In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

— "In Flanders Fields," by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae
Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again; and then in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open, and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked
I cried to dream again.

- Caliban in Shakespeare’s The Tempest, III, ii (via lottie2)

Thanks to Sir Kenneth Branagh’s performance of this speech at the Olympics, I shall now forever associate it with Sir Edward Elgar’s piece, “Nimrod,” from “Enigma Variations.”

Alone I sat | when the Old One sought me,
The terror of gods, | and gazed in mine eyes:
“What hast thou to ask? | why comest thou hither?
Othin, I know | where thine eye is hidden.”

I know where Othin’s | eye is hidden,
Deep in the wide-famed | well of Mimir;
Mead from the pledge | of Othin each morn
Does Mimir drink: | would you know yet more?

— Voluspa, stanzas 28 & 29; translation by Henry Adams Bellows (via runicbasso)

(via wyrdwanderings)

bringmeacup:

Los Angeles - Dante Basco & AJ Rafael

Brilliant! :>

I also really dig the Rufio graffiti in the background. 

(via rufiozuko)

Only on me, the lonely one,
The unending stars of the night shine,
The stone fountain whispers its magic song,
To me alone, to me the lonely one
The colourful shadows of the wandering clouds
Move like dreams over the open countryside.
Neither house nor farmland,
Neither forest nor hunting privilege is given to me,
What is mine belongs to no one,
The plunging brook behind the veil of the woods,
The frightening sea,
The bird whir of children at play,
The weeping and singing, lonely in the evening, of a man secretly in love.
The temples of the gods are mine also, and mine
The aristocratic groves of the past.
And no less, the luminous
Vault of heaven in the future is my home:
Often in full flight of longing my soul storms upward,
To gaze on the future of blessed men,
Love, overcoming the law, love from people to people.
I find them all again, nobly transformed:
Farmer, king, tradesman, busy sailors,
Shepherd and gardner, all of them
Gratefully celebrate the festival of the future world.
Only the poet is missing.
The lonely one who looks on,
The bearer of human longing, the pale image
Of whom the future, the fulfillment of the world
Has no further need. Many garlands
Wilt on his grave,
But no one remembers him.
— The Poet, by Hermann Hesse. Translated by James Wright.

Alone I sat | when the Old One sought me,
The terror of gods, | and gazed in mine eyes:
“What hast thou to ask? | why comest thou hither?
Othin, I know | where thine eye is hidden.”

I know where Othin’s | eye is hidden,
Deep in the wide-famed | well of Mimir;
Mead from the pledge | of Othin each morn
Does Mimir drink: | would you know yet more?

— Voluspa, stanzas 28 & 29; translation by Henry Adams Bellows

Nīþ

runicbasso:

by Asbjørn A. Urðarsvinr (Charles W. York)

A ship without a steersman,

adrift in the sea of worms.

Corpse-dust on the lids of minds,

and sword-sworn vows rest on draugar lips.

Torches guide the wayfaring stranger,

unlanded and unknown in this land of ice. 

Though the hearthfires of men shudder and wan, 

and the ashes of their deeds go scatter’d to the winds.

Over the heath and into the sea-thread’s realm,

the wealth of the flame-farewelled is spread. 

Protected and secreted away by might and main,

known to none but the dead ‘till its time come again.

:

High above the heath a cloak-shrowd spins,

torn and twisted by the blades of rime.

The steeds of men grow silent in the field,

met with the thousand-thousand teeth of iron and steel.

The bones of the forest howl no longer,

creaking of the slavering wounds of the firey thunder-hewer. 

Bound in threads of frost and fate,

screams the snow and wails the wind. 

The happiness of men will turn - it is said,

to ashes in their mouths, when the unspoken law is broken.

Let slip the sea-steeds of the invader,

and forever rest among the drowned, their drekar be.

:

Ripe from the gnashing come the unmoving steeds of men,

bound to steeds of their own to serve a new purpose.

Against the wind are they pointed,

and to the face of home and hearth they seek to poison.

The foolish man thinks himself absolute and just, 

in matters of what makes a man or what qualifies others.

For to curse the Seether is to curse the Wanderer,

and to curse the Wanderer is to curse oneself. 

Frozen howlings change and weep in greener lands,

wailing as the dirge-song for rime, not-yet-thawed.

Blood of earth and sky, spilled in the name of word and deed,

as present yet immaterial as salt of the sea, or yet wind in the sky.

:

(reblogging for the Americas’ afternoon-evening crowd.)

Nīþ

by Asbjørn A. Urðarsvinr (Charles W. York)

A ship without a steersman,

adrift in the sea of worms.

Corpse-dust on the lids of minds,

and sword-sworn vows rest on draugar lips.

Torches guide the wayfaring stranger,

unlanded and unknown in this land of ice. 

Though the hearthfires of men shudder and wan, 

and the ashes of their deeds go scatter’d to the winds.

Over the heath and into the sea-thread’s realm,

the wealth of the flame-farewelled is spread. 

Protected and secreted away by might and main,

known to none but the dead ‘till its time come again.

:

High above the heath a cloak-shrowd spins,

torn and twisted by the blades of rime.

The steeds of men grow silent in the field,

met with the thousand-thousand teeth of iron and steel.

The bones of the forest howl no longer,

creaking of the slavering wounds of the firey thunder-hewer. 

Bound in threads of frost and fate,

screams the snow and wails the wind. 

The happiness of men will turn - it is said,

to ashes in their mouths, when the unspoken law is broken.

Let slip the sea-steeds of the invader,

and forever rest among the drowned, their drekar be.

:

Ripe from the gnashing come the unmoving steeds of men,

bound to steeds of their own to serve a new purpose.

Against the wind are they pointed,

and to the face of home and hearth they seek to poison.

The foolish man thinks himself absolute and just, 

in matters of what makes a man or what qualifies others.

For to curse the Seether is to curse the Wanderer,

and to curse the Wanderer is to curse oneself. 

Frozen howlings change and weep in greener lands,

wailing as the dirge-song for rime, not-yet-thawed.

Blood of earth and sky, spilled in the name of word and deed,

as present yet immaterial as salt of the sea, or yet wind in the sky.

:

Canticum Cuniculorum, “Song of the Rabbits”

Canticum Cuniculorum, “Song of the Rabbits”

A song, dedicated to someone very dear to me. 

Audio recording TBA.

_________________________________________

(chorus:)

Run, run, Rabbit, run,

chase the moon and seek the sun!

From the cairns, to where freedom be won,

run, run, Rabbit, run!

- - -

Softly your padfoot falls

on the forest floor.

Careful to last step,

as your elders did implore. 

  • (chorus)

Far from hall did you wander,

torch grasped, water and flame

bid you welcome on your way.

Enduring all who would strike you lame.

  • (chorus)

To the baying of hounds you gave no wane,

nor to the chase did you leave wanting. 

No teeth did they bare, though their legs tire,

in the crunch of snow, did your leaps speak, haunting. 

  • (chorus)

To the rooting of boar you gave pause, 

for they knew not where they wallow.

A home at their hearth did you name,

in the deep winter’s moon, you saw the distant barrow.

  • (chorus)

To the howling of wolves you gave pause, 

for they knew much that was sorrow. 

Hands that heal, all desire, 

when stood beside their fire, and learned of their bone-deep cause.

  • (chorus)

To the grumbling of bears you gave pause,

for they knew the sting of the arrow.

In the heart was their wound, though they did not fall,

a mindful clarity, did they indeed borrow. 

  • (chorus)

Bid farewell to the host, their beloved guest must go,

to the cairn-road of She who men fear, known.

Churning tides and roaring flame, did not know from whence they came,

riders on the road of bones, ‘tis their song of joy and moan. 

  • (chorus)

Bid welcome to the wells of Cold, Wisdom, and Fate,

over the winds of howling cries, careful ears rise to hear.

Of words spoken, thought, and written in the worlds

of Gods and Men, did they meet in this strait. 

  • (chorus)

The wheel has turned, and glad tidings have come,

the eagle of hunts, its quarry outrun.

White has changed, for the coming flame,

coursing the chariot of the sun.

  • (chorus)

Chase the moon and seek the sun,

run, run, Rabbit, run!