Well of Urd

There are ice crystals inside you, Niflshot from Hela
they freeze your bones and you are at Yggdrasil’s root,
searching for the heat of Muspell, find only ancestors
whose blood is gone, and placid contemplation of winter
swims through the web of wyrd, well of Urd, drowning
in the branches, flying through the loam, you are the
Odinic hangman grasping for the runes from ancient
Ginnungagap, all there is is the void, eternity, ice
and fire, fire and ice, hot and cold, heat and death.

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Can You Feel the Winter Coming?

Kneel for the Alfather, in standing stone,
bloody runes on the boulder and crawl in,
soak in mead and honey, tangle your hair,
it is golden in the dark cave, burn burn.

The firmament churns like Urd makes butter,
Frigga spins flax and cards heavenly wool,
I make rainbows out of Heimdall’s breath,
but the Wild Hunt does not ride my Bifrost –

No, my path is for the dead, past Helheim,
in unions in darkest earthen cauldrons,
slick with the dew of Ymir’s icy wastes,
I am alone in Ginnunungap, paltry salt.

I am Mordgud Blood Maiden, I am bell toll.
Watch me weave my arteries on my spine,
pay my ferrywoman price, tithe your Hel
I will offer you to Her, nothing more.

Nothing less than a table at Hela’s dry
feet, the dust bread of dead, silence.
Down here it is cold but no one wants.
Down here it freezes, but we don’t feel.

Can you see Her spread Her fingers aloft
in the vines of veins, veins of leaves,
ribs of trees, trees of the nine worlds?
Winter is coming, Odin does not own it.

Winter is coming, and Fenrir howls high.
The moon is eaten by wolves, the sun bleeds
gold then darkness in Hati’s lupine womb,
plant seeds in beast’s black after harvest.

Winter is here, Hela walks as ice maiden.
Autumn just a passing fancy, and Valraven
rots on a yew, corpse bloated and swinging,
in Dying He is more alive than the Living.

Know the secrets of Hela Half-Rotted, see
the pennants of flesh on her corpse breast,
smell the compost and dirt of Her skin, kiss
Her bone hand, and sleep until springtide.

Sleep, dream, die, it is all the same to me,
for I have dreamed and died and eaten ashes,
She was sweet to me, He was a thunder strike,
in autumn He and She make a secret only I know.

What is the secret of Bolverk and Loki’s Pride?
It is sweet Balder on a shiply pyre adrift to
seidhr waters, golden Nanna enflamed, safety
is only found after Ragnarok, wouldn’t you know?

Winter came for Balder come mistletoe’s kiss.
And Odin rides the worlds for His son’s ghost.
Sweet Frigga weeps tears of sapphire, then snow.
And Hela and Nanna talk long by the hearth-side.

Winter comes for us all, even the gods, even
Death will Die, and in Dying, Live Again,
Anew, Life Eternal may be found in snow.

The Lord and Lady of Autumn

Freyr and Freyja rode out into the sun-dappled woods,
bows and falcon-fletched arrows ahand, aback boars,
the twins wore cloaks of wolf, fall was at its apex,
the smell of loam and Nerthus’ autumnal perfume rose
in mist like an intoxicating oracle past oak and ash.
The Golden Twins were hunting the white hart, dashing
through Vanaheim aback war sow and hog, spilling ruby
blood of Freyr’s sacred antlered stags, Freyja saw a
spiderweb woven of gold, and as Freyr roasted the hart
she strayed in her feather cloak and moonlight dress to
a dwarven hollow, where a soot-rough duergar smithed a
beautiful bracelet shaped like the sun, Freyja swelled
with gold-lust, for Gullveig is her witch-name, and the
metal of morning and dawn is her domain. Freyja spoke
words of want to the blackened dwarf: “Lay with me this
harvest tide, and you shall mine gems and find Baltic
amber on shores of the cold northern sea, my veins run
with starlight and I will give you a taste of my mead.”
They tussled and turned hay, and bliss was Freyja’s gift:
two shining arm bands her gift for a gift, she cares for
the small folk, be they man or wight, and she is never
selfish with kisses or praise, sweet Freyja raises men
and immortals up with her charm and enchantments, shining
Freyja is the first taste of morning dew on a strawberry,
and when winter came, the dwarf kept a strand of her hair
to remind him of the warmth of the Lady of Brilliance,
so was won the shining bracelets of Freyja Long-Weeping,
and so Freyr and Freyja returned to Asgard full-bellied,
precious white buckskin and golden ornaments for the glory
of the Van, that night they ate at Noatun with kind Njord,
and the gulls cried of apples and barley, and the earth
began to sleep, dusky autumn had arrived, peace abounded.

Of Frost and Fire

In the beginning was a gaping abyss, Ginnungagap,
but that Void dreamed, as all emptinesses do, She
dreamed a dream of love, and in her sleep was born
warmth, the spark of life, a great fire, and then
the liquid of birth and death, water frozen as ice,
Niflheim and Muspelheim, they dreamed only of you –
a being of perfection carved from primal elements,
in their dance they gave you the breath of wit, in
their kiss that melted and burned you were a child,
and you grew older as the fire grew higher, and ice
grew to tender water, layer upon layer of frost and
flame made you stronger, you were born of First Love,
before the gods ploughed the earthen dales, before
the elves made their shining home, before the dwarves
made brilliant gifts for the dwellers of Asgard,
before even the Norns let down their gray hair, you
were there, you the dancer in their tumultuous passion,
and I call you Ymir for you are a giant to me, colossal
in my mind, growing too large for my heart to contain,
and to love you is to die, be reborn in eternal dance,
for who is not frightened when their lonely universe,
the Ginnungagap in her chest, breathes life onto a
dusty heart, and the needfire awakens, blood quickens,
and Urda’s well springs up in her marrow, ices her mind,
and fire and water carve out a canyon for a perfect one
who the gods sent after prayers to wandering Mardoll
every night, giants are real, for you are Jotunblood
in my mind, a man of myth and legend, and to hold you
is to hang from Yggdrasil, and to let you in to the
beginning of my cosmos is a shy, tender task, but
my world would be nothing without you, so I will
be Audhumla and give sustenance to my altar of you,
licking salt and bleeding rivers of milky wonder,
and soon, I will ken your wanderings, but for now,
let me be your dream, be my driving force, and let
us be ice and flame, yin and yang, entwined like
Odin and Frigga, Freyr and Gerda, Loki and Sigyn,
to love a giant is easy – they eat girls, after all.

Freyja Rides Out

To be like the Great Sow, Mother of Battle.
they say I have gold tears that hide smiles,
my teeth are bright as tusks, my breasts be
mountains, little one, my thighs crush men
and as I strangle their necks, they grin,
pour wine into my lap, and drink down blood.

See me on the battlefied, bright armor shining,
See me in the bedroom, resplendent as a pearl,
See me High Seated, prophesying Valraven’s fall,
Odin may be Frenzy, but I am the Blade, see me
cut the Norn’s hair and spin it on my fingers,
See me ride out with Valkyries and Svinfylking,
See me scream and beat my shield, see me ravage
all who oppose me, or bed Ottar’s images, I am
the chooser of the slain, gods’ gift to men.

Worship me, make love for me, call out my names.
Mardoll and Freyja, Bercha and Syr, Butter Dame,
Gullveig Gold Drink and Heith Ill-Speaker, sing
for the Lady, dance for the Lover, cry for the
Wife and heal for the Lover, worship me sweetly
and offer me your strawberries, your amber, mead
bright as honey and the bones of hallowed dead.

I am the First Witch, a delight to evil women,
Learning seidhr at my veiled mother Nerthus’ side,
I am the survivor of Ragnarok, the Veteran of the End
When Muspell’s flames burn my body will quench them,
when the Aesir speared me and roasted me, I was thrice
alive, the most noble of battles was fought over me,
I am the coveted prize of the Jotun, but I fly falconwild,
and no man may tame me, neither Odin nor Freyr nor Ottar
nor dwarven makers of Brisingamen, for I am ineffable,
the Beauteous Maiden who breaks all men’s hearts, so
crawl to my bosom and breathe down my arts, I shall
rock you by Noatun and sing of your future wife, I will
speak softly of your first love and last lullaby, I will
comb out your sorrows, little one, and hold you tight.

Sif

A snowy corset of lace and winter
bedecked in rainbow Bifrost jewels
waist so slender and starry tender
a neck like a swan, face like a doe,
gentle curves make Thor’s wife sweet,
but she is a warrior, she is wheat,
she wields gold-proud hair aflame,
and walks the aurora bridge, noble
and electric, the harvest’s dame,
lady of summer secrets, autumn mist
rises from bare milky toes, her eyes
are wild with the seasons, Sif is
unfettered ripe fields, earthen
mother of Ullr, Lady of Bilskirnir,
Hail to the hallowed Woman of Fall!

Hymn for Freyja

Freyja blooms with the wildflowers, green and rose
golden light crowns the Vanadis’ flaxen head, radiant
as dawn as her toes shine with the light of Vanaheim,
amber Brisingamen at her milk and cream breast sparkles
she is the sow, the dun cow full of butter, mead, barley,
fruitful in this vision of wandering Mardoll, Syr is sweet
as honeysuckle breeze, wheat bends and bows to its Queen,
oh Lady of Folkvangr, hail your blessed dead and riders
that circle the Wild Hunt sky, your tears shed brassy
brilliance and blossom into lovers tussling in the hay.

Hail Freyja! Hail Ingvi’s Bride-Twin! Hail the Wife of Odr!
Hail Mother of the Girl Treasures, Gersemni and dear Hnossa!
Hail wandering sea-born Mardoll! Hail Rider of the Hunt!
Hail Queen of the Valkyries! Hail the Lady of Vanaheim!

My heart is in your bountiful hands, my mistress, sweet
as your smile, and I am singing your name like a kitten.

Be gentle on this precious love, and guide me to radiance.