 The Wild Hunt of Odin, by Peter Nicolai Arbo (Norway) 1872 Let Them Be Free —for poet Wendell Berry and author Mel Robbins The midwinter blues coalesce as the gusty grays collide constellate near the diagonal darkness of an airborne battle. Here weapons deploy amid legions of chaos. Unlike the legends of brutality rendered atop canvas or the reality of present-day feuds between humans the owl and raven the goat and horse fend for well-being seek mellow horizons as they glide walk and gallop toward circumstances within their control practice The Peace of Wild Things and The Let Them Theory. Jeannie E. Roberts
Jeannie E. Roberts is the author of several books, including The Ethereal Effect - A Collection of Villanelles (Kelsay Books, 2022). On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing is forthcoming from Kelsay Books in 2025. She serves as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. ** Through the nightly air (from the opening line of the poem Asgaardsreien, by Johan Sebastian Welhaven.) Dark and hideous burns a sunrise bruising sacred goodness of a life. Combating chores on days of no consequence, women weave a vapor chorus, let the green fly into the web- while the men assault cheap liquors. Turmoiled mind, howling time drowns murmurs and the scent. Secrets smolder through the nightly air. Abha Das Sarma An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), her poems have appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, Silver Birch Press, Blue Heron Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru. ** [frothing black horses] frothing black horses presage the coming storm of the hunting forces of rain forcing the hollow-eyed prey of the following cataract coarsening weather-veins pulsing repulsing all hallows evening all Wotan hailing unmortal flesh flushed flown OddWritings, a.k.a. George Pestana OddWritings, a.k.a. George Pestana, has a degree in computer science. He enjoys playing with words, doing crossword puzzles, writing poems, and occasionally publishing them. You can learn more about him at http://oddwritings.com . ** Ode to Odin Odin bursts into the dead of night his wild vein horsing on his forehead haunted by the bright mirage of the muses’ porcelain souls lost in peripatetic cadence luring him in chase through Valhalla drowning darkness as their gloss blinds his mind and he can’t but grab and run till all porcelain ghosts are dumped into the crack of dawn. In a way it’s carnage. In a way - bondage. Odin has awareness of none. He belongs to the Solstice taunt. By dawn Odin is oddly gently numb. You awake to what made your wynorrific dream. Ekaterina Dukas Ekaterina Dukas, MA, writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning and enjoys being frequently honoured by TER and its challenges. Her poetry collection Ekphrasticon is published by Europe Edizioni. ** Tidings from Mjolnir Shut your eyes, for we have been awoken by the flames of Valhalla to ride into your moonless night. Run, while you still can, into the shallow depths of your camp tents, brothels-- pray that the pain shall kill you swift when the valkyries stab out your battle cries with spears, lay you down with bow and arrow, condemn your chainmail armour and naked bodies to the lowest layer of Helheim. Our ravens have brought death unto whole armies, raised hordes of harlots from graves, so waste not your last moments on thoughts of escape-- Rather, peer past those billowing curtains and look to the rolling clouds, shadow mountains, thunder, Thor. Angelina Carrera Angelina Carrera, 22, is a neurodivergent poet, Philosophy major, and Creative Writing minor at UC Berkeley. She is winner of First Matter Press’ 2024 Ekphrastic Poem Contest. Her work has been featured in After Happy Hour Review, F(r)iction, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, and more. ** Wild Hunt Odin’s terrifying procession across the night sky A wild hunt, seeking all those not hidden, to die Across the winter landscape, dead souls would fly It presaged a catastrophe, such as a plague or war A motif with origins in Germanic and Nordic lore Seeking and abducting witnesses to join the horde The moon looks on, through the thickening cloud Cries of the many rabid hunters, deafeningly loud All blinded by violence, none ever shall be cowed The dawn soon to come, the sun with its own fire Survivors, to be left trembling in the bloody mire Seeing them overhead with bared teeth and sword Howard Osborne Howard has written poetry and short stories, also a novel and several scripts. With poems published online and in print, he is a published author of a non-fiction reference book and several scientific papers many years ago. He is a UK citizen, retired, with interests in writing, music and travel. ** Truth or Dare? Near fifty past in Wistmans’s Wood connections with The Hunt, their sale for tourist bounty, rural rides, though county next, in Cornish lore the Devil’s Dandy Dogs seemed frail. Grimm tales, long spread, all underlaid; did delta drain, strain deemed aura? Here’s host of pruning, thinning ways - those Marvel Comics, Quatermass - with music, modern media. But myths are truths, allegory, so commonalities exist, a pattern made, if not pre-laid, each culture with twist patented, like stubborn stubble, winnowed grist. Midst winter woods, ferocious winds, both howling hounds and growling storms, as plagues, wars, famines strip the ground, land spirits from cult-of-the-dead, all baying, gallop, restless forms. These spectral and nocturnal hordes, a muscle memory of tears, less threat by naming, slotted box, or by transforming to our taste - so fairy host, those vicious, clears. As culture vultures search their roots, find routes by which we share our fears, new faiths accommodate as must, adopt or demonise as best - for monks and missionaries steer. In harmony, strange Schönberg see - while Weber also joins that Liszt. Here Hecate and Wicca merge in pagan pantheon with Norse, that none be missed in vaulting mist? The nightly frothing horse stampede, thronged ravens of the Odin flock, those spectral riders, Arbo’s frame - feel menace din of restless souls, these trolls, werewolves, Valhalla stock. Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic Review. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com ** Hunted nightmare carves the dark like fire breaking under rough clouds a stampede of wild horses their hooves iron anvils striking sparks from a gunmetal sky-- ghost-ridden chased from the last dull shelter split open and broken empty bone shell crushed out of hope and no chance of rescue where dark squalls of crow and raven shoulder past even the faintest memory of light and I crouch beneath the weight of judgement’s heel and wait the final hammerfall of night Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a retired Registered Nurse who has always been a writer. Her work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic World, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic, The Plague Papers, edited by Robbi Nester, The Memory Palace, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic and Clare MacQueen, and recent issues of Gyroscope, 3rd Wednesday, Caustic Frolic, Inscribe, the Storyteller Review, and Verse Virtual. Her collection, How to Become Invisible, that chronicles a bipolar journey, is now available from Kelsay books, Amazon, and the author. ** Ode to Woden When Wednesday's child though full of woe won the war we warriors wandered home to whelp our wee ones oh how we wept whence we saw The Wild Hunt of Odin where once again we women were limbed without wearing nary a gown Donna-Lee Smith Donna-Lee Smith writes from Gotland Island where the Baltic Sea nibbles the coastline and the Vikings rest their souls in ships of stone. ** Gehenna Revolts Of all the evils man has endeavored, one yet remains, too long endured. Convicting mortal nature—a devil! masquerades as both magistrate and Lord. So, in coalition and common reason, the damned then to the depths resort. Where in concert as resounding Legion, against the deity they lead revolt. Together, harmonic in agreement, the demonic chamber forever pleads. While the Archon stokes over Hades’ ember, devouring sacraments of ill-will and misdeed. The guilt it savours are remorseful flavours-- morsels of the bitter treasure hoard. Until again, at vengeance end, the unrepentant feed their god once more. Jory Como Jory Como is an aspiring American writer residing in Christchurch, New Zealand. ** Inheritance My ghosts are visible but unrecognizable. we wish on stars, on myth, on the magic of words spelled into narratives that journey us alive My ghosts cannot be confined. alive inside darkness awaiting the ending of time, ethereal layers scattered like seeds My ghosts are ravenous and skeletal. layers of seeds scattered into history—what grows from our bones? are we tied to earth or spirit? My ghosts are beasts of legend, followers of frenzied flight. spirit relics remade into dust, particles that travel in wavelengths of long lost souls, shadows My ghosts hold the darkest hour untouched by light. shadows emptied of self-- moon-mirrors death-dancing-- as if they could tell us who was master, who thrall My ghosts are divine, profane, profound. Kerfe Roig A resident of New York City, Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Follow her explorations on her blogs,https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/ (which she does with her friend Nina), and https://kblog.blog/. ** These Visions Sadden Me so don’t expect a love poem, minus enticing apples and rose petals it shrieks of conquest and power, not one brush stroke of humanity. Evil heaves itself across a terrifying sky hunters seize unfortunate souls unable to find refuge in time, but, in the midst of this ambush what about those lithe Valkyries─ are they compassionate heroes or hostile compadres steering the ill-fated to the slaughter? The opposite of a love poem, there’s no hope in this melee, only sorrow that history and lore often celebrate brutality. Elaine Sorrentino Elaine Sorrentino has been published in Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, The Ekphrastic Review, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Haiku Universe, Sparks of Calliope, Gyroscope Review, Quartet Journal, The Raven’s Perch, and Panoplyzine. She hosts the Duxbury Poetry Circle and is looking forward having her first poetry collection, Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit, published by Kelsay Books in spring of 2025. Visit Elaine online at https://www.elainesorrentinopoet.com/. ** They May Fight on the Clouds They may fight on the clouds riding horseback. They may turn the rivers red with blood. But Odin, the god of poets, the god of war With his band of female handmaiden warriors His Valkyries, he will not give anyone room. Except for those few, his choosers of the slain And the slain will then be carried to Valhalla, As heroes to once more live immortally again They may fight on the field of battle valiantly. They may even sing of victories fairly won. But Odin, the god of poets, the god of war He will throw his spear again and again. While riding his eight-legged horse, Sleipnir, And his spear will hit its mark and sink Into the hearts of beasts like a venomous snake. And no doubt his victims will undoubtedly fall. But Odin, the god of war, the god of the dead And the hall of the slain he will use his knowledge, His sorcery to defeat those who won’t kneel, Bow before his royal feet. Wisdom is his alone. After bartering his sight for a far greater insight Those who don't agree will swing from the gallows. They may fight on the clouds riding horseback. They may turn the rivers red with bubbling blood. But Odin, the god of poets, the god of war Today, he alone knows what’s truly in store. With his band of female warrior handmaidens He will cut the beast of the field down to straw. With a party of airborne horsemen accompanied By ravens and owls, the Wild Hunt is upon us. And all are sent scurrying like a fleeing whore. Back to the places where sleep's a wild pagan boar. Mark Andrew Heathcote Mark Andrew Heathcote is an adult learning difficulties support worker. His poems have been published in journals, magazines, and anthologies online and in print. He is from Manchester and resides in the UK. Mark is the author of In Perpetuity and Back on Earth, two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed. ** To Nicolai Arbo Regarding The Wild Hunt of Odin There are forces far beyond us eyes behind us would explain as torrential fury's vengeance gods could wreak upon the vain at the turning of the winter through the dark of longest night as the chill of bitter warning in a wind of lethal might to remind us flesh is mortal but its soul might well survive to be prey of Odin's hunters for the hell in which they thrive while they leave our ash to fallow as the terror thus they hallow. You paint that tale in single frame with screech implied of mythic fame and wind as if the eerie moan of souls removed from flesh and bone amid the thundered rumbling sound of hooves that strike the air as ground emerging from concealing clouds unbound it seems from yielding shrouds becoming capes that flutter free as terror eye can plainly see against the veil of shuttered sky at dusk so prematurely nigh that crackles with the distant fire of life extinguished on its pyre to kindle in the warming glow rebirth as spring we will not know except by deed or brush or pen that tells the tale of who we've been. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Prefers to craft with sole intent... of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart.
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