On the birth of Gods – Prose Poetry Warning

25 May 2015

In the Limitless Cosmos, in the Wyrd, through it, vibrating in every crevice, corner and cell of the Being of Mystery there are myriad Great Mysteries. Great Mysteries who are made of Fate, ordained by Grandmother Weaver, by the Star Goddess, by God Hirself. Infinite, Bright, Dark, Cunning Spirits birthed in a moment of pregnant weighted fate in the heart of nothing and the void of creation.

On the Land that shifts and changes, and awakens and deepens, that tears and opens and disappears under the sea or emerges from it. These powerful beings who move in the landscape and who are the catalysts of Primal Elements, or Their inheritors, or the ones who ride in that ignition and become new places, new mountains, ancient trees, mighty rivers, gentle streams, ferns and bracken, the Mother Bear, the rutting Stag, the King Tiger, the Queen Crocodile. These mighty powers of this planet, of this Earth.

Humans, we bizarre and edge-bound beings, reflecting against ourselves and into each other endlessly, in cycles and loops and arrows of story and held in a mythic landscape of misty origins. Awakened through a kind of Fire in the Head, concentrated in some more than others but held for the greater whole. Many tribes, wandering clans and sometimes collecting into powerful nations; but ever on the Land, ever between two rivers, or in the foothills of a fertile fire mountain, or by the loving and ever-generous sea. Humans listening to and with the Primal Old Ones in the Land, Sky and Sea and then by some act of daring, nobility, heroism, or foolishness commit to acts of power that tear apart the worlds and change everything in a moment out of time, out of space. Perhaps someone who hangs nine nights on a Tree above a pool of water, dying to wisdom, yearning for it. Perhaps another who is made to run pregnant to prove to those who are thought to be stronger than her that indeed she is as she is, and then who wields a potent curse. What of the mother who loving her son attempts secret sorceries to bring to him the knowledge and wisdom that will make his soul shine through in artful beauty and bring him joy in a cruel world? What of a young maiden who chooses to invoke the Dark One of Hell and marry with him by eating a strange and wild flower that arrests her blood and takes her down? Do these things happen before or after the Story is told … both and neither, and yet the Story is in the Changing.

The Great Mysteries are invoked at those edges when we dare, when we are wild enough to break through to peer into something else, the fools at the precipice, they listen then. We have their attention. They may tell us of magic, they may lift their veils and reveal Keys to their Hearts in the sound of a Name, they may – in Vision – grant us the piece of their part of the Limitless and in that moment those Great Mysteries, in communion with us, see and feel their own being, become self-aware and dare to sacrifice, to mirror this human’s sacrifie, something of their largeness in Fate, and settle into the Story of an Altar of Self-Sacrifice, given to the Worlds for Love, Truth and Wisdom.

The Land remembers, it is etched into the valleys and the hills, the heaths and the forests, the deserts and the deep, dark caves. The land carries the Mystery and the Human, who are carrying each other, grants texture and tone, and Gods are born and passed and change and travel and merge and redefine. Gods, Goddesses, Deities, whose origins lay perhaps in a crossroads of convergences.