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File: b3d5bea1097f0ca⋯.jpg (33.03 KB, 507x428, 507:428, Homer.JPG)

7e4c68  No.12000074

Good poetry is naturally memetic and can serve as a powerful political weapon. Poetry gives words to a dissatisfied people, allowing them to define the matter for themselves and communicate it to others. Everyone here is witness to the power that the right kind of phrase has on the populace when they get its meaning. It is part of a rarely used rhetorical arsenal that could spread /pol/-grade ideas under cover of humor, history, and beauty that in itself mocks the crude attempts to negate them.

The purpose is to find the right kinds of poetics to speak to different audiences. Moonman speaks to a different audience than Kipling, but both can be valuable in conveying necessary ideas in the appropriate venues. Remember also that most modern 'poets' are literal degenerates of the artform, so don't let the current predominance of Leftist 'poets' cloud the real value of poetics in rhetorical strength. It may also be useful to discuss means of utilizing more compelling speech in general, though the main goal is to share good poetry and discuss their use as memetic tools.

ITT: Post /pol/-tier poetry and discuss its memetic uses

9d9255  No.12000080

Roses are red /

Violets are blue /

OP is a faggot /

And so are you!

7e4c68  No.12000085

File: aca17b00de77646⋯.jpg (455.14 KB, 2000x997, 2000:997, The Stranger Rudyard Kipli….jpg)

File: f337248001a5409⋯.gif (857.08 KB, 475x737, 475:737, When the Saxon began to Ha….gif)

Naturally, Rudyard Kipling is a great poet to talk about issues of national that is racial pride and gives succinct and beautiful words to many of /pol/'s fundamental propositions.

db43ac  No.12000091

When they declare Boston strong Martial Law, with tanks and everything

The brigade

I'd like to reach for my rifle and know I have one at my disposal

Sometimes, that's not always possible

But I find that a knife can be as effective if not morso

Go to your local gas station, and GET A WEAPON

Anyone you see on the street, no matter how protected they may seem, CAN BE ELIMINATED

7e4c68  No.12000113

File: fe5ee82b10926a1⋯.jpg (64.56 KB, 463x309, 463:309, The Man in the Arena.jpg)

File: f5dd86882ff10a4⋯.jpg (577.62 KB, 2185x1925, 437:385, Cicero's The Traitor.jpg)

There's utility also in prose that contains memorable and vivid imagery. Though not technically poetry in the strict sense, great speeches impart phraseology and terms that are often repeated by the masses a great deal. History is rich with them.


Proof of the utility of a catchy memetic form. Just think of what you could accomplish applying that logic to a useful end. Or maybe the second picture is for you.



I don't like these bots. They are nonsensical.

7e4c68  No.12000123

File: 3f5b8603fd2a608⋯.jpg (27.97 KB, 500x500, 1:1, Meme Farmer.jpg)

But I'm not a /lit/ guy normally, and I don't have many examples in my meme folders of great poetry and speeches. I'll be collecting and sharing as I explore more of Kipling and others.

000000  No.12000221


Eustace Mullins said Ezra Pound was one of the greatest poets to ever live. The jews hated him so much they had him put in an insane asylum for his political beliefs. This was unheard of in America, and Mullins argues he still holds a unique distinction in that regard.

19b1f7  No.12000240

File: 8f9b62770571a0f⋯.jpg (92.23 KB, 1139x1431, 1139:1431, destroy.jpg)

Kill the kikes

Fuck their rights

Long live the Reich

Free Palestine

Because kikes drink baby dick blood like it's off the vine.

a5cc4c  No.12000305

File: e32a20fbc0377e6⋯.jpg (10.47 KB, 259x194, 259:194, blicky.jpg)







255a80  No.12000311

Good fucking thread.

Rumour has it TS Elliot wrote this about zionists after they started WW2

We are the hollow men

We are the stuffed men

Leaning together

Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!

Our dried voices, when

We whisper together

Are quiet and meaningless

As wind in dry grass

Or rats' feet over broken glass

In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,

Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom

Remember us—if at all—not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men.


Eyes I dare not meet in dreams

In death's dream kingdom

These do not appear:

There, the eyes are

Sunlight on a broken column

There, is a tree swinging

And voices are

In the wind's singing

More distant and more solemn

Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer

In death's dream kingdom

Let me also wear

Such deliberate disguises

Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves

In a field

Behaving as the wind behaves

No nearer—

Not that final meeting

In the twilight kingdom


This is the dead land

This is cactus land

Here the stone images

Are raised, here they receive

The supplication of a dead man's hand

Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this

In death's other kingdom

Waking alone

At the hour when we are

Trembling with tenderness

Lips that would kiss

Form prayers to broken stone.


The eyes are not here

There are no eyes here

In this valley of dying stars

In this hollow valley

This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places

We grope together

And avoid speech

Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless

The eyes reappear

As the perpetual star

Multifoliate rose

Of death's twilight kingdom

The hope only

Of empty men.


Here we go round the prickly pear

Prickly pear prickly pear

Here we go round the prickly pear

At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea

And the reality

Between the motion

And the act

Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception

And the creation

Between the emotion

And the response

Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire

And the spasm

Between the potency

And the existence

Between the essence

And the descent

Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is

Life is

For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

66cad2  No.12000994


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.


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.


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.


b61f5f  No.12001018

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

66cad2  No.12001022

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.

66cad2  No.12001026


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.

84f5f7  No.12001063


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

cd29e6  No.12001094

Nose it down





98c267  No.12001125

File: a888519f47d0952⋯.png (87.78 KB, 556x584, 139:146, Meme Magic Bard's Tongue W….png)

7e4c68  No.12001787

File: 7387ac9b4be5828⋯.jpg (130.19 KB, 1024x768, 4:3, Ezra Pound.jpg)


>Eustace Mullins said Ezra Pound was one of the greatest poets to ever live. The jews hated him so much they had him put in an insane asylum for his political beliefs.

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


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

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 /pol/ 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.


>Coughing fit, pants of shit

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

155096  No.12001837

Stop trying to force this crap. Kill yourself.

a5d257  No.12006498


bump. Poetry and verse has strong memetic potential

6ba0f0  No.12008373


>being devoid of art or culture or ideas

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

c9abb4  No.12008463

HookTube embed. Click on thumbnail to play.


Thou art not a faggot.


That romantic tragedy made me think /pol/ 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.

3dd7ea  No.12008555



is poetry

c836f8  No.12010725


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.

c9abb4  No.12012707

File: 946ccda7e3354f2⋯.jpeg (1.41 MB, 3024x3024, 1:1, 5A4FD53C-C868-41B9-8038-9….jpeg)

File: 412f795e61b287b⋯.jpeg (1.55 MB, 3024x3024, 1:1, 716BAD69-3185-4DEF-AE76-B….jpeg)

File: 22e78a793c06b35⋯.jpeg (1.51 MB, 3024x3024, 1:1, BE795310-994D-44E4-96FC-0….jpeg)

File: c521a4953c5137a⋯.jpeg (1.24 MB, 3024x3024, 1:1, 6E5A1154-2FCD-4734-BE12-5….jpeg)


>dissolution of language

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

>>12008555 checked

Hyperborean digits of truth.

>>12001022 checked

>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.

<Tradition is better than (((reform))).

A most excellent post, stanzas 3 and 4 have great meter tbh.

Pic related is from “Forever and Ever” by Savitri Devi. I found this one the most inspirational of the anthology.

2ee83b  No.12012749

how 2 learn poetry

08707f  No.12012821

great thread

Poetry is speech from the heart (spiritual mind).

c54023  No.12012872


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!


Beg and bargain and sob.

We shall

drop the floor beneath, sort them, Lord.

And hell

Shall welcome the kike home, home forever.

66cad2  No.12013377


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.

e97a77  No.12013411

File: 0da0d9e876e0059⋯.jpg (56.55 KB, 1260x560, 9:4, the man himself.jpg)

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

062820  No.12013424

File: 11e77634332aaa5⋯.png (467.48 KB, 1000x611, 1000:611, ClipboardImage.png)

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?


f1fbe8  No.12014978

File: b43e2ca3541bebb⋯.jpg (58.45 KB, 337x616, 337:616, mithrasstatue.jpg)

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.


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:

f1fbe8  No.12014989

File: a3e37eabc2d6d53⋯.jpg (1.53 MB, 2592x1936, 162:121, a3e37eabc2d6d53e50d4a2090d….jpg)


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.


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?


For corn at their own rates; whereof, they say,

The city is well stored.


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.


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?


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.


What is granted them?


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.


This is strange.


Go, get you home, you fragments!

f1fbe8  No.12015012

File: 04c1e449cb59332⋯.png (388.29 KB, 462x304, 231:152, Untitled.png)

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


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


They have brought whores for Eleusis

Corpses are set to banquet

at behest of usura.

f0a432  No.12015014

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.

4b7c24  No.12015024


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.

4b7c24  No.12015033


Full of hot air

Cum in his facial hair

Anon was a faggot

Check em

f0a432  No.12015044

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.

4b7c24  No.12015050


Did you write that?

f0a432  No.12015055


Yes. I love you Anon. Sieg heil.

6b198d  No.12015063


Checked and keked

4b7c24  No.12015064


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

89a1bb  No.12015086



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

89a1bb  No.12015089


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

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.

89a1bb  No.12015094

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.

89a1bb  No.12015102

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.

f5f9e4  No.12015103

File: 7f75eb1ac3fcd39⋯.png (104.36 KB, 1310x530, 131:53, poetry OC?.png)


Is this OC? I like it.

89a1bb  No.12015131

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!

8b92e3  No.12015132

File: 93a172806d9a251⋯.jpg (64.75 KB, 558x1024, 279:512, 93a172806d9a251f6213b2a149….jpg)


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.

4b7c24  No.12015134

File: b16071cf14c77a7⋯.jpg (43.84 KB, 634x630, 317:315, 1517039486686.jpg)

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

89a1bb  No.12015138


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!"

89a1bb  No.12015143

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?

4b7c24  No.12015146

4b7c24  No.12015150


>I am

No you aren't.

958baf  No.12015179


Sorry, anon, 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.

04d765  No.12015195

File: 612444746f7073a⋯.jpg (166.34 KB, 644x605, 644:605, The Nigger.jpg)

File: c59801ac04605a6⋯.png (265.16 KB, 742x1180, 371:590, Roof_Koreans_Poem.png)

File: 3a517f112ab5487⋯.png (182.61 KB, 960x468, 80:39, robot_poem.PNG)

File: 1658a3c70592d5d⋯.jpg (62.9 KB, 788x484, 197:121, lol poem.JPG)

4b7c24  No.12015197



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

04d765  No.12015208

File: f9422b5f3d086d1⋯.png (197.51 KB, 600x566, 300:283, op is a faggot and loves t….png)


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

4b7c24  No.12015216


>linked myself

derp I meant:



Time for bed.

7e4c68  No.12015225

File: 146f06c60bb7718⋯.png (2.08 MB, 1461x1131, 487:377, A British-Roman Song, Rudy….png)


>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.

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.


>The reason we don't write poems like this is because they don't lend themselves to memorization.

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 /pol/ 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.

958baf  No.12015316


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 anon is obviously young, if not as a person, then as a poet.

89a1bb  No.12015331




>I maintain that it could be better


f0a432  No.12015338


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".

9d9255  No.12015346


Hitler is dead /

Because of the Jew /

Rise of Natsoc /

Is waiting for you!

90c47f  No.12015392

File: e0af1424c99d1ce⋯.png (442.37 KB, 866x694, 433:347, 6cfb0c1d9c4ca7c778a0861b3f….png)

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.

5fa24d  No.12015763


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.

0fde16  No.12016026

File: 7633b6b71981d5d⋯.png (70.47 KB, 755x801, 755:801, 09B11F39-C40D-45E3-9545-76….png)

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.


>(spiritual mind)

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.


>>12015044 checked

Most excellent anon, 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.




>>/muh books/ and


Warm the iciest Indo-European heart

/pol/ is a board of learning again

>My face when

/pol/ is a board of cultured men

once more

Because Turkic screeching /pol/ suffers

never more.


e23d05  No.12016160


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”.

ff5bb1  No.12016163


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.

2e4a90  No.12016484

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

addf3c  No.12018732

addf3c  No.12018758



addf3c  No.12018774

File: 3e3ff7f17936a25⋯.jpg (62.26 KB, 540x720, 3:4, 1530650731162.jpg)


this is a comfy thread lads

5ae82d  No.12020139

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

addf3c  No.12020196


>Kith frith bond

da fuckq

c9f026  No.12024266


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


The stream, their roof the pine's tall


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


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!

c9f026  No.12024278

Prolog im Himmel.

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


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.


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.


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.

c9f026  No.12024302


The three archangels, RAPHAEL, GABRIEL, and MICHAEL, come forward.]


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.


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.


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:


c9f026  No.12024309

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)

b8334f  No.12025496


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)))

3b6182  No.12025631

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.

c2b8c8  No.12025793


It is. Thanks

7d2749  No.12025815

File: 6ef9c45e1213e8e⋯.png (85.44 KB, 515x878, 515:878, might makes right.png)


Good shit

b8334f  No.12028601

c9f026  No.12029394


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

63bb2f  No.12029402

File: 496d36a60792714⋯.jpg (89.14 KB, 620x889, 620:889, 1525030506067.jpg)


I like it.

de06d6  No.12030115

File: eb8c1cc428a9a58⋯.jpeg (67.97 KB, 468x714, 78:119, 6b5f96f9780ad48c1d1c06df8….jpeg)


Checked and keked

375b35  No.12030137

File: dba83640d3ff6ea⋯.jpg (80.01 KB, 640x562, 320:281, b poetry.jpg)

de06d6  No.12030176

File: 83e447a00896564⋯.png (110.86 KB, 640x286, 320:143, poem of bikes.png)


saved anon

de06d6  No.12030201

File: 474a80f366ca2f0⋯.png (1.55 MB, 1171x1000, 1171:1000, 0984190c68e141cf73c9a488b7….png)


nice one anon

5a0f57  No.12058542

74146d  No.12058685

File: 911b265c2b76879⋯.jpg (1.12 MB, 1952x2760, 244:345, hitlerDeniedArtSchool.jpg)

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.

5a0f57  No.12058751

File: 7530e5f9ad93623⋯.jpg (442.19 KB, 1104x1472, 3:4, f7decc37e99625b858a289b2f4….jpg)


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

74146d  No.12060434

File: c722ffbe80a6887⋯.jpg (599.67 KB, 1200x1846, 600:923, Ivan Shishkin (1832-1898) ….jpg)

File: 8fd713cba367285⋯.jpg (67.56 KB, 523x720, 523:720, Karpenko - Death of the Em….jpg)


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.

6f8bfe  No.12060770


Damn near photographic.

656f92  No.12062389

File: 96c945adae2a1e7⋯.png (1.63 MB, 1024x727, 1024:727, 7528511C-BCC4-4C49-B412-E5….png)





He was a fine poet as well.

5a0f57  No.12063415


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 anon

b31247  No.12072828

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'.


656f92  No.12083111

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.

5a0f57  No.12086023



We'll call it OC

78129b  No.12087423

When Hare to Dragon gone

Who knows when work is done

A tree has taken root

Thirty years and three bears fruit

78129b  No.12087490

Rebels drowned an emperor reigns

Death all round a thousand miles

Let not one heir be unslain

This is how the youth make peace

74faea  No.12087498

File: b9bcf41f6bd3f96⋯.png (14.38 KB, 627x554, 627:554, b9bcf41f6bd3f960bf84adda30….png)

There once was a man from Braunau,

Who, to the jews wouldn't kowtow.

So they jumped into bed,

With the press and the reds,

To make war, because they don't know how.

7e4c68  No.12088681

File: a4aaf6be9db4de9⋯.png (780.75 KB, 1047x674, 1047:674, Rage Iliad.png)

Good stuff being shared and produced here. Glad to see this cozy thread still popping up every now and again. I'll try to contribute some OC whenever I respond.


>Hitler's art should be hanging in museums today.

Whether or not it would deserve a place there were Hitler not famous for other reasons, I'm surprised any of it survives. It's difficult to loathe someone who produces such lovely things at least if you're not a monster yourself.


He certainly ended up spending his time in other pursuits, though undoubtedly the efforts he put into his artistry influenced the ways he went about perceiving and interacting with the world beyond the mundane. Just being able to express that, even a little, is a powerful thing when put towards the right ends.


Imagine so touching a sentiment being drawn up in someone reading that, and then to read its author's name. The cognitive dissonance would be deafening. I might have to post that somewhere…

66cad2  No.12089643

/pol/ exclusive:

Then sang the hell of nightsong after the pyre

had burnt but to smoke and ashes and filth,

and then did the ashes eaters come and of their tears and ash

make the muddy ink in which they write histories of their deaths.

Then when all the homes and all the halls and the hut-ton roofs

were left to bear not a single life within warmth of their walls

when all was but skeleton frame, from which the meat had all been pecked

then did the ashes eaters write the histories of their death.

And when the deadly fire storm was all but done and causes known,

and it was known who'd left the wood so brittle so set to be made bone

white with burns and shined with the hardening of fire perverse,

then did the ashes eaters write the histories of their deaths.

Funeral pyre for marble columns. All to ash the aqueducts.

All to crumble the cathedral, stained glass be turned back to sand.

Let nobody know but for tales, what was once our crowning splendor

let the ashes eaters write the histories of their deaths.

For we've no more stones, but only bones on the bonfire.

We can no more feed the flock, but only on their ash.

7a80ea  No.12107704

File: 3dff0daf85170e6⋯.jpeg (18.82 KB, 251x201, 251:201, 41737B9E-4649-4C9C-B334-8….jpeg)

Bumping culture to heaven.

Sea of new faggotry.

Fresh thread archive for anon.


b66325  No.12107801

I wrote this one night after I had a night terror (i.e. sleep paralysis + hallucination), which were plaguing me as a side effect of the cocktail of meds I was taking. At the time I was struggling with severe depression. It felt like everything was going right in the world and I was alone struggling to keep up. After the redpill, I could smell the rot and decay in the world around me, yet I felt better. Recognising that there were good reasons why I couldn't adapt to this sick world was a burden off my shoulders. I identified with the struggle of Uncle Adolph and never since have I relapsed.

A dog that’s black is hard to kill

And a dog that’s black won’t run away

You can heave and huff and he’ll be there still

And he’ll be there at the end of the day

A dog that’s black has eyes of coal

A heart that’s full of whist

His teeth aren’t sharp, his claws are dull

And he’s certainly never missed

If he leaves, he’s gone for a day or two

I’m a week alone at best

Perhaps, I think, I’m ‘bout to break through…

When again returns that pest

He doesn’t bite, nor scratch nor whine

So no wonder you see no harm

Everything you see’s just fine

What’s all the fuss, bother and alarm?

I’ll tell you if you care to hear—

This black dog’s got magic powers

He tints the stuff of life with fear

Strips the clock of all her hours

Each morning with this dog I lay

As he gives me a vivid scene

It’s the Nostalgia of a yester-day

He paints of things unseen

I look at Love as it’s manifest

And feel it as though I’m there

Whereupon a pressing on my chest

Reminds me it’s naught but air

He taunts me so, this Black Dog

‘Cause he knows I lack the guts

To resolve this existential fog

To even try, I must be nuts

c0a44a  No.12131733


7626fc  No.12159585


I have come to check your post

While simple, it is better than most

I'll be back to check this bread

Right after going and capping some yids quite dead

046476  No.12159853


When the Synagogue of Satan was defeated

Time and time again the German land was raped, war-torn

The Synagogue of Satan hated people German and Russian-born

By trying to defeat them they merely brought into being

the enemy throughout history they thought that they'd been fleeing

The Synagogue tried to breed the Whites into extinction

but succeeded only in making obvious with very strict distinction

the fact they were prideful, lustful, greedy demons

who were only happy when, in misery, “the goyim” were screaming.

Once again it started in Germania, the people had enough

"To hell mit you filthy Juden" is a translation, albeit rough

The Holy War part II began, and Islam was put back

In its sandy container, in the desert wastes without track.

Merkel's party had a new platform, this one replete with nooses

and on it they danced until they hung, replete with their burnooses

Traitors high and low were tracked down and shot like rabid dogs

Then, to add insult to injury, fed, still alive, to hogs.

Because from Dresden, New York, Hiroshima, St, Petersburg to Moscow

((They))) had trumpeted their victories, making their victims to bow

to their bloodthirsty savagery in league with their true god, Satan

While preaching love among mankind, it is mankind they were hating

But in the early twenty-first, the Whites woke up in their masses

And the true history of Earth was taught in public and private classes

No more lies or propaganda or falsified Six Million

The entire Earth turned on the Synagogue, yes all seven point five billion

046476  No.12159856

The Indian, the African, the dwellers of the Sahara

made the self-styled overlords drink water more bitter than Mara

For their idols were crushed, these Satanites, and they were driven out across the Earth

To their own land where they can enjoy the culture they have birthed

A culture of fornication, abortion, pride, and no humility

Of having infants preyed upon by purveyors of homosexuality

Greed and lust and avarice without a single stop

Now the rats were all in the same pile, we cared not who was on top

Then arose their leader, after the Christians vacated

and continued their lust for power and filth, but this time unabated

Heads were rolled, hands were branded, foreheads were emblazoned

With the name, mark, or number of the Synagogue of Satan

No one could buy or sell, they said, unless they were thus branded

Heterosexuality was outlawed, and churches all disbanded

Organized homosexual rape of every child in some towns

Met with fierce resistance until it was brutally put down

“The world is gay” the antichrist said, as he did strut and preen

“All hail our leader” the Synagogue of Satan said, their true motives now seen.

But he turned on them, and like a peacock revealed HIMSELF to be their god

And the Jews found out they had been betrayed, and their hubris was deeply flawed

The very goyim they conquered, spat on, plundered and molested

Turned on them as one man, surrounding that city often contested

1/3 of Jerusalem fell in the ensuing festival of rape

and on the heads of the Benjamites fell the juice of all wrath's grapes

Drink deep of the cup of your fornication that you have so loudly touted,

thou synagogue of filth and murder, you are now being routed.

Why could not Jesus intervene sooner than he did?

Why could he not save the Jews from being raped down to the very last kid?

Men were torched, others passed around in an orgy of filth and fornication

as Israel drank deeply from the cup she had passed to other nations

For God can't make your choices or give you someone else's crop

when you've been sowing to the flesh, yea every man, from the bottom to the top

of your society for centuries on end

When you've made enemies of every man, you find you have no friends.

So, judgment was without mercy on the Tribe who was divorced

from justice, truth, and mercy, and who, for millennia had forced

anyone caught by them into misery and slavery

while parading naked down the street, and calling it “bravery.”

For days it went on unabated, hell's fury was unloosed.

Every genocide and atrocity of prior days came back home to roost.

Not one demon was unemployed in the destruction of the Tribe

And none would hear them or show pity, no matter how great the bribe.

Then, as foretold centuries before, Jesus came back with fury

and judgment against ALL mankind was unleashed without any human jury

for God is just and God is good and his judgment without error

and the raping armies and collaborators faced unprecedented terror

They watched as their cohorts' eyes dissolved and ran down their very face

there was nowhere to run and hide as blood filled up the place.

Never in history had so many died so suddenly,

not the Flood or Hiroshima, or even Nagasaki.

In an instant, all hell's armies were gone like a vapor

And straight to the lake of fire went the false prophet and Chief Baby Raper

Do not pass God, no inquiry, not even a visit to hell

Straight to the Lake they both went, there to forever dwell.

f5a29c  No.12160853

File: 93100415b088ae6⋯.jpg (404.62 KB, 828x1197, 92:133, 828px-HoratiusJRWeguelin18….jpg)

But the Consul's brow was sad,

And the Consul's speech was low,

And darkly looked he at the wall,

And darkly at the foe.

"Their van will be upon us

Before the bridge goes down;

And if they once may win the bridge,

What hope to save the town?"

Then out spake brave Horatius,

The Captain of the Gate:

"To every man upon this earth

Death cometh soon or late.

And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds,

For the ashes of his fathers,

And the temples of his gods,

"And for the tender mother

Who dandled him to rest,

And for the wife who nurses

His baby at her breast,

And for the holy maidens

Who feed the eternal flame,

To save them from false Sextus

That wrought the deed of shame?

"Haul down the bridge, Sir Consul,

With all the speed ye may;

I, with two more to help me,

Will hold the foe in play.

In yon strait path a thousand

May well be stopped by three.

Now who will stand on either hand,

And keep the bridge with me?"

Then out spake Spurius Lartius;

A Ramnian proud was he:

"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,

And keep the bridge with thee."

And out spake strong Herminius;

Of Titian blood was he:

"I will abide on thy left side,

And keep the bridge with thee."

"Horatius," quoth the Consul,

"As thou sayest, so let it be."

And straight against that great array

Forth went the dauntless Three.

For Romans in Rome's quarrel

Spared neither land nor gold,

Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,

In the brave days of old.

Then none was for a party;

Then all were for the state;

Then the great man helped the poor,

And the poor man loved the great:

Then lands were fairly portioned;

Then spoils were fairly sold:

The Romans were like brothers

In the brave days of old.

Now Roman is to Roman

More hateful than a foe,

And the Tribunes beard the high,

And the Fathers grind the low.

As we wax hot in faction,

In battle we wax cold:

Wherefore men fight not as they fought

In the brave days of old.

5fa24d  No.12161099

File: e8a0df8c7a24c54⋯.jpg (1021.1 KB, 1250x1762, 625:881, HdYd8lK.jpg)


Daily reminder that poetry speaks to the Pathos not just the Logos.

Different races can't understand poetry of other races.

((((English)))) majors and the high school forms of studying poetry give zero inight into the actual poetry. They will try to tell you exactly what a poem means, with their forcefed narrative on it.

They will take nonwhite poetry and say it is describing their inner suffering of being (((oppressed))) by the white man and when a nonwhite poem literally and allegorically talks about killing whitey, it is okay because they are suffering.

They will have you study poems that literally talk about wanting to blame all white men for some perceived oppression 100+ years ago (or even today) and they will say this is okay to be studied alongside actually skilled poets and renowned authors.

5fa24d  No.12161129



Quality work anon, yours?

33fc4b  No.12161521

>"And how can man die better than facing fearful odds, for the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his Gods?”

~~Thomas Macaulay

a3eefa  No.12183928

File: 1a8261dbe072fae⋯.jpg (66.64 KB, 380x495, 76:99, 9b49e230bf3ccbebe6c8de62c9….jpg)

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