Welcome to the first post and blog of The Wælcyrie of Carr Naze.
I suppose you are wondering what the word/term ‘ Wælcyrie’ actually means – well it’s the Old English for ‘Sorceress’ .
Or a Witch.
It can also means female demon, a malevolent one at that! Though I’m not really that nasty, well maybe first thing in the morning, but as long as I am fed tea – 2 cups – and BIG breakfast cups, oh preferably Earl Grey and the cups need to be china, then I am usually okay.
Oh yes it does sound a little like the word ‘Valkyrie’… It’s similar and there is some crossover.
Hekate has been on my mind lately- indeed She I can feed her stepping from the shadows.. summer is almost over, and the time will soon be upon us of that Thinning …of the liminal …
ORPHIC HYMN TO HEKATE
You, of roads and crossways,
Of heaven, of earth, and sea as well.
You, the saffron-clad, among the tombs,
Dancing with dead souls the Bacchic rite.
You, daughter of Perses, lover of desolation,
Taking joy in deer and dogs, in the night.
You, terrible Queen! Devourer of beasts!
Ungirded, possessed of form unapproachable!
You, bull-huntress, universal sovereign Empress:
You mountain-roaming guide, and bride, and nursemaid,
I entreat, O Maiden, your presence at these
sacred rites,With grace to the Oxherd and a
joyful heart eternal.
Last night I dreamt of toads.. 3 to be exact… all different colours… A medium sized black one, a large Orange one and a smaller brown one. They sat on my bedroom windowsill and sang to me bathed in full moonlight… It was quite beautiful.
I could [ and maybe will] write about the magical use of toads, and the folklore that surrounds them … but now, because I still need more coffee…a poem.
BY MARGE PIERCY
That afternoon the dream of the toads rang through the elms by Little River and affected the thoughts of men, though they were not conscious that they heard it.–Henry Thoreau
I’d done it before (and doubtless I’ll do it again, sooner or later)
woke up with a head on the pillow beside me
– whose? –
what did it matter?
Good-looking, of course, dark hair, rather matted;
the reddish beard several shades lighter;
with very deep lines around the eyes,
from pain, I’d guess, maybe laughter;
and a beautiful crimson mouth that obviously knew
how to flatter…
which I kissed…
Colder than pewter.
Strange. What was his name? Peter?
Simon? Andrew? John? I knew I’d feel better
for tea, dry toast, no butter,
so rang for the maid.
And, indeed, her innocent clatter
of cups and plates,
her clearing of clutter,
her regional patter,
were just what I needed –
hungover and wrecked as I was from a night on the batter.
I needed to clean up my act,
cut out the booze and the fags and the sex.
Yes. And as for the latter,
it was time to turf out the blighter,
the beater or biter,
who’d come like a lamb to the slaughter
to Salome’s bed.
In the mirror, I saw my eyes glitter.
I flung back the sticky red sheets,
and there, like I said – and ain’t life a bitch –
was his head on a platter.
Salome’s name in Hebrew is Shalomit, [ or Shalom] which means ‘peace’.
Ah! thou wouldst not suffer me to kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan. Well! I will kiss it now. I will bite it with my teeth as one bites a ripe fruit. Yes, I will kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan. I said it; did I not say it? I said it. Ah! I will kiss it now.. .. But, wherefore dost thou not look at me, Jokanaan? Thine eyes that were so terrible, so full of rage and scorn, are shut now. Wherefore are they shut? Open thine eyes! Lift up thine eyelids, Jokanaan! Wherefore dost thou not look at me? Art thou afraid of me, Jokanaan, that thou wilt not look at me?,.. And thy tongue, that was like a red snake darting poison, it moves no more, it says nothing now, Jokanaan, that scarlet viper that spat its venom upon me. It is strange, is it not? How is it that the red viper stirs no longer? . . . Thou wouldst have none of me, Jokanaan. Thou didst reject me. Thou didst speak evil words against me. Thou didst treat me as a harlot, as a wanton, me, Salomé, daughter of Herodias, Princess of Judaea! Well, Jokanaan, I still live, but thou, thou art dead, and thy head belongs to me. I can do with it what I will. I can throw it to the dogs and to the birds of the air. That which the dogs leave, the birds of the air shall devour. . . .
Ah, Jokanaan, Jokanaan, thou wert the only man that I have loved. All other men are hateful to me. But thou, thou wert beautiful! Thy body was a column of ivory set on a silver socle. It was a garden full of doves and of silver lilies. It was a tower of silver decked with shields of ivory. There was nothing in the world so white as thy body. There was nothing in the world so black as thy hair. In the whole world there was nothing so red as thy mouth. Thy voice was a censer that scattered strange perfumes, and when I looked on thee I heard a strange music. Ah! wherefore didst thou not look at me, Jokanaan? Behind thine hands and thy curses thou didst hide thy face. Thou didst put upon thine eyes the covering of him who would see his God. Well, thou hast seen thy God, Jokanaan, but me, me, thou didst never see. If thou hadst seen me thou wouldst have loved me. I, I saw thee, Jokanaan, and I loved thee. Oh, how I loved thee! I love thee yet, Jokanaan. I love thee only. . . . I am athirst for thy beauty; I am hungry for thy body; and neither wine nor fruits can appease my desire. What shall I do now, Jokanaan? Neither the floods nor the great waters can quench my passion. I was a princess, and thou didst scorn me. I was a virgin, and thou didst take my virginity from me. I was chaste, and thou didst fill my veins with fire. . . . Ah! ah! wherefore didst thou not look at me, Jokanaan? If thou hadst looked at me thou hadst loved me. Well I know that thou wouldst have loved me, and the mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death. Love only should one consider. *