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)
The raven has hooked his claws in my heart
tethering me to the interstitial frenzy
pouring out from gallows to God.
Let us praise the furious One,
Who rendered Himself upon the Tree
victorious over Himself first of all.
Let us praise Gangleri,
Who wanders through
all the darkest corners
of our world,
spitting mouthfuls of glacial fire
into the heads and hearts
of fervent women.
Let us praise the One Whose spear
keen and sharp, ever finds its mark,
Gerölnir, blistering across the field of battle
ever ecstatic in His fury.
Let us praise the Burden of Yggdrasil,
Corpse-God and eunuch, ever renewed
through the agony of sacrifice.
He mounted the Tree and with a war cry
like shrieking thunder swallowed the
glory of the Gap – gasping, gripping,
spewing runes, this sovereign Power.
Let us praise the Roaring Thruster,
charmed and charming,
Who scatters His seed inciting longing,
carnal and cunning, clever and cruel,
exquisitely adroit across all the worlds, Glory burning.
Let us praise this God in Whom
all opposites reside, compelling adoration,
devouring opposition, like grist in His teeth,
ground up and grinding, bale-eyed Beguiler,
Who gnawed on fire, this Architect of Being.
throbbing, pounding, aching, wanting,
implacable Force, unsparing Fever,
unappeasable haunting Hunger,
to Whom Being itself surrendered
torn apart and structured anew.
Oh Glad of War, Galdr-Father,
Glad of Battle, God of Gain,
Blinder of Foes, sharp Wand-Wielder,
Gaunt God Splendor, World-willing Wonder,
Incanting Hjarrandi, Herjan, Goðjaðarr,
Lord of Hosts and Valhalla’s hall,
Blazing Ravager, Renewing Ruler,
howling winds herald Your terror.
Odin we call You, vehement and lethal,
vigorous valor, we hail You always.
We ask that You fill us with Your thirst for knowing,
so that our lives will ever be full of color.
Hail to You, oh Frenzied Hunger.
Hail to You, Odin.
(by G. Krasskova; image by W. McMillan)
To He who is Glad-of-War
War is Your delight, Oh Tester of Men.
It is Your sacrament, a sacred sieve,
where fire and ice meet anew.
Our ancestors knew Your voice,
howling, terrible, a thousand winds,
raging and fighting in Your song,
runes spat forth, ferocious,
wiping generations clean.
Raw and raging like a bear,
with the viscera of prey
between its jaws, You come.
Visage rust-red, bright and bloody,
adorned with scars of victory,
Ash spear hungry, gleaming razor bright
in the oozing mire of war, Oh You come.
Shield-shaker, Attacking rider,
thighs grip fast the gallows horse
as You ride, and there is no prey
You cannot find. No place
for Your enemies to run.
Bring the world to heel,
with the maelstrom of Your battle cry,
and may Your Valkyries feast.
May we too feast fast in the knowledge,
that there is nothing greater than You,
and nothing we need ever fear,
with You at our backs.
Hail, Haptabeiðir, Roaring God,
Hail the Father of Hosts.
(by G. Krasskova)
Taking a cue from Sannion’s gorgeous prayer cycle for Dionysos, I’m going to do the same thing for Odin: one prayer for each day of the week starting with a prayer for Monday. I suspect, given my crazy schedule, that it’s going to take me far longer than it did him to finish the entire cycle, but here is the prayer for day one.
To You, gaunt wanderer,
Who sought the counsel of the luminous God,
alone, in a stark landscape
of ice and dying trees,
secrets of unseen things,
this prayer is given.
He does His war dance,
scimitars flashing, rivaling fire as He moves,
alabaster white and shining,
eyes showing the sowing of worlds,
keen-footed steps their destruction.
The Warlord learned,
and bowed His head down
to the glory and the beauty.
May we too be open to such wonder,
now and always.
Hail to You, Gangleri.
(by G. Krasskova)
(“Odin the Wanderer” by Dasaod.deviantart.com)
by S. Stockton
Howl, Hangi, and hear my prayer.
Flee not from my feeble flesh, but dance in my dead heart;
Your devouring dervish demands devotion, and the damnation of decadent desires.
Madness unmakes the mightiest of men, but all mad minds are yours, Yggr.
Guide and goad me, Sigtyr; stain my soul all shades sacred.
Cruel yet kind, my blood crusted at the creases of Your wry smile, scream Thy song into my every sinew.
There is release in the languishing laughter let forth in labor for You.
Evermore may my adoration endure, Odin.
Ode to Odin
by Grant Emile Hodel
The one-eyed wonderer,
the cyclopean voyager,
the fury of warfare,
the father of the slain.
Father of the thunderer,
rider of the gallows horse,
walks across the nine worlds,
seeking wisdom to save his son,
so that Ragnarök may never come.
May he find what he seeks,
so that order reigns over chaos,
for all time.
For Óðrerir’s Brewer
You kindled in me a love for brewing
Water, honey, yeast
Sacred magic, old magic
Kvasir’s brood, your spit
Relaxing and maddening
Teasing out the ties
Growling forth from each sip, each gulp
May each brew be a worthy working
Each bottle a sacred vessel
Each glass a welcome offering
Alliterative Poem to Odin
Wind and wound
Scream and spell
Health and harm
Scar and sense
Wrath and release
Power and purpose
Grey and gold
Eye and iron
Hanged and hale
When the Sons of Borr took up the spear
No ravens flew or wolves roamed
Nifelheim was far too cold
Muspelheim far too hot
They dreamed of more than ice and mist, fire and smoke
A World teaming with life, with warmth and with cold
A World full of flowing waters and rain
A World between the the Worlds
So when They slew Ymir
The Sons of Borr took up the best of all Worlds to make Midgard
Fire from Muspelheim gifted by Surtr
Ice from Nifelheim taken from Ymir
Fertility from Vanaheim gifted by Freya, Freyr, and Njordr
Wildness from Jotunheim made by the Jotnar
Riches from Svartalfheim dug deep by the Dvergar
Liminality from Alfaheim made by the Alfar
Death from Helheim overseen by Hela
Potential from the Ginnungagap woven by the Nornir
Within the Middle Yard each World was woven to the others
Crafted with care by the Sons of Borr
This is a new translation of the ‘Havamal,’ that takes into account the varying metrical structure in the original. Because it is so long, and because WordPress won’t allow me to maintain the spacing, i’ve uploaded it here as a PDF. It is by C.L.T.
This lovely portable shrine to Odin is by Ellen.
(Remember, folks, the Agon for Odin runs through December 31, 9pm EST. There is also, concurrently, an Agon to Hathor right now through the same time and date. She only has one submission to Her agon so if anyone has poetry, prayers, or art that you’d like to submit, please consider doing so. There are prizes for both agones).
One for the Wishgiver
by Dr. E. Kelly
Kara stood a moment in the doorway of her home, looking out over the snow-covered hills. Everything was tinged with the evening sky’s deepening blue. Stars studded the night already, gleaming bright as wolf’s teeth. Kara’s mother had told her these were the best stars for wishing. The shadows had already melted into darkness. With a quick whistle, Kara brought the geese and goats inside the heavy beamed doorframe and whisked them behind their partition of nimbly interwoven sticks. She paused a moment to pat the tall billy goat with the black patch around one eye. This would be the last night she would do this chore. Kara had never thought she would miss it.
It was Yule. Kara’s whole family had gathered from the nearby farms to enjoy each other’s company and share a few horns of mead together. Everyone was so happy for her. “What a fortuitous match!” her father’s sister said. “What impressive gifts!” complimented her younger brother. “What an important man your husband Iorek will be!” chattered her cousin. Kara’s bridal wealth was packed and stowed and ready for the ride to Iorek’s family’s home, over the pass a day’s ride, close to the sea. It was a large hall, empty much of the time. Iorek’s brothers’ had all taken wives from a family that had long feuded with Kara’s. A short time ago Kara’s father laid claim to a much larger farm than he did now. He did not talk much about it. Iorek’s sisters-in-law were involved somehow, and an agreement had been broken.
Why Iorek himself had wanted to marry Kara seemed unclear to her. A messenger had been sent to woo her and gain her father’s permission to marry. The messenger had praised Kara’s beauty with unremarkable poetry, each verse as memorable as one egg is from another. She had not been impressed with the verse. Kara’s lips thinned in anger as a tear welled up in the corner of her eye. The rumor whispering around her family was that Iorek had chosen to marry her to spite his brother’s wives. Life in that cold, dreary hall with those knife-faced women seemed terribly long and heavy.
Kara’s gaze turned to the polished stone gaming pieces displayed by the fire on her family’s hearth. They had been her grandmother’s. She had once travelled with the old earl on his campaigns in the East and had served as his advisor in war. Those pieces might have once determined the life or death of men in battle. They were to have been hers, but were now being left to her younger brother. Iorek’s family did not approve of women in their war councils.
Iorek’s messenger was at the head of the family table. He beckoned her rather rudely to have a seat at the bench and she did so. He addressed Kara’s family. He reminded them of how lucky they were to be marrying up into Iorek’s family. Conveying this information seemed to take a great deal of dull speech and Kara’s attention wandered to the man sitting next to her. She was sure she had seen him around the place, a cousin’s cousin perhaps. He was rough around the edges, too wrinkled for his age and his beard was not well trimmed. The seams on his tunic hung open for want of mending. Everyone around the table had a earthenware mug full of fragrant wine, doled out as a gift from Iorek’s family; one cup per guest and filled less than halfway up. The old man held no such cup.
“Where’s you toast, sir?” Kara inquired. The man met her gaze with eyes of piercing blue and a smile transformed his bearded face. “Oh, they didn’t want to spread out the good stuff any thinner, let alone on a old man like me.” he said. “How awful!” Kara gasped. “How dare he treat my family so disrespectfully! I’m so sorry…uncle…” she trailed off and blushed a little in embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ve forgotten you name.” “Oski.” The old man laughed. “And yes it’s a few generations, but we are related.” He patted her hand reassuringly.
Iorek’s messenger was still droning on, managing to insult Kara’s family repeatedly while appearing to congratulate them. Kara stared at his fat cheeks wobbling as he prattled on. “Just like a horse’s ass farting.” Kara said aloud, quietly. Oski choked a little with laughter. “You talk about your new husband’s envoy in such a fashion?” he asked. Kara felt cold and heavy and when she spoke it seemed as though her voice belonged outside herself. “I will never marry Iorek.” she said.
Iorek’s man had stopped talking at last, and lifted his mug to beckon others to drink. Kara had never tasted wine. She watched it circle around in the cup, red as summer flowers.
“I would like you to have this.” Kara said, and she placed her toast in Oski’s hand. She ripped a chunk out of the bread before her and passed it over as well. “To your companionship.” The old man took the drink down in a blink, as if he were used to such things. He smiled and his teeth looked just a little as if they were stained with blood. “Companionship”, he repeated. “May you have all you wish for.” The remainder of the feast passed uneventfully.
Later that night Kara sat up in bed, suddenly awakened from sleep. It was cold and deeply silent. Everyone was asleep. The wind had picked up in the night and howled through the rough beams of the wall, despite the insulating chinks of turf. Branches on a nearby tree scratched just outside. Her dream was still on her eyelids, a flash of white, like a swan with candle flames for wingtips. A sensation of flying free. It had been so beautiful. She had been riding with a host of others, tumbling over the dark blue star pierced sky. A column of smoke arose on a distant shore. Kara closed her eyes again and sleep came once more, thick and comfortingly dark. She rested peacefully.
Another messenger came early the next morning, with terrible news. Iorek, his brothers, and all their family had perished in the night, victims of a fire their own hall. “How distraught the bride must be!” he exclaimed. Lightning from the winter sky had set the roof ablaze and all had perished. “How tragic!” Kara’s family managed their condolences, though in truth they were relieved to be rid of those sisters who had plagued them with dishonest dealing all these years. Now Kara conveyed such terrible luck that surely no one would marry her. She would be alone! “How sad!”
Kara smiled. “Alone, here at home where I’ve always wanted to be, with my own kin.” She ran her fingers over he grandmother’s stone strategy pieces. She might get to deploy them on her brother’s behalf after all. Stars winked in the early dawm, where Kara had withdrawn outdoors to be with her grief. “Thank you, Oski.” she whispered.