NIDSTANG is now accepting submissions for Issue #1

NIDSTANG is now accepting submissions for our inaugural issue.

This is the herb that fought against the worm—
this can avail against poison, this can avail against contagion,
this can avail against hated things that fare throughout the land.

NIDSTANG is an anarchist journal of poetry published by Pleroma. We are interested in art that evokes the spirit of the nithing pole, the ancient Germanic curse-pole.

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This is the herb that fought against the worm

We are interested primarily in writing that is potent and lives past the written word: poetry as speech-act, poetry as ritual, poetry as terrorism — “Art as crime; crime as art.” Of particular interest is poetry which violates, interrogates, and resists the powers that be. Not only institutional power, but the structures inherent to all language, the binaries upon which all meaning is constructed. We want venomous tongue — words that by their very nature inflict damage. This should not be confused with mere critique, but rather understood literally: we want writing which conjures. Hence, NIDSTANG: the atavistic belief in the subtle powers of language.

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NIDSTANG will be published both online (on a rolling basis) and in print (with illustrations). We have no strict restrictions on what can or cannot be submitted, however, only work of a certain quality and tone will be selected for publication. While this is a poetry journal and will likely remain so, we welcome all submissions, and we are always interested in interesting work. 

There is no reading fee; and NIDSTANG will be freely available to any interested parties in print.

Please send all submissions to nidstang@insiberia.net with the subject “Submission“. If you run a zine distro or similar project and would like to receive bulk copies of NIDSTANG #1, send a safe mailing address secured with Privnote to nidstang@insiberia.net with the subject “Order“.

Adoration of Oak, by Ausonia Calabrese

O Temple of my Father’s Father, Mistress of the Giant’s Bane!

Palms of rough bark, that end in gnarled hands,

Old man of the hills,

Sylvan Lord, with a crown of leaves,

You bare the burden of mistletoe in your boughs:

Venomous gems!

A Wanapum song by the dreamer-prophet Smohalla

My young men shall never work, men who work cannot dream and wisdom comes in dreams.

You ask me to plow the ground.
Shall I take a knife and tear my mother’s breast?
Then when I die she will not take me to her bosom, to rest.

You ask me to dig for stone.
Shall I dig under her skin for bones?
Then when I die I cannot enter her body to be born again.

You ask me to cut grass and make hay and sell it and be rich like white men.
But how dare I cut off my mother’s hair!

It is a bad law and my people cannot obey it.
I want my people to stay with me here.
All the dead men will come to life again.
We must wait here in the house of our fathers and be ready to meet them in the body of our mother.