The Oracle

It’s there, just budding over the horizon, stealing the southern sky. Ares lends his fiery hands to the creation of the occult. Cronos plays his cold eye over the form of Skorpios’s pincers, watching, waiting, to see if the scorpion will strike.

Its heart brightens, myth and hymn of Antares. The notes mingle into form, and she can feel the mix of auric flow, a cosmic shift in the subtle ripples of being. A vibrational change along the strands of the Web.

Her staff thumps in time to the earth; primal drums beckoning her pilgrimage. She calls to spirit, bird, and bone, waking ancient blood within the veins of time.

She burns in fire beneath the silken planes of her flesh. Seething flame licking nerves and spinal distraction. A cold determined glare fixes its stained facade over passionate soul, and she tips her head back, opening her throat in otherworldly incantation. Her vision is twenty-twenty, here among the Others.

The sting of the Scorpion reminds her that she is still living among the Earth. She comes back down, she lowers her calculating gaze toward the blood of Stone.

Emotions roil and rage under the surface, Ares’s charge to battle. But the fire within is covered in dirt, cold soil of the fatherly control of a Titan.

Still she sees and understands, that to smother the flames of this aggression is to meet cold death. Control is necessary at times, but the rising sign of the Scorpion to the south, the god of her name day, they cannot be ignored.

Cronos will convert passion to reason, intuition to logic. And where will she be led to then? When magic is nonsense and the Earth is dying? Who will fight then, if not her?

She thumps her staff in rhythm to the drums once again, calling on her darkened senses. She hears tell of a coming of rage and grief and acceptance. A bloodline not entirely lost, but never found.

She will journey into Hades, a crow for comfort, the bones for company. She will journey until she finds that which she seeks, and ever after be the wiser for knowing it.

-Líadan Rán

 

 

[Featured image courtesy of earthsky.org]

I was born of the Sea

The Sea, she pleases me
Within her, I was born and am reborn again
Opened to the pulse and beating rhythm
Mating with the storm of a Sea god, vehement and vengeful
A protective embrace to spiral down around my salty skin
And I rode his currents and I bore the waves
I am born and reborn again
Hail! my Daughters, you who swirl and foam and crash
And I ride the tides and bare the Waves
I am whole, within the Sea
I was reborn and am born again.

 

~Líadan Rán~

Freyja’s Chosen

‘Tis savage, it is, the way you mortal men war among yourselves. Your lives are fleeting, in an instant created, and in an instant destroyed. You war and raid and praise in Our names, yet you know not the true faces of Us. We are not as your mortal minds conceive Us, and in your ignorance, you’ve built a fancy that your blood oaths and sacrifices keep us sated, keep us above you and benevolent.

We are all around, beneath the Mound, within it, and above it. We are neither benevolent nor malevolent. We are the Stars, the Sun and the Moon and the tides that bear down on the coasts of the Land you claim as yours. The Land you fight to conquer. We were here long before you, Mortals, and we shall be long here until the day of doom upon the world, and ever after Ragnarok takes us all into the Chaos.

But ’tis the ferocity…your ferocity in your battles that belies your honor, your heart, your need to believe. You worship Me, you worship my Maidens Valkyrie, as if honoring us on the field of battle will sublimate and separate you into a Clan you cannot possibly perceive.
Still I watch you call your Kith and raise your Swords and Shields, and still I do not turn away, because it is Love I see mortals live and die for; Love that forges hearts of steel and Spirits of iron; Love that gives me longing to invite you Warriors into my hall to rejoice your valor. Odin has his pick over Mine, but those I choose are those that hold Love above all else.

Mine own are Warriors who have not forgotten that it is Love they fight for, even in Death.
Because of this, I choose to praise your deeds as you praise those of the Gods. Because of Love, dear Warriors, I choose to open My Hall to your kind, calling you home to rest where you will meet your Loves left behind when the world dies to ash.

 

 

~Líadan Rán~

Transparency

I wandered until I was lost. Trodding sodden ground, clutching the blackness of obsidian destruction. A temporal fascination, overbearingly familiar, like déjà vu, surfaced from the cold dark waters of a buried consciousness, a buried light.
White was deathly, like pale fingers creeping in to paint splotches of scaled-down readiness across a canvas of nothingness.
The bleak of winter would comfort me now. In a world where spring is springing, where greens and blues decay under the whiteness of my sliding spirit. I am darkness in this light. This encompassing trend of rising to the occasion has been lost on me.
I feel as though the zigzag of humanity’s crumpling form is winding around me. I have learned this lesson before. I have learned to distrust. My weary ways have haunted me, have coalesced around this storm that swirls throughout my being. I am sick.
The grit and dew sparkle like dogmas cradled within the hierarchies of man. I have learned to hate and love in equal measure. I have tasted the waxen futility of this fight. This war on life. Control is today’s special. Beating the innocence out of the disciples of creation. My creation is eating me alive. Conquered and devoured. I can’t twist my view to the periphery of this room. My prison cell, I built it from the gifts I was given.
I wandered until I was lost, and now,
I’m not quite sure I ever want to be found.

The Wooing of Emer

The myths of the Ulster Cycles and other legends and folklore that flow out of Ireland have been of interest to me for quite some time. After reading Cuchulain of Muirthemne: The Story of the Men of the Red Branch of Ulster by Lady Gregory, I became immersed and fascinated by the story that builds between Emer and Cuchulain. Evidently, he spurned her, betrayed her with another, and she spits fire at him in return.

Anyhow, this poem was a vision of sorts from what Emer herself may have felt upon meeting and interacting with the golden man himself.

The Wooing of Emer

The strain of my heart against his ribs
The heated blood that rises within me
He hath possess me, body and soul
Do I dare to utter the words to him? He who is golden and wild and ever-wandering
Seeking the Hero’s Victory
Foolhardy, indeed! You, whom I love
Leave me behind to pine? I think not,
I will surely protest in outrage of mistaking me for a meek and mild fawn,
A shy creature, poised and soft and compliant
O, not I! I am of a fire: rare and beautiful and deadly to behold!
For I will forsake you just as you forsake me
As surely you will be burned if you seek this thing,
This prize, this championship too bold to behold
And in your Victory, your blood shall be shed,
Upon the Stone of the Old Ones
You will perish, Dear One, and I refuse to bare the pain
So leave me now, and find your Warrior’s honorable death,
You who resemble the Sun, fiery in your lust to conquer
I will be no conquest of yours, and I shall stand fast with a Spell
To protect my heart

 

 

Read more about the legend and myth of Cuchulain and Emer on Wikipedia.

[Photo: Cú Chulainn Rebuked by Emer by H.R. Millar, 1905]