The Martyrs

“No cluttered shelves with hanging altar cloths will ever save us. Nor will any ancient yellow poster of some killer angel explain the stain of sin or let us in on the secret of how Christ forgave us and how at last our cause must win.”

From Christopher Scott Thompson

Photo by BRUNO CERVERA on Unsplash



Surrealist Prophecies #5

The fifth in a sequence of surrealist prophecies written using the divinatory technique of automatic writing (with subsequent revision). The theme of the sequence is the collapse of our global civilization due to uncontrollable climate change, leading to a mass rejection of both faith and reason and the re-enchantment of our world among the ruins of our failed creations. Some of the poems in the sequence are set before the Fall and portray the spiritual and emotional dilemma of our current crisis. Some describe the Fall itself, and the strange changes in thought and perception that will be needed if any are to survive a world in which humanity has been radically de-centered. Some describe the world to come, a world newly alive with gods and spirits yet free of all dogma or fixed belief – a world of beauty and strange magic.


The fifth prophecy was inspired by an old CNT-FAI propaganda poster from the Spanish Civil War, and the yearly march in honor of anarchist martyrs every May Day. Respect for our honored dead is not a substitute for building a world.

Public Domain Image From Wikimedia Commons

The Martyrs

Outside, the waters of a springtime sky

Plunge screaming from the heights.

And in the stain

That creeps along this poster on my wall

Free Barcelona falls.


And on the rain, I hear dead heroes asking if they lived in vain – if there was no message in their martyrdom, no future hope, but only a longer rope with which to hang ourselves.


To clinging altar cloths, to cluttered shelves,

Our selves attach themselves.

Adore your gods,

But never tell yourself your faith can change the odds.


No cluttered shelves with hanging altar cloths will ever save us. Nor will any ancient yellow poster of some killer angel explain the stain of sin or let us in on the secret of how Christ forgave us and how at last our cause must win.


Our gods are here –

They move within our bodies and the turning of the year.


Our gods are real –

They live in every drop of blood and every spark of wood or steel.


Our dead are dust –

Unless we give them life with every act, in each of us.


Our dead are seeds –

These flowers never bloom with faith

But deeds.

Christopher Scott Thompson

Christopher Scott Thompson is an anarchist, martial arts instructor, devotee of Brighid and Macha, and a wandering exile roaming the earth. Photo by Tam Zech.

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Expert Opinion

“pharmaceutical hacks all agreed

selling heroin to children
calmed them down

helped them focus”

From Rex Butters


from the 1890’s to 1912

your medical establishment
top scientists
public health officials
the board of education
Bayer & St. Joseph’s
pharmaceutical hacks all agreed

selling heroin to children
calmed them down

helped them focus

quieted coughs

when I was a kid

your medical establishment
top scientists
public health officials
industry experts all agreed

smoking tobacco
no cancer link
white lab coated doctors
hawked their recommended brands

when I was a kid

your medical establishment
top scientists
the board of education
and the school administration all concurred

we should play with hunks of asbestos
easy to mold
never explodes when fired
cheaper than clay
no cancer link
survives the kiln
safe as lead toys

when I was a kid

your medical establishment
top scientists
public health officials
nuclear engineers
shoe store owners and parents agreed

installing ineptly shielded
x-ray machines in shoe stores
christening untrained shoe salesmen
x-ray technicians
guaranteed a better fit
for kids’ Poll Parrot and
Buster Brown shoes
frivolously frying feet
storewide open exposure
to x-ray radiation
no cancer link

when I was a kid

your medical establishment
top scientists
defense department officials
public health officials
the board of education all agreed

if an atomic bomb detonates
in the schoolyard
closing the window curtain
getting under our desks
duck and cover
would save our lives
radiation neutralized
they bell alarm drilled us regularly
threat eliminated

when I was a kid

your medical establishment
top scientists
public health officials
state and local government officials agreed

burning garbage
in concrete backyard incinerators
even plastics
every night
across the San Gabriel Valley
waking and walking and living
in a burning toxic brown cloud haze

was safe
no cancer link
no smog alerts
no respiratory threat
lazy P.E. kids coughing ordered to run harder
my lungs raw and scarred

for generations
your medical establishment
community and religious leaders
local officials
and human traffickers agreed
before anesthesia and asepsis
White Doctors
White Mengele Medical Students
on live African specimens
black body parts
subjects of theses
like prisoners and the condemned and the poor
and the institutionalized and the orphans
and indigenous peoples

important for medical progress
develops tools and techniques
serves humanity through science
advances crucial knowledge
noble individual sacrifice
for the good of the whole
to save lives

it’s 2015 and your medical establishment
top scientists
public health officials
state and local government officials just agreed

prescribing heroin to children

non toxic
not addictive

awarding the opiate pushing Sackler family
$14 billion and a Fortune 500
gold throne
richer and deadlier
than any other drug
cartel on earth

in every case/in each era

anyone disagreeing with
these deadly lies
was ridiculed
as anti-science
and pitied

while now
44 people die
every day
from prescribed
declared safe
by your medical establishment
top researchers
public health officials
500 die a day from medical mishap
in a health care system ranked 37th
by the New England Journal of Medicine
the lowest among colonizing nations
and the most expensive

as naturopaths
and herbalists
with no bodies piling up daily
are harassed
labelled quacks
over regulated out of business
and the self-congratulating smart ones
continue to fill
the graveyards of expert opinion

Rex Butters

Rex foto

Rolling hills and wheeling crows, a voluptuous valley under sunset bloody clouds, night coyote pup trots, mouth full of rabbit or cat, pollinators buzz the trumpet creeper, windy, cold.

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Junkyard Nemeton

“This forest, or another forest – forests without end. As faith retreats and reason sleeps those times shall come again.”

From Christopher Scott Thompson

Photo by Niilo Isotalo on Unsplash
Photo by Niilo Isotalo

Surrealist Prophecies #3

The third in a sequence of surrealist prophecies written using the divinatory technique of automatic writing (with subsequent revision). The theme of the sequence is the collapse of our global civilization due to uncontrollable climate change, leading to a mass rejection of both faith and reason and the re-enchantment of our world among the ruins of our failed creations. Some of the poems in the sequence are set before the Fall and portray the spiritual and emotional dilemma of our current crisis. Some describe the Fall itself, and the strange changes in thought and perception that will be needed if any are to survive a world in which humanity has been radically de-centered. Some describe the world to come, a world newly alive with gods and spirits yet free of all dogma or fixed belief – a world of beauty and strange magic.

The third prophecy centers around Rudolf Otto’s concept of the numinous as the immediate presence of the Other, often experienced as a “terrible and fascinating mystery” and described by Otto in The Idea of the Holy as “daemonic dread… the horror of Pan.” In “Junkyard Nemeton,” an abandoned junkyard becomes a druidic grove as the trees advance, and the numen walks in the reborn forest. In this case, only a few lines from the final poem have their origin in automatic writing.

Junkyard Nemeton

Dead cars and broken plastic crates with empty bottles bloom.

Roots twist and turn while weird lights burn, out there beyond the gloom.

Discarded wedding rings and books, lost toys and headless dolls.

The forest grows and no one knows what comes and goes, what calls.

There’s something there, with tangled hair. It walks, and drips, and moans.

The song that calls me to the night sounds sweeter than my own.

I step across the muddy ditch and jump the broken fence.

Between the trees, the night-owl sees, and flees in self-defense.

I raise my hands in recompense and mutter words of prayer.

Strange laughter fills the junkyard night. I whisper “who is there?”.

Novitiate, initiate, at last I shall be shown.

The lies that brought me here tonight seem truer than my own.

I lived my life in constant strife, in service to a creed.

But here at last I have no past, for here there is no need.

I stepped across the border and I crawled across the wall.

Here reason sleeps and faith retreats. The forest eats them all.

I’m startled into silence by a long and lonely moan.

The truth that called me here tonight seems stronger than my own.

Ten thousand years now disappear. In some forgotten time,

My ancient dead here bowed their heads as I am bowing mine.

This forest, or another forest – forests without end.

As faith retreats and reason sleeps those times shall come again.

I speak, but I could never tell the things that I was shown.

The words that I would need are so much stranger than my own.

The wings that flap, the eyes that see, the creatures with their call.

The mountain past the forest looms – strange, black, and fat, and tall.

The birds, like gods, are eating flesh. Skulls guard the cave of bears.

Nine-fold the numen walks tonight, and dogs are howling there.

In polar coldness, near the heart, flame flickers on a stone.

The star that leads me to the light is brighter than my own!

Christopher Scott Thompson


is an anarchist, martial arts instructor, devotee of Brighid and Macha, and a wandering exile roaming the earth. Photo by Tam Zech.

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Put Reason Back to Sleep

“The future will have a place for neither faith nor reason.”

From Christopher Scott Thompson

Photo by Hans Eiskonen on Unsplash
Photo by Hans Eiskonen

Surrealist Prophecies #1

“It was in the black mirror of anarchism that surrealism first recognised itself.”

– Andre Breton

This poem is the first in a sequence of apocalyptic prophecies inspired by China Mieville’s novel Last Days of New Paris, which led me to investigate the Surrealist Manifesto of Andre Breton and the use of what Breton calls “the magical Surrealist art” as a method of channeling or divination:

Put yourself in as passive, or receptive, a state of mind as you can. Forget about your genius, your talents, and the talents of everyone else. Keep reminding yourself that literature is one of the saddest roads that leads to everything. Write quickly, without any preconceived subject, fast enough so that you will not remember what you’re writing and be tempted to reread what you have written.

The pure “Surrealist game” is unedited automatic writing, but the poems in this sequence use automatic writing only as a starting point – to be followed in each case by many hours of revision and polishing.

The theme of the sequence is the collapse of our global civilization due to uncontrollable climate change, leading to a mass rejection of both faith and reason and the re-enchantment of our world among the ruins of our failed creations. Some of the poems in the sequence are set before the Fall and portray the spiritual and emotional dilemma of our current crisis. Some describe the Fall itself, and the strange changes in thought and perception that will be needed if any are to survive a world in which humanity has been radically de-centered. Some describe the world to come, a world newly alive with gods and spirits yet free of all dogma or fixed belief – a world of beauty and strange magic.

Put Reason Back to Sleep

“The sleep of reason produces monsters.”

– Francisco Goya

Put reason back to sleep.

Let monsters slip

Out of the corners of your eyes

And lick bricks like meat.

Let them lie them down to breathe

Among the ruins of old useless infrastructure

And there breed new beasts.

The future will have a place for neither faith nor reason.

But only a fluttering

As of birds in flight

That we can sight in season.

And we can plant new trees in

The broken bones of what we built

While from the silt of dead dreams

We must pick out what still gleams.

The future will have a place for neither fact nor fiction.

There will be no restriction based on creed,

But all eyes will bleed.

From one drop,

A vast bulk

Will heave its hulking tentacles

Up through the holes

In once-solid floors

And splash black ink on broken doors

To announce its presence,

To stake its claim.

Another drop shall bloom

And become a room

Red with blood flowers

Above the flood.

Where we shall

Hold all-night congresses

With the snarled tresses

Of wet hair.

We will carve knots in candles there.

The future will have a place for neither pope nor king.

There will be no special honor paid to art,

Yet all hearts shall sing.

We will leave offerings at cold crossroads

Where no cars roll.

A strange new song, not a soul.

For the fast unfolding of

Something old.

We will pray quietly in empty stores

Whose floors are strewn with plastic bags,

And weep silently as humbled conquerors

Before shattered windows

To paint new dragons

On flooded streets.

We will hear the gathering of shuffled feet,

The stir of wings.

We will hear the voice

When it sings.

We will praise the flight

Of dead birds

With muttered words

And raise hands in prayer

To sun and air,

To praise the dawn as she gleams.

We’ll never ask what it means.

To ask questions

Of either fact or fiction

Is to place restrictions on


And when dreams walk,

That isn’t safe.

The gods of the future will not be safe.

For there the ocean,

Now fat and bold,

In the mud-choked memory of some high cathedral

Will hold his revels and make his home.

The sun will dance her way

Through the cracked dome

Of this corrupted capitol

Where cruel laws were made

And pierce straight through it

Like a blade.

And there, death,

Clothed in white,

Will hold court in some aborted


And serve drinks all night.

And she who has heard

The merest rumor

Of that old tumor,

Faith –

He who has seen the faintest wraith

Of that old traitor, reason –

They themselves shall have done treason.

For these things bring death.

They taught us to believe

And to not believe

Till there were no gods left.

They themselves brought the dust –

The rust that showed itself as

A red taint in tap-water

And shall become our Fall.

Put faith to sleep.

Let Titans climb up out of the black bowl of your heart

And squeeze bricks to dust.

Let them lie them down to breed

Among the ruins of old useless infrastructure

And there spread like rust.

The future will have a place for no faith but wonder.

And an endless shattering

Of cracking glass

And a long crash, like thunder.

But we can plant new trees in

The ruined remnants of what we built.

And from the silt of dead dreams

We can pick out what still gleams.

Christopher Scott Thompson


Christopher Scott Thompson is an anarchist, martial arts instructor, devotee of Brighid and Macha, and a wandering exile roaming the earth. Photo by Tam Zech.

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Beasts Must Stick Together

“Said the old beast to the young: Unless you make a hollow of yourself

There will be no room for the gods to dwell inside of you.”

From Ramon Elani

Plate 4 of 'Visions of the Daughters of Albion' c.1795 by William Blake 1757-1827

—For Bec

“If wanderers were not themselves the cause, then like the scent and color
of the lotus in the sky, there would be no perception of the universe.”—Nagarjuna


The young beast said to the old: How can I live in this world?

This lacerated, ruptured world.


Said the old beast to the young: Follow your breath. Speak to the spirits in puddles.

These things shall pass.


Said the young beast to the old: All I see is foul and unspeakably ugly.

A world that is torn and I, torn, within it.


Said the old beast to the young: Go into the forest, make pies, and knit.

Listen to the voices of the storm upon the cliffs.


Said the young beast to the old: O crone, hag! I seek the deep well in the dark woods.

I cannot find it.


Said the old beast to the young: You will only find it in the murky depths of sleep.

What will you search for that you cannot find within yourself?


Said the young beast to the old: But I rage with anger! I crave blood and vengeance!

The gods must witness the terror I will unleash upon this bad world.


Said the old beast to the young: Unless you make a hollow of yourself

There will be no room for the gods to dwell inside of you.


Said the young beast to the old: My heart is black and I cannot let go of my bitterness.

I spit upon peace and the gentleness of slumber.


Said the old beast to the young: When you are alone upon the ice, surrounded by devils

There will only be the voice of your true soul to guide you.


Said the young beast to the old: Storm Crone, I am drifting away, floating,

Haunted by the ever-watching eyes of the deep.


Said the old beast to the young: Look at the cuts upon my breast. I severed my flesh

With jagged cuts of the skinning knife.


Said the young beast to the old: I will prepare you a feast and glistening red meat

Will wet your mouth.


Said the old beast to the young: See this spear upon which I have impaled myself.

See the braids of hair with which I have strangled myself.


Said the young beast to the old: I saw you in the dusky house that was choked with

Smoke. I saw you walk with the moon.


Said the old beast to the young: I slew my brother for his blackened hands that night.

I slew them all for their silence.


Said the young beast to the old: What did you see walking among the stars?

What did you hear in the whispers of the snow?


Said the old beast to the young: The blue demon is rising from his icy depths.

He digs his sharp fingers into the guts of the world.


Said the young beast to the old: Will we drown in tears? An ocean of rust.

Obliterated into fragments by the iron waves.


Said the old beast to the young: Dive deep into the abyss of the ocean and do not fear.

After all, beasts must stick together.

Ramon Elani

Ramon Elani holds a PhD in literature and philosophy. He is a teacher, a poet, a husband, and a father, as well as a muay thai fighter. He wanders in oak groves. He casts the runes and sings to trolls. He lives among mountains and rivers in Western New England

More of his writing can be found here. You can also support him on Patreon.

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From Ramon Elani: “We are never alone.
And the darkness is not outside of us.
Solitude is a gift only found in the endless soul of the ocean.”

“I will no longer mutilate and destroy myself in order to find a secret behind the ruins.” —Hermann Hesse


Within us, there is another,
Who we do not know, who walks beside us,
Sleeps beside us,
The opposing force, The other,
The one who stands behind,
The one who sits at the foot of the bed while we dream,
The shadow by moonlight.


The thing that, when denied, rises up
From the black meres and tarns smoking with mist
In the depths of the shadowy primordial forests,
Where our souls and dream wander.
It rises, in blood, when it is forgotten,
And we live a fetch-life, a double life,
The twin of our soul that stalks through the ruins of the world,
Howling and begging in a storm of fire,
A ghost hungry with wrath.
And so the world becomes the blood-stained battlefield of our souls disregarded.
We see the twisted, mutilated fragments of our selves
In the face of everyone we meet.
That which is denied in the self is born into the world.
There is a deepness within us,
A depth that cannot be sounded,
And that void is haunted by a universe of spirits
That seek to claw their way to the surface,
And overcome the self that rules,
And lay waste to all that has been built.

He who voyages into the darkness of dreams will find the other.
He who searches for the demon will find him.
And he who does not search will be devoured.
The monstrous gods have retreated into the heart,
And by denying them, we become them and bring them into the world.
We are never alone.
And the darkness is not outside of us.
Solitude is a gift only found in the endless soul of the ocean.


He who is whole alone may be King,
And take the crown of the Children of the Goddess,
And bear the arms of Four Cities.
Who led his children from the North of the World
In ships of war to the land of the Bag Men,
Swollen with the fury for battle.
And Mac Erc saw in a dream the fair gods descending from clouds of fire,
And he woke in horror,
And he knew the day would soon come when he would seek water
And desire it more than life itself,
And the water would be hidden from him by the weavers.
And thus shrieking for water, would he be cut down.

And with the Goddess behind him,
Silverhand declared half the land for his kin.
But the Bag Men defied him
And in honor of their glorious pride,
He joined them in the sacred covenant of war.
Silverhand, whose sword none could withstand,
Thus faced the champion Sreng
On the plain of broken towers.
And Sreng in his warlike might shattered Silverhand
And sundered his arm from his body.
And the Children of the Goddess wept as they saw the king go down.
But the battle turned against the Bag Men,
For the spirit of the blood swan was not with them.
And Sreng found himself alone on the bloody field,
And in his martial rage he shook his spear
At Silverhand and demanded recompense for his kinsmen slain.
War for eternity, did Sreng promise to the Children of the Goddess.
War without end.
But Silverhand would not face the dread man again
And overcome by his valorous soul,
Gave him the gift of land and pasture.

And then was a hand wrought of silver to replace
What the king had lost.
And so was he known as Silverhand thereafter.
And then did he regain the kingship, for he was whole once again.
But his wyrd came for him in time,
As it does for us all.
And when the Deep Ones came upon the land,
Silverhand fell to the arms of He of the Evil Eye.


None are free, all are driven by the monster inside of us.
We push it aside, only to ensure that it will follow us with even greater force.
Blood engenders phantoms.
As Paracelsus wrote, there is within the human soul
The quintessence of the universe, light and dark alike.
And there is poison in all things if not taken in their measure.
What we have lost has not disappeared,
It is always within.
And the flames of the world are nothing to the infernos inside of us.
The path is a spiral.

The path we walk is the path of madness,
But we must not turn away, we must not purge the madness from inside of us.
Those who abandon the path of madness within  make the world into a nightmare.
The demons that we seek to banish from our souls wreck the pillars of the world.
How can we choose?
Between a dry, placid soul and a world sundered by horror
A lacerated spirit, panting and wounded from endless battle, living in a world of stars.
Alas, the choice is a false one.
For only the one who is whole may rule.
And in the depths, there is only the cacophony of struggle
And the quietude of the Moon, in her strange ways.

Ramon Elani

Ramon Elani holds a PhD in literature and philosophy. He is a teacher, a poet, a husband, and a father, as well as a muay thai fighter. He wanders in oak groves. He casts the runes and sings to trolls. He lives among mountains and rivers in Western New England

More of his writing can be found here. You can also support him on Patreon.

Risāla of The Violet Smile

There is indeed a cabal between poets and nightingales. Between poets and things that fly and sing in the night, that animate the trees’ branches where sounds and sweet airs tryst and disappear. In turn, this highlights the connection the poet has with that other daughter of nocturnal birds: the witch.

From Slippery Elm

The calcined stones come back.
The fallen temples come back,
The bursted whore houses, the green courtyards
Where the smile of Priapus
Keeps warm the memory of fountains.

My love, let us go along the vanished streets,
Across the bright geometry which still points
To mysterious love and hidden
Pleasures, still so sweet in the night.

Here is the house of the goddess. In the blue
Sanctuary, you can still smell the perfume.
Of sea foam and jasmine and
Carnations salty with her flesh.

The phallic symbol, jolly as ever
Riots in the thick foliage—stretched out
On the happy pan of the balance
Which offers it to love. It is heavier
Than all the fruits of the earth.
Aphrodite smiles in the shadows
As she feels the sea throb in her buttocks.

O ancient brightness! O far off light!
Naked light, love, shine on us always
And when the day comes when we are no more than stones,
After we too, my love, are only ruins,
Let us lie like these stones singing in the sun,
Leading others to love along our vanished ways.

—Rafael Alberti (trans. Kenneth Rexroth in his Thirty Spanish Poems of Love and Exile)

Some say the lyric was born in exile. This is only partly true, as the lyric was born when language itself was born. Born from humans mimicking the cries of birds and beasts, of the sound of the rain in the branches. Of thunder, waves against the shore, and the reverberations that all of these made in the bodies of our earliest ancestors. Those bodies were humanity’s first instruments.

But the lyric does thrive in exile, and like a recalcitrant dandelion or wild rose breaking through layers of outworn concrete, it has always been reborn with renewed vigour at moments in history coloured by the fracturing of Empire and State. Moments where, through song, we are connected to our most primal beginnings.

The ancestor of vocalized human language is bird language. Therefore, birds have pride of place among the ancestors of poets, and there is no bird more emblematic of this relationship than the Nightingale.

Maria Rosa Menocal puts it thus:

In the beginning, the bird is all things: Zen object of contemplation, singer like the poet himself, solitary like the soul—or is it God?—mourning witness to the lover’s blight, innocent, joyful beauty itself—or is that the Lover? They are clan brothers (some say it is a cabal) these poets and birds, survivors from forever, from the age of dinosaurs, but they are still, stark on the horizon. They keep us guessing: is he our soul? is she my lover? is she the singer? Does he clarify? Does he mystify? Will he fly away, just as I thought I finally had him in sight?

There is indeed a cabal between poets and nightingales. Between poets and things that fly and sing in the night, that animate the trees’ branches where sounds and sweet airs tryst and disappear. In turn, this highlights the connection the poet has with that other daughter of nocturnal birds: the witch.

Empire and State are inimical to lyric poetry, and instead have tended to favour the epic and the panegyric. Hence the lyric thrives when these fall apart, or when it is banished and forced to re-inhabit the wilderness that bore it. This is the lyric nightingale that Mahmoud Darwish referred to in his ‘Diary of a Palestinian Wound’: And we came to know what makes the voice of the nightingale/ A dagger that shines in the face of invaders. A singing totem he inherited from Lorca, who inherited it from Don Luis de Góngora y Argote, who inherited it from the ghosts of Troubadours and the Moorish ghosts that still haunt the streets and flower covered patios of his native Córdoba.

The truest poet is the lyric poet, whether her voice be accompanied by the lyre, the harp, the guitar and hand claps of flamenco, the berimbau, or the kick-kick-snare of an adept beat-boxer.

Yet, by the standards of the contemporary literary establishment, and even by those of some small journals that fall on or just outside the margins of the mainstream, lyric poetry is derided and labelled mere ‘confessional poetry’. Nature is something to ignore, deny, or collect specimens of in small flasks to be later displayed in chic exhibitions. The lyrical celebrations of the joie of youth, the ecstasy and abandon of love, wine, and song, are considered immature and juvenile indulgences. Poetry, having lost its music and its duende reads more like the most sober of prose, despite the fact it is at times written out in stanzas, which is to say, despite it at times being dressed in the typographical garb of poetry. But even stanzas are on the wane as more and more poets abandon them in favour of the ‘prose poem’, under pressure to constantly seek out new visual forms and to adopt a posture ‘more-avant-garde-than-thou’. Otherwise, they get scarce or no attention from many mainstream editors and judges who care little for music, magic, or strength of poetic vision, yet care much for what they consider to be the most topically trendy and formally ‘cutting edge’.

Gone is Enheduanna. Gone are Sappho and Catullus. Gone the scops. (The griots would be gone were it not for the emcees true to the elements, though the work of these are hardly ever considered literature). Gone wild Majnūn driven mad by his lost Laila. Oisín and others like him have disappeared in Fairy never to return. The descendants of William of Aquitaine have forgotten how to trobar. The wish of Novalis was granted; his soul was erased by the love the night brings. Baudelaire’s spleen exploded. The lyric tree that Lorca sought to prune to make it flower again all the more exuberant and beautiful, that lonely wind-blasted fairy thorn, that Golden Spruce of Haida Gwaii, that wide-leafed poison-milk witch’s fig, has been given to the axe and sold for pulp.

Modern ‘Western’ civilization banished the Nightingale long ago, and instead claims as its ancestor the Empires of the Classical world. In simple terms, the modern ‘Western’ telling of history goes as follows: Our civilization was born with Classical Greek civilization, and was further developed by the Romans until their empire fell apart. Then the lights went out for about a thousand years until the advent of the Modern period and beginnings of the Nation-State in 1492.

This is the grand récit or master narrative that has been told and re-told over the centuries and is still the dominant model employed by the textbooks of today. What seldom appears even in our contemporary textbooks is the detail that this narrative was written by Renaissance scholars who tended to re-write history to the tune of their own ideologies and political agendas, or to those of the politicians to whom they rendered service.

Thanks to these scholars and their intellectual descendants, to this day, the medieval period is often thought to be a synonym for ‘the dark ages’, for what is archaic and outworn, a wrinkle in the fabric of progress, of the smooth linear telling of ‘Western’ history.

But nightingales sing in the dark, and the fracturing of the Roman empire brought about a whole cacophony of ‘vulgar’ Romance vernaculars, vernaculars that co-existed and co-mingled with various Berber languages as well as a great number of Hebrew and Arabic dialects and hybrids with Romance. And of course, the poems that were composed and sung in all of these.

It is important to recall that what were the ‘dark ages’ for ‘Europe’ was the ‘Classical’ or ‘Golden Age’ for Islamic civilization. However, the fact the lyric favours political splintering is still reflected, to give one example, in the explosion of poetry in the badi’ style, a literary heresy closely associated with religious heresy, that was cultivated in Al-Andalus during the taifa period after the disintegration of the Umayyad derived caliphate there.

The Nation-State has no room for the lyrical riot of voices, languages, and cultures living together in the intimate conditions (an intimacy that bore dazzling cultural fruits, alongside some violent conflicts) that characterized what came to be known as the ‘medieval’ period. It makes perfect sense that the historians of the Renaissance re-wrote history to smooth over the expulsions, ethnic cleansings and linguistic discriminations that had to happen in order for the Nation-State to come into being. The dominant aesthetic of the Renaissance is derived from the smooth symmetries of Classical taste in art, of well defined categories and identities, and in some instances, of the mute and minimal. This is the aesthetic of the cool, smooth and well-polished pearl, and not the ‘cacophony’ or spectacular lyric excesses of much medieval art and literature, or their younger cousin the Baroque, a word thought to come from the Spanish barrueco, which literally means a rough or imperfect pearl.

In many ways, just as Modern civilization claims its roots in Classical civilization, so too does Modern literature and art in many ways drink from the fountains of Classical aesthetics. This perfect pearl and the polished and learned cherub voices that sing its praises are a far cry from la perle en brute, raw and natural, robust and godly as the kiss of Pan.

The Romantics challenged this view and sought inspiration in the often politically fractured yet culturally fertile medieval period, while they simultaneously fought against the societal changes brought about by the Industrial Revolution. However, the engines of Modernity proved too powerful to bind with lyric enchantments. This is reflected in the tastes of the contemporary literary establishment referred to above, and in the meanings the term ‘romantic’ has come to be associated with.

Nowadays, ‘romantic’ is often used as a synonym for ‘escapism’, ‘whimsical nostalgia’, or ‘hollow fantasy’, and has been mostly emptied of its political connotations. Far from an attempt to escape reality, Romanticism is really a passionate and fearless plunge into the very marrow of the same. The edict of the English Romantics was to call for love, wine, and snuff until you cry out ‘Hold, enough!’, yet at the same time be tempered by the tranquility and ferocity of Nature, to get out walking in the rain and mud. To dive in and Live. In its truest sense, it does not project some hollow fantasy onto a cold stark inert reality, rather, it asserts that Reality in and of itself is inherently magical. All of it. The whole spectrum of existence and experience, from joy to suffering, youth to old age, is innately imbued with spirit and wonder. This only ceases to be the case when one changes the syntax with which they communicate with reality, a change that is often associated with the loss of childhood innocence.

Surely, to focus obsessively on one’s ‘self’ does no service to poetry. And yet, the age old axiom stands: as above so below; as within, so without. The lyric poet is not given to self-indulgence, but to feeling the world so deeply, seeing it so profoundly, that their own soul is erased in the soul of the world. Think of the anonymous lyrics of popular or ‘folkloric’ poetry, in these, the ‘lyrical I’ belongs to no one but the Wind. How wise the youth, who knows the insights and feelings they have are unique and ephemeral, knows there is oh so much more to learn, and takes advantage of all of their joie in employing Death as copy editor. How wise the elder who defeats death by kindling the black flame of their innocent heart.

The Countess, by Wild Grace

Romanticism, the age old lyric traditions that it in some way preserves, as well as the traditions it inspired that in some senses parted ways from it, are bearers of the Violet Smile. The violet smile of true poetry, a smile beyond the fictitious divides of literary currents, languages, and time periods imposed by the most learned poetry critics and their anthologists. That smile at once innocent, wise and mischievous that seems to say ‘I-know-a-secret-that-you-don’t-know-but-I-can-show-it-to-you-if-you-but-come-with-me-and-take-my-hand…’

It is a sad thing that today ‘romantic’ is used as a derision. If a poet is inspired by the Romantic current, she or he usually feels a pressure to apologize for it.

Furthermore, the notion that Romanticism is not political is utterly false. We see this in Wordsworth’s alleged activity as ‘undercover agent’ around the time of the French Revolution, in the radical activities of Shelley with his infamous Masque of Anarchy, and those of Blake with his Proverbs of Hell to give a few examples.

Detail from the ‘Troubadour Casket’

There is a reason that the incendiary book that sparked the Romantic revolution in English was titled Lyrical Ballads. Surely, lyric poetry has a long history of political commitment. Think of Dante in exile, champion of the vernacular poets, of the Troubadours, of the sweet new style. Think of the Troubadours themselves, often considered heretics by their opponents. Their connections to Catharsim is noteworthy, but it’s not the whole story, nor is it analogous to the ‘heresy’ expressed by many Troubadours and Trobairitz. This is due to the Cathars’ denial of sex and the body, whereas the heresy of the Troubadours was more often a fin’amour whose physical consummation (when consummation was to be had) was celebrated before or as dawn broke, as demonstrated by the l’alba genre. This heresy was decidedly a religion of love, or, dīn al-hawā to use the equivalent Arabic term.


We can go back further and think of the aforementioned poets of taifa period Al-Andalus whose poetic model with all its lyrical, anarchic, and debauched mystical components was absorbed by their neighbours north of the border of the taifa of Zaragoza (in Arabic, Saraqusta). Let’s not forget that William of Aquitaine was a brother of arms to some members of the Banū Hūd of Zaragoza. It is clear the Occitan verb trobar from which the Troubadours take their name, is connected with ṭaraba, if not the Arabic verb itself adopted into the Occitan language. The meaning of the verb root ṭ-r-b and its derived forms is as follows: Arabic Verb Form I: to be moved (with joy or grief); to be delighted, be overjoyed, to be transported with joy; Arabic Verb Form II: to delight, enrapture, gratify; to sing, vocalize, chant; Arabic Verb Form IV: to delight, fill with delight; enrapture, gratify, to make music; to sing, vocalize, chant; to play music (with object pronoun, “for someone”), to sing (with object pronoun “for someone”). This has been more than demonstrated by many scholars over the years, and in recent years we can highlight the work of Cynthia Robinson that I have drawn upon here. And yet, sadly, due to ideological reasons, this is something many Romance philologists and medievalists continue to deny at all costs.

The legacy left behind by the notorious Abū Nūwās and others like him who used homoerotic lyrics to subvert the religious and political authorities of Abbasid Baghdad was carried on by the taifa sovereigns and their poet-courtiers, who took things to a whole new level in being themselves kings who subverted the very notions of kingship. With their poems of love and praise to the charming, coquettish and somewhat androgynous Cupbearer (androgynous and gender-blurring whether this Cupbearer was a boyish young woman, or, more often, an effeminate young man, and very frequently an eroticization of the Christian Other) completely pulled the rug out from under the rigid commonplace hierarchies…

Let it be known that whether sung to as rosinhols in Occitan, or ‘andalīb in Arabic, the undeniable totem of both of these groups of poets was our lyric Nightingale.

Returning to Romanticism. It should be specified that Romanticism itself is far from homogenous, and when we use that term we are referring to a wide range of thinkers and artists across a wide range of languages and political landscapes, and across a time-frame whose start and end dates are rarely the subject of agreement. Furthermore, I am in no way advocating any sort of ‘neo-romanticism’ (whatever that means) and understand there are also aspects of Romanticism worthy of critique.

In any case, much of this has been forgotten or denied. After Shelley ‘suffered a sea change’, so to speak, in what can almost be seen as a strange poet’s offering to the gods of the ocean, his washed up dead body was thrown into a bonfire on a beach at Viareggio. The story goes that this was done by, or at least done in the presence of, his friends Lord Byron, Edward Trelawney, and Leigh Hunt. His heart was alleged to have been salvaged and kept as a keepsake by his widow and fellow writer Mary Shelley in a silver case. Yet for many, that charred-black heart, its silver coffer, and the Memory behind it were cast back into the sea.


The Funeral of Shelley by Louis Édouard Fournier

In the succeeding years, after the Victorian poets entered stage Right, we arrive at the advent of literary Modernism, and with it, a strange paradox comes into play. While ideologically very different than the Romantics, much of Victorian era poetry can still be described as lyrical. This might have less to do with the poets themselves and more to do with their environment. In the nineteenth century, magic and a ‘magical worldview’ was on the wane but still had a considerable foothold, especially in rural areas. ‘Western’ civilization was becoming industrialized at an even more alarming rate but wild nature was not yet so suffocated by concrete and smog.

In contrast, while Modern poetry flung open the doors for experimentation it closed them on the lyric. Modern poetry can hardly be called lyrical, and some would argue that it should not even be called poetry. There are of course exceptions. Whitman is hailed as a ‘father’ of Modern poetry for flinging open the doors in his espousal of free verse, but his were songs primarily to the open road, not to the city street choked by pollution. Also, the fact his poems were meant to be ecstatically chanted, combined with their intensely personal nature, makes them, in a way, lyrical.

Or ee cummings with his nod to the medieval lyrics in “All in green went my love riding”. With cummings we have a formally and orthographically experimental poet when one first sees his poems upon the page, but all his experimentation is done in the service of music and lyrical themes, as it must be. In many cases, it’s less the Modernists themselves who are responsible for the prevailing derision of the lyric in contemporary poetry. The guilty party is more so the critics who the Modernists were posthumously enshrined by, and many of the poets of later decades taken to ‘avant-garde’ posturing.

It is notable that in Woody Allen’s film Midnight in Paris, a film that presents a reasonably broad panorama of the Modernist dramatis personae, that two of the most famous poets in their respective languages, poets who often get lumped in with the Modernists by the critics and anthologists, would be conspicuously absent. These are Federico García Lorca and William Butler Yeats, poets that in large part can only be considered Modernists if you deem them guilty by association.

It matters little if each of these poets pruned the lyric tree of his respective tradition, but in the connections they maintained with the land beneath their feet, with its folklore and the spirits that imbue even rocks with life; they represent something quite different. Lorca’s entire oeuvre—even the plays!—have been sung and absorbed by flamenco lyric tradition. Yeats’ poems have also been sung and there are few poets in English who have such an exquisite sense for the musicality of language as he does.

Both these poets lived during the ‘Modernist era’ in literature and were associated with some of modernism’s biggest names, yet while others were looking forward they were looking backward. Each in his own way and toward different ends carried out a mobilization of folklore, to borrow a phrase from Peter Grey & Alkistis Dimech.

These poets defy rigid classification into any particular literary current. This is to be expected from any poet whose output is based upon trafficking with fairies and duendes. It is worth mentioning that modernismo in Spanish literature is different from modernism in English, and, as exemplified by the bacchic and pagan Ruben Darío, in some ways is much closer to Romanticism.

Also, different languages got their modernisms at different times. Modernism or the term ‘modernist’ should never be used as a mere synonym for what is ‘revolutionary’, ‘iconoclastic’, or ‘innovative’. What differentiates modernists proper from their innovative counterparts of all time periods, are the specific connections those innovations have with modernity, with industrial civilization.

In Yeats’ case, Yeats the magician is incompatible with Yeats the modernist hence the omission or enormous understatement of this facet by subsequent anthologists, a facet which is more than a bit important to arrive at a nuanced understanding of both the man and his work.

Of course, there are also magical aspects to the work of T.S. Eliot but these are expressed in a completely different way. In his short essay “Modern Poetry is Prose”, Lawrence Ferlinghetti makes the following commentary:

“Modern poetry is prose because it sounds as subdued as any city man or woman whose life force is submerged in urban life…Like modern sculpture, it minimized emotion in favor of understated irony and implied intensity. As such it is the perfect poetry for technocratic man…And the nightingales may still be singing…but we can hardly hear them in the city waste lands of T. S. Eliot, nor in his Four Quartets (which can’t be played on any instrument and yet is the most beautiful prose of our time). Nor in the prose wastes of Ezra Pound’s Cantos which aren’t canti because they couldn’t possibly be sung. Nor in the pangolin prose of Marianne Moore (who called her writing poetry for lack of anything better to call it)…nor in the outer city speech of William Carlos Williams, in the flat-out speech of his Paterson. All of which is applauded by poetry professors and poetry reviewers in all the best places, none of whom will commit the original sin of saying some poet’s poetry is prose in the typography of poetry—just as the poet’s friends will never say it—the dumbest conspiracy of silence in the history of letters…Most modern poetry is poetic prose but it is saying plenty, by its own example, about what death of the spirit our technocratic civilization may be dealing us, enmeshed in machines and macho nationalisms, while some continue longing for some nightingale among the pines of Resphigi. It is the bird singing that makes us happy.”

Woman injured during Catalan referendum, October 1st 2017

It is in a mesh of macho nationalisms that I find myself in at this very moment. Indeed, that we are are all increasingly finding ourselves in. Since the events of October 1st in Catalunya I have walked the streets of Granada and seen the city become gripped in a fit of flag fetishism. The gazpacho-red and paella-yellow banner of Spain has been unfurled over numerous balconies throughout the city centre, and anti-Catalan sentiments (with a healthy dose of renewed hate speech toward ‘Rojos’ and environmental activists) are in the process of reaching a witch-hunt-esque fever pitch.

Only individuals as despicable as Mariano Rajoy and his government can make the perhaps equally ill-reputable Carles Puigdemont look like the victim, or worse, a hero, from the perspective of governments and media sources outside of Spain. Yet within the Spanish mainstream, Rajoy, the National Police and the Civil Guard are seen as the heroes for giving the Catalans a paliza or beating of which they are considered to be the well deserved recipients. Tragic to see ones neighbours and friends enveloped in Spanish flags; tragic when one sees this in their own extended family, and even more tragic when members of that family were killed or imprisoned for fighting against, or disagreeing with, the fascists in the Spanish Civil War. Fascists come in all shapes and sizes, they come from the Right and they come from the Left (cf. the policies of Getulio Vargas in Brazil in the 30’s, 40’s, and 50’s), but perhaps one of the most clear and universal hallmarks of fascism on the government level is openly state-sponsored violence to effectuate political coercion. This is Rajoy’s idea of an, and I quote ‘amiable’ democracy:

Is it any small wonder the heraldry of the Civil Guard, the heraldry painted on all of their vehicles, is a sword crossed with a fasces?


Rajoy is the head of a party (Partido Popular) founded on the same ‘España, una, grande, y libre’ ideology of Franco, Primo Ribera, and The Catholic Monarchs Isabel and Fernando before them. A party founded on ‘Christianist’ principles, or in other words, principles of ‘political Christianity’ (cf. Islamism or ‘political Islam’). The PP thrives off of insurgent Basque and Catalan activity and more recently Islamic terrorism because it needs them as external demons in order to make every one feel more ‘united’ and ‘together’ under a flag that stands for stolen Gold and spilt Blood. We all know that Catalunya is Spain’s economic and industrial powerhouse and therefore the Spanish government cannot afford to let them separate, but ironically, the PP also benefits from what is happening due to the widespread awakening of Spanish nationalist sentiment it has aroused, swelling in power like a blood-fattened tick. It’s worth pausing and asking another question. Is it any small wonder the tragic attacks of this past August happened in Barcelona just a month and a half before the referendum?

All of this is directly related to our discussion of Empire, State, and the lyric. In order to understand why let us return to our commentary on mainstream historiography and consider the year 1492 in a bit more detail. We all know it as the year that Columbus and his crew ‘discovered’ the New World, and some people also know it as the year the Catholic Monarchs finally took control of the Nasrid Kingdom of Granada—an event that meant the end of what remained of Al-Andalus and the birth of Spain. Others know it as the year the Sephardic Jews were expelled from the peninsula, but few know that in addition to all this, on the 18th of August that same year—just a few weeks after Columbus set sail—1492 saw the first publication of the first Castilian grammar, codifying that language and establishing its hegemony in the Iberian Peninsula, a linguistic hegemony that it still enjoys. Spanish, when referring to the language, is a misnomer. The language is referred to here as castellano, in the same way it is also referred to in much of Latin America. Spanish, like the Spain it refers to, in reality does not exist, but were founded, like most nations, on ideological fictions. It was this cacophonic cultural pluralism of Galician, Catalan, Euskara (Basque) Aragonese, Hebrew, Arabic, Berber, Caló—and all the hybrids between them and different dialects of the same—that had to be smoothed over to create modern Spain, highlighted by historians as a prime example of the beginnings of the Nation-State. This is one of the dead horses of the medieval period that was thrown overboard in the calm seas of the Horse Latitudes (between 30 & 38 degrees North and South), as Menocal insightfully showed us, sacrificed in order for the winds of progress and modernity to blow, in order for Columbus’ ships to be able to continue sailing onwards toward a brave new world.

Keep in mind that Castilian (especially in its Andalusian and Valencian varieties) is absolutely chock-a-block with words derived from Arabic (arabisms); indeed, even Catalan has arabisms but to a lesser extent. It should not be forgotten that once upon a time the area that would come to be known as Catalunya was also part of Al-Andalus.

The Reconquista, the Spanish nation’s most beloved myth, is exactly that, a myth. Spain did not exist at the time of the so called Reconquista and numerous scholars have challenged the degree to which the different Christian Crowns considered themselves to be engaging in a re-conquista as they went about making land grabs to the South and in the Balearic Islands, not to mention fighting amongst themselves. Berbers have always been crossing the Straight of Gibraltar, have always lived in and done business with the peoples of Iberian Peninsula, and before they were converted to Islam, many were Christian and some even Jewish (cf. al-Kāhina). If Morocco belonged to Christians and was later conquered by Muslims, by the same twisted rhetoric of the Reconquista, that would give Christians the right to ‘reconquer’ Northern Africa, something that only the most despicable members of Spanish society would advocate. The vast majority of the Spanish flag wearers and ‘¡Arriba España!’ chanters would find this barbarous.

Also, scholars like the incendiary Emilio Gonzalez Ferrín deny that there was a Muslim conquest in Spain, hence the ceaseless efforts of Right-wing oriented scholars to silence him and punch holes in his research, for naturally, if there was no conquest, there cannot be any reconquest. Gonzalez Ferrín insists that what happened in the Iberian Peninsula was not a conquest, but a revolution, or a gradual process that slowly assimilated Islam and Islamic culture over time. He makes the following points: All the sources that describe the conquest were redacted much much later than the events they describe. The population in the south was largely Arian Christian rather than Catholic; Arians deny the trinity so their beliefs are actually very similar, or at least compatible with, those of Islam. How could it have been possible for some 300 ragtag soldiers (the oft cited 10,000 from the sources is likely highly exaggerated) to conquer just about the entire Iberian Peninsula in a few short years—taking into account the very difficult topography—when it took the Romans almost 200 years to do the same? These are all mysteries that the appearance of a coin from the 8th century whereupon it is written Muhammed is the prophet of God fall very short of answering.

Whatever the case, there is fortunately a growing new generation of Arabists, Hebraists, and Romance philologists who are committed to using their disciplines to destroy the toxic myths of Nations and Nationalism, and not the other way around, as has been the case for much of the previous century and earlier. Indeed, philology has been used on equal-footing as that other most powerful way for the greedy and power hungry to prove their nations: War. And in the ostensible absence of war, international sports (the World Cup, the Olympics). No Spaniard feels so Spanish as when they see la selección nacional take to the pitch, nor when Spain wins the World Cup. It arouses pride in those who don’t even like football, and in pretty much all Spanish citizens, be these catalans, vascos gallegos, aragoneses, castellanos, or the andaluz ‘más gitano’.

Mastering philology is one of our keys to mastering reality, to unravelling the grand récit and making room for all those other voices that don’t make the canons of national literature, for the lyric poets singing in the streets and leafy bowers. To speak with Bob Kaufman, for all those ships that never sailed, the ones left scuttled in their stalls with their seacocks open. Ships that could have sailed toward a very different future than the one brought about by Columbus’ voyage and the events surrounding it. Today we bring them back Huge and intransitory And let them sail forever.

All reality is quantity and quality. Numbers give the quantity, words give the quality. Hence operative kabbalah or other (almost all?) magical systems that employ numbers and words—the true roots of all things—to make change in the world. Languages come from the elements, from roots (cf. Empedocles). We see this so clearly in Hebrew and Arabic in that all words are derived from verbs of three (and some two and four) letter roots. Verbs are superior to nouns, because they represent the animating principles that substantiate nouns, that make them move. Therefore, we can flip the adage of the concrete and very ‘modern’ William Carlos Williams: No ideas but in movement.

As Empires and States continue to crumble, now’s to declare our intent in all our myriad babel tongues, in all our lyric and varied voces magicae: the homecoming of love (and wild nature) among illustrious ruins.


Slippery Elm

Slippery Elm’s poetry and prose in English and Spanish have appeared in dozens of journals and anthologies in both Europe and North America. He has performed as a part of flamenco groups in Europe, Africa, and North America, in courtly settings, as well as in the streets, by hearth corner, and under leaf. He is the editor and translator of the poetry anthology Your Death Full of Flowers and the author of two pocket poetry books. He compliments his poetry and dance by studying Arabic and Hebrew philologies.

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Praise for the Fallen


The Rebel Girl, public domain image from Wikimedia Commons

A praise poem in the bardic tradition, in honor of a fallen warrior. The form is acrostic.


Honor and memory! You who lost everything,

Even tomorrow for you shall not come.

All of us drink to you, drinks have been poured for you,

Tales will be told of you, though you are gone.


Honor and memory! Fear could not crumble you,

Even though, howling with hatred, they came.

Armed with their clubs and knives, clothed in their fear and lies,

Theirs was a coward’s pride, reeking of shame.


Honor and memory! Marching so splendidly!

Each of your comrades, and you, soon to fall.

Raising the banner of Parsons and Haymarket:

Harm to one worker is harm to us all.


Envy so murderous took you away from us.

You weren’t the first, and you won’t be the last.

Envy shall not prevail! Fascism falls and fails!

Raising our fists, we cry: They shall not pass!


Christopher Scott Thompson

cst-authorChristopher Scott Thompson became a pagan at age 12, inspired by books of mythology and the experience of homesteading in rural Maine. A devotee of the Celtic goddesses Brighid and Macha, Thompson has been active in the pagan and polytheist communities as an author, activist and founding member of Clann Bhride (The Children of Brighid). Thompson was active in Occupy Minnesota and is currently a member of the Workers’ Solidarity Alliance, an anarcho-syndicalist organization. He is also the founder of the Cateran Society, an organization that studies the historical martial art of the Highland broadsword.

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A poem from Hunter Hall

I sail by passive
and go straight to aggressive.
My polite clap,
more chilling than any
war horn at dawn.

Picture this:
My blood smeared face
smiling at the wreckage
the carnage.
My dancing feet
over the broken ground
no dance sweeter than
the Watusi.

My humor is a lash,
and if it does not draw blood
it is not funny.
I am my own favorite
Please, admire my flair.
It is the brightest flower in my bonnet.

Do not try to placate me.
I am not the moral
of the story;
I am the foreboding clouds,
the ominous roll of thunder,
the ssnk ssnk of the scythe
felling the wheat,
the held breath
before the arrow flies.
I awaken
to crush dreams
and burn cities to the ground.

Picture this:
A smile so sharp
it can draw blood.
A flash of anger is all it takes
to light my
finest summer bonnet


Hunter Hall

gloriaHunter Hall’s a ferocious poet seen late last century lurking black-hooded about the rainy streets of Seattle. Reading Deleuze&Guattari while slinging brutal mochas, channeling serpents and raw riot through her spoken-word performances, she now lurks somewhere in the Salish Sea, plotting revolution while baking for her children.

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