Tuesday, April 29, 2008

The Eddas The Keys To The Mysteries Of The North

The Eddas The Keys To The Mysteries Of The North Cover

Book: The Eddas The Keys To The Mysteries Of The North by James Allen Chisholm

This is a practical manual of self-transformation. It takes the form of a working edition of the mythological poems of the ancient Norse Poetic Edda for modern “pagans” who practice the magic and religion of the North. The poems of the Poetic Edda form the most complete and authentic body of surviving pre-Christian Germanic religious and magical lore. The mythological poems of the Elder Edda hold the keys to the Understanding and practice of the pre-Christian religion of the Germanic peoples. This book enables the reader to fathom the
mysteries of the Eddic poems so that the elder Troth of the Gods of Europe may again be rightly hailed in holy groves, and the Hidden Wisdom of the rune-masters rediscovered. This book is especially practical for those who wish follow the authentic pre-Christian religion and magic of the English and other Teutonic folk.

A new translation of the mythological poems of the Edda is the main component of this work. The religious content is revealed with accuracy and clarity. Earlier renditions have been artful paraphrases by scholars who valued the poems as literary monuments, but disregarded the religious and mythic content as the nonsensical but amusing folklore of a more primitive world. None of them ever imagined that their audiences would include practitioners of the Eddic religion. The inaccuracies of such translations have led many modern pagans astray. This is the truest translation for purposes of understanding the religious content of the Poetic Edda.

For the rune-magicians, poetry was a powerful form of magic. The Eddas hold the wisdom of the Erulian Rune-Magicians, and many of these poems may be fathomed to incredible depths and heights, by those who know how to ask. This book is about asking. These poems provide sufficient material for an accurate reconstruction and revivification of the Odian religious and magical philosophies. These poems hold spells, invocations, and lore from which rituals, sacred dramas, and initiatory rites can be reconstructed or authentically created, as well as the keys to understanding the soul and the nine worlds of Yggdrasil - the world tree of the ancient North. Many of the keys are provided also for unlocking the secrets of mysteries of the cults of Thor, Tyr and the Vanir, though much of this lore is filtered through an Odian lens.

The Eddic poems are spells, in which the mysteries of the old lore are encoded by word, rhythm, alliteration, idea, and rune. The words of a given stanza are not juxtaposed merely because the resulting rhythms and word plays are pleasing, but because of there are deep magical resonances among such words. The impact of these magical stanzas perhaps may not be registered consciously, but the magic of Eddic lines reaches far below the shallow waters of mundane conscious understanding into the depths of the collective unconscious, into the realms where our souls mingle with the realms of the Gods. The power of the Eddic verses can be used for invocations and magical operations. It is the task of the modern elders (priests) and vitkis (magicians) to gain a conscious knowledge of the meanings and powers of these combinations of word, meter and rune. The stanzas of the Eddic poems hold the secrets of our Gods. It is the task of this book to provide the modern seeker with the keys to understanding deeper levels of meaning and to encode these into modern English for fashioning invocations to the Gods and for shaping powerful poetic staves in magic.

Download James Allen Chisholm's eBook: The Eddas The Keys To The Mysteries Of The North

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Monday, April 28, 2008

The Priestess Of Panormita

The Priestess Of Panormita Image
Hear me, Lord of the Stars!
For thee I have worshipped ever
With stains and sorrows and scars,
With joyful, joyful endeavour.
Hear me, O lily-white goat!
O crisp as a thicket of thorns,
With a collar of gold for Thy throat,
A scarlet bow for Thy horns!

Here, in the dusty air,
I build Thee a shrine of yew.
All green is the garland I wear,
But I feed it with blood for dew!
After the orange bars
That ribbed the green west dying
Are dead, O Lord of the Stars,
I come to Thee, come to Thee crying.

The ambrosial moon that arose
With breasts slow heaving in splendour
Drops wine from her infinte snows,
Ineffably, utterly, tender.
O moon! ambrosial moon!
Arise on my desert of sorrow,
That the magical eyes of me swoon
With the lust of rain to-morrow!

Ages and ages ago
I stood on the bank of a river,
Holy and holy and holy, I know,
For ever and ever and ever!
A priest in the mystical shrine,
I muttered a redeless rune,
Till the waters were redder than wine
In the blush of the harlot moon.

I and my brother priests
Worshipped a wonderful woman
With a body lithe as a beast's,
Subtly, horribly human.
Deep in the pit of her eyes
I saw the image of death,
And I drew the water of sighs
From the well of her lullaby breath.

She sitteth veiled forever,
Brooding over the waste.
She hath stirred or spoken never.
She is fiercely, manly chaste!
What madness make me awake
From the silence of utmost eld
The grey cold slime of the snake
That her poisonous body held?

By night I ravished a maid
From her father's camp to the cave.
I bared the beautiful blade;
I dipped her thrice i'the wave;
I slit her throat as a lamb's,
That the fount of blood leapt high
With my clamorous dithyrambs,
Like a stain on the shield of the sky.

With blood and censer and song
I rent the mysterious veil;
My eyes gaze long and long
On the deep of that blissful bale.
My cold grey kisses awake
From the silence of utmost eld
The grey cold slime of the snake
That her beautirul body held.

But--God! I was not content
With the blasphemous secret of years;
The veil is hardly rent
While the eyes rain stones for tears
So I clung to the lips and laughed
As the storms of death abated,
The storms of the grievous graft
By the swing of her soul unsated.

Wherefore reborn as I am
By a stream profane and foul,
In the reign of a Tortured Lamb,
In the realm of a sexless Owl,
I am set apart from the rest
By meed of the mystic rune
That reeds in peril and pest
The ambrosial moon--the moon!

For under the tawny star
That shines in the Bull above
I can rein the riotous car
Of galloping, galloping Love;
And straight to the steady ray
Of the Lion-hearted Lord I career,
Pointing my flaming way
With the spasm of night for a spear!

O moon! O secret sweet!
Chalcedony clouds of caresses
About the flame of our feet,
The night of our terrible tresses!
Is it a wonder, then,
If the people are mad with blindness,
And nothing is stranger to men
Than silence, and wisdom, and kindness?

Nay! let him fashion an arrow
Whose heart is sober and stout!
Let him pierce his God to the marrow!
Let the soul of his God flow out!
Whether a snake or a sun
In his horoscope Heaven hath cast,
It is nothing; every one
Shall win to the moon at last.

The mage has wrought by his art
A billion shapes in the sun.
Look through to the heart of his heart,
And the many are shapes of one!
An end to the art of the mage,
And the cold grey blank of the prison!
An end to the adamant age!
The ambosial moon is arisen.

I have bought a lily-white goat
For the price of a crown of thorns,
A collar of gold for its throat,
A scarlet bow for its horns;
I have bought a lark in the lift
For the price of a butt of sherry:
With these, and God for a gift,
It needs no wine to be merry!

I have bought for a wafer of bread
A garden of poppies and clover;
For a water bitter and dead,
A foam of fire flowing over.
From the Lamb and his prison fare
And the Owl's blind stupor, arise!
Be ye wise, and strong, and fair,
And the nectar afloat in your eyes!

Arise, O ambrosial moon,
By the strong immemorial spell,
By the subtle, veridical rune
That is mighty in heaven and hell!
Drip thy mystical dews
On the tongues of the tender fauns,
In the shade of initiate yews,
Remote from the desert dawns!

Satyrs and Fauns, I call.
Bring your beauty to man!
I am the mate for ye all;
I am the passionate Pan.
Come, O come to the dance,
Leaping with wonderful whips,
Life on the stroke of a glance,
Death in the stroke of the lips!

I am hidden beyond,
Shed in a secret sinew,
Smitten through by the fond
Folly of wisdom in you!
Come, while the moon (the moon!)
Sheds her ambrosial splendour,
Reels in the redeless rune
Ineffably, utterly, tender!

Hark! the appealing cry
Of deadly hurt in the hollow:--
Hyacinth! Hyacinth! Ay!
Smitten to death by Apollo.
Swift, O maiden moon,
Send thy ray-dews after;
Turn the dolorous tune
To soft ambiguous laughter!

Mourn, O Maenads, mourn!
Surely your comfort is over:
All we laugh at you lorn.
Ours are the poppies and clover!
O that mouth and eyes,
Mischievous, male, alluring!
O that twitch of the thighs,
Dorian past enduring!

Where is wisdom now?
Where the sage and his doubt?
Surely the sweat of the brow
Hath driven the demon out.
Surely the scented sleep
That crowns the equal war
Is wiser than only to weep--
To weep for evermore!

Now, at the crown of the year,
The decadent days of October,
I come to thee, God, without fear;
Pious, chaste, and sober.
I solemnly sacrifice
This first-fruit flower of wine
For a vehicle of thy vice,
As I am Thine to be mine.

For five in the year gone by
I pray Thee give to me one;
A lover stronger than I,
A moon to swallow the sun!
May he be like a lily-white goat,
Crisp as a thicket of thorns,
With a collar of gold for his throat,
A scarlet bow for his horns!

Also try this free pdf e-books:

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Saturday, April 19, 2008

Pan To Artemis

Pan To Artemis Cover Uncharmable charmer
Of Bacchus and Mars,
In the sounding, rebounding
Abyss of the stars!
O virgin in armor,
Thine arrows unsling
In the brilliant resilient
First rays of the spring!

By the force of the fashion
Of love, when I broke
Through the shroud, through the cloud,
Through the storm, through the smoke,
To the mountain of passion
Volcanic that woke--
By the rage of the mage
I invoke, I invoke!

By the midnight of madness,
The lone-lying sea,
The swoon of the moon,
Your swoon into me;
The sentinel sadness
Of cliff-clinging pine,
That night of delight
You were mine, you were mine!

You were mine, O my saint,
My maiden, my mate,
By the might of the right
Of the night of our fate.
Though I fall, though I faint,
Though I char, though I choke,
By the hour of our power
I invoke, I invoke!
By the mystical union
Of fairy and faun,
Unspoken, unbroken--
The dusk to the dawn!--
A secret communion,
Unmeasured, unsung,
The listless, resistless,
Tumultuous tongue!--

O virgin in armor
Thine arrows unsling,
In the brilliant resilient
First rays of the spring!
No Godhead could charm her,
But manhood awoke--
O fiery Valkyrie,
I invoke, I invoke!

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Saturday, April 5, 2008

The Firing Line

The Firing Line Cover There's a firing line that crosses our heart
So, How close to this line do we need to get
Before it's crossed over and we begin to sweat
Please, Just tell me my spot on the wall
Where should I stand / How should I fall
If I'm up there, Who's got the gun
When do they load
Take aim & let go.
It's really not fair Someone's standing in my spot
That great Little spot that I Thought just for me
Why won't he listen so I can be FREE
It's a simple request that he needs to hear
"Move over now buddy" My time is real near
You see I want to go for my Line Has Been Crossed
The older you get the thicker your lines
Yet, The Love you can feel is much more intense
Everyone should take chances with their own Firing Line
It's a part of your body a part of your mind
Don't worry now for your spot will be there
The question for you is, "When To Prepare."

(c. Roy Rindom, June 6, 1994)

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Friday, April 4, 2008

Song For Hecate

Song For Hecate Cover
O Lady of the darkest soul of night
Mother of Midnight, Ancient Shadow Queen
Bringer of Visions, give to me the sight
To see the sacred in all living things.
And in cold death, still beauty may I see
When You take back into Yourself
the beauty that was me.
O great Hecate, beneath Your waning moon
I stand dark-hooded on the shadowed road
and face three choices, though all roads lead to You
All stories end at last, untold and told.
O Crone of Wisdom, give to me the sight
To see the dance within all things
of darkness and of light.
O Ancient Lady, Mistress of the Night
You of three faces, Maiden, Mother, Crone
Protector of Witches, dancing with delight
On Your brown Earth, together or alone.
Dark Mother Goddess, give to me the sight
In death, in life, may I behold
Your Mystery dark and bright.

~Rhiannon Asher

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