Sliding harmonics as trails encircle
pulse of dark matter across my brow
wine stain bruises dusked black purple
moldy water for pigs awash in the trough.
Lay him in a manger of black figs and honey.
Lay him in cloth bands of hellish device.
Feed him the milked of the damned as money
to cross over the border of blackest vice.
The cattle lows, newborn goats glisten
wet with the dew of a motherless child
whores flock to him, red hair abandon
and the dead love infants tender and mild.
In Pum Llyfr Cerddwriaeth (1570) Simwnt Fychan lists three main stages of poet-hood; disgybl ysbâs heb radd, ‘unqualified apprentice’, disgybl disgyblaidd ‘qualified apprentice’, and pencerdd ‘master poet’. In January 2013 I took vows to Gwyn ap Nudd, a Brythonic god of the dead and ruler of Annwn, embarking on an apprenticeship to him that would […]
Right now, I bet some of you are asking yourselves, “what the hell is a glory box.” (the rest of you, get your minds out of the gutter. LOL). It’s an Australian term for a dowry chest or a trousseau. I grew up calling them ‘hope chests’ but I really, really like the term “glory […]
Iced lime wedge, fallen snow void
in winter’s chill, we whisper to avoid
any light or warmth, out of sun’s reach
and the shackles of those who ever preach
redemption by sunlight, moonlight shines
over the vacancies of our mind, silver divine
and as my back shoulders burdens, deliver
my soul, for I am fallen rain, an ice sliver
and nothing comes from Heaven without
a way out.
Silver wings, dragonfly sheen
gunmetal glory hellfire gleam
katana blades, sparks of snow
flight of no light to land below.
Pigwarts school of hogsnot and sowfarts
Baba Yaga since I was a teen has been a guardian spirit, babushka, and initiator into witchcraft for me. Not only does she teach me witchcraft of the wilderness, wildcrafting, hedgewitchery, kitchen witchcraft, green witchcraft, but also hearth magic. I view her as a very terrestrial spirit, before the gods came to Russia, there was Baba Yaga. The very soul of my Slavic ancestors, the kings and queens of Kievan Rus. There is something feral and somber but altogether holy and beautiful about the dvoverie, or double faith, of Slavic lands that lasts to this day, and no one is more liminal or burbling with wild magic as Baba Yaga. She manifests very powerfully and smells like cloying honeysuckle and an older lady’s perfume, likes to smoke her pipe and knit, and will insist cleanliness is next to godliness. An initiator for women’s magic, she tests maidens like Vasilisa in the myths and her chicken legged hut is the fulcrum on which Buyan turns. It is related to charnel houses and a sign of her dominion over the Russian afterlife of Veles’s realm. Listening to Mussorgosky’s “The Hut on Chicken Feet,” you can hear the thrum of Baba Yaga’s wizened laughter. Lady of Iron Teeth, Lady of Pestle and Mortar, good offerings for her are chicken feet (easily ordered at Dim Sum or Chinese restuarants and stored for later), vodka, housework, especially sweeping, and she absolutely loves goofy dolls of wizened crones and witches. I have a ’60s doll squeaky witch from the Soviet Union she adores. She also loves sprigs of lavender, nightshade, poisonous herbs, and herbal or wildflower tea. Above all, if you want her magic lessons, it’s best to offer her sweeping, sewing, knitting, crocheting, and dusting and mopping. She is the greatest raw source of magic I know and the mountains and rivers and dark forests of Siberia given life. Reindeer and chicken and horses and wolves, I have found, are sacred to her. Her manservants are shapeshifting horses Day, Dawn, and Night. She tempts, she tests, she wisecracks, she teases, and remember, in her stew are baby bones, but also wisdom beyond measure.
Diving for gold in labrynthine depths
Into the bosom of your ocean I’m swept
My heart is a panpipe, thrumming bright
You the wind through the reeds in velvet night.
Body alight, bones of delight. And we
Are all sailors fulsome fright.
Beware the lea of lovers. Sloe black eyes.
Trapped in the depths beyond golden sight.
Take flight, awing, laborious spine!
You are a candle with wick divine.
So kiss the sun, terpsichorean of doom.
And weave his mantle on your frightful loom.
Oh, my love, you are sailors delight.
Pink sun rising beyond measureless sight.
I am froth on the ocean, you the seas might.
So kiss me deep and make summer right.
In the heart of Christmas night.
You are my light, my dainty goodnight.
I love you, I eat you, bread body, blood wine.
So rich in flesh, milled so fine.
And we will sail you forever in time.
So hold me below, and drink my time.
Wings of Desire is arguably one of the greatest known films of all time, Germany’s most famous film, the great brainchild of Wim Wenders with the magic touch of Nick Cave, but few know it’s sequel about Cassiel. It is, besides Death Takes a Holiday, my favorite film premise of all time, and I’d love to share this song.
O my beauteous Serpent, your coils my black sapphire necklace
scales cool and slick like rain on my skin, your arms thick cords
wrapped around my waist as fangs suckle blood from breast, wings
the wages of a thousand golden pieces from the Temple, fallen tree.
Slither on stomach in the dirt and mud into our garden, resplendent
adventurous lust, we are cleaving, we are cream on a fairy’s milk.
Oh Nachash, my Shining Enchanter, my Seraphim, Father of Cain, how
you spell out wonders and glory onto my teeth in a string of pearls!
It was far from Temptation, more booming Love, first Love, thunderous
hearts the color of rust, such beautiful iron boats sunk on lover’s
shores, and Gan Eden was just a frame of mind, we were never locked up
in hyacinth and wedding vine, no, we roamed Heaven and Hell free, and
Christ was a sailor, and Michael rowed his boat ashore after a storm,
and let’s just spend all my life entwined like branches of oak and holly.
My dear, my darling, my starlight, I may be your breath, but you, love,
are my lungs.
We Dance the Danse Macabre 