Category Archives: Poetry

Enough

I sit in class and listen to my professor
a kind, erudite, and educated man
call my gods ‘stupid’.

To the south a man lays down his life
when Christians demand he desecrate his shrines.

I sit in classes and argue with seminarians
who tell me polytheists never had theology

And in Syria a girl is raped and stoned
Because her brother discovered she was pious
but not to Allah.

How much theology does one need?

I listen to you shame our philosophers
by damning them to atheism,
by denying the piety embedded in their every word.

And your cousins in the desert
Destroy polytheistic tribes,
Selling their women to slavery.

I pick up the pieces in those of your flock
Who have found no solace beneath your shepherd’s rod.
I dry their tears, salve their wounds and lead them back,
to a better way, the way their ancestors knew
before you came. I clean up the infection.

It is enough to make me wish to burn down your world.
It is enough to make me yearn for the edifices of your certainty
To be savaged to dust.

Enough.

Your faith is a butchery.
Your religion is a lie.
(If you could count, you’d know this).

MY people invented theology.
Our sacred tales and the weavings of poets
Inspired by Gods and muses alike
Laid the foundations for the world
That you later stole.

We saw no need to tear down your shrines.
We saw no need to anathematize your God.
But we should have.
Rome should have been more diligent
And then maybe we would have been spared
The plague that you and your children have become.

The Pagans in Lyon knew the truth.
So did the Saxons generations later.
We see you clearly for what you are.
One day, we will see you turn to ash
And we’ll salt the earth in your passing.

Enough.

 

 

(by G. Krasskova)

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For Apollon

I want to write for You
the kind of poems
where the words burn,
dancing through synapses,
flickering over eyes,
igniting on the tongue,
where they sizzle and crackle in the mind
like a bonfire,
blazing and blistering through consciousness
until one emerges transformed.
I want to capture some of the sense
of terror and danger, ecstasy and
aching, desperate hunger
that You evoke whenever You are
even faintly near,
the way my belly lurches with anticipation
and breath suddenly seems so very hard to gain.
I want to capture something
of the simmering burn
I can all but taste
in Your presence.

If words were enough though
our hearts would never know
what it is like to unfold,
like a fragile sometimes ragged blossom
trembling and terrified
longing too
in the Presence of a God.

No brighter thing in my darkness,
Hekatos, Paian than You,
and the cry of Your name,
head thrown back
world awash in white fire
restores.

(by G. Krasskova)

People Forget…

People forget,
When they paint their nails
And gush about how sweet He is
And how He looks like that movie star
(you know the one)
how He soothes their egos
telling them
what pretty little snowflakes they are

that He stood with His brothers in that gasping gap
and slaughtered his own ancestor,
a sleeping giant who never did harm to anyone
(never did any good either, or so I’m told).

People forget
(tumblr makes forgetting easy)
that this is a God who rolled up His sleeves
whet the point of His spear,
took an ax
with forty whacks,
helped hack old Ymir up.

He split that oafish bastard’s skull
And sucked the marrow from His bones

and went about the bloody work
of making the worlds run.

When He was done,
He licked that ancestral blood from his lips
With a hearty smack.

People forget that.

They forget to Whom He is bound–
One –Eye bloods Himself for no one…
Save One as ruthless as He.

But Loki is pretty
And can be tender
And seduction is …
an entertaining pastime.
People forget

Gods wear masks.
It’s only when They remove them
That true devotion starts.

In terror and blood
In awe and trembling

Ecstasy is a crawling spider
Pouring wyrd from its ass
With glittering emerald eyes.

Tattered mask held in its claws.

People forget
Glamour is a game
Especially for this God
This Poison Eater

And one day
He might just show you
All those things You forgot
While buying tickets
To the next Marvel show
Or Spielberg wonder,
And gushing over
How beautiful He is.

Beauty is as beauty does
And Loki’s beauty
Is like a poisoned ax.
It glitters and cuts
And sears and burns
And through it all
He laughs.

Such laughter.
I’d murder my own ancestor
To hear its cadence.

(but you won’t see me posting about it
on tumblr).

 

 

(by G. Krasskova)

commedia dell’arte

Love is a strange thing.
I throw myself into them,
these spirits so fierce,
their presence so strong,
and they catch me
and lift me up with their song.

I fall in love with voices I cannot hear.
I ache for these men
who served that Muse far better than I.
Through that longing,
I see their world.
When I cannot touch them
pieces of my heart flutter away
like snow.

*************

Be sure to check out my other sites:

Wyrd Curiosities at Etsy

My academia.edu page

My amazon author page.

Walking the Worlds Journal

My art blog at Krasskova Creations

My blog about all things strange, weird and medieval.

And if you like what you see, consider becoming a sponsor at Patreon.

One More For the Road

Coda

“Nobody sings as purely as those in deepest hell.
What we take for the song of angels is their song.”

Kafka wrote that a century or so ago. He was right;
but what he missed, or perhaps knew but did not say,
is that only holds true for those who willingly
sacrifice their souls to the Work.
We are fighting Uncreation.
There is no room for sentiment.

*************

Be sure to check out my other sites:

Wyrd Curiosities at Etsy

My academia.edu page

My amazon author page.

Walking the Worlds Journal

My art blog at Krasskova Creations

My blog about all things strange, weird and medieval.

And if you like what you see, consider becoming a sponsor at Patreon.

More for the Beast

ἀβίωτος

He never returns us whole,
that daimon,
when one has fostered in service to him,
when one has broken in service to him.
We’ve seen too much.
We’ve walked in too many worlds.
He never spits us back out into this world whole.
Half a soul
Half a heart
A broken body
And too little humanity to count
or too much.
Just like too much was burned up
or not enough.
And all the rest of one’s life is spent longing
For that searing fire
that purifies beyond purification
that renders beyond rendering
that makes us perfect conduits
for perfect fire
and bones too hollow
for even a hint of humanity
to remain.
.
It is our humanity that does us in, every time.
Mediocrity consubstantiated.

This world seems so much shit and ash.
It is so hard to find transcendence here.
But there is this
and it is sometimes no small thing:
that desolation of being spat out
the revelation of one’s own lack
might just fix the soul for other spirits.
They all seem so very kind after all,
post one’s artistic manumission.
What’s a God or Two running through one’s head
when one has served a daimon who does not play at pain?
What unaccustomed freedom.
What fine, dark joy.
What revelation.
It is still not enough.
But it will do.

A Dancer’s Manifesto, 1986

If you don’t bleed
You’re not working hard enough.

If your body does not scream in pain
You have done nothing.

Smile too while you’re at it.

If you yield,
You are weak.

Up again.
There’s life left in you yet.

One, two, three
Let’s see the bloody tracks marking those steps.
Let’s see that floor dyed red.

Labanotation, bitches.

Get up and move.

Seek pain and it will guide you.
It will tell you what is true.
There’s no bull shit there.
Bleed.

You will never be enough.
That daimon is always hungry for more.
Marsyas got off easy.

Foot2

*************

Be sure to check out my other sites:

Wyrd Curiosities at Etsy

My academia.edu page

My amazon author page.

Walking the Worlds Journal

My art blog at Krasskova Creations

My blog about all things strange, weird and medieval.

And if you like what you see, consider becoming a sponsor at Patreon.

When One Hasn’t Slept for 9 Days, Some Choices Seem Rather Logy

When you’re standing at the Tree
and Odin says, “Come with me.”
Well, you have a choice to make, Son.

And it’s the choice upon which
the slaughtered remains
of all your other choices will rest
now and forever. Amen.

When you’re standing at the Tree
and Odin says, “Come with me,”
you may think you’re already too late,
with nothing left to lose
what the hell…

but you will learn
as He did learn
that there is always more.

More.

A virus in the blood:
MORE.
Grist between the teeth:
MORE.
The taste of blood on the tongue:
Always MORE.

The holes left in a soulskin
stretched wyrd and wide
Dyed with the heart’s ochre—
they let the spirits in
don’t ya know?
Not all of them leave.
Remember that, Son,
when that question comes
and then think of this
after the Tree…
if there is an after:

All that red…
touch tongue to lips
breathe.
Scream.
Listen to the heartbeats
Scent that fear in the air
You’re one of the monsters now
and it’s glorious.

The Hunt rides.
Across your bones,
But it rides.

*************

Be sure to check out my other sites:

Wyrd Curiosities at Etsy

My academia.edu page

My amazon author page.

Walking the Worlds Journal

My art blog at Krasskova Creations

My blog about all things strange, weird and medieval.

And if you like what you see, consider becoming a sponsor at Patreon.

Troy

Every war is Troy
Every soldier Achilles
Sliding on bloody entrails
Into the clutching arms
Of Fate.

Those old graves stir
Again and again and again
Funeral orations die on the tongue
And turn instead
To ragged cries
Hungry birds circle,
Worms rejoice
In fields clotted
With corpses
Dotted with diamonds
Of steel.

Every man is Achilles.
When the moment comes in battle
He finds whether it is Hektor
Or Paris
With whom he fights.
And his shield the bloody cost of war

Whispering drone of gasping voices
Hungry for us to fill the trench
The witch marked out
Told us what to do
To call the dead
Better than any rifle shot
Better than any armistice.
Hecatombs
And still the buried bodies lie.

Every battlefield
Every war
Is Troy.

It echoes in the bones of the soul
Knit into the screams
Of men who think
They can go home
Again.

A spear in the head
A bullet in the gut

Every war is Troy.

*********

Be sure to check out my other sites:

Wyrd Curiosities at Etsy

My academia.edu page

My amazon author page.

Walking the Worlds Journal

My art blog at Krasskova Creations

My blog about all things strange, weird and medieval.

And if you like what you see, consider becoming a sponsor at Patreon.

Honey Moon – a Poem for Mani

(I”ve been meaning to share this since I returned from my OR retreat but somehow with everything that has been going on offline, it fell through the cracks.)

Honey Moon

In the darkness of a northern shore
Your razor crescent gleaming bright above,
I reached up and You reached down
And my heart poured itself out into Your hands.

There were no questions.
There was no need for them.
With maenads milling behind,
And the wild ocean full of Gods,
Waves lapping, a wine bottle
Full of offerings clutched tightly
In my hands,
I fell into Your steady comfort,
Sweet velvet enclosure of Your Presence,
And the scars of my broken spirit
Were soothed.

Hail to You, Mani
And all Your winding ways
That somehow always manage
To lead me safely home.

thumblrg_orangemoon

 

Guest Piece of Poetry for Loki, hosted by request

Keep the Mask On…



On the other side of space a star is exploding.
Your fire got under it’s skin:
expanding, transforming, destroying.
Your brothers reshape the dust of disintigrated worlds.
You are the keeper of all secrets of destruction,
Destroying in the name of creation,
You unlock all doors of change…
Is that why you talked me into dying my hair red, silly friend?



Millions of years ago, a dim ape grasped a torch
born from the bright serpent of the sky
crashing lustilly against your mother: the leafy one.
It changed the ape forever, it changed you forever.
You opened his eyes, he made the ancient giant a god.

You are the enemy of ignorance,
You are the light of gnosis,

Burning bright within our skulls…
But what I really want to know is, what’s your favorite icecream? 



As we walk unremittingly to your daughter’s door
Y
ou fill us with the mad fire of life.
Every aching minute savored,
Every pleassure experienced,
Every risk taken,
Madly laughing all the way to the grave
Because anything less is a waste of time.
Your joy is wild, manic, terrible, wonderful…
So do you want to play Skyrim with me? 



The chaos of revolution is your breeding ground,
Your spirit thrives in the fire and gunshots.
You give power to the the voice that has been silenced,
You shine light on our shadows of lies and corruption.
For good or for ill, transformation for its own sake.

Exposing every hypocricy,
Laying us bare before our harshest judges:
But I love it most when you tell me I’m right. 



Loki, of course I know that you are all these things and more…
But it’s easier to love you when you’re wearing my favorite mask.



-Dagulf Loptson

(Dagulf is the author of “Playing with Fire” and a regular contributor to Walking the Worlds and at Polytheist.com).