Tag Archives: the realm of the dead

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

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 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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Helheim: ‘Death & Hollows’ 2/2 The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

8 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

 

Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Helheim (The Realm through which men must pass to reach Nifelheim)

Featuring:

Lenka Monk, Ross Beattie, Joanna Lee &

Lydia Allison 

 

All angels go to hell

By Lenka Monk

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The gates open.
The beast’s blood dripping muzzle welcomes me.
On my sin flavoured bones the creature can feast,
Along with an offer of my blackened soul.
Who’s the judge and condemns me to this place?
Who writes the rules and decides what is right and what is wrong?
The brave warriors kill their enemy in their thousands and yet they are sitting up in Valhalla, drinking wine for eternity.
Never mind the innocent they slaughtered and called it collateral damage in the name of their Gods.
What God justify killing?!
I have not hurt anyone I have not taken a life.
I only loved.
Maybe wrongly by their standards, but still only loved.
In spite of this terrible place and the suffering, in my mind there’s no doubt.
I would do it all over again, without question, without so much as miniscule pause.
I have lived my life by my rules, not by their misguided sense of righteousness.
So come! Tear at my flesh, tear at my heart, tear at everything that you
find so awfully disgusting about me!
And I shall laugh, for there’s nothing that you can take from me anymore.
I left all that mattered, all that was good and pure somewhere else.
Somewhere you cannot touch.
Somewhere immortal.

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My Helheim

by Ross Beattie

When will the wolf swallow the sun ?
I’m strung out again with another deadline tapping at the shade covered windows. 
Prompts and papers submerge the fragility of the only realm I really know.
I’m trapped here.
Waiting for the night.
Hoping for help to cross the hills with the arrival of darkness. 
But as I wait, the shades will stay tightly drawn. 
The wolf’s scream pierces through my every half attempt to care, as I hide in the isolation. 
I can no longer leave, and nothing inside me desires to free. 
I watch the cracks below the door for the gentle flow of blood. 
As only then will I be safe from these endless winters and the shadow of the trembling tree might stop plaguing my mind. 

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mist

by Lydia Allison

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in the place of misery
of those who died happy. those who felt
the soft lover press on their last breath.

the crawling surface of gjoll
resembles rainfall
the way water seems
to reach up
to break from the moving weight. straining
to join the clearing air.

here. at the end of all
is the source of the wind
that changes life to fire and skeletons and ash.
sighs through the sweeping
changing wall of fog.

the breeze carries to the graves of grey souls
and hits on the doors of the living
like cold palms. like
the desperate man who only wants
to come home.

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The sybil’s lyric

 by Joanna Lee

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We have lingered far too long
in the land of these dead, buried
beneath roots of returning sadness,
longing for a new start, fair and green,
for that which is hidden
to disappear in the rivermud of April,
for autumn to be born again.

The despair grows quiet and hungry
and damp, so down and to the north
beside a bend in the river of knives,
under a blue back-lit moon I weigh my heart
and lay myself to wait for the end of days
when the watchman of the giants
hunches to tune his harp.

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Find out more about Lenka, Ross and Lydia here:

Lenka Monk

Contact ArtiPeeps

Ross Beattie

blackpoemblues.weebly.com

https://twitter.com/blackpoemblues

Lydia Allison

lydiaallison.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/LydiaAllison13

Joanna Lee

the-tenth-muse.com
https://twitter.com/la_poetessa

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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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Helheim: ‘Death & Hollows’ 1/2 The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

30 Apr

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

 

Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Helheim (The Realm through which men must pass to reach Nifelheim)

Featuring:

Nat Hall, Shirley Golden and Jim C. Mackintosh

 

The Sandglass

by Nat Hall

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Don’t mistake time for gravity

Each sand grain slides
between two
realms,
the
one
you toss
when you feel
lost, the one Nanna
drowned in her
tears.
Vertical
bridge of sand and
shells, the one
that never
brings
driftwood –
the one shipbuilders
curse like hell, as
fingers erase
their
stories;
the
one too
aware of sunsets
swallowed by a wolf
known as Sköll.

At either end,
dead man fingers…

Now let fate
toss sand grains & glass,
Hel dreams of
domino
effect,
dots,
ellipsis to Ragnarök.

© Nat Hall 2015

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Strata and Strata of Faults Through Time

by Shirley Golden

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The mud slows his progress. But he moves; his feet and arms rake the sludge. Around him explosions, bullets like hailstones, hammer from the sky.

Annie, safe at home with their boy, Victor, he hopes. Fourteen, an only son – late, unexpected blessing. When Victor talked of signing up, he forbade it. Victor called him an old man for that, said the king needed fit, young fighters. Those were his parting words.

He surveys the ground, strewn with half-submerged bodies. Explosions flare, illuminating the dark and signalling that their raid has been discovered. Blood of the fallen, thick in his nostrils taints the back of his throat.

He can see worm paths moulded by those who’d managed to slip in before him. The damp seeps through his coat and he’s never felt so cold. He finds the edge of the trench and checks it is safe to descend. He grips his trench knife and wades towards the boom of battle.

One of the fallen men stirs as if raised from the dead. The soldier charges him in a maelstrom of screams and bullets and panic, until a ring of silence suggests spent ammunition. He scans frantically, feeling for blood, expecting pain to rip through his chest. By some miracle he’s bullet-free. He snarls and thrusts the knife towards the enemy. It sinks past cloth and flesh. He stabs once, twice, three times. The soldier’s weight falls heavy on him, and they collapse in a misshapen embrace.

He catches a boy in his arms; perhaps no older than Victor. The boy struggles to speak, blood in his windpipe, and gargles out one word: “Väter.”

He shoves the body off and staggers forward. His own heartbeat aches in his ears. He thinks this winter of war will never end.

It’s cold all the time; the sun, ingested by vaporous jaws. The earth shudders. He’d seen trees tremble, their branches split and plummet. Men, covered in sores, and who shouldn’t be breathing, somehow clawed their way back from no man’s land and begged to be shot. They are all of them evil. Shooting and stabbing. And killing. Fathers and sons.

He drops to his knees. This place is a netherworld, bodies rotting beneath strata and strata of faults through time.

…………………………………………***
But beyond we see a future field, shrouding the nameless dead. And running free, a boy weaves through countless graves; he is blood and bones a part of the remains. Decay nurtured seeds, emerged from black soil, where flowers bloom from mud in ribbons of red and gold.

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another one passes north

by Jim Mackintosh

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interminable arteries /
…………bruising night hours

pumping ground /
…………..with molten choke

thunderous blows /
…………on galloping flights

:burning:
:absorbing:

[blood] [oxygen] [concrete]
[diesel] [tarmac] [death]

bones shake from the penetration
the hymn of the dark riders passing

……………………………..another one passes north

here am I, a sleepless soul
vulnerable to the consequence
of hours locked by the night

tell me how, tell me why /

among the distrustful hours
where cruel masks of light scar
the bulwarks of my existence

……………………………..another one passes north

weighed down with plunder
drenched in the urgent pound
of broken roads, brittle lives
the malignant sludge of profit

………………………………another one passes north

tell me where, tell me when /

beyond the demolish of sun
when we run out of days
when the dark riders stop
what then?

………………………..another one passes north

burning sulphur in the gallop
in the interminable hours
flattening the arteries
mile by mile
until /

……………………………north has died in the night

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Find out more about Nat, Shirley and Jim here:

Nat Hall

nordicblackbird.weebly.com

https://twitter.com/nordicblackbird

Shirley Golden

shirleygolden.net

https://twitter.com/shirl1001

Jim C. Mackintosh

bigbaffy.com

https://twitter.com/JimCMackintosh

 

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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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Helheim: ‘Death & Hollows’ The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

23 Apr

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

 

Poems and Writing inspired by the Norse realm of Helheim (The Realm through which men must pass to reach Nifelheim)

Featuring:

Eleanor Perry, James Knight and Tom Murphy

 

6.

whip shrug figurations

by Eleanor Perry

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we dig grisly at the slagheap ridge | where stark
proteins broke in the ash | there are high-voltage
moths and tumours in the masonry | brash ga-ga-
ganglia lolling in twists and graphs | and that tweed
squirm in the kitchen, darting and novelizing, all
sleaze and gravel shudder | we need to wake up
next to the aluminium industry | pull hungry and
hip reckless | our hardboard tetrahedral gods –
bright and shining with their clerical safeguards |
this is rock-n-surf | there are no other meat splinters
in the fissuring hour of the liver | and I have put the
whole galaxy into spilth and multicode | these back-
lands full of weird mimiviruses frothing in the gaps |
high-balling in the green of telemarketing | where I
quietly slang viridians

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Hel

by James Knight

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Switch on
Switch off

Silvered faces
Inside the mirror

Do come in
Make yourself at home

WTF! I can’t see a thing
Only my face
I look like a fucking weirdo
What’s going on with my eyes?

Switch on
Switch off

Fold yourself up, put yourself in my hand
Wait

Switch on
Switch off

It’s simply not true to claim that we’re the party of privilege
We stand for honest, decent, hard-working

Switch on
Switch off

Drive more website traffic
In fact, our data shows that using a
Drives 43% more engagement

Silvered faces
At home

My eyes

Put yourself in my hand

Switch on
Switch off
Switch on
Switch

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Part 6

Helheim

by Tom Murphy

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the creepy motherfucker never unchancy
reeled and hollered
as I removed the breath from his throat

snow crunched and swirled
I crunched and swirled
he grew cooler

there was a boast
an insult or two
breaths he should have kept to himself

blood was spilled of course
coursing unbound
feezing on the ground

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Find out more about Eleanor, James and Tom here:

Eleanor Perry

https://twitter.com/nellperry

James Knight

thebirdking.com

https://twitter.com/badbadpoet

 Tom Murphy

https://twitter.com/sandcave

.

As always, thank you for your interest.

 

The Nine Realms Indiegogo Campaign:

http://igg.me/at/the9realms

.

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