Poetica Atelli


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Mythopoetic works for the modern day. Rebuilding the Koryos one poem at a time.
DM any requests for poems to: @atellvs

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Solheim, who led artillery,
Was in no mood to let them breathe,
He’d lost his daughter days before,
And had not yet had time to grieve.
His precious daughter had been killed,
In crossfire of Allied advance,
And so for days on end he brought,
Barrage upon the Allied camps.
No peer he had in mortal men,
He’d fought on fronts both East and West,
And as a father struck with grief,
He would allow Allies no rest.
Rage and sorrow took his soul,
Darkness fell upon his face,
So did his shining golden hair,
As he laid them all to waste.
They asked for temporary truce,
A brief peace to grant some respite,
But their pleas fell on deaf ears,
So guns continued day and night.
Thus Solheim would not relent,
And neither would his roaring guns,
That with black smoke choked the air,
And filled unsuspecting lungs.
If they had not slain his child,
Perhaps they might have met success,
Instead he wanted them all dead,
And would not stop for any less.
His daughter was his only light,
And should have had more earthly years,
But was taken by a fate most cruel,
Leaving her father only tears.
The guns they howled as distant wolves,
With their monstrous shrieking sound,
Struck terror in the hearts of men,
As screaming shells then kissed the ground.
The dirt was cast into the air,
And showered on the men below,
Who in their hearts knew death had come,
But prayed that it would not be so.
Each man prayed to leave alive,
Each man prayed for his own sake,
But the shells that did not care,
Left only terror in their wake.
No man was safe from the barrage,
Their forts were precious little use,
Solheim had judged their sentence death,
And with his guns he tied their noose.
The soldiers prayed hard for their lives,
But as shells rained from wrathful skies,
Their prayers fell to an angry God,
With deaf ears to their pleading cries.
No man met mercy, none were spared,
From raging Solheim in his wrath,
By his hand many Allies died,
With none to write an epitaph.
The shells met targets so far-flung,
Scattered flesh and splintered bone,
Nothing left of youthful life,
Never to be returned home.


Grant stood amongst laughing men,
Who hid their terror with their cheer,
Then lifted his hand so they’d look,
And raised his voice that all may hear;
“General Holden, with respect,
The Allies in their grief and shock,
Had lost faith in victory,
And hopes were dashed against the rocks.
The carnage bid that they forget,
The oaths they swore to take Berlin,
And not to leave ‘til it was done,
But now their wits return to them.
They are once more ready to fight,
Now that their senses have returned,
And will not in attack relent,
Until Berlin in fire burns.
A man grows homesick but a month,
Away from his loving wife,
And believe me I know just how,
It feels to live this lonely life,
Reaching when at first you wake,
To the side of solitary bed,
For her comfort and her warmth,
But finding nothing instead,
Save for the cold chill and frost,
Of an early Berlin morn,
So believe me when I say,
That I like you am surely torn.
But be patient, you brave men,
For all as one we shall go home,
To drink and make love to our wives,
And celebrate like nothing you have known.”

- Cpt. Oliver Grant, “Song of Berlin.”

DISCLAIMER: this Epic Poem depicts the Second World War with the intention of depicting the bravery displayed by both sides, from all ranks and regiments, but will not shy away from the cruelty, brutality, violence or glory of war.


“Holden,” Shepherd cried aloud,
“You led us here into this mess,
Now your men of glory speak,
When all they thus far bring is death.
You promised us a return home,
Now speak of us staying here,
And I had hoped that you would speak,
To alleviate my growing fears.
If we wait at these vast walls,
If at Berlin we remain,
Death will either claim us swift,
Or boredom shall drive us insane.
Are there more German coffers that,
Have not yet met your greedy hands?
Is love of money that which caused,
This sudden shifting in your plans?
German dead are easy coin,
Is there more from which you might grow fat?
More women whom you seek to rob,
Or Americans to tax?
Do more Englishmen need to be sent,
To pointless and painful deaths?
In that regard and that alone,
You seem to have done your best.
Never looking on our dead,
So far behind the lines you lurk,
The Germans must love your command,
Since you make for them such easy work.
Perhaps there are prisoners,
You wish to take to meet demand,
Put them all to steady work,
Exploited in your labour camps.
How much German gold will do,
Before you have had your fill?
Or do you have ransoms from which,
You may yet grow fatter still?
Our men miss their wives at home,
But that does not bother you,
After all you have enough,
Mistresses to see you through.
Does your wife in Washington,
Know of all of your affairs?
Does she know of what you do,
And has chosen not to care?
Because if she doesn’t know
Then in that she is alone,
For I suspect she would not let,
Such women as these in her home.
Every man in Allied camp,
Knows all about your sordid greed,
Taking women every night,
To satisfy your every need.
Whilst your men rest in cold beds,
Forgetting feel of woman’s touch,
Missing home and lonely wives,
You give yourself away to lust.
Not all of us can take a new,
Woman to bed every night,
Some of us, unlike yourself,
Have a war that we must fight.
It’s no secret you’re no warrior,
You have no scars to boast in pride,
No women line up at your door,
To your bedpost to be tied.
Dreadful hypocrite you are,
To deny Pechal his prize,
And to lecture morals at,
The greater man you have chastised.
For how many of your women now,
Have gone with you of own accord?
And in your hypocrisy,
Our own defeat you have assured.
Pechal is far the better man,
Risking his own body shot,
His methods you might dispute,
But his courage you cannot.
Chancing life and limb he goes,
Time after each bloody time,
In the thick of every fight,
Raging against German lines.
A hypocrite you surely are,
Caring only for yourself,
And see what disrespect has cost;
As we fight without Russian help.
Now they all refuse to fight,
Each man sitting idly by,
As every man that yet remains,
Walks hand in hand to suicide.
You fools who call me coward now,
For having not stomach to fight,
For wanting to return to my,
Precious children and my wife,
It is you who cower now,
From mad dogs barking at sane men,
Rather remain in Berlin,
And await a bitter end.”


Sneak peak on a huge project I’m working on. As far as I know, nothing quite like this has been done.


The Coming Tribe

Thy nations lay dead,
Mourn them not,
For they would not mourn thee,
If it were thy body that lays in rot.
What once was thy nation,
Before into death it slipped,
Sits motionless without eyes,
Knife held in dead man’s grip;
There to stab thee in thy back,
As thou came to its defence,
For it became thine enemy,
And the spiteful creature would not relent,
Given the chance to plunge the blade into thee,
So be thankful that it lies lifeless with empty veins,
For if it were to rise from death it would only be a matter of time,
Before it came at thee with knife in hand again.

Devoured by parasites,
As decay takes the wretched thing,
Jackals now surround the wolf,
And to the fight the sheep thou brings.
Why dos’t thou wish to let thine enemy,
Make of thee a weeping martyr?
Why dos’t thou look upon a bloated corpse,
And call it “father”?

The soul of thy nation died long ago,
A cadaver thou inherits and protects.
Embrace the struggle freedom brings in tow,
Lay thy stagnant way of life to rest.

Look instead to those days yet to come,
In which new tribes shall form,
And from their seeds shall new nations come,
New peoples from us shall be born.
Ruthless wolves that they shall be,
Lions of life, above men they stand,
Breaking through the suffocation of the modern life,
To breathe the skyward air of the Overman.

Do not lash thyself to a corpse,
But give thyself to thy future nation yet to come,
For thy progeny shall come forth,
With rebirth of the Holy Sun,
Birthed in flames of war and hardened by trials of iron,
Living and breathing are thy emerging tribe,
So give thine own life and breath to it,
And like a mighty oak it shall rise.




Call of the Koryos

For what do we work our hands,
Down to wretched, aching bones,
When our ancestors did no such thing,
But lived by force of arms alone?
For what glory do we toil,
So that we might have meagre bread,
When those before us weapons drew,
And lived by their iron instead?
Why do we work as chided slaves,
Tilling someone else’s land,
When not so many years ago,
Our people lived with sword in hand?

Is it not glory that you seek?
Not battle for which you yearn?
Do you not want that fire and life,
Once held in your eyes to return?
Well it won’t come with life as this,
Only misery and woe it brings,
For here only monotony,
Is fit to reign as tyrant king.
So will you sit and work away,
Until your days of youth are spent?
I for one shall freedom take,
Or I shall die in the attempt.

Are we not sons of Father Mars?
Does not His blood run through our veins?
To see us hunched in such a state,
He surely hangs His head in shame.
I wish to break these scathing bonds,
Before my fleeting time elapsed,
I won’t remain a prisoner here,
A workhorse caged and beat and trapped.
Will you choose dull and bitter peace,
Or thunder of a bloody war?
You are free to choose your fate,
But I will suffer this no more.




Antelope Hill Publishing dan repost
Ghost Stories by Casey McDonough depicts a fairly standard modern American man going through one such journey to an understanding of the men of the past. This is something our opponents have never experienced. They have placed our heroes of the past firmly in the category of “Marvel movie villain”. People who’s goal is to destroy the world, or just simply hurt people. We all know that’s not the case, and the characters of the story are presented with this challenge to their worldview and have to resolve that internal dilemma. The whole story is well written and gripping, and especially poignant for anyone with Southern ancestry.

Why We Fight by Arminius is an excellent distillation of that underlying current of the book, as well as a shot in the arm to spur us on toward greater things. I may still do a podcast bit containing this one, so I don’t want to spoil it too much, but I’ll drop the final words here. “Victory is who we are.”

This entire book is like a highly concentrated anti-depressant and pre-workout mix in written form. There are many works contained herein that I have not mentioned that deeply affected me. I encourage anyone to try it, read it slowly, one or two works at a time, and speak all poetry out loud. Whether our grandchildren will be studying in a quiet schoolhouse, or a remote forest grove, this is one of the books they will be reading. Hail Victory

https://www.antelopehillpublishing.com/product-page/antelope-hill-writing-competition-2021-why-we-fight


Antelope Hill Publishing dan repost
Great review of "Why We Fight" by Nathaniel Scott, of Full Haus (https://t.me/prowhitefam) fame:


Most people who open book reviews do so to answer the question, “should I read this book?” To save you some time, I’ll be upfront and answer with an emphatic and resounding yes. I was absolutely blown away by the talent and creativity found in our movement, and know that anyone else who picks up this book will be as well. I’ve been interested in poetry for some time, and as astute listeners will remember, even started off Navigating the Collapse with a poem from Kipling. As such the poetry section was especially enjoyable to me, and I found myself tearing up each time I sat down to read it. The prose and essay sections were also emotional and inspiring in a way that cuts to the core of your soul. I can honestly see a textbook from several hundred years in the future showcasing parts of this book under titles like “Early 21st Century Poetry”, “Pre-Reconquest Era Literature”, or “A Glimpse into the Mind of our Ancestors”. There are works that many will find contain messages that will only be understood by people immersed in our culture, and will one day have a paragraph long footnote explaining the context in detail. And there are others that can instantly be understood by anyone, and could be just as easily understood three hundred years ago, or three hundred years from now.

Each work has it’s own special characteristics, and I won’t spoil them for you, but I’d like to mention a few of my personal favorites other than the winners and honorable mentions. Those are titans, spinechilling, reminiscent of authors like Tolkien and Kipling, but I know that readers will usually read them first, so I want to present the other works as well as a reminder than none of them should be skipped.

The Day, by Edward Altura is a beautiful and simple poem that I will undoubtably be reading to my future children before bedtime. It shows the way will be difficult, the struggle generational, and the night long, but there is still comfort in knowing that the day will dawn once again.

The Thoroughbred by John David references Spengler’s famous quote while describing the Roman soldier who stayed at his post in Pompeii because he was never relieved of duty. How could that soldier have known that thousands of years after his death men would look to his last moments as an inspiration to hold our ground? In the same way, while our struggle may seem difficult, impossible, or even meaningless, it will have ramifications that we may never know. Sometimes all we can do is grit our teeth, grasp our spear, and stand.

For the Forest Brothers by Laima Sedula shows the relationships of the Forest Brothers during the aftermath of WW2 in the Baltics, a period and area that many in our movement are less familiar with. Brave men fought against the Soviet occupation for many years, toiling and suffering, while their families and loved ones did the same. This triptych presents the relationships between a brother, a lover, and a mother, present in this fight. It was not long ago that these men and women had their struggle, and it may not be long in the future that we will be put in a similar situation.

The Union by Æthelrey presents the story of a Polish hussar during a war against Islamic invaders. While riding with his troop, he is faced by a situation that brings the nature and potential cost of the war into clear focus, which I won’t spoil. The language is particularly beautiful, on the cusp of being a poem itself. In the modern world it’s easy to forget that historical events had individuals attached to them with similar emotions, goals, and dreams, as us. When we read about a battle fought 500 years ago, it’s hard to wrap your mind around “20,000 dead” meaning that 20,000 homes had an empty seat from then on. Stories like this help bring those facts into reality. By rehumanizing our ancestors in our mind, we can have a far deeper connection to them than before.


Triarii

Go on boy, while thou still can,
Do not share this fate of mine,
If fleet of foot thou might escape;
I will stay and hold the line.
Look around thee, son of Rome,
How many of thy comrades lie?
I shall stay and hold them back,
No more of thee need to die.

All our tactics have now failed,
Our numbers now doth count for naught,
But I will not see our young men die,
For failures that the old have wrought.
I’ve lived for Rome, I’ll die for Her;
I’d live and die for Her again,
So quickly, boy, fall back from here;
Do not let my blood be spilled in vain.

I will stand and gladly die,
My boy that is a Holy truth,
For what good is a man as I,
If we cannot defend our youth?
I have lived so many years,
And will see my duty done,
I will not watch our future die,
With men so brave and yet so young.

Look upon the corpses here,
Can thou not see that all is lost?
But Rome must have its future sons,
And I will gladly pay the cost.
Art thou so blind thou cannot see,
The bulk of our men broke and fled?
Or would thou rather remain here,
Amongst our fallen, butchered dead?

If thou dies amongst the rest,
Noble that thy death might be,
Thy tragic end shall yet mean naught,
If Rome has no memory.
If Rome should die upon these fields,
Then for what good have they fell?
Go, so that our country lives,
And thou hast their story to tell.

If, my boy, thou can yet flee,
And escape the slaughter here,
Then I will happily remain;
I gladly die and know no fear.
No matter what the circumstance,
I will still send Punic men beneath,
Even if my limbs are severed clean,
I’ll kill a man with my bare teeth.

A hungry look within the eyes,
In thee, young boy, I can still see,
So go and raise men of thine own,
For Rome needs leaders such as thee.
Go on now boy, thou must retreat;
And with life my sacrifice allowed,
Do not let Rome go unavenged;
O’ Scipio, go do me proud.




During the Battle of Cannae, the Roman Republic, which did not even control all of modern day Italy at the time, went up against Carthage, a Semitic merchant empire that spanned across Spain, Iberia, Gaul and North Africa.

50,000 Roman men died in that battle, and within the first three battles of that war, Rome lost 20% of its adult male population. To put that in perspective, over the course of the entire First World War, only 11.5% of British soldiers were killed.

And what was the Roman response? Did they bow down to Punic rule and submit? Did they take peace over pride? No. They banned the word “peace” from even being uttered.

Rome eventually went on to win the Punic Wars so utterly that Carthage would never rise again. With their bare hands they did to Carthage what nuclear bombs could not do to Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And this was thanks to the prodigious general, the Priest of Mars, Publius Cornelius Scipio, who only survived thanks to the Triarii, Rome’s veteran soldiers, the old men, volunteering to stay behind and die so that the young men could escape.

One Triarii was found with both his arms cut off, and a chunk of a Carthaginian’s neck in his teeth. The loss of both his arms was not enough to stop him in the defence of his country. We do not know his name, but we do know his story, and that his sacrifice was not in vain. Rome went on to define the world, and Carthage was forgotten.

That, I believe, deserves at the very least a poem.


If I Fall In Battle

If I fall in battle,
Then do not weep for me,
If at home or far afield,
Wherever I may be.
For I have made my peace with Fate,
Let slip the battle cry,
To in glory finally live,
And in Aristeia die.

If I fall in battle,
He who slew me did no wrong,
And wherever I have fallen,
Is where I do belong.
For a man that stands his ground and fights,
Is much the same as I,
And is owed a proper burial,
When comes his turn to die.

If I fall in battle,
Then recount Macaulay’s lays,
And think on of what glory came,
To men of yonder days;
“How can a man die better,
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the Temples of his Gods?”

If I fall in battle,
Then bury with my urn,
A copy of that book from which,
All men should seek to learn.
Know that Homer taught me well;
I fought for far-flung fame,
That history would speak of me,
And remember my name.

If I fall in battle,
Let descendants speak of me,
Let them immortalise my works,
In prose and poetry.
Let not my name then fade to naught,
In the minds of my sons,
Let not my mighty deeds of war,
Be stricken from their tongues.

If I fall in battle,
In some far-off foreign field,
Then know that I have lived my life,
By laws of sword and shield.
For if I am a warrior,
Who fights in distant lands,
Know that many mighty enemies,
Have fallen by my hand.

If I fall in battle,
Then no soldier bares the blame,
For by my hand and others,
Many men have done the same.
Let my name live forever on,
In glory shall I bask;
To die for kin and country’s cause,
Is all that I could ask.




Man of the Tenth

In Ruspina lines were drawn,
Caesar brought his legions few,
Outnumbered though he surely was,
This to him was nothing new.
Labienus brought his horsemen forth,
Who made up most of his side,
Numidians and Gauls they came;
Against the Legions they would ride.
Many men poised for the kill,
Overwhelming numbers came,
Ready to slaughter Legion men,
But Caesar's odds were still the same.
Many men were raw recruits,
Untested fighters as of yet,
With armour that still shone as new,
And swords that had not been wet.

Labienus knew him well,
Having fought at Caesar’s side,
And in experience had gained,
A general’s well-earned pride.
Before battle his sick routine,
Was to play infuriating games,
And insult the men he once fought with,
Calling to each of them by name,
Riding up and down the lines,
In his bold but foolish vaunt,
Mocking venom did he spit,
At soldiers who would hear his taunts.
“Here there is only recruits,
No Legionaries in my sight,
None to challenge men of mine,
No men to offer up a fight.”

One man took insult at these claims,
And took a step out from his line,
For he was no raw recruit,
But a soldier of a different kind.
He was of Caesar’s favoured Tenth,
A seasoned veteran no less,
Who would not crack to mere insults,
Nor would he yield to this duress.
And though the standards of the Tenth,
Had not yet in full arrived,
This man had not forgotten that,
Favour from which the Tenth derived.
“I am not that insult thou claims,
But a man thou should remember well,
For I am of Equestris,
And by our great hand all of Gaul fell.”

At this boast, Labienus laughed,
Seeing not the standards bore,
Thinking that Caesar had sent,
But naive boys into this war.
“Oh but what a hollow boast,”
Labienus said with mocking smile,
“For I see no Eagle banners of,
The Tenth amongst thy rank and file.”
With howling laughs at this lone man,
He told them that he would well know,
The presence of the mighty Tenth,
As worthy comrades and as foes.
But as far as he could see,
Those men, they simply were not there,
And if what few of them drew swords,
It was not enough for him to care.

Enraged the soldier with a wild look,
That shone from his hungry eyes,
Took a pilum in his hand,
And far and fast he let it fly,
At the general’s proud horse,
Who took the javelin in surprise,
And in shock was swift struck dumb
As instantly his white horse died.
And so its legs did buckle then,
Killed swiftly by the deadly blow;
By wounded limbs they carried him,
As his mount collapsed below.
The cold dead steed and crippled man,
Were broken by the soldier’s strength;
“Perhaps this shall help you recognise,
A soldier of the Tenth.”




Time

O’ who can stand the tides of time,
That wash against a fate of thine?
Whether rushing on or standing still,
Saturn moves against thy will.

When boredom strikes with pain in hand,
And thou must watch the falling sands,
Only then does time move slow,
And mocking Saturn brings thee low.

When tender smiles are shared with friends,
And thou wishes for it not to end,
Then does time come flowing fast,
And at thy plight Saturn laughs.

When loved ones suddenly depart,
No time to heal thy aching heart,
Struck with grief and tender loss,
Marching Saturn will not stop.

A slow life lived with little haste,
Much of it thrown into waste,
Looking back for where thy time has gone;
But Saturn keeps thee moving on.





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