Atop The Cliffs - Occidental Poetry Journal

I count Dave as an online friend but I would share this regardless. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DcMw6l8kTjI&list=PLcwgW8yY_uUf5XjVNqymaIMJhVh_20Ve5&index=1 Check out what Dave is creating and enjoy his vocal talents as he narrates you through a new sci-fi setting he is building. Really cool creative stuff.

When we win these people will be flogged in public.

The Roman poet Ausonius acquired an Alemannic slave girl called Bissula while on campaign in Germany in 368 AD. He fell in love with her and freed her, then he wrote a poem about her. This is an extract: “III. Bissula, born beyond the banks of the Rhine, saw the Danube start its drop into the sea. She was captured in war but later freed by order of him to whom she belonged. Lacking a mother and needing a nurse, she never felt the hand of a mistress. Her birth and fortunes never caused her shame because she barely knew her slavery. She was Latin but remained a German in her pretty face, blue eyes, and blonde hair. Although she was a child of German birth, her youthful tongue found our language easy. IV. Pleasant, charming and loving; though foreign, my daughter has conquered all the Latins, Bissula, gentle girl with rustic name, you need never fear your master’s anger."

Jonathan Bowden - What is natural is good

Gauloises Oh what you'll never know, My son Spirals of smoke Caught amidst flowing locks That you'll never have Need to ask. For occasional illumination Dreams carried on the breeze Shared memories Passing like the falling leaves.

The Last Valentine Twin-hearts interlocked have stained the easel upon which they dwell, While roses yet to wilt mark out the path where passion’s arrows fell. Scarlet be the vibrant ink that coloured lovers’ throes, Though withered grey be what remains when love is turned to woes. Moments drift as blossom in a picturesque cascade, All lost to the river Lethe, those memories to fade. How precious is that last embrace when breath is soon to wane, How beautiful is she to eyes that shall not see again. Battle, bloody battle, that is all that yet awaits, The lovers pried apart by arms of tragedian fate, But there in splendorous embrace with precious little time, Two souls and lips and bodies both in unison entwined. He thinks of her on sleepless nights when journeyed to the fray, While she dreams of the moment he will carry her away. She aches for him, and he for her, their souls and bodies yearn, Silently she weeps for now she knows he won’t return.

A Wolf’s Vengeance Blood stains the snow A fell wind does blow My vision blurred Speech slurred. Rubies glisten amongst the flakes Falling, Pitter, Patter, Splatter, Bone protrudes, jagged peaks The mountain speaks. I’ve followed it this far Born forth by my scar It robbed me of her Monster. Its fangs bare boldly This son of Fenrir circles A smile passes coldly I grip this haft of oak Donar’s cloak Tipped with avenging spear Rubies glisten amongst the flakes Knuckles white I step into the light. https://a.co/d/g6ejuxH

Friends please go sign https://www.change.org/p/save-the-darwin-oak

The “you got a license jokes” really do just write themselves these days…

Let’s look in on UK policing

A heartfelt thanks to everyone who has bought a copy of my book. We're 15 copies short of selling 100! I hope everyone has been enjoying the poems and essays within. May they give you power!

Amazing.

Country Poem Bronze bells ring wide over a hazy plain Where days roll thick and linger long and lazily - Lulled in to lie on soil’s old fertile furrow Foregoing urgent course, forgetting gain... The people harvest lilac lavender for trade And bend their backs in rows of August vine And sunrise rouses resting animals to graze Like any slowborn year, like any time. Old men drink and commiserate in stonewalled courts. Lithe cats lie outstretched on bright beds of thyme. Women weave images of dreams on Sunday garments. The soul receives its customary tithe - And lies and reassurances alike disperse Along ancestral memories’ unbroken line. The houses harbor generations’ work. White walls whisper old spirit’s wisdom to the mind. And strangers pass through In peace and in war - but Nobody ever lingers long... And poverty’s blessing appears Disguised as hardship’s curse: Men’s greed, unsatisfied, soon travels on. Here homeward routes lead Fast-rooted hearts That always-evenly wander On deep-tread grooves where long now Tear-salt spilled, blood-iron poured: Life’s harvests bloom on fields yet somber. There death demands an offering at birth And hunger ranges through a family’s heart. That hard-spoked wheel of Heaven’s will Unceasing turns, and undisturbed. And whether simple songs are played For joy, new marriages, or mirth – Or soul ascend from early grave – Rest silence on the face of Earth. ... September days, when all has grown. White flocks take flight for autumn leave. Young children play on river stones. Like chimes their laughter echoes east Flies past the old man’s white-brick home Stooped low under late summer’s heat Still nearby gold-wheat’s woodland border Where grandmother’s cross can be seen. - Julius Erzbrenner https://www.atopthecliffs.com/poetry/2024/2/8/country-poem

People out there arguing about airport fiction books (Plebbit tier ones) has me scratching my head.

Sensitive Poet's Merino Wool Scarf https://www.legiogloria.com/

Maybe I should get 🧐

PassagePress is winding down the competition they ran - while not perfect it really did help spur a wider interest in the arts as a whole and the competition had value. Consider submitting yourself as this is their last year running it. https://www.passage.press/prize

*Narrators Voice* He was lying of course, the shilling would never stop. Because he knew that poetry was his peoples birthright. It was part of their blood. A connection to the ancients and all time. It may not be his poetry he shilled tomorrow but someone elses, someone new producing great epics or witty epithets but always he would be singing from on high the joy of what had been created, what could be created and what must be created by the poets to preserve and take us forward as a great people.

THE SHILLING WILL STOP WHEN WE WIN. We just entered the Top 10 of Contemporary Poetry on Amazon. Let's smash past the rest of the junk in there!

People complain about AI affecting art. I chose not to use AI for the cover of my book - I paid an artist, a great one and I would always pay an artist but that put me in the proverbial red. My book isn't expensive - it's only 6$ on Kindle. To just break even on paying myself back what I paid artist I need to sell 75 copies. I'm at 27 copies right now. The internet and our spaces are awash with people complaining about a lack of art or about AI disrupting art - if you are one of those people and you can't bring yourself to support our artists via those who use them for their books and the like you need to take a hard look in the mirror. We're not out here asking for charity because we ran a two hour stream retelling blackpills from the news - we're out here offering real products that have value. Poems that you can read to your friends and loved ones. Poems that might reveal something about yourself or your history that you never knew. That is all to say: BUY BOOK https://www.amazon.com/Skirmishes-Atrium-poetry-chapbook-strife-ebook/dp/B0CSTVVH71/