Poems

Hyperborea: The Polar Seat

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My poem post for September is a meditation on the mystique of legendary Hyperborea. It comes from a similar sort of impulse as seen in my poem Et in Arcadia Ego, which I released on this blog a number of years ago. It could be described as a sort of Esoteric Traditionalism, and both poems are part of my branching out beyond Norse Mythology. Enjoy!

Hyperborea: The Polar Seat

Hail Polyhymnia! Of Hyperborea,
that celestial land that was lost ‘ere time,
inspire me to speak with spirited verse.
Beyond the North Wind is this noble land,
a holy realm that was hiding away
in the terra incognitae of times long gone,
but no such land is now remaining.
What might have been the main of its being
in the Golden Age when gods still ruled?
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Volcano

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In 2021, while still in the midst of the pandemic, a new volcano erupted in Iceland at Fagradallsfjall. Fortunately, this location was relatively out of the way, so it would not pose any immediate threat to people, property, or animals, but still close enough that it was easy to get to from the capital region. As a result, the volcano became quite a tourist attraction, at first among Icelanders, because travel hadn’t fully reopened yet. This made a great many people happy, as we all needed something fun and exciting in spring/summer 2021. I got out to see the volcano twice, and on my second trip, was fortunate to see its fire-geyser form relatively close, an opportunity that would not last, as the lava flows would eventually cut off that access point. Naturally, I wrote a poem about the volcano. It is simply titled “Volcano.” Please pardon the asterisks on certain words—I’m trying to keep the posts here relatively clean.

Volcano

Twas an empty land, only for grazing
and the occasional hike by a curious wander,
a beautiful valley of the barest acclaim.
But tremors abounded when the time was at hand,
as the hidden might of heat underground
steadily streamed, struggling to surface.
From far below this fire had surged:
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The Black Dog

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For the third Sunday of July, this month’s poetry post is a reflection on depression, by zoomorphizing it in the form a popular metaphor for it, the black dog.

The Black Dog

A poem now I compose this time
on that darkest haze, a draining of color
from my view of the world, the vigor-killer
that’s called depression. It’s a constant pet
that I can’t be rid of, though it can be leashed,
and sometimes it sleeps. He said it best,
that war leader, Sir Winston Churchill,
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The Yew

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Hail all! For the third Sunday of June, I have another poem for you. It’s about my other favorite tree, the Yew (Taxus baccata). With it, there’s a picture of some yew trees from Ireland, which I took when I visited there on a research trip in 2019.

Enjoy!

The Yew

The Tree of Trees for triumph I praise,
that fimbul rood and focus of Spirit
a gift of the Gods for the gain of Midgard.
A lustrous light, it is life in death
when cold and snow surround our ken.
For the noble Norse and numerous others,
it is majesty, main, and myth-saturated;
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Black Walnut

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Hail all! For the third Sunday of May, I have another poem for you. It’s about one of my two favorite trees, the eastern American Black Walnut (Juglans nigra). With it, there’s a picture of a local tree at the end, from last summer.

Enjoy!

Black Walnut

A mighty tree, an American treasure,
is Juglans nigra, the Union’s walnut.
Warm, humid air with welcome sunshine
favors its growth in a fine summer.
‘Tis green everywhere: green are the leaves,
green the flowers and green the fruits.
The inside is sealed by a silver-gray bark;
placed underneath, with pungent scent
is a staining substance — a strong essence —
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A Skaldic Eagle in the World

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Welcome, Seekers, to a new phase of activity for this blog, and here is my first poem for you all. This is the Skaldic Eagle’s poem about his mission in the world, and so I felt it the most appropriate one for this relaunch, since it is a sequel to my earlier poem, “A Skaldic Eagle Takes Flight,” which launched a previous phase of this blog back in early 2017. If you haven’t already done so, you may wish to read that precursor poem, either before or after this one. Enjoy!

A Skaldic Eagle must offer his Mead,
must give his gifts, for gain to the World;
the Work is imperative, a wode-filled impulse.
But defending the Center ‘gainst foes and shadows
—that its sacred light illumines unimpeded
a world of darkness—is a woesome task.
And even an eagle must often land,
and life on the ground can get one down,
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The Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus

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The truth, sans untruth, most true and certain:
As below thus above, as above thus below,
these make when unified the miracles of the One.
All things are One, and all things, by Work
and Rework of the One, from the One they come.
’Tis sired and mothered by Sun and Moon,
waxed in Wind’s womb, and wet-nursed by Earth.
All the world’s works of wonder it causes;
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Call to the “Rosicrucians”

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Of the “Rosicrucians” and their curious runes,
I speak now in verse, but must name them clearly:
the mysterious original, started in Europe
in the seventeenth century, a secret Order,
is the group at hand, not what goes after.
They’ve a curious venue, an Invisible College,
a brick building with budding wings
for soaring upwards to seek for Spirit
and a base with wheels, a benefit to a guild
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Beautiful Darknesses

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In the Grail legend’s greatest telling,
chastity is not a needed choice.
The Lord of the Grail is allowed a woman,
whose name appears in numinous script,
in flames on its surface. Unfree he is
to have another. (Now, try he can,
but that course of action does not climax well.)
I quest for the Grail, that quickening hallow,
but by binding myself to that boldest endeavor,
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