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And Nut, Over the Plains of Geb…

I’ve never really shared any of my poetry with anyone but a select one or two. Here is one I wrote awhile back:

 

Across the heat of his desert,

she stretches,

this parched land yearning for her celestial embrace,

tantalized by the pillars of heaven:

her arms, strong enough to bear the sky,

her legs, planted on either side of the world;

 

She wears Khonsu, full or eclipsed, as a tattoo,

and the rare cloud raises the ardor of the sands,

their hymns for her rain

meeting the contempt of Ra and his retinue;

 

The chambers of the kings,

empty but for desiccated flesh,

all too paltry to pierce this division;

Palms stretch upward,

vegetation hardy and hopeful,

yet Shu, the very air, holds apart;

 

Below, an apprehensive watch:

the hills and valleys of Geb in enraptured torment,

torpid crocodiles ambling in heat,

the votaries of Bast loll in purring, arrogant languor;

And he waits, her ram, her bull of the horizon,

his slit, serpentine eyes all pretend

they do not await the rest of Ra;

 

For with sunset she descends upon his frame,

Shu’s sentry briefly neglected,

all to briefly;

 

Her cool winds play across his hills,

the scents of heaven fill his valleys,

their ancient congress, a catastrophic miracle;

Eldritch, faraway fires shine on his plains,

a starry whirlpool a navel,

nebulae shake gently, her burning breasts;

 

This silence roaring through the awed lands

until a single flame spins playful from that face

and his laughter shakes the desert;

Does the earth quake at his relief,

her joyous ferocity,

at their eternal, amorous hilarity?

Does their union threaten to unseat

pharaohs?

 

In the dunes sits one who might answer,

but she stonily holds the secret,

watching this embrace with enigmatic eyes;

 

Astride this expanse,

the night twirls, gambols,

glows,

and fragrant dew

dapples sand,

the increase of the heavens;

 

Ra awakes in his house

as the mountains chant their joy

and the rivers overflow;

 

Parted once more, she rises,

and the land reclines below,

tending the gardens resultant,

waiting for night.

By Matthew Pridham

I write horror stories as well as film and book reviews. I've been published in Weird Tales Magazine, Tor.com, weirdfictionreview.com, and thethoughterotic.com. My primary interests are modernist fiction, world domination, the horror genre (classic, avant-garde, modern), polyamory, and philosophy of every stripe. Favorite authors include (but are far from limited) to Marcel Proust, Ramsey Campbell, Martin Amis, Thomas Ligotti, Ruth Rendell, Vladimir Nabokov, Jorge Luis Borges, and Clive Barker. I grew up in Bergen, Norway as well as Albuquerque, New Mexico, and I've attended the University of New Mexico and CU Boulder.

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