Mabh Savage
Words and the world passing by; how it sings to me; how I clamour back.
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.
Cernunnos Rising
In Pagan Pages this month I was lucky enough to interview George Nicholas of Cernunnos Rising. Read the interview here.
Snow Dreams
Plain white sky
Like hotel sheets
Dull and unexpecting
Business like and taut.
So featureless
Yet promising
Cold, white fluff
Softness incarnate
Deadly and sharp.
Drifting down
And against doors
No pause
No laws
Against this invasion.
I dream of snow;
December’s promise
Solstice frost
The cost
Never too high.
Celtic Witchcraft- Pre Order Available!
I received the best parcel ever yesterday: a bundle of books with my name on them! If you’ve been enjoying my installments of Celtic Witchcraft on the Moon Books Blog, you can now pre order the book here. It’s out April 29th 2016, and costs a whole English fiver.
Enjoy!
Midwinter Madness
I’m sat in the doctor’s waiting room about to unveil a tale of woe for my long suffering GP. I’m coughing my guts up, but that’s not even on my list; a list I have to bring or my mushy brain will inevitably cause me to forget something vital.
Today’s list: a continuing muscle problem in my back that has been exacerbated by current affairs; hip and knee pain; a numbness in my toes and a discussion about Access to Work. Yet my decision to stop my anti-depressants isn’t on this list.
This isn’t because I’m proud of having made this decision on my own. Nor is it because I’m doing fine and don’t need GP advice, thank you very much.
It’s simply because, despite having been in the mental health system for more than two years, I still find it incredibly hard to broach the subject with my doctor.
I’m still afraid of the derision and head shaking I have experienced. The ‘buck up’ mentality. Or alternatively, the ‘aw poor you’ that will inevitably leave me in tears and feeling worthless for the rest of the day.
I’ve had a doctor tell me that my counsellor was ‘obviously testing me, and I failed the test’, and then laugh in my face.
On the other side of the coin, I’ve had doctors recommend fantastic literature, and even practical help like breathing exercises, and the pendulum method (which I was already aware of through meditation.)
Mental health care is still so hit and miss, that even though I’m seeing my ‘preferred’ GP, I’m still scared to bring my condition up. Still willing to struggle on alone, rather than wade through the sticky mire of false sympathy and muddled advice.
Parliamentary debate on current mental health services seems equally muddled, with bright spark Priti Patel once suggesting mental health suffered should wear wristbands to make them more easily identifiable; at least that fits in with her leader’s current Goebbels-like propaganda machine.
I never want to be part of a system that treats me as less of a person for having a complicated and fragile mind. We all have complicated and fragile minds; they all need treating differently; they all need care from time to time.
I know it is foolish that I don’t speak to my doctor today. I know it, and I hope you don’t make my mistake. Speak and seek help; talk, listen and strive when you have the strength, or be comforted when you don’t.
The more we speak, the easier it is for the next person to speak. And the next. Until there is no fear of speaking at all.
The Cover is Here!
Save the date: 29th April 2016, publication of Pagan Portals: Celtic Witchcraft. Artwork by the wonderful Kirsten Savage.
Mabh Savage 