Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Vanir : The Family of Fire

For there is a family of fire, see,
warmers of world, whose summer-lands
tropical sauna the earth's fruit in western
ways ; there, the Sun's Daughters, long-lineage,
had their original odal, shining maidens,
Mother and Daughter and Grand-daughters,
all amazons, valkyries fierce, with flaming
hair of the gold and red, barley-bright,
who fiercely yield good in warm abundance.
The fire's family : father of flame's son
warmed the seas, that life sprouted and finned,
delved and swam ; whose half-sister, Night's Maid,
in her own way warmed and wetted Ymir's flesh,
that flowers, first formed from elven children's foundries,
blossomed on newly washed meadows,
where Ocean and Earth's only children
twin-danced in the corn and upon the shores' foam.
There nine daughters of roaring sea churned
the mill-stone's augur, the blazing brother of Odin
bright, whose light fertilized the flame that burst forth
pure and wise, that keen ram of gold Heimdall.
Flaming-father's son of silver : ivory-boned Mani,
whose argent beams pierce the vargs, bathing
Night in ever-so-cool warmth. Then that Most Famous
Miracle-Maiden, Muspelheim's Crucible Queen,
Gold of the Heavens, fiery father's daughter Sol,
the Unconquerable, the Mighty, Benevolent.
(The two bastards, 'bandoned, and fed by monsters,
we shall not name in holy precincts, though even their
lineage of light and fire surrounds their wicked forms.)
In these meadows first began that Art of old
where mind-upon-mind, with souls a'touching,
wyrd was warped, and blessings bent
from ill directions, holy all until that maiden
forth from Jotunheim didst come, and wrack
the Art to cold-heart crumble souls of men
in cursed days. Not for these days was Lovecraeft
of Fire's Family formed! And She whose Panther-
paws pounced the violet petals blessed
and graced the Art with new love. So
Here the first home of sweetness sang the sun-clan
to green the ground upon the hall-stones, for warmth
and laughter were their ways, lovers of life. They pacted
proud with the wizard's warriors, to ward the world.
That seemed good and fair, for world needed
warding : giants there were, monsters perilous,
and life must have its way against the entropy. They
sealed the deal : a good alliance! And so it was.

O Sol!

O Sol! Praise bright-burning Sun!
The ill-dispelling light
that shall not be hindered by day
She thousand-beamed grants
to all the Earth's million children,
four- or two-legged, feathered or furred,
whom shadows shall not engulf
'tween rise and fall of the rosy disc;
for she banishes mist, making trees
to be naked and chaste. Her eye
further sees than Heimdall's, and none
may obscure or make opaque
what she, benevolent, transparences,
and x-ray eyes, like all is glass,
that secrets, yielded up, speak righteous,
or wrong, and wrongs evaporate,
washed up in the fire her glistening disc
yields; say cheer, say fierce, relentless cheer
undarkened by approach of night, she offers,
to all who would stand beneath her
and declare their truth forth-right.
Dark wights vanish and turn to stone
beneath her ruthless gaze of good,
for she bears no nonsense in her grip
that greens the stony palace-floors of Earth.
Herbs and rounded petal-stalks need warming ;
calves and colts and fawns crave heat. She has
blessings to scatter, boons to share; and every day,
her sole joy to strong-arm sun-gift all joy
growing things need to waken fruition.
Call her general of life's armies of light,
Lady Formidable, whose eyes are hard
to meet, her smiles ferocious, her grace
savage and proud, mead-horn brim-spill
with fresh and daily dignity, shared out.
You may stand in honor under her light.
She is the Mistress of Day, the Queen
of the whole Orbit's Pageant, around whom
all flock that she might waken to woman's
joy, and men, in good giving and grace.
Reading wyrd risted on hemoglobin
or chlorophyll, she knows, just little less
than Urd, Great Grandmother, herself ;
seeing through you, seeing all of you,
you might find your self-concept cleansed
when she sees, searing, through any darkness
now dispelled. Come into the light.
Sol a'welcomes you. We welcome her, hail Sol!

Searing Blanchette

Searing, Blanchette
she might be called,
bleacher, blaze-maiden
burning forth light
that draws out dirt
incinerate. Through forests'
dark-armed leaf-elders
her hurled beams search
and find all ill, thoughts
that waver from solid paths,
scrutinize the shadows of day.
No wight of woe withstands
that valkyrie's fiery shafts,
for off she chases all wiles
in her regal ferocity of might.
Slowly she sky-avenue strolls,
and if she sees designs of harm,
or any sully of innocence, she burns,
burns out those plans, whether deep
or shallow, and what remains?
However thin, only purity. Only
purity remains : pure,
in these days, from unspoken
elder days of shame, shrouded, no
more, she blesses royal intolerance
of shameful intent with searing shine,
a gift, to men, ensuring better days
for young and old alike. Let warmth
green your grass, guide your growth,
she would have you upright,
and disciplined, decorate
for the shining pageant. Always salute
her as she fire-rides by. She is Elder Aunt,
an amazon, to August's fruit-season
twin ushers, that laughter's lord
and lady, who beneath
her flaming gown of dripped gold
light-dropping in tongues of fire
that oven-etch the grain tawny,
they dance. So you might, if
your heart is pure. Show her.
Show this disc-bearing maiden of light
your golden-white pure heart,
and she will bless you, bless you
all your days, for day is hers
to shine. May Sol ever be blessed with Heill!

Weland's Lament

Master's piece, the peak
of my powers they shunned,
that tossed, my greatest gifts
might tumble into swampy shame.
I who eons had woven and forged
arts and wondercrafts wyrd
and delightful! Whom the highest
heavens adorned with joy,
gild-etched painstaking, detail
by detail, never once complaint!
Craftsman, the best, I learned
from the lowest and foremost.
But those dwarven powers, I swear,
I surpassed, and my gifts ought
prove it! They do! Had I not?
Are life achievements
spirit-poured blood drop by blood
drop, golden light from the veins,
to be mocked? Set striving like raffles
of ridicule, to taunt? My life's work,
to win honor for my folk, that they
might be praised in feasts of Holy Gods.
We spin the flowers! Set strings
of grass woven soil and hillock!
To soft placenta of deer, our maidens
wet-carry in wings white as down
that fruit, who warmed, babies bring.
Have you seen the Spring? For sure
the Lord and Lady frolick, but we,
attend, and weave that wealth
from winter's desert. Long months
of underground tinker and toil.
For certain, we play! Yet that play's
a task, a work of wonder, and ought,
it seems to my very sharp ears,
be praised! Why not? Wouldn't you?
Arts of brewing in yore we mastered,
that saps of world's mead-tree
might immortal youth bring
the Gods' gladdened faces to light,
and we did! We wished the wealthy sea's child
to come, be crowned as king in our dancing land!
And when harvests were needed, or psalms
to soothe, we learned new arts and harped out
songs that sang green sap into shoots,
making fruit from blossomed tune. Perhaps
you've seen a ship : study of swans,
we white-bone ivory-carved marvels of sail,
that like a skin of feathers folded up
might pocket find den and home there.
Those "boats" clumsy men make
are bastard descendants
of that ship-mother's maiden we swan-drew
of yore. That was a deed to boast of!
We downed ale men might think adder's
venom, so potent, like wash of water to us
in toasting. Those were good days!
And could God, High Father's thought
pierce through all stone and marble,
clouds and air, like spear to reach
the furthest stretch? From what sapling
would you gild a shaft so mighty,
yet hollow, filled with wind of thought
All-father charges? We did. Oh yes,
we did. Found that shoot, I'll not say here,
and hollowed, gilded, steel and ore-melt,
silvered-finish, wrapped and gave,
free of charge. Free of charge! We gave
to give! And so these you cheapen,
tumble down, made slander-fest
for cackling troll's sons? I think not!
Call me mad, my whole elfin heart rebels,
I'll not still it, nor be had. Time is ripe
to leave these haunts, let them wonder :
whence the ones who once had warded
harvests' crafts from monsters' doom?
Won't it seem then whether worthless
or priceless all those deeds we forged of old?
Time will tell ; I'll place my bet.