Öfundarmál
The towering Tree
is topped by an eagle
who scorns the serpent
for scores of slights.
Haughty, headstrong,
and highfalutin,
that proudest bird
is puffed up well.
Deep in the roots
a dragon lurks,
bitter with bile,
biting corpses.
Sour and surly
(with searing hate
for that damned eagle),
the dragon smolders.
Both up and down,
an acorner runs
along the trunk
of that lofty tree.
He whisks the words
of the wyrm and eagle
both back and forth,
those bitter insults.
Now you may hear
some nuggets of speech
that pass between
those prideful ones,
in reading here thus
the runes of the squirrel;
be wary of finding
that woe within.
The Eagle said:
“Scurry my squirrel,
and scamper quickly;
let that serpent slime
hear slanderous words.
Supreme I am
o’er the piddly snake
because my view
reveals all knowledge.”
The Serpent said:
“Scurry my squirrel,
and scamper quickly;
let that ‘carry-on’ bird
hear accusing words.
I lord o’er realms
that lout can’t see;
I simply don’t value
the view he has.”
The Squirrel said:
“The saw he said
is slander surely,
O wisest wight
of worlds all nine.
That jerk deserves
rejoinders many;
repay his gift
with a prideful ’gild.”
And so it goes,
that senseless gab.
Can the hapless hawk
give help at all?
Where is the tree
of this wisdom tale?
Can Elm or Ash
offer assistance?
Beer in Midgard
Beer, the bright drink, beautifully colored,
of malted barley and bitter hops,
is the brewer’s bounty and a boon to Man.
This yeasty ferment of Yuletide cheer,
heathen feasting, and happy hours
is a much recommended and mellow drink.
Aegir has brewed his ale for the gods:
luscious lagers delightful and rich.
The best of Man barely compares,
or so we suppose. Do secretly gods
sample the draughts of simple Midgard?
In blessing bowls our beers they taste,
but know we not what name they best.
What more say I of mighty beer?
Aegir’s offspring in ocean waters
are his nine daughters in the noisy sea,
the foaming waves — or frothy malt-surf
perhaps they are, the head of bubbles
in a frosty, full, and fortunate glass.
Ancient ale-runes: old poets knew them;
where might we find those magic forms?
So beer has both: a blatant side
of physical form and further beyond
an occulted side of curious lore
to seek and mix with malt’s enjoyment.
Fyrir Íslensku Landvættirnar
Hail the Dragon
at home in the East
who is warding Iceland well!
Swim forth now
and accept my gift,
O spirit of Iceland’s awe.
Dread and defense
is the draught you give:
now let’s deeply drink.
Guard me well
as I go to Iceland
to live and learn in your realm!
Hail the Eagle
at home in the North
who is warding Iceland well!
Fly forth now
and find my gift,
O spirit of Iceland’s awe.
Insight and seeing
is the sip you give:
now let’s deeply drink.
Inspire me well
as I speed to Iceland
to read and write in your tongue!
Hail the Bull
at home in the West
who is warding Iceland well!
Charge forth now
and achieve my gift,
O spirit of Iceland’s awe.
Might and main
is the mead you give:
now let’s deeply drink.
Invigorate me well
as I visit Iceland
to meet and mix with your folk!
Hail the Rock-Giant
at home in the South
who is warding Iceland well!
Stride forth now
and strive for my gift,
O spirit of Iceland’s awe.
Steadfastness strong
is the stout you give:
now let’s deeply drink.
Fortify me well
as I fare to Iceland
to grow and gain in your culture!
I’ve called to the quarters
and have come to the center
to rightly end this rite.
Forth I go now
and fare to Iceland:
hail its special spirits,
hail my journey in joy!
Heathen Pride
We are hearty heathens,
happy and proud;
the gods of the North
we gladly hail.
The honored ancestors’
awesome gods
are kith and kin
and keep us together.
We eagerly learn
the elder lore
and the needful virtues
of noble ancestors.
Óðinn of the Aesir
we honor for wisdom,
the power of poetry,
and the potent Runes.
Týr the one-handed
— the Wolf he bound —
we honor for courage
and order in the world.
Thor we hail
for hammer of might;
he wards and hallows
our holy steads.
Freyja for freedom
and frolic we hail;
her love and pleasure
lifts our spirits.
Freyr we hail
for harvest’s reward
and peace and plenty
in proper seasons.
Many more
of mighty gods
we bid and hail
in holy blessings.
In raising our horns
with holy mead,
we hail heathenry
and heathen pride!
New Year’s Renewal
With dark tide’s passing
the dullness departs,
and the dawning day
deems a new year.
The seeds open
and seek to sprout
as new possibilities
in the naked air.
From primal chaos
its promise was made,
and right ritual
readied its gift.
Deep were the drafts
drained in its name
that gave the power
to its glorious purpose.
Needful dearly,
renewal is here;
the turning circle
continues the cycle.
So hail the New Year
for its happy time
of all potential
and ever becoming.
Nine Noble Virtues
Virtues I name,
nine in all;
hallowed by heathens,
they help your life.
Noble and needful,
know them well;
prudent and powerful,
practice them well.
The first I know,
its name is Truth.
Awesome Óðinn
is always seeking it.
A path to power,
pleasure, and wisdom —
it is dear to dolts
and drightens alike.
The second I know,
its name is Self-Reliance.
If wandering the world,
your way to make,
or hallowing your home
to hold in prosperity,
have strength inside
to steer your course.
The third I know,
its name is Discipline.
Know when on the path
to peer around,
and when in the hall
to hold your tongue,
and when to act,
awesome in might.
The fourth I know,
its name is Industriousness.
Always rise early
if you aim for wealth
and mindful be
of meetly deeds,
working hard
for the hope of Jera.
The fifth I know,
its name is Perseverance.
Óðinn did hang,
eagerly on the Tree;
through nine of nights
he never quit.
Endurance obtained
the dear-bought Runes.
The sixth I know,
its name is Courage.
Hold to right
though harm may come.
Bloodthirsty Fenrir
was bound by Týr.
He lost his hand,
but hale was his soul.
The seventh I know,
its name is Fidelity.
Have fullness of faith
in friends who are true
and to ginn-holy gods
be gracious always,
choosing often
to exchange with both.
The eighth I know,
its name is Hospitality.
The self-serving ale
Aegir provided,
and his good attendants
were greatly praised;
gold in that hall
was glowing for light.
The ninth I know,
its name is Honor.
To self be true
and tread with right,
willingly keep
your words of pledge,
and in thoughts and words
and works accord.
Virtues I’ve named,
nine in all.
Rede they give
if rede you need.
Useful if used,
use them well,
and a hallowed name
among heathens you’ll earn.
Perseverance
Perseverance
is a powerful virtue.
Steadfast in struggles
you should strive to be
— resolute and firm
if facing hardship —
to succeed and prevail
in seeking victory.
Óðinn did hang
eagerly on the Tree;
through nine of nights,
he never quit;
wounded and hungry,
he willed to succeed.
Endurance obtained
the dear-bought Runes.
Óðinn went seeking
Óðrœrir’s poetry;
the labor of slaves
for a long summer
had bought Bölverk
Baugi’s favor.
He pilfered that mead
with patient work.
Geirröð abused
Grímnir with fire;
for eight of nights
the agony continued
’til Agnarr gave
Óðinn a drink.
Strength of commitment
had made him stay.
Gleipnir’s getter
had gained for Freyr
glorious Gerð,
Gymir’s daughter;
Skírnir endured,
undaunted by threats.
Tenacity fulfilled
that needful errand.
Gored upon spears,
Gullveig was burned;
that witch endured
the worst of pain
’til reborn as Heið,
bright and holy.
Unwavering purpose
won that victory.
If faced with need
and fearsome toil,
remember that Ash,
awesome in might;
though heavily oppressed,
it holds its place.
Strong you must be,
steadfast like that Tree.
A Valentine’s Day Poem
Is it love lurking
or just lusty thoughts
in this frigid February?
From Roman roots
is the ritual day
of venturesome valentines.
But Northern Folk
by need seek roots
amongst the gods of our garth.
To Freyja they’ll turn
for finding love
or a fling to fuel their lust.
Better would be
Beltane for her,
but ‘tis farther forward yet.
So don’t be frigid
in this frosty month;
spark some spirited warmth.
Make hot your heart
and give hope to it,
or at least your loins this week.
Whether one night
or a wedding is sought,
Freyja will bless your bliss.
Wrath of Frost Giants?
The cold has come
to the Commonwealth;
the freeze is pouring forth.
Is it focused wrath
from frost giants?
Or something else that seeps?
The North has arrived
in a needful visit,
calling her kin to awaken.
What breaks through
in the bitter cold?
Is it the awe of glorious gods?
Is Ull’s essence
in the actions of winter?
In this does his being be?
Or does Skaði seek
to ski in the snow
or freedom from a spell of fever?
In the crackling cold,
give calls to the gods,
and look for the life of giants.
In its freaky physics,
find the numinous;
in the strange and odd take awe.
Wrath of a Tiny Etin?
The invisible virus
is a violent etin,
the smallest of all
that smite us humans.
With fire and ice,
fever and chills,
the flesh fights back
to further life.
Was it cold or flu?
I couldn’t tell.
I battled with ascorbate
and a bounty of rest.
A lingering cough
was the last of symptoms,
the final fading
of that foe’s struggle.
A Yule Poem
Snow is falling,
silently without,
on the ground gleaming
and giving delight.
But the Wild Hunt rides,
wending furiously,
when the cold air
whistles outside.
Snow is falling,
silently without;
the folk meanwhile
are feasting within.
The halls are decked
and the hearth blazes,
showing the spirit
of this special time.
Snow is falling,
silently without;
of sumbel and blót,
celebration begins.
The gods are fained
in this frithful stead;
the might and main
of mead is flowing.
Snow is falling,
silently without;
to gods’ folk gathered,
a glad Yule comes.
With waxing light
the wheel has turned,
and holy blessings
are brought to the kin.
Rise and Reach the Gods!
O Heathen Folk
in hall and field,
don’t grovel to our noble gods.
The Bonds give boons
to the better heathens
as worthiness follows worth.
Óðinn is angered
by acts that are base
and empty of honor and dignity.
Frigg withholds
her favors from bullies,
the craven who shirk all chivalry.
Týr will drop
the driest tears
for folk who refuse to sacrifice.
Thor will turn
his thunderous voice
on cowards who cannot stand.
Freyja has frowns
for the feckless rabble
who lack in love for themselves.
Freyr rejects
ungenerous folk
who need but never give.
O Heathen Folk
in hall and field,
thank our glorious gods,
yet be worthy, wise,
and well-renowned
when you stand and strive for our gods!
Honor Óðinn,
and offer yourself
for his goals and works in the world.
Proclaim and carve
for his cult the Runes;
be worthy of his mighty mead.
Both house and home
keep whole like Frigg,
that exemplar of domestic demeanor.
With keys on your belt,
take care in your duties
for the health of kith and kin.
Trust in Týr,
and seek true selflessness;
put community over your ego.
Remember his hand
and make your sacrifices;
be worthy of the boon of the binding.
Be brave and with heart,
like boldest Thor,
and fight your battles fiercely.
With your stone steady,
stalwart and firm,
you’ll be worthy of the valknut’s weal.
Be forceful like Freyja
with forthright words;
have zeal for your desires and dignity.
Lead yourself
and love as you will;
be proud and independent!
Follow Freyr,
and seek frith and harvest
in all the deeds you do.
Free your friends
from the fetters that bind;
bring joy and delight to ladies.
O Heathen Folk
in hall and field,
such standing is worthy work!
But offer more,
and by aiming higher,
rise and reach the gods!
Earn the Runes
as Óðinn did:
thrive in your thirst and hunger,
ride the Tree,
and then rise again,
waxed in runic wisdom!
Spin like Frigg,
spare not your zeal,
and learn the layers of wyrd!
With wool weave
some weal-filled bonds
to improve your family’s future.
Transcend yourself,
as did unswerving Týr,
for the power that binds great bale.
With a self that’s serene,
reach the center,
the pole that offers order.
Through strength be holy,
like strongest Thor
who shines with self-assurance.
Seek the secrets
of his sacred hammer
to give the gift of life.
Face the flames,
as Freyja did,
and seek a bright rebirth!
From Gullveig to Heið,
she gained in power;
transform and fulfill your wyrd!
Be giving at heart,
like gladsome Freyr,
to know the finest frith
which grows the crops
and grows the kindreds;
through gifting, gain aplenty.
O Heathen Folk
in hall and field,
rightly stand or rise,
for the Ragnarök
is really coming,
though far in the future it seems.
Whether you stand
and strive with work
or rise and reach the gods,
on that darkest day,
there are deeds awaiting
you and the best that you bring!
But the future aside,
there’s a fight today,
so aid the Aesir now!
Pride you may take
for your place in it,
but only if you stand and strive,
or only if you rise and reach!