Bragi Tea

Bragi

A warm and spicy blend for the Skald Himself.

This is how I imagine poetry tastes like, sweet, slightly spicy, and warming.

Offer this to Bragi, share a cup with Him, or simply enjoy as you peruse a book of poetry. Also a fortification whilst writing your own stories or songs!

Comes in a 20 serving bag of 1 tsp per cup of water.

Have a look at Bragi’s devotional tea, or check out my other devotional teas. I’m currently fleshing out Northern Gods, but definitely have plans for a few other region’s Gods in the future!

 

And of course, my fantastical teas, which will be based on delicious foods and drinks to be found in fantastical stories. Currently, there is only Butterbeer, but I am working on Turkish Delight (no worries, I won’t be putting any evil magick inside the tea, compelling you to betray your siblings most horribly πŸ˜‰ ).

❀

A Month (or two) for Baldr – XXII – A Quote

A quote, poem, or piece of writing that you think this deity resonates strongly with.”

This one clicked itself as I was perusing Yeat’s poems again.

`Three dear things that women know,’
Sang a bone upon the shore;
`A man if I but held him so
When my body was alive
Found all the pleasure that life gave’:
A bone wave-whitened and dried in the wind.

-“Three Things” W. B. Yeats

February for Manannan – 25 A Poem

Land of Legends

by Stephen Lewis Ingham Pettit

Some say in the distant dawn the giant hand
of Finn MacCumhal* once hurled this land –
(a tiny clod of earth, to him)
and missed his Scottish foe;

so here it lies, an island given birth
by superhuman force, between old kingdoms.
But how grand, to us, this realm of mountain shapes
and sunset skies and racing shadows!
A place of faery pastures,
of golden gorse,
of cairns of olden tyme and tales of long ago.

Yet we who dwell here know
we set our feet where once immortals trod,
who left their magic here. Here –
is the sometime throne of the ocean god,
Mannanan,
by which his cloak of mists invisible became
a plaything of his starry will- Here,
every mountain rill
whispers enchantment still,
murmurs the old god’s name.

2nd June, 1973 (*Pronounced MacCool)

February for Manannan – 23 A Song

Hail Manannan
by Coyote Bird’s Flame

Hail Manannan, Son of the Sea,
Father of mist and tender of dreams,
Lord of all worlds, I call unto Thee
Lend a branch of silver to me.

With golden apples and delicate chime
To part the veil ‘tween space and time.
O Thou who art our guide divine
Lead us true, our imbas to find.

There is a well nine hazel trees ring,
that cast their fruits in the sacred spring,
Where salmon swim and silver birds sing
Five streams from there Thy wisdom do bring.

If imbas you seek for song and for spell
Drink ye deep from both streams and well.
Now travel by star, by wave, and by swell
In Tir na n’Og does Manannan dwell.

With Manannan’s branch assured is our way.
We of good heart we never shall stray.
From dusk til dawn, tween night and day
Lead ever true, for this we do pray.

From isle to isle and from shore to shore,
We wind a path through the ancient lore.
From river to stream, from loch to moor,
O Son of the Sea, Thy mist we adore.

February for Manannan – 19 A Sonnet

Sonnet: Prayer to Manannan

by Bard Oskan

God of the sea, your truth in laughter rings
the sage’s staff and triton held upraised
your clever guises humbled hearts of kings
and from the meek inspired resounding praise

resplendent crane of princely scarlet brow
together with your steeds accomplice make
lifegiving flesh of salmon and of sow
are gracious yours to give and ours to take

lend strength to me, great father of the sea
a wiser soul and kinder I shall be

February for Manannan – 13 A Poem

Lines to Mannanan

by Stephen Lewis Ingham Pettit

Out of the pathway of light,
out of the misty sea
rising as a seal arises from the waves,
a Shape comes, dark and shining,
coming as it were from deeps in which the stars were born
in the time before time.
The rime of oceans is upon the form
that slowly shakes aside the tide of dreams, that writhes
a storm of diamonds away
to stand above the sea gigantic and astride
from curve to curve of all the globe of day.
So came Mannanan to the world of men.

Then fathers of all races trembled in their caves
and the dragon shivered
that had cowed them in their primal dawn,
and slunk away
to hide in some dread cavern
dismal-dark and deep
where Night and Death
mate in the slimy spray.

But listen! The sibilance of the sea
weaves silences to tapestries of fear –
the voices of the gulls grow urgent to the ear,
eerie and eternal. At last,
theΒ THUNDER !
Such a sound, as though Hell were opened
and all the mountains fell.

The Lord of the Skies stands here
and the lonely shore
lies gleaming, awakening,
a quivering waste of sand.

Paint on this grey canvas
fantasies and myths, what more
is Truth? Is it not strange enough
woven of galaxies
all less than grains of sand
scattered into grander patterns
where they lie in the vortex of the Wind
that plays with all things?

Do you not see before you
in that inner land beyond your eyes
the whirling shapes take form; forbidden things,
forgotten realms and half-remembered gods,
where the future and the past all lie
frozen images beneath an empty sky
awaiting the rough kiss of Chance;
or call it if you will, Desire:
or think of it as Fate.

Magnificent is the state
of such a dream,
for we are of it only,
without it have no life and lack the vital fire.
“How should you see me , else,
who move within your self; for I
am of the secret places of the height
concealed in my mists
beyond all summits,
above far pinnacles of ranges hidden from your sight
but deeper than all deeps.

For within Me sleeps the monster. I
touch with life yet smite with death,
must hide in a cloudy cloak,
lest I see my face in the waters
again.
Is it an easy matter, then, to be
a deity?

Immune from the caprice of Time,
imprisoned for all eternity in the sublime
inescapable ecstasy of knowledge, knowing
all things beautiful
but marred that I know pain?
Shall you wonder if your gods grow angry,
if in torment they seem insane?

Forgive them. The earth they cast in careless rage
is stuff of Paradise!
Your heritage – behold it –
proclaims how the gods are wise:
every flower that blows upon the hills
shames a star that delights the skies of Heaven.”

Pagan Blog Project – W is for The Wild Hunt

Γ…sgΓ₯rdsreien (1872) by Peter Nicolai Arbo

Γ…sgΓ₯rdsreien (1872) by Peter Nicolai Arbo

The Wild Hunt

written by Miaerowyn

My God is out hunting, He yearns for the kill
Howling and thundering upon the stormy gale
My God is out hunting, only death will make Him still

In darkest wood, blustering field and wind-torn hill
His host searches for His unwilling prey
My God is out hunting, He yearns for the kill

The scent is caught, His wolves close in at will
Hunger glowing in their dark eyes, they will not fail
My God is out hunting, only death will make Him still

Long moments pass, then all becomes still
A breath is taken, the prey yet whole and hale
My God is out hunting, He yearns for the kill

Silent in turning to move from the dread chill
Directly into His figure the prey jumps with a wail
My God is out hunting, only death will make Him still

A spear through the heart, He cries out at the thrill
The prey carried to His hall to be devoured with ale
My God is out hunting, He yearns for the kill
My God is out hunting, only death will make him still

When The Frost is on the Punkin

When The Frost is on the Punkin
by James Whitcomb Riley (1853-1916)

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guineys and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as her tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then the time a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here–
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock–
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries–kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below–the clover overhead!–
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

Then your apples all is gethered, and teh ones a feller keeps
Is poured around teh cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;
And your cider-makin’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!…
I don’t know how to tell it–but ef such a thing could be
As the angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me
I’d want to ‘commodate ’em–all the whole-indurin’ flock–
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

 

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company;
I gazed – and gazed – but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

-William Woordsworth

Sources:

  • Image: Bobbie Burgers

The End

The end of the semester from hell has come and passed! Yay! I now only have a week and a half off just before I go back for more classes during the summer. Thankfully, I’m only taking two courses – Studies in Poetry and History from 1900-1945. They’re the courses that are required on top of my music courses, but I decided to take them during the summer because I can, and I’m glad I chose to do it that way, let me tell you!

So some interesting news, my school choir, and some previous members to fill it out, were asked to perform for Video Games Live! It was pretty awesome. And to show how awesome our group is… lol… we had to sing a completely new piece we’d never seen before the day of the first performance! Go us… we totally rocked it, so it ended well, that’s for sure πŸ™‚ They asked us to perform again with them on the 18th of May, so woot! More singing moneys πŸ™‚

Anywho… Beltaine is on its way! I’m incredibly excited, this is one of my favourite holidays, and not just because of the obvious πŸ˜‰ It’s crazy that I’ve been writing this blog for just about a year now! Eek! And that means it’s almost my birthday too πŸ™‚ I’m quite excited for the coming summer, all sorts of prospects… and rest, much needed rest. Thank goodness I’m only going to school two days a week πŸ™‚