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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 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.

Two More for My Spirits

A small note

For those of you
whose voices shattered in the making,
who failed to enchant
the world’s stage,
who struggled away
in church choirs …
or worse:

I remember you.

It is a small thing, but I remember you.

You served that Muse
that exquisitely demanding daimon.
Though it drank your marrow
warm and new and young
you served it still –
bloody mortar
securing its awesome edifice
for another generation.

It is worthy work,
a worthy sacrifice,
and I remember you,


The God of Sacred Monsters

A face used to masks
I see You twice over:
lounging and languid,
slender, sculpted,
all smooth alabaster
and smoldering hunger,
ash and lust.

I can never look for long,
though desperately I want to,
want You.
I am too aware
of those perfect lips
and that sly smile
remote, exquisite
perhaps a little cruel—
pain is necessary after all
for such perfection—
and all it promises.

I see You, Enorches,
a wicked knot of movement
dancing a harlequinade
whispering in dulcet tones
“Everything I am
take to yourself
and my mouth,
full of honeycomb,
will pour nectar for you”*

Divine and noble
You have feasted upon Your own heart.

No one sees the strings,
unforgiving as ivy,
when You take them.
Like a paper thin stiletto between the ribs,
You slide in,
pouring Your sweet voice
through that flesh.
like honey
like nectar
stained with blood.


(line adapted from “La Calisto” by N. Cavalli. Image by Δ from the cover of “Toys of Dionysos” by H. Jeremiah Lewis)


Be sure to check out my other sites:

Wyrd Curiosities at Etsy

My 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.


I don’t know which one spoke.
I have my suspicions.
I was lighting candles,
offering prayers,
thinking of angelic voices
born in blood and pain
when clear as a bell I heard:
‘You have progeny;
we have immortality.’
And part of my heart broke
exploding in the sweetness of music
that wrenched its stony casing open.
I thought of Achilles
gifting Hektor with immortality
and of Patrokles
and how those heroes have nothing
on the bitchy, sarcastic angels
who now haunt my every breath.
I have no voice to sing
but I praise them still
and always.

I long for that sound
as they swarm around me.
I long for their voices
cold and clear
and oh so very pure.
Exquisite agony.
I sit shivering,
having exhausted hands and breath
in the new art they have me following:
baroque music and alto recorders
and flutes and things
that make my hands ache
and my chest pant as I gasp for breath
after practicing.
I’ll learn just a whispering shadow
of what they did: to control the breath
for music, for sound, for the promise of more.
I’ll learn and they will hold me to it–
hold me in that seat until my hands cramp
and I beg for release from the sessions of practice…
All for the music and for them,
that one day it won’t just be whispers anymore that I hear
but their song.

Only in the sound of those who inherited your music
men who sing with the faintest echo of your sweetness,
do the jagged pieces of my mind and soul
resolve into a single brilliant note.
Only then am I whole.
Then I hear my Gods without impediment.
Lineage, longing, and sacrifice,
maybe that is why I ache for you.
It is from these things you were formed.



Be sure to check out my other sites:

Wyrd Curiosities at Etsy

My 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.

John Donne, ‘Batter my heart’ (Latin hexameters)

This is a brilliant site! there are modern renderings of well known poems (Donne, Shakespeare, Tennyson, et al) into classical latin and greek. it’s very, very well done. wow!


Batter my heart, three-person’d God, for you

As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;

That I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend

Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

I, like an usurp’d town to another due,

Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end;

pectora nostra, agedum, triplex o numen adepte,

tunde, precor! nam mollis adhuc tuus impetus instat:

inspiras, radias, animum emendare labantem

cura tibi est; potius, vero ut consurgere possim,

deicias penitus, magno me robore frangas –

en ego sum flammis flatuque novandus acuto!

te, velut urbs regem, quam hostes rapuere, requirit,

nitor ut admittam, tamen – heu! – via nulla reperta est.

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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.



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
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

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).

rackham loki seated

What Odin Is…He is

He is…

He is so many things to me… words are weak in His presence and weak on this page as I struggle to shape them into something approximating His power.

He is a maw. That’s what started all of this, another poet calling Him a maw. And He is and we are ever being devoured in it. The whole initiation process into Him is a crushcrunching down between His predator’s jaws. It’s a good way to live, soaring within the storm. It sets a certain stage and we can run with that for now.

He is…

Endless shrieking hunger. Cold, calculating, yet searingly passionate in His focus. I hear it all the time, when He is near, that roaring in the brain. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a fool

Or has not learned how to listen.

He sees farther than we can ever conceive. He sees us too and our potential.
I know what it is like to be hunted down like prey. I know what it is like to fight a killer but I don’t know what it is like to walk away. Some knowledge isn’t worth having.

He is…

A vicious, beautiful Bastard and I love Him for it and sometimes I hate Him too but I never, ever forget the stench of my own fear in the woods when that first Hunt began or when His corpse creaked high in the Tree above me. I’ll never forget how He treasures my viciousness either.

He is…

a frenzied ravening Beast who has learned to wear a pretty mask to court the ladies (and some men too). He is brutal and wondrous and the ironsharp tang of His presence a joy my heart can barely hold.

He is…

the sovereign Power that has drenched the earth in blood and glory, the wailing wisdom of poets, the shivering terror of bards, and the enchantments that hold it all together swallowed and spat about by His flock of charmed women with razor tongues.

He is…

The Force that will use those women up until they seek any crevice in this world to avoid seeing into His.

Ho, ho, ho,

Who, Who, Who

But a God who knows the secrets found only in madness would do that? Let’s see which of us will be the last one standing, oh my darlings. Go ahead. Run.

He is…

the Architect of Worlds who loves His people and the pristine symmetry of the cosmos and will spit us all on a spear to see that it does not burn.

While we bicker and scramble and piss away our charms where the grass is green and blood runs blackest in the streets, He snakes His way ahead to keep it all from curling back into the Gap.

He is…

Devastation. Another poet warned about things like this: “Love comes with a knife, not some shy question” and so it is and so it was and if I’m lucky, so it shall ever be.

He is the frenzy that drives me and His the calloused hands that pick me up when His work drives me to my knees and I kiss the ground in exhaustion. He is the frenzy that inspires me, and with Him at my side I have seen I have seen the birthing of worlds and wonder. He is a monstrous Glory and He is my Salvation.

It is enough that He is.

Go ahead.




(I found this image here.  If anyone knows the artist, please let me know and I will amend this asap)

Something’s Burning and I Think It’s My Mind!

There is a very shy man who occasionally comes into the gallery. He is interested in learning more about art but is very self-deprecating of his own experience and interests. He’ll hover in the background until it is only him and either me or my colleague in the shop and then ask all his questions and share his ideas and opinions on art, literature, music, film, etc. The conversations are always delightful and I do my best to be encouraging because it seems as though this is an entirely new world to him, so I do my best to encourage his bravery as he begins (and continues) to explore it. He is thoughtful and often quite insightful in his engagement with art. I enjoy our conversations.

Today I dropped by the shop and ran into him. He was just coming out and he mentioned that he’d bought a copy of my cento book. We talked about that for a bit and he had picked up some of the references to Greek epic in the poems, and he compared me to William Blake and Ezra Pound (which made me smile. I am a fan of both of these poets and that was quite a comparison) and then he said something that quite frankly made my week.

He had been assuring me that he was only scratching the surface, that he knew he wasn’t getting out of my centos what someone stepped in poetry would (and I was quick to say, that people respond to poetry based on their own experiences, that it speaks to each person differently). He finally paused and said, “I can only read a few lines and then I have to put it down and I carry those lines with me for days. It’s like…something’s burning and I think it’s my mind!”

I looked him right in the eye and said, “You understand my poetry perfectly.”

He told me that if he’d encountered my work in his twenties it would have destroyed his world, or set him on a totally different life path. He talked about books he’d read then: Hemingway, Joyce, Pound, etc. and how their work was like looking into a completely unique world, so incredibly different from his own and my work was like that too, that he’d read about people having these incredibly searing and intense experiences but it was like staring into a completely different universe from his own and then it struck me:

This is why purity is so important. This is why it’s so vitally crucial that we carefully choose what we read, what we watch, to what we expose ourselves (and it’s a choice we each have to make for ourselves, not one that should be dictated by any external authority). When we feed ourselves with words and art saturated with the Gods, it builds worlds in our minds. If we’re not careful, we can let in anything at all indiscriminately and that also builds worlds within our minds, polluted ones, rather than the worlds hospitable to our Gods and dead. These things matter and it’s an area that we alone control. What are we going to nourish in ourselves? What kind of landscape are we going to create within ourselves – one that nourishes the holy or one diametrically opposed to it? That is what religious purity is: creating worlds within ourselves hospitable to our Gods and spirits, and it’s important. 


Poetry Night: 3 of 3

Odinic Treasure –  a Cento

It is mountainous.
It is a bird of fire,

late at night, saluting an unforgiving song.

Rushing River of Presence,

make us crack
like leaves of laurel

the brightness of ash

that has flowed and cooled,

though in the core
of a star.

In You I am

too mythic,

In You I am a

small blue miracle.

I sit counting syllables like Midas gold.

In You

my soul can sing.


[with respect to Kathleen Ossip, Mark Nepo, Ishion Hutchinson, Sidney Wade, Miguel Murphy, James Richardson, H. Jeremiah Lewis, and Etheridge Knight].