monstrous moment births all that will be.
Then, torrid tongue licks ice, opens the bloom,
the soul of the tree enclosed by eight winds
howling, whining, ripping free from the womb
of pledges, where great sacrifice rescinds.
Veiled future is shown to the one who rides
the soul of a tree enclosed by eight winds.
Memory comes from giant sweat, provides
council at the well wreathed in bulrushes.
Veiled future is shown to the one who rides
deep, ungraves a seeress, and she thrushes
terrible lyrics stirring up evil
council. At the well, wreathed in bulrushes,
payment is learned for murder primeval.
Monsoons of magma meet the rimy sea:
terrible lyrics stirring up evil.
This monstrous moment births all that will be.
8. Hoddmimir’s Holt
Raging flame devours the limbs, the bark, leaves
deepest root (untouched by murderous ways)
to safeguard and store pure sugar from thieves.
Here, there’s a kingdom, sheltered from the blaze,
a broad gleaming on the glittering plains.
Deepest root (untouched by murderous ways)
holds life longing life, where the bright god reigns.
Each spring, the whole of the world weeps for him,
a broad gleaming on the glittering plains.
A father’s eye has seen beyond the grim:
lost mortality wakes when winters melt
each spring. The whole of the world weeps for him
but none know grief nor wanting in the veldt-
forever, the rosy dawn of Gimlé.
Lost mortality wakes when winters melt.
Baldur lives! Heaven’s made good on the fee.
Raging flame devours the limbs, the bark, leaves
forever the rosy dawn of Gimlé,
a safeguard to store pure sugar from thieves.
9. Heimdallr Ponders Mothers Day
Nine I recall, at home, nine witches
turn the universe, turbid and roil,
set friction afire, grind out riches.
They mill ettin suet into soil
(carried by waves to the barren shore),
turn the universe turbid, and roil
life to the surface. It’s such a chore
you have, Mothers. I’m grateful I was
carried by waves to the barren shore
to bring wheat and tools and a just cause:
plough and bake, craft and forge. Remember,
you have mothers. I’m grateful I was
so blessed, to be their burning ember,
birthed an idea: warden the world!
Plough and bake, craft and forge. Remember
their embrace upon you, tightly curled.
Nine I recall, at home, nine witches
birthed an idea: warden the world,
set friction afire, grind out riches.
10. The Mouth Before the Nine Caves
A stone clockwork, the grinding of the mill,
juices corpses. Second-death souls ooze through
craggy depressions to cavernous rill.
Dark, slimy streams convulse, puking this stew
ever thick. A black fume rises rich in
juices, corpses, second-death. Souls ooze through
teeth, descend stairs to the realm of Leikin
just beyond a dark, precipitous wall.
Ever thick, a black fume rises rich in
sick, fills the forecourt of her sleet-cold hall.
Hunger is cut by famine, while dogs howl
just beyond a dark, precipitous wall.
Their queen is half-warm flesh on top, while foul,
blue-black seepage churns below. Eroding
hunger is cut by famine, while dogs howl
for blooded morsels clinging and coating
a stone clockwork. The grinding of the mill,
blue-black seepage, churns below, eroding
craggy depressions to cavernous rill.
11. Bilröst
A moment spans the thunderous rivers,
connects heaven and a bridgehead of gold
atop Heimdall’s mountain. This path quivers,
flames flicker as we cross its narrow wold.
Our spirit echoes back from deep inside,
connects heaven. And a bridgehead of gold
refracts the murky storm’s gigantic stride.
Until breath leaves him, he will sound the horn.
Our spirit echoes back from deep inside
Valhöll. We will ride as warriors born
again and again into the melee
until breath leaves him. He will sound the horn
that pours us out. The bridge will not give way
until gods blink, and the shinning goes dark.
Again and again into the melee,
our swords will reflect the dying sun’s spark.
A moment spans the thunderous rivers.
Until gods blink, and the shinning goes dark
atop Heimdall’s mountain, this path quivers.
12. The Hall Beyond Glasir
Chosen by Odin and his valkyrjur
(cold-breath breathing down the Sons of Muspel),
we rise forever, the bold Einherjar,
the fire that warms and wards off Niflhel.
Ever vigilant, we stand true, holding
cold-breath breathing down the Sons of Muspel,
the shattering bridge, and all foreboding
when the battle comes. Clawing and biting,
ever vigilant, we stand true. Holding
sword in hand, let us die: worthy, fighting.
And, of immortality, skalds shall sing
when the battle comes clawing and biting,
it will find us knuckle white, set to swing.
A well of wisdom ever renewing
(and of immortality), skalds shall sing
of the deeds we have done and are doing.
Chosen by Odin and his valkyrjur:
a well of wisdom ever renewing,
we rise forever—the bold Einherjar.
###
About the Author
John J. Beach is a recently-retired Assistant Professor of Information Technology, and he taught courses primarily in Linux, UNIX, and Macintosh systems. Along with Computer Science and Mathematics bachelor degrees, he also completed an MFA in English some great period ago in a time called The Twentieth Century. And although—while teaching for over 20 years—he wrote many technical workbooks and exercises for his students, he was not actively writing creative fiction, nonfiction, or poetry… until just now.
Connect With Me Online:
Facebook
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends