Our Poetry section begins with the last of a poetic conversation between two current NS friends, Heinrich and Giselda, who share a vivid memory of past life together. We continue with reminisces, including one which went through secure and non-reversible channels from a member of the Last Battalion. "Diviner" explores the rapprochement of a racialist man and 'New Age' woman, who little realizes that much of her knowledge was common in the Thule Gemeinschaft and other esoteric societies behind the Realm. Next, in "Day is Done" an Odinist family man ponders the difficult juggling act of raising children in a dysfunctional society, trying to make a difference on whatever small a scale, and continuing one's own evolution. In our final selection, "The Center of Things," inspired by a phrase from Yeats, we consider the collapse of a central Idea in the West and how this shift in the mass consciousness impacts the individual, tying together themes from the preceding poems.
Yes, I was beside you.
You kissed me, and this in another body, another life,
but I knew then that I had always know this.
Later, months later, you wrote of it- why did I bite my lip -
and the tear in eye's corner? - this you saw
and I tell you it was mni�; it had flooded back,
Breslau in the dark, late winter of '45,
ruins and a remaining inn, our room on the third floor-
a rare off-day for an SS nurse- Americans had bombed the hospital-
few survived to be cared for.
There I was, a captain in armaments since being too
wounded in the East to return to the line - and more I don't recall-
such etchings in mind's eye are vague.
We'd gone to our lodging, and to each other's solace,
the blackout like so many nights before it.
A rumbling and the earth groaned and we never spoke of shelters-
both had seen enough of death and there we were - the
chandelier shook and all was light, then darkness,
and suddenly you beside me, fifty and a half years later,
so bittersweet and yet so sweet, hence the tear - it was you.
What else will come to me? Who can know, or even stop to think.
You'll find me crazy to have wrote this - I then Heinrich
and you Giselda.
That's enough said, must send this 1200 miles, thinking.
I am of whole wheat, Goddess of Earth, of grains -
I can toast it if you like,
Oh, here's our friend, Hi, kitty.
Up half the night again, eh?
Coffee's not so strong as you make it.
Here you are again, mad poet.
I see you standing on a windy cliff.
Hawkish profile set defiantly against the icy chill,
a Gothic scene perhaps,
Wrapped in a shawl, I appear by your side with a slight cough.
I am dutiful/ rescued from the cold- inside we drink tea.
We sit, sipping it in silence, the glow of the fire
your wind-burned face sets off your eyes, �sa blue,
hold me transfixed.
Now, kneeling at my feet, head in my lap,
I stroke your fine blond hair, sideburns rough, unshaven.
My poor darling, I love you so much.
Rest here; rest a while.
Must you be so driven?
Need I ask?
For it was given to me to understand this quest,
Share this great burden of knowledge and truth-
now ask for change? And at our age?
You know we died in a bombing raid,
in incredibly passionate love-making?
Then you must remember the time
I had too much champagne,
and insulted one of your superiors.
All the way back to the hotel
you swore in High German.
When I burst into tears, you relented, muttering,
"I don't know why, but I love you, you crazy bitch."
Darkness had fallen on the Realm-
the bombing was incessant- the very heart of the Reich
you said. I appreciated your driving me there,
the weedy field, raw in Snowing's chill, hangars in
When we are together, the bed is a boat of dreams -
ever the poetess, I could not speak the loss -
you will return, after the war? - this much
is paid to secrecy and desperate measures in time of war.
The pilot awaited aboard the slender Storch
and I touched my cap to wave you goodbye,
the black leather of my coat snug against the edge of wind.
Flights in darkness and landing by hand torch at Kiel,
a stranger journey to stranger realms than I had known.
We left this very plane, as Baldur we knew would take aside
Valiant Watchers to return after Ragnar�k- months at sea,
distant ports, and places too far to tell you- exceptional men-
I remembered the sober night, earlier that same month, within
the Wotan's Spear castle where the priest had lain the curse
that those who would conquer us, bring brown minions to our soil,
bring upon themselves the same, who bomb the factories owned by
workers shall have their own sold by their masters and know
our raw hunger.
You cannot know what I have done these fifty years-
it did not stop, you know, our Black Corps never yielded-
like brothers before us to the Gods' Twilight Army,
made war in the shadows for all this while.
Now I return, and soon the rest from our valiant band.
You would not know me, love, for I have scarcely changed-
the things we learned!
But I am back and know that long ago you left our land to reside
in the place claimed of our enemy.
And I think none the less of you, for there are no pockets in the last suit,
and all of the Last Battalion were thought dead,
But I am back to witness the End of those whore nations-
soon, my love, soon, our brothers, no longer silent, will return.
I am at your old block, a bit of Munich not razed.
I seal this and place it in the box to send three thousand miles, thinking.
Things done, yes, lover, and we have put aside the day,
as it were a glass, washed, dried wiped shiny, and in
that fruitful silence is the womb of worlds, the Gap of all creation,
making and remaking itself, a surging blind force through us
and otherways, the play of energies, Primal, playing with itself,
and, I cannot let you slip another cover of lives and lies upon it,
dear one, there is no face upon it.
Nacht's moment, and I see Her work, oh, the dark mare She
rode across the colours of Dellings' winterwork of western pastels!
Yes, I see, and in the shifting textures of our surfaces of life,
those very contexts so dear we hold, are They,
our Gods and Goddesses, so very much alive,
beyond the conscious grasp, beneath even the very
Names of Days, and the times of stone upon shadow upon ground beneath Himmin, for this too was a Norse word, grandsire of our own bastard tongue
in the days when no dark shadows danced upon the Briton moor and
all each man could use and each homestead by tribal law secured,
despite clan squabbles Pax Celtica an thousand years.
Things done, children abed, the house dimming, and I shall not
retreat to the well-lit darkness of alien artificial hearths, no
I shall seek Those whose names be Menglad or Rast, ever
derive of Light, from the Black Sun, whose inner light
illumines each corner of the soul this dark-housed eve,
whence stillness shall be filled as blazes the Torchman,
and I am one with thousands of boots on stone, a hopeful,
promising tread, of sun-wheels lit public and bare for all to see
that living Lords of Light be reborn, and that same spirit in us moves.
Speak not of "hate", lady-love, though that is your conditioning and
those who have only named the poisoners of the Pierian Spring you call,
not those who choke and poison knowledge at its root, as information, not
those who smile in public but are the polished visage of swarthy men in
shadows, much taken of blood-there is your 'hate!'
Much has yielded to their force, their lies and money, the power of filth-
the last priests tried to warn us, the Gods bless them!- trotted into common terms with their uncommon intuition- to fable and parable the warning-
'wolf in sheeps' clothing and the black-robed life-usurpers never knew-
their paschal lamb and the Fenris Wolf the same.
In this quiet time, They manifest, in quiet and patience,
even in the finality of this foul system's fading, is manifest
that which renews, can take and learn and See,
can act beyond self-interest, Samtak- the ancients of our Folk knew
"we pull together"- and the whittling upon ancient stone
is that of men straining together at ropes to haul a ship-
and the image is there to see, a ship of state, Frey's Ship of Dreams
all of joined effort moven- and no conflict by force alone but spirit.
This I See in the quiet time, and am no seer,
but the Fates gifted that it speak through me-
what our path seeks is sustaining,
what is the thrust of His great spear - renewal,
for all things left alone when they are understood,
unnecessary to alter the flow of things - only to know it.
Your path is to change it all, to mix, to alter, to look
for union in the chatter of cosmic diversity, and the unity is only
your own self that cannot depth the chaos, so inverts it -
what you cannot know, with your conditioning,
is that my way is to value the Dogon astrologer, the If� bronze-caster,
and the coyote-dancer, each as his own, a wondrous corner of the world-
these yours would only rape with open pit mines and laboratory corn,
not for dry regions, bringing shortage, and coopting, exporting, importing,
knocking over all sensible barriers which time and space wove on the loom
of the Fates- we call it 'differences'- those who would conserve them,
you say "hate-mongers", and I tell you there is nothing more hateful
than that those walls be shattered and their contents forever mix and scatter.
Womb of possibility and knowing is the profound event,
multiplicity playing with itself, and complexity born to itself,
seed-head, womb and babe at once, but always plural
our consciousness but a snapshot fired from a moving train
lighting but a small swath of track ahead in dark terrain.
And I accept this, for I am Pagan and feel it surging beneath the flow of me,
a multi headed hydra of 'its',
and I accept that all is plural, that I cannot own nor fathom all,
nor even capitalize it as a fact - force moves beneath force in teeming Celtic knotwork
and that I cannot fix it but by choice accept -
and this is love, or love of truth, to know this true place.
And here, in the silent darkness, They bore us and are born,
choose we now our Gods and They us in turn.
Love born late in living, and I imagine myself and you
years hence, in my longitudinal grasp of mind,
and project all that appreciates itself already,
your perfect memory, recounting the slightest
that I said for later examining- do I make you that insecure?
And it is not difficult to imagine your pixie-inquisitive face,
your hazel, laughing eyes, your tongue that wraps itself around
languages with native understanding,
not difficult at all to picture you, with me.
A different faith animates you, kind of a Celticized Christ,
so different from the Kabbalist fiction of that black book.
I know you know that there is more than one way
although your mind rebels at imagining a world in which masters
lay snares for 13 generations ahead and I understand-
too much evil is unimaginable, though it is real.
You go about the healer, tending your broken animal friends,
the kind of heart the tv likes to bend to third world donations,
but now you know, the children of Viet Nam,
and the Hitler Youth, fought different heads of the same hydra,
spat back futile bullets as bombs rained on villages,
a prayer for peoples and places to be let alone,
but they told you only one of these stories, love-
NBC is no prophet, only puppet, and you shirk
seeing the puppeteer.
Some very goodness animates you,
your girlish figure bends over rosemary, bergamot, mint-
your squirrels chatter in the small safe space, your yard,
sanctuary of Nature.
All that you are speaks to heal, to nurture,
yet none have nurtured you.
Now come, and know, goddess of the high-arched feet
and gliding gait, that it awaits you, sanctuary of the heart,
safe from the world your faith built
amongst the last White men,
reclaiming faith and honor.
And I cannot know your ways too well-
histories can be painful-
could mine be prickly too?
I only know as you are, dreamer,
yet it seems transparent, your stirring our fire
in a cabin in Oregon's forest,
and I bring you tea and hidden stories,
and help our children tend the orchard.
Night descends on our world from actions made long ago,
matters on which we were never asked, and Earth
shall speak, shall reclaim in dread
what was taken in greed-
a long winter awaits-
shall we be blessed, the seeds of Renewal
slumbering like the nuts and fruits of Yule
stuffed in children's shoes by the hearth,
the seeds of life within.
Are we to be those seeds, dearest
and it be ours to nurture them?
It is that silence, when that the day's labour is put aside.
It comes to he who watches, whether rune, star, chant, or the
wind of Time one's breath, that inner peace.
It is So, for I have not shirked the duties of the day, for in the end
all that matters is that the children sleep well, learn much, are
loved and that the cats guard the gates of dreams beside each bed;
in the end all that matters is that the path is swept, old projects are not
accumulated- duties do not lie fallow, and the Rites of the household
Over at least one meal were Gods of Wind, Rain, Harvest and Sun
in hammer Signed above,
and at least one friend was told a fragment of the dark matter that is
Truth, Ginungagap- Cleft between the worlds-
I have not shirked- faced squarely the world's burdens
upon us, and those placed by those chosen to nurture,
squarely placed my hard shoulder to the Wheel of the Law,
therein is Peace.
My duty is to Gods and Folk.
I can not stay the tide of Ragnar�k;
most are fated to sink beneath the weight of history,
but this judgement did the High Go�anum place upon us-
for liberty, for leaving apart within laws of Nature,
that those who Know, must, Knowing, speak, write, and
save against the darkness of this sea-change which shall
cleanse the stable from two millennia's offal.
My duty is live remembering another life, another generation,
souls who marched with torch in hand beneath the great Sun sign-
to honor the awe-filling Greatness of that time and those who
faced a world which denied them a place and yet forged the
sword which lies across the river of time, even now,
altering the flow of events and causes.
In taking on the mantle of family, community, is not peace, but slumber,
and once there is Knowing, it will not be of peace turned back on Aryan
destiny- in making friends of sheep who believe broadcast liars, in the
comfort of not appearing to think our of line is not peace but surrender,
and He said old age would bring no comfort to him who turned away
All that matters is that the children are asleep.
The surfaces of life are swept clean, made tidy,
and all the needful things are done.
Some place within the flow of days, the place was made
to gaze, to chant, to pray, and therein is peace.
Life is war and none want to know this.
Our faith is called forth in the crucible of conflict,
and the traitors and provocateurs who say "mythology"
reduce to the enemy's song what is profound.
Beyond the needs of close ones, what must be paid,
the nagging necessity of daily event,
each day is a battle for the Gods and Folk
and each must war for higher evolution,
or mire in the entropy of this declined milieu.
Shake off the big picture, and what have I done?-
therein is peace.
Most to barrow unfulfilled, go, shod for the final journey
in unknown dreamt indulgence.
beyond is the hero's journey, great works for Folk the cipher
All that matters in the end is that we fulfill our obligations:
Nietzsche understood this and maintained personal correspondences until the final deconstruction of his brain.
Rosenberg, Evioli, books too great for Anglo-American libraries to carry, knew this, that the great passionate movements of their milieu, were the obligations of the blood.
One thinks always of larger purposes, schemes, a meaning imposed
by some Beyond more clever, into which we shall stumble,
if only we have lived enough and with the right order about us
It is not prepared in our consciousness to know that all is more simple,
yet more elegant than all of that- freedom, mental freedom breathes
only at the threshold of obligation.
When the obligations are discharged, therein is peace.
And chief among them are the obligations of the soul, those
doings great and profound, meaning-creating, which shed
one's personal vision outward, as the serpents spent skin-
sloughed off into the world that one might outgrow it-
chrysalize through that catharsis into a greater being yet,
beget oneself anew by quests endowed with our best effort,
yet much there is conspires to contain this aspiration,
yet strive, accomplishment and even right effort bring no regrets-
seizing destiny in the act, pure act- therein is peace.
Better that I be laid low by exhaustion, worn in striving
for rare knowledge and ideals shunned by entropic nations,
than that I retreat into the comfort of the surfaces where some
solutions shall not be considered, shackles the conventioned mind,
and parliaments of whores, husbanded only by bazaaris,
debauched in dollars and shekels- far better that what is I be ground
down than kept in servility- no, ride the Hammer-
lift it if you can;
only the life of striving befits a Nordic man.
Let me be worn when this life subsides, spent for higher purpose
and the maintenances of all that was required,
have spent all that I was for Higher Life with none held back,
given in frey.
There is no immortality- death's gates will open,
but that light kindled by right effort shall pass on-
shall increase in a time less limited of vision;
all censors have ceased and reason is restored.
Jahw� eats the ashes of the innocent dead of Waco, of Dresden,
of Hamburg, of Hanoi, for he is Loki, and "His Son" of the beatific
rented Renaissance fresco, drinks in the blood of Mi Lai, of Bosnia,
of countless other insanities "His" One True Path hath wrought:
much drunk are they- "Love is Hate"- "Freedom is Slavery"- had only
Orwell known it, how sepulchral the scriptures, landfill foundation, Semitic
flotsam foundation of the "West" has been made flesh in our history,
Mass hallucinations of the perfect brother, father, son, Christ born of conspired archetype, much drunk of blood and came within the West
That She wd. bear brown fruit, and ruin, meaninglessness, despair,
and few of Her sons renounce "Him", seemingly peaceful, puppet visage
of a monstrous intent. This I cannot repeal, but plant the seeds of truth.
For we are the seeds of Ragnar�k, got ready for the soil by flame and ruin,
to sprout in razed earth- to bear forth a better vision- they have the guns-
they have the money and the fronts, illusions to lure the impulsive
and we, we are the Valiant Watchers, the Snotrir Vikingar-
we have only our vision which must carry forth, for that is the Will of Life- therein is peace. Duty is to pass into the next age- kalpa the Hindi call it-
wherein what is given to Heimdall's cleansing fire that innocence be reborn
and once more farm girls pick apples and by dress be known apart from whores-
for such was the Reich and it flew an arrow to the heart of capitalism-
and that impeccability, incorruptible, wherein Soviet doctors
did awake amputate the limb of the pilot, him who would not foreswear
the Leader's vision- his voice shall survive the fire and seed the soil.
And know as we stand against the monstrous apparition of 'free' nations whose main business is the ownership of others and the wars to keep the deeds,
that we do not reach to some distant past to find an invented legacy
of hope and vision- it is in memory- much distorted by most, but
memory remains and is the feed of that renewing soil.
That this has been and great ill was wrought in the names of great goods, is beyond our ken- all that matters is that the memory is sharp,
the books are stored, copies made and sent to those now neutral, who
will survive our arrests, that books are read by children
and the tribe will know the right- therein is peace.
All that matters is that duties are done,
children grown straight about and sought the right duties,
soul fed and traveled in the paths of light, reaching
ever reaching and moving beyond the glaze of life, of markets,
safe converses, and shallow preoccupations- to other
dimensions precursor to its journey,
and I have not shirked from trying,
the chrysalis of the knotty wooden mind to burst,
put my hard shoulder to the Wheel,
and with It turned; therein is peace.
And all that matters is that the children are abed;
the house is quiet, and the labours of the day are put aside.
A higher impulse builds- I serve it when I can-
therein is peace.
The Center will not hold.
It yields and today's impromptu invention is sealed upon
yesterday's exigency as a course of brick upon the last course,
the provisional is become permanent, of necessity, the author of all
our involuntary circumstances.
We invent and, always lacking, always without,
create within that narrow condition, which Fate
and choices of those before us have foreordained.
Promises tied up to kin, tied up in the red cloth of loyalty,
then tributes to vocations, to principalities, to convention,
and time is pressed against us- always too short.
The Center will not hold, and crumbles, floods in on us
detretus of failed societies; all that held it was an idea
which stretched from Mandalay to Hudson's Bay,
but within was wrapped another, anathema to the first,
within the Saxon's shield of rule a matzos filling.
And "law" became the banditry of scriveners-
got beyond all service to fact or right of tribe-
reality by decree, devoid of truth, turned by the key of gold,
as would someday decree all equal
and all weal to non-producers.
The Center did not hold,
and lost from it Achilles, Agamemnon, Homer-
homo occidentalis agonistes-
heroes stirred folk to greatness, set standard
to last in column and plaza,
sacrificed to the last great debauchment- sacrificed gods
and sons, to the baseness of humanity, making
that baseness justified- accepted in the works-
at the secret Semites' learn�d pen,
the Light-bearer of Zeus rewritten as a
whipping boy of the goyim- myth built upon myth
and fantasy reroots all into the desert-
priests become lenders- the payroll of princes
and kings spawned from shekels not from kin.
The Center did not hold,
for in its center the village-
and each produced and each received-
then the new plan of things, a town about a church-
and all flowed upward, all wealth heaven-bound
centralized to treasuries, to nobles, and beyond-
tax and tithe rob from all pockets
and production to central banks and nation
states- Catholic militias charging tribute at
Rhine garrisons- extortion of commerce,
and the stately traffic in lands, blood, souls,
bound for Loki, the Prince of Despair
in the shadow of the cross.
The Center does not hold-
runs below our efforts, a subterranean
river of entropy.
The sublime stuff of dreams has not time
to find concretion as written stuff,
swept away in the tide of daily duties,
ever-pressed, necessitarian world-
excludes all others,
the moment stolen from one person-
or set of owings, but given to another,
always absent the time to be empty,
to reflect, to receive.