The Stark Empire


Even as the flame of snows things is wont
becoming avalanches of oblivion
to stark empire of blank stares only,

So likewise was it there
a pan flute of weeping reeds
to die in fields from point to heel.

Who is that one who writhes fingers
burning the house,
more than the absence of everything
Returns indoors a redder flame –

To that one grapple, from jag to jag
and non-resurrected bodies
If you will have me a flood in a drop of rain
down there along that naked aeons, compliment me,
so that death may be delayed.

Flames fall, star parachute
I stood even as the friar who is beholding many herds
a non-lizard star that will
bow the tail and disappear between
surprised fingers.

The dolorous no,
my eyes will not cry
nor will this mouth weep for terror

I demand darkness


My brain is full of human faces and their faeces
I have shapeless dreams,
but with fierce language

I hate the Sun and its whips
similar to the golden mask of Medusa
my God is a dark hero,
and the demons pursue me.

Like a defeated peacock,
I burry my head into the wet snow,
where the serenity of eternal rest reigns.

I hear a kind of buzz, sounds like people
I hear Beethoven’s music, which spills
out of the whirl of Poe-like terror.

I pierce into the softness of the night
into the dying Sun
measuring my final hours with ancient precision

I demand moonlight and the light
that will go ondeep into the night.
an Arctic star, as enormous as a plate

with two curious eyes,
which will soon crack in the sky.
eternal piece, eternal light..

I demand darkness

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Two, THE HÄSSE CASTLE


Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter One

 

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Two, THE HÄSSE CASTLE

 

“In order for you not to take my manuscript as an excessively modest gift, I must tell you more of the Hässe castle.

“Beyond distant clouds, on the moist ground of Norrbotten, there was the Og lake, speckled with tiny islets. On the Naki island, closest to the coast, the Hässe castle sprouted and grew.

“Once, when I was returning from a campaign, over the frostbitten hill, I saw a castle in the distance, towers which, akin to dancing topaz-color-caped silhouettes, were holding a pierced, pale human being on the tips of their spears. The castle reflected me. That being had been me.

“The road was winding along the hill by the coast, flowing into the bridge which tore the sky asunder reaching for the hilly islet of Naki.

“The stone-cold road not unmade by salt, flimsy and steep, was swallowing the travelers from the North tumbling them down the sharp skin of the Fjalar hill or casting them, wind-bound, in the icy grotto of Hornavan, where their deafening screams could be heard from.

“The travelers who would survive Fjalar would pause in front of Lindworm’s tongue with bulging eyes and mouths-a-shiver, they would turn their horses back and fled meeting the sky herald Gná. The braver ones, clenching the reins, would continue walking towards the abyss of Hornavan. The road was encircled by the desolate surfaces of lakes, as unreachable as whirlwinds, crowned with the snowy soil of Norrbotten, and only in certain places with pine and birch trees dipped in hoarfrost.

“The marble carpet lead to the main gate of the Hässe castle (piercing through a vivid garden, a kind of garden few can boast to possess in this part of the world), over which, branching out, the bridges were connecting the tall towers, therefore I could have entered any part of the castle from the main tower without descending down into the garden.

“There was many a varied seed in the garden, from the date palm which my ancestors brought from the Middle East during the Crusades, to the lilies, hyacinths and other, exotic plants unfamiliar to the climate of Norrbotten. The enchanted seed of death was handled by the gardener woman Hilde, known to me for her conversing with Vidar embodied in the greenery and the woodlands. From the God of the Forests she drew her magic and poured it onto the flowers which had no place in this lifeless land. When death is tangled with life and the course of nature changes, the root unleashes the power of the venom deep, changing the essence of the soil. Both the land and the men have venom sprout from within them. The seed of death revivifies. Creating upside-down tulips which adorn my home, and which Hilde kept warm day and night, stoking the fire in enormous kettles.

“On the double leaf oaken gates which hid away the entrance to the main fort, there was, painted in golden strings, the crest of the brave and gluttonous house – a lion’s paw. It could also have been found on blue banners which were waiving born by the wind up high on the Hässe towers, grasping for the heavens. The windows were guarded by marble manticores, born in the early days of Hässe, threatening with their sharp stings soaked in rainwater.

“When the Lindworm swallows the newcomer, it shows them the ghastly yard in front of the castle. Upon entering the main gate guarded by the maw of the Lindworm, the traveler would note the beaten pathway that leads into the yard and the stalls in the very center of Hässe.

hasse

“The road, vaulted by guard towers speckled in guardsmen, lead to the altar and reeked of cow entrails. The altar, above which the tall defense towers of Hässe lorded over, lay on the dry land, tucked into deerskin and adorned with raven skeletons. In the middle of the altar there was a platter with the pre-read, rotting entrails. ’They feed the vultures of darkness’, I would often personally explain it away to a visitor of my empire who shivered in fear and to whom the dread crawled up the spine… The altar, inflamed in cypress and sandalwood from which the messages meant for the Goddess of Death were smoking, was lined with cracked skulls of those who did not bow. The stone thighs of the altar were sprinkled with blood, some of it animal, some of it human.

“The ritual usually took place at night, when the holy Altar burned ghostly in the middle of the yard. Around it would dance, covered in blood, nude witches, keepers of the scourge. They had in long, thick, blonde hair onyx crystals or raven feathers entwined within them. The head-priestess  would wear a crown of deer antlers. The witches, while chanting a mantra, would dispense soil from the graves around the altar.

‘Oh, Yambe-Akka, all that we offer may now be thine

And no man else’s

Oh Yambe, Goddess of the Underworld, take this gift,

Offer him to your peasant spouse, the God of Death,

So it may be his and no man else’s!’

“Thus the three beautiful witches would chant until they fell to the ground in ecstasy. Then I would approach them, cloaked as if in a pupa, surrounded by a procession of swarthy torchbearers and claimed them, upon which the ritual continued; the tribute would be brought over, completely nude, from the lower chambers, the torture chambers – it is their blood I would drink upon the ritual’s conclusion. Oftentimes I would, when in shortage of manpower and the fear which paced ahead of me like a shade, drink up horse blood in honor of Yambe-Akka.

“ ’Oh Yambe-Akka, let me behold the cruel patterns of the past and the future.’

“ ‘Oh, Yambe-Akka, do not let the premonitions dry up!’, I would utter in an official tone of voice, raising my scepter with both hands. After I had had my fill of the meat, I would take a sharp athame in my hand, doused in blood. Upon the palm of the victim I would personally carve the hagalaz rune, and the Goddess would snatch away the dried away, dead bodies, storing them in the chest of gifts. The vultures of darkness would then disperse on the sky of Norrbotten, chased away by the spirit of the Goddess…

“’’The blade was laid in the carved bone which might have once been an arm of a faithful servant’ – I would tap the traveler on his shoulder – ‘and the altar, an ancient image of divinity’ – I would proudly point towards the extinct altar – ‘will speak the tongue of bones tonight’. Bone-chilling words I would direct at a wealthier yeoman or a more ambitious Brit, who would come as was his duty, quivering like a leaf, to bow down to me and ask for my blessing.

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“The stranger who made his way to Hässe would get a pitcher of wine and a place at the stables to spend the night. I would often, if they hadn’t been of noble birth or ilk, convert them to servants. The nobles received all the comfort of this home and its glimmering guest hall, where they would dine along the tune of the lutes. There had also been the undefeatable ones, who were met with whipping to the death, oftentimes torn limb from limb tied to four horses, and other types of torture which I was coming up with while drinking up the blood-red wine at the dinner table. I would inject vinegar in noblemen’s bodies by means of needles, I tightened their limbs, poured hot tar on them, and from time to time I would toss them in the jail-cells atop the tower where they would die of hunger. Fear of others and their complete despair, oftentimes madness as well, filled me with lechery. The rotten road I walked along, as a man who had within himself made a pact with nature, as well as savagery, stretched onward into infinity. And still the travelers, in a maniacal run, would come to the doorstep of the richest sven, bearing gifts to the master so that he could protect him from vile natures of his subjects and himself.

“Of my rage I could speak a multitude, of the true tendon of evil, the shade of accrete sensuality within my infected blood.

“Thoughts of human nature occupy my mind until the late hours of the night when my thinking faculties wane, up until the early morn when they spark up anew: how much fealty did I really accrue, and how much am I actually bound by fear of the vindicators’ wrath? To what extent had I become the Supreme deviser of the horrific power which always emerges from the blackest night in all of this? I ended the invasion of conscience with bloody campaigns and have thus removed her permanently. It was a shameful act which ate away at me. From my bloody dreams I was woken by the raw explosion in my heart of all the memories of the murders committed. I held them, crucified in my chest, with an occasional squeal of conscience which erased the breath that followed. Understanding the transience of the soul and the motion of time through the howl of the wind, which reached the very distant tops of Norrbotten shackled in eternal ice like an echo, I yearned for eternity, and it had been the light of my dwellings and my cruelty, and because of which I had eventually lost my wits. I had been hot-tempered. Perhaps insane. But, I had been a lord.”

 

Douglas Stewart, USA Mourning, Marchons, ~* ~ Commentary by Leila Samarrai


Douglas Stewart, USA
Mourning, Marchons

Arms they hid beneath their cloaks,
Intent beneath facades of peace,
And fixed their paths toward Montrouge,
A concert, and 130 dead Parisians,
a City Mourning, Marchons.

The City of Light knew then its friends,
they
Rallied from the clovered corners of the planet,
The tears of auld allies and former colonies glisten,
Late enemies stood next to Marianne,
hands clasped in
Mourning, Marchons.

Current adversaries promise support,
old friends
Pledge support and, as 70 years ago, is
Paris Burning?
NO!
The City of Light lifts her torch,
Marianne sings,
Her standards of law and justice remain t
he same. Even in Mourning, Marchons!

~* ~ Commentary by Leila Samarrai:

The poem, ‘Mourning Marchons’, has the character of an anthem as it invokes archetypal images of France to condemn terrorism and to celebrate the best aspects of a country dedicated to liberty. The term ‘Marchons’, references ‘Le Marseillaise’, the national anthem of France, and reminds us all to never give up or despair despite great hardship. The poem opens, in the first stanza, reminding us of the human beings who were murdered by terrorists in Paris. The poet brings ‘Marianne’, an allegory of liberty and reason and a portrayal of the Goddess of Liberty, to life, and reminds us of the famous image by Eugene Delačrois, where Freedom leads the people (” La Liberté guidant le peuple”), conjuring up feelings of power, freedom and victory. The poet calls on the ‘/ marching, even in mourning /’, evoking the final victory of freedom and justice over pain and death. This poem reminds us that despite all that has been lost and is being mourned, France will never change: ‘/ her standards of law and justice /’ will prevail.

Frosini, Fabrizio. POETRY AGAINST TERROR (Kindle Locations 2593-2598). Fabrizio Frosini.

 

Leila Samarrai, Serbia Où vas-tu, Seigneur?


 

A happy game
a first strike
with a ball
in Paris
a first turn
then
turn around
play begins
in Paris

“Où vas-tu, Seigneur?”
The crying stops
the laughter stops
the clocks stop
the dance stops
the ball stops
in midair
breaths are held
the seeds of terror sown
in Paris
“Mais, où étais-tu, Seigneur?”
The jackals and scoundrels
are exposed..
to a fallen mankind
It is the end of the world.
It has begun..

~*~

Commentary by Valsa George Nedumthallil:

As a bolt from the blue, when terrorists abruptly unleashed terror on a group of people who had gathered in the concert hall to spend one evening in joy, they were stupefied by a horror too deep for expression! The poet here has captured that freezing moment in all poignancy. The clocks suddenly stopped and time stood still; the music stopped and the pall of gloom suddenly fell..! Through broken images, the magnitude of the crime and its impact are successfully conveyed. The day is almost like an apocalypse or Doom’s day. The poet denounces the attack as a scoundrels’ act and wonders if the world is falling into the hands of a pack of scoundrels!

FRAGMENTS, “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”, Leila Samarrai


FRAGMENTS

а)

The decomposing hour bleeds
The fields and tree tops
Sweat profusely
Cast down, the branches descend
Into bright summer
And angry dream
The scream of the trees was suffocated
A tree cried for its ripped out leaves
The years poured over the traces.

б)

The dark that envelopes is getting thicker
And his astrological depths
In which the stars hid
Split my soul
To a dream and an abyss
I followed the path of a dream
Into the abyss of darkened things
Stirred up is the step
The shadow escaped
The light dissolved
In the eye
Madness watches over.

ц)
The book spreads the pages for the blind writer
(The harsh plotter skillfully wits)
The written intrigue knows only the dastard
Before the fire of laziness and rough silences
Wild are the words of the stumbled spirit:

„Consolation is needed
for shame from memories
when fallacy trembled …
when colors were violent
and the present far away.”

Burn pages!
Shine, books!
On the radiant obelisk
The living monument!
In frozen air
In fire made white!

д)

Fools
Scrape through tears
And stagger down the corridor
Of Terror
With paper in hand, some chill in the accent
Of a wild stranger, satrap of a persuasive eye
Bossa nova immersed into
The heel of finely step.

е)

The Harlequin cursed the king
The King forgives
He is in the middle of a conquest
While silence screams
The murdered does not speak
The Harlequin listens.