Tag Archives: Lenka Monk

Alfheim: Movement and Light 3/4 The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

15 Jul

nine realms8

The Nine Realms

9 months, 19 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences

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Alfheim

(the realm of the Elves)

Featuring:

Nat Hall, Lenka Monk and Jim C Mackintosh

 

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Guardian Angel from the Ninth Realm

by Nat Hall

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You,
luminous loving being,
so much more than a thousand suns in
darkest corner of my head,
you are sensitive to
my tears,
so far away from fern, foliage,
evergreen feel of
thick forest,
Light Bokeh style –
the untouched side of Freyr’s world…
To
avoid eyes,
hiss and whisper from
haunting mare,
my mantelpiece littered with stones
I once collected from a now
dormant volcano where
hardened rock dances with salt,
leaping fury from young ocean,
I light candles night after night,
chisel your smile out of cold wax, and
seek wisdom out of
a match.
You,
luminous loving being,
you rescued me from the cliff edge.

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And lead me to temptation

by Lenka Monk

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Inspired by story of Freyr and Gerðr

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Through the eyeglass, inner mist
Tempted fate, now I can’t resist
Lips that haunt, curves that taunt
A tortured sigh.

In a drunken fog, endless hunger
Bittersweet taste, spell I’m under
asunder bursting mind, lifetimes find
A Divine comedy.

Wrong feels right, heartbeat elevates
one lustful look, reason obliterates
Resonates with force, no remorse
A string less puppet.

The heart, the insurgent of reason
that beautiful face, led it to treason
seasoned sixth sense, forget consequence
A complete surrender.

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under the heavens dome

by Jim C. Mackintosh

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under the heavens dome
the halls tower in this place
where maddened spirits bind
the claws of ravens haunting
blind trees and bright rooms
enclosing his hypnotic power
unseen to those for whom life past

beneath the high throne of Freyr
circled by meadow throngs
floating on pillows of gold
the words of the wish-giver
in bundles tied with sinews
of outlaws crucified on the way
speared in the crossfire of elf shot

felled in the grapple of light where
dark elves stripped them of belief
a thin path winds through briar rose
where a thousand eyes, black spots
in the gloom sense the fear
dripping from the pilgrims folly
seeking to kiss the feet of Freyr

yet destined to leave empty handed
happy to escape the elven grasp
to answer their quest elsewhere
and rid themselves of this brothel
built in the tangle of angels hair
nourished by the rot of souls
quietly disappeared, lost forever

in remote corners of all realms
where the light elves prey upon
battle weary warriors, robbing them
of their exhausted glory to light
the bloodied moss halls of Alfheim
their fine mesh weave of gold to
line the dark walls of winter nights

under the canopy where Freyr sleeps
and confused sayers fall at his gaze
fighting over the scraps he scatters
in return for the lure of his mystery
/ so why are you still here?
so why do you believe this sermon
will lead you to anything but your betrayal?

through the valleys of temptation
they will swoop down and lift your eyes
to where the single, deadly snake coils
hissing promises of everlasting glory
a ticket to cross the rainbow, only to die
under the wheels of martyrdom
to be denied by your band of brothers

where the Gods assemble to divide
the spoils of your blood and tears
gathered by the scrum of vultures
/ let your death join me
in the salvation of our tomorrows, free
from the shores of false dawns
where your heart will awaken

in sanctuary from blunted threats
where the earth and the sea and
the stone and the roots and the rain
are true and the stag will roar again
and the kiss of blood, the unity
of your ken folk will ease
your righteous birth once more

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Find out more about Nat, Lenka and Jim here:

Nat Hall

https://twitter.com/nordicblackbird

nordicblackbird.weebly.com

Lenka Monk

Contact ArtiPeeps

 

Jim C. Mackintosh

bigbaffy.com

https://twitter.com/JimCMackintosh

 

As always, thank you for your interest.

 

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Muspelheim: Sparks and Flames 1/4 The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

13 May

nine realms8

The Nine Realms

9 months, 23 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences

.

 Muspelheim

(the realm of fire)

Featuring:

Lenka Monk, Tom Murphy

and Rebecca Audra Smith

 

 

Flammable

by Lenka Monk

Inspired by story of Surt and Sinmara

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……Everything is ablaze
with you in my realm.
Even the stars seared themselves into the black vast canvas above.
They can never go out. Not while your afterglow ignites
the very last inch of me.
My Twin flame you have become.
I am a firefly, drawn to your inferno
in an eternity of firestorms.
Our power combined, forged by the fiercest heat
inside a furnace consumed and spent on all levels.
The embers aglow.
You are my beacon to guide me
through darkness.
You are my lighthouse inside a storm’s eye.
I burn in you.
I burn with you,
while everything around us still smoulders…..

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Part 7

Muspelheim

by Tom Murphy

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there is this thing like a memory
a bridge between the living and the dead
between past and future

this thing is in the grove
this thing is in us
a bond even when we’re apart

it is a thick iron chain
it is a thin filament of web
it is a bridge of ice
melting in the fire
it is a waterfall
very high
and very thin

this beam of sun and moon
shining from the eyes
holds the gaze
holds everything in it’s lattice

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Baltimore Fires

by Rebecca Audra Smith

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the stars slip out of the way to show the unending tale
of what is done in their names, it’s Baltimore
Rocks thrown by men thrown by children thrown by police
Arson is their attempt to lick the sky with flame
Headlines tomorrow read, Michael Brown, Freddie Gray

In the midst of all that noise
Comes the sense the fight’s still hot, quell the flames
They cut the hose, when the store started burning
the protestors for peace, held up their hands, said don’t shoot,
but still sons are being shot, mother slaps her boy hard,
you’re not Freddie Gray, Walter Scott

earth swallows the sun, the flames are burning fire,
vapour and rage have made the air both crisp and dry
you don’t want to be famous, known for the hands by which you died
someone says it like a litany, Walter Scott, Eric Garner

I heard strange fruits being sung upon these police lined streets
As she spoke of her neighbours death, body swinging, heavy tree
Your name is a future hashtag when you were born dark skinned
In the midst of all this noise it seems no one has had their say
Protestors hold their signs up, Michael Brown, Freddie Gray.

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Find out more about Lenka, Tom and Rebecca here:

Lenka Monk

Contact ArtiPeeps

Tom Murphy

https://twitter.com/sandcave

Rebecca Audra Smith

https://twitter.com/BeccaAudra

beccaaudra.wordpress.com

 

 

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As always, thank you for your interest.

 

The Nine Realms Indiegogo Campaign:

http://igg.me/at/the9realms

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Nidavellir: ‘ Darkness and Gold’ 3/4′ The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

11 Mar

nine realms8

The Nine Realms

9 months, 19 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 musicians, 1 Viking boat : a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences

 

Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Nidavellir (The Realm of the Dwarves)

Featuring:

Eleanor Perry,  Lenka Monk and James Knight

 

4.
paste nuptial

by Eleanor Perry

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in bird circles, empty is called miracle |
buttonholes are swallowed in the form
of letters | shiver gneiss, black fatted
in the vein | both moon and human | but
this is where you wrap your bright bones
in seaweed | and grieve upwards from
the huckles | gathered in a silt of listless

elegy | where austerity is called vessel |
and the glum dead are not bored of their
telephones |but what tender spokes do
not grow bleach-soft under muck and error,
remembering their habit of upright cups |
each giant corpse is an instant body of water

and it’s not important that we drink tizer
chasers| or that the sun is called shard
in these lipscuffed, dainty wastes of time;
in the barren pulse of teeth | weather is
always the best exit, assuming you have
come loose, or are strung out over the
fallen drift worrying about your own call
habits.

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Bottled 

by Lenka Monk

(Inspired by story of Dvalin, his brothers and Freyja)

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The first sip a fleeting glance.
And the thirst grows with every look, every taste.
Unyielding temptations inviting, invading.
Screaming, tearing, and gnawing the insides.

No one is immune under the influence.
The sips so quickly become gulps.
And there it is! The grinning luring want.
It seduces, yearns the possession of something
Just out of reach.

Yet, so tantalisingly close.
Already nestled around the heart.
Whatever happened to boundaries?
There are none.
In that moment they dissolved in the bottle of greed.

So drink it all without a backwards glance,
Until only emptiness stares back.
The glass shatters, spills out and floods.
Drains the senses,
Burns through layers of dignity.

Shame stained dawn crawls into hiding.
Although the want is purring, satisfied for a while.
It binds its time, till its next venture,
leaving the broken pieces embedded more deeply than before.

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The Dwarfs

by James Knight

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Larval coils In wet earth Awaiting spring
Time’s tectonic pulse
The mourners wore bird masks And cackled as the coffin was lowered
A troubling thought A gleam In the darkness
Best not to think about it
Hahaha yes I suppose you’re right they do look a bit like maggots especially that one haha it’s a funny old world isn’t it
Croaking Crow King Dancing in your blood

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MP3 to come

 

 You can read the overview of Nidavellir hereand read some Jotunheim poems here

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Find out more about Eleanor, Lenka and James:

Eleanor Perry

https://twitter.com/nellperry

Lenka Monk

Contact ArtiPeeps. 

James Knight

thebirdking.com

 https://twitter.com/badbadpoet

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As always, thank you for your interest.

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Jotunheim: ‘ Strength & Might’ 2/3′ The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

5 Feb

World Tree Norse

The Nine Realms

9 months, 22 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences

 

Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of  Jotunheim

Featuring:

Jim C. Mackintosh, Eleanor Perry,  Nat Hall

and Lenka Monk

 

The Bauble

by Jim C. Mackintosh

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To know the knowing’s beyond now
Deeds not thought and words yet spoken,
What price to sooth the furrowed brow?
Of vows past, and bargains broken;
Reminders fused on blunt shoulders
Guarding wisdom’s depths with boulders 
Of questions, tricks and consequence
To trap the fears of men; not God sense
The cowardly grasp of fickle fate
Vague shadows of futures cast
Trusting elements of the past
Diamond sighted hostages late
Amongst the debris of battles torn
From the victor’s off-spring never born.
 
Mimir, knower of things beyond
By root, where the Well ripples deep,
Waiting for the one mortal bond
To take the cup from his keep
And face the consequence of debt
Sacrificed, drowned with no regret;
No vane hope of being restored
By the weeping sorrows, ignored
In the tilt of trees, ravens taunt
The backs of cowards departing,
Past the rock-giants mocking;
Whilst beyond the sunless haunt
The wanderer approaches still
Planning with determined will –
 
To stand at the foot hills of Mimir;
A Well of Wisdom in that place
Mortality beyond fate or fear
Engraved across sage Odin’s face,
Led by hunger to know or die
Fierce is the will to give an eye,
To gain the sight beyond the stars
Caring not of pain or mortal scars
Free from cheap vanity’s distracts –
‘Will you drink at the gouging bleed?’
Bauble sunk, Odin quaffs the seed;
Absolutes swim in pure extracts.
No fear by look in one eyed stare
Battles planned in vision’s glare.

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3.

gift teeth

by Eleanor Perry

some frame-works
go to the dogs ] and
I’ll let them, since
I know thefts ] and flush:
strands, leeches ] New
York Times gummed to
bitten gold

in winter bloat ] coastal
flank drifts ships in thick
tonnage streams ] the
godly soak, the aluminium
rails ] I am a department ]
just like the sun all burnt
to glass ] plugged into

thinner swelling glints ] gore-
bent in rehab ] and I’ve
learned that all roads lead
to multi-management ] and
many of us are not happy in
the black ] leeches deep
within the bones

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MP3 to come

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Legend

by Nat Hall

Recall the dream.

Inside his
eyes, blue starry
night.

He,
primeval,
born of venom,
fire & ice,
icy rivers from
grassless void to the abyss,
fed from the milk of
Auðhumla,
hermaphroditic
without
doubt,
is a
giant
without limits –
power of life well beyond death:
let him bear Earth inside
his flesh,
sea
from
his sweat,
mountains from bones,
trees from his hair,
sky from his
skull –
such
atmospheric grey
matter,
now let gods
sculpt clouds from his
brain, a home for
men from his
eyebrows.
And
if
the
sun was not
enough,
In the name of ice,
icicles, cold
hellery,
hail,
gales and storms,
bow to each
stone in
the
cosmos.

© Nat Hall 2015

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Ymir

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Locksmith

by Lenka Monk

(Inspired by a story of Menglöð & Svipdagr)

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I know the true meaning of wait and miss.
When no kind of magic can bridge the abyss.
When every second feels like an age,
When someone else holds a key to my cage.

The memories they torture, they burn
The yearning increases with every step, every turn.
The thoughts of you sharper than a razor blade
No wheels of time can ever make them fade.

You may be gone, but your steps still echo in the hall.
The scent of you still clings to every fabric, every wall.
The images so colourful, so vivid in my mind,
To where our bodies still lay, forever entwined.

That was the last time I saw something that made me feel.
That was the last time I heard something that was still real.
That was the last time I spoke of no upheaval.
Now without you, all I see, hear or speak seems evil.

I linger here barely alive on this frozen dais,
Life’s thievery without remorse and its wicked ways.
I count my heartbeats for you, no matter the pain.
I know you’ll come back to me…yours I remain.

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..

You can read the overview of Jotenheim  here , and read some Vanaheim poems here

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Find out more about Jim, Eleanor, Nat and Lenka:

Jim C. Mackintosh

bigbaffy.com

https://twitter.com/JimCMackintosh

Eleanor Perry

https://twitter.com/nellperry

Nat Hall

nordicblackbird.weebly.com

https://twitter.com/nordicblackbird

Lenka Monk

Contact ArtiPeeps

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As always, thank you for your interest.

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Vanaheim: ‘ Magic & Wonder’ 3/4′ The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

14 Jan

World Tree Norse

The Nine Realms

9 months, 22 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences

 

Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Vanaheim

Featuring:

Lenka Monk, James Knight and Joanna Lee

 

In the name of…

by Lenka Monk

(Inspired by the story of Freyja and Thorgerda)

 

In the hour of need, every second stretches like a steel spring.
Do the years flash by?
Or is it simple moment of repentance.
Whispered prayers.
Does anyone really listen?
Absolution would taste so sweet.
Does it give you strength?
Does it fill you with hope?
Does the courage shine through one last time?
Do you upturn the alter to stop the requiem?
Or is it an offering of a blackened heart on the cold marble.
Whose name touches your lips?
Breathe it in; bathe in the way it sounds.
And it’s not just any name, it’s so much more.
It’s an antidote for poison.
It’s water caressing your dry lips.
It’s the scent of home deep within your lungs.
It’s an ecstasy tingling on your skin.
It touches forgotten places, revives senses,
And as blinded as you once were, you are no more.
For there’s no room for the transient madness,
When with each uttered syllable of the name,
The shade brightens.
The unexplained power that brought you north of that edge.
What once was in the haze has cleared.
Oh the view, the view is breathtaking.
Clarity, renewed, reshaped, reassembled,
Strums chords with sleight of hand.
And it resonates loudly in the name of your saviour.

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*Freyja is a goddess associated with love, sexuality, beauty, fertility, gold, seiðr, war, and death.

*Thorgerda, is a woman who threatens to commit suicide in the Egils Saga.

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Freyja

by James Knight

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Welcome to my pied-a-terre,
My dear.
Careful where you sit;
Yesterday one of my guests
Mistook my cats for cushions
And nearly sat on them,
The silly bugger.

Glass of Scotch?
Sherry, maybe?
Mine’s a white wine and soda;
It goes further.

It’s deathly cold in here,
Don’t you think?
Bloody storage heaters
Are worse than useless.
I could weep,
I really could.

Do you like the photos on my mantelpiece?
That one’s Eric and that one’s Steven and that one’s John.
All dead now, of course.
So are Keith, Clive and Chris.
They died heroes’ deaths,
Every one of them.
When I look at them
I know they’re in a better place.
I keep Ben in this locket,
So he’s always near my heart.

Death isn’t sad, you know.
No worse than going for your flu jab.

Drink up, dear.
You look as if you need it.
You might die tomorrow,
So you might as well enjoy today.
That’s what Ben used to say.
After he lost his arm I had to drive him around everywhere,
Bless him.
He called my little Ford a chariot.
We used to laugh!

By the way,
A man wrote me,
Which explains
My Monty Python falsetto.
Men can’t do women
(Haha!),
Though they’d like to think they can.
Just look at The Waste Land:
That was written by a man
(If that’s the right word for a bookworm in specs)
And is full of unconvincing female voices.

I’m so cold I’m shivering, look!
Another glass?

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Seeking Odhrærir at the corner coffeeshop

by Joanna Lee

a dragon sits in the sun, baking mythologies between his toenails.
eagle feathers drift on his nostril-ed breath.

he does not belong here among the cloud stria in almost-white,
the sky filled with the promise of emptiness, the wet-wool heavy.

behind the bar, Gunnlöð is humming to herself
with a song on the radio she hasn’t heard in years.

honey trickles over her dry lip, cracks on winter-sunned concrete.
hickory leaves flit dead across lanes of traffic.

some days it just won’t come,
no matter the spit and the blood.

i think i hear your name in the background,
and i almost turn. tendril-ed smoke

like tears down a dawn cheek that day
you woke wordless in darkness and left

curls along the floorboards just
enough to keep the pipes from freezing.

Gunnlöð looks up, wonders if she, too, could fly.

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*Odhraerir/Óðrerir,refers either to one of the vessels that contains the mead of poetry

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You can read the overview of Vanaheim here , and see some Asgard poems here

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Find out more about Lenka, James and Joanna:

Lenka Monk

Contact ArtiPeeps. 

James Knight

thebirdking.com

https://twitter.com/badbadpoet

Joanna Lee

the-tenth-muse.com

https://twitter.com/la_poetessa

 

As always, thank you for your interest.

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Asgard: ‘Warriors and Ravens’ 5/5′ The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

11 Dec

World Tree Norse

The Nine Realms

9 months, 22 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences

 

Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Asgard

Featuring:

Karin Heyer, Kate Garrett and Mina Polen

 

Northern Lights

by Karin Heyer

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Green magic light rushed
through the deep blue northern night,
when Odin, Allfather
stood at the roots of Yggdrasill
thirsting
for the secrets of the universe,
he gives his one eye
for knowing all —

He built a throne
high up in the crown of Yggdrasill,
best of trees,
world tree,
its roots to survey all realms,
Odin recalls the creation.

When

fire furious fills the air
crashing ice creates,
when life-licking cow
conjures woman and man,
sun, moon and stars in one,
a dread flame of power
never-ceasing creation,
eternal wind a-blowing —

Yet

Yggdrasill still stands solid
for ever North – South,
green, yellow lights
luminous, amazing,
burning, blazing
in the sky, even now!

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Harvest

by Kate Garrett

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i sneak, i reap

i am a trick of the light

light from a golden crop

of wheat-silk soft
& mine with one swipe
of scythe

break my fingers
break my toes
one by one by one

i provide, i scheme

i push you into motion

motion of worlds beneath

so panic – panic until
back & forth & back
the needle swings

threading this voice
you fear down into
my throat

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* Based on the myth of Thor’s hammer, specifically the part where Loki steals Sif’s hair and is punished for it. The difference between physical power (Thor) and one type of mental power (Loki).

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Alone and afraid

by Mina Polen

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All alone
…………..smashing stones
…………..carving wood
…………..playing with gold

all alone
…………..behind a broken wall
…………..waiting for another spell

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all afraid

…………..that the world might change
…………..that more giants might come

all afraid

……………and the wolf is howling
……………and the serpent is rattling
……………and they can hear the giants’ steps

all alone
all afraid.

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You can read the overview of Asgard here and see more of the Asgard poems here

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Find out more about Karin, Kate and Mina:

Karin Heyer

No website, as yet. Contact ArtiPeeps.

Kate Garrett

http://www.kategarrettwrites.co.uk/

https://twitter.com/kate_garrett

Mina Polen

 http://www.lulu.com/shop/mina-polen/scylla-and-charybdis/paperback/product-21019437.html

https://twitter.com/minapolen

 

Watch out for Vanaheim (the realm of the giants) poetry next week!

As always, thank you for your interest. 

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Asgard: ‘Warriors and Ravens’ 4/5′ The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

3 Dec

World Tree Norse

The Nine Realms

9 months, 22 poets and writers, 22 Artists, 3 composers, 1 Viking boat: a magical reworking of Norse Mythology for contemporary audiences

 

Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Asgard

Featuring:

Greg Mackie, Lenka Monk, Rebecca Audra Smith and Rob De Born

 

KILLING YMIR

by Greg Mackie

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Between my head and my heart,

there was a no man’s land

the size of Iceland –

all frost and volcanoes.
Ice, to the north –

cold, clinical,

sceptical and cynical.
Fire, to the south –

a passion burning in my gut;

the inevitable contradiction.
And at the centre of this,

rising like a geyser, 

Ymir, the primeval us – 

a mystery

to be broken,

into smaller mysteries,

given names

and meanings.
And so I did –

shatter and scatter

his body and blood,

across worlds –
Until there was

no more left 

of him,

to remind me,

of my ignorance.

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Ymir

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Heimdall’s oath

by Lenka Monk

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I’ve seen it, heard it all
From Midgard of men to mighty Asgard.
No matter the rise, no matter the fall
The rainbow bridge I guard.

The prophecy once told
In the lieu of eloquence,
Speaks of shadows born in a cold
Doused in frosty decadence.

The twisted knots of fate
In the monster’s breath of ice,
Will untangle at the gate
With last roll of a dice.

I will fight to the end
For my realm and my land,
Our hallowed reign I shall defend
With sword in my hand.

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Poem read by Nicky Mortlock on Lenka’s behalf.

Heimdallr

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Frigg Beginnings

by Rebecca Audra Smith

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We began in war,
splitting apart the giant man,
white and frosty with age.

Frigg like an itch a scratch of mothers lives.
Can’t you see, we said to her,
your daughters need to open the world.

One woman hefted a mallet.
We used his lungs to embryo the earth,
wrapping the atmosphere in a fine pink gauze.

The soft tissue of his brain the ocean bed,
here is where the gracious mammals float,
unwieldy and full of old knowledge,
his hippocampus their swimming ground.

Many things were birthed, first came
The small thoughts, then the larger ones
Till we’d built a city out of our need.

And the men, we got them from the flotsam,
The sea-spray, the wreckage of the ocean floor.
We began in war.

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Eight Legged Stallion

by Rebecca Audra Smith

 

Snipped Eight Legged Stalion

 

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Frigg

Loki

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Two Children

by Robert De Born

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Odin and God
made saviours,
grave minds
held prophecies:
the rune and the tablet.

Hung from wood,
pierced with spears;
God knew everything.
Odin didn’t.
God’s child arrived immaculate
in the spaces between
Herod’s fingertips.
An angel watching
held him from apocalypse
in dark places,
fragile as plaster of Paris
but Charis colludes where grace is.

God knew everything.

Odin, when he found
his child taken,
salvation pierced with the spear,
sought the holy virgin;

and appeared first
as a soldier,
broad-shouldered
with polished shoes
and medals from neck to navel

and he asked nicely.

Then appeared a bard,
voice gypsum-rich
with melodies winding as the gamut of the amber trade,
fingers flickering on the lyre
like demons’ tongues

and he asked nicely.

Then appeared,
hands full of washrags

and he raped her.

Blood never looked darker
than against those sheets
as white as Baldr’s skin
and seen through the milky mistletoe
transparency of Odin’s cornea.
And then, collapse.

The eyes of wolves have the golden gaze of a God who knows everything.

An eye bright.
An eye dark.
Night and day fog into one.

Nine nights and days fixed to the tree.

I pace by the wall,

take a lung of air,
a lung of smoke

waiting for poetry
to blossom like murder

on my lips.

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Odin

 

You can read the overview of Asgard here

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Find out more about Greg, Lenka, Rebecca and Rob:

 

Greg Mackie

frenzyofflies.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/FrenzyOfFlies

Lenka Monk

Contact ArtiPeeps

Rebecca Audra Smith

beccaaudra.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/BeccaAudra

Robert De Born

https://twitter.com/RobertDeBorn

robertdeborn.wordpress.com

 

Watch out for more Asgard poetry next week!

As always, thank you for your interest. 

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