den Kuss einer Walküre,
für Walhalla wohl bereit.

Der Winter wählt seine Helden aus,
macht Männer zu Kriegern.
Und die Skalden, die singen und dichten
vom Kämpfer auf der weißen Heid.

© Freydis Nehelenia Rainersdottir

For all the brothers and sisters who can´t read German:


Winter hero

The snow falls quietly
covering meadows and forests;
covering the bloodstained ground
with a white dress.

Bleeding, but painless
is the hero
on the battlefield,
him to death and suffering.

Once he feels
the winter cold on his skin,
His heart filled with joy,
as he pulls into the fray.

The snow is his deathbed,
bloody
He awaits the kiss of a Valkyrie
Walhalla quite prepared for.
The winter chooses his heroes,
turns men to warriors.
The skalds are singing and versing
about the fighter on the white meadow.

Sorry when I made mistakes in translation.The last time I had english in school was ago about a year.

Greetings,Freydis

Quoted from "pookiebear"

i have a question are we allowed to make up our own story line

You are invited to do so!

Hello! This is the first chapter of a book I'm working on. It's a mixture of history and the fantastic; hope you enjoy it.


Gunnar Thorsson's restless eye roved from one bearded, mead-slick face to another. Disgust smoldered in the red-rimmed orb of glacial blue. The gaping socket of its missing mate was black and grim. Gunnar refused to cover the gruesome reminder of his days upon the battlefield.

Though he was well past his prime, knots of hardened sinew clung stubbornly to the aging sea-wolf's bones. A luxuriant mane of coppery red, shot through with frosty silver, spilled in an unkempt wave across his shoulders, and a thick beard fell in braided ropes to his breast, framing a cruel, thin-lipped mouth.

Puckered scars criss-crossed his once-mighty arms, and the jagged scar across his cheek pulled Gunnar's lips into a perpetual scowl. The expression fit his mood. Before him was the cream of Danish manhood. Warriors, reavers, sons of the north. The sight of his hearth-mates swilling mead and bellowing raucous songs should have warmed old Thorsson's heart, but it left him cold.

The wolf-skin draped across his shoulders stifled him. Gunnar shoved it aside; a low growl rumbled to life in his cavernous chest. Heavy rings of gold and silver glittered upon the softened arms of his fighting men, and thick torcs squeezed their bulging necks. Few retained their sword-belts. A mound of discarded blades rusted in a heap near the door.

They were fat-bellied and jowly, their scars faded and their memories of slaughter and bloodletting dimmed. Booty from expeditions long past was heaped in gleaming mounds on all sides. Hybernian silver spilled from a gilded chest inscribed with Roman letters. A horse-crested helm from the effeminate Greeks held court atop a jumble of eastern silks, finely-wrought mail, and ingots of tarnished bronze. The ransom of ten kings lay at his feet, yet Gunnar Thorsson was not satisfied.

"Fools!" he thundered. Instantly, the revelers fell silent. "Mead-bellied fishwives who only stir from my hall to sire bastards on my thralls!" Thorsson shoved himself upright. His joints protested with an audible crackle.

"I remember a time when these walls trembled at the thunder of a hundred voices raised in a mighty hail to one-eyed Odin, to Red Thor, to the crimson stains upon our blades." He glared at each man in turn, canvassing the room to pierce each bleary, glazed stare with his single eye. "A time when sea-wolves howled at the benches, when men offered gifts of mail and helms of strong iron, when our war-gear shone more brightly than any treasure of silver and gold."

Men fidgeted under his icy stare, unable to hold their king's gaze. They looked at the floor, at the rough-hewn walls hung thick with plundered tapestries, or at the buxom wenches sprawled across their legs...at anything but the white-hot rage blazing in Gunnar Thorsson's piercing eye.

"Roman wine, British women, and Persian gold have sapped our manhood." He sank into his high-backed throne, staring at his weathered hands. They trembled, not with the strength of his anger, but with the inexorable advance of time. Age crept stealthily upon him, and the tide of his reign was ebbing away.

"I can no longer swing the axe or raise my shield." He paused, gulping in a deep breath. "Fifty winters have I ruled the wolves of the Dane-Mark. Fifty years of pillage and fine gifts, voyages and endless feasts. Fifty years since I tore the crown from the bloodied hands of Arik Snorisson."

Gunnar subsided into an uneasy silence. He sat perfectly still for so long that several of the men wondered if his spirit had departed for the gates of Valhalla. "The old bear's finally gone mad," a voice muttered. "Lost his mind, he has," another whispered.

Heedless of their accusations, Gunnar shook his maned head like a weary lion, defeated by the passage of time but still unbowed, unbroken. "I will not die like this," he sighed, gazing once more into the crowd of listless revelers. "I won't breathe my last in this den of fools and whores." His voice had emptied of its anger, and for the first time he sounded hollow, empty...and old.

During his long wandering, in a starless night, Thor fell into a deep sleep. When he opened his eyes he found himself absorbed in the darkness but he could see a female figure coming towards him, from the distance. There was no light but he was able to distinguish her perfectly.
Thor looked for his mighty hammer but was not there with him.

Thus spake the woman to the god of thunder:

"You will not need your powerful weapon here, Thor, son of Odin, because there is nothing material that you can destroy!";
"Am I in a dream? Who are you?";
"Skuld is my name and I'm here to tell you a truth!";
"You can not be Skuld, the Norns never reveal themselves!"
"Not as Norn I stay here in your dream, look..."
Under the feet of the god strange visions began to appear: Four men in front of a large crowd. Ten thousand warriors with twenty thousand fists up in the air.

"What is this vision?"
"You're watching a reality long way off from our own, an era in which ships can sail across the heavens and wagons will go ahead without horses!"
"Who are those four leaders? I do not recognize any of their weapons!"
"They call themselfs Immortals and is the truest of the truth!"
"What is the reason for this vision?"
"I wanted to show those who will inherit your spirit, if your journey will have the right conclusion!"
Before Thor could reply, Skuld disappeared and he awoke from the dream. He tried to remember what he had dreamed but memories escaped and the more he struggled the more his mind seemed to betray him.

Then, he resumed his journey but from that day a strange force lurks in the soul of Thor; a force created by the unconscious certainty that his deeds would be served to the birth of a new generation of warriors.







Please, feel free to correct errors, because my English is not very good .

Thanks Lady, I'm stuck working 6 days a week this month so the writing is slow going and I'm eager to finish this up. Hopefully chapter 7 will be done and posted by midweek.

No matter how many chapters are left - I'll read them all!

If you like that's what they are there for but I would prefer that anyone who uses people I've created wait until my story is over and there's about 4 chapters left to it that remain unwritten.