Happy Lupercalia to all
it seems that the shepherds up in the mountains liked to praise their most daunting enemy, the wolf, on this day in ancient rome. The she wolf mother who suckled romulus and remus got her due, in sacrifices of goats and dogs. blood was smeared on the foreheads of the specified revelrer, who the took up strips of freshly flayed goat skin and whipped people with them. young ladies wishing for fertility were especially glad to recieve the whip (of love not given lightly). It sounds tremendously akin to the bou jaloud festival that happens in jajouka in morrocco at the same time, where a young man is sewed into the skin of a goat, then whips the villagers with branches, followed by a lifetime of exile from his own village.
more here:
http://depthome.brooklyn.cuny.edu/classics/dunkle/romnlife/luprclia.htm
The legend of lupercalia goes on to include the myth of Lycanthropy, as certain villages would give their young sons in marriage to the she wolf in the hope that she would transform them into shape-shifters. more on therianthropy here:
http://www.liminalityland.com/spiritualitylycanthropy.htm
and finally, a sonnet which was composed for the she wolf three years ago on this date. my first official attempt at iambic pentameter, which was a perfect addition of formality to balance the shape shifting quality of the subject matter.
It was kind of a meditation on the night time howling of dogs left out on february nights; what prayers they would sing to their deity of choice as they shivered. Stoker's "children of the night" ("what sweet music they make". well if that statement was a question this would be the answer):
oh mother wolf, the stars are milk of thee
the earth below is but your very womb
the master comes to bind us to the tree
but we will shift and howl beneath the moon
no silver thread will keep us in tonight
no rope about our neck will make us fear
no arrow dip't in poison aconite
no lonely silver bullet musketeer
tonight our blood runs hot for love of thine
enchanting as they are that run with heat
their scent is like the flowerings of vines
so like a rose they are, both sharp and sweet
so mother take us deep into your cave
where we will learn about both womb and grave.
more here:
http://depthome.brooklyn.cuny.edu/classics/dunkle/romnlife/luprclia.htm
The legend of lupercalia goes on to include the myth of Lycanthropy, as certain villages would give their young sons in marriage to the she wolf in the hope that she would transform them into shape-shifters. more on therianthropy here:
http://www.liminalityland.com/spiritualitylycanthropy.htm
and finally, a sonnet which was composed for the she wolf three years ago on this date. my first official attempt at iambic pentameter, which was a perfect addition of formality to balance the shape shifting quality of the subject matter.
It was kind of a meditation on the night time howling of dogs left out on february nights; what prayers they would sing to their deity of choice as they shivered. Stoker's "children of the night" ("what sweet music they make". well if that statement was a question this would be the answer):
oh mother wolf, the stars are milk of thee
the earth below is but your very womb
the master comes to bind us to the tree
but we will shift and howl beneath the moon
no silver thread will keep us in tonight
no rope about our neck will make us fear
no arrow dip't in poison aconite
no lonely silver bullet musketeer
tonight our blood runs hot for love of thine
enchanting as they are that run with heat
their scent is like the flowerings of vines
so like a rose they are, both sharp and sweet
so mother take us deep into your cave
where we will learn about both womb and grave.