Ragnarok

RAGNAROK

When Ragnarok comes, it will be bleakest winter.

The moon will turn black on black.

Petroleum clouds, writhing, will deform into chimeras.

The sun, reduced to a shadow, will darken the sky.

Memory of light will be forgotten.

Snow will fall, gray porridge burying the world.

Treetop brambles will spike through ash heaps

As rivers clot into mud, and lakes,

Thickening volcanic soup, pop bubbles, sullenly.

Oceans will degrade into slurry.

The wind will whistle between broken teeth.

Bags of dust will fill the air.

Hearkening to the long horn, warriors will grasp their hilts.

Full well, without seeing, they will know its meaning:

Fenrir has broken his chains, he is vaulting towards Asgard.

Once formidable, barriers between the worlds will disintegrate.

Earth will shake at the approach of giants.

Monsters will battle the gods.

Father of all the gods, Odin will push with his mighty arm Fenrir’s snout backwards

As his boot pins the animal’s lower jaw to the ground.

And then in one overpowering motion the wolf’s mouth will slam shut,

Breaking Odin’s back like a stick.

Of what use will it be to be all-seeing if you cannot escape your fate?

Beyond the horizon, the Midgard Serpent will rouse, thrashing about.

The seas will churn in turmoil, frothy egg batter, water not boiling.

Tidal waves taller than fortresses will collide against the coastlines.

Cliff walls will slough off, sliding, as rocks, debris, and sand,

Sucked into the ocean by retreating vortices, excavate cavernous holes.

At the outmost perimeter of the farthest waters, Thor will swing downwardly

His impetuous hammer, striking at the very apex of the Midgard Serpent’s head, bulbous.

Suddenly going limp, the worm will blast hot venom in spurts,

Bathing the hero, unvanquished heretofore, in poison, head-to-toe.

Nine steps, he will fall dead.

Gloating over slain Frey, now bedimmed, a lump of cold slag,

Cackling Loki will turn to face Heimdall, striding.

Evenly matched, they will destroy each other, passionate in their excess.

Roaring Surtr will raise his flaming sword, igniting the universe.

The world will end to recreate itself anew.

Originally published in Heart & Mind Zine, Issue 3 (Spring 2016)

Judge’s Choice Award Winner

Battle of the Doomed Gods (1882) by Friedrich Wilhelm Heine

I seek the silence...

I seek the silence...

I seek the silence of a secluded lake,

Of a moment in time

When the past is suspended,

Of a mountain valley

Where travelers rest and look,

Do nothing more,

And solitude refreshes—

The likeness of eons uncountable ago:

The seventh day.

Sleeping Muse II (1917) by Constantin Brancusi

Three Mountain Poems

THE MOUNTAIN

Climbing is like lifting a weight, hand over hand, using a pulley. Marathoner in a trance, you ascend rapidly as time slows to near motionlessness.

Trees rustle, rice husks pushing back and forth to dry. Desiccated brush, smallish bundles, tumble downward, roll about. Bamboo thickets, agitated brooms, shiver.

Dislodged by your feet, tiny stones hurtle, soaring arcs increasing in velocity downhill, click-clacking glass marbles knocking together, gradually fading, scattering into silence.

At this height air is rarefied fire. Atop the mountain birds hover overhead, transfixed by the sun more brilliant than a sorcerer’s spell, flanked by clouds, bright balls of electricity.

Strong gusts sand your face roughly, a stone. The wind is cold, the eye of an ascetic just returned from a visit to the dead, fiercely gazing, an eagle clutching a small animal.

The vast plain below mirrors the sky, wet paddies flashing crystal polygons, jewelry turning side to side. Far into the distance, short hills squat, huge emerald droplets, whilst the river, a glittering bracelet, empties into an ocean of light.

Breathless, you are a broken wheel on the wayside. You will climb the mountain again, spellbound by the expenditure of controlled energy, delighted by the sting of sharp gravel underfoot.

I climb…

God, my Lord, is my strength; he makes my feet swift as those of hinds and enables me to go upon the heights.—Habakkuk 3:19

I climb the mountain swiftly like a sure-footed deer.

Chaos, noise, smoke, trains, ceaseless phalanxes rising disappear faster than pebbles rattling down a ravine.

Silence joins along, footfalls in his wake.

Awakened by sudden quiet, dark spirits of the forest shamble beneath a behemoth of shadows. Spotting no visitors, they turn back to probing the soil.

Clouds raise chins, disdainful at the intruder.

The guardian of the heights briskly snaps his cloak.

The sky bends its diaphragm, filling the lungs of the vault.

Rushing forward, winds burst, monsoon springs. The sun thrusts his spear.

At the summit a doorway opens to quickening vistas all around.

Who will stay beside me to gently touch my shoulder, telling me I am not alone?

ATOP A HIGH MOUNTAIN

I have seen a mountain. It all happened very quickly. No body could bear it

were the soul there for an hour.—Mechthild of Magdeburg,

The Flowing Light of the Godhead

Atop a high mountain

I beheld a river

Not of this earth

But of the sky,

Pure, blue,

Cloudless.

Bending down

To fill a glass bottle,

I saw bubbles

Rising, escaping

The opening

At the bottle top.

I lifted the bottle

To the sun,

Empty.

I tried a second,

Third time,

No water entered.

Glancing at my hand,

Dripping,

Fresh, youthful,

Smooth,

I heard a voice say,

“This water is for healing.

All who drink it

Are refreshed.

All who bathe in it

Are made well.

No one can carry this water

Down the mountain.

All must climb the mountain

To receive this water.”

When the vision vanished,

I felt a delicate thirst,

Fine as dust

Yet all-consuming.

Mount Sinai, Egypt

Christmas

CHRISTMAS

When our planet like a lady

Tilting away from the sun

Shields her fair complexion,

Slightly dropping her chin,

Overcast skies turn balmy,

Temperate, pleasant, fair

Despite intermittent rains—

Christmas season heralded.

Christmas is here, so is joy.

Giddy euphoria springs

Not from clement weather

But from a spirit, indefatigable,

Exhilarating as sea salt air

Entering, freshly, your heart

Awash, suddenly, with

Inexplicable happiness.

Cascading water, gladsome

Songs, gathers in pools.

Gifts ready for harvest

Tarry, candies in a bowl.

Blessings of family and friends

Wreathe round the dining table.

Day is a swiftly sailing ship,

Night, glittery ice hotel.

The Christmas tale is retold—

Salvation of humanity

Born in obscurity

To a virgin, miraculously,

Husband, a peasant—

The story never tires.

Yes, the mighty are brought low,

The lowly lifted to great heights.

Originally published in The Galway Review (February 15, 2016)

Nativity (1946), detail by Evie Hone

Nighttime...

Nighttime…

Nighttime, I am alone

In the desert,

Moon, sand, stars,

My only companions.

Clouds have forsaken this land.

The sky, a wanderer, has left his staff behind.

Knees lower to kiss the dirt floor,

Heels press into haunches,

No pain. The world outside

Blinks confusedly at the present,

Contends with the future,

Disavows the past.

Inside this cave,

Bread, water, salt

Keep me alive. The wind

Feeds my spirit.

Originally published in The Cannon’s Mouth, Issue 60 (June 2016), page 66

Phoenix, Arizona desert skyline at night

I climb...

I climb…

God, my Lord, is my strength; he makes my feet swift as those of hinds and enables me to go upon the heights.—Habakkuk 3:19

I climb the mountain swiftly like a sure-footed deer.

Chaos, noise, smoke, trains, ceaseless phalanxes rising disappear faster than pebbles rattling down a ravine.

Silence joins along, footfalls in his wake.

Awakened by sudden quiet, dark spirits of the forest shamble beneath a behemoth of shadows. Spotting no visitors, they turn back to probing the soil.

Clouds raise chins, disdainful at the intruder.

The guardian of the heights briskly snaps his cloak.

The sky bends its diaphragm, filling the lungs of the vault.

Rushing forward, winds burst, monsoon springs. The sun thrusts his spear.

At the summit a doorway opens to quickening vistas all around.

Who will stay beside me to gently touch my shoulder, telling me I am not alone?

Originally published in Cecile’s Writers (July 17, 2016)

Mount Maculot, Batangas, Philippines

Winter Dawn

WINTER DAWN

In first wintry morning light

The window sill peeling paint

Has grown a beard of ice

Overnight. Glacial darkness

Now is luminous chill. Wan

Beams bounce about, silent.

Walls, doors, bed, and sofa

Glow like the full moon.

Hidden behind the horizon, a lantern

Reddens the sky, blue and gray.

Winsome, time turns, smiles

For the photographer, who

Traps the moment in amber

As eternity enters the room.

Originally published in Dr. Pradeep Chaswal and Dr. Deepak Chaswal, eds., Literature Today, Volume 5 (May 2016), page 21

Winter dawn

Three Miles South of the Canadian Border

Three Miles South of the Canadian Border

When Ragnarok comes, it will be bleakest winter. Snowstorms will pour forth incessantly, clotty ash engulfing the air. The sun will evaporate, the moon and stars join permanently with darkness. Rivers, lakes, oceans—vast expanses—will densify into sludge. Hills, trees, the entire land will disappear beneath rising snowy heaps. Wild animals, bony, starving, will wander about the whiteness. Domestic animals will perish from bitterest cold and neglect. Shuddering, everyone still alive will wrap themselves inside fireless caves.

When the world ends, it will all take place at the epicenter of all wretchedness, nexus of all misery, and seat of all gloom…three miles south of the Canadian border.

Originally published in Cacti Fur (April 6, 2016)

When Ragnarok comes...

The Song of Creation

THE SONG OF CREATION

To Gerard Manley Hopkins

Creation sings of the glory of God.

We do not hear it but see it

In brilliant interstices

Opening and closing

Of trees waving to and fro

When the world is radiant,

In glittering leaves,

Beaming stones,

Mountain streams, flashing

Metal foil flattened

By fists, smoothed

By hands.

The blind hear the song in the trees yearning to speak.

They inhale it in the attenuated wind,

Taste it in fruits bursting with water.

Bending down to touch the earth,

They become one with the beginning of all things,

Pushing roots into the soil,

Unfolding leaves,

Joining hands with the sun and the dead

Brought back to life.

Originally published in Blue Heron Review, Issue 3 (Winter 2015)

Ocean sunrise

The Madrigal

THE MADRIGAL

I listened

To a madrigal—

Fire, fire, fire,

They sang

So brightly,

Ethereal,

I imagined

The song itself,

Everyone

Consumed

By flames.

Originally published in Eastlit (August 1, 2015)

I listened to a madrigal...