A POEM FOR MIDSUMMER

Midsummer, the summer solstice, is one of the most important times in the Pagan calendar and is celebrated throughout Europe and its extensions in North America. In some countries, such as Latvia, it is even a public holiday, which shows that organic Pagan religions are on the rise and the globalist anti-Nature of Christianity on the wane. This is patently a good thing, as the European peoples have been hamstrung by Christianity for long enough. What I am alwas wary of though, are people coming into Pagan folds but who still are very much morally Christian. One ought to recognise them straight away by their universalism, concern for the racial foreigner, antagonism to gender and sexual norms, and the urge to reduce our pantheons down to a single male god. Pagan religions celebrate both masculinity and femininity and the Gods and Goddesses have children in the Natural way. Ask a Jew, Christian or Muslim sometime: 'And in whose image was Eve moulded?'

 

 

I do get concerned that so-called Odinist circles get too fixated with Odin. The name Odinism instead of Norse Heathenism or something similar gives it away. Midsummer is particularly associated with two deities of the Norse religion: the God Baldur and the Goddess Sunna. I am happy that the Odinic Rite is using my poem below in its festivities today, but let us not forget Sunna or Sól, after whom the sun is named. I will certainly be writing a poem for Sunna at a later date, but for now, as this poem is for Baldur, I include the painting above by the German art nouveau designer, illustrator and painter Emil Doepler that depicts Sunna and her sister Sinthgunt healing Baldur's foal, along with Odin.

 

Midsummer

The heavens burn with greatest fire
As Baldur’s ship sails east to west
One last time, in riches dressed,
Golden with his funeral pyre.

The fiercest flame, the brightest sun
Flares at moment of decline;
Hringhorni drifts through airy brine
Onward through the empyrean.

Hringhorni fades, the heat remains
For a time; in Breithablik
The candles burn down to the wick
And the golden lustre wanes.

The sunlight dims, the year grows old,
Hringhorni’s embers faintly glow
From afar and offer no
Comfort in the winter cold.

But when all battles have been won
Upon this middle earth of men,
Baldur shall return and then
Ours again shall be the sun!

David Yorkshire