[Requiem for Bragi’s daughter]
[Requiem for Bragi’s daughter]
To what purpose the sweetest of rains bless
Succour and cleanse this body imperfecta
Bragi’s daughter, your name is of mockery
With crudely cut letters reversed and transposed
Denied clarity of thought necessary to redeem self
Yet gifts of honey and mead, the seductive charms of the old wanderer god
May yet bless in sips and not in draughts
Less self-importance belittle the fragility of unsure expression
And by these faltering paths the steadier voice of a mature vision speak
A sleep of a millennia, deep in earth swaddled in comforts
Rounded in expectancy, awaiting the life yet given
Where keening dirges were sung as your tomb closed to this world
The last gifts adorning your sacred sepulchre
Now her shield is again risen, the energies gathered
A host of divinity, only Balder followed men of earth to pyre and grave
Ships upon the endless seas, treasures seeking no future possessor
Set into the twilight realms, down to greet Hel at her skeletal gate
Famine and hunger at her table, guests that know her countenance well
A singular life I possess, one gathered among many
To enter the halls of my ancestors willingly when called
Yet learning the strength of will to stay my duration here
Would I cast myself as sacrifice, ask for the runes to be cut deep upon my searching tongue?
Turning my hand to the work of the old gods..
If they would counter a deal on such poor returns
Yet one purpose known and called carries greater honour in its singular dedication.
I may yet walk the earth upon many native soils
Those blessed with your knowledge given,
And those left needing a solution they cannot recall
From within a psyche in the rawest state of being
Beneath the layers committed to social memory
The oldest of recollections, blood and heat, the signs of gods and the battles they fought
I was cradled in her shield as though an infant
That to my future children I could give the same gifts
Yet without her strengths and grace, my lessons must be illusions to a better path
Knowing no teacher can seek for a pupil a destiny hard won
Or give of themselves the sacrifices expected along this journey
I can sooth but not heal, it is not my place
My humanity makes me futile in action to save others
Yet this path I have sought and endeavoured to walk upon
has blessed me for every sacrifice made
For the times I turned away from help and drew greater strengths
That in need I have found those to comfort when I am too proud to ask such of anyone
My eyes are star burned, my throat dry
Cracked under the starvation of intellect and desire
Blossoms again when succoured anew
Who guards the shield maidens as we fall?
Hands that reach and clasp, drawing me again towards life
Though Hel waits, impassionate and poised
Knowing to her these dues are paid
Calculated with a mind that waits on eternity
I wonder which of my realities hold the greater truths
The symbolic, this mythology of self and origin
Or does the fragility of this flesh speak the dominant tongue
perhaps in suffering is taught that equal to ecstatic vision
Or can we speak of greater ambitions, and step towards the keening grave earnestly?
In passing moments to seek the greater sum of life,
Ceasing my querulous spirit, silencing the tempests of challenge before challenge sought
To distinguish those challenges faced knowingly and those created
Testing the skills I have yet learned
Trying against the greater strength to learn again in my failure
To strike at a future point, with lesson well learned
To learn before the grave, these illusory goals
To lighten the burden we carry, easing heavier hearts
My self machinations, entertainment for the reserved intellect
To witness dances of self and learn by their shadows cast
To enter the final halls without shames
Learning to live life well, and with kindness fair, when precious such is given
References:
Bragi is the Norse god equivalent of a skald or poet. The runes discovered by Odin after shamanic ritual are literally cut into his tongue and he then shares his gift for poetry.
I have written poems before calling myself his ungrateful daughter by failing to be dedicated enough to word craft to warrant his patronage or to undergo a ritual dedication such at his. As in this poem I use the poem mockingly as a challenge to both my creative ability and my faith.
‘Yet gifts of honey and mead, the seductive charms of the old wanderer god / May yet bless in sips and not in draughts’
The mead of poetry is a story from Norse myth, Odin changes shapes and uses many tricks including seduction to take the mead of poetry from the giants/trolls who want to keep it for themselves. He takes most of the three draughts home to Asgard for the gods but as he flies in bird shape back some of the precious mead is sprinkled on Midgard/Earth making poetry a gift from the gods…
‘Now her shield is again risen, the energies gathered’
Freyja has been my main patron for many years, I think her blend of sexuality and spell craft resonates with me as well as strongly sensing her presence.
She is a battle maiden and a lover, a wife and someone who pushes herself beyond the levels of what the others gods alone could do except Odin, but both divinities share their lessons learned.
’A host of divinity, only Balder followed men of earth to pyre and grave’
Balder is the only god (son of Odin) who dies during the myth cycle before Ragnarok, therefore the story tells how his funeral is held, and how his spirit descends to Helheim (the pre-Christian land of the dead) and of his encounter with the ruler of that realm, the impassionate goddess Hel.
‘Ships upon the endless seas’ talks of his funeral rites and burial at see by burning ship laden with his body, his wifes body after dying of grief and many treasures, and of his meeting with Hel afterwards.
‘Famine and hunger at her table’
The myths talk of the knife and fork of Hel having these names.
‘entertainment for the reserved intellect’
Not a mythological reference but I often feel that my writing is the product of a mind that often keeps power in reserve, to grant me this gift to express in more vivid terms than I would be able to if would express more at a lower level of power more consistently…
To what purpose the sweetest of rains bless
Succour and cleanse this body imperfecta
Bragi’s daughter, your name is of mockery
With crudely cut letters reversed and transposed
Denied clarity of thought necessary to redeem self
Yet gifts of honey and mead, the seductive charms of the old wanderer god
May yet bless in sips and not in draughts
Less self-importance belittle the fragility of unsure expression
And by these faltering paths the steadier voice of a mature vision speak
A sleep of a millennia, deep in earth swaddled in comforts
Rounded in expectancy, awaiting the life yet given
Where keening dirges were sung as your tomb closed to this world
The last gifts adorning your sacred sepulchre
Now her shield is again risen, the energies gathered
A host of divinity, only Balder followed men of earth to pyre and grave
Ships upon the endless seas, treasures seeking no future possessor
Set into the twilight realms, down to greet Hel at her skeletal gate
Famine and hunger at her table, guests that know her countenance well
A singular life I possess, one gathered among many
To enter the halls of my ancestors willingly when called
Yet learning the strength of will to stay my duration here
Would I cast myself as sacrifice, ask for the runes to be cut deep upon my searching tongue?
Turning my hand to the work of the old gods..
If they would counter a deal on such poor returns
Yet one purpose known and called carries greater honour in its singular dedication.
I may yet walk the earth upon many native soils
Those blessed with your knowledge given,
And those left needing a solution they cannot recall
From within a psyche in the rawest state of being
Beneath the layers committed to social memory
The oldest of recollections, blood and heat, the signs of gods and the battles they fought
I was cradled in her shield as though an infant
That to my future children I could give the same gifts
Yet without her strengths and grace, my lessons must be illusions to a better path
Knowing no teacher can seek for a pupil a destiny hard won
Or give of themselves the sacrifices expected along this journey
I can sooth but not heal, it is not my place
My humanity makes me futile in action to save others
Yet this path I have sought and endeavoured to walk upon
has blessed me for every sacrifice made
For the times I turned away from help and drew greater strengths
That in need I have found those to comfort when I am too proud to ask such of anyone
My eyes are star burned, my throat dry
Cracked under the starvation of intellect and desire
Blossoms again when succoured anew
Who guards the shield maidens as we fall?
Hands that reach and clasp, drawing me again towards life
Though Hel waits, impassionate and poised
Knowing to her these dues are paid
Calculated with a mind that waits on eternity
I wonder which of my realities hold the greater truths
The symbolic, this mythology of self and origin
Or does the fragility of this flesh speak the dominant tongue
perhaps in suffering is taught that equal to ecstatic vision
Or can we speak of greater ambitions, and step towards the keening grave earnestly?
In passing moments to seek the greater sum of life,
Ceasing my querulous spirit, silencing the tempests of challenge before challenge sought
To distinguish those challenges faced knowingly and those created
Testing the skills I have yet learned
Trying against the greater strength to learn again in my failure
To strike at a future point, with lesson well learned
To learn before the grave, these illusory goals
To lighten the burden we carry, easing heavier hearts
My self machinations, entertainment for the reserved intellect
To witness dances of self and learn by their shadows cast
To enter the final halls without shames
Learning to live life well, and with kindness fair, when precious such is given
References:
Bragi is the Norse god equivalent of a skald or poet. The runes discovered by Odin after shamanic ritual are literally cut into his tongue and he then shares his gift for poetry.
I have written poems before calling myself his ungrateful daughter by failing to be dedicated enough to word craft to warrant his patronage or to undergo a ritual dedication such at his. As in this poem I use the poem mockingly as a challenge to both my creative ability and my faith.
‘Yet gifts of honey and mead, the seductive charms of the old wanderer god / May yet bless in sips and not in draughts’
The mead of poetry is a story from Norse myth, Odin changes shapes and uses many tricks including seduction to take the mead of poetry from the giants/trolls who want to keep it for themselves. He takes most of the three draughts home to Asgard for the gods but as he flies in bird shape back some of the precious mead is sprinkled on Midgard/Earth making poetry a gift from the gods…
‘Now her shield is again risen, the energies gathered’
Freyja has been my main patron for many years, I think her blend of sexuality and spell craft resonates with me as well as strongly sensing her presence.
She is a battle maiden and a lover, a wife and someone who pushes herself beyond the levels of what the others gods alone could do except Odin, but both divinities share their lessons learned.
’A host of divinity, only Balder followed men of earth to pyre and grave’
Balder is the only god (son of Odin) who dies during the myth cycle before Ragnarok, therefore the story tells how his funeral is held, and how his spirit descends to Helheim (the pre-Christian land of the dead) and of his encounter with the ruler of that realm, the impassionate goddess Hel.
‘Ships upon the endless seas’ talks of his funeral rites and burial at see by burning ship laden with his body, his wifes body after dying of grief and many treasures, and of his meeting with Hel afterwards.
‘Famine and hunger at her table’
The myths talk of the knife and fork of Hel having these names.
‘entertainment for the reserved intellect’
Not a mythological reference but I often feel that my writing is the product of a mind that often keeps power in reserve, to grant me this gift to express in more vivid terms than I would be able to if would express more at a lower level of power more consistently…