Frenzied speech You give, the oracle-woman bowed back
with the force of Your Presence in her head,
with the force of Your words erupting like a volcano
from her heart and mind, dancing and blazing on her tongue,
every synapse burning bright, as though she had fallen into the sun.
Frenzied speech and prophetic power You bestow, Great Lord,
weaving like a serpent through the brain, opening doorways
through which Gods and spirits might howl triumphant.
This is a high art, and You train Your women to wield it
swift and sure, mercilessly and sometimes cruelly,
like a surgeon’s blade, deployed keenly and without hesitation.
It is this Power, like the blistering force of a thousand suns,
that shines the wisdom of the Gods into mortal lives.
Those who heed it uphold the will of Zeus,
the immortal hierarchy of the heavens, the glory of the cosmos.
Those who ignore these whispering women glory-sent,
wreak their own destruction and order is again preserved.
It is the pristine ratio dancing, ever turning, ever re-harmonizing in Your hands.
You maintain the radiance of its song, the cosmic majesty of its dancing sequences
through which worlds are born, pass away, and are born again.
Preserver, Savior, Eternal God, Your songs soar in the hearts of those who love You,
and through the cosmos too, restoring order to all things touched by the sourness
of spiritual decay.
May we too join in this dance. May our hearts be patterned for Your song
that like wood in the blazing fire, we may be transformed, into light and heat
and conduits of Your goodness to our sad and broken world, every day of our lives.
Hail to You, Apollo.
(by G. Krasskova)
Day 5 – For Loki
You, Loki, are the most tender-hearted of Gods.
No one knows this save Sigyn. You keep it well hidden,
preferring to present to the world a mask of careless abandon,
and to Your family a façade of unbreakable strength.
Sigyn is onto You though, this wife Whom You love beyond all others.
She knows You well and She has seen Your eyes, bright and shining
as You cradled Your sons in Your arms. She has seen You,
when all masks fall away as You play and wrestle with Your children,
those You have with Her, and those shapeshifting wildlings: serpent, wolf,
and Lady of grace and death. You are laughing, loving clay in Their little sometimes grubby, hands.
She has seen, Oh Wildfire God, the joy with which You scoop Them up,
sweet and clumsy little toddlers with their delightful cries of “Papa.”
She has seen, She knows what a balm They are to Your bruised heart.
She knows how They are Your reason for being,
and how deep Your love for Them and for Her as well flows.
They are Your bedrock, and that for which You would burn a thousand worlds,
or build a thousand up again.
You love Your family, Loki, and They are the greatest sanctuary You will ever know.
The home You have built with Them is a haven flourishing and happy.
There is such joy there and when Your friend Thor comes to visit,
Narvi and Vali raise holy hell racing and playing with Magni, Modi, and Thrudr,
and it leaks out into the worlds bringing laughter and lightness of heart
to all mortals– and Gods too –lucky enough to taste its flavor.
Sigyn knows these things and is satisfied.
A good father and good husband are gifts beyond price.
The worlds are sustained by Their hope and hard work.
Hail to You, Beloved of Sigyn,
Tender flame of Her hearth
Teach us to nourish the loves given into our care
And take joy in the process.
Hail to You, Loki.
Sannion is working on a new book but he’s not been posting any previews. This morning, however, I talked him into letting me share this one, based on what happened in our hof last weekend. I cannot wait for the whole book to be out!
Something to Sing About
by H. Jeremiah Lewis
I’m perched on the edge of my seat,
my whole body rocking to the rhythm
of the drum as the apprentice of the Vitki
cleanses pollution and bad vibrations
from the room, while another sings
an Anglo-Saxon fire song,
circumambulating with a beeswax
pillar candle on a red and black plate.
I can see the face of world-breaking Loki
dancing in the flame,
and behind the apprentice,
as he winds serpentwise round the shrines
burning away the dross in the air,
a legion of those who fell in defense
of their blood and soil and ancestral traditions
against the encroachments of the giant
tyrant Charlemagne, stand at his back
lending their potency to his words and deeds.
Another passes by, sprinkling everything with
ivy-leaf chernips – everything including
the husband of the Vitki, who growls
wolfishly and shakes his head
when the holy drops splash him.
The girl smiles and rushes to finish the room,
as he goes back to chanting, “Nothing can be
so firmly bound – by illness, by wrath or by fortune –
that cannot be released by the Lord Dionysos,”
and shakes a femur rattle.
The Vitki is not home.
Oh, her body is standing right there
before all of them, savagely beautiful
with shaved head, white
ash upon her face and Runes inscribed
in red ochre, blue and silver
Evil Eye charms dangling from her ears,
white shirt, black pants and a red belt
strung with bells and charms,
amulets and chaplets,
and a hand-forged blót knife
sheathed at her side.
She is pacing about like a brooding,
impatient bear who has a hell of a lot to say
and there’s a set of knucklebones,
a pad of paper, and a pen
just sitting right there on the table
waiting for him, so let’s get to it.
Oh fuck. Odin’s not just making a direct call
– he’s here, in the flesh so to speak.
The Vitki’s husband is already shooing
the apprentices out of the room, drilling
them on what will need to be done
by way of aftercare. This is a spontaneous
possession, with no time for prep.
And Odin enters rough.
I sit on the floor facing him,
give a respectful nod,
and prepare to act as sacred scribe,
as I have so many times,
and for so many mediums before.
His voice, when it comes, is crabby
and cold like the gnarled branch
of a cemetery tree after an overlong winter,
like an old man who deals in philtres,
herblore, abortions, bindings and unbindings,
does strange things with animal bits
and has suffered much to come
by his dark knowledge.
Most of all he is like something
that has gone mad on the battlefield,
and stopped being entirely human.
It was an effort to maintain eye-contact
with him as he didn’t quite sing
and didn’t quite speak
and didn’t quite caw
or furiously roar
or rant or rage
with the voice that remade
the raw viscera of his father’s corpse
into the ordered world we inhabit
– but it wasn’t not like all of that either.
No matter how experienced you are
it is always fucking nuts sitting
face to face with your Gods.
Especially when they have as much to say
as Odin did that night.
And also, he was pissed
– like p-i-s-s-e-d pissed –
especially when a little black ant
scuttled into view.
He leaned down and galdered at it.
Odin’s voice was terrible,
violent, mad, like
the shriek of a sword
or a beast’s claws
scratching at the door
– and the creature withered up on the spot.
I knew more was going on behind the curtain,
so I closed my eyes and there in the dark
stood Odin the Slaughterer, Gallows Meat,
the King upon his Mound, Storm-Bringer,
He held his spear up in greeting
and dangling from it was the corpse
of a thing that looked like an ant
but was the size of a large dog.
It did not always look that way
– we had seen its various forms
over the last couple weeks,
in our restless sleep,
as shadowy movement
out of the corner our eyes,
as the smell of shit and random spikes
in anxiety, depression and surliness
for no discernible reason,
and once as a nag with no head
standing in the mist beyond our yard.
Before I could express my gratitude
I was snapped back to myself by the Vitki
who was seething and singing
how the Runes were revealed
on the wind-swept Tree,
and I oathed to the Old Man
right there on the spot
that I would make poetry of the story
to thank him for protecting
the members of our household,
who are dearer to me than my birth family.
And so I have. I pray, Lord, may I, my Vitki
and our apprentices be always
safe, secure, prepared and immune
to the snares and attacks of our foes
in this and the other worlds,
so that our household may be
a welcoming place for you
and the Gods and Spirits
who stand with you always,
with plentiful offerings,
and acts of worship beyond counting
to please your hearts.
Sovereign Power of Asgard
Beloved of the All-father,
Beloved of Your people,
You fill every corner of Asgard with wealth,
and You make of it all well-ordered space.
You are the holiest of Mothers,
a Mighty Power, whispering Your wisdom
to wit-full women wise enough to hail You.
Your fair fen-hall bustles with the work
of Your sacred retinue, bringing You knowledge
from all the worlds, sending forth Your luck gifts,
carrying Your missives, working Your will,
Your network of wondrous women,
Powers allied only to You.
Your hall is a glorious place;
always it is filled with gracious hospitality.
Magic Woman, wise in the ways of wyrd,
Queen and Bearer of all the keys of Odin’s hall,
You manage well the ordering of all His matters.
Of Your own, He knows not
and You order them best of all.
The sacred waters of Your hall bring restoration
and hearts there are lightened
of the grievous wounds they bear,
especially the warriors broken by combat
and all the horrors it holds.
You restore harmony and wholeness
and every good-hearted woman
is welcome in Your hall.
Hail Frigga, may we fashion our own hearts
Always in ways that are pleasing to You.
(by G. Krasskova)
Blodeuwedd the lady of light, born of the flowers meant to delight.
Blodeuwedd lady of the night, ever piercing is her sight.
Born to a cage of sunlight, she would know flight.
Made to slip a tynged, she proved sharper tongued than makers wanted.
Blodeuwedd chose not the sunlit path, well worn and warm.
Blodeuwedd chose the path of stag and thorn, the ways between brightest day and darkest night.
Blodeuwedd is your name, to choose is your right.
Blodeuwedd, may we choose as you have chosen, in the dark and in the light.
(by Wynn Dark)
You are the best and most loyal of friends, Oh Loki,
You Who tangle and untangle the toughest of fates.
You walk through every terror, every challenge
At the side of Your allies and friends,
And the trouble You cause ever works in Your favor.
You, Lopt, bend every error to Your will
And there is no lock You cannot open.
Like a green eyed glittering spider
Sitting in a massive web,
There is no secret of Gods or men
You do not know, and You keep them
Secreted away keen weapons easily summoned
To Your witty lips and hands.
You pour treasure into the hands of your companions,
From You, Thor gained His mighty hammer,
Odin His spear, Frey His magical ship,
And many other glorious gifts.
You ever gift us as well, most often
When we are reluctant, recalcitrant
And resistant to Your mercy.
Never cease, Fiery Hearted Sky-treader
To open us up to all the potentialities
The Gods can provide,
especially when we beg you not to.
Hail to You, Loki, the best of friends
In our time of need, always and ever after.
(by. G. Krasskova; image below by Rackham)
(these, like the other week day prayers, are being written out of order as inspiration strikes).
You, Kyrios, are the glory of the Sun,
washing the world clean with Your light
every moment Your horses thunder across its heavens.
Your very presence restores, as light drives out darkness.
Your very song reorders, as its resonance shatters stagnation.
In Your hands lies the balance, the ratio of all the spheres,
A scaffolding of perfection, a purity of sound,
Divine harmony resolving into beauty, through Your music,
You keep those holy chords whole and add to their substance,
filling the world with Your whispered descant,
the potential for regeneration. So, it is with You, oh Medicus.
Your hands bring healing and restoration to us too,
Restoring the harmonies of our flesh, our bones, our rattled synapses.
You hear our most desperate cries, driven by pain and fear, lost in illness,
You hear and the moment Your attention is caught, pain begins its retreat.
The sound of Your attention, the gentle and firm touch of Your power,
Begins again, a dance in which illness has no place save its flight,
Alexikakos, from Your power.
You are the glory of Olympos,
And Your blessings fill the world with beauty.
Hail to You, Apollo Medicus, Father of Healers,
Whose charmed arrows never fail to hit their mark.
(by G Krasskova)
(a prayer to be said on Wednesdays)
You are the fire that burns in Odin’s shadow
The stitch holding the worlds together,
The whisper ever unquiet igniting dissatisfaction.
You keep us from succumbing.
You make memory blaze and sear
Driving us inevitably back to the Gods
Our ancestors forgot.
Bright flickering fire
To Grimnir’s icey dark
The two of You brought the worlds to life
(Hoenir granting order and sense)
and You will bring it back to life again:
restoring what must be restored
even if it must be done in blood and fire.
May we work with the Gods always,
Grant us that, oh clever Roarer*,
And never, ever against,
No matter how rough and challenging
The road may grow.
Hail to You, Loki,
On this, Woden’s Day.
(by G. Krasskova)
*One of his lesser known by-names is Hveðrungr (Roarer).
Oh Goddess, Keeper of the most ancient and necessary of virtues,
Cultivator of the Holy, Guardian of sacred traditions,
Kindle within us the flame of fervent devotion.
Protect us from acedia, from pollution, from lack of care.
Inspire within us a desire, always, to do what is right and proper:
For our Gods, our ancestors, the land from which we draw sustenance,
And our traditions, the delicate and holy trust which have been given into our care.
Show us, Mighty Mother, how to tend these duties fully and well.
Let nothing deter us. Let nothing interfere, least of all our own fears
That our work will not be perfect.
Inspire in us a motivation as fierce and unstoppable
as the very turning of the seasons,
that we may cultivate within ourselves,
all the virtues necessary,
to live a life of devotion
pleasing to our Gods.
Teach us, Oh Goddess both gentle and firm,
To develop in ourselves the virtues of loyalty, fidelity,
Commitment and care, caritas toward the Gods
And each other.
Let us nourish what must be nourished.
With hearts and hands ever lifted in prayer.
Hail to You, Pietas, now and to our final breath.
(by G. Krasskova)
You come like thunder roaring,
shattering, crashing, and pounding into the heart.
Howling God, breathing fury, Your frenzied shrieking
giving life to the runes, sacred synaptic power,
the Tree runs red with Your blood.
It was freely given. Your blessings strike,
like the hammer of Your Son,
like lightning’s fire, inescapable,
ecstatic terror, dancing, burning,
igniting worlds in the heads of those You favor.
A sharp-eyed eagle soaring over Hlidskjalf,
there is no secret You cannot know,
no world You will not plunder.
You and Your mighty Son,
hold up the scaffolding of the Worlds,
girding the elegance of its geometry
against entropy and destruction:
He with His might, You with Your hunger,
Your seeking, Your desire, as once You taunted Him
sardonically flyting in ferryman’s guise.
There is no world capable of containing Your frenzy,
Oh God grey of beard and ravenous of heart.
May Your favor fall upon us always,
until we are as hungry for the holy
as You are for power.
(by G. Krasskova, image by Sam Flegel)