Author: Eirik Westcoat

Fire fiercely flickers, and fast it burns,
the purest Energy of a primal world;
for endless action it always yearns,
and racing around, it raged and swirled.
Ice is awe-filled and utterly still,
the purest Form of a primal realm;
’tis silent, focused, and centered will,
stopping motion with a steadying whelm.
Becoming and being: When blended they’re freeing.

Carve the runes
in the right order
to work the sought-for synthesis.
Stain them in flesh
by standing in the shapes;
strengthen your body with staves.

Breathe in air
with brightest runes;
store their essence in self.
See the staves
with sight of craft
in the eyes of lich and light.

Carve them in space,
carefully with gand;
send them strong and swift.
Carve them in air,
artfully with sound;
vibrate the staves with voice.

Carve them in wood,
carefully with sax;
stain the staves with will.
Carve them in mind
with crafty thoughts;
stain those staves in self.

Craft a poem
and compose it well;
rightly tally the runes.

That’s how he did it, by hanging from a tree,
how Óðinn won the ancient runes.
He challenges us to change our lives
by seeking those mysteries. And so we must,
by hanging also on a hallowed tree.
But what is Yggdrasil, and where might it be,
that we may ride that rood for its runic treasures?
Everywhere, throughout and in all of the world,
the trunk, the roots, and the towering branches
of that runic tree are running, everywhere.
But gods we are not, so go for a tree
that’s a tiny part of the total whole.
For each who has eyes, they’re all around:
literal and figurative, both large and small.