POEM: PLACE IT INSIDE YOURSELF

by Richard Wolstencroft

Place it inside yourself
You know it's out there
you feel it, smell it
in the back streets
the city rampant
that once belonged to you

DANTE'S BEATRICE: A DEATH IN JUNE

by Andy Nowicki

AUDIO VERSION HERE

Over seven centuries ago, the most famous literary muse of all time—namely Dante Alighieri’s beloved Beatrice—ascended to her eternal glory. Dante followed his muse into the bourn of the undiscovered country three decades later, but not before composing a host of works which testify to the full extent of the Beatrician influence on the Dantean imagination.

JUDAS: A POEM FOR EASTER

A kiss, a crime?

by Colin Liddell

@cbliddell

For many people Christ's Passion is a deeply moving and spiritual event, or at least an inspiring parable denoting God's love for mankind. But, for me, it is also an expression of the theological contradictions and sado-masochist tendencies of Christianity, with Judas as a pivotal figure. Theological musings such as these would be ponderous in any other medium besides poetry, so listen up...

"MY SEX JUNK": AN ALT-RIGHT DRAMATIC READING

Alternative Right assistant editor Andy Nowicki delivers a solemn and deeply reverential "spoken word" rendition of "My Sex Junk," Rachel Bloom's manifesto of polymorphous perversity-positivity and scientifically-verified genderfluid normalcy, as first performed to great acclaim on "Bill Nye Saves the World."

THE LAY OF SIR DUNCELOT

A Spenserian Tribute to the
Making of the Male Feminist

by James Lawrence

In modern times, when all is parody,
And knights and ladies few and far between,
One sighs to see the fall of chivalry
And courtship turned to purposes obscene;
But still the noble sentiment is seen
(Although, reciprocated, maybe not)
In youthful fellows, virginal and green,
Just like the hero of our present plot:
Though Duncan he was born, we’ll call him Duncelot.

POEM: THE LION'S RETURN

by Colin Liddell

The Lion’s been missing these many long years

In his absence the country has sunk to its knees

Its people, once proud, are brought down so low

by false-hearted villains who don’t seem to know

that Britain is great by its culture and race

not the influx of strangers and their dissonant ways

that have nothing to do with our land and our soil

the nation we built with our blood and our toil

and defended so bravely for a thousand years straight

This is the reason that Britain's called "Great"

POEM: HERE COMES A COMMIE

by Leo Yankevich

                                        He’s Che Guevara
                    underneath his red beret.
                                        He’s Leon Trotsky
                    with his belly full of bagels,

                                        this man, this very
                    sensitive man, so finely bred
                                        on Marx and Marcuse,
                    who sits over cups of steaming

                                        cappuccino,
                    butt-hole tight from doing kegels,
                                        mouth sore from nights
                    spent moaning, from days spent dreaming

                                        of equality
                    for every woman, black, and gay,
                                        and all the ghetto
                    commissars inside his head.

TWO POEMS BY MICHAEL SAJAK

Jupiter’s Descent

"They may have played together as boys, and, as young men, they
traveled the length and breadth of Virginia together and found
wives on the same plantation near Williamsburg. For over fifty
years their lives were bound together by law, for one man, Jupiter,
was the property of the other, Thomas Jefferson."
                                      ~the Thomas Jefferson Foundation, Inc.

In the muddy creek, in the hidden congress
Of frogs, and their dusky song,
It is the two of them there, together both
Trousers rolled up to their knees.

It is getting late, and they would do better to leave
Soon before dark so to see the way home.
One night they stayed til after dark, and had to hold
Hands treading softly back to the house.

POEM: DO NOT SHED TEARS FOR THE DROWNED BOYS

by Leo Yankevich

Do not shed tears for the drowned boys
like flotsam on the Turkish shores.
Free from their fathers’ stupidity,
their wings bear the Trojan horse
to the ruins of antiquity
and to the altruistic Norse.

POEMS FOR FUSILIER RIGBY

Lee Rigby

by Juleigh Howard-Hobson

(To commemorate the first anniversary of Fusilier Lee Rigby of the 2nd Battalion Royal Fusiliers' Name being Added to the Armed Forces Memorial at the National Memorial Arboretum, Sept. 1 2014.)

"THE STREET HARDLY UNDERSTANDS": THE CASE OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK

The following is an excerpt from Andy Nowicki's new book Notes Before Death: Three Essays , now available on Amazon.
Hear Andy read "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," the poem discussed in this excerpt.

"I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each
I do not think that they will sing to me."

by Andy Nowicki

Today, viewed from the perspective of a middle-aged English teacher, whose hair, like Prufrock's, is growing thin, I still find myself most captivated by Eliot's earliest work. As for "The Four Quartets," written later in Eliot's life and long after his conversion to Anglo-Catholicism, they leave me cold. There is something about them that is too airy-fairy, too abstract. "The Waste Land," Eliot's most celebrated poem, has its moments of power, but I can't make head of tail out of much of it, and really, couldn't he have cut back on the abstruse literary allusions just a touch? (Those who call Eliot a pedant are no doubt mostly prejudiced against him for his political and social views, but honestly, the guy could lay on the references and footnotes a bit thick at times.)

NEVER OVER: A POEM

by Juleigh Howard-Hobson

Never Over

A Rondeau Redouble for Kai Murros

It’s not over; it’s never over. We
Can be neither beaten or defeated
Unless we concede that we are to be.
And we shall not let that be conceded—

Nothing has fallen away, we've succeeded
In holding onto what is most holy
And protecting it, unimpeded.
It’s not over; it’s never over. We

Know how to preserve ourselves, keeping free
And pure no matter how defiled, depleted
And degraded the world has grown. Esprit
Can be neither beaten or defeated

INTERVIEW WITH A POETESS (PART 2)

by Andy Nowicki

The following is the conclusion of my interview with Juleigh Howard-Hobson, whose book I Do Not Belong to the Baader-meinhof Group and Other Poems is now available from Counter-Currents.com
Part 1 can be read here.

Nowicki: "Or Forever Hold No Peace" is a stirring poem about WW2 veterans, apparently from both the Axis and the Allied side of the war. The poem seems to reflect on a "bright time when/ Hope stood gladly with you, Europa's men." Talk about the inspiration and context for this poem, as well as your reference to the "black sun" (which is also referenced in other poems of the collection). “What is history but a fable agreed upon?” said Bonaparte.

Howard-Hobson: “Or Forever Hold No Peace” wanted to be written, it came as an image in my head: old grizzled men standing in a line, waiting for a memorial parade to begin. Which memorial, which parade, which men....those things didn’t matter.... all that mattered, as far as the poem was concerned, was that the men were together and they were old and they knew something and they knew that what they knew was not what they were supposed to know—not the official story, not the sanctioned truth, not, perhaps, even the legal truth anymore...but still, they knew it. The poem comes from the frustration of knowing that these grand old men might take something precious to their graves because they don’t know that their truth won’t only fall on deaf ears. That some of us want to know what they knew. On both sides.

INTERVIEW WITH A POETESS (PART 1)

Juleigh Howard-Hobson, poetess

by Andy Nowicki

The following is the first part of my interview with Juleigh Howard-Hobson, whose new book of poems, I Do Not Belong to the Baader-meinhof Group and Other Poems, is now available from Counter-Currents.

Nowicki: As a poet, you have achieved significant success, both inside and outside of "the movement." It is safe to say that many non-alternative rightists/ WNs/ ideological heretics nevertheless enjoy your work. To what extent is your poetry an expression of your beliefs, and to what extent could it be called non-ideological?

Howard-Hobson: Everything any artist does comes from inside the artist and nowhere else. There’s no escaping that. So, it’s absolutely true that everything I write is from inside of me—informed by my beliefs, my ideologies and my own experiences. I’ve lived in 3 nations, and two opposite coasts of one of them—my outlooks, my thoughts, my personal expressions, every word I put down on paper, are all the result of conclusions (some even unconscious ones) that I’ve come to after seeing what I’ve seen of the world, and knowing what I know of people, of culture, of how history is interpreted and even distorted, what the air smells like in London’s suburbs, what ANZAC Day means in Sydney, how to grow spring gardens in the Portland rain, how holiness is experienced....