Poetry

The Raven-god's Complaint

Ian McLeod

St. Expedite,
You're no real saint,
but your rep precedes;
I felt myself go when
you crushed the crows
beneath your quicksilver
Centurion greaves.

The Crow of Time
caws and says "Nevermore"
and you were right to slay
that bitter raven, so he may
suffer forevermore.

Yes, dear Saint,
Italians hate ravens,
with good reason;
but we Norse love ravens,
with good reason.

I fear for lost Huninn.
I weep for lost Muginn.
Why did you slay them,
St. Expedite?

In your alacrity, your haste,
you slew my companions.
I, the raven-god, Lord Wotan,
bring this case before the One True.
Lest He spew us out of His mouth,
I bring the North Wind and
snow and cold--bitter cold, as offering,
so He may calm my gnawing suffering.

Dear Saint, why have you
stolen what is so dear?
Thought and Memory are no more,
you slew them as The Ripper might a whore.
My mind is going.
My memory is going.
I hear no more news of Midgard.

When all things came to pass,
"tauta panta genetai,"
when He did all then, we old gods
could no more harass.

Your Boss, He upon that cross
set us aside in a retirement home,
where we are still visited by a few erstwhile children
who believe themselves Norse pagans--children who are neither.
We know the Truth as well as you, dear Saint,
we know. So why must you so mistreat us?
Is not the Pit punishment enough? We await,
as Saint John. "Lord, come quickly," so we must
no longer wait.

You killed my faithful ravens.
Now, do not procrastinate,
hasten that Last Great Day
so I may die and feel no more of this hate
for you, dear Saint Expedite.
Hasten that day.

Waiting for Hell is worse than the real thing.