Mani’s agon is officially closed, but I had a bit of a cold over the weekend and was therefore late posting the final two entries. Here they are below. I”ll be announcing the winner in a day or so.
The Agon for April is open, for one’s patron Deity. So feel free to submit for any Deity you love and honor. I’ll post about prizes in a few days — i’m still catching up!
Under Your Gaze
by C. Greene
Under Your silver light the hounds bay.
Under Your sad eyes small feet fly.
Under Your wrathful glance monsters pass, bearing the children away.
Under Your guiding hand hunters run with the glint of moon dogs in their eyes.
May the great hounds of Your wain run with us.
In Your name may we triumph.
Under Your gaze may the children be freed.
In honor of Mani and his human hounds in Child Abduction Response Teams everywhere, whether they know who aids them or not.
A portable shrine to Mani
by Vanessa M.
Musing on the Moon, and the Moon-God of the North
by Grant E. Hodel
Mani, the Northman’s Moon,
What do your bright eyes see, as you travel across the sky every night?
Do you bear witness to mankind’s inhumanity?
Do you view each and every anonymous act of kindness?
Well, You know the answer to that question at least.
I hear that your cultus is making a comeback in these modern nights.
It does my young body and old soul good to hear such glorious news.
And what, pray tell me, did they have to rebuild your worship with, Moon-God?
An etymological connection between the names of Your pages and an English folk-poem
here, genealogical information preserved in Lore there.
If the tales are true, then that was enough to fuel the connection between Yourself and the modern day seidr, shamans, spirit workers,
and simple forlk who follow the old ways.
That so few could restore anything at all from so little is proof of Your power,
God of the Northman’s Moon.
They and Mani
by C. Greene
They say you hide your light behind the herds of sky sheep because you are fickle.
They say the wolf must stalk you through the night to keep you to your course.
They say many things, without asking why the pearl of the sky should cry.
They do not see all that you see in the darkness of the world and wyrd.
They do not count the cost of wayward moon beams that reveal prey to two-legged predators.
They do not know the price of darkness, that the forgotten children might slip by unseen.
They do not see the tears for those whose wyrd you can not make less pained in tender years.
So they do not understand the sadness in your songs, even in the love chants you cast to the sea.
The Left Eye
by Dr. Emily K.
A lovely eye complete with lid
Rolled in Niflheim’s frosty gems
Blinks time by in days and weeks
And winks at mortal stratagems
Mani we hail, who travels heaven
To visit sisters sun and stars
Mani we hail, the watchful dancer
Whose gaze the deathless gate unbars
Both submissions are by Vanessa
Mani’s Playlist on Spotify:
1) Blue Moon, Frank Sinatra (my american grandfather loved Frank Sinatra)
2) Barcarolle, Offenbach (reminds me of His Melancholy)
3) A window to the past, Prague Philharmonic Orchestra (reminds me of His Compassion)
4) Clair De Lune, Debussy (reminds me of His Gentleness)
5) Recognizer, London Music Works (He can be Fierce too)
6) Adagio for Tron, Gautier (His Sweetness)
7) Moon, Bjork (the lyrics!)
8) Holdrejtek (Moon Shrine), The moon and the night spirit (in Hungarian, because of my ancestors)
9) Meditation, Massenet (He Likes this one, reminds me of His Passing through the night Sky)
10) Child of the Moon, The Rolling Stones (the lyrics!)
11) Alfonsina y el mar Zamba de mi esperanza, Andrés Calamaro, in Spanish (two Argentinian zambas, one about a poetess that drowned in the sea and another zamba about hope)
12) Luna Tucumana, Atahualpa Yupanqui, in Spanish (beautiful argentinian zamba-folk music dedicated to the Moon, Luna in Spanish)
13) Lisa, Cerati, in Spanish (Argentinian rock, about a girl that lives in the sea and is in love with the Moon)
14) Rhapsody on theme of Paganini n43, Rachmaninoff, Garrett (He Trully really Likes this one, if I had to pick just one song for Him, I definitly would pick this one)
15) Fly me to the Moon, Frank Sinatra (dedicated to my adored grandfather again)
16) Morning sun reprise, Robbie Williams (“Who am I to rate the morning sun?”)
17) Satellite of Love, Morrissey (I find it to be a very powerful ending, and well… Satellite of Love…says it all)
Prayer for Mani
Oh Sweet and Gentle Mani,
Lord of the Moon,
Teach me to be kind and humble as You
Reflecting on other’s light,
Softly giving quiet guidance in the world’s night.
Teach me to value and radiate
The noble virtues of my ancestors past.
Teach me to fully see, hear and accept
Myself and others for what we truly are-
Without judgments, but through compassion and love.
Teach me to give generously
What I have received.
Teach me to be grateful, brave and diligent
In embracing the changing tides of my wyrd
Even when times may be difficult for me
And pain may be all I perceive.
Help me discern and do what’s right to do
Be it hard or easy Help me do what I have to
With a calm determination, perseverance and an absolute faith
On prevailing in the end.
Give me the grace of thinking in myself
Each day less and less.
Whenever my ego or my pain or my stupidity blind me
Remind me Mani of my humanity
And my proper place before the Holy,
Before the worlds and before my kin.
“As Living Nectar”
You are not Soma
but You are soma
sweet nectar of compassion,
You are comfort,
the only One
who will absorb into His own orbit
(though slight-fragile-delicate Yourself)
there is never hesitation–
to guard us
to guide us
to illuminate the way
but I know Your secret:
You are the strength of night
how could anything
Eons and Eons Ago
Sometimes when Mani watches,
Children playing on Midgard,
He remembers a time,
Eons and eons ago,
When He and His siblings,
He stood at Ymir’s head,
While Sunna stood at Ymir’s feet.
They threw the moon and sun back and forth,
To one another,
Two glowing globes racing across the sky.
While They did this,
Sinthgunt danced on Ymir’s belly,
Whirling around and around,
Singing her strange little charms.
Ymir smiled in His deep, deep sleep.
Mundilfari said in his voice as soft as sand running in an hour glass:
“Oh, my children! My beautiful children! How I love you so!
Look at how Our Ancestor smiles. You make Him so happy.
Blessed are those who love their Ancestor,
And to those who bring Him joy.”
Those were such happy times,
Before Mundilfari made an unbreakable deal,
With a young warrior called Odin,
And then disappeared through the mists of time,
Never to be seen again.
Before Odin and His Brothers hacked Ymir to death,
To create the Nine Worlds.
Odin with His two ice blue eyes,
And wild long blonde hair.
Odin seemed harmless enough back then…
Mani sadly sighs when He remembers,
That sweet childhood memory,
Eons and eons ago.
by Thomas S.
Thomas S. says: After reading your prompt for the Sigyn Agon, I sat and wrote the following in one sitting. I suppose I would describe it as imagining what it would have been like for Sigyn and Loki exiting the cavern, from Sigyn’s perspective. Please leave a note that this submission is merely a fiction dedicated to Sigyn, not a claim to any visionary experience of Her life. 🙂
And His chest heaves like a ship trapped against the rocks, each wave cracking the hull deeper yet. The eyes swirl in their sockets as blizzard snow, seeing not even horror now, the whites gone crimson, envenomed tears of mucus coursing down. His mouth is Ginnungagap, not screaming.
I will not speak of why We gained Our freedom, not here.
The coils of Our slaughtered Son’s bowel I sling about My shoulders, and the ropes of My filthy hair begin to drip with His blood. As My Husband twitches upon the slab of his incarceration, the serpent hisses, flickers out its tongue at Us from on high. I meet its gaze, and it yawns out fleshy fangs at Me, its Mistress’ wrath still ensorcelled into its soul. But Sigyn has a power unto Her own, and no more does She carry the weight of this thing’s spit. I hold the serpent in My vision, and wrath cannot match Me now. The serpent is still, a moment… then abandons its post, seeking the refuge of some deeper cavern.
Loki cannot stand. His body transformed, His arms and legs like wind-shook branches, He rolls from the stone and spasms, choking, groaning.
And so I lift Him, carry Him, My Husband. Because I cannot do otherwise. I leave the bowl.
Every step towards the mouth of the cave was beyond My endurance, and yet I endure. The weight of My Child’s torn gut, mantle of heartbreak, is heavier than a chain of iron. My Husband hangs scatter-limbed, crying out without words. My knees should shatter. My elbows ought to tear asunder. They do not. I should be shaking from crown to roots with ache. I ought to be screaming with the struggle of it. I do not.
Beyond the mouth of the cave, a forest. It is midnight, but Máni slowly unveils from beyond a cloud. I am washed in silver. I march down the rocky slope into the midst of pines and spruces. I lay My Husband upon the moss, where, in His fever, He whimpers as if it were a bed of jagged stone. His mad-wheeling eyes catch Máni, and for once, they halt, spell-bound by the white light.
I drop Our Son’s last remnant on the ground, and fall to My knees from relief. A sharp rock, then, to saw through the long matted locks heavy with His blood. It takes time, but I bear with it. Loki gazes at Máni, His mouth still hanging vast with Ginnungagap, silent. At last My hair is cut, and I cast the ropes upon My Son’s gut. I grab at chunks of dried dead moss, mass them with the hair and bowel. Then I stumble about Me, reaching for broken twigs and branches, piling them, slowly, slowly. The world spins around Me in the depth of My exhaustion, but I gather debris and build. Máni rides higher and higher, and as He reaches His zenith, I have built a fitting pyre, rude though it may be.
“Loki,” I whisper, My throat so dry that My voice rattles ghostly as His Daughter’s. “Can You conjure a flame?”
My Husband does not respond.
A sob gasps out, and it is a moment before I realize it is Mine. Perhaps Ginnungagap has swallowed the whole of Him, left Me only this scarecrow. I do not know. I am lost.
Máni steps out of the sky, His mighty mane of hair shining behind Him. Great strides He is taking down a stair that I cannot see, and He glows so mightily that I cannot yet see His face. He is singing, a great throbbing voice that is impossible, thunderously quiet, deafeningly gentle. Loki quakes at His advance.
“I greet You, Sigyn, and You, Loki,” the heavenly God calls. Now He is close, and His light fades–or My eyes strengthen–so that I can see the beauty of His face, somehow boy and youth and aged man, all ages of life there. He smiles. He is in tears. His tears turn to moonstones as they hit the earth. He advances, until His feet are on the earth beside Us.
“And I you, Máni,” I manage through My parched mouth. I cannot muster fine words now. “We are free.”
“Your Husband’s soul is wandering the Void.” Another moonstone forms upon the moss. “He drifts on the waters of oblivion. It is a relief from His madness.”
“How shall We call him back?” Something in Me holds back against a black howl of despair. I will not collapse into the lethargy of fatalism. I cannot endure it, and yet I endure.
“Sing with Me.”
Our voices rise, His deep and ancient, pulling on the world with all the strength of tide, Mine keening and broken, piercing even into Ginnungagap. We weave together, wife’s love and stranger’s compassion, twirling, skirling, calling, falling, flying, sighing. Yes, We sing. The trees’ souls shiver and weep, and, without the touch of wind, their branches sway and churn.
Loki twitches. He blinks, staring at Máni still. His eyes flick towards Me. Then to the pile of Our Son’s desecrated gut. Then to the forest around us. He sucks a breath deeper than a bellows.
His scream cracks through My soul like the thrust of a sword, and Máni presses a shining hand to His eyes, weeping silently.
Loki jerks upright, panting, gasping. His skin roils and twitches, incipient with mutation, His shapeshifter power rising. His eyes bulge and the pupils turn to slits, fangs jut from his jaw–
Máni puts a hand upon Loki’s cheek. “You know Me, Loki,” He murmurs, gazing into the tiger eyes. He leans in, fearless, and kisses the Mad-God on the lips.
Loki sits motionless as a statue.
Máni turns to Me and nods. “Yours is the power, Blessed One,” He says to Me. Then He steps into the sky. “I am missed from My post. I must return. I wish You both joy.” He walks heavenwards, His song slowly fading, His form reassuming the nature of a sphere.
How I have the strength to dance now will ever be a Mystery. But now I leap into motion about My Husband, My limbs shaking off the weight of accursed subterranean ages, as He gazes at me in still and silent wonder. I call to the pyre, and the spirit of Fire moves through Me, sparks dancing down My arms and legs, leaping into the moss and branches. Smoke begins to unfurl. Warmth awakens.
“You know this dance!” I cry in My ragged voice to Loki, and something almost like a smile steals across that wasted visage.
The trees’ souls cry out to Me in ecstasy. I begin to move through forms of Myself. A girl is before Loki, still crowned in flowers. His newly-wed is here, Her locks braided and tied into a golden crown upon her brow. I am a mother, with tears of joy in My eyes. I am the Bowl-Bearer, face in unbreakable resolve. I am an aged woman as yet unreached. I dance through a witch’s hame, a warrioress’, a queen’s. I manifest forms as mortals cannot comprehend.
Now He leaps to His feet, reels, lurches, but I dance about Him, My hands at His waist, holding Him steady. A curious, blood-chilling laugh sounds from His mouth, but it is Loki, and the Void does not silent-roar from between his teeth.
The fire rises, consuming the defilement of My poor Narvi, releasing that desecration into the purity of smoke and cinder. His holy blood is released, as well, My hair burning but the smell somehow not bitter, instead sweet as juniper incense. Loki begins to dance with Me, around Me. He laughs again, louder, and the trees shout to Him. He roars and He kisses Me fiercely. He sobs and weeps and moans and laughs yet again. I wrap My arms about Him in a close embrace, hold Him again. He howls in adoration.
“Will you help Him?” I cry to the trees.
Their assent comes in a susurrus of shivering limbs. They consent to the offering.
Loki explodes into the nature of Fire. Trees burst as He seethes outwards in all directions, wrapping tongue-limbs around the trees and boiling their sap. He sucks the life out of them. Their bark incandesces into red-hot coals, their limbs into a crackling wave of fire. He races in every direction, sucking the forest into His famished form, and bathing My body in blissful warmth.
When Sunna rises, the earth smokes. We are surrounded by the barest black husks of the sacrifices. Loki’s limbs are full and strong, His eyes steady and clear. His hair flows down in a beautiful mane of red and gold. My own is washed clean, My skin luminous and flushed from My Husband’s touch.
And We stand bright and strong, raising Our hands in grim salute to Sunna, in blessed thanks to Máni as He disappears below the horizon.
We walk in freedom, all the worlds before Us.
So Sannion just finished a fantastic book on divination — I think it’s probably the most important book he’s written. I’m chomping at the bit for it to be generally available (I got to read the file before he sent it over for formatting and I was blown away). Of course I’ll post about it here when it is available, but I want to share a system that I stole and adapted from his book.
Of course he stole it first from my people. LOL. He adapted this from Anglo-Saxon sources for use in a more Bacchic-Orphic practice, and I took it back and re-adapted it for a Mani-centric practice. This is what happens when you let a Southern Italian Orpheotelest loose in your library. Anyway, here it is (my version) for those who might be interested.
The Mirror of the Moon
When the moon is new on a Sunday, that signifies three things will happen during the month: rain, wind and calm. It also signifies barrenness of cattle and old men’s sicknesses – but health and fitness among the young men. Make offerings to the Mothers.
If it is new on a Monday, that signifies sorrow for those who are born and young men’s heads will ache in that month. Make offerings to Heimdall.
If it is new on a Tuesday, that signifies joy for all men, and grief for the young. Make offerings to Narvi and Vali.
If it is new on a Wednesday, that signifies that peaceful men will dwell among loyal friends. An end to ancient feuds and generational enmity. Make offerings to Mani.
If it is new on a Thursday, that signifies the health of kings through potent drugs. Make offerings to Odin.
If it is new on a Friday, there will be good hunting that month. Make offerings to Frey.
If it is new on a Saturday that signifies strife, and bloodshed, and whoever begins it with the south wind will have the victory. Make offerings to the Nine Daughters of Ran and Aegir.
It’s weird offering to Mani on Wed. and Odin on Thurs. — those aren’t the usual days but I did divination while adapting this and these are the Powers that stepped forward. The placement of the moon signifies the overall influences moving through the month. The diviner extrapolates from the information given. The offerings can be done as a matter of course when this is consulted or in order to better the outcome for the month.