Mabh Savage
Words and the world passing by; how it sings to me; how I clamour back.
Moon Day Mondays
Waxing Crescent – First Quarter
Last night it seemed so bright and strong
A bow of light
A bower capable of
Lifting the world
As I glided home along motorways
Lokabrenna searing my eyes
By my side the whole way
Orion’s companion
A torch of hope and clarity.
Today I feel like the curvy deliciousness
Though fatter and seemingly firmer
Is a fragile beast
Barely keeping together
Fighting through clouds
Of miscommunication
Battling light pollution
Too many egos
Too many cooks
Spoiling the broth
Putting salt instead of sugar
In my already weak tea
What a baffling phase this is
Tentative and changeable
Sat upon its curve and swinging, swinging
A hopelessly beautiful hammock
Oh just let me sleep.
Shouting Fire
I want to shout it out
From the top of a
Mountain
Skyscraper
Geyser
Aeroplane in flight
Hang suspended in the clouds
Shouting fire
Upon the unsuspecting.
Fire of inspiration
Hope
Passion
Creativity
Just make something
Make something make something
Make me something then
Share it
Share it with the world
I want to shout it out
From a falcon’s wings
Slowly and inexorable
Fanning flames
That both destroy and protect
From caught in a spider’s web
Eight legs sacred
And well remembered
Shouting fire that
Not so much burns
As cures
Like a pot in the kiln
Possibly a little cracked
From time to time
Glazed
Inappropriately
Yet hard and unyielding
Ready to be filled
Ready to pour
Ready to be exactly as useful
As I want to be.
Imbolg
Brigid came on the wind
Blessing the brat bhríde
Soaking it with cool rain
Not quite winter waters
Not quite springtime showers
Tears from that in-between
Liminal state of season
A grief, a keening for the darkness
Slowly washing away
In the inevitable turn
Of the Earth.
She stroked gentle fingers
Down the cloths hanging
From trees, posts, baskets
Sprawled on Hawthorn
Or tucked into cracks
Waiting for her blessing
Draped in hope and faith
Those gentle fingers
Bely great power
Surging fire and weight
Filling smiths and poets
With inspiration that burns
Like the forge fire
The wind her bellows
Pumping, coaxing
Drawing out something new
Something new for Imbolg.
Great Brigid
Do you coax forward
The snowdrops too?
The first lambs, staggering,
Uncertain and fragile
Yet joyous in life
As we are before
Your mighty presence?
Always
I was always falling for you
My whole life
Sometimes dancing so close to the edge
Hearing the call
Of your tales
Both terrible and comic
I felt for you
Like no other
I fell for you
Little by little
You guided my empathy
As I grew
I always protected
Defended the underdog
The one the others
Turned against
My foundational ethics
However dubious
Came from you
As I orbited
The rim of the cave
For twenty years or more
I denied myself this
Until even my other guides
Raised a metaphysical eyebrow
Pushing me, gently yet inexorably
Into your embrace.
You transform me
You burn away
The echoes of doubt
You shrug until I stand
On my own two feet
And we both laugh
When I stumble
In a matter of days
You helped me take
Myself less seriously
So much less
Than ever before.
You made me humble and proud
All at the same time
Worth so much more
Than this coffee
(Milk two sugars)
I bring you each morning
And the spiced mead
We drink together
At night.
I was always
On my way here
And falling never felt so much like
Flying.
Inspired by Loki
Huge amounts of UPG here, read my Disclaimer post for more clarity.
I’m not and never have been a Heathen, or involved in Norse Paganism of any kind. I have, however, always had an enormous fascination for the mythology, history, and culture of Scandinavia and the Norse, and in particular, as a child, was enormously fond of Loki. I imagine there are plenty of children who identify with the Trickster.
Over the last few years, my thoughts and feelings have wandered to Loki and then away again. Over the past year, in particular, this was happening more and more often. This came to a head when I was commissioned to write a poem for a charity auction winner. I asked what topic they would like. The answer was Loki. This felt like an enormous coincidence considering my thoughts at the time, but the more I thought about it, the more I realised that Loki is very popular and well loved, so perhaps not that much of a coincidence at all.
Writing this poem for another was like opening a hidden hatch in dark room. I can’t share the poem here, because I literally gave it to the winner to keep as their own, but the themes of change and transformation just seemed to flow onto the page. Researching for the poem reminded me of my childhood love and admiration for Loki, and since then I’ve become what I can only refer to as attached to the Trickster God.
I was a little frightened and confused at first. Having no basis in Norse religion, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was biting off more than I could chew. Thankfully, good friends steered me towards some reliable, inclusive sources and information, and I was able to get some advice on discernment, imagery, associations and more. I’m so grateful to those taking the time to be there for people like me: stunned, floundering, and basically wondering what on Earth is going on!
My reunion with Loki as an adult is quite possibly the most intense thing that has ever happened to me. After 5 days of spiritual whirlwind and a slew of UPG-rich poems and journalling, I finally calmed down a little (just a little) and settled back into some more serious reading and researching. I’ve set aside a space for Loki and created a Spotify playlist of songs that make me think of this inspiring God. Loki gets fresh coffee on a morning and mead at night.
Re-meeting Loki in this way has also inspired me to attend to my other deities more, too. It’s as if I’ve been reminded that my divine connections are real and vital, and that caring for them is also about caring for myself and my spiritual well-being.
Takk fyrir guð minn.
Monday: Moon Day
I’ve been thinking a lot about the different aspects of my Pagan path lately. One of the things that has been constant since I was very young is my fascination with the moon. I think it’s the fact that the power of the moon is incontrovertible. That beautiful satellite moves the tides, affects the water table, and changes appearance on a cycle that’s as fixed and predictable as the sun rising and setting – and yet those cycles can affect us all in completely different ways.
My favourite phase of the moon has always been waxing gibbous. Not quite full, but in anticipation of completion. Growing, slowly yet inexorably. Filled with promise, plump and gorgeous, teasing at greater things to come.
Right now we’re moving into the final quarter of the moon, just shy of waning gibbous and almost to a perfect waning half moon. Recently, I considered why I’ve never thought as deeply about the waning gibbous as I have about its waxing counterpart. I decided to try and write a few words about it. This is what I scribbled in my journal:
…the plans that seemed so promising at the waxing gibbous seem impossible now… but you still have the power… your energy is lower but do what you can… your will you keep going and see out those plans… let your feet keep moving and see where they carry you…
I love that last sentence. Let your feet keep moving, and see where they carry you. Sounds like the start to quite an adventure.
Lightning Eyes
I don’t understand
How people can’t tell
I’m walking around
With lightning eyes
Your fire light struck me
Ran through me
Like magma
I’m glowing with lava
Red hot to the touch
Slap a radioactive
Hazard warning sign
On my back
And send me into
The decontamination showers
That won’t do any good
It’s pouring
Out of my soul windows
And into the world
Every laugh
Every word
Every touch of kindness
And sarcastic whip
Every choice to be brave
And ask for what I want
Or make my own luck
You struck me
I fell
How can’t they tell?
I’m dancing around
With lightning eyes.
Frosty Morning
Soft grey sky
Belying the killing cold
Temperatures plunging
Diving in to that icy pool
Wood pigeons fluffed up
Cocky against the cold
Marching smugly
Through frozen grass
So steely
The wind doesn’t have a chance
But we stay inside
Admiring echoes
Of misty Niflheim
Wondrous at beings
Resilient enough not only
To bear it
But to revel in it
To thrive in what can kill
Having said that
We smile and create
A tiny corner of Muspelheim
With nary a fear
Of burning the house down.
Cold Moon
January’s full moon has many traditional names, from Wolf Moon in America to Old Moon, Snow Moon, or Cold Moon in Europe. I like Cold Moon – it’s frosty right now in Yorkshire, not snowy, and January is a deep, cold month. It encourages us to rest and recharge, but holds a dark and inviting well of inspiration to draw from for the year ahead. Combine that with the energy of the full moon and you can start to really feel the anticipation for what’s to come thrumming and thrilling through your veins.
Thank you to my beloved husband for stopping to take this photo of the full moon rising into a glowing sunset. Stunning.
Mabh Savage 