Odin is called, amongst other things, the God of poetry and this is why:
He once tricked the giant Suttung out of the Scaldic Mead, that he had once stolen from the dwarfs Fjalar and Galar, who produced the Scaldic Mead out of the blood of Kvasir who was the wisest among the Vanir Gods. Poetry is also called Kvasir's blood, the intoxication of the dwarfs or the liquid of Oedrerir (the name of the kettle where they brewed the Mead in). To understand the deeper and true meaning of it all, one has to translate the names because the truth is always hidden in the names, but I am not going into it that deep right now and here.
To make a long story short, Odin eventually got a hold of the Mead, changed himself into the shape of an eagle and flew away. When the Aesir saw him coming, they placed their vats in the courtyard and Odin spat the Mead into them, giving it to those men who know how to make poetry. For this reason poetry is called Odin's catch, find, drink or gift, as well as the drink of the Aesir.
Why did I tell you this? Because my poetry is inspired and influenced by Norse mythology.
Rain of the Heavens
When the world pours
all its darkness out on me
and the night, pitch black,
takes me under her cover,
and when all the rain
of the Heavens falls on me,
I stand with open arms,
waiting for the deadly push.
Dying is easy in the vibrations
of Heimdallur's Horn,
the cover of night bears all
the light to guide me through,
and when all the pain of
the blow takes me hostage,
I cry red rivers of tears,
waiting for the sea to rage.
Drowning is easy in the
surge of nature's blood -
I give myself to myself,
I am the tears that I cry;
not can I lose what I can create -
not can I drown when
I know how to swim.
