bloodteethandflame

A life in threes

Category: poetry

Deeper.

Deeper

 

Written by Jacob Ibrag

 

It feels like sinking.

Like you’re trying to break the waters

surface with every kick your body delivers.

You remember that panic causes

more panic so you try to remain placid.

Deeper.

You think about love and if you really

had it.

If it was really love then why hasn’t it lasted?

Maybe if it was real love, you would’ve

already been found.

And if it was real love, how could it ever die out?

Deeper.

You try forming

a symbiotic relationship with the water, letting it take you so you can become a part of it.

You’ve always belonged here.

Deeper.

You let go, giving up the fight.

Remembering

that it was all in your head as you wake up in the middle of the night.

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Month for Loki, Day 24: Pieces of poetry, pieces of prayer

Loki, bring me to change

Loki, teach me innovation

Loki, be the cleansing fire

The source of my liberation.

Hail Loki!

Truth-Singer

Gift-Bringer

Hearth-Fire

Funeral-Pyre

Innovator

World-Breaker

Month for Loki, Day 13: A Prayer for Loki (poem)

Sharing a fun little poem that I found on Pinterest:

 

A Prayer for Loki 

a poem by Victoria Verney

Fragment.

They’ll take you places you didn’t want to go,
and see things you never wanted to see,
but be not afraid,
for they are there with you,
for everything.

~~~

Years ago – quite possibly more than 10 years ago – I found the above (unattributed) quote on a blog.

So I wrote that quote down in the daily paper journal I kept, as I did not have my own blog at that time.

And though I could not put my finger on why this quote resonated with me so long ago

it occurred to me this morning that it pretty much sums up

what

spirit-work

feels like.

Month for Loki, Twenty-Sixth: Reveal (a poem)

REVEAL

(A Prayer to Be Free of Masks, [WIP])

Dear Loki

All of my life I have been wounded

By the judgments of others, the shame of others,

And I’ve been holding myself prisoner

With my own judgments, my own shame.

So I put on many masks

To hide my wounds, to hide my shame.

Masks of strength and certainty

To hide my fear and my vulnerability

Masks of indifference and anger

To hide my grief and my pain.

Help me, Loki

To set myself free.

Oh Loki

Reveal my lies to me.

Take my masks from me.

Show me my truest self

Teach me to be fearless

With no need to hide

Behind these masks.

Month for Loki, Sixteenth: Poem.

(a work in progress) 

Hail to You, Silvertongue, Relentless One
Sovereign-Maker and World-Breaker.
Giver of Gifts, Sneaky Ton of Bricks.
(Problem Solver & Player of Tricks)
Hail the Son of the Lightning-Struck,
Agent of Change, and Bringer of Luck.
Wolf-Sire, Sacred Funeral Pyre.
Raven’s Friend, Crow’s-Father.
Sif’s Barber and Skadi’s Laughter.
Vultures Path, and Gefjon’s Wrath
Mover of Stories, and Wearer of Masks.

Hail to the captain of Naglfar, the brightness of the Sirius star
The one who made the Völva’s heart a feast, the father and mother of monstrous beasts

You’re forever in-between, my Liminial One
My Beloved Loki Laufeyjarson.

Month for Loki, Sixth: Ritual (poem)

Last month, I began reading Elizabeth Vongvisith’s Be Thou My Hearth and Shield: Prayers in the Northern Tradition, an excellent collection of prayers and poetry she edited for Asphodel Press in 2009.

I’d read some of the reviews on Lulu, and as one reviewer put it, ‘This book is excellent! It sits at my bedside as I read the prayers daily…..

As I have found myself doing that very same thing, I could not agree with zir more.

This is an excellent book, one which I would highly recommend to anyone who seeks to connect to the Norse Gods, let alone Loki.

And today, for my sixth post, I’d like to share this heartfelt prayer-poem by April Ragan, which resonated with me deeply:

Ritual (for Loki)

What need have I for chants

When every rise of my lungs

Breathes for You

A hallowed hymn.

What need have I for music

When every beat of my heart

Drums for You

A sacred tattoo.

What need have I for dance

When every gesture of my being

Moves for You

In a rhythm of devotion

What need have I for magic circles

When every piece of my soul

Burns for You

In a consecrated ring of flame

What need have for these accompaniments

When the essence of my being

Is a life-long ritual to You.*

Loki, Kalari Stance, uploaded to flickr, shivarea31

~~~

*Elizabeth Vongvisith, editor, Be Thou My Hearth and Shield: Prayers in the Northern Tradition, (Hubbardston, Massachusetts; Asphodel Press, 2009) p. 125

 

Poem

This lovely poem was shared by a friend on my social media feed this morning, and though I was skeptical that its words ‘could change one’s life,’ I will grant that its overall message is rather profound one…and personally relevant.

(Thanks Sarah!)

~~~

THE GUEST HOUSE

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Jelaluddin Rumi,
Translation from The Essential Rumi by Coleman Barks

 

A Thursday Throwback: Sometimes.

Here’s a Thursday Throwback – from 21 February 2013 – that I am sharing at the request of a dear friend.

Enjoy!

~~~~

“Sometimes, He is not pretty.
Disheveled, stinking of piss and filth.
A frightening homeless man
Shouting at me from the other side of the train station:
The face that you often see is nothing but a glamour crafted to be pleasing to you.
But, sometimes, I am tired of that
face, and you will see Me as I am
An ancient being, whose face bears the ravages of time, and what appalling marks
Grief, pain and madness have inevitably made upon Me.

While it may be easy to approach Me in a finer guise,
Silk cravats and topcoats, leather and flash, I am
Also this, at My core. This is also Me.
I am bloated with rage, and careless
grime settled in the creases, compulsively licking
The blood and the spittle that collects at the corners of My ragged lips.
My yellowed, broken teeth have gnawed and ground down upon the offal and
bones of My very long memory.

I call to you
but you must approach Me.

Would you kiss My mouth?
~~~
And I see Him across the room, and His voice is interwoven with the cacophony of noise that is noon at South Station, Boston.

I cannot will my feet to go forward, but I see His eyes, the intense clear blue of Icelandic water, His disheveled hair an awkward penumbra of red and gold, His face unshaven and streaked with the filth born of having slept in the elements upon concrete. He raises a hand, and makes a beckoning gesture. Oh I see you, little one, He drawls. I notice that His fingernails are dark with grime, and He smiles, a grin of wolfen teeth, and He licks His cracked lips, waiting.

For all that He looks, His voice is not unpleasant.

But I am afraid.

I am cold, I realize, and I hug myself tighter, as if my own arms could possibly warm me enough, and yet I know that I am holding myself in.  This is me putting up all my walls and fronts.

You have so much shame, He shouts, You have learned nothing….

The rumble of the trains pulling into South Station obscures His voice, His tirade, for several minutes.

There are too many trains, I shout, I cannot hear!

He begins to laugh, shaking His head. He tilts His head, almost menacingly, working out a crick in His neck, as He continues, Oh no, my dear. It is as it is always, with you. You are too cold. You cannot hear. You have a headache. You are afraid….

He glares at me.

He pulls a cigarette from the pocket of His shabby, unseasonably thin coat. Oh, spare Me the details of all of your excuses, He snarks at me, loudly, angrily.

He reminds me of Heath Ledger’s Joker, as He wipes His sore and tattered mouth with the back of His grubby hand, before placing the cigarette deftly on the edge of His lower lip, and lights it.

A lone ribbon of smoke curls and spirals ever upward over His head, strangely unbroken and unbuffeted by the crowd and activity that surges about Him, between us.

10031491-man-smoking-cigarette-over-black-background-low-key-light-image

 

 

Come. Kiss Me. I might believe you.

 

But I cannot will my feet to go forward. I will have to push myself through this crowd, I am thinking.

The air feels thick and heavy, my head rings with high-pitched buzzing anxiety, and my skin prickles with heat.

Poor little girl, is His singsong sigh, half a sarcasm, half a reprimand, to me, as He shuffles His feet, waiting.

Come to me, He whispers, more within my head than without, and His words seem to reverberate like a humming inward chant, in my head.

Come to Me.
Come to Me.
Come to Me
.”

 

(link here)

 

Month for Loki, Day 19: in the deep

inthedeep

What struck me the most about this quote is that is unattributed except for

written by him

The Universe is funny.

When I saw this on my media feed this evening, it had all the earmarks of  a message as if it was written by Him.

For it is true, you know:

If you seek Him, you will find Him

in the depths between

All these places you’ve come to know

And all those places you’ve yet to go.