Category Archives: Poetry
He who gives me what I rarely remember
Morpheus, Great God of Dreams, I have a question to ask of you:
Why do I so rarely remember my dreams?
I know that I do dream; all humans do, even my kind.
And yet, I so rarely remember mine.
And what I do remember is so tantalizing, it draws me back to sleep,
To trade the mundane of waking life for the majesty of dream.
Perhaps that is why Morpheus, in His Divine wisdom,
does not allow me to remember my dreams.
For the Gods are above us, and their gifts are Theirs to parcel out as needed.
And that has always been the way of things; though our society refuses to acknowledge it.
I understand that truth – I learned it a dream I do remember.
And now I hail He who gives me what I rarely remember.
My Dead, of whom I can always dream
Perhaps someone who does not live the veneration of the Dead,
Might naively believe that those who do never feel the pain of loss.
Sadly, that is not the case.
Indeed, some days – in my opinion – it is even worse;
We talk as though face to face, with those who have traveled to that undiscovered country,
And that makes it all the more terrible when we cannot feel their comforting touch again,
When their presence is spiritual, rather than physical,
When their voices are the muffled moans of the buried Dead.
But all praise be, to the Great God of Dreams.
For Morpheus, so noble is He,
He who allows us mortals the gift of dreams.
And we can always meet our Dead in our dreams.
And feel their touch again. And smell their smell again.
And hear their voices with our ears, not just our hearts.
Musing on Morpheus, Mnemosyne, and Mortality
The God of Dreams and the Goddess of Memories – what is the connection?
And why do thoughts of both come into my mind in connection with my Dead?
The Author of the dreams that drive us,
The Mother of the Muses who inspire us;
What is the connection?
To sleep, perchance to dream, now, that is the question;
But what is the connection?
As I ponder this, another question enters my mind:
Do the Dead dream?
The answer is, most likely, known only to the Dead themselves.
But the living are at least allowed to speculate.
And when I speculate, I feel another question enter my mind:
Are those who dream, not dead to this world while they dream?
For what is a dream, but one of two things:
A vision sent onto the sleeping by the Holy Powers;
The brain’s attempt to process random electrical discharges within it during sleep,
as influenced by the memories it contains.
And thus – the Connection.
Morpheus, the God of Dream. Mnemosyne, the Goddess of Memory.
Both are Deities of the Mind.
Both are tangentially connected to Mortality.
When we dream with the dead, we must thank Morpheus.
When we dream of the dead, we must thank Mnemosyne.
My praise to Morpheus!
Hail He who allows us to dream with our dead.
My praise to Mnemosyne!
Sing for She who allows us to remember our dead.
You rose up from the primordial grime
hand in hand with Your brothers,
savage yet determined fury
under the light of a cold-bladed moon.
You destroyed Your ancestor,
ruined Him, the indolent breeder,
clotted up his gaping maw
silenced his screeching snores and groans
that ever rattled the wyrm-like field.
You swept it all away and from his bones
built anew, a web of worlds-
bleak in their youth, rich in their promise,
rising and shining in the boughs of the Tree.
You made of his screams a symphony,
bone beautiful and clean.
There was no remorse in You
but elation, satisfaction.
Let there be no remorse in me either,
for the things that I must do
Hail to You, Loður,
Whose blood stained fingers
painted our flesh a lively hue.
(by G. Krasskova)
I recently found this piece of poetry that I wrote several years ago. It’s a good way to start the new year.
To be wed to a God
It is a mauling,
a joyous evisceration.
It is the agony of knowing
that human flesh is weak:
one can never be fully filled
completely with one’s God.
We claw our way forward anyway,
addicts aching for our next fix;
and the merest breath of His presence
strengthens us, makes us whole,
sates that terrible hunger for a time.
But only for a time.
We are all virgins here,
no matter from whence we come.
There is no experience like that of being claimed,
no penetration quite so deep,
as being taken up by the Gallows God;
taken, from the inside out, and outside in.
But I don’t think anyone claimed by Him was ever innocent.
He devoured that before we even knew it was there and found it sweet.
How does one wed a God, you ask?
Vows are whispered in urgency and need,
hunger, desire, and the agony of separation.
“I will love You and serve You always,
in each and every way You ask.
I will be whatever it is You need me to be
all for the barest taste of You;”
and then You delight and pour Yourself into me.
I lose my place in the restrictive fabric of being for a time.
The joy is too great.
If only if were that simple.
Here’s how it went:
I brought a dowry of courage and raw, ruthless pain,
of hunger, and an uncompromising will to serve.
I brought passion and promise,
and a thousand possibilities
all marked and tumbled with a warrior’s pride.
I brought stubborn commitment
and a terrified love.
It was enough.
My courting gifts were many, too many to easily count.
I did not know how lavish my Bridegroom had been
until seeing His paltry gifts to another.
It awes and frightens me even now.
We pay in service for every gift. That is wyrd and
He was generous, this God who loves the storm,
and hungers always to devour knowledge.
I did what any besotted bride would do:
I opened my arms in welcome,
to His hunger for devouring me too.
Love like this is the slim sweet shaft of a blade
pressed deeply between the ribs in the dark.
Love like this is the iron jawed maw of a hunter’s snare
From which the predator has no escape.
Love like this gnaws belly to bone,
Shredding the heart like ravaged meat on the butcher’s slab.
You might think this is a terrible thing.
It is not.
It is beauty beyond comprehension
but the cage of my words
is too frail and weak a thing
to contain the reality of this intoxication,
to capture the richness of my ensnarement,
to convey the holiness of this bliss.
I must use those words that strip away the trite,
that penetrate beyond our human shallowness;
even if those words are ugly and harsh.
He is like that too sometimes: obliteration.
If this is madness, then I shall be mad.
If it is delusion I shall count myself lucky to be so deluded.
Maybe instead I shall laugh, and dance and whirl and spit–
because my body is not strong enough
to contain the depth of the joy my Husband brings.
And because those who would demand I ‘come to my senses’
have not had their senses kissed by the cold fire of this God.
and then let me tell you how it is.
I am His bride and His whore,
His servant and His valkyrie,
the meat He grinds between His teeth,
the wine with which he salts His palate.
I am whatever He needs me to be.
I’ll kiss that knife that slides into my heart gleefully,
cavort and caper wantonly
in whatever way brings Him satisfaction.
My joy at being His bride is as vast and great
as the Gap from which His ancestors sprung.
If that be called madness, that is a small enough price to pay
to take within me His storm.
By Galina Krasskova
blood wise, bone keen, wrapped in the arms of the dead
Look to the tales your grandparents told,
of wolves in woods
there is power there
and wisdom to guide you on your way
through all the terrifying places
you may have to walk.
There is light and fire
and the warmth of knowing
and the courage to meet the Gods
of our deepest dreaming
rather than fear.
(by G. Krasskova)
I will wear the marks of my Gods proudly.
Let there be no mistaking where my allegiances lie.
My skin will proclaim it.
My clothes will tell you.
I will not be emptied of Them.
I will not forsake Their mysteries.
There is nothing you could offer me,
that would cause me to swallow lies.
Nothing you possess that would ever
tear me from Their service.
I bring Them wherever I walk.
My very flesh is a doorway
through which They may reach.
Make no mistake:
Offerings provide fertile ground
for devotion to flourish.
Remember this, when you ask me to trade
the emptiness of the secular modern
for the glory of Their revelation.
Some of us have not forgotten
The faces of our ancestors
The whisper of our Gods
The honor of Their cultus
and our duty to those yet to come.
What weight is a bit of flesh
for such a promise?
Like our Gods, we remember.
In the blistering furnace of our hearts,
may You be hailed.
In the fierce rantings of mind and memory,
may You be hailed.
In the tumultuous storm of our senses,
may we gasp, and chant, and sing Your praises.
May our lips burn with whispered adorations to You.
May our bodies shake in the onslaught of Your presence.
Where You are honored, there be in all of Your glory.
Where You are reviled, there also be,
and work Your cunning wiles.
May You ever be the unquiet thought,
the unruly impulse, the unwary stirring
of holy cravings, the longing for internal revolution,
the descant-mad, dervish-driven
prophetic-spewing roar that drives us
ever and always, unceasingly, unmercifully
into the arms of our own liberation.
Hail Loki, Liberator,
cunning, wild, and wise.
May You ever be hailed.
(by G. Krasskova)
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.
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.
(by G. Krasskova)
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
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
(by G. Krasskova)
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
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).
(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.
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.
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
I’d murder my own ancestor
To hear its cadence.
(but you won’t see me posting about it
(by G. Krasskova)