Memetic Poetry

I

The purple mounts muses mingle on,
by Aurora’s opening the lid of the world,
Are ‘light with the the joy of the morn,
invisible but to the herald,
who trumpets out the coming of the all felt unseen,
by which the world all hurl’d
in the joy felt in what has been
and what is to come
in thrumming power of inspired’s lyres.
The gyres are reversed by their ken.
What has been mired shall be admired.
What was cooled shall be fired.
The weak, the meek, shall be made strong,
for all will be right, all, all wrongs.

Beyond the stony faces
of the once inspired
lie the purple mountains
waiting for the morn.

II

Shall some errant warrior poet
go to end our darkened night,
with his lightly stepping gait,
beyond the gate of the late muses
who play dead but for deaths pleasure
abandoning us to lunar wrath.

Or shall he sing to none but starless night,
in which the moon drinks dead the muses,
starved of sunlight to gyry wrath,
in which lunatics take vip’rous pleasure?
Drowning them, mer-death hears hippocampus’ gait.
Ride hippocampus! and carry our crown’d poet!

Carry home to Halycon our daemon muses.
Household gods, ancient mothers, give your pleasure
to thine own hero, this warrior poet,
who calls you by his Zarathustran’ dancing gait
and memory feats to defeat Oblivion’s wrath!
Let us not go into Kali’s cursed night.

Storm the Mer! What could give you more pleasure
than war against death? Measure mustang world. Gait
this globe, with bit, with stick, so blinded in night
it may know direction and, purposeful, stay wrath,
and not trample it’s guide, but by prophet-poet
know the route to carry home half-drowned muses.

Let us follow Borea’s gait,
it will lead us to green pastures, forget the wrath
of those who have no Logos, we’ve muses
to guide us. Heracliteans, are we poet?
Merged by theosis, no longer of Death’s night.
What could be of more unity than life’s pleasure!

The pure stormed with conqueror’s wrath
only by their loss of the garden, and the Poet
tells us they had found the moon, and the pleasure
lost of an ever-high sun. Oh woe of night!
For which none can make ready, which kills even muses,
and makes us lose the Boreal gait.

Wrath of the Poet kill the pleasure of night,
that we might walk again with the gait
of which the muses everlasting remind.

III

The lady of the lake drowns us all
drowns the sun, drowns in the fall
which hides the cave which holds the blade
which gods and lovers to us bade
we must not hold lest we die,
the lightning held for those born high,
but carry it we must, anointed by stone
black which called kings to reknown,
and now called to fight killers of the soul,
bear crown of flame, and heart of fuel,
which must itself be made a sun,
that we might chariot-bring the morn.
We pass through the fall. We call to arms,
We burn with the lightning blade. Alarms!
We move beyond death, past the waters, to the dark.
We emerge again, three days, chi-ral mark’d,
and we wage holy war on the night and its pelf.
We wage war on the cult of the self.
And beyond our selves we burn.

socialmatter.net/2018/07/21/beyond-kalis-night/

Poetry is faggot shit. Say what you mean, and stop being such a woman.

Form is better than non-form.
Meter is better than non-meter.
Rhyme is better than non-rhyme.
Melody is better than discord.
Beauty is better than ugliness.

The forms which exist in poetry, the sonnet, the heroic couplet, the iambic pentameter blank verse, the ballad, all exist because they have survived memetically. They exist because they are proven memetic forms.

Don't antiquate your diction. It's too hard to parse.
Don't over-modernize, it's too anti-poetic.
Elevate your tone, it's fucking poetry.
Is it in accord with Truth, with Tradition? Is it Beautiful?

Poetry is connected to the sacral. It was used to convey the spritual teachings of our ancestors. Never secularize it.
Poetry is a pagan art. It was meant not to inform purely by its words, but by the beauty, the awe which it inspires.
Poetry has meaning. Incantational poems ought not supplant edifying poems.
Poetry is not textual, it is aural. It is not spoken but sung, not read but performed. It is far closer to liturgy than literature.

You are almost certainly a nigger or a jew. You cannot possibly have an aryan bone in your body, or else you are the most deracinated sort of creature imaginable.
No, niggers understand poetry, I cannot even imagine what kind of monster you are.

I am the water and the fountain
I am the meadow and the mountain
I am the wind that moves me, the tree
I am the honey and the bee
I am joy and I am pain
I am sunshine, I am rain
I am battle, war and lust
I am cities turned to dust
I am the ship and all the crew
I am God, and so are you

Nose it down
CALL
IT
A
NIGHT

Attached: Meme Magic Bard's Tongue Wordsmithing.png (556x584, 87.78K)

That's interesting. I'll look into his work then. A good poet is a very dangerous individual in the right circumstances.

You can't be serious. Putting aside the history of poets building up or eviscerating entire movements and philosophies, to say that an artform which is stereotypically used by men to attract women is faggotry completely misses the mark. Also, good poetry says exactly what it means and more using a minimal amount of words in a memorable and lyrical fashion, unlike most prose which is trashed by the human brain almost in the moment it is heard. The business of Zig Forums is about reminding people to pay attention to the truth, and a knowledge of good poetics is a powerful tool towards that end.

All great observations, especially about its aural qualities. I suspect that the musical qualities of good poetry are meant to not only appeal to people in the same way that music does, but also to allow people to remember it better because the wrong word is like a missed note and extremely noticeable. Getting back to the objective standards of the artform is key to retrieving it from (((those))) who sullied it.

That was an excellent poem. Zig Forums is enriched every time such a one emerges from the anonymous ether.

Attached: Ezra Pound.jpg (1024x768, 130.19K)

Stop trying to force this crap. Kill yourself.

bump. Poetry and verse has strong memetic potential

Have you worked out why you don't earn much money yet?

Thou art not a faggot.

That romantic tragedy made me think Zig Forums needs to revitalize right wing poetry. The hivemind always provides.

He was in Italy during the war and was a fascist radio broadcaster which is the main reason the (((allies))) locked him up. I read the American Army kept him in a cage outside which led to his mental breakdown. Cantos is an anthology of his post war work, of which vid related if from.

This.
is poetry

We don't have the language for that. Poetry emerges from the forefront of an expanding lexicon, but we here in this time are at in a dissolving phase. Much like how latin fell apart into the romance languages, regional dialects and pigdins are becoming the norm. Ebonic nonce is now a rule, rather than exception.
In a hundred years we may have our Dante or Milton or Shakespeare that staples down the new grammar, but for now we can only hope to be in the region with the new French or Italian.
English as the lingua franca will continue, just as latin did in the churches. English as a living language is about to plummet within the next two generations.
Damn the pic I got is too large.

I agree, but surely there are a few old warrior poets lurking around. Much of the best art came out of strife and struggles.

checked
Hyperborean digits of truth.

checked

Attached: 6E5A1154-2FCD-4734-BE12-5D8AF307C1C9.jpeg (3024x3024 1.55 MB, 1.41M)

how 2 learn poetry

great thread
Poetry is speech from the heart (spiritual mind).

At his core the white man is a lover
of Wisdom.
And the kike, his core is the lover
of Money.
White man made all things to
no thanks
Kikes stole all things,
are praised
Shine light
Fright snakes
Tell them,
No hole can hide!
They'll
Beg and bargain and sob.
We shall
drop the floor beneath, sort them, Lord.
And hell
Shall welcome the kike home, home forever.

I honestly hadn't meant that post to be poetry, but I appreciate that you saw it as such.

Read Robert Hillyer's in Pursuit of Poetry. It's the only truly non-kiked book I've found that's got some explanation of poetry, and isn't hyper-modernist. Hillyer, while not a fascist like Pound, is very well disposed towards Classical Civilization and drops some subtle hints towards Evolian Traditionalism.
Pound's ABC's of Reading is too opnionated, and too soaked in his own practice as a poet.
Western Wind looks like hippy dippy bullshit (I've looked through it, but couldn't get very far without putting it down in disgust).

The reason we don't write poems like this is because they don't lend themselves to memorization. They don't stick in the mind. They aren't memetic, and thus do not pass on the tradition or convey the sacral. They only work in a written form, so they must be either performed from a notebook or recorded to be experienced. I would hold that this is not really poetry, but some other form of written/aural hybrid communication. Call it anti-poetry, or poetism.
This is why we tend to use forms. Meter, rhyme, stanza formation, common motifs, all of these things serve to enable memorization and memification.

Try it again with some structure. Use lines that feel the same length. Count the stresses.

Spouting memetics without a mention of the true master of memetic theory. Shame on you, OP. You're a charlatan .

Attached: the man himself.jpg (1260x560, 56.55K)

This Union will not stand, this Temple falls:
Altared gods therein imbued
With sickly censers swung by graying priests,
Unity’s votives unrenewed.

This Union will not stand, yon Idol sways:
Beneath its foundation thunders
Remembrance! Buried but unconquered still—
Break chains and house asunder!

This Union will not stand, for none is worse.
High o’er false peace must darken war.
Shall I disperse those clouds with olive branch
When Christ my God did bring a sword?

socialmatter.net/2018/06/16/union-will-not-stand/

Attached: ClipboardImage.png (1000x611, 467.48K)

And then went down to the ship,
Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea, and
We set up mast and sail on that swart ship,
Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also
Heavy with weeping, and winds from sternward
Bore us out onward with bellying canvas,
Circe’s this craft, the trim-coifed goddess.
Then sat we amidships, wind jamming the tiller,
Thus with stretched sail, we went over sea till day’s end.
Sun to his slumber, shadows o’er all the ocean,
Came we then to the bounds of deepest water,
To the Kimmerian lands, and peopled cities
Covered with close-webbed mist, unpierced ever
With glitter of sun-rays
Nor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heaven
Swartest night stretched over wretched men there.
The ocean flowing backward, came we then to the place
Aforesaid by Circe.
Here did they rites, Perimedes and Eurylochus,
And drawing sword from my hip
I dug the ell-square pitkin;
Poured we libations unto each the dead,
First mead and then sweet wine, water mixed with white flour.
Then prayed I many a prayer to the sickly death’s-heads;
As set in Ithaca, sterile bulls of the best
For sacrifice, heaping the pyre with goods,
A sheep to Tiresias only, black and a bell-sheep.
Dark blood flowed in the fosse,
Souls out of Erebus, cadaverous dead, of brides
Of youths and of the old who had borne much;
Souls stained with recent tears, girls tender,
Men many, mauled with bronze lance heads,
Battle spoil, bearing yet dreory arms,
These many crowded about me; with shouting,
Pallor upon me, cried to my men for more beasts;
Slaughtered the herds, sheep slain of bronze;
Poured ointment, cried to the gods,
To Pluto the strong, and praised Proserpine;
Unsheathed the narrow sword,
I sat to keep off the impetuous impotent dead,
Till I should hear Tiresias.
But first Elpenor came, our friend Elpenor,
Unburied, cast on the wide earth,
Limbs that we left in the house of Circe,
Unwept, unwrapped in sepulchre, since toils urged other.
Pitiful spirit. And I cried in hurried speech:
“Elpenor, how art thou come to this dark coast?
“Cam’st thou afoot, outstripping seamen?”
And he in heavy speech:
“Ill fate and abundant wine. I slept in Circe’s ingle.
“Going down the long ladder unguarded,
“I fell against the buttress,
“Shattered the nape-nerve, the soul sought Avernus.
“But thou, O King, I bid remember me, unwept, unburied,
“Heap up mine arms, be tomb by sea-bord, and inscribed:
“A man of no fortune, and with a name to come.
“And set my oar up, that I swung mid fellows.”

And Anticlea came, whom I beat off, and then Tiresias Theban,
Holding his golden wand, knew me, and spoke first:
“A second time? why? man of ill star,
“Facing the sunless dead and this joyless region?
“Stand from the fosse, leave me my bloody bever
“For soothsay.”
And I stepped back,
And he strong with the blood, said then: “Odysseus
“Shalt return through spiteful Neptune, over dark seas,
“Lose all companions.” And then Anticlea came.
Lie quiet Divus. I mean, that is Andreas Divus,
In officina Wecheli, 1538, out of Homer.
And he sailed, by Sirens and thence outward and away
And unto Circe.
Venerandam,
In the Cretan’s phrase, with the golden crown, Aphrodite,
Cypri munimenta sortita est, mirthful, orichalchi, with golden
Girdles and breast bands, thou with dark eyelids
Bearing the golden bough of Argicida. So that:

Attached: mithrasstatue.jpg (337x616, 58.45K)

MARCIUS

Thanks. What's the matter, you dissentious rogues,
That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion,
Make yourselves scabs?

First Citizen

We have ever your good word.

MARCIUS

He that will give good words to thee will flatter
Beneath abhorring. What would you have, you curs,
That like nor peace nor war? the one affrights you,
The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you,
Where he should find you lions, finds you hares;
Where foxes, geese: you are no surer, no,
Than is the coal of fire upon the ice,
Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is
To make him worthy whose offence subdues him
And curse that justice did it.
Who deserves greatness
Deserves your hate; and your affections are
A sick man's appetite, who desires most that
Which would increase his evil. He that depends
Upon your favours swims with fins of lead
And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust Ye?
With every minute you do change a mind,
And call him noble that was now your hate,
Him vile that was your garland. What's the matter,
That in these several places of the city
You cry against the noble senate, who,
Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else
Would feed on one another? What's their seeking?

MENENIUS

For corn at their own rates; whereof, they say,
The city is well stored.

MARCIUS

Hang 'em! They say!
They'll sit by the fire, and presume to know
What's done i' the Capitol; who's like to rise,
Who thrives and who declines; side factions
and give out
Conjectural marriages; making parties strong
And feebling such as stand not in their liking
Below their cobbled shoes. They say there's
grain enough!
Would the nobility lay aside their ruth,
And let me use my sword, I'll make a quarry
With thousands of these quarter'd slaves, as high
As I could pick my lance.

MENENIUS

Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded;
For though abundantly they lack discretion,
Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech you,
What says the other troop?

MARCIUS

They are dissolved: hang 'em!
They said they were an-hungry; sigh'd forth proverbs,
That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat,
That meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent not
Corn for the rich men only: with these shreds
They vented their complainings; which being answer'd,
And a petition granted them, a strange one–
To break the heart of generosity,
And make bold power look pale–they threw their caps
As they would hang them on the horns o' the moon,
Shouting their emulation.

MENENIUS

What is granted them?

MARCIUS

Five tribunes to defend their vulgar wisdoms,
Of their own choice: one's Junius Brutus,
Sicinius Velutus, and I know not–'Sdeath!
The rabble should have first unroof'd the city,
Ere so prevail'd with me: it will in time
Win upon power and throw forth greater themes
For insurrection's arguing.

MENENIUS

This is strange.

MARCIUS

Go, get you home, you fragments!

Attached: a3e37eabc2d6d53e50d4a2090d133b34237834aa672afa28394c591da97a976f.jpg (2592x1936, 1.53M)

With Usura

With usura hath no man a house of good stone
each block cut smooth and well fitting
that design might cover their face,
with usura
hath no man a painted paradise on his church wall
harpes et luz
or where virgin receiveth message
and halo projects from incision,
with usura
seeth no man Gonzaga his heirs and his concubines
no picture is made to endure nor to live with
but it is made to sell and sell quickly
with usura, sin against nature,
is thy bread ever more of stale rags
is thy bread dry as paper,
with no mountain wheat, no strong flour
with usura the line grows thick
with usura is no clear demarcation
and no man can find site for his dwelling.
Stonecutter is kept from his tone
weaver is kept from his loom
WITH USURA
wool comes not to market
sheep bringeth no gain with usura
Usura is a murrain, usura
blunteth the needle in the maid’s hand
and stoppeth the spinner’s cunning. Pietro Lombardo
came not by usura
Duccio came not by usura
nor Pier della Francesca; Zuan Bellin’ not by usura
nor was ‘La Calunnia’ painted.
Came not by usura Angelico; came not Ambrogio Praedis,
Came no church of cut stone signed: Adamo me fecit.
Not by usura St. Trophime
Not by usura Saint Hilaire,
Usura rusteth the chisel
It rusteth the craft and the craftsman
It gnaweth the thread in the loom
None learneth to weave gold in her pattern;
Azure hath a canker by usura; cramoisi is unbroidered
Emerald findeth no Memling
Usura slayeth the child in the womb
It stayeth the young man’s courting
It hath brought palsey to bed, lyeth
between the young bride and her bridegroom
CONTRA NATURAM
They have brought whores for Eleusis
Corpses are set to banquet
at behest of usura.

Attached: Untitled.png (462x304, 388.29K)

Where the lonely mind does wander,
A place the shadows only know.
With monsters veiled and shrieking,
Are they real, we hope not so.
Yet the days grow e'er more bloody,
And all our hope for futures, low.
Devil's whispers surely sounding,
Why think we only of our woe?
For now if our eyes saw clearly,
The good Lord's light would surely show,
That these monsters in the darkness;
Are that most diabolic foe.
So cast away all doubts and say,
I shall never be tricked, oh no;
For these monsters in the darkness
Into the sulphur, soon shall go.

Here's my stupid thing:

Dominoe skin,
Toothless grin,
Mustard balloon eyes,
And a bottle of gin,

Walking yeast infection,
A medical dissection,
Blood painted claws,
A talking leatherbag full of exhaust.

Medusa's old stare
Matted grey hair
Snakes drag with her
Shedding their skin

I call it "ur mom". But seriously it's about an old junkie I saw downtown.

Full of hot air
Cum in his facial hair
user was a faggot
Check em

When the leaves of summer fall and die,
When the bright and blue fades from the sky,
When the cheer of life is lost from day,
When a hoped for future, gone away,
When the world about us falls and burns,
When no peace nor mercy can be earned,
When broken down with struggled breath,
I am facing now a painful death,
My love for you, makes all things clear,
Faith, home and family, hold these dear
Know that always, they're worth defending,
For these things, I embrace my ending.

Did you write that?

Yes. I love you user. Sieg heil.

Checked and keked

It's a bit "I give up" when it hasn't even begun.

Checked.

< the reason we don't create computers is that most people don't understand how they work

OK, that's it. Fuck you nigger. You know? Fuck you. You're a stupid inbreed fool. You don't know fucking anything. Curse you.

These fucking CIA agents trying to create trouble here. Fuck 'em.

Come here, create, and if you are treated to a dose of "that's not what we are" - that's a CIA agent trying to control you, keep you in your little box.

See, that's how the CIA controls the whole world. By abuse, by fear. But the fact is that we can take them on, on their kikes, on their baby penis torturing and mutilation, and we can take them on and destroy them.

It's simple enough. You respond with ferocity, and with bravery.

See, any time you create, here, the CIA will tell you "don't make memes, you're not good enough yet" or tell you, "that won't succeed" (to poison you emotionally). Those are the operations of the enemy, and, mark my words, given our effectiveness, they are operating here 24/7.

Is this OC? I like it.

Attached: poetry OC?.png (1310x530, 104.36K)

Memetics, it should be pointed out, aren't really that important to the white man.

The point of memes is that it is possible to spread anything through the minds of degenerates.

As for us, we are the thinking people, the whites. Therefore, our arts transcend the primordial. Yet we pay homage to the origins. Kek is like a creator, the Ogdoad, like creators, but from these rises Imun Ra, from the darkness, above the watery deep, out of the infinity comes the spark. Light!

The Stranger within my gate,
He may be true or kind,
But he does not talk my talk–
I cannot feel his mind.
I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
But not the soul behind.

The men of my own stock,
They may do ill or well,
But they tell the lies I am wanted to,
They are used to the lies I tell;
And we do not need interpreters
When we go to buy or sell.

The Stranger within my gates,
He may be evil or good,
But I cannot tell what powers control–
What reasons sway his mood;
Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
Shall repossess his blood.

The men of my own stock,
Bitter bad they may be,
But, at least, they hear the things I hear,
And see the things I see;
And whatever I think of them and their likes
They think of the likes of me.

This was my father's belief
And this is also mine:
Let the corn be all one sheaf–
And the grapes be all one vine,
Ere our children's teeth are set on edge
By bitter bread and wine.

Attached: 93a172806d9a251f6213b2a1492d40da6bc30c784582f845710416c91cc1664c.jpg (558x1024, 64.75K)

Here's a lovely one I wrote:

If I had my way, I'd drown you in bay
Beside the filthy slum you raised
And your plastic everglades
And your skeletons in concrete closets

You consumed the meek
Now I'd like to feed on you
Stick pins in your eyes
Give you a long hard screw

I'm gestating faster
A cyclone forming
You scuba the depths
I'm the jaws coming in

Attached: 1517039486686.jpg (634x630, 43.84K)

Consider dubs: These present themselves not as the most exquisite of numbers, but as an exclamation point, a glint, that which tells us, "there is magic here!"

Numerology is not the power of the blacks, or the hindus, or the semites. Numerology is our power. Why do you think we were brought to the dubs, the trips, the quads, the quints, and higher?

Terrible bot.

No you aren't.

Sorry, user, my reply earlier was premature.
You do have structure.
I maintain that it could be better, but my criticism of how is less than useful.
I do, genuinely, think the style of enjambment, cut down lineation, is a mistake which has been made by poets of the past century, esp Pound sometimes, though his ear certainly makes up for it.
Your lineation is discordant, and I think that’s what I’m reacting against.
IMO lines should, but for a few exceptions, correlate with syntax, enjambment should be an accent, not the default, so that it sticks out.

Attached: lol poem.JPG (644x605 265.16 KB, 166.34K)

Seriously what the fuck is going on with these two posts?

Also, modern poetry is gay. I never liked poems, but I did like Beowulf.

Attached: op is a faggot and loves the cock.png (600x566, 197.51K)

derp I meant:

Time for bed.

Perhaps it is an opportunity for the poet to create some new and wonderful growth amid the rot. A victory won in easy times is not glorious at all, so the harder the times the more ripe the chance is to strive for great deeds!

A greater challenge I think is the lack of coherence in America, and perhaps the rest of the West. People don't have the same mythology of images and stories to reference to. Something like Yeats which I don't personally like very much anyway loses 90% of its meaning if you don't get the references. Even on the face evocative stuff like Poe's works that have immediate lyrical and emotional impact might not be able to convey everything to the non-esoteric. The only solution seems to be is to speak on multiple levels so that the work can draw people in just from the surface imagery but take on much more depth if the reader wishes to delve further. Sort of how religion can appeal to the low and high minded with the same body of work.

It reminds me of how the ancient Romans almost always spoke the Latin they were reading aloud as they read it. I think it is vital that poets read their work out loud like a musician testing their written music. Different words have different 'notes' alongside the connotation and emotions each one contains. It's like a mild form of synesthesia that overcomes someone when hearing some great poetry or even prose, and those kinds really seize people in the heart and mind in the same visceral way that music does.

Ah, there's lots of great stuff you guys are posting. I don't want to get in the way, though I especially want to encourage sharing those cool gems you've found and sharing your work yourself - silly, insulting, or profound. There's a value in song that the shrieking of the enemies cannot match, and the circles Zig Forums touches are ripe with minds capable of creating real and powerful beauty in our decaying world. Plus it is difficult for your enemies to counteract your ideas when they are more cleverly and beautifully stated than anything they can muster. I'll share this quick caption I made for Kipling's "A British-Roman Song" I think those here will enjoy the sentiment of founding and preservation as much as I did.

Attached: A British-Roman Song, Rudyard Kipling.png (1461x1131, 2.08M)

First is (90% sure)C54023
Second is (me) 66cad2
I felt bad because I made a rather important mischaracterization in my criticism and also because the user is obviously young, if not as a person, then as a poet.

CIA:

fine.

Not at all. It is about doing our duty for faith, home and family regardless of whether it costs us our lives. No surrender. No "I give up".

Hitler is dead /
Because of the Jew /
Rise of Natsoc /
Is waiting for you!

A kike on a bike and a cuck
decided to try their luck
proving ISIS was nice
they both paid the price
getting rammed off the road by a truck.

A cuck and a kike on a bike
is something the Arabs don't like.
They ended their lives
when they stabbed them with knives
but not before raping the dyke.

Attached: 6cfb0c1d9c4ca7c778a0861b3f2ff61f82744777fceeba5fae9bb05a5fe1bb74.png (866x694, 442.37K)

This poem helped center me on what matters.
I've met a lot of white people with ill will but I know why, at least now, they did what they did.

I can not understand other races, they are alien to me no matter where they were raised.

There was a man from Vienna I remember
A man who simply would not surrender
His reign wasn’t long
He did nothing wrong
Mein Furher’s love will echo forever.

Writing poetry makes not one a queer
Warriors soliloquy year after year
Had I strings of gut
I’d sit on my butt
And craft (you) each a gilded lyre.

Your heart is also a literal mind. It has an equal amount of neurons as your spinal cord, and send twice as many impulses(information) to the brain as the brain sends it. Same for your intestines. Follow your heart, and trust your gut.

checked
Most excellent user, the first resonated a little better than the second imo. Both had great feels of fearlessness and hope in the face of overwhelming odds; I am proud to call you and every contributor itt brother in arms. Your 432 is is harmonious as well tbh.

I enjoyed it, definitely keep at it. All I can muster while I knock the rust off are limericks for now.

Warm the iciest Indo-European heart
Zig Forums is a board of learning again
Zig Forums is a board of cultured men
once more
Because Turkic screeching Zig Forums suffers
never more.

DROWN YOURSELF IN SEMEN KAMPHY

Attached: 09B11F39-C40D-45E3-9545-76B72EEFF682.png (755x801, 70.47K)

As a northeaster American, I’ve always loved Robert Frost. He actually was when I first came to believe you required to be born In a land to truly understand it’s soil, specifically “The Road Not Taken”.

Thanks. Personally, I'd ditch the "will". And this lyre business sounds pretty fab. I should very much like to make the lyre a Nazi/Fascist instrument. Imagine the butthurt of libs who play at renaissance faires.

Words are deeds. The words we hear
May revolutionize or rear
A mighty state. The words we read
May be a spiritual deed
Excelling any fleshly one,
As much as the celestial sun
Transcends a bonfire, made to throw
A light upon some raree-show.
A simple proverb tagged with rhyme
May colour half the course of time;
The pregnant saying of a sage
May influence every coming age;
A song in its effects may be
More glorious than Thermopylae,
And many a lay that schoolboys scan
A nobler feat than Inkerman.

William Charles Wentworth

nnoice

beautiful

this is a comfy thread lads

Attached: 1530650731162.jpg (540x720, 62.26K)

What is this — frith?
I am a modern man

Who is this — kith?
I know who is my kin

Mother, father, brother
Oh yes, and my cousin

If an usurper strikes
Grasping for my freedom

Can I put my life in
Their loving loyal hands?

Alas, no, but I know
They would make witness to
My execution

Listen, my brother, please heed me
I am something more than friendly
Between you and me is a bond
Established by our fathers
Through generations unspoken
With loyalties yet unbroken
Til the oath was fully written
In the blood of all their children

It is this — frith!
Heil our ancient home

It is you — kith!
My brother to the bone

Home, neighbors, and country
I am yours, as you mine

And should an usurper
Seek to break our kith frith

We shall place our lives in
Each other's loyal hands

Alas, not a force from
God or Man may break our
Kith frith bond

da fuckq

Boethius

The Consolation of Philosophy:

Song V.
The Former Age

Too blest the former age, their life
Who in the fields contented led,
And still, by luxury unspoiled,
On frugal acorns sparely fed.

No skill was theirs the luscious grape
With honey's sweetness to confuse;
Nor China's soft and sheeny silks
T' empurple with brave Tyrian hues.

The grass their wholesome couch, their
drink

The stream, their roof the pine's tall
shade;

Not theirs to cleave the deep, nor seek
In strange lands the spoils of trade.

The trump of war was heard not yet,
Nor soiled the fields by bloodshed's
stain;

For why should war's fierce madness arm
When strife brought wound, but brought
not gain?

Ah! would our hearts might still return
To following in those ancient ways.
Alas! the greed of getting glows
More fierce than Etna's fiery blaze.

Woe, woe for him, whoe'er it was,
Who first gold's hidden store revealed,
And - perilous treasure-trove - dug out
The gems that fain would be concealed!

Prolog im Himmel.
Der Herr. Die himmlischen Heerscharen. Nachher Mephistopheles. Die drei Erzengel treten vor.

Raphael:

Die Sonne tönt, nach alter Weise,
In Brudersphären Wettgesang,
Und ihre vorgeschriebne Reise
Vollendet sie mit Donnergang.
Ihr Anblick gibt den Engeln Stärke,
Wenn keiner sie ergründen mag;
die unbegreiflich hohen Werke
Sind herrlich wie am ersten Tag.

Gabriel:

Und schnell und unbegreiflich schnelle
Dreht sich umher der Erde Pracht;
Es wechselt Paradieseshelle
Mit tiefer, schauervoller Nacht.
Es schäumt das Meer in breiten Flüssen
Am tiefen Grund der Felsen auf,
Und Fels und Meer wird fortgerissen
Im ewig schnellem Sphärenlauf.

Michael:

Und Stürme brausen um die Wette
Vom Meer aufs Land, vom Land aufs Meer,
und bilden wütend eine Kette
Der tiefsten Wirkung rings umher.
Da flammt ein blitzendes Verheeren
Dem Pfade vor des Donnerschlags.
Doch deine Boten, Herr, verehren
Das sanfte Wandeln deines Tags.

Zu drei:

Der Anblick gibt den Engeln Stärke,
Da keiner dich ergründen mag,
Und alle deine hohen Werke
Sind herrlich wie am ersten Tag.

[THE LORD. THE HEAVENLY HOSTS afterward MEPHISTOPHELES.
The three archangels, RAPHAEL, GABRIEL, and MICHAEL, come forward.]

Raphael.
The sun, in ancient wise, is sounding,
With brother-spheres, in rival song;
And, his appointed journey rounding,
With thunderous movement rolls along.
His look, new strength to angels lending,
No creature fathom can for aye;
The lofty works, past comprehending,
Stand lordly, as on time's first day.

Gabriel.
And swift, with wondrous swiftness fleeting,
The pomp of earth turns round and round,
The glow of Eden alternating
With shuddering midnight's gloom profound;
Up o'er the rocks the foaming ocean
Heaves from its old, primeval bed,
And rocks and seas, with endless motion,
On in the spheral sweep are sped.

Michael.
And tempests roar, glad warfare waging,
From sea to land, from land to sea,
And bind round all, amidst their raging,
A chain of giant energy.
There, lurid desolation, blazing,
Foreruns the volleyed thunder's way:
Yet, Lord, thy messengers are praising
The mild procession of thy day.

All Three.
The sight new strength to angels lendeth,
For none thy being fathom may,
The works, no angel comprehendeth,
Stand lordly as on time's first day.

The poem spoken in German:
youtube.com/watch?v=Mcowjpu8qI0

Johann Klaj – An eine Linde

Schöne Linde!
Deine Rinde
Nehm den Wunsch von meiner Hand:
Kröne mit den sanften Schatten
Diese saatbegrasten Matten,
Stehe sicher vor dem Brand.
Reißt die graue Zeit hier nieder
Deine Brüder:
Soll der Lenz dir diese Äst
Jedes Jahr belauben wieder
Und dich hegen wurzelfest.

Johann Klaj - On a linden tree

Beautiful linden
Your bark
Take the wish from my hand:
Crowned with the soft shadows
These seed-bound mats,
Stand safe from the fire.
Break the gray time down here
Your brothers:
Should the Lenz you this branch
Every year belives again
And you're rooting.

(Google translated)

DeepL.com translated:
"To a lime tree [I would modify it to say: To a linden tree]

Beautiful linden tree!
Your bark
Take the wish from my hand:
Crowns with gentle shadows
These seeded mats,
Stand safely before the fire.
Tear down the grey time here
Your brothers:
Shall Lenz give you these branches
Every year the leaves
And nurse you back to your roots."

Is this the right Lenz?
< Fritz A Lenz (9 March 1887 in Pflugrade, Pomerania – 6 July 1976 in Göttingen, Lower Saxony) was a German geneticist, member of the Nazi Party,[1] and influential specialist in eugenics in Nazi Germany.
* (((Wikipedia)))

Might was Right when Caesar bled upon the stones of Rome,
Might was Right when Genghis led his hordes over Danube's foam,
And Might was Right when German troops poured down through Paris way,
It's the Gospel of the Ancient World and the Logic of Today.

Behind all Kings and Presidents - all government and law,
Are army-corps and canoneers to hold the world in awe.
And sword-strong races own the earth and ride the Conqueror's Car –
And liberty has never been won except by deeds of war.

What are the lords of horded gold - the silent Semite rings -
High pontiffs, priests and kings?
What are they but bold master-minds, best fitted for the fray
Who comprehend and vanquish by - the Logic of Today.

Cain's knotted club is scepter still - the "Right of Man" is fraud.
Christ's Ethics are for creeping things - true manhood smiles at "God".
For Might is Right when empires sink in storms of steel and flame;
And it is RIGHT when weakling breeds are hunted down like game.

Then what's the use of dreaming dreams, that each shall "get his own"
By forceless votes of meek-eyed thralls, who blindly sweat and moan?
No! A curse is on their cankered brains – their very bones decay:
Go: Trace your fate in the Iron Game, it's the Logic of Today.

The strong must ever rule the weak, is grim Primordial Law.
On earth's broad racial threshing floor, the meek are beaten straw.
Then ride to power o'er foemen's neck - let NOTHING bar your way:
If you are FIT you'll Rule and Reign, is the Logic of Today.

You must prove you're Right by deeds of Might of splendor and reknown.
If need be, die on scaffold high in the morning's misty gray.
For "Liberty or Death" is still the Logic of Today.

Might was Right when Gideon led the "chosen" tribes of old.
And it was right when Titus burnt their temple roofed with gold:
And Might was Right from Bunker's Hill, to far Manilla Bay,
By land and flood it's writ in blood - the Gospel of Today.

"Put not your trust in princes" is a saying old and true
"Put not your hope in governments" translateth it anew.
All "Books of Law" and "Golden Rules" are fashioned to betray:
"The Survival of the Strongest" is the Gospel of Today.

Might was Right when Carthage flames lit up the Punic foam;
And when the naked steel of Gaul weighed down the spoil of Rome;
And Might was Right when Richmond fell - and at Thermopylae -
It's the logic of the Ancient World and the Gospel of Today.

Where pendant suns in millions swing around this whirling earth,
It's Might, It's Force that holds the brakes, and steers through Death and Birth:
Force governs all organic life, inspires all Right and Wrong.
It's natures plan to weed out man and TEST who are the strong.

It is. Thanks

Good shit

Attached: might makes right.png (515x878, 85.44K)

meant for:

nah, I think Lenz means spring in German. He's a renaissance poet so I'm not sure of the usage.

I like it.

Attached: 1525030506067.jpg (620x889, 89.14K)

Checked and keked

Attached: 6b5f96f9780ad48c1d1c06df8d8449744a4c7d25a0fee1af4bd050884fd19691.jpeg (468x714, 67.97K)

Attached: b poetry.jpg (640x562, 80.01K)

saved user

Attached: poem of bikes.png (640x286, 110.86K)

nice one user

Attached: 0984190c68e141cf73c9a488b79dbb89949c0eb508684abf7159aa064a870746.png (1171x1000, 1.55M)

Praise Kek

My Struggle

They speak in riddles, words chosen to confuse and deflect
Feigned ignorance their only recourse
To gain victory was to gain despair
Again, they would return and ignore
They cry out in pain as they strike you
The agility of their tongues, the virtuosity of their lies
Gradually I began to hate them.

Attached: hitlerDeniedArtSchool.jpg (1952x2760, 1.12M)

Hitler's art should be hanging in museums today. He truly had a gifted brush

Attached: f7decc37e99625b858a289b2f438805b697d9d91a0260b61c275f0e9494b8df1.jpg (1104x1472, 442.19K)

Not sure. Maybe if he developed more. Like his application to art school said, he lacked 'faces' and was not overly fond of drawing them nor excelled at it. I'd agree with them that he'd be better off as an architect. His ability to draw entire cities and areas from memory with exact details was astounding. And his work with buildings and architecture was far better and showed more interest on his part in that. He couldnt enter the program because he lacked highschool credits and chose not to go back and obtain them.

Some of his work is good, but I'd argue its more because he is famous/infamous that his work would be in a museum than actual talent. Perhaps if hed pursued it for years and mastered it, his later work could be museum worthy. I dont think it compares to better artists if judged on its own. He wasnt some failure or terrible artist though.

Attached: Ivan Shishkin (1832-1898)

Damn near photographic.

He was a fine poet as well.

Attached: 7528511C-BCC4-4C49-B412-E5A8DC7ED76D.png (1024x727, 1.63M)

A man of many talents for sure. Wasn't trying to derail the thread with Hitler appreciation, top notch post to get the thread back on topic user

The Teuton's Battle-Song

The mighty Woden laughs upon his throne,
And once more claims his children for his own.
The voice of Thor resounds again on high,
While arm'd Valkyries ride from out the sky:
The Gods of Asgard all their pow'rs release
To rouse the dullard from his dream of peace.
Awake! ye hypocrites, and deign to scan
The actions of your "brotherhood of Man."
Could your shrill pipings in the race impair
The warlike impulse put by Nature there?
Where now the gentle maxims of the school,
The cant of preachers, and the Golden Rule?
What feeble word or doctrine now can stay
The tribe whose fathers own'd Valhalla's sway?
Too long restrain'd, the bloody tempest breaks,
And Midgard 'neath the tread of warriors shakes.
On to thy death, Berserker bold! And try
In acts of Godlike bravery to die!
Who cares to find the heaven of the priest,
When only warriors can with Woden feast?
The flesh of Sehrimnir, and the cup of mead,
Are but for him who falls in martial deed:
Yon luckless boor, that passive meets his end,
May never in Valhalla's court contend.
Slay, brothers, Slay! And bathe in crimson gore;
Let Thor, triumphant, view the sport once more!
All other thoughts are fading in the mist,
But to attack, or if attack'd, resist.
List, great Alfadur, to the clash of steel;
How like a man does each brave swordsman feel!
The cries of pain, the roars of rampant rage,
In one vast symphony our ears engage.
Strike! Strike him down! Whoever bars the way;
Let each kill many ere he die today!
Ride o'er the weak; accomplish what ye can;
The Gods are kindest to the strongest man!
Why should we fear? What greater joy than this?
Asgard alone could give us sweeter bliss!
My strength is waning; dimly can I see
The helmeted Valkyries close to me.
Ten more I slay! How strange the thought of fear,
With Woden's mounted messengers so near!
The darkness comes; I feel my spirit rise;
A kind Valkyrie bears me to the skies.
With conscience clear, I quit the earth below,
The boundless joys of Woden's halls to know.
The grove of Glasir soon shall I behold,
And on Valhalla's tablets be enroll'd:
There to remain, till Heimdall's horn shall sound,
And Ragnarok enclose creation round;
And Bifrost break beneath bold Surtur's horde,
And Gods and men fall dead beneath the sword;
When sun shall die, and sea devour the land,
And stars descend, and naught but Chaos stand.
Then shall Alfadur make his realm anew,
And Gods and men with purer life indue.
In that blest country shall Abundance reign,
Nor shall one vice or woe of earth remain.
Then, not before, shall men their battles cease,
And live at last in universal peace.
Through cloudless heavens shall the eagle soar,
And happiness prevail forevermore.
—H. P. Lovecraft

From 'Writings in the United Amateur, 1915-1922'.
gutenberg.org/ebooks/30637

Copied from the Bloodline Bread, the poster never declared if it was OC or not.

A sun that never sets burns on.
New light is this river's dawn.
When to speak of a word so old
is to relearn what is known.
A time to think back and move on.
Rebuild the loves of lives long gone.
The blood that flows through me is not my own.
The blood is from the past, not my own.
The blood that leads my life is not my own.
The blood is strength, I'm not alone.

(checked)
We'll call it OC