Editor’s Note: In honor of the 50th anniversary of Francis Parker Yockey’s death in the San Francisco County Jail on the night of June 16-17, 1960, we are pleased to publish these poems by J. Howard-Hobson.
Birthday Greetings from the Michels
“The Michel element of a Culture is not a pathology and is not a Cultural menace in itself. Its sole danger is that it is serviceable to the will-to-annihilate…”
“Liberalism is, in one word, weakness. It wants everyday to be a birthday….”
–Francis Parker Yockey
Here you go, passing it to you now: this
Blighted world. Happy birthday. Not that it’s
Personal, no, it’s bad for all of us–
Especially those of us with all our wits
About us, who can remember the bits
When the world wasn’t like this because, no
Matter what they tell you, you need to know:
It wasn’t always like this. But you were
Not here when it started to go bad . . . and,
For us, who were already born, we never
Had a chance, no chance at all — we were scammed
Into thinking it was quite alright, planned
Out for the good of us all. What we got
Was this: a world we helped to kill, but not
Because we would have wanted to, no, but
Because we never knew what was at risk
Until it started to stink. Sure, we’d put
Our minds to fixing it back, the thing is,
We can’t undo it now, can we? All this
Dun coloured world of the future that they
Sold to us continues. Happy birthday.
“With unforgettable dishonor it threw millions of
Western soldiers to the Russian savages, to
disappear forever into the unmarked graves of Siberia.”
— Francis Parker Yockey
You have no graveyards, no markers, no names.
We must invoke your memories to do
You honour, since we have no other way.
But, then, it makes no difference: the same
Blood moves inside our veins as moved in you;
The same black sun shone then that shines today.
We need no monuments, no headstones placed
To sanctify your loss. However lost,
Your graves make holy ground from shallow holes,
And you and they can never be disgraced
By lying undisclosed amid the frost
Of that deep frozen foreign land. Your souls
Can never fall away from us — you are
Not truly lost forever, Einarhjar.
Mein Goldener Schatz ist Verloren
(Die Berlin-Mutter Spricht, 1946)
Oh yes. He is gone. And we all know where.
Shot? Not yet, perhaps. Beaten? Starved? Surely….
And thin and cold and so very young. He,
With his shy smile, his blue eyes and his hair—
Once golden, but grown dull from war and cold
Dead hope. The world’s gone cold and dead around
Him: all barbed wire, hunger, snowy ground,
A sickly sun and clothes that can not hold
Back the cut of frost or the bite of wind,
And nothing, nothing ahead but death. That
And nothing else. A quick-step — rat a tat!!–
To a hole in the snow. Predetermined
But not recorded. He will lie out there…
Smile gone, eyes shut, blood in his golden hair.
I was never asked to memorize the
Sonnets of Barrett, nor state — even
In general — the years that Crimea
Was a theatre of British war. Seven
Pillars of Wisdom? Nine Noble Virtues?
May as well have never existed for
All that I’ve been told about them. The truths
That lay unfathomed at my feet are more
Than the truths that were ever revealed by
Way of lessons, books and socialized cant.
Wind swept vistas painted by artists I
Could not suppose to name, (face it Rembrandt
Is more associated with toothpaste
Than with oils), hint at other meanings and
Layers I am not expected — shamefaced,
Realizing an ignorant lack– to stand
Back and try to conceive of. I am not
Enlightened enough to notice, really.
For what is considered a sufficient
Education, the ancient mysteries
Of Pythagoras himself could be dumb
And the universal music of the
Spheres fall silent, for all that has not come
Down of them by the time they’ve come to me.
For my generation has not been taught
To care for those sort of things. Because my
Generation has had other things, brought
In bright shiny ways that preoccupy
Us while we learn them so that we keep them–
Deep and whole — without knowing that we do.
Four score and twenty years ago, mmmm mmmm
Good, ask any mermaid you happen to
Meet . . .
How do you get to Sesame Street?
(This form is an Ovillejo — ‘tangled ball of wool’ — from South America.)
Why do some of you resist?
On planning and then manning your defeat.
It will be sweet,
Once you’ve all been re-taught
To be naught,
And you let us dictate culture, form and thought.
When everything’s distorted, retarded, canned,
Just like we’ve always planned,
We insist it will be sweet to be naught.
Our time will come to pass again. Slowly,
As cycles turn in natural spirals
That do not consider generations.
Your time must wait, for now. Today, only
Other writers who don’t rock cultural
Boats can have their say, for the distortion
Of our way, our world, has made elements
Of alienation that wreck weak souls
Through the insides of their own heads. Secret
Forces forge destiny, though. We are meant
To survive this soullessness, to be whole
Again, although the others will fight it
Because “no age submits quietly to
The spirit of the coming age” (quote you).
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