The Wild Hunt: a poem for Samhain

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The dead do not return, they never left.
Tonight they rise, riding through the fog of your subconscious fears.
They gather, they march, they scream and shout.
Unquiet dead, unrestful, unremembered. See them now:
The victims of war, of hate and greed. The black men lynched,
The women murdered, the gay and trans* killed for being.
Their eyeless eyes fixed on you, in pity, rage and judgement.
And at the head advancing:
A seething roiling mass of fur and feather shell and scale and tusk and horn.
Howling, baying, roaring, the species driven to extinction or the brink,
The billions slaughtered for flesh or skin or sport.
See them now, know them now.
In their bodies your body, in their souls your soul.
Don’t close your eyes or look away. Stand with and for them:
For those not yet dead, those you still can serve.
And suddenly they pass, denn die todten reiten schnell.
Silence echoes, and in silence waits.
As we are so shall you be

Encounter – a poem

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Night wind stomps hoofbeats through the briar,
Three flames summon faltering shadows
On the faceless face of one who sits:
A name uncertain, a presence felt.
More real than real, more dream than seen –
A dream of trees, of branches like antlers,
Or antlers like oaks.
A storm, a calm, a snake grasped without fear.
An offer made and one returned:
The torc held out, well worth the weight.
Now falls silence and the rain.
Listen.

Demon est Deus inversus

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A star in the morning; night and day entwined
In liminal afterglow, their passions spent.
Lightbringer, your burden is eternal – to pour out
Yourself on earth, ecstatic, theopoiesis in reverse.
Light of Days, who burns with knowledge of life
And death, the swinging thurible of time,
A pendulum above a pit; the monstrance clock
Timing your descent, a fall so fortunate.
Lux aeterna, lux feram, with wounded independence crowned,
Who bears the sun between the crescent horns:
The old heirogamy repeats itself.

*I’m currently reading about nature mystics, and have just got back from seeing the band Ghost play in concert, so I thought I’d combine the two and challenge myself to write a Luciferian poem. Not my usual thing, spiritually speaking, but it was a fun exercise, and oddly cathartic. Not sure how successful the result is, but it is what it is.

A poem for water

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Everchange.
In waves and particles and drops of foam,
Endless erring, evernew and everflowing;
Overflowing, rising, deepening, quickening.
Life’s cradle and unshovelled ever-ready grave.
A billion teardrops, raindrops, dewdrops, a million million consciousnesses
Singular, conjoined; each part of your great whole,
Wholly, holy, quenched and sodden.
Sixty per cent of me, but all of me is yours
And to you I return, beyond the ninth wave and the western isles
Without hope and without fear, everchasing the setting, sinking sun.
From deep to deep calls out,
And then shines forth.

The last trump: a poem in anger

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Red rains fall from baleful eyes
Scorching the shaken earth with acrid bile
And venom. All things die, then rise, then die again
A thousand times a thousand times and more.
Who killed the world? Who raped and murdered sovereign hope?
What never was cannot be great again, your hate again
Seeps from your pores and stains your face and hands
The colour of rotting meat. Rot, then, as soon you will.
From your carcass we will make fertiliser. And we will grow,
And put down roots, and spread our branches out in spite of you.
Your time is now, your seconds counting down.
The stench of your ill wind shall pass away, and the air will sing
Of promise once again.  Look upon your works, you mighty,
And despair.

A poem for the season

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Grey dawn filters through the falling leaves,
Pale and soft as life’s last breath. The whisper
Of the wind carries not your voice, but your
Absence: cold, a shivering chill of recognition.
The moon’s time-wrinkled face outlasts its welcome;
In spite of us who cling to what remains. The day,
Short and half-hearted barely warms the soil,
Beneath which lie the hopes of ages past.
And if I call to you, who hears?
The dwindling forests, or the endless sky.
A day like any other, a thousand years ago,
Others and still others breathed the same.
A thousand years from now, a day like this again:
The cycle turns, the centre slowly fades.