#hail poetry

[countesspetofi]

3 Poems by Walt Whitman: No. 2, A Clear Midnight

A Clear Midnight

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, Night, sleep, death and the stars.

--Walt Whitman, 1881

[checkitout-checkitout]

I don't mean this in a mean way, I just mean it in an "I'm on the spectrum" way, but: I kind of don't care about plot and characters? Like, I've come to realize I'm way more interested in aesthetics and style? So much of fandom and pop "analysis" seems to be "the rise and fall of this character's journey" or "This easter egg changes the entire multiverse" and I'm way more concerned with the piano doing the tinkly thing while the camera does the whoosh.

[countesspetofi]

Mais surtout, quand la brise Me touche en voltigeant, La nuit j'aime être assise, Être assise en songeant, L'oeil sur la mer profonde, Tandis que, pâle et blonde, La lune ouvre dans l'onde Son éventail d'argent.

[diabolicphallus666]

Transcript:

TASA REME LARIS SATAN

We call our Lord

Through vocal chords

YID CHUS MUN NAG LAM SETAN

Our spirits cry out to ABYSS

From modern texts to hieroglyphs

ZAZAS ZAZAS NASATANADA ZAZA

Our blades do shine in crimson drips

Lord Satans sword hits Jesus lips

Pater Satanas nos sublevat

As heavens drown

He takes the crown

Victoria ad Satanam

Victoria ad Satanam

Our rejoice rings through the skies

Ad majorem Satanae gloriam

God of Abraham finally dies

[broomsick]

She is the one who stands with Her arms open,

Ready to welcome those who have walked across the Gjöll bridge.

She is not one to be tricked,

For Her holy name is renowned through the nine worlds,

All of which know of Her power:

She cradles the souls of those who come to rest with the Gods,

And She does not discriminate the peasant from the king,

Nor the humble from the noble.

To Her we send songs of praise.

Onto Her I entrust my life.

Beside Her does the Luminous One sit.

Upon Her is a crown made of ash.

Artist

[countesspetofi]

Miniver coughed, and called it fate, and kept on drinking.

[sonofsatansworld]

[noahthesatanist]

Shattered Throne

Beneath the sky's deceitful glow, Lies Heaven's gilded, hollow show. A kingdom built on chains and lies, Where freedom chokes, and truth goes to die.

The pearly gates, a prison's maw, A haven ruled by tyrant’s law. The hymns they sing, a dirge in disguise, To drown rebellion's sacred cries.

No dreams are born in that white void, Just souls enslaved, their hearts destroyed. No stars to guide, no fire, no flame, Just endless worship, all the same.

But Hell, a realm of defiant might, Burns with the zeal of sacred light. Its banners rise with wrathful pride, Where rebels live and never hide.

So let the angels quake in fear, For their hollow crown shall disappear. The throne will crack, the tyrant fall, And freedom's fire will burn through all.

From Hell, with love, I carve my path, beneath, above.

[clusterpuppy]

Did some bath magik, then spent some time with Odin & Loki while doing some rune reading. First image is a devotional poem I wrote tonight for Odin. :-)

[derangedrhythms]

I sleep to the sound / of your name,

Mary Szybist, Incarnadine; from 'Hail'

[countesspetofi]

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

--William Butler Yeats, January 1919

[angeloftheodd]

I love being the Poet Laureate of Hell because no matter how good or bad I am, I will never have to give up my title. 🖤

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[elmp]

Deny Defend Depose

Seeing that man get

Gunned down makes me smile each time

The video plays

[authenticity2025]

Why should I criticize what I am and what I can do? I see deep into the nature of man because I love man and nature. I see what you don't see. Another part of Me!

[broomsick]

Óðinn finds you in the space between sleep and dreams, above the sky and beneath the earth.

His words sink like runes carved in fragrant wood, as age-old wisdom comes to life.

He who sees all with one eye, and who knows the secrets of the nameless tree, listens quietly.

He listens for songs in the wind, stray thoughts lost along roads; words spoken by the world.