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Third submission to Hoenir Agon

For Hoenir
by C. King

Brooding hostage, silent God
Muddy throne, Your hall of reeds-
Sway and twist like feathers falling
Mossy hued, those slender spears-
Chime and shudder from Your spirit.
Wordless, primal prayers sung
That ripple and tug the vault of heaven.
There amidst the marshy bank,
With Ymir’s blood smeared as mark-
The dappled Crane nests and watches
Before the countenance of Man becomes it.
You that roused urge and longing,
With rune-song sang up and awakened.
Wise He who saw the first and sees the last, what will be the after?

Gray Song, may the riverbanks ever be Your treasure.
Demure Council, may wisdom ever consider all avenues.
Knowing Maker-strengthen our people against those coarse to the Holy Powers.
Long Foot, ward us against the profane and arrogant. Where our clumsy feet trail Midgard-strengthen our resolve to be worthy of the Gods that shine brightly.

Clever God, of mist and wing-
That briny fog your cloak and down.
Whom appears at will to mortals few-
And whispers wisely second thoughts.
I thank You, Vanir Captive.
I praise You, Vili of Odr
May Your name ever live on the tongues of Ash and Embla’s progeny.

Second Submission to Hoenir’s Agon

For Hoenir
by Dr. E. Kelly

hoenir image

(the birds pictured are sandhill cranes)

First Submission to Hoenir’s Agon

In Praise of the Marsh King
By Victoria Morelli

Swift You come, Helper to All,
Gods and men alike.
Silent yet sharp,
Sharp as a knife’s keen edge,
from You we gained the gifts
of wit and wonder.

High and Holy, the Marsh King walks,
strong of will and wisdom.
Storks and swans, cranes and ducks,
Your sacred messengers all,
and they herald the numen of Your passing.
Where You step, there is enchantment.
Where you wander, there is power.
The eldritch things that live in the mist
whisper fairy tales to hapless mortals
of red gold and blue fire and the pale God
weaving magic in the misty fen.

The strength of Your mind,
helped carve worlds into being.
The implacability of Your will,
helped drive the spear deep
into old Ymir’s guts.
Liminal places, bogs and marshland,
foggy groves, and dank swamps
are Your favored doorways,
and what comes out of them is hallowed.
You I praise, and I seek Your blessing,
Who ended a war with His uncle’s head
because He knew:
some sacred places are hungry.

Hail Hoenir.
Hail Vili.
Hail to the Marsh King.