Sing the song of the wild hunt

Sing of death, for without their song

The song of life falls flatly upon the ear.

Feel the steeds hooves thunder by

The seven whistler’s tune to for to die

Ride the stormy wind

For each to death their soul must send.

Have you ridden your death steed

With the hounds of hell running filled with greed?

Life becomes clear in the wake

Of death’s dark drake.

Pity us not that ride the haunt

Pity instead the poor living lying dead and gaunt

Pity instead those who cannot journey, for still they moan and beat

Pity those shells of men whose only release is in the false meet

Sing the song of death’s long journey

And what the soul carries with him and what he leaves behind

That you may at last find the darkness that enfolds into utter peace

At last beyond, beyond the seas of despair.

Doc 2007

What a pity, when a man looks at himself in a glass,

He doesn’t bark at it, like a dog does,

Or fluff up in indignant fury, like a cat!

What a pity he takes himself seriously, and draws a moral lesson.

D.H. Lawrence

I would call Attila on his little horse

A man of peace.

For after all, he helped to smash a lot of old Roman lies,

The lies, the treachery, the slippery cultured squalor

of that sneaking court of Ravenna.

And after all, lying and base hypocrisy and treachery

Are much more hellishly peace-less

than a little straightforward bloodshed

which may occasionally be a preliminary to the peace that passes understanding.

So I would call Attila on his little horse

A man of peace.

D.H. Lawrence

Year's End

If you would go abroad tonight, choose your path with care,
For the walls between the worlds are down, and there's magic in the air.

The old year ends at set of sun; the new begins at break of day,
And in between the walls come down, and a far more ancient Law holds sway.

The Wild Hunt rides for love of speed and lets its prey run free;
The Green Man walks and calls the spirits forth from every tree.

The folk from out the hollow hills will dance 'till break of day,
And the one-eyed stranger at the door should NOT be turned away.

Don't try to break the fairy ring, or chase the Wild Hunt on its track;
You just might reach your goal tonight, if you don't mind not coming back.

The restless dead and stranger things are on the roads tonight;
If you meet that one-eyed traveler, be sure that you're polite.

The walls between the worlds are down as the old year fades away,
And EVERYTHING is possible from set of sun 'till break of day.

Paul Haynie

A Nordic Yule

'Twas the night before Yuletide in the Horde's hall
Not a person was stirring, not even a thrall.
The wineskins were hung on the mantle with care
In hope that great Odin soon would be there.The clansmen were snoring, passed out on the floor.
And I made to join them. I couldn't drink more.
I found a place quickly, my furs for a bed.
The mead I had drunk had gone to my head.Then came a noise from way out in back.
So loud that I swore, we were under attack!
I leapt from my furs, my sword clutched in hand,
And went to the window to survey the land.I looked into the night and muttered a curse,
Could it be Grendel or something much worse?
Then what to my eyes should the full moon reveal,
But an old fashioned sleigh drawn by a creature unreal.And a huge burly driver so fierce and forbodin',
I knew in a moment it was Allfather Odin.
He yelled at the creature with a snarl on his lips,
And after each word, gave a crack of his whip."Obey me now, Sleipner, for I am your master,
An eight-legged horse ought to run faster!?"
I ran from the window, so quick and so able
And sought a safe haven under the table.I heard the sleigh stop and Odin get out
And as he drew nearer, gave a great shout.
He kicked the door open, which then hung askew
And I shook when I saw him, what else could I do?He was dressed in his armor, so regal and fine
But I caught a strong odor of cheap women and wine.
His bundle of weapons he dropped where he stood,
All bright gleaming steel and dark polished wood.His face was like granite with a long flowing beard
His one eye glowing like an ember, or so it appeared.
I watched him quite closely alone with my fear
As he surveyed the hall with a glare and a sneer.He cursed and he muttered and seemed to grow madder
And I fought to keep some control of my bladder.
He lifted his foot and pulled a nail from beneath
Then seemed to grow calmer. I sighed with relief.He then went to work, his task to assail
And filled all the wineskins with mead and stout ale.
Then using his finger to scratch at his crotch
He strode from the hall as I silently watched.He mounted his sleigh and his whip gave a crack
As Sleipner jumped forward, he laughed and leaned back.
He said as he rode, "Fight hard and die well.
And when that day comes, in Valhalla you'll dwell!"

would like a few men to be at peace with.

Not friends, necessarily, they talk to much.

Nor comrades, for I don’t belong to a cause.

Nor pals, they’re such a nuisance.

But men to be at peace with.

Adapted from D.H. Lawrence

I wish people, when you sit near them

Wouldn’t think it necessary to make conversation

And send thin draughts of words

Blowing down your neck and ears

And giving you a cold in your insides

D.H. Lawrence

Oh be a demon

Outside all class!

Dare to be a demon beyond the mass.

Somewhere inside you

Lives your own little fiend,

And woe betide you

If he feels demeaned,

Better do him justice,

Keep his path well cleaned.

When you’ve been too human too long,

And your demon starts lashing out

Going it strong

Don’t get too frightened it’s you who’ve been wrong.

If, poor little bleeder,

You still feel you must follow

Some wonderful leader

Now the old ones ring hollow,

Then follow your demon

And hark to his holloa

Adapted from D.H. Lawrence

Give us back, oh give us back

Our bodies before we die!

Trot, trot, trot, corpse-body to work

Chew, chew, chew, corpse-body at the meal

Sit, sit, sit, corpse-body in car.

Must we die, must we die, bodiless as we lived?

Corpse-anatomies with ready-made sensations!

Corpse-anatomies, that can only work,

Work, work, work, rattle, rattle, rattle …

Ah no, Ah no! Before we finally die

Or see ourselves as we are and go mad

Give us back our bodies, for a day, for a single day

To start the beast and feel the wind like wakeful men again.

Oh even to know the last wild wincing of despair

Aware at last that our manhood is utterly lost

Give us back our bodies for one day.

Adapted from D.H. Lawrence

Poetry of the Hunt

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