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Martin Boško Apr 22
Odin’s coming, his hand on his spear
The sight of Gungnir strikes dark elves with fear
High on his saddle on his eight-legged horse
Sleipnir radiates primeval force
Burdened with knowledge, he travels the land
Patiently waiting to see the world’s end
Tonight I drank from the well of Mímir
Saw where we started, Auðumbla, Ymir
I watched the Ash tree grow tall and strong
I saw it all, the right and the wrong

I saw Fenrir, bounded, subdued
I heard the last crackle and looked as he moved
Loki's last scream, the poison's last drop
I saw it all, I saw the Ragnarök!
Yaoyan Oct 2020
On the branches of the great Ash tree,
He hangs upside down
Over the pond of reflection.

“I sacrifice my eye to me,
Allow me to see those that I can change
And those that I cannot;
The deepest corners of the heart
And the universe it flows in-
Grant me Wisdom beyond Sight.”

And he hangs for 9 days and 9 nights-
Not dead for death has not been born.
(There is no death without time and no time when the world is stagnant)

Waters swirl up and engulf him / he slowly dips his head in.

The sacrifice has been received.
A God is born (not created, not made)

The branches of Yggdrasil sing.
Movement, vibrations,
The stars and the moon start to spin,
Welcoming inspiration.
Liz Rossi Mar 2020
black eye no eye three eyes,
do you hear the ravens?
you measure yourself in summers;
lie down and let the snows fall,
cut-glass pines and grey sky
and the path scarring up
into the clouds.

these are the winters we wait for,
these are the winters that claim us.
close your eyes and fill your lungs
with snow and ice
and snow and ice.
When in the spring I began to walk, I encountered you, O Dellingr;
You, who was quiet, and tranquil, and who lifted the sun just above
          the lake
That sparkled with your light’s reflection. O Dellingr! I met you in
          the spring
And parted with you in the winter cold, and oh how I’ve missed
I have longed to meet you again at the lakeside where I sat
And was soothed by the birdsong
And looked upon the shining waters
And became enraptured by the love I felt in my own heart
Before you gave Dagr his reins and sent him to his mother.
O gentle god, O light reborn, O third lover and day-maker,
Will you sit with me again?
Here at the lakeside,
Will you fill my lungs with “I love you”s
And caress my cheek with your most calming breeze?
O dayspring, O Dellingr, please enchant me here,
And over and over,
And when I fall from the sight of this world, let me fall upon a
          lakeside knoll
And sit with you again.
This poem is written to praise the Norse/Germanic god known as Dellingr.
I have built with broken bones,
I have bent what simply breaks.
Skin to center, I have forged myself from steel.
And steel may melt and coil and collapse,
But I have befriended the dawn, the day, the dusk;
The flames of Sól are the feathers of my wings
And my courage frightens fear,
And my words give form to force,
And now the phantasms of every wish I have kept are given flesh.
Witness my rise, and if I seem to fall, watch me closer; my flight is far
          from finished.
This poem is written in "Galdralag" (lit. "the meter of magic spells), which harkens back to the cultural magic of the Ancient Germanic and Norse peoples. This is part of my poetry series called "Galdrbook."
My form obeys my wants,
My mind obeys my will.
Hear me now and listen, my steeling soul.
I see my destination;
A path, I design.
For this task, my own strength will suffice.
Within my chest, my lungs strain and struggle,
But they breathe the air in the highest, thinnest skies—they struggle,
          and I grow stronger.
This poem is written in "Galdralag" (lit. "the meter of magic spells), which harkens back to the cultural magic of the Ancient Germanic and Norse peoples. This is part of my poetry series called "Galdrbook."
Windborne boat, you now will sink
When you hear my baneful song
Calling storm and squall.
Rains will pour and flood your decks,
Your passengers the sea will drive
Betwixt its teeming teeth.
Bones the sea will take into
Its watery sands, and there it shall make tombs that time forgets.
This poem is written in "Galdralag" (lit. "the meter of magic spells), which harkens back to the cultural magic of the Ancient Germanic and Norse peoples. This is an example poem in my work in progress text on Germanic word magic in general, but here, it will be part of the series called "Galdrbook."

Being alive is terrible, diabolical,
fraught w/ peril at every level.
From dreaming dreamy dreams we're torn,
from moment you're cockcrowbarred outta bed,
a thousand natural shocks ahead.
Accidents predate, can’t wait to happen.

Life is death eager to ambush,
& you’re ever a danger to yourself, moosh
(coz two indifferences one death errant equal:
subconscious suicide, senseless synchronicity
is crazy paving gazing nodding off to self-pity,
plus juggernaut’s shortcut down your sac-de-cul).

Lovers leave, knockers sag, ***** flop.
There is no God but there are Acts of God.
Taps leak, archdukes are assassinated
& your kids will surely ****** off their bikes.
No Dharma rama will get you Buddhalike
as fast as full Englishes & being overmedicated.

Eggs, Ming vases smash. Hearts, backs break.
Souls will be lost & knees will be scraped.
Suicides succeed, suicide attempts fail,
parasuicides fluke it. Souffles go ’phut’ & stay flat.
Milk is spilt; firemen & soldiers don’t come back.
Reconciliation letters get lost in the mail.

Everything is terrible, diabolical,
round all four corners Jormungand coils.
The just get gypped, cold cases stay paperclipped.
Loved ones die violently, prematurely, needlessly & still
the autocannibal universe will expand until
the photon/off switch trips
a trillion suns into damb squips.

All that Hitchhiker’s hokum I learned as a manchild
isn‘t true: life is not 42 , it’s horsemeat & paedophiles!
Horsemeat banquets in horsemeat houses on horsemeat
                                                       ­              streets
paedo horsemeatstreetsweepers sweep. On their Nokias,
paedestrians browse Wikipaedo, realise the Cabinet
are cyborgs of horsemeat reconsitituted, drone-piloted
                                         by the Paedo Mafia.

Everything is wicked, despicable...
Yet  tho' we must swallow a distinct absence  
                                                            of molehills,
sanity's a cockroach of coping, peace of mind  
a bodge-job-gened mutant, hope a robust rodent. Love ‘s
a scavenger’s salvageable sentiment. Conscience like Keef
                                                        ­        Richards
can beat the odds, tho’ standards drop like the Stupid 27 Club.

Whether Winnie well wet-whistled on the wireless,
or Bob Marley wafting from a neighbour’s place,
a rugged rugrat’s redfaced noise in quake rubble alive,
or a once-upon-a-snowy-Easter boulder rolled to one side:
somehow somewhere someone’s mind will survive,
something somewhere will always be alright.

It might just as well be you
for a second or two.
Now shut the Hell out
& shut the hell up,
little ones. Sleep tight.

— The End —