Tag Archives: Ymir

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

.

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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Asgard: ‘Warriors and Ravens’ 2/5′ The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

20 Nov

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:

Shirley Golden, John Mansell, Lydia Allison, Ross Beattie

 

Yggdrasill Groans

by Shirley Golden

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So here am I: ancient, wise and eternal. Rooted in the heart of Asgard, I channel into lower realms. Above, my canopy extends as a shield for all creation. Always was and is and will be, so they say. You might imagine that one of my standing would claim attention and be heeded. If only. Ra-ta-tap, ra-ta-tap: paws scurry along bark and branch from source to crown, conducting a berserk exchange. Together. Apart. Deep in the soil, Nidhogg’s scales abrade my knotted foundations. His teeth rip and tear, keen to unearth. Deer and harts snack on my shoots before I have time to unfurl. I’m gnawed and chewed upon, hung from, and tapped for sweet knowledge. But it’s never enough. Trouble is the gods aren’t so gifted to keep calm, listen or reflect.

Look at him, running around with his stunted hammer, trying to wield notions of equality, and him a god. Granted, he has a stout heart and likes to keep things in order, but why oh why can he never grasp when he’s being tricked by those frost giants? And the Allfather with his all-seeing eye? Pah! I mean, how often does He neglect to observe the rascal’s antics? Time and again the shape-changer creates chaos, and with his wheedle words slithers out of predicaments, slippery as a fish. Will they never learn? How many times can one make amends with ill-gotten gifts? I blame the eye. Sacrificed for wisdom, but He failed to appreciate the value of depth perception.

Is that harsh? I’m old, too old and cranky. If it wasn’t for the Norns and their care, I’d have rotted long ago. I tire of the gods and their games. It’s all act, act, act; treks to other realms, tests and trials. Who’s the toughest or the swiftest? I do my best to give sound counsel but I’m unconvinced that they hear me. All they sense is a susurration of leaves, lifted by the breeze, from which they seize a sketchy message and thunder ahead, regardless.

The wind gusts his ice-breath and my joints creak and moan, but I’ve seeds to sow and trust that one day they’ll take. Understand that I’ve considered on countless occasions what I might say (if only I could articulate their words, and if only they’d be still and mark my warnings). And the best advice I could offer?

“Whatever you do, don’t listen to Loki.”

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Yggdrasil

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Asgard

by John Mansell

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I

Slaked emptied the meaded-horns.
The soothsayer’s runes yield their redden field.
The smoke coil-feast entwining the bowed heads of Long Serpents
bobbing with rimmed-eyed-red.
The feast for slaughter to wed the lost to death.

Grim battle carrion shredded bannered.
The disjointed stride of deed beneath the beak.
Splashed vivid and dripping the echoes of dawn.
War hounds draped in the grim spoils between the broken weaponry.
The shattered bodies sprawl by jewel tipped shaft.

II

By Bifrost span the heralded torn from earthly womb.
The golden shrill shouts of the choosers of the slain.
Renewal of strength, rearmed and armoured
by the wall of spears and the shielded roof.
Aesir-dwellers in brine enactment of that perfect fate.

The daily spectacle before Geri and Freki by their Master’s feet;
by Huguinn and Muninn at the godly ear.
And man’s desire to repeat his seething deeds,
rehealed and re-aled beneath the folds of Frigga’s sky,
reveals no boy returning from whence only men filed.

III

Far below, the earthly funeral lights the dimming horizon.
Adorning glory. The warriors muster and poets sing.
The brutal ferocity glad against the breast of night.
And in humble earth-wood home the hero’s woman
beside another who soon will taste the meaded-horn.

And all men by their camped fires recite the lists of dead.
Who line abreast four score by ten the many rounded doors.
The quieting scene. The poet eyes the distant moraine.
And hums in rhythm and fighting rhyme
His battle hymn to those aloft in eternal praise.

 

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Poem read by Nicky Mortlock on John’s behalf.

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they never said

by Lydia Allison

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dying is travelling
a light-year in a second
completely alone,
in a sense you have never felt before
not in dreams or worship
or bleak nights.

I was part of the writhing mass
the storming spreading attack
part of the dance between me and that
man that other warrior that superior clan
I was part of that
company, closer than everything
and when I look back
his face was the face of my wife.

did he look away out of shame
for my weakness shame
for his own life shame
for how tenderly my body leaned to his blade.

here is the look of oil on water
like heaven’s reflection you can touch.
as a child I chased rainbows
made idols from glass refractions,
stooped in the road.

I see thickly, this space shimmers with moving light
violet edging faces I know
and I mourn my rainbow
revising memories of blood
the sun, fresh leaves, and sky,
pure darkness, and white light of ash
and I weep clear tears
laced with the pigments of the dead.

they never said it’s just like living,
seeing one colour
and searching for your own heartbeat.
and when you go it’s more like
everybody you’ve known is falling
away, leaving you to grieve in morbid hope that they
would not, that they would stay.

 

Lydia on her poem: ‘One of the things that intrigued me most throughout the reading was the idea of light a rainbow/bifrost, acting as a bridge to Asgard’.

MP3 to come.

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Asgard

by Ross Beattie

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Stand beside me brother and together we can begin again.
Only through death can we break the existence in which we suffer.
We will wash our exhausted hands in the blood filled rivers, before growing strength again to walk fearlessly through the doubt.
Will we ever know if we are too afraid to try ?
I see the palaces in my mind, huge hallways and gold walled rooms, beauty in our control from the sacrifices we choose to make.
Wisdoms waits at the end of the battle, and even though we cannot see what lays ahead we mustn’t turn our heads now from fear as that will make this an ending instead of the beginning that it stands to be.
So stand strong beside me and we will cover the ground in flesh, and build every single mountain from the bones we will rip away from the deathly cold that controls all we see.
And from there we can create all that I know is possible.

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You can read the overview of Asgard here

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Find out more about Shirley, John, Lydia and Ross:

 

Shirley Golden

shirleygolden.net

https://twitter.com/shirl1001

John Mansell

https://twitter.com/JohnMansell1

Lydia Allison

http://lydiaallison.wordpress.com/

https://twitter.com/LydiaAllison13

Ross Beattie

http://blackpoemblues.weebly.com/

https://twitter.com/blackpoemblues

 

Watch out for more Asgard poetry next week!

As always, thank you for your interest. 

.

Asgard: ‘Warriors and Ravens 1/5’ The Nine Realms- Poems and Writing

13 Nov

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:

Tom Murphy, Joanna Lee, James Knight, Nat Hall

 

Asgard

by Tom Murphy

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on the first night I was called by the jackdaw
tapping on the sill after the moon went dark
“fly” she said, and I was able to follow
a cold night but I soared
over the meadow
into the wood
across the bridge

I saw bodies hanging in the tree
the nine lives offered
the snake
the wolf
the elk
the hare
the frog
the cat
the fox
the calf

by the fire
the old man sat
a circle already prepared
so deep was his look
he saw my birth
through my left eye

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All the world needs is another dumb princess

by Joanna Lee

 

Jpeg All the World by Joanna Lee

 

Click on the poem to enlarge. 

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To find out more about the back-story to this poem click here.

 

 Ymir

by James Knight

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Ymir used to be a big nothing;
Now he’s everything. 

His hair is the grass, the trees, the reeds
His scalp is the desert
His skull is the empty vault of space
His brain is telecommunications
His skin is a reality made of matter and mirages
His forehead is the Ten Commandments
His eyebrows are lethargy and a thousand easy lies
His eyelashes are the meshes of love
His eyes are stars, supernovas, lightbulbs, fireworks, napalm, nuclear war
His ears are the remains of imaginary animals 
His nose is a sad farewell
His nostrils are wormholes to another dimension where the Bird King reigns from his electric throne
His lips are a debate on the meaning of the word “jihad”
His teeth are Coca Cola
His tongue is mother of all languages 
His cheeks are zoology
His chin is Mount Olympus 
His neck is an execution at dawn
His shoulders are art installations attempting controversy through the juxtaposition of childhood and terrorism 
His arms are escape routes to Hell
His hands are bird cages or prison cells or holding bays or rooms without doors 
His chest is archaeology 
His ribcage is the phantom city at dusk
His heart is time
His lungs are the four winds, weather, disaster
His abdomen is sentiment
His digestive system is a labyrinth of corridors and offices 
His hips are cemeteries
His genitals are every whimsical thought anyone has ever had
His legs are mannequins staring murderously at passersby
His feet are oceans. 

The rest of Ymir remains uncatalogued
In boxes 
In a basement 
Under the ruins of a building
Forgotten by the story-tellers.

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Title Jpeg

(Superstition)

by Nat Hall

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Feel flight feathers & falcon’s skin.

Now walk through clouds, realm of Æsir,
where ravens perch on primal
strand of the rainbow;
where rain falls red
and Mjollnir *
sleeps –
he
who
wears blue
will not be seen as the shaman,
but a rider extraordinaire –
Huginn & Muninn**
side by side,
birds of
battle wish for
wisdom.
Rumour rambles
inside gods’ dreams, he
who controls the many moods of
heavens’ eyes, fruits of
the Earth and fights
giants, can be
called in the name of law,
farming men frown to his chariot…
Skygods in mighty citadel,
home inside halls, walls built by a tricked
gigantic mason,
there is a sly one among them –
he might just be a half-brother, metamorphic,
so fair of face, unafraid to turn a
stallion, hides black inside.
And if you doubt
superstition,
wait for the slain,
flames, ferryman – hear
valkyries*** run on
floorboards,
stand
on
other side of
the shore.

Now let gods gaze at the cauldron.

Let them drink tides of golden
mead brewed for them in
the sea god’s hall.
From his high
seat at
Valaskjalf*.
He, mighty seer, surveys it all in the nine realms.

© Nat Hall 2014

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1 * Mjollnir: Thor’s hammer;’** Huginn & Muninn: Odin’s ravens – Huginn (thought) & Muninn (Memory)
2 ***Valkyries: Odin’s twelve maidens who conducted the slain warriors of their choice from the battlefield to
Valhalla (Vikings’ paradise). Valaskjalf: Odin’s Hall

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You can read the overview of Asgard here

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Find out more about Tom, Joanna, James and Nat here:

Tom Murphy

https://twitter.com/sandcave

Joanna Lee

http://the-tenth-muse.com/

https://twitter.com/la_poetessa

James Knight

http://thebirdking.com/

http://chimeragroup.wordpress.com/

https://twitter.com/badbadpoet

Nat Hall

http://nordicblackbird.weebly.com/

https://twitter.com/nordicblackbird

 

Watch out for more Asgard poetry next week!

As always, thank you for your interest. 

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