Mabh Savage
Words and the world passing by; how it sings to me; how I clamour back.
Pagan Portals: Celtic Witchcraft OUT NOW!
It’s finally here: My second book, Pagan Portals: Celtic Witchcraft, is launched today. I’ll be reading from the book and doing a little talk at Waterstones in Leeds at 7pm tonight, so if you’re in the area please pop in. I will be joined by the cover artist, Kirsten Savage, who will be displaying more of her fantastic artwork including some never before seen pieces.
There will be mead and cake, though the cake tends to disappear quickly, so get in while you can! There will also be some Beltane themed magic for you to dabble in.
The Kindle Edition is only £2.84 at the moment, so grab yourself a bargain here!
Acts of re-enchantment
Some lovely comments about A Modern Celt here, plus two other books that I definitely want to dive into now!
Exotic Excursions – Anthony Nanson.
A short story collection that takes us to many locations while at the same time questioning the whole process of ‘white man goes somewhere and feels entitled to comment’. It’s clever stuff, and provocative, and turns a certain kind of colonial writing on its head in some really interesting ways. It’s got a large paranormal element, too. Shades of the X-Files when it comes to what’s ‘out there’ but delivered with far more elegant writing. I very much enjoyed it. Fellow readers who are looking for books where the excitement of genre fiction meets the depth and quality of literary writing should definitely pick up this title.
More about the book here – www.amazon.co.uk/Exotic-Excursions
A Modern Celt – Mabh Savage
A Pagan book looking at modern witchcraft practitioners who identify with Celtic traditions and exploring how that works in a modern context. It’s quite personal…
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Feeding the Birds
That’s the silver birch in my new back garden, and that’s a string of fat balls hanging off the stump of a recently pruned branch.
You see, I moved recently, and it was incredibly stressful. I’m still in a mind-numbing dispute with my ex-landlord, and unpacking has become a nightmarish chore that can only be done in the liminal hours between child bedtime and adult bedtime.
I was tired of boxes and the birds were singing; I decided to feed them. I had bought a huge box of fat-balls, but had no holders to put them in. Using string from my veg boxes, I fashioned several chains of the fatty avian snacks and dangled them at intervals around the garden.
The simple motions of walking up and down the sloped lawn, searching for the most bird friendly spots to hang the food, were incredibly therapeutic. The fresh air, bird song and bounce of grass beneath my toes all combined to wick away some of the stress of the past fortnight.
It’s no great revelation that time outdoors is good for you, but it’s incredibly good for tired, foggy minds, and the act of kindness towards another species is particularly soothing. It puts life into perspective; what are money troubles compared to filling the bellies of birds getting ready to build nests?
I glanced up as I hung the last chain and saw a goldfinch in the top of the tree, waiting musically for me to leave. Feeling a sense of achievement, I smiled and obliged.
Headingley Lit Fest: Cabaret Thirty
I was highly chuffed and deeply honoured to be involved with the wonderful Headingly Lit Fest again this year. Last year I performed at Outside In, alongside poets and musicians from all over Leeds. This year’s event was similar, with some familiar faces and some delightful, new discoveries.
The Heart Centre in Headingley is a great space for an event such as this. It somehow has a nice, warm atmosphere that dispels nerves and encourages foot tapping and clapping from the audience. I had opted for poetry only this year, as due to the recent house move I’ve not had much time to practice my guitar and currently sound like I’m playing it with large sausages strapped to my hands. However, I had penned a few pieces recently and was looking forward to showcasing them. I was much more excited to see the other talent on offer though, and got comfy with my glass of discounted wine to enjoy the show.
The first performer, Kari Medalla, was an absolute delight. With a gorgeous, blue acoustic Fender and an even lovelier, mellow voice with just the tiniest touch of gravel, Kari treated us to a very smooth cover of Tracy Chapman’s classic, Fast Car. She followed this up with a beautiful Spanish song, the title of which I can’t remember.
Following Kari was Becky Leeming, a poet studying in Leeds. Her poems contained some striking, beautiful seasonal imagery:
We bathed in moonlight
The spring light washed our sins away.
Very promising indeed.
Our second
poet was John Darley, who has been published and this does not surprise me at all. This is a poet I would like to read; his performance was great, don’t get me wrong! But his words weave together so delightfully it would be a joy to see them written down. One memorable title was Cathode Ray. I’m probably parapharasing here, but something along the lines of
There is static in the sky and shouts of clouds on the pavement.
John creates a sharp staccato of words that pierce the brain, but you are glad of it. A happy trepanning. 
The feeling so far has been pretty downbeat, but Lewis King rescues us from all that depression. Anyone who can start their set with a limerick is alright in my book. There then followed an amazing tale of a journey to the centre of the hoover. I won’t spoil it for you as no doubt it will be published one day, but this was a lovely piece of dark humour; and not just because there were no lights in the vacuum bag. My favourite part of Lewis’s act had to be the 6 word stories though:
No! Your child is cursed instead! Classic.
Samantha Crossfield takes us on a tube journey, each short story an internal monologue of a different passenger, one thought linking to the next. There seems to be a theme of being able to explore the flaws of others whilst ‘tripping over’ your own, and also of deep introspection. I could imagine the rickety sounds of the tube as a background track, and lights flashing and dimmed to immerse the audience even further.An interesting idea which could easily be built upon to make a full stage show if Samantha so desired.
Sophie Joelle reads us the first chapter of her t
eenage fiction story. I’m sad to say I can’t remember the title, as this is one I will definitely be looking out for. Our whole table agreed we would have liked to have heard more. From the first few lines, Sophie grabs you with brilliant character development and believable dialogue; something I often find lacking in much ‘teenage’ fiction (yes, I read Hunger Games). The conflicting and corresponding tensions of sport and romance come to life, and I still wonder if the protagonist keeps the girl… I hope to find out one day!
Now on
to some more music.
Billy Humphries plays a few songs on acoustic guitar, and despite citing severe nerves, makes them sound rather beautiful. His guitar playing has a distinct, smooth sound and his vocals are sure and nowhere near as wobbly as he seemed to be in himself! One song proclaimed that the only one that could keep me high is you, another sang the praises of a certain Mary-Jane. A possible theme?
I hope it’s not another two and a half years before Billy plays again. He clearly has a talent and I 
was pleased to see it showcased last Friday.
As I said before, there were some performers on the bill who I had played alongside last year, and was excited to see again. The next performer was the one I had been most excited about: Owen Spafford, on the violin. This young man, easily the youngest performer at Cabaret Thirty, is just astounding. And it isn’t because of his age. If he was 30, 60 or 160, I would still be as impressed by his jigs and reels, and his effortless mastering of the fiddle. This is where the foot tapping and clapping really came into their own, with a showcase of folk music from ancient to modern times. I hope this guy keeps this up, purely for the selfish reason I love hearing him play!
I think I was up next. I was OK.
Ethan Lowe enchanted and slightly dismayed us with a modern creation myth inspired by Michio Kaku.
Before there were days, a being came into existence.
As much an exploration of human nature as it is an imaginative and creative story, this piece was highly enjoyable
Ethan’s next piece, Wooden Night, carried a completely different tone and provoked a few laughs and a few groans. We talked about it on the way home though Ethan, just so you know. A Halloween tale with a twist.
This particular event was very special to me, as it’s the first time I had heard my sister, Kirsten Savage, perform live with her Bouzouki. The bouzouki is a greek instrument oft played in Ireland in place of the mandolin. Kirsten has clearly taken the 
instrument and made it her own, with a mixture of folk, rock and original riffs and motifs that blend into a unique style and melody that complement her gorgeous voice perfectly. Kirsten’s songs have a quality reminiscent of opera; beautifully tragic, dynamic and extremely dramatic for one vocalist with an acoustic instrument.
The night concluded with a couple of songs sung by a lady called Jenny, who was not on the programme and borrowed Kari’s guitar. She was a welcome addition though, singing first a Brazilian song, then a Dutch one (albeit in English). Kari ended the evening for us with a Japanese song that was absolute gorgeous. I think it was called Goodbye Days, and was a classic J-Pop ballad with those odd English words thrown in every now and then.
If Cabaret Thirty is a sign of things to come, then we are very lucky indeed, as Leeds is growing and promoting some very fine talent indeed. Long may it continue.
Why am I a Celtic witch?
What does that mean, and how is it different from any other type of witchcraft?
Well let‘s look 
at the ‘witch’ part first; when I say I am a witch, I‘m saying I harness the energies around and within me to instigate change. Mahatma Ghandi said: ‘Be the change we wish to see in the world.’
Much of witchcraft is this; using our inherent power as a sentient being to be a force for transformation. Anyone can do this with training, and the will and patience to gain a deeper understanding of the universe around them. You don‘t need to be religious, although many witches do follow a religious path, such as Wicca or another polytheistic faith. For me, witchcraft is more about having faith in yourself and your own skill, although
I also accept the existence of other-worldly beings and forces.
On to the Celtic part: I am deeply influenced by my Celtic ancestry, and walk a path side by side with the Tuatha Dé Danann; the great folk who were one of the many races that invaded Ireland. Lebor Gabála Érenn, the Book of the Taking of Ireland, is an 11th century text describing eight periods throughout Ireland’s ‘history’ (the book’s contents are of more mythological interest rather than indisputable fact) including the
rise and fall of the Tuatha Dé Danann. The text tells us that they came to Ireland on dark clouds, and that they viewed their men of arts as gods, and knew the incantations of druids. It is sung in the text that they are ‘without a covenant of religion’; indeed it seems that while they accept the reality of larger-than-life heroes and magical transformation, they revere none as being above or beyond them. Everything is worldly and everything is within
reach.
This is why I feel my craft belongs to a Celtic source more than any other. I am stubborn to the point of foot stamping and petulance, yet patient enough to wait longer than most would in a tense situation. I will fight when necessary and be quiet when not. I know when presentation is important, and when subtlety is key. I accept that part of me is divine, and acknowledge that divinity within others, but I am not cowed by it. I know when to
use my craft, and when elbow grease and hard work will give me a better result.
Excerpt from Pagan Portals: Celtic Witchcraft. Pre-Order here.
On Witchcraft…
…everything is achievable if you employ common sense and ambition. The first step to completing a task, is believing that you can do it. That’s not enough, of course; you must work hard, plan where necessary and garner help when one person is not enough. But if you believe something is impossible, then it will become so. It is very easy to talk yourself out of something because it has become difficult. It is also easy to allow others to talk you out of something because, in their perception, you are attempting the impossible. Trust your instincts. Go with your gut. Above all, have faith that you would not feel your task was achievable without good reason. Belief in oneself is not airy-fairy or new age; it is confidence and it is necessary for all witchcraft. If you dither, you will not achieve your desired outcome. If you are foot-sure you will surely succeed.
Excerpt from Pagan Portals: Celtic Witchcraft by Mabh Savage, due out 29th April 2016. Pre Order here.
The Wind Came At Night
In the days of chilling blaze
Springtime sun as winter fades
Dazzling spears and green grass blades
The gale the only blight.
Driving out to picnics gay
February turning into May
Hearts and smiles throughout the day
But the wind came at night
Batten hatch and throw the catch
Draw the curtains and the latch
Find the candle; light a match
Glow ghostly and white.
Lights to ward off what’s outside
Whatever feral monsters ride
Abroad; their entrance is denied
Though the wind comes at night.
I saw a face outside my place
Swiftly passed, as in a race
I blinked and there was not a trace
I shivered with the fright.
I ran upstairs to check again
Peering through the glass in vain
The window howled as if in pain
From the wind in the night.
Clutch the blade and don’t be swayed.
Seek the spirit! Seek the shade!
Call the cook and tell the maid!
We search until the light.
Laughter in the face of fear
No bravery but a butt of beer
The wetness on my face a tear
From the wind in the night.
I grabbed my hat and stroked the cat
I peered between the shivering slats
I shrugged my coat on, faced the mat
I now would find this Wight.
For who was in this deathly storm?
What poor fool trapped and all forlorn?
Or was it evil ‘pon my lawn
When the wind came at night?
Slam the door and stand before
The howling horror’s mealy maw
Step forward though the soul abhors
This strange and streaming sight.
Trees are bent and strain to rise
Back to the black and bubbling skies
Clouds thick and crying; flying eyes
Borne on the wind at night.
The muddy grass was slippy glass
The rain like ice; cold, hard and fast
I braced against it, held the mast
Pressed on, quick as I might.
To save a soul or fight a ghost
I knew not what I feared the most
So wide eyed, I became engrossed
In the wind in the night.
Turn around, and back you bound
Running from the brutal sound
Cacophony of sky meets ground
The planet bursts alight!
Or stand and see the riders’ glee
The horses stamping fretfully
Red eyes, black coats, white spittle; see
The wind come in the night.
I didn’t flee; I had to see
What creatures stomped and stared at me
I turned and riders one, two, three
No reins; no bit to bite.
Recognition jarred my heart
My lord! My earth! My burning hearth!
My words though, they were ripped apart
By the wind in the night.
See the fire, see the spark
The star, the candle in the dark
The life, the sound to which we hark
The blood, the beat, the light;
The terrifying truth of life
The endless struggle, burning strife
Turning key and turning knife
The wind that comes at night.
It was no waif I had to save
Nor any ghostly, haunting wraith
I had spied from my house so safe
So warm and kind and light
‘Cernunnos!’ I cried out. ‘Herne!’
‘Take me with you, let me learn!’
They laughed, and all my visions burned
In the wind that came at night.
North or South or East or West
I know not which gust is the best
I only know I need to rest
I have no will to fight
Though each day dawns well and morning swells with promise fierce and true
Once evening creeps I cling to you.
The wind
It comes
At night.
Greys and Golds
These past few years, Imbolc in Leeds has been a bit of a grey, damp affair. Wet, cold and uninspiring if taken at face value. As a witch in tune with her Celtic roots, face value is of little worth to me, so these grey Imbolcs have been as vital to me as many others. However, they have meant I’ve come to expect a dull outlook at this start of the stirring of spring.
Not so today. It was an early start, framed with dark, thunderous clouds that were almost green; surreal and dream like. The wind blew in, hot and fast, and the clouds scudded away leaving shards of blue and rainbows. Three geese flew over the lake, and I slowed down to watch them, mesmerised. A blackbird, lon dubh, pecked industriously at the freshly dampened earth glistening in the new born sun.
I was full of childlike glee, basking in the brittle sun of early spring; joyful in the arms of morning magic. Then I turned the radio on and heard the news that Terry Wogan had died. Yet another death of a personality I had been familiar with. In the past few weeks we have lost Lemmy of Motörhead, Glenn Frey of the Eagles, actor Alan Rickman and, most painfully for me, David Bowie. It feels like the universes made a list of influential people, inspirational people, and decided that some of them needed to come back now please.
I didn’t feel sad about Wogan the way I did about Bowie; the selfish grief that I would never hear another new Bowie track, or get to see him live, alongside the purer grief that someone who I had virtually grown up with, from the Labyrinth to Blackstar, was gone from not only my life, but the world. Yet even though Terry Wogan never inspired me the way Bowie did, he was a beloved personality and I felt, through the heartfelt words on the radio, the loss of thousands of people.
Imbolc is not just about new beginnings; it is about endings. The end of winter. The end of being trapped indoors with dust and dreams. The end of ice and long dark nights. And it seems this winter has been a very long, dark night indeed for some. Grey with misery and pain; stressed and strained; fighting illness, abuse and tyranny at times.
Today I felt the warm wind that blows the clouds away. It stroked my face and speaks of spring. It promised to clean, to cleanse; to renew the earth. Some of us didn’t make it through this winter. Some of us made it through, forever changed. Let us grasp what we have and hold it close with fierce and unashamed joy. I have rarely felt more grateful to be alive.
Dwell
Where I dwell
Is forest, lake and moss
Is grass and mud
And paths well tracked
Renewed with rain
Yet strain and pain
Are the stained glass
In the window
My face is pressed against.
When I dwell
On past and present
Voices raised and mocking
Feelings disregarded
Pistols raised and cocking
Bullets trained
The strain and pain
Are the kevlar
Cross my heart
Hope not to die.
Where I dwell
Is heart, love and trust
Is hope for happiness
In skies of black;
A calling bird
A mystic word
A song I heard
Whilst walking
Paths well tracked.
Juxtaposition
The new moon, sliver of silver
Sits upon the cloud throne
Serious as ever.
Never have I felt
Such grief
For someone I never met
Yet my soul is aching
Heart is breaking
Diamonds in my eyes
Make jewels street lights.
This modern love
For sound and vision,
Juxtaposition
Of joy and sorrow
Listening over and over
Lost and grasping
Gasping at the shock.
The new moon, crust of shining rock
Rocking in the heavens
Serious as dying.
Mabh Savage 