Poetry

[Heith]

BABA YAGA

Darkness nuzzles me
wants me

the night hisses,
a mortar of stars

the river laps
to a forbidden closeness

it brings me branches unraveling
sinews of wood

I bring it the white scar
that swift cuts my throat

Worm, be my needle,
I'll be the thread

I burrow under an alder root

*

Ants make a bracelet
across my wrist

the sun starts
small fires in my hair

I drift in the slow
breathing of the trees

forgotten thighs
eroding shoulders

the silk of bones
unstitching like a lost forest

*

Here is the paw of a mole
I remember with it

Here is the horn of a snail
I feel with it

Here is the wing of a moth
I burn with it

Here's the heart of a deer
I killed in place of a young girl
I forgive with it

*

My hands are leaving me

I confess to the grass and refuse
the black closing of its roots

I float face down in nothing
and cast dice with the bones of God

I rock in death as a cradle
and want everything

*

I steal your fingernail parings

I steal your shadow to feed
the dark of the moon

I steal your thoughts to teach
foxes the softness of hens

I steal the words you didn't say
the children you didn't have

you are afraid of me
a woman with two hearts

one of which doesn't
need love


-Oriana Ivy

[Circaeon]

Since a previous scribbler advertised a desire for poems authored by fellow (forum) members, I will contribute with a small piece that I wrote back in 2011. Note that this particular poem has since then been recorded by a Swedish Black Metal orchestra. The sole reason to this choice of poem is that I did not have access to any other non-Swedish pieces. I also wanted to contribute to the content of this thread, with the humble expectation that other members will follow and flood this eminent section with their own work.


Qayin's Hunt

Crimson chariots proclaim the dusk
Skeletal escorts from the grave
Durable shapes on thundering hooves
In fierce but honorable fame

Celestial formations waken the world
Wanton iron scorch and parch
On this ruthless storm called time
A clamorous kinship harsh

Salve Qayin ben Samael!

Blackthorn wands salute the battalion
With profound tales of arcane lore
Sleek robes and bloodied scythes
A scourge from distant shore

Frenzied death on phantom steeds
The harvesters all in blood dimmed haze
Below this stern formation
A tarnished dome in abundant blaze

A primordial force unleashed
Strenuous spirits on somber ride
This sweet chalice of foul plot
We devour on fate astride

Salve Qayin Coronatus!

[Heith]

Thanks for sharing, it's always interesting to see what people create. Which black metal band is this written for, if you don't mind me asking?

[Circaeon]

Thanks for sharing, it's always interesting to see what people create. Which black metal band is this written for, if you don't mind me asking?

I believe the answer to that particular question is None. I did however, later on, donate the poem to a band called Nefandus.

[obnoxion]

WISHFUL VERSE

Oh, grant that I may
In the early hour of the day
Speak to thee like peasants speak
Unto their God

- as to a silent friend
whose mouth never opens
and whose eyes never close-

In the early hour of the day.


And grant that I may
Never hear thee say
Thine True Word
Which no man can bear

- as for those whispers of the morn
that linger past the noon
and disturb the sacredness of sleep -

Oh, grant that I may never hear.

[obnoxion]

Ouija
- by Sylvia Plath


It is a chilly god, a god of shades,
Rises to the glass from his black fathoms.
At the window, those unborn, those undone
Assemble with the frail paleness of moths,
An envious phosphorescence in their wings.
Vermilions, bronzes, colors of the sun
In the coal fire will not wholly console them.
Imagine their deep hunger, deep as the dark
For the blood-heat that would ruddle or reclaim.
The glass mouth sucks blood-heat from my forefinger.
The old god dribbles, in return, his words.

The old god, too, writes aureate poetry
In tarnished modes, maundering among the wastes,
Fair chronicler of every foul declension.
Age, and ages of prose, have uncoiled
His talking whirlwind, abated his excessive temper
When words, like locusts, drummed the darkening air
And left the cobs to rattle, bitten clean.
Skies once wearing a blue, divine hauteur
Ravel above us, mistily descend,
Thickening with motes, to a marriage with the mire.

He hymns the rotten queen with saffron hair
Who has saltier aphrodisiacs
Than virgins' tears. That bawdy queen of death,
Her wormy couriers are at his bones.
Still he hymns juice of her, hot nectarine.
I see him, horny-skinned and tough, construe
What flinty pebbles the ploughblade upturns
As ponderable tokens of her love.
He, godly, doddering, spells
No succinct Gabriel from the letters here
But floridly, his amorous nostalgias.

[Circaeon]

Another self-authored - abstract - poem which subject deals with a transmutative crossing of the abyss from an emotional (and qliphothic) perspective. In Swedish.

Scharlakansrodnad I: De sovande klockspelen

Det brinnande tornet
Balsamiska vindar av död
Den alkemiska kärlekens crescendo
Så bländande scharlakansröd

Vitmenade monoliter och brustna domer
Kondolerade i aska och metall
Lucida drömmar om släckta metropoler
Blixtrande sekvenser av kristall

Bemästrade kampaniler
En förintad inre civilisation
Kuvade kolonner och ruiner
Kontamination

VISIO - VIRES - ACTIO

Vulkanisk transmutation
Litanior av nöd
En vision ur Mahabharata
Så bländande scharlakansröd

Ett contrapasso av svavel och kvalm
Orationer i ett mausoleum
Kärva visioner ur en kanonisk psalm
Född som en ulv i veum

Sovande klockspel i limbo
Till eldstormens understöd
Mental konvalescens
Så bländande scharlakansröd

GOLACHAB - THAGIRION - GHA'AGSHEBLAH

Förbränn de inre landskapen
Illuminera min nakna resa
Över Masak Mavdils vatten

ZAZAS ZAZAS NASATANADA ZAZAS

En förnimmelse av transcendens
Skönare än Pachelbels Canon
Ett penrosemönster i onåd
Och en rämnad bastion

Störtade troner i kristalldamm
Badande i silver och vild passion
Lust och lidande blir ett
Transmutation

Beskåda nu återfödelsen
Illusionens död
Det nakna självets skönhet
Brinner scharlakansröd

[Circaeon]

[quote="obnoxion"]WISHFUL VERSE

Oh, grant that I may
In the early hour of the day
Speak to thee like peasants speak
Unto their God

- as to a silent friend
whose mouth never opens
and whose eyes never close-

In the early hour of the day.

And grant that I may
Never hear thee say
Thine True Word
Which no man can bear

- as for those whispers of the morn
that linger past the noon
and disturb the sacredness of sleep -

Oh, grant that I may never hear.[/quote]

Amazing poetry.

[obnoxion]

Thank you for your nice comment, Circaeon! I love poetry above all. For me poetry is such a vital part of religion that the two cannot be separated. In a way I agree with William Blake in that religion is a by-product of poetry.

[Mimesis]

For me poetry is such a vital part of religion that the two cannot be separated. In a way I agree with William Blake in that religion is a by-product of poetry.

I agree with this entirely, and the sentiment I believe works both ways, in that poetry is also a by-product of religion.