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.

Diptich on Romance in the Days of the Reich


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.

Giselda's Reply

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."

The Last Battalion

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

thin moonlight.

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?

Day is Done

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

were performed.

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

from war.

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

of existence-

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 of Things

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.