Witchcraft is a strange poetry, a noble art, a savage beast in the heart of a heretic…

22 April 2015

Witchcraft is a strange poetry, a noble art, a savage beast in the heart of a heretic…

Today many people view Witchcraft in its myriad forms as a reclaiming of pre-Christian Pagan sorceries and the primal shamanry of our European ancestors. Yes, it is. And yet Witchcraft belongs to a Story, it is a Mythic Medicine born from a terrible union of fiery serpents, the hidden people of hollow hills and the serpent-tongued ones who witness this – the human magic is met by an otherworldly fire and the Tree of Knowledge gives forth Fruit.

The private families and clans of the Craft today tell legends of fallen angels, Luciferian gnosis, Faerie sisters in the wind and the rivers, the wisdom of the dead, our beloved and mighty ancestors, and this is a conversation, a confrontation, an interrogation. Our conversation did not end with the corruption of Constantine’s Church and the gradual conversion of Europe, Africa and the Near East to the Abrahamic faiths. This of course was the beginning of a cultural genocide that the deeply wounded people of Europe have carried out on colonial ships like a sickness into almost every corner of this planet. This is a sickness that the Witch knows much about. She is born to battle this tyrant, the ones who would wilfully wield this monstrosity. He is born to conjure Artfulness and Awareness into the people and crack open our hearts a little more to Beauty. We dance with demons so that we know how to tear them apart, and the elder gods hold us as we are torn apart to be reborn in a Fire of Alchemy that brings us to the Knife’s Edge. Whispered words here will remake the World.

I am a Witch, yes. I am a Pagan sometimes, I am a pagan most of the time. I have to be an animist with the ferns and the flowers, singing to the dust of prior glory under the weight of asphalt and concrete, steel spires in the cityscapes. I need to be with toxic rivers and the polluted air, I breathe it in and it stirs in me. I try to taste and take in the poison and transmute it into a healing balm, a radical raven song that will mend the break. I know how to fly on the Wind, but this knowledge, and even this action is only ever truly the Craft in the context of many, of a community of wyrd ones. Bless the warriors of these words of late…Lee Morgan, Peter Grey, Oberyn Huldren, Ravyn Stanfield…

A famous elder of the modern Craft who is often decried as a New Age or overly-politicised preacher in fact spells the heart of the Craft out to those who are initiated when she says: Witchcraft is the secret initiatory Goddess tradition of Europe and the Near East. At the heart of Our Craft is the Goddess, Our Lady. This is Truth, it is Wisdom, it is Love. But, we didn’t stop our conversation in the caves; we took our deep and old alliances with the primal spirits and mysterious ones and crept into chapels and cathedrals where they built their houses of God knowing their strategy. These dirty pagans, harlots of heathenry, must come to these wells, where these lines of power converge in the land, they must come where we felled the demon groves, and so we build here. And so we came – my ancestors, and probably yours, came – and first, under our prayers to the Christ and Maria and the Saints, we whispered and remembered other Names, other Powers, until we didn’t remember anymore. There is a Secret House that holds this memory, drink of the Well and perhaps you will remember. Yes, that was pagan, the land’s own religion, but the witches secret even into the belly of the beast. We know the ways of beasts, healthy, strong, vivid beasts, or we remember the way things ought to be…

I am a heretic. I keep shrines with lights illuminating the faces of Saints, of Mary, of Jesus. I whisper their Names alongside other Names – the Old Ones are fed, rejoice, re-member, as I remember. I have a knife and a cup in front of the Mary; break into my house hunter, yes, there is heresy here…let the household’s troth, the heart’s own ancient providence, be my shield. The witches fly up the chimneys, carried by the smoke of our sacred plants, pacts we made long ago, and we soar out to commit to an unfolding of Fate’s own doings. Ever, like the flying fox, like the leaping hare, seemingly gentle, seemingly meek, but truly cunning, we escape your greedy grasp.

Orders set to pacify and oppress us are undone when we subvert them from within. We have never stopped our conversation, our raven-ringed conspiracies, our night-cloaked cathedrals of congregation. Our rites are not relics, they are living and hungry beasts. They call us out of our beds at night and to cross the threshold of the harvested home conjuring chthonic powers up from the quivering earth. Sullen maws evacuate as dreams twisted into strong and ancient braids of lust bring us home to each other. We gather in groups of more than three, at crossroads and upon crooked and uneven ground to incant and unsettle the bureaucracies of time and the spending of energy on the elite. The shade of the capitalist tyranny drowns the People and the Planet. We were born for this and Old Houses are resurrected. Aradia, Jack, Robin of the Art, Jeanne of the Tree, we simmer in the spaces between words in history books…the world has never truly forgotten…we haunt and we bring vivacity where only barrenness of the heart is seen to rule…We come with a Firebrand made of the ash of Our Fallen Company, and the embers from the caves, our spirits have lit the Spark again.

We steal into graveyards and dance on sea-shorn rocks…

We consort with Leviathan Powers in the crevices of what was and what will be. All the will be(e)’s. Wyrd Sisters with haggard faces and youthful glances seduce our spirits over stiles into the land of our legacy…

Laying down weapons of war against each other and our bodies press in, bend and twist to make Art in the concordant centres of where sorcery becomes synergy with Our Own Spirits…

Our conversations have never ended. Not with each other. And not with you. Not with the vile villains that are the terrorists of the land’s own wealth and our sovereign immanence. Our conversations have become silent seething and wretched…have become reeling and ruined and tempestuous…have become the salt in the tears and the rainbows thunderous in the laughter of our skins as we shift in and out of the Work we are doing to bring down the fortress…do not doubt that we are working…

Witchcraft is a strange poetry, a noble art, a savage beast in the heart of a heretic…And the heretics are strongest when in our Choice we are seen as Mad, and in that Madness we gain the Keys into the Towers…we sing with the Star-Weavers and the lightning arcs up and down, down and up.

Our Madness is not for everyone, until our Work is done. Declarations of Daimonic Dominion live in Dreams. Dreams we will wake.

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