Hellas BesotLet the veil fall now from your eyesHellas Besot by Seaxwulf
oh my sweet Athenian Princess;
cast off your modesty
and throw away your pride
to become my sultry Spartan Queen!
And I my love shall be your Milesian Suitor
never once taken by Draconian silence!
If by Cretins bold I be called Laconic
than the proud Ionian shall I be
for better to be a spirited Hellene in love
than a witless Barbar in want!
TuDon't you know what you have done?Tu by Seaxwulf
give the music tone
the lyrics meaning;
you put the scent in incense
and the savour in every meal;
give yesterday meaning
and tomorrow a purpose;
sleep a smile
waking a murmur;
give each step a skip
both heels a kick.
Victory of FaithNow you are within my grasp,Victory of Faith by Seaxwulf
and for you there is no escape.
Seek not to flee
for there is no place that you might run.
My eye is trained upon you
and there is nought else for me to see.
Like the hunter I have sought you,
in the long hours of the night I have planned my pursuit.
Under the bale of Moon's most holy glow
I have set my sights upon you.
As the captain I have stood upon my prow
and surveyed the depths of longing's sea.
But now I see you
and you are within my reach.
For all my hours lost at sea
I see you upon the shore.
Sweet siren song you have sung
and no swan song shall I give.
Do you now understand
how you have called and I obey?
Sun rises now upon the edge of the sea of dreadful hope
and She so rises now with you.
With shoulders mindful of passion
and a belly full with hope;
pregnant with desire
your womb offers triumph.
I shall draw you in
hand in hand
I will take you;
by your waist I shall clutch you
and we two dance
hip to hip
we shall join;
flesh and flesh
dust to du
The Making of Midgard
The Making of Miðgarðr
To the South was the burning land of Utgarðr,
Where no travellers could go, for all is aflame.
Sparks flew to the North, though not much farther,
For the cold nulled their might, luke-warm the air became.
To the North was Niflheimr, that misty place,
With rivers that ran venomously, and formed Rime in their path.
As it flowed further South, it melted at an alarming pace,
And, meeting the warmth, life was the glorious aftermath.
Ginnungagap, location of Mimisbrunnr, was mild and warm,
The poisonous Rime sprayed forth, and froze on the earth quite solidly.
Life emerged with fiery force, a Jötunn man took form,
His name was Ymir, and he did not live life stolidly.
From under the arms of the great Hrimþurs, sweat beget two,
Man and woman, one named Bestla, the other Mimir.
A curious happening also took place, for his feet beget too,
the foot-child had three heads, and the name of Þrúðgelmir.
With the dripping of Rime, Auðhu
I recently had a brief conversation with my Mother which prompted me to write this. It follows that I was recently amused by a delightfully morbid little deviation.
As it went, the conversation was brief as it took place before Coffee and Breakfast, but the gist was this: I inquired whether she had ever read Lovecraft's work. She had. I asked if it was good. She responded that the popular consensus marked it as such. I reminded her that she does not account for popular consensus because she is her own person. She told me she enjoyed it, but found the work "rather in depth." I told her that this was not a problem for me, that I would have it no other way. I then expressed my interest in Lovecraft's history, upon how he was a pro-patriot to his Anglo-Saxon breeding and was aware of the mounting anthropological conundrums which arise from semi-consensual miscegeny, as well as his unique political assets. My mother then asked if I can enjoy reading anything without needing to know the character of the one composing the fantasy. My answer was "no." Why not? Always the question of the answer. But a good question.
Since I believe in Universal and Objective Morality (though the two may or may NOT be indistinct) it warrants stipulating: if it's good enough for me, it's good enough for you to consider.
First of all things. I like to fancy myself a rational thinker. All natural phenomena have natural explanations. Since drama is the highest expression of human existentialism, it warrants intense study. One can only gain deeper appreciation of their favourite literature by understanding the peculiarities of the author creating it - the same with art. This is because the author's mental traits and imprints account for the intricacies of the work in question. On the reverse, one can understand the author on the count of his writing. The power of literacy is very much an opiate, like religion, alcohol or political communism - it acts as an inebrient and compels folks to divulge that which they would not conversantly. Here the twain between dry, flaked and boring rationalism and wet, oozing and enthralling spiritualism is met. For in the work of a man's mind, which his tongue oft hides, his True-Self is spied.
Second. It is very much a spiritual exercise. If you understand things metaphorically, becoming an author, an artist, poet or weaver of a linguistically compatible demiverse, you have in effect undergone a minor apotheosis and become demiurge of your own creation. A very real part of yourself achieves temporal imortality through your work, you have created a doppelganger which lives through your legacy. If you are true to yourself, devotees of your alterverse might know you through your work and thereby achieve a sense of communion with the Oversoul. Or else gain an inkling of the Akashic records.
Thirdly and most charmingly. I am a humanist. In a sense, anyway. I love the human anomaly. It is a fascinating expression of Creation. That said, since a person leaves themselves in their work, by knowing their work I know the person. It would be morally disrespectful and parasitic of me to consume their work without giving thanks to the being that produced it. Much as most religious constructs demand that supplicants supply the Creators with thanksgiving, so we must acknowledge artisans of their craft. They did this by giving libations, offering prayers, or raising their level of consciousness to a mystical degree in which they were aware of their indebted status in the cosmos. I, for my part, honour minor creations by knowing the soul of the creator. In this way I feel kinship and communion with them, as if they could be reached in prayer - akin to the Catholic understanding of praying in communion with the saints. To do otherwise makes us no better than the Useless Eaters at your local General Assistance or Welfare office.
That's it. You may now kick the Soapbox out from under me and go about your business.