Canto I

Long have I stood, watching the trees,
The Skies ever-changing, the grass around my toes,
Living and ever-living, undying
The Voice of the Ages.
I tell the story of Men,
Of the sons and daughters of men,
Some long forgotten, others etched in stone.
I am the song of the breeze
Amongst the waving meadowsweet.
I am the voice of the heart unsung,
The harp unstrung, the plan undone.
Three songs have I sung in ancient times:
The song of the battle on the plains of blood,
Where men stood, died and stood again;
The song of the long-armed and the silver king,
When the champion's cup was passed around;
The song of the Hound, the Hound from the North,
With chariots thundering in a cloud of dust.
These songs have I sung, yet more are to be.
The tale of Conn, thrice renowned;
Conn the Black, with heart pure as thistledown,
Son of Donan, son of Crom the Red,
A tale that grew in the telling,
Told by the bards that tasted the blood
Spraying like spittle from dying heroes.
From heart to hand the song takes its flight
And now it is my geas
To loose the music from my harp,
As the words come stumbling into trembling song,
Building a swell of saga - a tale to be told.

 Slan

 

I found an article here about a lady who uses a ROsary as a pagan prayer. It says:

Picking up her Catholic rosary, Meg, a 24-year-old from Maine, begins her prayers like this:

"Hail Persephone, full of strength and beauty. ... Blessed are you and blessed is the cycle of your life. Holy Persephone, queen of life and death, pray for your children now, and in the hour of our need. Blessed be."

Meg calls herself a Christo-Pagan, a blender of traditional Christianity and pagan goddess worship. For her, adapting the Catholic rosary brings a peace that adhering only to the Christianity of her youth did not.

"It makes me feel very connected to God," said Meg, who declined to give her last name because she -- like many pagans who aren't open to their families -- still lives in what some call the "broom closet."

"Going through this cycle of prayer, it switches your brain into recognizing that something holy is happening and God is with you," she said.

Meg's prayer is one example of how some neo-pagans (followers of Wicca, Druidry, Asatru and other forms of ancient goddess or nature worship) are retooling the centuries-old Catholic rosary and other prayer beads for worshipping Celtic, Norse, Greek and Roman gods and goddesses.

 I've never considered this before but it seems an absolutely brilliant idea to make use of Mantra to promote enhanced consciousness and worship. I remember in old Craft days we had something called a Witches' Ladder - which was one of the cords with knots in it used in a similar fashion. In fact, the article goes on to say:

Christopher Penczak, a witch who teaches how to construct "witches' ladders" -- a knotted rope that he likens to a rosary used to count spells -- said, "It is about ritual. Pagans in general, when they find something that works in a ritual, they are very apt to borrow it."

 A useful tool in our magical satchels perhaps?

Slán

Sylvarwolf 

In these days of loud, angry denunciations between groups of people calling themselves “witches” or wise people, it may help in locating the truly wise people to review what was said in a 17th century pamphlet about their characteristics.

These true “marks” of the Craft of the Wise are just as true now as they were then. Read for yourself the following description written in 1645…

“Hear ye then how our Fathers before us discover’d the Witche:

Mark well their manner, for it is quiet and assumeth naught. It is in peaceful tones they speak, and often seem abstracted. Seeming to prefer the company of Beastes, they converse with them as equals.

They will dwell in lonely places, there better (as they say) to know the voices of the Wind and hear the secrets of Nature. Possessing Wysdome of the feildes and forrests, they doe heals with their harvests.

They concern themselves not with idle fashion, nor doe worldly goods hold value for them.

Be not so confused as to think that only Womankynde harbour the gifts in this matter. Of men there bee many that holde mickle power.”
~ Edward Johnston, Esq, Sudbury, Suffolk, Eng., 1645

Who seems more wise to you?

I have just joined a wonderful group.

The language is Irish, the place is here and the time is NOW! For those wishing to learn Irish from the very beginning, come along and join this yahoo group. The classes are only just starting - Imbolc being the stated starting time but Jerry is waiting for a few more promised members to sign up.



Read more here.

 

Slán

 

Sylvarwolf 

The wild wood reaches out,

Long twisted arms of ancient oak,

Waving branches of young birch,

Rustling and sighing throughout

The fields of living grass.

Its' eldritch shadow twists and turns,

Painting jagged silhouettes

Over rugged, untrodden meadow.

A single beech stands erect

And ancient, tall in its years,

wide in its shadow circled round.

No bird, no squirrel or woodland

Creature disturbs its peace -

Just the breeze rustling angry leaves.

The Wild Wood beckons – its ancient call

Loud and omnipresent, its reach extending

As shadows lengthen, and Twilight creeps.

Well-worn tracks filled with stone

Lead off into darkness cracked

by light amongst weaving branches.

Coldness and damp seep from the earth,

And the wood closes its doors over the path.

All is still – grave-quiet and black.

No wind, no birdsong, no rustling.

Twisting and turning the way bends

This way and that, confusing the senses,

lost in shadows, in dark trees, in thought,

Winding slowly upwards on some unseen hill,

As if purposefully leading to somewhere,

A hidden spot, an unseen glade,

Somewhere of light amidst darkness,

Underneath the bare-seen Moon.

Creeping darkness deepens dimly

Foreshadowing the deepest dark.

Temple-like, a hidden circle

Stands beneath the canopy

Of an even older Beech, its

Spreading arms each a tree-trunk

Pointing the way to the four corners,

Its mountainous crown upheld

By legs that have withstood

The centuries, its unseen eyes

A thousand lives have watched

As man and woman have passed

Out of sight, sound but not memory.

And, oh! The terrors that

It has been forced to witness,

Its unwilling judgement untold.

Yet it stands not unaffected

By the darkness around it.

Years of elder torment, called

Upon and reinforced by men

In whom the darkness has taken

Long, deep roots, call forth

The fore-boding as the circle round

Tries to retain its quiet brood.

A song of light begins quavering

Amidst the throng of pressing dark,

Gathering strength as the fire slowly burns -

Pushing back the seeping gloom.

The circle of hatred expands and thins,

But the song has not gone unheard.

An ancient Terror dwelling deep

In the blood-soaked earth hears the call.

In anger, it bellows and rushes to the fray.

The song wavers but durst not die

Lest the light be quenched and

Darkness return - forever claiming

This corner of twisted, faerie realm.

In battle are joined – gloom and doom,

Unbidden are rising like angry embers,

Exhaustion is imminent, one life against many

But then, unseen amongst hidden trees,

Hidden in darkness beyond the edge,

A white Stag, ancient and proud

Lifts its quivering muzzle, tosses

its branching antlers and lifts its head,

Eyes dark with aeons-old wisdom,

And bellows the song of life,

Joining the song of light and

Breaking the hold of the Ancient One.

The Terror flees deep within the earth,

And the guardian gloom is broken,

bound and tied.

One small step to free the ancient Beech,

A gleam of hope for future cleansing.

Deepest tiredness sags and weighs down

But the Moon riding high sends rays

Of sheerest healing deep within the soul.

It has left a scar – but not one unhealed.