Tag Archive | pagan poetry

the faerie shaman

seeing fairies depends on three things: the person seeing, the fairies to be seen and the process of seeing. let’s start with the process of seeing

green fairy

slightly self-radiant aerial being

the process of seeing is a gift. each of us is part of a greater organism, gaia, our planet, just as our cells are parts of us, each unique, with its own specialised work to do for the whole organism. just as some organisms on earth have well-developed sensoria for experiencing the visual, audial and tactile sensations that define reality for humans, so some humans have specialised senses highly enough developed to enable the fairy sight. if a person has this gift and is psychologically ready, they will be aware of their readiness: they will be looking for fairies and longing to see them. if that’s you, that’s who i’m writing this for. if you’re looking for fairies, then you can be sure they’re looking for you!

the fairies you’re looking for will depend on the kind of fairy lore you have been imbibing since childhood. before you’ve seen any, you’ll be looking for the more believable ones you’ve heard of, read about or seen pictures of. the current surge of interest in fairy art is a great help. fairies all but manifest through art, making the artist draw thepicture, then inhabiting the picture like a ghost in it. that’s why fairy pictures cast such an enchantment over those of us to whom they speak. if you form the intention of drawing or painting a fairy, or writing about them in poems,children’s stories or books for older readers, you’ll be surrounded by fairies who will strongly influence your work. so even fairy artists who don’t see fairies, and perhaps don’t even believe in them, are very likely to be channelling accurately – and the fairies concerned will be the types most wanting to be seen, most willing to help you to focus on where they are. let love guide you – seek the ones that appeal to you most. however, be alert for kinds you never expected to see, who will be looking for you, and trying to persuade you to love them too. there are many, many different kinds of mostly diminutive peoples whom we call fairies.

finally, you yourself! you are used to seeing pretty well with your normal eyes, hearing, smelling, tasting, etc, and you get a bit blas/e about it sometimes. if you feel a bit dull, you can still see and hear etc reasonably well, so you have no great need for exquisitely receptive senses for everyday experiencing. but when you want to see fairies, you will need far greater sensory clarity and psychic awareness than usual, and you may have to work to achieve that. you need optimal health – and that means a healthy diet with plenty of raw foods, such as salads and fresh fruit (not necessarily vegan, though that can help) healthy respiratory and circulatory systems, which depend on a healthy physical environment and plenty of good aerobic exercise. getting out into the garden or parks or the country is helpful. then your psychological health will affect your ability to see fairies. that means emotional balance, sound ethics and rationality. you don’t have to get ‘trans’ rational – fairies fit rationally into our reality – we just have to learn how.

this is just a basic idea of a good starting point. but there’s much more to it than that – winning their confidence, enduring their harassment, loving them, fearing them – it’s a rich, wild shamanism. let’s develop our own unique approach to it with their goodwill! let it be for the good of all beings!


elixir, a poem


deep in the sacred centre of my genesis
the root of my craeb the fountain of my spirit
the loud-crying stone of my validation
the spark of my flame’s ignition
there are my many destinies, infinite and eternal like seeds

sometimes I feel I could reach
through the marbled liquid layers of my years
to the first cry of my life
the first beat of my foetal heart,
the wild radiant moment of the fusion of gametes
the weaving of worlds in the twist of their nwyfre

and in the palm of my hand,
cherish, cradle and nurture the seed,
sheltering the incubation of my own genesis
in the union of the many sainted angels
whose lives have spun the fibres of my being.

when I feel around the pain and the joy of my life
the cradling palm, perhaps the sweet elixir
that entrances me anew to life’s enchantment
drips after all from the full voluptuous fruits
of a ripe and radiant destiny yet to be conceived

and still I follow its gleam, rapt in a ray of in hope.

inevitably, satan, centre stage.

once upon a time in a magic land far away there were wise wizards and witches of bright honour and shining virtue who practiced circle magic to procure and maintain the harmony of our lands. their circle had four quarters with a tower or tel at each of the four directions and a priesthood in every tower or tel. and there was in the middle a meadhall where the priesthood (christhood, in q celtic) of the centre (saint, or santa) kept a charitable table for rich and poor. they so  won the trust and gratitude love and high esteem of the people round about that they were given widespread political power. they bestowed schools and universities to raise the people to their own level, and they organised food production and distribution, commerce, trade, the arts and the just and fair management of resources. they recruited their new members from the elite of all nations, and were proud of their ideal of equality for all.

but gods though they were, they were, like us, gods mediating their divinity through the limiting, still somewhat distortive mind and imagination of the mortal human being and they sometimes quarrelled and snitched at each other though they were always ashamed, and they were always sorry after.

but one day a quarrel broke out that was bitterer than any before and it flared up out of control and sparks flew and efforts to pacify it only inflamed it the more. and why did not santa, standing where the diameters cross, why did he not immediately ring the bell for dheoch-acha and they sit down to peace talks? because he was one of the shameful miscreants. that’s why. water wouldn’t douse him, air wouldn’t scatter him, earth wouldn’t smite him, fire couldn’t burn him, nothing could quieten the towering majesty of his wrath.

and who was he quarrelling with? the southern priesthood, the southerner, sasana, satan sa’an sun god. set. seti. radiant god of light and warmth and magic and love.

and the santa cross/christ/priest conquered sasana, sowson, sorcerer, susanna, hassan, set, seti, satan, sun god ra ra ra drove satan out and barred his way with swords. and cursed satan, and called satan evil, and attributed to satan motives of pure evil..

which would have been all right except that he who occupied the centre, the crossed, christ, priest place, had the power to enlist the resources of the whole world, all the armies of all the bods, gods, guards, bards or pathers (aka cathars), and he constrained them to fulfill his vow to destroy satan and drive satanic evil out of the land. because nothing would restrain the wrath of the santa god.

and so spear-heading the driving out of the moorses, moses, well, black people, dull, dubh, du, diw, dieu, jew people, the santa christ replaced the meadhall meadow in the middle with the watery west, such that the world path is now a western one. after that there was no true christ, because the world was now divided against itself. then the west subsumed the north claiming much norse wisdom as ‘western’ philosophy, and claimed the old world cross-doing religion as a western one. now it seeks to westernise the east.

and for the love of humanity, look what is happening: dang me if it ain’t still anathematising, driving out, purging and ravaging satan, in his southern lands, appropriating whole populations in its superstitious rage and stealing its resources in the process.

o ye tower queens and kings, maybe it was a ‘just war’ but i couldn’t put those two words together in that sequence without bunging it in quotes and observing that they don’t go. maybe that noble saint was brought to book and legally punished for his war crimes. and maybe he was provoked by the fiery temperament of the priests of the fire. maybe it was just plain racism. because satan, sudan, sedan, saudi, was a sun-baked land, and its priesthood and its literate elite, its merchants, its brides, its warriors and its knightly suitors were sometimes dark-skinned, dusky, golden, tan, brown, or black as egypt’s knight. moors.  black. moors. didn’t ‘sambo’ once mean ‘summerboy’? wasn’t he our beloved page? did not desdemona love othello? did not blackamoor swoon with love for amaryllis?

you see, on the northern hemisphere of the world map,

  • north, norns, norse, horse, nains etc (but not normans) were in the north towards the pole, where all diminished to nort, naught, nought, not, night
  • in the east were the isis, aisir, asia, erinnya and their priesthoods
  • and in the watery washt west wet woda woden odin houdin voudun cu wet sail co water all the way to aotaroa (water rower) were voudun, woden, speaking at last thank godbodpathcath english so that we can understand him, uasail!
  • and of course satan was the equatorial zone viewed from the north.

from the south, the equatorial zone is northern, so there is no slur on equatorial people who live south of the equator, but them northern southerners – let’s not propogate curses against whole peoples we do not know.

so that might have been all right but they were going at it hammer and tongs and it was only natural that someone would get hurt.

and when the tumult and the shouting died, the captains and the kings departed and lawkes a-mighty there’s roma on the throne hurling execrations at satan and requiring us all to do the same on pain of death….

let’s stop. let’s stop cursing and slandering entities we have never met just because an enraged king was racist long ago.

let no curse or slur from pulpit or pew on book or electronic media ever have power to harm the innocent, the beautiful peoples of our planet.

awen awen awen.

i invite with love and affectionan the northern hemisphere’s sat kindly benign spirits of satan to dance with our southern hemisphere northern spirits of fire, warmth, light and magic,

australia: consecration of the land – a poem

they came in fleets of sailing ships,

some free, but most in chains.

they built their towns and cleared their fields

upon these fertile plains.


and they explored on foot, on horse,

on camel, and by sea,

and found the land already home

to people proud and free.


a people with an ancient law

as old as stars above. . .

with trepidation now they watched

these men devoid of love.


they saw the shackled convict slaves

flogged half to death and worse.

they heard their howls of agony,

they heard the tyrants’ curse.


and in their time they too succumbed

defeated by the gun –

their spears could not defend them so

they had too turn and run.


the trees and mountains saw it all,

the wild bush creatures too,

koala, emu, terrapin,

snake, crow and kangaroo.


and as the land had always done

it held its magic rites,

communing with the dreamtime stars

through all the fear-filled nights.


they gathered like a zodiac

round sacred uluru,

and talked and planned and danced and sang

and made strong magic, too.


they clapped and chanted for their laws

of gentleness and peace

to put an end to slavery

and give the slaves release.


they brought down law on all of us

its spirit true and strong

for justice and equality,

cruel slavery is wrong!


for in this deep and timeless land

of landscapes harsh and wild

there is a sacred promise made

to every newborn child


for every child’s a universe

ablaze with living stars,

within this law of sacredness

we’re all great avatars.


we humans need good lives, safe homes,

our children cared for too,

health, freedom, power, a voice for all,

not only for the few.


the beasts are many and the plants

are cosmic dreamings, yes,

our planet lives and feels her lands

reacting to the stress


this law comes down upon us all,

unspoken, yet well-known –

this star-blessed earth must cherished be

it isn’t just our own.

the people of the earth

in the chaos of deep space

we were dust

in the young oceans of the earth

we were fish

in ancient forest trees, as apes

we flew like birds

and then:

together in the firelight

to the beat of shaman drums

and the lilt of spell-binding flutes

we were becoming

the peoples of the earth.

 we learnt to hunt

and thus intertwined our lives

with the lives of wild beasts

 we learnt to build

and we are the temple stones

the trustworthy bridge

 we learnt to weave

and we are the woven threads,

the fabric firm and good.

we learned to farm

and we are the ripening grain

and the healing herbs

we learned to sail

and we are the unknown lands,

the wandering tides.

we learned to fight

and we are the battles the wars

and the peace process.

we learned to love

and we are the awesome power of love

 and the gentleness.

no two alike, so myriad,

long ages peopled with bright spirits

animating matter from within.

 like the rays of the sun

we began as one

containing within us

the essence of all.

we bred and diversified – behold the bright rainbow

from jet black to pure white

and all colours in between

the red and the brown and the golden

 from dwarves to giants

we are all shapes and sizes

and in all the visible and invisible worlds

past present and future

we are myriad

and yet still one species


broad is the rainbow

displaying all colours and kinds

we are the peoples of the earth,

blending with the myriad species

in the rainbow of the manifestation of life.

let no harm come to us

let no harm come through us.

may the lovingness of life nurture us

may the truth shine bright within us

and may we find noble destinies worthy of us all.

life and death of a druid:

deep magic drew me

from the all generating chaos into the forms and fantasies of the planetary drama to pit my greed and rage against cruel rocks of denial

i piled them rock upon rock i built a high tower i saw all the way to the rising sun and vistas away to the sea and the green forest closed round my tower and fed me with fruits and much venison

the stately sharing kindness of trees nurtured my happiness the brambles throve around my door the fruit trees followed me home herbs sprang up all a-buzz with bees and the honey ran down my walls

by a sparkling stream i cut a reed and piped for the birds and the fishes and flocks and i sheltered them among shady trees and i wove my garments of their fragrant locks

my hard iron ax cut deep i felled great trees great forest gods i slew i made fine halls strong furniture and ships carriages firewood and fence posts cleared the land.

and gathered into my barn the annual feast of fruit and grain and all the bounteous gifts of autumn in a land of sun and showers and pleasant breezes singing in the hay

and still i plundered nests among the stubble found late eggs to add to my winter store and plump nestlings rabbits hares and more

and acorns in the forest falling leaves revealed the clustering nuts in forest glades i cut my stalwart staff to knock them down i filled my sack with hazel chestnut walnuts bulging full

my cellar stocked i built my winter hearth which purred for me all winter while the land slept under snow stout barrels slowly emptying supplied me all i needed till the spring

i filled my hours with loving labour cobbled my boots smoothed to velvet softness skins of deer and sheep made saddles harnesses and parchment too

the cherishing richness and the generous habits of loving nurture into which i came questing as a soul deva dreaming established themselves in me even while i smiled and basked in the smiling of the sky

and when in my sleep i dropped like a ripe fruit from the tree of my life of my ancient lineage my godhead i saw the deep magic drawing from chaos into the drama of life the outrageous souls

into the circle of forest calm

and i cherish them all all deep in my all-knowing chaos i cherish them all

raven eating oranges

an articulate claw, an attentive eye,

busy with some deep business

to do with the breaking into of shells

and the plundering of treasure underneath


there’s a soft laughter in the shaking out

of hackles warm with darkness, yes,

rich findings in this busy-season biome,

all welcome, for the gathering in of wealth


richly enjoying the feast, loving the gratification,

old white-eye never doubts the utter reasonableness

of getting enough – enough of what is well worth

the seeking, the danger, the breaking into.


old white-eye