The Pagan Activist

 We would like to introduce to you our regular columist for 'Words of Silence ' - Bryony Henriksdottir!

The Pagan Activist

Bryony Henriksdottir is a Dianic Pagan and Wiccan living in western Mass (USA) with her boyfriend, (a Discordian Pagan…it’s an interesting household) her children and her cats. She is a storyteller and poet, an assistant teacher and amateur photographer. She writes in the Gothic and Fantasy genre, and much of her poetry centers on women in history (Herstory?) and myth. Bryony’s story ‘Sisters’ has been published in The Pagan Activist, her poetry has appeared in Granny Moon’s Morning Feast and she writes reviews of books and music for The Pagan Review. As well as raising her children and birthing stories, Bryony is writing a pair of novels and compiling a volume of poetry. She is also an English and Women’s Studies major at her local community college.

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2008:

May

April

March

February

January

2007:

December / November / October / September / August / July - Author on Hiatus / June / May / April / March / February

 

To see The Bardic Arts submissions discussed in the articles go here or go to The Bardic Arts page on the menu.

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Now along the pond-side, now wading in a little, fearing not

the wet,

Now by the post-and-rail fences where the old stones thrown

there, pick’d from the fields, have accumulated,

(Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through the stones

and partly cover them, beyond these I pass,)

Far, far in the forest, or sauntering later in summer, before I

think where I go

Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in

the silence…

 

Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman

 

April flew along on the wings of the mourning dove; it seemed like it had only begun then suddenly we were celebrating my daughter’s ninth birthday, then mine (which sadly was not nine, and therefore not nearly as much fun). Then suddenly we were on spring vacation, and now Beltane rises like the morning sun on the horizon. Welcome May! What the hell happened to April??

           

It’s been beautiful outside lately, and I suppose all the writerly folk are out being creative with the dirt and seedlings. I’m planning to do the same myself this weekend. We do have one submission to the Bardic Arts column this month however. Libramoon (whose work I live!) graces our pages with her incredible poem ‘Earth Angels’. This poem reads like a song, lyrically reminding us that there is so much taken for granted, so many treasures taken advantage of.

           

Seeing something doesn’t necessarily make it real—some things, the true things closest to our hearts and to nature, must be believed in to be seen. But if, like Libramoon says, we are ‘deaf to the wisdom of the faery lore,’ then we are deaf to nature as well, and we will ‘fall, collateral damage to thoughtless bravado, petty greed and rivalries.’

 

This is the time of year when thoughts like this are so alien: the sun is shining, birds are singing. Trees are budding and bulbs planted in autumn’s chill are bursting into brilliant purple and shimmering white crocuses. How impossible to think of something as dark and heartless as greed when nature is giving us so much. But heartlessness and greed know no season, and if we are able to be aware of ourselves, we can in some small way help others be aware as well. Try to give some of yourself this Beltane, and see who you benefit. In helping others, you may find you help yourself as well.

 

Sadly Beltane is a Thursday this year, and so my family will not be able to celebrate Beltane at Mystery Hill in Salem, New Hampshire; we are planning to go the Saturday after. So while I won’t be able to watch the sun set over the May first Keystone, I will still be able to visit that amazing magickal site while traces of Beltane’s influences still linger. For those of you that haven’t ever visited Mystery Hill, also known as America’s Stonehenge, you can check out their website for information: http://www.stonehengeusa.com. From where I live in western Massachusetts, it’s about a two hour drive, and definitely worth every minute.

 

If you visit Mystery Hill, or any other ancient or magickal site, take time to meditate on the feeling of the place. What does it say to you? What do you feel as you walk the path that ancient people walked? A sense of awe, of sadness, or a quietude that soothes your soul? Open your mind to the quiet emotion of the place, and let its peace and strength fill you. Revel in the newness of the bright season, throw your head back and breathe deep of the sweet spring air. Nature has awakened, and She is ready to play. Will you join Her?

 

Many blessings this season and always   ~*~ Bryony ~*~

 

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“Rise, my love, my beauty,

and come away.

Winter is past,

the rains are over and gone.

Flowers appear on the land,

the time of the nightingale has come.

The voice of the turtledove

is heard in our land.

The fig tree is heavy with small green figs,

and grapevines are in bloom,

pouring out fragrance.

Rise, my love, my beauty,

and come away.”

 

From ‘Song of Songs’ (The Shulamite)

 

It was with a great deal of relief that I celebrated Ostara this year. Winter has gotten its claws deep into my psyche this year. Work, school and illness has had me looking longingly out windows and at the calendar, all but begging spring to return.

 

Unfortunately, because I live in western Massachusetts, spring is a joke in and of itself. It was a beautiful sparklingly sunny day today, and I froze out at recess duty in the sparklingly cold 43 degrees. Don’t pack away the winter gear just yet, fellow Yankees. Spring has only begun to play with us.

 

Fate, or the afterlife, has decided to play Steve as a fool, as we see in The Pseudomat’s ‘The Dead Giveaway’. After falling into the Relloc and having his nose bashed by whoever is residing therein, Steve finds himself strapped to a chair by his flame Amanda, and he’s not enjoying it one bit. I can sympathize with him. I despise going to the doctor, and all the bizarre equipment stashed about the office gives me the willies.

 

Unfortunately for Steve, he’s attached to all the bizarre equipment stashed around Amanda’s lab and it looks like he’s going to be there for a while, as all of the equipment is telling Amanda that Steve really did fall into the Relloc, but Amanda knows without a doubt that Steve didn’t fall into the Relloc because no one can fall into the Relloc, despite the fact that her fail-safe equipment says that he did, in fact, fall into the Relloc. (And science is supposed to make sense…)

 

Keep checking in with our Bardic Arts column, because things are going to get even stranger in the afterlife. The unnamed powers that be “have a problem.” Keep the chapters coming Pseudomat. I love this story!

 

Sadly, The Pseudomat’s story is the only submission to this month’s Bardic Arts column; help me out here, writers, or I’m going to be out of a job! (Just kidding. I’ll manage to inveigle a way to stay busy here in The Pagan Activist. I like it too much to leave.) And of course, spring has sprung, and someday soon the air will be warm, the breezes gentle, and we’ll all be running around outside chasing bunnies and children with gay abandon. As I mentioned earlier, however, it’s cold out there! Stay inside your nice warm houses and put pen to paper!

I’m hardly one to talk. March was a busy month, and all the writing I did was for a children’s literature class. In one week, my family observed or celebrated four days of note: St. Patrick’s Day ( known as All Snake’s Day in our house); Ostara; a milestone anniversary (five years for my partner Josh and myself…the crazy man has stuck around this long in a house nearly constantly lost under books, cats and manuscript pages—he’s a keeper!) and Easter, celebrated with the non-Pagan members of our family.

 

On March 29th we participated in Earth Hour, shutting off our lights for one hour along with millions of people around the world in an effort to help make a difference in preserving our planet’s health and resources. What a wonderful thing that was. For one hour, no television, no radio or CD players; no video games or computers, or even iPods. Instead we lit a fire and candles, toasted marshmallows in the living room, and told ghost stories and old Celtic tales. It was a relief to escape the chaos of daily life that spills into every aspect of our lives. For a brief period we were in another time, a time before technology took over. My son commented that it must have been like this when Poppa (great-great grampa) was a boy. He was right. My great grandfather was born in 1907, and raised on a farm in North Dana, Massachusetts. He used to regale us with stories about his childhood, a childhood that my children couldn’t begin to comprehend, but were enchanted by nonetheless.

 

If by turning off the electricity for one hour I can connect my children to their great-great grandfather’s time, I’d say that we have indeed come full circle. Take some time for yourself this month, maybe shut off the lights for an hour, just because. Light some candles and pull out the Parcheesi game that’s been collecting dust, or maybe just shut off that damn cell phone that just won’t stop ringing. One hour. Sixty minutes.3600 seconds. Go ahead, you deserve it. 

                       

“All that is born, all that is created,

all the elements of nature

are interwoven and united with each other.

All that is composed shall be decomposed;

everything returns to its roots;

matter returns to the origins of matter.

Those who have ears, let them hear.”

 

From ‘The Gospel of Mary Magdalene’, 7: 4-10

 

Many blessings for a bright, beautiful April.

 

)O( Bryony )O(

 

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It sifts from leaden sieves,

It powders all the wood,

It fills with alabaster wool

The wrinkles of the road.

 

It makes an even face

Of mountain and plain,--

Unbroken forehead from the east

Unto the east again.

 

On stump and stack and stem,--

The summer’s empty room,

Acres of seams where harvests were,

Recordless, but for them.

 

It ruffles wrists of posts,

As ankles of a queen,--

Then stills its artisans like ghosts,

Denying they have been.

 

~Emily Dickinson, XX

 

Payam Nabarz gives us a view of a screenplay-like story titled “Divine Comedy of Neophyte Corax and Goddess Morrigan’.

           

In Act V we see Corax and Oliphant heading to a workshop to mark Kali’s festival. At the workshop the meditation begins with Corax and Oliphant responding much the way I do. I don’t have their fortitude, though. I can barely make it through half an hour, never mind several.

           

Parlor tricks ensue until Kali Herself manifests and then all hell breaks loose. As Kali harvests heads for her necklace, Morrigan suddenly appears to protect Her devotee Corax. Corax flees as Kali and Morrigan come to an agreement and prove to a priestess that all goddesses are not one if they are not aware of their unified state. And so, as Corax explains to Oliphant as they make their way home, the end result is death by archetype.

           

I have submitted my own work to the Bardic Arts column this month as well. ‘Godmother’ is my twist on a writer’s workshop idea a friend and I explored. The one-line prompt was: You observe a coworker crying one day. My friend’s story was a moving telling of a woman who worked hard to get to the top only to lose it all because she was a woman. Mine is wholly irreverent and one of the few amusing stories I’ve written. My work is normally darker and angsty, with some few stories like ‘Soul of the Song’ tossed in, first written when I was fourteen and blissfully idealistic.

           

The year’s wheel is slowly turning, however. Imbolc is past, Ostara is creeping forward, and the sun is finally beginning to set just a bit later. I felt that two of my lighter tales were most appropriate for the March theme of fresh winds and Nature’s rebirth. It’s still cold and damp—it was snowing when I began to write this—but my kitchen is highlighted with spindly green leaflets fuzzing over topsoil in pots, and most afternoons warm golden sunlight pours through my northwest windows, patterning my walls with rainbows from the crystals hanging from the curtain rods.

           

This is the time of year when suddenly everything seems so busy. The insanity of the winter holidays is over, but now we’re constantly on the move. Those of us in kinder climates than New England are beginning to prepare for this year’s growing seasons; everyone I know is suddenly tearing their houses apart in a frenzy of scrubbing and dusting, and we’re all running about doing all the things we put off for ‘nicer weather’.

           

On a day off from work that should have been relaxing but was instead spent driving from place to place, I was given a rare gift for late February. Dodging cars as I left the post office I heard a cacophony of sparrows, gleefully chirping at the tops of their bitty lungs. The weather has been chancy—balmy for a single day (a whole 45 degrees!) then freezing the next. The birds that are around are silent, hiding themselves away against the cold, but these little birds, perched in a leafless, quivering birch, were singing their hearts out.

           

With a shock, I realized that this was a tremendous gift if I would just stop for a moment and allow it to be. Spring will be here before we know it, as cliché as that is. We know this. Our environment isn’t that screwed up yet. On gray, bitterly cold, windy days it’s hard to have faith. But here was audible proof that the Goddess was going to reawaken soon, sent in the form of small brown messengers.

           

Trapped in this high-tech world we continue to run, never ceasing, barely breathing, not taking the time to stop and listen to Her voice. Try to. You don’t have to stop for long, just long enough to catch your breath and maybe take a sip of the cappuccino you’ve been carrying around all morning and haven’t gotten to drink yet. Give thanks for this crazy-hectic life you lead. You wake up every morning, right? Rejoice.

           

The sacred is all around us. We just have to be able to let it in.

 

Many blessings,

Bryony.

 

Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson. Barnes & Noble, Inc. New York, NY, 2007

(This is a gorgeous book; definitely worth giving to anyone that loves Dickinson!)

 

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Brigid, red-gold woman,

Brigid, flame and honeycomb,

Brigid, sun of womanhood

Brigid, lead me home

 

You are a branch in blossom.

You are a sheltering dome.

You are my bright precious freedom.

Brigid, lead me home.

~Irish prayer to the Goddess

           

A brilliant new story this month, as well as chapter six of the increasingly entertaining ‘The DeadGiveaway’. It is a happy Bardic columnist that writes to you this month, however sparse the pickings may be. Send us those poems and stories! It’s cold out there, and I want to read!

 

‘The Dreams Were Back Again’ by Anthony Collins is an amazing tale. When you dream, what is it you see? Events of the day, a mish-mash of last weekend and today’s meetings? Do you dream of the future, imagined or mundane, only to experience deja vous with a shock some months later? Do you dream of the past, of your childhood, or are you one of the enlightened reborn, reliving your past lives as you sleep? Tom Colin lives the life of a Dragon-Rider in the realm of sleep, a life of danger and valor, as exhilarating for the reader as for the Dragon-Rider himself.

           

For the reader the dream becomes reality as Tom wakes from his victory with a scream and the premonition that change is coming and he must be prepared. As if the Dragon-Rider of ancient time wasn’t fantastic enough, Tom’s unease sends him out to look in on the ‘kids’: a pair of infant dragons, safe within his keeping. Too cool.

           

I love the direction in which Anthony Collins took this story. It was completely unexpected and captivating. I have a feeling there is more to come…

           

Einstein once said insanity was doing the same darn thing over and over again and expecting different results. Bryony says insanity is having an argument with yourself and losing. Apparently the PseudoMat has decided insanity is having a fist fight with yourself. Or maybe it’s divinity. Somehow I doubt Steve (or his nose) really gives a hoot, except to avoid both (insanity and divinity) as much as possible.

           

Fortunately for our hero, his nose and the confusion it causes enable him to escape the Relloc, and he finds himself quite a bit worse for wear, but right where he was when he tripped over himself eyeing Amanda’s…well, anyway, his boo-boos grant him one positive: Amanda is very solicitous of his battle-scars. So for chapter six, all’s well that ends well. Except Steve’s nose, that is.

           

Imbolc has just passed, and this year my family began what I hope will be a tradition inspired by Bride’s role as a patroness of poetry. In honor of the Goddess we had a ‘poetry dinner’ for which each person composed and shared a poem. True to form, my ten year old made us laugh, my eight year old wrote about the animals she loves so much, and my father (who says he can’t write) made me cry.

           

Imbolc is always a quiet celebration in our home. We live in an old apartment building with no yard in the middle of downtown, and anyway, it’s New England. That ground isn’t going to be ready for planting until well into April. Dinner, poetry and praise, and then a trip to Farmer’s Co-Op, of all places, to buy bags of soil. We have seeds left over from last year’s container gardens, and so planting will get done, just not quite in the traditional manner. It may still be frozen outside my windows, but on the windowsills green leaflets will begin to sprout soon, basil, thyme, mint and catnip.

 

My Rose has one flower pot to herself for Jack-Be-Little pumpkins, Thumbelina carrots, Teddy Bear sunflowers, pansies and Easter Egg radishes (for her bunnie) and in the others I have peas, pineapple sage, one pepper plant, one cherry tomato plant, rosemary and more pansies. Not much to start, but the beauty of container gardens is that the growing season doesn’t really end, and it can begin on Imbolc.

           

With the celebration of Bride comes the first stirrings of spring, inside and out. As Ostara approaches our world continues to change. A kinder, more loving season is moving over us, allowing us to breathe easier and become more free. Curling up on a snowy day with a book and a cup of tea is bliss itself, but winter’s grip is so strong, and we come to need the milder touch in the chill breezes that blow in February. Cherish yourselves in the end of this season. Give thanks to Bride of the hearth as you welcome friends and family into your home; praise Bride’s inspiration as you snuggle down with a favorite volume of poetry on a weekend evening; peruse seed catalogues with glee as Bride’s month passes us by and Ostara tiptoes in. Winter’s end is at hand. We just need to be patient.

           

It has been a year this month that I have been a member of the Pagan Activist family, and I would like to thank everyone, our editor Edain, my sister and brother writers, and our readers for the warm reception I have been given. I have enjoyed every minute of my time here, and am looking forward to another year of adventure and magic in our pages.

     

Much love, many blessings, Nicole S Kapise (and Bryony! :)

 

 

An excellent source for container gardening is Rose Marie Nichols McGee and Maggie Stuckey’s ‘The Bountiful Container’, $16.95, from Workman Publishing. :)

McGee & Stuckey, The Bountiful Container. Workman Publishing, New York, NY. 2002.           

 

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Goddess of fire, protect those who fight.

Goddess of medicine, sustain the healers.

Goddess of agriculture, feed all who toil.

Goddess of mothers, comfort those who lost children.

Goddess of the hearth, heal the burns.

                                   

‘An Invocation to Brigid’

~Barbara Arnold

 

No poetry! I am much sad, but consoled by four stories and chapter five of the PseudoMat’s deliciously zany ‘The DeadGiveaway’.

 

The Relloc. What in all creation and death is a ‘Relloc’? Nothing, of course. The Relloc is a vast expanse of nothing. Sounds like the perfect place to work. I’m seeing the Pretty Brainy Girl image here, as the lovely Amanda, who is doing all kinds of entertaining things to Steve’s libido, is the head of the Relloc research group. (Researching nothing? Where do I sign?) Good thing Amanda has the geek-factor going for her, because Steve’s conversational skills have dropped to ‘Toddler with ADD’.

 

Unfortunately Steve has the klutz-factor in his own court, so we’ll have to see where chapter six brings him. (Afterafterlife??)

           

Eduard Shtern gives us ‘Frella’s Choice’, a tale of a life’s plan changing when one least expects it to, when there is no turning back, but there is a fork in the road, and suddenly the clearest path doesn’t look like the right choice anymore.

           

John David Hickey shares an incredible story experience with us this month—who doesn’t love listening to storytellers? In his tale ‘The Blue Hippopotamus’, John David Hickey tells us an Egyptian story of a hippopotamus who, through a series of adventures and great sacrifice gains his heart’s desire: to be loved by the princess he loves. This is a charming tale, and I was sure to share it with my children, who loved it as well.

           

Nyna Shtern is back with her story ‘Jet, the stone of physical protection’. When we are threatened, or overwhelmed by forces we can’t see, how can we protect ourselves? By believing in the power of natural forces and borrowing the strength they offer. As Ellen finds, having faith in the power that the Earth holds, we can find the courage and strength to heal. 

           

‘Ragnarök’ by Guinevra is a fantastical retelling of the Germanic mythos, a story many of us are familiar with. With a few simple twists, the ancient tale becomes new, a tale to be told by the fire as winter knocks on the windows and beats at the door. As we wait for spring’s kiss, we’ll keep safe by the hearth, telling stories of glory and light until the world’s turning brings gentle winds back to us.

 

Imbolc, Oimlec, Brighid, Bride, whatever name you choose for the Sabbat, the festival of light is upon us. After the past few months, I am most definitely in need of Bride’s grace, and will seek her blessing on the eve of Imbolc. In Ireland and Britain spring is near, hovering, hiding in shadows and beneath trees and hedges. Here in New England we are just settling into winter’s fierce embrace. Spring is a dream we are yet longing for; even when spring arrives on Ostara we in New England will most likely still be scraping ice from our cars and looking longingly through seed catalogues at all the things we can’t grow yet.

 

This is the time of year that I keep a candle on the stove top, to be lit as soon as I am home from work, and extinguished when I go to bed. It is a small bit of Bride’s flame burning on the ‘hearth’ to remind me that though the ground is frozen and winter is painfully long, spring time and sunlight are coming, sooner than I think. Like the plants we will grow through the summer months, spring needs our patience.

 

Light a candle today, ask for Bride’s blessings on your home and hearth. Do not be afraid to ask her for strength, or knowledge, or a song. Bride is the goddess of wisdom and poetry, magic and smithcraft, healing and the hearth. She is the welcome voice of winter’s end, heard in birdsong and ewe’s calling their lambs. She is the oimlec, ewe’s milk, which nurtures the fields so we may plant at Ostara’s turning.

 

Goddess of domestic arts, protect our home.

Goddess of renewal, manifest unity and purpose.

Goddess of magic, transform our pain.

Goddess of healing, make us whole.

Goddess of invocation, hear our prayer.

So mote it be.

 

)O( Many blessings, Bryony )O(

 

Source:

 

An Invocation to Brigid (September 11, 2001), Arnold, Barbara. The Pagan’s Muse, ed. Raeburn, Jane. Citadel Press, New York, NY. 2003.

             

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Wolfie McDermott brings us on a wolf’s-eye walk through the year, the four seasons eloquently described through the life cycle of the wolf. Wolfie’s totem animal is a magnificent creature, and those touched by the wolf-spirit are truly blessed. Sadly, we had only three poems for November, but I am not despairing (yet!) Winter is coming, and I know how prolific we writers get when it’s cold out!

 

So….say you’re dead. What’s next? Heaven? Valhalla?  Nowhere in particular? Are you born again, reincarnated, perhaps? Nope. You get a job. You can’t possibly expect that you’re going to be able to sit around all day playing cards with Elvis and Kennedy and staring at Cleopatra’s…well, you get the idea. Apparently Steve did not. Nor, as we read previously, did he pay attention at Orientation, which leads to a gleefully entertaining scenario that I thought was real, until the person whose head Steve was bouncing off the floor drags Steve back to real afterlife and the daydream dissolves.

Steve dutifully makes his way to the employment offices, where he learns that he gets to spend the rest of eternity as an accountant. I feel for the man. It looks like there is some mildly good news in store for him, however, if Amanda has anything to do with his future….nonfuture….? Help me out here PseudoMat…I’m running out of adjectives.

 

Amethyst’s ‘Stone of Stability’ is a beautiful story of healing and inner strength. It’s also reminded me that I have several amethysts among my ritual tools and that I should dig them out and use them. I need to…badly. “Being able to look at the world through the correct lens meant everything, he discovered” Robert’s friends bring him more than just a magical tool. They bring him a gift, stronger than any illness: their love and support. If you have a loved one whose struggling, try to be present for them. It may be the kind of healing they need.

           

As I finish this, horribly late, I offer my deepest apologies to our readers for my lateness, and extend winter greetings to everyone. Hannukah begins at sundown; Yule is two weeks away, Christmas and Kwanzaa about two and a half. Whatever you celebrate, whatever you believe, treasure your family and friends, and celebrate what’s in your heart.    

 

Many Blessings,

 

Bryony

   

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Forget the hearth,

Forget the roof,

Set the wheel aside:

Leave your weaving,

Warp and woof,

Steal out to us this Samhain-Tide.

 

Steal out to us, our tossing hair

Sets sun and moon and stars aflare.

The racing winds are hounds beside

The cloud-maned horses that we ride.

Come ride with us, have heart to dare

The plunging steed; the steps of air;

The swirling, high, tumultuous flight,

The aery hooves—this Samhain Night!

 

~The Faery Ride, Ella Young

                                   

 It’s that time of year again: creepy, spooky, fraught with secrets and scarecrows that you know are watching you, lit with Jack ‘o Lanterns and cats’ eyes. “All is a held breath, a stillness and a moment between. Now is the time to step into the dormant season and allow the seeds to sift themselves into the loam of new ground.” (168, d Kate dooley) Happy Samhain!

 

We have a new name in our Bardic Arts column this month: I managed to persuade a very good friend of mine to submit two of his poems to our pages, and so it is with a fair amount of glee that I introduce novelist James G Kelly’s work.

 

‘In Dreams’ is the story of the love that we all long for, one that we seek and perhaps can’t obtain, or the one that we wait for, so patiently, and in the end are rewarded for our faith. Who is the love you dream about? Your spouse? The high school sweetheart that got away? Many of us have a dream-love, the person we’ve never met but know is out there. Don’t give up on your dream: ‘One day this dream will be real.’

           

Gevrah Sidhe, whose writing I simply adore, is whispering to us, a ‘Dryad’s Whisper’. I love Dryads. The tree spirits are so lovely, and I am fortunate that where I live we have lots of trees. Lots. When the wind blows I hear them whisper, but I don’t know what they are saying. ‘My whispers are heard by so few,’ Gevrah tells us, ‘my song is long forgotten.’ People don’t hear the wisdom our world tells us anymore; there is too much focus on power and wealth. The world has indeed lost its soul. Every day more and more of our forests fall. When the Dryads cease to whisper will we even have echoes?

           

James Kelly gives us a second poem just in time for Samhain celebrations. He asked me once what Halloween was like for my family, and I happily shared details of my family’s whirlwind observance of October 31. (Halloween is my favorite holiday, and Samhain is my favorite Sabbat.) James has brought the two together, national holiday and religious celebration, and tied them neatly with an orange bow. Thanks for sharing, Jim!

           

The PseudoMat is back (yay!) with chapters 2 and 3 of ‘The DeadGiveaway’. Chapter 1 found Steve dead, much to his surprise. In chapter 2 Steve is having my typical Monday morning, poor man, dragging himself out of bed, late, on an unpleasant winter morning. Somehow I think his day is going to get much worse.

           

Chapter 3 brings Steve to Orientation, for what, he’s not quite sure. He’s been informed he’s dead, but he feels like himself, so somehow someone must be wrong. He is told he is now a member of the HVN community, whatever that is; however, as he is still adjusting to his bizarre new reality, he’s still confused at the end of Orientation. This is definitely not Steve’s day. First he’s late, then he’s dead, now he’s clueless. Poor, poor man.

           

This is a great story. I’m definitely looking forward to reading more about Steve’s unbelievably odd day. I’m in the difficult position of wanting to wax poetic about dialogue and character thought, but I’m going to let readers find out for themselves and not give anything away. The PseudoMat is constructing a fantastic story. If you haven’t read chapters 1-3 yet, definitely do so.

           

I am reluctant to classify ‘The DeadGiveaway’ as a ‘ghost story’. The surreal quirkiness of the story seems so far away from the tales I loved to frighten myself with every Halloween when I was a child. Halloween was such an exciting holiday to me. Sure, Christmas was great, but everything was so…good. Halloween was spooky and fun all at once. As I grew older and began to look at a different spiritual path, Halloween took on a whole new meaning, and as an adult I look forward to it with even more eagerness than the child did.

 

As always, Sabbat preparations begin in the kitchen. (Kitchen-Witch, can’t help it! Nothing too grand, though, Mom’s dinner is not allowed to cut into trick-or-treating time!) The altar has been rearranged, photos of our absent loved ones placed amid mini pumpkins and pomegranates, and new candles set in each of the quarters. Our living room windows are decorated with Halloween-themed window clings, and our resident vampire, Uncle Fred, stands in one window with a Jack ‘o Lantern at his side. We’re hoping for a mild night for trick-or-treating, but with evenings falling to 40 degrees, that might be asking for a bit much.

 

Nevertheless, my Phantom of the Opera and his Christine will be out, bundled under their costumes, fulfilling an ancient tradition of ‘gathering food’ for the coming winter. How did the very necessary act of preparing for the winter months become the vibrant sugar-coated holiday we see today? As the world changes, so too must our traditions, or they will become lost forever, I think.

 

When we arrive home there will be hot cider and one piece of candy (okay, two) and Washington Irving’s ‘The Headless Horseman’ read aloud. The children will prepare a plate of food for our ancestors to be placed on the altar, and for them Halloween is over.

 

 After my little ghouls go to bed, I will perform my Samhain observance. My grandfather passed on only two years ago, and each winter brings my grandmother closer to him. For her sake, I will welcome his shade into my home, so that he can be with us, if only for this one day. Other grandparents, uncles, and a dear friend’s infant nephew are also remembered, so they might find some warmth and welcome.

 

As you prepare to welcome your own loved ones, remember the times you spent together and what that person meant to you. For the ancestors you never met, think about what you’ve been told about them. How are they a part of who you are? (I wish I had a fraction of Sir Francis Drake’s charisma!) How far can you trace your family’s line? How many generations has your family lived in the country you live in? Our ancestors are a part of us, whether we like what we know or not. Be proud of who you are, and thank those that helped make you who you are; if you didn’t have that one great-great-granduncle that completely embarrassed the family, would you still be you?

 

In closing, I would like to share another poem, this found in ‘The Pagan’s Muse: Words of Ritual, Invocation, and Inspiration’.

 

Samhain Dance

            ~Erynn Rowan Laurie

 

Now is the eve of winter,

of Samhain

Bones of the dead will rise

for Samhain

 

Ancestors call

from Tir fo Thuinn

Beating wings

voice of the swan

Dance from sunset

into the dawn

 

And the gods

will dance

in the mist

 

Blowing wind

will call them here

Voice of the dead

will answer our fears

 

And sing

as we dance

in the mist

 

Death to death

and life to life

Form to form

on the edge of the night

 

We call

as we move

through the mist

 

Womb to tomb

and birth to birth

Warmth of the flames

upon the hearth

 

We are held

in the arms

of the earth

 

Ancestors come

they hear our call

Dance their bones

down echoing halls

 

They rise

like the tide

of the mist

 

Blessed Samhain, happy Halloween.   ~Bryony~

 

The Faery Ride by Ella Young, taken from: Kindling the Celtic Spirit: Ancient traditions to Illuminate Your Life Throughout the Seasons, Freeman, Mara. Harper Collins, 2001. New York, NY

 

Dooley, d Kate, The Spindle Hearth: A Sourcebook for Goddess-Centered Living. Yarrow Press, 2006. Asheville-Lewisburg, WV.    

 

Raeburn, Jane (ed.), The Pagan’s Muse: Words of Ritual, Invocation, and Inspiration. Citadel Press, 2003. New York, NY.

           

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Besides the Autumn poets sing

A few prosaic days

A little this side of the snow

And that side of the Haze-

 

A few incisive Mornings-

A few ascetic Eves-

Gone- Mr. Bryant’s “Golden Rod”-

And Mr. Thomson’s “sheaves”.

 

Still, is the bustle in the Brook-

Sealed are the spicy valves-

Mesmeric fingers softly touch

The eyes of many Elves-

 

Perhaps a squirrel may remain-

My sentiments to share-

Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind-

Thy windy will to bear!

     

 ~Emily Dickinson, 1891

 

Our poetry this month comes from two familiar writers, Katydid and Gevrah Sidhe—wonderful to see you again!—and from my close friend Incognito. (I pestered him unmercifully for a month until he got sick of me and gave in!)

           

‘Relative’ by S. Incognito tells of lives intertwined: “Relative…remember? We are but pawns in an endless game with common bonds.” In our humanity, we are all linked. Love, hate; life, death. It’s all relative.

           

Katydid’s lovely ‘If Wishes Had Wings’ brought tears to my eyes. I too would love to fly “To some secluded place Far away,” and find peace and beauty. Katydid has seen this place in dreams—what wishes do you dream of? What dream wishes could be made manifest? Success? Love? Peace, finally? …if wishes had wings…

           

Incognito’s ‘Trinity’ is a poem of Fate playing us as She will. Which is best? To know, and look to prepare, or to remain ignorant, for no one ever truly knows Fate’s game, and we can’t change Her plans? I read the Tarot on occasion, when I can’t puzzle my way out of some conundrum, and while I sometimes gain insight as to what is happening, I never truly find out why, or how to change it. For me, the cards lie silent. For others they speak, telling the future, speaking warnings, telling us what our souls seek while our hearts choose to do otherwise. Fate is ever capricious.

           

Our dear faerie friend Gevrah Sidhe brings us winds, her breath a gale, raising energy from Earth Herself. Who doesn’t stand in awe of an autumn gale, when branches whip themselves into a frenzy and rainbows of leaves explode into the air swirling to a music more powerful than a choir? Gevrah does, apparently, and writes of it beautifully.

The final poem this month is also from Incognito, and is my favorite of the collection he sent me. The October moon is the Blood Moon, and it rises on the 26th this month, with Samhain cresting the season soon after. I wish the full Blood Moon fell on Samhain this year. There is nothing quite like bringing children trick-or-treating under the full moon, followed by ritual work in the moonlight:  “An eerie sight to see, oh yes for those who cannot feel, as ones who go to holy churches choose to sit or kneel—you choose to reel in the light of the night.”

 

While I am thinking of Samhain, today is actually Mabon—Harvest Home blessings to all of you! It’s a stunning day; the sun is shining in a perfect blue sky, the air is warm, but with an underlying crispness that is autumn itself. I’ve been busy this morning, making bread and Cait Johnson’s apple-squash soup* and pies for tonight’s family celebration. Lacking space to place an altar, (the cats claim every flat surface they can reach) my innovative children placed the Mabon altar inside the fireplace, and now the hearth glows with pumpkins and pomegranates, candles in hollowed-out apples, and some beautiful leaves. Later we will sit and eat, and express or thanks and joy for the harvest season that gives us so much. As I watched my children arrange the fireplace, I wondered what goals they have harvested this year. My son has newly acquired a drum, and will begin studying music, a privilege he was denied last year.

 

My daughter has started her dance classes again, and is studying acrobatics as well, her teacher having decided she was mature enough to do both. In school, her reading has skyrocketed, a goal she had expressed to me over the summer. My own plans haven’t reached fruition—graduation is still some years off, but realistically so, and I can now claim an actual graduation date, with an incredible amount of relief. My career progresses as well, as evidenced by this column, and by the novel, now three-quarters of the way finished, that is hidden away in this machine. I haven’t completed any plans this season, but I have children that have, and are healthy and happy, and for that I will give thanks over Mabon dinner. May your own family be blessed this holy day as well.     

                   

 ~*~ Many Blessings, Bryony ~*~

 

*Apple-Squash Soup from Witch In The Kitchen by Cait Johnson. Destiny Books, Rochester, VT. 2001    (It’s really good!!!!!)

 

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‘…Mole turned his talk to the harvest that was being

gathered in, the towering wagons and their straining

teams, the growing ricks, and the large moon rising over

bare acres dotted with sheaves. He talked of the reddening

apples around, of the browning nuts, of jams and preserves

and the distilling of cordials…’

 

~Kenneth Grahame, The Wind In The Willows

 

Every August my eye turns to Kenneth Grahame’s enchanting novel ‘The Wind In The Willows’. I first read it when I was six, and more than twenty years later I still love to read of Rat and Mole’s adventures. As much of the story takes place in the spring and summer, late August feels like the perfect time of year to pull out my worn, water-stained paperback and find a cool nook to settle in and read. (However, ‘Dulce Domum’ is wonderful to read out loud on Yule.) I am recently back from an end of summer trip to the White Mountains in New Hampshire, and have come to the conclusion that no matter where you are, late summer is a simply magical time. Here in Massachusetts harvesting has begun; in the New Hampshire heights leaves are beginning to turn and brooks feel icy, a wonderful contrast to the eighty degree days. Autumn is creeping toward us…are you ready?

 

We have a serial story beginning in the Bardic Arts column this month. The PseudoMat brings us chapter one in what I feel will be a whirlwind of surrealism with just a touch of absurdity. With a thoroughly confused accountant nearly toppling a coffee-laden secretary as he demands an explanation about what is happening, only to be informed that he’s dead, “The Dead Giveaway” has pulled me in, and I am definitely looking forward to chapter two.

           

Ichy Smith has the distinction of being the winner of the Storytelling Competition in our birthday celebration- Congrats Ichy! - and “Just Can’t Get A Break” is just too funny. The story had me fooled right up to the second to last line, and then I had to go back and read it over again because it was just too absurd. I should have guessed, really. With Dragons, anything is possible.

           

Our poetry this month comes from Gevrah Sidhe and mnbmstarlight. (And from me, but Nicole S Kapise doesn’t appreciate it when I review our work. I and myself have creative differences.)

           

In “Chrysalis”, Gevrah Sidhe tells a story of change. ‘remembrance of what was and what is becoming manifest,’ allowing us to grow; as we seek a higher consciousness, we have the potential to become something greater.

 

Our second birthday competition winner is mnbmstarlight – many congratulations to you! If I recall correctly, the only guideline was that the poem be summer-themed. “Sacred Silence” is the sound you hear on summer nights when all is peaceful, when the day’s hustle has been put to rest and the spirit can breathe again. ‘Have you ever listened to the sacred silence?’ If you haven’t, give yourself the opportunity before summer’s close.

 

Gevrah Sidhe’s “Self Portrait” is a beautiful self-dedication, worthy of taking it’s place alongside the ‘Song of Amergin’ and Morgan McFarland’s ‘Woman-Charms: A Litany’ in any Book of Shadows. “Self Portrait” is a glimpse into the author’s soul, a gift that should not be taken lightly. Many thanks, Gevrah.

 

“Self Portrait” comes to us as the Pagan year winds to a close. In a few weeks Mabon will be here, followed by the year’s turning at Samhain. Here in western Massachusetts farm stands are filled with fruits and vegetables of every hue and flavor, tobacco and pumpkin fields are nearing harvest, and corn and hay are being harvested for livestock’s’ winter feed. The days are hazy and humid; thunderstorms are expected today. ‘there was a feeling in the air of change and departure,’ as Grahame wrote. Whether it is the turning of the season, or school shopping for my children, as they become third- and fifth-graders next week; or the knowledge that the cicada’s song will soon end, I’m not sure, but suddenly summer feels different.

           

Mabon is the second harvest, a time to gather what we’ve sown and share it for the good of all. What goodness have you sown? What can you give to serve a greater good? Celebrate your gifts; embrace change, so you might inspire others to give as well.

 

~*~ Many blessings, Bryony ~*~

           

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~Spell to Bless Your Oven~      

                      

A blessing on food and fed,

Earth and sun. All are one.

A blessing on your power.

Bless fire and food and maker

Bless seed and plant and baker.

Nourish us deeply,

Change us completely,

Teach us to nourish each other.

 

~Cait Johnson, Witch In The Kitchen

 

I have missed a month of the Bardic Arts column, and so was quite excited to return and find new poetry and prose to read and review. Our story contribution this month comes from Michael E Powell, and in his story Where could it be? he illustrates the confusion and loss we feel when we experience grief without closure. We are uncertain of ourselves and what we perceive to be real and good when we are seeking answers and an ending to our pain and frustration.

           

Written in honor of Litha, Lady Sayuri’s poem Solstice ties the gods and the seasons, opening the door to Summer with the start of the Oak King’s journey and ending with His death at Yuletide, a death that is a beginning, she tells us, “To bring back the warm sunlight.”

           

Katydid tells us of a powerful tool, a gift of such magic that it has the power to turn a person’s soul from despair to joy—A Single Smile. “A single word of kindness Can turn a life around…Who knows what can happen Because of a single smile?” This poem is just lovely in its simplicity and direction. Have you smiled at anyone today?

           

In Summer Sun, Gypsyknot seems to write of the summers of childhood when one found a cool spot in the grass, watching clouds float by, when “sleepy dreams fill our heads…thoughts of water”. Trips to the lake, catching fireflies at twilight, then in later years, sitting under the stars with the one you love. Gypsyknot’s love of this beautiful season shines through this poem.

           

Michael E Powell reappears in our poetry pages with An Irish Tale, a legend of Ireland’s heroes and histories told in rich Bardic style.

           

Gypsyknot’s second contribution this month is a study of something we take for granted every day—I know I do, anyway. Take a look at your hands. What do these hands say to you? What do they mean? Today mine have written, then typed this review, mixed batter for a blueberry cake, and set a band-aid to a little scratched finger, among many, many other things.

           

Gypsyknot’s stunning poem takes us for a stroll through a life of hard work and deep love, asking us to see and to care about their accomplishments and the tasks they have undertaken. The hands I marvel at are my children’s’: my son’s long slender fingers, so gentle when he touches my cheek; my daughter’s, still pudgy with lingering babyhood, covered with paint and magic marker. My mother’s hands, the soothing hands of a nurse, my father’s scarred carpenter’s hands. My own? I take notice of my hands when I’m cooking, cursing when hot oil splatters; when my daughter grasps my fingers as we cross a street, or when my son fishes the keys out of the tangle of grocery bags I hold to unlock the door for me. “These hands, they hold so much…” But how often do we see that?

           

Katydid appears in our Bardic Arts pages again as well (I love repeat contributors…it’s like visiting good friends!) with a title that I am thinking of turning into a bumper sticker for my car. I am pagan. Hear me roar! Katydid and I are of like mind, I think. I will live my day-to-day existence in harmony with my gods and myself. If you ask my religion I will proudly answer, but I am not going to try to shove my dogma down your throat. “In quietness and solitude, I find my strength.” I am Pagan. If you listen with your heart and an open mind, you can hear me roar.

           

Katydid’s celebration of Paganism comes midway through the year’s turning as Lammas hovers on the horizon and farm stands bear the gifts of this first harvest festival.

I always look forward to Lammas—we celebrate it as a midsummer Thanksgiving, with a table laden with the season’s finest and a goodwill brought about by long sunny days. The knowledge of winter’s coming is lurking on the edge of our consciousness—I’ve already begun freezing berries for Yule and Christmas pies, and canning tomatoes for sauce—but on a day like today, with a rich blue sky smiling above and a saucy breeze setting my neighbor’s wind chimes singing, winter seems like a dream, a wish on a star that may never come true.

           

I hope you all are able to celebrate the fruits of your labor. Be proud of the work you do, of the parent you are; be proud of your children’s accomplishments and your own successes. Summertime is a happy time, a time to celebrate growth and achievement and earnest effort. Celebrate yourself!

           

Many blessings, Bryony

             

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Don’t be polite.

                                    Bite in.

                                    Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that

                                    may run down your chin.

                                    It is ready and ripe now, wherever you are.

 

                                    You do not need a knife or fork or spoon

                                    or plate or napkin or tablecloth.

 

                                    For there is no core

                                    or stem

                                    or rind

                                    or pit

                                    or seed

                                    or skin

                                    to throw away.

                                                           

                                                How to Eat a Poem, Eve Merriam

 

Poetry graces our Bardic Arts column this month, all written by incredibly talented poets. Thank you all for sharing your vision.

           

Lady Sayuri’s “Realm of Enchantment” brings to mind a garden I once saw in Rockport Massachusetts. ‘Such a wondrous garden That’s nestled on the sea’; it is a vision I treasure, with roses pouring over a wall and trees shading secret nooks, silent except for birdsong and the sound of the sea behind it. I recall too, that my very words on seeing it were ‘How enchanting.’ Lady Sayuri has brought us to that beautiful place of magick and solitude.

           

Gypsyknot brings us another thought-provoking piece, causing us to look within to address our own turnings and the paths we might have tread. We walk the seasons of life in “A Poem of Turnings”. When the sun sets on your final season, will you smile, content, knowing strife has ended and a time of peace begins, or will you mourn the choices you made, longing for one more spring to make amends?

           

Stephanie Pflumm continues to work her magick with words in “The Stone and The River”. Who hasn’t felt her anger, railing against Fate and whichever deity has seemingly tampered with our lives, causing things to happen we don’t choose? Her response is sublime: ‘I drive to the River to consider the changes that seemed expected of me.’

           

As the water carries away her anger, listen to its song. Rushing water, pouring over and around rocks and tree trunks, sparkling and flashing in the sunlight, carries with it all of our frustrations and none of our hope. Washing away all that is harmful, it leaves us with the hope that each new day the ‘rough edges are smoother, carving a new face, creating a new song every day.’

           

In “The Sidhe” by Owlfin Sidhe legends come alive. From their arrival to Celtic realms to their exile and mysterious lingerings the Sidhe peer from behind the words, drifting in their own time. Perhaps they still wait, knowing they will have their time again. After all, a lifetime to mortals is but a heartbeat to the Old Ones.

           

Crick shares with us a mountain, one we all struggle to climb and conquer, but as we reach the summit there lies another one, and beyond that another. “The Mountain of Life” is not conquered easily, as Crick shares with us. As we climb, weary and determine, we achieve only partial success: ‘The mountain that I stand upon But a bump in the road, The long journey but a moment in time, A single breath in the scheme of things.’

           

We can’t beat this thing called “Life” so easily. It is a long difficult climb, but in the end it’s worth the struggle.

           

In my wanderings and musings and ‘What-will-I-write-about-this-month’s?’ I stumbled across inspiration in a rather unlikely location—a second grade classroom. While one would hope that one would find literature of value in any classroom, something of this caliber is rather unexpected for the eight-year old crowd. The words of Carlos Drummond De Andrade leapt from the page and invaded my mind with little dissembling. What do we look for as writers when we pick up our pens, when we turn to a deliciously pristine page? What are we looking for when we find ourselves gazing out the window, having taken our attention from the screensaver that has been scrolling across the monitor for the last five minutes? (Currently the word “harmony” is bouncing around on my screen like a rabid squirrel—I think it’s a bit out of keeping with the message I was trying to convey to myself.)

                                   

Looking For Poetry

Carlos Drummond De Andrade *

 

Don’t write poems about what’s happening.

Nothing is born or dies in poetry’s presence.

Next to it, life is a static sun                              

without warmth or light.

Friendships, birthdays, personal matters don’t count.

Don’t write poems with the body,

that excellent, whole, and comfortable body objects to lyrical outpouring.

Your anger, your grimace of pleasure or pain in the dark

mean nothing.

Don’t show off your feelings

That are slow in coming around and take advantage of doubt.

What you think and feel are not poetry yet.

 

Don’t sing about your city, leave it in peace.

Song is not the movement of machines or the secret of houses.

It is not music heard in passing, noise of the sea in streets

that skirt the borders of foam.

Song is not nature

or men in society.

Rain and night, fatigue and hope, mean nothing to it.

Poetry (you don’t get it from things)

leaves out subject and object.

 

Don’t dramatize, don’t invoke,

don’t question, don’t waste time lying.

Don’t get upset.

Your ivory yacht, your diamond shoe,

your mazurkas and tirades, your family skeletons,

all of them worthless, disappear in the curve of time.

 

Don’t bring up

your sad and buried childhood.

Don’t waver between the mirror

and a fading memory.

What faded was not poetry.

What broke was not crystal.

                       

Enter the kingdom of words as if you were deaf.

Poems are there that want to be written.

They are dormant, but don’t be let down,

their virginal surfaces are fresh and serene.

They are alone and mute, in dictionary condition.

Live with your poems before you write them.

If they’re vague, be patient. If they offend, be calm.

Wait until each one comes into its own and demolishes

with its command of words

and its command of silence.

Don’t force poems to let go of limbo

Don’t pick up lost poems from the ground.

Don’t fawn over poems. Accept them

as you would their final and definitive form,

distilled in space.

                       

 Come close and consider the words.

 With a plain face hiding thousands of other faces

 and no with interest in your response,

 whether weak or strong,

 each word asks:

 Did you bring the key?

 

 Take note:

 words hide in the night

 in caves of music and image.

 still humid and pregnant with sleep

 they turn in a winding river and by neglect are transformed.

 

            ~Many blessings~    Bryony

 

* Sources:

“Looking For Poetry” by Carlos Drummond De Andrade.

“A Child’s Anthology of Poetry”, Sword, Elisabeth Hauge. Scholastic, Inc. New York, NY, 1995

 

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Sumer is icumen in,

Lhude sing cuccu!

Groweth sed and bloweth med