Poem: Hight

Red the fox
fleeing to the hair of the earth
warded from the straight snake’s thunder
for fear of losing heaven’s light
peering into the Etin’s night
I know on the fox’s back a secret carries
the word-hoard unopened
beyond my fingers’ grasp
dwarf-tight the treasure
awaiting culling
a sacrifice unto self
what irks thee that chases
down into Earth’s refuge
only to turn back and see
unveiled the counter-point

pray God of a hudred masques
peel the skin away
and free the soul
let my soul fare forth
betrayed by neither ground nor passage
and hound my quarry
as a storm over water
terrifying to behold

Grim Father of a thousand names
each a life lived below
a pawn to your game
Hangatryr, Spear-God, Grim, Grey-Bearded, Wanderer, Stealer of Mead, Suitor of Sophia; lend me your wisdom to pierce the fog with my blind eye
for I stand on the brink
so close, yet to peer below I see
a precipice
and have come no further to my end
the expanse of my wit, betrayed
by the flesh that seals the cask
a coffin trapping the night
where the dis-sight and alf-sight are kept
out of sight, inner mind
tapped by the seer, not the seeker
what I seek, I cannot see
what I chase, I cannot grasp

but when that fox I catch
the reddest fur shall the redder grow
as I drink its blood
and wear the pelt for my own
around the Megingjord of mind
but alas so goes the gald, the brag
of man to God
to let it not be huff
lay a storm before my path
to break the waves
the desolation of the forest
the stagnation of the wind

Oðinn, Wōden your wit I seek, rede and Will
as Lucifer’s gift, a Promethean flame
on the backs of Serpents stolen
dripping from the Sangraal true
Sophia’s womb, burning
a black flame, secret sun
to have and to hold
to keep and to spread


4 thoughts on “Poem: Hight

  1. Đorn byđ þearle scearp þegna gehwylcum, anfengys yfel, ungemetum rēđe, manna gehwylcum đe mid him resteđ.

    Thorn is quite sharp go every man, evil when caught, harmful to grasp, incalculably harsh to every man that it rests with him.

    – Ancient Anglo-Saxon Rune Poem


  2. Os byđ offruma ælcere spræce, wīsdōmes wrađu, und witena frōfur, and eorla gehwām eādnys and tōhyt.

    Mouth/[the] God is the birth of every speech, the boon of wisdom, and comfort of advisors, and to all blessing and confidence.

    – Ancient Anglo-Saxon Rune Poem


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s