This poem is an addition to Níu Heimar and will appear as part of that poem if and when […]
Category Archive: Poetry
Níu Heimar, Nine homes,
Nine Worlds the Universe is made.
Through the center Yggdrasil,
The cosmic backbone grows.
At the start there was only
Muspelheim, Niflheim
And the gap in between
Muspelheim, home of world wrecker
Surtr and his Eldjötnar,
Fire giants living in volcanic furnaces
Waiting to break Bifröst to bits.
Icy Niflheim, mist-home,
World of dim darkness and fog
Surrounding Hvergelmir,
Bountiful bubbling spring
—filled by dew drops from the rack
of EikÞyrnir, Valhallan stag—
Where lives Níðhǫggr malice-striker;
From where Elivágar flows,
Feeding the rivers of the worlds.
Clas Myrddin, Merlin’s Enclosure, Ancient Elven sea fortress. Albion, Alba’s isle, Named for a goddess, a princess or […]
Opinions vary Our points of view are unique Question everything Truth can never be untrue Alternate facts are […]
Angelic and pure A direct current to God Divine by nature But don’t ever forget that The Devil […]
I go walking after midnight Stepping softly while the seminary sleeps. Haunting Hogwarts halls alone With the ghost […]
A journey through history Before time out of mind Sifting through the shadows, Never knowing what you’ll find. […]
Practicing his craft Honing his skills over time Seeking perfection Rising to the occasion Each day better than […]
Singing the songs of my country, Singing the songs of my land, Serenading broken countrymen Writing their dreams […]
These fragments are from a very early draft of Summer of a Doormouse in which the main narrative followed directly after the Prologue instead of going into a flashback as it does in the version of Chapter I posted on this blog. You may notice some discontinuity between these fragments and the other posted parts of Summer of a Doormouse. This is because they come from two different drafts. I do not have a copy of my original draft of the prologue on my computer. I’m missing it and other pieces of the first draft, though I believe I have them in storage somewhere. If I locate them I will post them.
29 December 1979
His delicate, somewhat attractive, feminine features are now drawn, shallow, and sickly. The light build that I’d once found strangely alluring is now repulsively frail. The over sized nose, which I had once defended as being aristocratic, now seems swollen and bulbous. Eyes that once transmitted so much emotion, be it laughter or tears, are now glassy and bloodshot. His hair hangs long, stringy, and unwashed. I don’t think he’s shaved or bathed in at least three days. It would seem that he’s turned destroying his life, among other things, into an art form.
John W. Leys 