Thistles

The Warriors of the North

Bringing their frozen swords, their salt-bleached eyes,

their salt-bleached hair,

The snow’s stupefied anvils in rows,

Bringing their envy,

The slow ships feelered Southward, snails

over the steep sheen of the water-globe.

Thawed at the red and black disgorging of abbeys,

The bountiful, cleft casks,

The fluttering bowels of the women of dead burghers,

And the elaborate, patient gold of the Gaels.

To no end

But this timely expenditure of themselves,

A cash-down, beforehand revenge, with extra,

For the gruelling relapse and prolongueur of their blood

Into the iron arteries of Calvin.

And another one:

Against the rubber tongues of cows and

the hoeing hands of men

Thistles spike the summer air

And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.

Every one a revengeful burst

Of resurrection, a grasped fistful

Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up

From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.

They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.

Every one manages a plume of blood.

Then they grow grey, like men.

Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear,

Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.

The third section of Ted Hughes’ “Gog” evokes Holger the most strongly. This is a deep, dark, and difficult poem, and parts of it are not suitable for family reading. It deals with the lifelong and ultimately futile efforts of Everyman to escape from the softness and weakness of his mother and establish his own manhood without being sucked in and corrupted by the softness and weakness of his wife.

This is the opening stanza:

Gog (Part III)

Out through the dark archway of earth, under the ancient lintel overwritten with roots, Out between the granite jambs, gallops the hooded horseman of iron. Out of the wound-gash in the earth, the horseman mounts, shaking his plumes clear of dark soil. Out of the blood-dark womb, gallops bowed the horseman of iron, The blood-crossed Knight, the Holy Warrior, hooded with iron, the seraph of the bleak edge, Gallops along the world’s ridge in moonlight.

We all know about the Twelfth Imam, the super-bad Muslim guy at the bottom of the well in Persia. When Armageddon arrives, when Gog grapples with Magog and battle rages across the plain at Megiddo, the Twelfth Imam will awaken and lead the armies of Islam to their final victory, establishing the kingdom of Allah here on Earth.

Forget the Twelfth Imam.

We’ve got our own dude sitting on the bench. Call him the Twelfth Viking. He’s suited up, ready to join the contest as soon as he’s required.

The Men of the North form the core of the Counterjihad. They are already in action, clearing the back alleys of Anbar Province, riding point in Kabul, and forming up in self-organised groups to defend our borders.

As I’ve said before, it’s not race that’s the issue here, it’s culture. The culture of the Danes, the Norsemen, the English, and the Celts. The culture of the hardy and self-reliant Men of the North, always ready to defend their ancient liberties with a ferocity that their enemies can scarcely imagine. The culture of productive enterprise and armed self-determination that has spread to all corners of the globe.

Holger Danske is the man who best represents us. He’ll be there in the hour of our greatest need.

The Twelfth Viking — I can see his eyelids fluttering even now…

Source:

http://gatesofvienna.blogspot.com/2006/12/twelfth-viking.html

European Odinist and Crusader heroes resisting and fighting Islamisation:

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