3,063 words
John Collier, Portrait of Rudyard Kipling, circa 1891
Nobel Prize-winning poet and novelist Rudyard Kipling was born on this day in 1865. For an introduction to his life and works, see the following articles on this site.
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654 words
1.
The wind is blowing through the blighted birch.
Its wormy leaves all toss with gay abandon.
Father, you planted it the year Alf Landon
fought for the good old days. I watch it lurch
beside your hillhouse, where you let me perch,
and still the parlor-pinks and liberals land in
the Government, the moon, this field I stand in;
the rights of man scream from each Negro church. (more…)
229 words
Wandervogel . . . Nicht Mehr
Rhineland 1946
We are going to die here. Not soldiers but
Prisoners of war now, held where snow turned sleet
Hits down to our bones. The cold makes us shut
Our eyes against losing too much body heat.
We are the animals? We who live like
This: so frozen, so hungry every day
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379 words
Surrender
Surrender? There is no surrendering
For us. It might look like it to you, but
Know that for us this is neverending,
This battle for the soul of the world. What
You think of us is of no concern to
Us, think us vanquished, or beaten, think that
We are no longer a threat to you who
Would place a boot upon on our necks. Catch at
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50 words
Smoke in the alley of her love,
rank smouldering rags inside a barrel,
as swarthy Syrians push and shove,
like Moors of old, determined, feral .
They’ll raise the crescent, kill the dove,
till “Allah Akbar” drowns our carol.
Our children will learn soon enough,
in Europe, foolish, vain and sterile.
October 18, 2015
136 words
When you kneel down to feed the poor
they’ve got to have your mother’s eyes,
your father’s chin. Spurn, curse the Moor.
Muhammad scornful to the core
dreams of a Euro Paradise
when you kneel down to feed the poor.
Stupidity is not a cure.
Look at the anger in their eyes,
hate in their mouths. Spurn, curse the Moor. (more…)
459 words
Lucem sequimur
“Until that day of awakening, it is up to us to keep faith” — Colin Jordan
And now the grey clouds come, and with them cold
Grey days followed by cold grey years. Our sun
Is gone. Our spirit, our people, our bold
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1,542 words
Roy Campbell was a South African poet and essayist. T. S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas, and Edith Sitwell praised Campbell as one of the best poets of the inter-war period. Unfortunately, his conservatism, Nietzscheanism, and Catholicism, as well as his open contempt for the Bloomsbury set and his participation in the Spanish Civil War on the Fascist side have led his works to be consigned to the memory hole. (more…)
Peter Paul Rubens,
Satyr and Maid with Fruit Basket, 1615
233 words
Φαυνος*
Nature clutches at shanks, rips tender skin,
Pulls and swipes and trips up the unwary
Who wander too deeply to find ways in
To places undiscovered. Thick burry
Weeds, brambled vines, branches hung with poison
Thorns, leaves that sting and stalks that cut across
Like whips all lie in patient wait for them
Who would explore the pathless woods because
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55 words
Ten thousand cuckolds in Iceland
invite ISIS into their beds.
Merkel lifts her heavy hand,
lecturing on conscience, weds
it with betrayal, giving a shove
to Deutschland’s honest working poor,
demanding, in the name of love,
that Poland and Hungary take more.
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73 words
Do not shed tears for the drowned boys
like flotsam on the Turkish shores.
Free from their fathers’ stupidity,
their wings bear the Trojan horse
to the ruins of antiquity
and to the altruistic Norse.
Weep rather for the fair-haired boys
and for the blue and green-eyed girls,
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57 words
A cuckservative wooed the vote of Diego,
and married a dwarf from south of Laredo.
The Koch brothers offered him a lump,
and then along came Donald Trump
to put an end to Pinko correctness.
Careless with words? The effect was:
the return of our beloved free speech,
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Parasitic wasp laying eggs inside living caterpillar host
600 words
A caterpillar rests upon a twig,
With no intent to conquer earth or sky;
He merely wants to eat until he’s big
Enough to turn into a butterfly —
And on that day, he’ll think of flying high.
No soaring, tragic thoughts he entertains,
No hearty lust for trouble or for war;
He knows these things are never worth the pains
That could be spent on eating more and more —
At least until the time he’s waiting for. (more…)
104 words
I don’t like your cities, your grey filthy
Sidewalks, your cold gritty air, your soulless
Buildings, your blank rootless people who dress
Like each other and do not care to be
Anywhere else but inside metro areas
Where they can buy Thai food at night as
A way to express freedom from dreary
Lack of sophistication. I don’t think
Haute cuisine comes at 3 AM, and I (more…)
440 words
The Betrayed
England asked us and we answered. Without
A second thought. We had no fear, no doubt,
No worries; we were English, we would go,
We’d fight for her—for glory, not for show—
And for love of our own people, our stout
And sturdy race. Our folk is worth about (more…)
1,140 words
To an Aging Countercultural Twit
At Woodstock you went walking in the nude,
But you were high on pot, and just a teen—
Your life is now more upscale and subdued,
And tinted with environmental green.
You still think Marx a genius, but not quite
As brilliant as Adorno or Marcuse;
Despite rheumatic damps, you will ignite
If someone sparks your old New Leftist fuse. (more…)
76 words
Gay Pride is raised, and Dixie’s down.
The Kenyan king inside his House
has it lit to reflect his crown.
Ms. Jenner’s teats swell in her blouse.
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130 words
“The hereditary make-up of a people can’t be destroyed by external experiences. In the long run, it will prevail.”
— Rudolf Hess, letter
We shall prevail ultimately. No dread
Future will blight our kind. We’ll rise instead
As we’ve always risen, as we always
Will no matter how long or rough the days
We spend between now and then. We have bled
But we have not broken, we have not shed (more…)
64 words
Three pamphlets in which he spared none
do not diminish my esteem.
Rats in a stable are not horses.
(How well he knew their beady eyes,
steaming sewers and twisted knives!)
The pamphlets are medals on his chest,
pearls of truth upon his canon,
while the gnawed brown beams of Europe
crumble in the metro slums
and France relents once more, and burns.
100 words
Grey Wolves
At midnight they descend the hill,
(fur and flesh caught between their teeth),
howling at the moon and stars,
delighting in the knee-deep snow,
and in the purity of the pack,
while the wise red fox hunts alone.
28 April 2015 (more…)
143 words
Lazarus
I came back, the wind whistling in my ear,
dove on my elbow, crow on my torn cuff,
but I could not remember; the long lost year
having left the hourglass like the love
that sifted through my hands less able now.
Dry mouth my only friend and fiercest foe,
I wobbled past each flowering branch and bough,
neuropathy on fire from sole to toe.
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492 words
Stimulus Package
So desperate to escape the seething welter
Of economic crises and misdeeds
Uncounted, refugees will seek the shelter
Of any halfway decent host. Their needs
Are few: a bite of cheese, a bowl of broth,
A tablespoon or two of grape-seed oil,
A gram of kosher salt, a tablecloth,
And beds of straw on which they can uncoil (more…)
332 words
Reflections
The ruffles of a cloud are like a rose
Recalling past romance; the flaming pyre
Of setting sun recalls a warm wood fire.
Old bark-stripped wood reflects a dryad’s pose.
Rain mimics the faint rattle of parades;
Bright, brassy sounds recall a marigold.
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Franz von Stuck, “The Guardian of Paradise,” 1889
4,413 words
Editor’s Note:
A. R. D. Fairburn was born on February 2, 1904. In commemoration, we are reprinting his magnificent poem “Dominion,” a panorama of the British Empire and his native New Zealand in the trammels of international finance capitalism. Fairburn was a follower of Nietzsche and Spengler and an advocate of Social Credit, the most common intellectual ingredients in the outlook of Anglophone fascists in the 1920s and ’30s.
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58 words
Deep from head to toe
into the second sleep,
sister to the crow,
she does not hear me weep.
A continent away,
a sky and ocean apart,
I am her last born stray,
I with my leaky heart. (more…)
1,402 words
John Collier, Portrait of Rudyard Kipling, circa 1891
Nobel Prize-winning poet and novelist Rudyard Kipling was born on this day in 1865. For an introduction to his life and works, see the following articles on this site.
(more…)
354 words
Last Christmas
I’d rushed there through the afternoon
In someone else’s borrowed car
Where you, distressed I’d come too soon,
Were giving samples in a jar.
The last I ever spoke with you
Was in that long, cold, darkened ward.
Snow washed outside like waves, and you
Were slipping slowly overboard. (more…)
Pere Borrell del Caso, Escaping Criticism, 1874
351 words
The Opening
A round of foolish crowding where
Some fools conflate to praise the worst,
And pretense forms an iron square
From which you dare not be the first
To step aside from what this crowd
Of curators has deemed the best
Or speak your thoughts a bit too loud,
Then place them counter to the rest.
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Christian Schloe, Metamorphoses
379 words
A Neighborhood
My heart’s a stranger now to what
Is left, the peeling paint, each rut
Where once was order, color, life,
But now seems filled with futile strife.
Small streets within an angled space
Where roofs pushed down on us at night,
For all was waiting to ignite.
Lace tracery of leaves through light
Inspired thoughts so sharp and tight,
I often wish we could repeat
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116 words
How bitter to abandon the King Tiger,
long 88 pointed toward the blackened sky;
to flee west for three days in the spring snow
from the T34s of the Red Army;
to toss the Luger, and wave the white flag,
a riddled rag mocked by the grinning victors;
to receive a rifle butt to the jaw
and not a bar of Hershey’s Chocolate;
to wake, with a headache, to a small breakfast
of mud and grass, a cup of yellow piss;
to struggle to hold up a brother in arms,
captured in newsreels that taunt to this day;
to turn your collar toward the camp of saints,
condemned to bear the whips and scorns of time.
