A Tale of Wisdom’s Well
Now wisdom’s way I praise
— ‘tis Woden’s holy road —
with mead I rightly made
from might of lore tonight.
Deeply drink — don’t just sip —
this draught of main and gain
in hearing tell of Hár,
on how and why that eye!
First had Búri got Borr.
Then born was Ölvir-Forn:
from a crude corpse he made
what’s called our home by skald.
Hanging high, nine nights long,
beholding runes as boons,
this gloried god went far
but glimpsed much more in store.
To get seið-skill he sought
sensuous Freyja then:
ecstasy alters luck.
Through herbs no rot perturbs
the head of Hœnir’s bud:
hidden tales it unveils.
They’re not enough to quaff:
he needed more of lore.
Wanting to gain he went
for wisdom to be his;
under the Ash he’d wend
by Etin-home and roam
along a root so right
to reach and then beseech
a dram from master Mím:
a mighty trip that sip!
Then grimly Gaut hailed Mím
who, grand with horn in hand,
refused the fuel he prized:
for free it would not be!
A price instead he paid,
a part most dear and near:
to have that gulp he gave
a globe of sight that night.
For gain his eye was gone;
then Gjallarhorn was borne
— deeply undimmed it beamed —
with draught so full of craft.
Crystal clear was its fire;
no clouds stained or remained
in sky of Skollvald’s will:
screaming bright, yet no dream.
That member he gave Mím
is mighty still in sight:
rowning of realms unseen,
right it dwells, in the wells.
He’s stirred to understand
through strength of both at length;
much wisdom deep he draws
from draught and eye of craft.
Onward ever he’ll run,
aiming for more to claim
of wisdom wild and bold:
wode for his holy road!
Honor his eye and boon,
for always they recall
that feat of glory great
for Gods and Men to ken.
The Drápa of Battle Cry
’Tis for Battle Cry,
the carried board,
that I’ve shaped this praise
with my surest craft;
my song is solid,
as suits that shield,
for now I tell
its needful tale.
The burnished boss,
brightly gleaming,
is an inner beacon
on this board of oak.
With a band of black
it’s bound at the edge;
that cowhide wyrm
secures its world.
Its spiral pattern
spreads from center,
and three by three
are the thick gyrons,
arrondi-arrayed
in rightful manner;
with kindred colors
it’s carefully painted.
Leading our way
as luminous circle,
the awe of Battle Cry
is always beaming.
Gold for the Gods
we graciously honor,
whose faith we foster
and firmly hold;
The gleaming glow
of the great old ways
we seek to show
to seekers sure.
Black for the Well
that bears our wyrd,
both deep and dark,
like the depths it holds.
’Tis firm and fast
like the famous virtues,
those guides to growth
and the good in life.
Green for the Tree,
glorious and bright,
that holds the homes,
hight Yggdrasil,
and green we keep
our great kindred
that learns the ways
to live as heathens.
In its bright colors
is our bold mission:
the awe of Battle Cry
is always beaming.
Cut and crafted
by keen Levi
of Coal Center
in cold December,
‘tis a glorious gift
that will grace the Hearth
on our road ahead
of rising fortunes.
With sword it’s paired
as a powerful set
to wield with honor
and ward our frith.
Our arms and armor
we’ll always carry
while the World-Tree
is waxing green.
Hail to the gift,
hail to the giver,
and hail to the Hearth
for holding its trust.
May fame endure
for this fortunate oak
that’s hight Battle Cry
and for the Hearth of Yggdrasil.
A Drápa for Formal Sumbel
In quest I struggled
to quicken my words
and honor Óðinn tonight;
The drink of dwarves:
that draught I won,
and now I pour it in praise.
Hail to Óðinn,
the Aesir’s lord
and greatest worker of wode.
The raven god
has roamed the worlds
and waxed in wisdom’s might.
This god of heroes
is the greatest hero,
for the best of the Aesir is Óðinn.
He hung wounded
on that holy tree
to gain the glorious Runes;
with the price he paid
of pain and torment
were might and mystery won!
He is always seeking
to add to his wisdom,
for the best of the Aesir is Óðinn.
Suttung’s sumbel
he sought to steal
to gain the skill of skalds;
by knowing Gunnlöð
for nights all three
were power and poetry won!
The Folk in Midgard
is fortunate indeed
to share in those greatest of gains;
for winning the Runes
and winning the Mead,
hail to the heroes’ god,
hail to awesome Óðinn!
Now I turn
my needful praise
to the heroes in Óðinn’s hall;
With mead I toast
those mighty dead
who eternally fight and feast.
Hail to the Einherjar,
the heroes of Óðinn,
those champions chosen in battle;
they feast in Valhöll
with the father of victory
on the best of boar and mead.
The cream of the Folk
is called for that host;
the honor of the Einherjar is eternal.
The greatest of warriors
have gained that hall
by trusting in might and main.
Their deeds and doings
of daring in battle
inspire our spirits today.
With glory in Glaðsheim,
together they dwell;
the honor of the Einherjar is eternal.
The greatest of skalds
have gained that hall
through pouring their mighty mead.
In the workings of Wyrd
their words live on:
the great reward for wode.
The lives they lived
are a light to heathens;
their glory is undying in death.
For showing the way
to that shining hall,
hail to the Heroes of the Folk,
hail to Óðinn’s Einherjar!
To the Folk’s future,
forward I look
and praise the past as well;
A full horn I raise
to the Folk today —
the modern heathen heroes.
Hail to the Folk
of heathen faith
who struggle to restore that troth!
We aim to emulate
the Einherjar well
through our mighty words and works.
Our local kindreds
labor with pride;
the fame of our Folk is growing.
To the chiefs and elders
who’ve chosen to lead
and bear that burden well,
and the heroes who work
behind the scenes —
thanks and praise I pour.
Our brilliant leaders
have blazed a trail;
the fame of our Folk is growing.
To the serious seekers
for their solitary work
following in Óðinn’s footsteps,
who quaff the Mead
and quest for the Runes —
honor and pride I pour.
Always onward,
our efforts continue
to brighten the raven banner;
for the groundwork laid
for a glorious future,
hail to our holy might,
hail to us Heathen Folk!
Fólksdrápa
Fimbultýr’s bounty
I bring to the Folk
and honor also
Oðinn’s nation.
His holy mead
helps our people
remember well
their mighty spirit.
Our Northern blood
is a noble blessing;
ancestral deeds
have set our doom.
Be it Germanic, Norse,
or mighty English,
through the Well of Wyrd
it works today.
They bore the Runes
and battled Rome;
they conquered lands
and combed the seas.
Through deeds and doings
of daring in the world,
their might and main
have made them famous.
Our ancient ancestors
are an awesome folk.
Our Folk endures
with fame undying.
The roots of our Folk
had run quite deep;
a vicious conversion
they survived intact.
The legacy of language
links us together
across the centuries
of cultural change.
In legend and lore,
their lives we remember
to inspire our spirits
and spur us to act.
Their values and virtues
of vital power
are the holy heritage
of heroes today.
Whether old or new,
ancient or modern:
Our Folk endures
with fame undying.
Our Folk today
has found its roots,
rightly raising
raven banners!
Our ancient gods
we honor again,
bringing their might
back to Midgard.
We learn the lore
and live with virtue;
we rist the Runes
and rown them anew.
We rebuild the bonds
that bind the Folk;
we make it whole
and healthy again.
Our efforts honor
the ancestors well!
Our Folk endures
with fame undying.
With care the Folk
secures its future
and builds a base
— a beacon of hope —
for its work to come
in a world of strife,
for the road ahead
is rough indeed.
Restoring culture
and strengthening kin
will gird our Folk
against its foes.
But act we must
and always struggle
to keep our heritage
secure and whole.
Remember well
this mead I’ve won
and savor the sweetness
in the sounds I’ve poured,
for the precious poetry
in potent words
can fortify the Folk
with Fimbultýr’s might!
Mead for Camp Netimus
For Camp Netimus
and its caring staff,
I make and pour
this precious mead.
In the Poconos
of Pennsylvania,
it’s nestled nicely
in nature’s beauty.
Hail to Netimus
and its happy staff,
ever deserving
of honor and praise.
For the fine feasts here
that fill our stomachs,
us happy heathens
will hail those cooks.
From the lake below
to the lands above,
with a mighty lodge
and many cabins,
by stalwart staff
this stead is served;
whole and healthy
they hold its spirit.
Over eighty years
this awesome stead
has guided girls
through growing up.
But in the off-season
for us it is here,
and for other
East-Coast heathens.
Clean and kept well,
this camp is renowned
by the heathens here
who hold their blóts
and the friendly wights
who fill these woods;
both seen and unseen
give serious thanks.
These wonderful folk
have welcomed us!
Their hospitality
to true heathens
is a boon and blessing
that builds our Folk,
so that year after year
we yearn to return.
For hosting us here,
this hail I make
to the people I thank
with potent staves,
and this praise I finish
with powerful toasts:
Hail Camp Netimus,
and hail the cooks!
An Offering to Nettie
For the mightiest wight
that wards this land,
I brewed this beer
and bear it today.
Of land wights here,
alone she is named;
on a sign somewhere,
I saw her reckoned.
Hail to Nettie,
named for her home
known as Netimus
in the Northeast realm
of Pennsylvania’s
vibrant domain,
a place in the Poconos
of pride and joy!
She lives in the lake
and on land as well;
in serpent’s form,
this friendly wight
burrows about,
above and below,
in the grass and trees
and ground as well.
O’er eighty years,
always watching,
neighborly Nettie
has nurtured this camp.
She’s guided girls
in growing up
from the lake below
to the limits above.
Along with its staff,
this stead she serves;
whole and healthy
she holds its spirit.
In off-season also
she’s always here
for the groups and guests
who go to this camp.
This winsome wight
has welcomed us!
Her hospitality
to true heathens
is a boon and blessing
that builds our Folk,
so that year after year
we yearn to return.
For welcoming us,
this wight I thank,
and all her friends
I honor as well.
My might and main
through malt I offer,
and here I pour it:
Hail to Nettie!
Pagan Praise to Freyr
For Pittsburgh pagans
I pour this mead,
gained from the gladsome Lady.
Gathered together
at this grithful stead,
we honor Ingvi now!
With Freyr today
his fruits we enjoy
and celebrate well the season
while peering forward
and planning the future,
for all in time must end.
Though he’s fated to fall
in that future battle
— the infamous Ragnarök —
his fruits and frith
will flourish again
in the realm that’s raised anew.
As well for us,
our winters will end,
followed by harvest fruits,
for life anew
is lurking always
beyond the drapes of death.
So here with pride
we praise our Lord,
that great and famous god,
the son of Njörð
and his sister-wife:
the grand and glorious Freyr.
This lord of elves
lives with the Aesir:
a union of tribes through truce.
This god of the Vanir
to Gerð is married:
a union of life and land.
All love Ing
for his excellent boons,
the peace and plenty he brings.
Wide it wanders,
his wagon of blessings,
and now we name his gifts.
For the fruitful fields
and fertile wombs
— the harvests great and good —
we gladly give
our gracious thanks
to the ruler of rain and growth.
For the pleasure and passion
that the people enjoy
— the lust and libido he brings —
we gladly give
our gracious thanks
to the master of phallic might.
For the famous frith
and fortunate weal
— the peace and luck in life —
we gladly give
our gracious thanks
to the god of rightful riches.
In mead with might,
we mix our thanks
and pour that potion to Freyr.
We strengthen the bonds
that bind us together
through a glad exchange of gifts.
Thus may he gift
our great community
for the blessing we bring in frith.
As Pittsburgh Pagans,
we give praise today!
With pride and purpose we hail,
and we hail to fruitful Freyr!
Sumartímadrápa
This song I brewed
with sweetest honey
to celebrate summer
and sun’s bright light.
I made this mead
with mirth today,
to fill the folk
with frolic and joy.
Sif and Iðunn
and Sunna we hail
for golden growth
in this greatest time.
Sweet summer is
of seasons best,
with birds and beasts
to brighten the world.
In sun and warmth,
we celebrate life;
the longer days
lift our spirits.
It is greeted as well
by the gods we honor,
for the force of life
is flowing strongest.
For the spirit of life
in this special time,
summer and sunshine
we celebrate now.
The strong sunshine
and storms of summer
will grow the crops
that grace our tables.
The harvest’s bounty
is ahead for us:
from brightest light,
the best of food.
The warmth of summer
is welcomed by flowers;
bright and fragrant,
they bloom this season.
Their nourishing nectar
is needed by bees
for the honey made
into heathens’ mead.
For the blessings brought
by brighter light,
summer and sunshine
we celebrate now.
Loaded with leaves,
the limbs of trees
provide to us
their valued shade.
To the waters we wend,
in their warmth we swim,
and we take to the roads
for travel and leisure.
For the fun and frolic
of festival days
— the things and moots —
our thanks we give.
We gather to gift
our gods outdoors
with blue sky above
our blessing-steads.
Hail to summer,
that happy season!
Enjoy the sunshine
of these joyful days,
and savor well
the sounds I poured
in the skaldic mead
I skillfully made.
Thor Processional Chant
Great Thor, Thor, Thor,
the thunderer we hail,
that greatest son of Gaut.
We celebrate now
this son of earth
for all his great good gifts.
Ásabrag we hail,
the Aesir lord,
that greatest god of karls.
That warder of workers
gives weal unto all
where oak or rowan rises.
For Man in Midgard
he’s a mighty defender
who hallows and holds our shrines.
For Man in Midgard
he’s a mainful patron
who furthers the fecund earth.
Eindriði we hail,
and onward he strives
to ward the worlds ‘gainst etins.
Gjálp and Greip
and Geirröð, too,
he ended to aid the worlds.
For Man in Midgard
he’s a mighty defender
who hallows and holds our shrines.
For Man in Midgard
he’s a mainful patron
who furthers the fecund earth.
Harðhugað we hail,
his heart is greatest:
his boldness boosts our courage.
He slew Hrungnir
to hold them safe,
the Bonds and their boons in Asgard.
For Man in Midgard
he’s a mighty defender
who hallows and holds our shrines.
For Man in Midgard
he’s a mainful patron
who furthers the fecund earth.
Hlórriði we hail
for the help he gives
that blesses our fertile fields.
The rain he brings
in righteous downpours,
by thunder from mighty Mjöllnir.
For Man in Midgard
he’s a mighty defender
who hallows and holds our shrines.
For Man in Midgard
he’s a mainful patron
who furthers the fecund earth.
Véurr we hail,
that valiant warder
of Midgard’s mighty shrines.
Both barrow and vé
he blesses and holds,
hallowing the runes we write.
Hail the hallower
— that holy warder —
hail to Thor, Thor, Thor!
Hail the Great One
— that glorious Ás —
hail to Thor, Thor, Thor!
An Ull Poem
Wulþuz and Wuldor,
as well as Ollerus:
the other names
of Ull we know.
This glorious god
is gifted with skis
and surfs the seas
on a sorcerous bone.
Oaths had Atli
— on Ull’s great ring,
sworn to Gunnarr —
forsaken for gold.
The god’s blessing
— glory brightest —
departed from him,
replaced by death.
In Ýdalir
is Ull’s dwelling,
where winter’s winds
are whirling about.
He hunts the game
that happy gods
fix for fine feasts
with fimbul guests.
This accomplished archer
is called upon
— the son of Sif —
for single combat.
Little else we know,
yet lift him a horn
and honor Ull
with excellent mead!
Vetrartímadrápa
I stirred these staves
with strongest honey
to welcome winter
with a wassail now.
I made this mead
with mirth today
to fill the folk
with frolic and joy.
Ull and Skaði
and Óðinn we hail
for wild winter’s
wondrous delights.
The winds of winter,
whipping about,
will drive the snows
in this darker time.
The life of the world
now lies in wait,
sleeping soundly
in silent rest.
For the passing away
of the prior year,
winter is greeted
by gods and men.
For the spirit of renewal
in this special time,
winter and wassails
we welcome now.
The Wild Hunt rides,
wending furiously,
with awesome Óðinn
always leading.
In the whistling wind
the unwary are caught;
in rage and wrath
that ride they join.
Inside and safe
we celebrate life
while the restless dead
are roaming the night.
The Hunt is a harvest
that harrows the land,
preparing it well
for the planting to come.
For frights outdoors
and feasts indoors,
winter and wassails
we welcome now.
The Yuletide days
we yearn for most:
those twelve long nights
in our troth are best.
With friends and family
we feast and celebrate,
with flowing mead
and finest meat.
The darkest of days
— when done and past —
brings us the light
we laud and praise.
We gather to gift
our gods by the fire,
warm and happy
with wassail in hand.
Hail to winter,
that hallowed season!
Enjoy the feasting
of these joyful days,
and savor well
the sounds I poured
in the skaldic mead
I skillfully made.
Yggdrasilsdrápa
From trees are made
us true heathens,
and I seek silence
for singing my praise
of that tallest tree
— truly mighty —
that holds the homes
and is hight Yggdrasil.
From its drops of dew,
a draught I brew
of Ygg’s ale now
and open that flow
to stir with words
our wode tonight.
Drink now deeply
this draught of skalds.
Of trees it is best
and I truly name
the nine bright worlds
that needle-ash bears.
The North has Niflheim
and its numbing Ice.
The South has Muspellsheim
and its searing Fire.
The West has Vanaheim,
the world of the Vanir.
The East has Jötunheim,
the Etins’ home realm.
Above is Ljósálfheim,
the blessed realm of Elves.
Below is Svartálfheim,
the land of the Dwarves.
Highest is Asgard,
home of the Aesir.
Lowest is Hel,
the land of the Dead.
But Midgard for Man
is in the middle of all.
Now hight are the worlds
that hang on that Tree.
With worlds all nine,
that Wood does shine.
Always that Tree
evergreen shall be.
That Tree rises
from roots and wells;
three each it has,
its thirst they quench.
A root in Hvergelmir
— that roiling cauldron —
provides it the power
of primal nature.
A root in Mímisbrunn
— that Mímir watches —
stores the matter
of memory and wisdom.
A root in Urðarbrunn
— the realm of the Norns —
accumulates the wyrd
that works in the Tree.
From the wells it needs
those waters and deeds.
Always that Tree
evergreen shall be.
Burdened with beasts,
it bears them well.
A stately eagle
stands at the top,
Níðhögg beneath
gnaws on the roots,
and Ratatosk with gossip
runs between them.
Hungry harts four
harrow it also.
Numberless serpents
slither beneath it.
In farthest future
the fire of Surt
will burn the Tree’s
trunk and branches.
That harm and thrash
hinders the Ash.
Though trials arrive,
the Tree will survive.
Near Urðarbrunn
the Norns do dwell.
The first is Urð
of formative past.
The second is Verðandi
of ceaseless becoming.
The third is Skuld
of threatening due.
With water and mud
they wet the Tree
to keep away
decay and rot,
and they lay layers
for life in the Well;
their faithful work
furthers that Tree.
With wyrd they heal
that Wood’s ordeal.
Though trials arrive,
the Tree will survive.
But the best of burdens
it bore of old
when the Aesir’s lord
— eager for wisdom —
sought the mysteries
and mounted that Steed
for nights all nine
of needful riding.
Thund was hanging
in thirst and hunger
from high branches
with harrowing wound
to gain by ordeal
a glimpse of death;
thus as gallows
the great Tree served.
The Worker of Wode
wanted the power
that was offered only
by the awesome Runes.
With a final scream
he fulfilled his quest
and lifted at last
their lore from the Tree.
Great Yggdrasil
is always green,
despite the burdens
that would break its spirit;
that source of life
and sacred lore
is ever deserving
of honor and praise.
May Elm and Ash
give ear to these words:
Outside and in,
Yggdrasil is real,
and may this mead
give might to both —
to the Tree without,
to the Tree within!