Juleigh Howard-Hobson: Six Poems

Posted on 10/03/2013

Primarily a formalist poet, Juleigh Howard-Hobson has simultaneously written literary fiction, genre work, non-fiction essays and articles, purposely blunting the modern ‘brandable’ concept of artistic obligation to any single form or movement. Like Yeats she walks a Hagal line between this world and that other, sometimes unseen, world.

Her first chapbook, Sommer and Other Poems (RavensHalla Arts Pub. March 2007), sold out its first edition and is to be reissued in 2014 with a new CD of readings included. The Cycle of Nine, (August 2012) is also with RavensHalla. I Do Not Belong To The Baader Meinhof Group and Other Poems (Counter Currents, 2013) is her third book of folkish formalist poetry. Lastly, Ancient Cypress Press has published Remind Me her 4th and most recent book of formal poems.

Individual poems have appeared in scores of venues including The New Formalist, Trinacria, The Lyric, Qarrtsiluni, Autonom, Hex Magazine, The Journal of Contemporary Heathen Thought, The Odinic Rite Briefing, The AFA Voice, New Witch, Megalithic Poetry, Enchanted Conversation, Mandragora (Scarlet Imprint), Caduceus: The Poets at Art Place Vol 8 (Yale University), North American New Right Vol 1 (Counter Currents). She has been nominated for The Best of the Net and The Pushcart. A recent two part interview with her can be found here and here.

Eigner Herd ist Goldes werth

Just what are we supposed to do now that
We find ourselves without a place, left flat
In a world that once belonged to us, or
At least didn’t not belong to us? More
And more adrift, each of us an expat
In our own native land, each of us at
The point of despair, or the point of what 
Should be despair, but is...well, we’re not sure
Just what. Are we
Supposed to simply take it, this doormat-
Like behaviour that is expected? Bat
Our eyes and give our place to foreigners
Who give us nothing in return? What for?
Just what are we?

Lucem sequimur

“Until that day of awakening, it is up to us to keep faith”...
Colin Jordan

And now the grey clouds come, and with them cold
Grey days followed by cold grey years. Our sun
Is gone. Our spirit, our people, our bold
Visions, and our future plans—stand frozen,
Almost as if they had never started
Or never had existed. We lost our 
Sun!  And now we are lost. Broken hearted
We check the grey skies, the grey heavens, for
Any telltale sign, any glimpse, any
Hint that this grey will pass and we will not.
For there must come a future dawn when we
Look up and see some light. When, from a shot
Sent forward long ago, thin gold rays rise
And our lost sun comes back to gild our skies.

Two from the Haelig Runa Series.


No quick fire am I. No sharp spark. No flare.
I am the burning, the flame tongued , the bright
Gold of high torches held aloft in air
That grows hallowed and haloed by my light.
I am illumination. The hardest
Sought and hardest wrought. Great brilliance comes through
Great pressure:  gathered fast to me the best
And most splendid of noble minds and true
Seekers irradiate and grow. But not 
Without cost. Discernment comes with a price:
 And those who will pay it, will receive what
They bargain for. Knowing when to shield eyes, 
When not to even blink. I am the white
Hot center, the black sun’s core, the soul’s light.


Regard me, I am that which is unplanned
And natural, that which swirls up and glances
Off, that which whirs and meanders, across and
Below, above, between. I am the chances,
The lucky breaks, the unexpected fortunes,
The silver in the blackest cloud....and the cloud
Itself. Oh yes, I am that too. I am ruin,
Am delay, am darkened omens allowed
To plant themselves within frightened souls. Feast
And famine, boon and dearth, I impart
Without favor, and without caprice.
I am gamble and decision, the start
And the finish to human endeavor
And every dice roll taken. Forever.

After The Ashen Spear

My time is done, I know I’ll not
Ever see my land again,
And my flesh shall surely rot
In this Wod forsaken spot
Where battle dead are left, forgot.

Those not yet born shall walk around
And see these hills where battle raged
They shall not ween that underground
Lie heads that once with awe-helm crowned
Now lay unknown, unnamed, unfound.

Yet, bone on bone in scrambled heap
We lie in masses here and there
Skulls on kinsmen’s skulls we sleep
Ribs enmeshed we ever keep
Our frithful friendships in the deep.

Included in Sommer and Other Poems (RavensHalla Arts)

Nerthus to the White Christ
(regarding the loaves and fishes thing)

You’ve really swayed the crowds with this—
You up-start vegetation god.
There was a time they’d call it odd
That any born of earth, of clod,
Should try to claim their souls as his.

There was a time—a while ago—
You were, in their minds and hearts,
Some foreign god, designed for parts
When winter ends and spring time starts—
But now, they don’t consign you so.

For, now, you’ve got the masses where
Once I ruled in caves and woods—
Where once my statues proudly stood,
There’s only you these days.  You should
Be happy…and you should beware.

First appeared in Mezzo Cammin 2007