Tag: poetry

How came I here, to this place, on this night, first of nine?
Rough bark grazes my skin; I reach for the ash pole, shaft of the blood fish.
The wound worm bites, I bleed; my gift to the soil falls as warm rain in this chill
While the rope holds, binds and burns with its need to contain me.
Stripped bare, hanging, moved by the breeze I am all that I ever was and will be.
My up is down, down up; sound and colour blend as I sway in this night become day.
I watch each leaf shake and tremble as they dance to the wind, every colour and hue.

A journey begins, the price is paid, destination unknown the plans are laid

How far shall I travel no Wight portends, what will I find on this road without end?

First comes the Fee, bright coins glowing
Sheep in the fold, cattle lowing.
Concealed in my pocket I carry my wealth
From those that would have it and trouble my health.
Men become dragons, treasures are hidden,
Jealously hoarding a sparkling midden.
Have just enough that your kin want for nought,
Value the worth of the things that it bought.
Too much of anything brings anger and strife
But a man’s modest wealth is a boon to his life.

In the early part of the last third of the last century, a curious thing came to pass. Like the sap rising in a tree in the springtime of the seasons, the Old Gods felt the same rising as need fire amongst the folk, on all sides of the Atlantic Ocean and all at the very same time, seeking the mysteries of their ancestral heritage.

And so it was once again that a great Wellspring came into being, and from this Wellspring issued forth many more streams. Now this ground was frozen and they found it was very hard, cold and restrictive, almost impenetrable and strewn with rocks, stones, and all manner of hindrance and obstruction.

Dawn and dusk, stage curtains draped
Across revolving earth’s round face;
Birds carol dawn but muse at dusk,
The land becomes a stranger place
From which diurnal life withdraws
While moths and badgers find accord,
Our world consumed by its own shadow
Until dew falls and then tomorrow
Grows from light that’s grey and plain,
Imperceptibly, it’s day!
Noon’s high tide is rarely noted,
Shadows then are at their shortest.
Midnight’s other self moves on,
Shadows turn and also lengthen,
Then spread, diffuse, imbue the air,
Soften the light until none’s there.
It’s in these times, twilight’s hours,
Half-light unveils crepuscular power
In rising mist, the liminal tricks
Peripheral vision, a barn owl flits.

We were a god and goddess bird of old,
Our divinity was recognised;
We would inspire and make your blood run cold.
Your blood-lust later blamed on us – such lies!
Your double standard came as no surprise.
Our corpse-perch eating was effect not cause.
A distance grew between us – not the sky’s;
We had the wildlife while you did your chores,
We’d come back now and then to dine out on your wars!

From nest-site cliffs of mountains, fells and coasts,
We shadow you and gaze upon your ruin
And circle round you, feathered coal-black ghosts.
Noticeable, we charm our way back in;
Despite yourself, we get beneath your skin.

A mythic poem: earth and sky as wed,
And wedding places cover earth’s domain;
Wren’s nest, fox den, bear cave – and human bed.
All warm and dark, all different but the same,
Where seeds are nurtured, creatures brought to birth.
On woodland floors, damp rotting layered leaves
Shroud multitudes of sprouting plants; no dearth
Of anything, bats hunt, a spider weaves.
But Birches’ rushing sap goes down as well
As up, arboreal pale ghosts, thin ghouls;
Old age’s midwives watch each passing hearse;
The leafless, bone-barked Yuletide trees of Hel.
Hopes of rebirth seem vain and hollow, cruel,
Like Loki’s daughter’s grinning horse-head curse.

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.