My grandfather, Fridolf Kihlman, died before I was born. But the sea he wrote from has always felt close to me.
He loved writing about his beloved island Käringön, where he grew up — the currents, the kelp, the boats, the weather. For a long time, though, I didn’t really know his work. It wasn’t until my father and my aunt gathered his poems and published them that I could truly read them and appreciate what he was doing on the page — years before I started writing poetry myself. Reading him felt like finding a voice already threaded through the family.
Below are two short excerpts from his poem “Bö’n i hamna” (“Prayer in the Harbour”)—first in Swedish, then in my English translations —followed by two of my own poems that echo the same shoreline pull: how the sea calls, carries, and holds.
Bö’n i hamna
Fjättrad jag ligger kvar
strömmarna går
smeker, vänslas och drar
bruntångat hår.
Blinkar, lockar och ler.
Sorlande mängder ber:
”Lämna din urtidsgrund
– uppbrottets stund”!
Prayer in the Harbour
Bound, I remain here,
while the currents go—
stroking, coaxing, and tugging
at brown-kelp hair.
They blink, they beckon, they smile.
Murmuring multitudes plead:
“Leave your ancient ground—
it’s time to break away.”
There’s something I love about this voice: the sea isn’t background. It’s insistence. It persuades. It asks for movement.
Borne of Summer Tides
I am borne of summer tides,
drifting out to sea
on foam-laced waves,
carried by the stream.
The water whispers lullabies,
humming soft against my ears,
calling me back
with tide’s soft breath.
The wind and salt melt into my skin.
I am one with the ocean,
where kelp forests sing and sway.
His excerpt is all pull—the island urging departure. “Borne of Summer Tides” is my response: surrendering to that same tide-breath and return.
Bö’n i hamna
Ensam vid skymningsstund
Sentida han
Sitter på urtidsgrund
tinningsgrå man.
Solfallets skymningsflor
Snart sina slöjor snor
tankar och drömmar mång
– nynnar sin sång.
Prayer in the Harbour (continued)
Alone at twilight,
a man of later days
sits on ancient ground—
grey at the temples.
The dusk-veil of sunset
soon gathers its scarves,
stealing thought after thought,
dream after dream—
humming its song.
This one feels quieter to me—less undertow, more evening. Less pull, more listening.
The Current’s Arms
Let’s go down to the water
when the tide climbs high.
I’ll dive before you—
just follow me.
Let the current wrap her arms
around your body once more.
Rest in the foam of the waves
and the sound of my voice.
I’ll carry you to shore
as the day slips away.
In his poem, evening gathers its veils and hums its song. In mine, the current holds the body in the same softened light.
I don’t know how much of our writing comes from blood, and how much comes from place. But I do know this: there are landscapes that live in a family, even when you’ve never met the people who first named them.
If you’d like to share—do you have a place that feels inherited? A shoreline, a street, a kitchen, a forest that carries more than just your own memories?
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