archives, poetry

Do You Not Wish to Enter Your Dark Forest? {poetry}


To those in seeking. To those who have faltered, yet stayed resilient. To those who let their ebbs of heart guide them.

To those who notice the gentle dispatch of a petal, at its time, from its stem into the wind. An inner seeking and a yielding. A tremendous longing and praying upheld in action. A commonality, thread, through the heart to the rest.

To those who undergo and overcome, who have drunk of their pain, scaled and become strong, only to fall wonderfully back to their former grace. Sweet and tender, strong and all-seeing. For those who, like Odin, for seven days hung from the Tree of Life, and have a void left in place of an eye: the price of knowledge, the bravery of truth: a sacrifice for a greater gaining.

To those who uphold love like a burning city in the breast. To the dark uncrept corners of an unresigned mind. To the canker in the heart of the rose. The glee of unfolding, becoming. Faith in the eventual bounty of a self expressed. Those resigned to an upholding sense of faith, a predetermined will to existence:

Leap over the precipice with a breath and an exalting cry… of anguish and of hope.


Enter the forest where it is darkest for you.
Do you not wish to unearth what is at the depth?
Hands through the swampy waters of dissolution,
Does what is there not interest you?
Do you not wonder how it looks in the light,
Birthed in rage and blood, chaos and carnage?
That glimpse of crocodile tail which whips dark and trepid?
Was it mother’s terror?
Wish you not to bathe it, to feed it?
Sitting by the fire, listening as it speaks in a low and somber voice?
Wish you not for the bravery and for the humility
To look in the eye of it and know that you had a hand in its making
as you pass over another piece of bread and your fingers meet?
Wish you not to quell the mass of tears that sit in your heart,
Have them lap at the banks,
Rush over freely as a river should?
Do you not wish to raise your arms to the sun
Yell all your discrepancies?
Do you not have bones to pick and wounds to lick?
And death — do you not wish to rip its veil aside and have your questions heard?
Some semblance of conversation with that which laps at your heels?
Do you not wish to throw dirt and sand in its eyes, to spit and to shake?
For it remains unmoved, to watch as you realize,
crumbling under the weight,
and know your efforts are innumerable, futile.
Wish you not to celebrate it?
To be purified, baptized by your own most sacred pains
Having made a halo with bloody hands?
And so on the floor of your own soul, you begin to answer your own questions,
and the child in you stirs.
From there, your first real breath emanates.
Finally, with heaven and hell in waiting, you say: “Okay.”


Nynne Nielsen is a writer and shamanic apprentice. If you would like, you can follow her on Instagram.


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