Tag Archives: poems

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Two New Poems

209 words

Charlie Manson (1934–2017)

1.
Well, Charlie Manson’s dead,
just like poor Sharon Tate.
Upon his wrinkled head
above his eyes, the fate,

of his tattooed Swastika
is certain, after so,
so many years. The shiksa,
pale as November snow,  Read more …

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We Are Alone & Other Poems

Michael Triegel, Deus Absconditus, 2013 (detail)

472 words

We Are Alone

for Chris Telford

We are alone. Nature, the Old Gods, our
Beloved Ancestors have left us far
Behind and far below. Get used to it,
Folks. We’re on our own. Deal with it. Commit
Yourself to this and to the folk that you’re
Part of, here and now. No more ancestors
But ones we ourselves might become before
We pass the bright torch we received unlit.
We are alone.  Read more …

Posted in North American New Right | Also tagged , , | 7 Responses
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Remembering Roy Campbell:
October 2, 1901–April 22, 1957

1,542 words

Roy Campbell was a South African poet and essayist. T. S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas, and Edith Sitwell praised Campbell as one of the best poets of the inter-war period. Unfortunately, his conservatism, Nietzscheanism, and Catholicism, as well as his open contempt for the Bloomsbury set and his participation in the Spanish Civil War on the Fascist side have led his works to be consigned to the memory hole. Read more …

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“In the Shadow of Mount Rushmore” & Other Poems

677 words

In the Shadow of Mount Rushmore

Though forever asleep,
We endeavor to keep
Steady footing on treadmills
With our noses to grindstones. Read more …

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Horses on the Camargue

356 words

In the grey wastes of dread,
The haunt of shattered gulls where nothing moves
But in a shroud of silence like the dead,
I heard a sudden harmony of hooves,
And, turning, saw afar
A hundred snowy horses unconfined,
The silver runaways of Neptune’s car
Racing, spray-curled, like waves before the wind.
Sons of the Mistral, fleet
As him with whose strong gusts they love to flee,
Read more …

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At the Metropolitan Gallery

98 words

I.
What will they say of us,
those who soon will come after
we lie dead in our pus,

our decadent bad art
that evokes a cuckold’s laughter? Read more …

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To Marcus Aurelius

150 words

Good night, Marcus. Blow out the light
and close your book. Where Ursa runs
the stars’ alarm now fills the night.
Heaven speaks to us in tongues,
a barbarian’s fear-stricken shriek
your Latin cannot understand.
Eternal terror, dark and bleak,
reigns over our frail mortal land. Read more …

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Back to the Future

90 words

Let us go to the station
to marvel at the marble
sprayed with graffiti.

Let us take a ghost train,
jump cargos to Chicago,
with shiny fin-tailed cars.

Read more …

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Wardrobe Restoration

99 words

The art nouveau oak moulding, chipped and cracked,
barely hanging from a rusty nail,
begs restoration. Klimt’s young maids untacked,
1910 doors, the flailing clothing rail,

fin de siècle mirror, long have lacked
a master’s living hand. In the hot stale
air of the cluttered loft its owner packed
and fled, dust lies decades deep in a pail. Read more …

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The Pyramids of Detroit

71 words

The silverfish climb walls
and crawl the faded floors;
eat peeled wallpaper, balls
of lint in broken drawers;

across veneer, find pairs
of thick and chipped wenge legs,
art deco chaise lounge chairs,
upholstery now in rags. Read more …

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