Thursday, January 8, 2015


All that is left of Wotan
is a sword in an empty room,
an empty hall, perhaps
the hall of the mountain
king. Wotan himself has fled
to Brazil or Uruguay or
Argentina, leaving his spoils
of the dead for others.

For those who would enter
this room, dressed in black,
waving swords in the desert
of hate, there is always
the trap door, which is both
a door
and a trap.

Painting: Nothung (Notung), oil and charcoal on burlap by Anselm Kiefer (1973); Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam.


Sheila said...

The desert of hate.

Both a door and a trap.

Wonderful stuff here, Glynn. I needed this today.

Martha Jane Orlando said...

This poem so appealed to me in all its vibrant imagery which pulls past into present - those wearing black in the desert of hate and, sadly, in our own backyards.
Blessings, Glynn!