Wednesday, April 15, 2009

The Serpent and the Maypole

The wyrm has wormed its way throughout the world, strangling, constricting, and squeezing out. Every last patch of earth now has its warlords and bands of bullies, and no longer swords and spears, but guns, automatic weapons, grenades, launchers, torture-apparati. Misery shrinks the territory of free, peaceful men, and the world is crawling with the cold-blooded reptilian tribes intent on territory and meat, each lizard clan one scale on the scaled leviathan's continents-long wyrmbody, with dark black explosion smoke laughter-billowing and strange mind-twisted justifications, as it squirms and writhes throughout the thorned thickets of the world's blessed body, leaving barbed wire bone trails wherever it slithers. Darkness in the minds of men, this side against that side against that side chopping, hacking, noosing, lassoing, snagging, enslaving, insectoid labor armies marching every which way, and wherever it worms, its fangs drip spewed venom slobber corroding, distorting, perverting creatures, nature's laws, sad famine adaptations and thick-skinned adrenal bedlam as forked-tongue lisps cold serpentine intrusions and encroachments along coastlines and riverbeds : orcification, wolfification, gleaming strangulation of Midgard's frith and freedom. So many shells of inangards pitted, plundered, lairs and dens of blood and bite and venom as new breeds hatch, infest, and reclaim Midgard's plains for monstrous, senseless pandemonium and shell-shocked, everyday-blase horror.

Once bold protectors sailed in sleet craft along blue, cloud-foamed oceans of atmospheric air seeking out trouble and saving. Blessed Hodur, hunting out dragons and monsters encroaching on world, seeking, taking on, vanquishing, warding world's holiness with strong-arm salvation and righteousness. The serpent's father insured the Alcis were sent helward so his sons might have a feast and field day for ages on end. Who will do the Dioscuri's work now that they lay in the underworld 'till this age's end? Which heroes stand and say, I will not stand to see beloved Jord invaded, infested, filth-and-slime infiltrated? Who shall cleanse?

In days of Ermanerich monsters moved in, began their barbed-wire encampments and empires while the Gods, Aurboda-caused, lay feuding, and the coiling venom foe-of-Thor sinuous-ventured inward, to take Ironwood genetics and breed poison-deformations throughout world, with strangulations and evil thorn-following the holy vine's bramble-meanderings.

Then Frodi vine-strangled stranglers, weaving green-tendril'd nets of life resurgent in dancing pulsation, through and through and thick and through, to chase out winter's barren dustbowl minions, and there, Robin Hood upon the plains, meadows rolled out and unfolding district by district with the battle of the trees against the orcs, Robin surveying. And when he first stepped onto the fresh earth, what nightmare quick flashed across his ever-smiling lips as he took in the territory taken by the wyrm's slimy tanglings, and wondered how world could be so tainted. Then merry-men envoys emissaried into every town and hamlet, known world-wide to sing and make spring motions of dance laugh and live amongst the shell-shocked folk, and dream of revolutions. Freedom won't stay put, looks on venom-drugged zombies and imagines awakenings, pulls out the pipe and leads out the children from cities of the dead. We are the humble missionaries of Freyr with wild-eyed visions of dionysian evangelism spreading wildfire revolution against the serpent-riding wolf-ogres, and raise the banner of Frodi's Frith, a world-wide celebration, a freols, the ongoing victory-dance that stirs up men again to stand on two feet and sing their rights with bold voice, and gather fruits together for communion feasts proclaiming, peace on earth! good will towards men! Vanaheim's Father Christmas declaring Yule a permanent kingdom on this earth.

Serpent's father taunts Freyr with Muspel's Men bringing fire, doom-spells, and king-counseling of better safe with brutal bodyguards and Volund-salvaged golems smashing laughter sex uprisings, but the song of freedom sings along, scattering and reassembling. With merriment, with acts of kindness and courage, strong men settling feuds and petty nonsense (whose flames Heid's curses would fan), gardeners and gatherers retake their place restoring Eden to venom-scarred Mother Earth's jungles and plains. Every desert shall be greened, even ants shall cease their warfare. Not today. Not tomorrow. We plant tiny seeds of viridian chaparral that germinate when fires come. And when the fires come, our fruits shall have their bounty, but before, freedom's strong arms muscle out encroachers to plant industrious gards of frith. Jormungand, we strike your wand to make a Maypole!


Blogger Morning Angel said...

Mayday, I think, is that pagan holiday that resonates most loudly within me. First, it is because I am a gardener of a line of gardeners, mother and grandmother-blessed, and I cannot say just how far back it goes, this soil in our blood. Second, dancing the Maypole was the one ritual I performed as a child that had absolutely no Christian rationale.

So it was in May that I received my initiations into the mysteries of Spring.

5:55 AM  

Post a Comment

<< Home