I call to you Sabazios, crowned with oak leaves
and surrounded by the swirling smoke of the torches
that are borne during your mystery rites, O Lord of the
Titanic battle-shriek who delights in the frenzy brought
on by large quantities of beer and dancing with serpents
late into the night, fearless one who rides a charger dark
as a stormcloud through the heavens hunting the starry boar,
enigmatic one whose will is expressed through the flight
of ravens and eagles and vultures, mighty one who protects
the World Tree against assault by wicked Giants of the cold
and dark, you friend of Hermes God of Kings, companion
of horse-loving Bendis of the Silver Bow, champion of great
Artemis of Ephesos, feasted by Zalmoxis in his underground
chamber, you who have never forgotten the boon your nurse
Hipta did when she smuggled you safely to the holy mountain
on your night of terror and trials; O Sabazios, foremost of the
Gods of Thrace and Phrygia, as you often listened to the prayers
of Orpheus, singer of inspired verse, may my words reach you
now and turn your heart so that you rain blessings of health,
protection and good luck down upon your passionate votaries.

Hail to you Heryshaf, ram-headed Lord of War,
Ruler of the Riverbank, Strong One who is in his
temple at Herakleopolis Magna, most potent of the
Gods after Min of Koptos and Osiris the King in Green,
you who rose up from the primordial waters at Memphis
and assisted Ptah at his wheel in creating animate creatures
out of lifeless clay, you who wear the Atef-crown and
are illuminated by the Solar Disc, terrifying Heryshaf
whose image is inscribed on ivory wands and amulets of
precious stone by the priests of Hermopolis for protection
against malignant demons of the barren wastes, wise
Heryshaf who taught the orphaned Horus how to hunt
with the bow, and fight with the spear, and to use the
might of his arm to defend the weak and the downtrodden,
as well as other noble manly pursuits, Heryshaf who brings
restoration and vitality to the body of Rē in his tomb
at Heliopolis, great Heryshaf who in the Greek tongue
is “Arsaphes” and called by them either Ares, Herakles
or the Conqueror Dionysos who madly shakes the thyrsos
and cries evohë or else their double or some strange admixture,
unrivaled Heryshaf, overseer of a large and satisfied harem,
who batters the invader with your spiraling horns keeping
the Two Lands safe whenever you can, courageous Heryshaf
Commander of the armies of Osiris, Foremost of the Westerners;
protect my home, and all of my family and loved ones, I plead
with you Heryshaf who hears, from all manner of mortal afflictions
and spiritual persecution, O glorious God whose heart is made glad
by the lotus-flower of Nefertem, son of Sekhmet the Destroyer.

Hail success-bringing Týr,
superb warrior of the Æsir,
friend of Fenrir and foe of Garmr,
you who lost your fist to uphold an
unjust bargain out of dire necessity,
O God of oaths and righteous judgments,
whose sword hallows the assembly hall,
son of the Jötunn Hymir who owns a
cauldron that contains an ocean of ale,
you who married your lovely sister Zisa,
Goddess that protected the people of
Cisenberg from Roman invasion and
afterwards was honored with a famous
festival, O driver of swift horses, who
travels the highways with clever Mercury
and lion-slaying Hercules, who sails
the seas with the Isis of the Suebi,
in whose sacred grove freedmen
consecrated their fetters, on whose
altars the Getae sacrificed captives,
who is invoked when men grave
victory-Runes on the handles of their
weapons, Týr I pray, remember those
who honor you in this day of soft men
whose word means nothing, and shower
your blessings upon those who are nothing
like the common herd, who would fight in
defense of the land, their people and their
hallowed customs, and especially to preserve
one’s own family and kinfolk.

Hear my cry, O Shieldmaidens of the Fruit of the
Gallows, unyielding expressions of the Mad God’s
paradoxical indomitable will, perfectors of heroic men
and women who make violence their life’s art,
choosers of the slain who ferry them on raven’s wing
to Óðinn’s hall where they can spend their days
in endless battles and feasting through the night
until summoned by Geirvaldr’s bright-red cock
Fjalar each dawn to do it all over again. Luck-bringers,
storm-riders, experts with every type of weapon,
deadliest of all the host that will fight on the side of
Glad of War during Ragnarök and will not stop until
the all-consuming void and the forces allied with it
are no more. I call to you, O Valkyries who ride with
Viðrir, and ask that you guide my arm so that I strike
true, winning undying fame for myself and for you
until it is my time to be taken before the Alföðr,
should that be his design.

Hail Valravn, most feared of the Danish knights
to join the Einherjar of Óðinn, foe of Fenrir;
the ballads all agree that you began life as one
of the black birds who haunt fields of battle,
but there they stop agreeing. Some would have it
that you pecked clean the bones of a fallen Scylding
King, and others that you supped on the innocent
heart of a child you won in a wager with a desperate
maiden lost in the woods and eager to be reunited
with her betrothed. You promised to lead her to him
in exchange for their firstborn child, and she agreed,
thinking her dear man could easily fight off a raven,
even if it was of the talking variety. Your duty dispatched,
you flew away and were not seen again until they were
about to have their boy baptized. As the priest of the
White Christ held the son aloft, you swooped down
from the rafters and snatched him up, carrying the
baby back to the woods where you lived with your family,
whom you shared your bountiful feast with. Either way
once you consumed the human flesh you were transmuted
into human form. Fueled by rage at your inability to regain
your raven body, you became the most feared warrior
of your age, sending incalculable hosts below to gloomy
Helheimr until Óðinn the Raven God swooped down
and plucked you bodily from the midst of a bloody melee
to join his war-band in Valhöll without ever dying.
Hail Raven of the Slain, immortal harbinger of destruction
who awaits the day of doom when finally you shall meet
an adversary worthy of your battle-skill.

Hail Kabeiroi, Princes of far-off Phoenicia
and promulgators of holy mysteries that bring
protection and release through wild Korybantic
dancing in circles by torchlight to the accompaniment
of tympana and krotala, ineffable rites that redeem
the souls of the careworn both in this world and the next,
you Masters of the mystic casket in which the hope of the
initiates is stored, like the jar of Pandora, wife of the brother of
Prometheus who stole fire from the Gods for mankind in the hollow
of a fennel staff like a makeshift thyrsos with which the Mainades
make pools of oil, honey and wine flow forth from the Earth
as they revel on the forested slopes of sacred Kithairon
or Parnassos where the oracular tripod of Lord Phoibos is found.
A better treasure did you bring to the land of the war-loving
Tyrsenoi, for once you two brothers had been three, until
gripped by a fit of sudden madness you drew your sharp knives
and butchered the youngest Kabeiros, who still played with dolls
and balls and the noisy rhombos that’s swung overhead to simulate
a thunderstorm or the roar of a bull entombed deep beneath the soil
in a labyrinthine cave like some meandering river that suddenly
bursts forth. When you came back to yourselves and saw the
inexplicable deed you’d done in that state, you laid out
a purple mantle woven by your sister and placed in it
the boy’s penis and favorite toys, which then were stored
in the casket which you fled with across the sea until you came
to hospitable Italy. Though you arrived at midwinter,
the power of the phallus banished the cold and barrenness,
causing the land to erupt in numerous flowers of variegated hue
and countless trees and bushes that bore fruit out of due season,
especially the fig and pomegranate and grapes with curling clusters.
Men hailed you as deliverers from plight and belly-gnawing hunger
and you assuaged your guilt and grief by instituting for your brother
the Bacchic One ceremonies of remembrance which are a joy to take part in,
and so I hail you too, O twin sons of Ba’al Haddad the Thunderer
and Aphrodite Ourania his beautiful wife.

Hail Goddess Virtus, without which manhood is not possible.
They say that you were discovered along with your sister
by the young Alkides years before he earned the name glory-of-Hera
as he was leaving a dark, overgrown forest where he had been hunting
wild boar with his bow. The trail he’d followed out forked,
and on one path stood your sister Kakía, voluptuous and sallow
and naked as the day your mother birthed her into the world;
and there you were courageous Areté in Skythian garb, made severe
from a lifetime of overcoming hardships, bearing a spear in your
self-disciplined hand. Each of you made your case to the son of Zeus
the Hurler and slim-ankled, Moon-lovely Alkmena the daughter
of Elektryon, and Alkides shoved Kakía to the loam and rushed
to your side, cleaving to you and kissing you vigorously, you who would
accompany him the remainder of his days through all his travels
and trials and triumphs. When he was journeying through Italy
in search of Geryon’s runaway herd he stopped off at a small settlement
on the shores of the Tiber, ringed by seven sacred hills, and Herakles
created for you there a temple and sacrifices and a priesthood,
for he had proven himself worthy of a new name already in that stage
of his heroic career. Many years later that settlement would become
the foremost city in the civilized world, eternal Roma who remained intact
so long as her pious citizens continued to worship you
according to the customs established by Herakles the Archiboukolos.
The end came in the years following the Christianization of the Empire,
when Pompeianus was Prefect and Innocentius the Bishop of the city.
These were dark days for the Empire, full of plague and famine,
internal conflicts both religious and political, and wave after wave
of invasions by Barbarian tribes driven out of the East.
Roma had certainly seen better days when two strangers
from Etruria came to speak with the Prefect Pompeianus
about what had happened in the city of Neveia; the people there
had been delivered of their afflictions through devotion to the Old Gods,
though their worship was under the strictest of bans, with all the temples
throughout the Empire ordered closed. The people of Neveia didn’t care,
and came out together regardless of their personal faith to offer
communal sacrifices to their Ancestral Gods, and in return
lightning and terrible thunder drove the marauding Barbarian army
that had been on the verge of breaching their walled fortifications
out of their territory entirely. Pompeianus did not hesitate to take this news
to the good Bishop Innocentius to see if it was permissible to do the same
in their city, which was currently under siege with many deaths from disease
and starvation; and Innocentius, though a devout Christian, was
a sensible man with respect for the venerable Roman institutions,
and so he consented to lead the community in making sacrifices to the
Capitoline Trio, if it was the will of the Senate and the Roman populace.
Unfortunately the Senate refused to follow Innocentius’ wise and pious
example and instead tried to ransom the city by plundering the temples
and melting down the sacred images of the Gods for gold and silver
to give the Barbarians in the hope that they would then just go away,
including I hate to say, the idols from the temple you shared with Honos,
honorable protector of the Porta Capena. This gambit did not work,
and instead got rid of those whose duty it was to preserve the city
in perpetual felicity; worse, without you, Virtus, all that remained of the
Roman valor and intrepidity was totally extinguished, and the city was
taken by the Barbarian army, utterly sacked and despoiled, its noble citizens
who were too good to take part in the sacred ceremonies of their
fathers and mothers were carried off as slaves, never to see the urns
that contained the bones of their ancestors or the splendid temples
they erected for the sake of piety again, O Virtus who did not abandon us
until the very end, and can be born again among the people of today,
if we would just choose like Herakles and Innocentius the difficult
and rock-strewn path that leads surely to you, glorious Areté,
and not the broad and easy way that takes one to your wicked sister
Kakía, and moral and physical destruction at her hands. So hail,
Goddess of manliness, valor, excellence, courage, character, and worth
and may we always esteem you highly, preserver and savior
of the Roman people and their far-famed city.

Hail to you courageous Hopladamos, Earthborn
Kouros of tremendous height and prodigious appetites,
you who delight in the din of the oxhide shield clashing
against the ash-spear in the war-dance you and your
Giant brothers were wont to perform on the forested
slopes of Mount Lykaion until Kronos the King of the
savage Titans and his wife, the lovely cow-eyed Rheia
brought their court by for a visit. The Titan Queen was
seen clapping and cheering on your performance a little
too enthusiastically when Kronos struck her across the
cheek. Before Rheia could even react you had crossed
the field, your brothers close behind; before haughty
Kronos realized it your spearhead was at his throat.
While you exchanged words with the one who marred
the starry welkin your brothers engaged the Titan
warband in a brutal melee – first it was three against
six; then three to four; then four faced two, until another
Titan fell; next you looked, Hopladamos, only one
of your brothers remained standing against two of theirs,
and finally stout Parrhasios stood no more. Since that day,
they say, you have not taken a single dancing step for
your limbs are weighted down by grief and remorse.
And so I will dance for you, noble Hopladamos,
and ever remember your deed of valor, O best
of Giants, defender of Rheia the Great Mother.

For redeseeker

Hail earthy Hekate, Goddess who wears
golden sandals and a saffron cloak as you
lead lost souls out of the confusing domain
of Dream and into the crepuscular kingdom
of Haides the son of Kronos who wields
the castrating sickle and rules the Isle of the
Blessed from his high tower, you who play
with Kerberos on the shores of the river Styx
which the Gods are loathe to swear oaths upon,
and always have a friendly smile and nod
of your heads for Charon, the ferryman of the
underworld, you who often join in the Iakchos-chant
of the dead initiates who did not drink the waters
of Lethe during their journey West, and so get to
continue celebrating their sacred rites even in the
afterlife, you who do not mind the endless croaking
of the frogs in the marsh or the howls of the wolves
in the woods who long to gaze once more upon the
face of the Moon who does not visit the world below
and its denizens, like Empousa the terrifying cobbled
together creature whom you share your suppers with,
Hekate who visits the Hecatoncheires and wonders
about your Titanic kin whom they are charged
with watching over in the limitless darkness and cold
of Tartaros their prison, and how things were before they
went to war with Zeus and the young Gods and suffered
their present fate, though it didn’t have to be this way.
O Hekate, while you are making your rounds please, I pray,
check in on my ancestors and tell them how I’m doing
and that I love and miss them dearly, O girlfriend of Hermes
the divine messenger and guide of souls, especially those caught
in the riptide of melancholy or who do not yet realize
that they are dead. Great Goddess of Thessaly who is worshiped
in cities as far apart as Lagina and Selinunte and Alexandria by Egypt,
hear my prayer and know that each Dark Moon my household
will give to you the garlic, and honey, and porridge made from
all the grains and beans in our pantry, and the other offerings
which custom dictates should be made on this occasion,
Hekate who travels the roads between the worlds.

For redeseeker

Hail Hekate, Goddess who brings light
into all the dark places, you who guide
the initiate through the winding journey
to behold the single sheaf harvested in gloom
by the Hierophant of Eleusis, you who carry
the torches that were used to search
for Demeter’s little Girl in flower-rich Sicily,
you who fondly stroke the honey-brown hair
of Dionysos’ son, Iakchos leader of the throng,
you who ride through the Heavens in a chariot
of living flame and send forth luminous eidola
to haunt the dreams of the devotees slumbering
in your temple, O Hekate daughter of Asteria
and consort of Hyperborean Apollon who resembles
Helios when he goes out in his swan-driven carriage,
I call to you Goddess who is like the white poplar
that grows where the river Lethe flows through
the underworld and the thirsty souls all rush there
for cool refreshment, and like the streetlamp
that draws moths and butterflies to death
in the enticing flame, and like the glowing
woods and mushrooms that lure the Fair Folk
to dance in the murky swamp, like the Lampades,
chthonic Nymphs with white hair and pale faces
who march while carrying lanterns in your spectral revels,
O Hekate whose eyes are stars, and whose face is black
as the robe of Nyx, or the blood of a bull sacrificed
in moonlight, you who can see all the atrocities
that occur in the dark, which most people
would prefer to remain blind to and quickly
forget, made uncomfortable by the whole
gruesome matter; continue to shine a light
on the victims and those who performed
these wicked deeds on them, until swift justice
is delivered and Dike who lifts the perfectly
balanced scales and Themis who upholds
custom, tradition and law are both satisfied,
this I pray Hekate Phosphoros, Goddess
of the flickering Morning Star.

For redeseeker

Hail Hekate of the gate and doorway,
honored alongside Herakles Alexikakos,
Hermes friend of dogs, and Apollo
Agyieus and Smintheus, Janus who sees
forwards and back, as well as Cardea,
Forculus and Limentinus as custodians
of portals and protectors of the household,
dearest of divinities to mankind. For you,
O daughter of the starry Goddess
and Titanic Perse, brother of Pallas
show concern for our possessions
and more importantly, our irreplaceable
loved ones whom we shelter from
the storm within the walls of our home;
you, Hekate, are the nurturer of children,
and a bulwark against malignant witchery,
you burn the Evil Eye with your torches,
and send wandering ghosts and spiteful
devils packing, you easily find what is lost
since you can look in three directions
simultaneously, you have the keys
that open the way to wealth, health,
good luck and limitless possibility,
and close off every sort of misfortune
and calamity, Hekate who holds sway
with all the different Zeuses and granted by him
power over a portion of the Earth and Sky and
the Seas, Hekate whose words can turn the minds
of Klotho, Lachesis and implacable Atropos
like the whirring iynx that resembles the sound
of the cry of the wryneck in its swamp,
Hekate who gives us apotropaic charms,
and herbs for our health, ceremonies of aversion,
defense and purification so that we can better
navigate life’s hardships, I pray to you,
Mistress of the hallway and pantry,
whose image I kiss and reverence in my heart
before ever setting a foot out the door,
and whom I greet with joy and incense
upon returning, O steadfast guardian and surest
source of deliverance, hail Hekate Propylaia.

For Aidonian

Hail Hekate of the Roads, terrible Goddess of the bow
who can fill an enemy with arrows before they can even
unsheath their sword; you who ride your tireless steed
into the thunderous fray, and love to hunt the hare
and the deer of the woods with your unrelenting hound
and falcon who always returns with prey in its talons;
Mistress of Pherai, who shares a temple with Zeus
Thaulios in Larisa; who walks among the tombs
of ancient Pharsalos, birthplace of Achilles; who
is invoked to placate the restless spirits in Epeiros;
who teaches the witches of Skodra which plants can heal
and which can kill; who drives the mice out of Pella
and protects them against disease; who accepts sacrifices
of black puppies, and horses and bulls in Aigiai;
O Hekate Enodia, your fame has spread through
all of Thessaly, Makedonia, Illyria and Thrace
and your worship has even been carried to Sicily,
the Anatolian plateau and the shores of Lake Maiotis
by the long-haired Ionians who conduct eerie nocturnal orgies
in your honor, during which the snake-handling participants
dance round a fire until they receive waking nightmares,
hallucinations full of terrifying insight sent by you
and the airy phantoms that form your Retinue.
Hekate Enodia, you were born in a cave to Asterie
the Nymph and Zeus the Destroyer; while your mother
went out in search of honey to feed you with
you were found by some shepherds
and brought to King Pheres, who recognized your divinity
and ordered that you be raised in the women’s quarters
along with his own children, and taught weaving
and the domestic arts when you swiftly reached girlhood,
but you would have none of it. You wanted to learn hunting
and war and preferred the company of birds and beasts
to humankind, and when you could not stand Pheres’
loving but stifling home you hit the road in search
of excitement and adventure, which you found
among the Centaurs and Giants of the highlands,
whom you either fought or drank with
as circumstances required. You traveled about,
disguised as an old woman to test the hospitality
of those you encountered, and when you arrived on the doorstep
of Chrysame of Kodridai she immediately took you in,
fed you milk and porridge, and doted upon you as if you
were her long-lost grandmother suddenly returned to her,
though so many others had not, merely slamming the door
in your face and telling you to move on down the road,
wearied and made miserly by war with the invading
Erythraians. In gratitude you revealed yourself to the girl
and taught Chrysame the rites and mysteries and lore
of your cult, establishing her before the people as your
priestess. And to Chrysame you showed the solution
to Kodridai’s problems, which she promptly shared
with King Knopos and no one else. And the solution
was this – you told Chrysame to find a certain herb
in the woods, which she was then to feed to the choicest
bull of Knopos’ herd. This herb was able to drive
anyone who ate it out of their minds, having originally
sprung up when the tears of Dionysos touched the Earth
in mourning for his prematurely slain lover Ampelos
who was gored while trying to ride a bull. The state
that Bakcheios was in at the time of the purple-flowered
herb’s creation was transferred to the eater.
And so Chrysame lead the bull, draped in purple
cloth with gold trimming and with gilded horns
and a crown of roses, to the altar of Enodia
near the border with the Erythraia until the bull,
made mad from the effects of the herb, broke loose
from its handlers and rushed off towards a group of soldiers
on sentry duty. Taking the escape as a good omen
they sacrificed the bull to the Erythraian Gods
and shared a portion of the meat with everyone in camp.
The whole army was soon seized with insanity,
and exhibited the same marks of wildness and frenzy
that the bull had. When Chrysame saw this
she ordered Knopos to send out his troops
and charge the enemy. Unable to defend themselves
in that state the Erythraians were cut to pieces
and utterly defeated. Knopos made himself master
of Erythraia and made its citizens part of the
Kodridaian empire, while Chrysame was
remembered as one of the greatest heroines
of the Thessalians, lifted high to a position of honor
by you, Hekate Enodia, the wonder-working Goddess;
Hekate, I pray, please work wonders in my life too.

For Johanna

Hail starry al-Lāt, bride of the Dionysos
of Mount Šarā, granddaughter of Ouranos
whose belly is the heavens, and daughter of
the Moon God Allāh of Mecca, along with
her sisters Manat and al-‘Uzza the Modest.
The women of the nomadic Arab tribes
round al-Ḥijāz anoint your idol with fragrant
oils when they wish to bear strong sons
that will win undying fame and wealth
for their families through the labor of Ares;
and numerous temples have been built for you
by the pious Nabateans; at Palmyra you are
remembered as the one who named the constellations;
and the famous harpers of Hatra sing love songs
in your honor, while couples feed each other
honeyed figs and stare longingly into one another’s eyes;
even as far as Libya and Carthage has your fame reached,
where you are depicted as a slim-ankled maiden,
hair let loose, standing naked beneath a palm tree
as you wave the aegis to drive back the plague-bearing
arrows of the mad hermaphrodite dwarf with its face
painted white. Hail al-Lāt who grinds barley-meal
for her husband, who welcomes Hermes into her temple,
whom the oppressed call upon to bring about vengeance
and the restoration of right order, whom the traveler invokes
for fair weather and protection from raiders, who shares her
marriage bed with al-‘Uzza, who sends blindness and lameness
upon anyone who disturbs memorials for the dead,
who casts lots and peers into the silver basin,
who reviles the babbler Moameth for destroying her temple in Ta’if,
and who delights in date wine and long walks
with her man along the beach at dawn,
who shines forth as the planet Venus. Hail Great Goddess
who rides the lion, and long may you be worshiped!

For Aidonian

Hail to you Persephone who sorrows,
daughter of loudthundering Zeus, and Demeter
who makes the Earth fruitful or barren as she pleases,
Goddess garbed in black and gold, with amber earrings
and a necklace of dead bees, Fasting One whose tears
moisten mortal springs, whose flesh bears the stigma
of your maiming, and the wounds you self-inflicted after,
you who lost your trust along with your innocence,
and then lost the beloved fruit of the unspeakable union too;
is it any wonder that you turned inward and became lost
in the labyrinth of your mind, tormented by grief and regret
and the emptiness where your baby should be, until Eubouleos
Dionysos managed to draw you out and restore you to your kind
and understanding husband Aidoneus, healed of the madness
that had been poisoning you, O Goddess dear to my heart,
mother of ash and the two-formed airy phantom. You took
the tattered fragments and stitched them back into something whole,
devising from your experiences rites that bring release
from the wearying wheel and an end to the repeating cycles
of violence and grief caused by ancestral trauma, rites that you,
Kore Chthonios, taught to Orpheus, the originator of our line.
So hail Persephone Lachrymosa, and please accept this offering
of wine, and honey, and milk with barley groats and pennyroyal
sprinkled on top, in gratitude for the care you show towards all the souls
that come into your custody, O much-revered Lady, and please, I pray,
especially watch over and protect everyone in my lineage.

To Hathor

Mistress of Denderah, Lady of Thebes,
Hathor of many names, my adoration I give to thee!
Bountiful Mother whose breasts suckled Gods and Kings
Wild Cow of the rushes whose dance excites all living things.
Thou art the fiery power of the Uraeus Crown
which spreads terror of the King through all the land.
And thou art the gentle rhythm of the sistrum
soothing frantic passions as it’s shook in the hand.
Beautiful to behold, with thy kohl-darkened eyes
skin of olive, and hair of blackened night.
“How sweet is the name of Hathor!” every lover exclaims,
“Without her to bring us together, life would be unbearable
like the wastes of the Red Land which receive no rain.”
Look kindly upon me Mother as I sing thee this song,
and drain many flagons of beer to thy honor, all night long.

To Hathor II

Hail to you Hathor, Golden Goddess who presides over
the good things in life, and whose fondest wish
is for us to experience joy in living. This is why
your festivals are such joyous occasions, O Hathor,
full of drunkeness, merry-making, song and dance.
For you have inspired the Harper to sing,
“Revel in pleasure while your life endures,
and deck your head with myrrh.
Be richly clad in white and perfumed linen;
like the Gods anointed be; and never weary grow
in eager quest of what your heart desires – do as it prompts you.”
And you delight in the dance, the dance which symbolizes
the movement of the Stars and Sun and Moon,
the progression of life on Earth,
as it undergoes its myriad transformations.
The growth from newborn infant into child,
from child into adult, from adult into old age,
and from old age into death.
Foolish men think that the dance stops there,
but it has truly only just begun,
for from death comes life, and from life death
in ever-repeating cycles.
This alternation or flux as Herakleitos would have it
is the same cyclic movement or cosmic rhythm
which propels and animates the world
from highest to lowest.
And at your festivals Hathor there is always
an air of excitement, of enchantment,
of fiery passion lurking beneath the surface.
Young men look with longing glances
at the beautiful girls performing their leaping dances:
husbands, who just the day before
could scarcely spare their wives a glance,
are all over them, taking them in their arms in heated embrace:
old women discover their cheeks flushed all of a sudden,
and their parts down there smoldering for the touch
of a strong, finely muscled workman:
mothers paint their eyes, don their best wigs,
wear suggestive clothing or none at all,
and rush out into the street, crying, “Take me! Take me!”
This is the work of the Goddess, who is the Mistress of Desire,
that force in the world which brings things together,
without which there could be no union.
All this you oversee Hathor,
known throughout Upper and Lower Egypt,
and even beyond the borders of the Black Land.
You are praised in song by the short, dark men
of Punt famed for its incense, as well as by
the blond-haired and blue eyed Libyans.
In the Phoenician tongue you are called
the Baalat Gebel or “Lady of Byblos,”
and the nomads of the Sinai hail you
as the “Mistress of Turquoise” and the
“Great Golden Cow who brings Deliverance.”
Your worship is known in every land,
and you have numerous names and uncountable titles,
O Lady ever dear to my heart.

To Hathor, Mistress of the Dance

I will dance for you Hathor,
even when my heart is heavy with sorrow
and my soul bruised by life’s afflictions.
I will dance all the more at times like these
for it is then that I need your beauty and joy the most!
Long ago the King of the Gods was inconsolable in his grief
– even Thoth with all his mighty words
could not find the right thing to say
to bring Rē out of the darkness.
But then you came in and smiled
and his spirits began to lift.
The motion of your delicate feet,
your hips agile as gazelles leaping on the mountainside,
your breasts swaying like the rushes caught in a breeze
cast a spell on him so that he could not look away.
When the last of your clothing fell to the golden floor
and you stood revealed in all of your radiant beauty,
his sorrow had long since been banished
and he could scarcely remember feeling anything other
than the pure joyousness that now gripped his great heart.
And so it is with us mortals whenever you are near,
and you are never nearer to men
than when we dance for you in celebration.
With every step I take I trample black despair;
my spinning and leaping about
makes it impossible for sadness to retain its hold,
and when I finally collapse,
exhausted and happy from the dance,
the sweat that covers my limbs and the heat of my flesh
are all the proof I need that purification has been wrought.
So I will never stop dancing for you Hathor,
no matter what’s going on in my life.

To Hathor, Queen of Gold

Hail to you Goddess of the golden face,
shining radiantly in the clear blue Sky,
O Mistress that loves the mountain top
and the harsh Red Lands far from the fertile river.
You are the lovely one who dances in the trees,
she who gives cool shade to those wandering in the West.
You are the Great Cow that suckles the infant King,
and the fierce lion that hunts the foes of Egypt
drinking their blood like the bowls of beer we set out for you.
When you come, O Hathor, may your heart be pacified
by the shaking of the sistrum,
and may your dance excite all who dwell in our noble city,
so that the streets are filled with joyous celebration
and no one is left without a partner to love.

To Hathor, Whom I have Known

Hathor, I have known you my whole life,
though only recently have I come to speak your name.
You were the shadowy one who stood in darkness whispering,
“Fear not, my child, when you’ve reached the end of your days,
for to me you’ll come, transformed into one of the brilliant stars
which burn in the night-time sky.”
And you were the warmth I felt as I lay in my lover’s arms,
our skin slick with sweat, the world made perfect through our union.
And you were the urge I felt to dance,
to rise up on my feet and twirl about,
carried high on the wings of song,
though I am clumsy, a creature of turgid Earth.
I felt you all about me as I’d go out on my nightly walks,
your slender frame manifest in the waifish tree trunk,
your laughter echoing in the rustling leaves.
And I knew you on those rare nights of drunkeness,
when beer had made my head dizzy,
and I dropped my guard and joked with my friends,
telling witty stupid stories that would never dare pass my sober lips.
I have known you always, and will never forget you.

For Aidonian

Hail Zeus of those beneath the Earth, shadowy dwellers
in the Invisible Kingdom whose gates are never closed,
land of dreams and riches from which no soul ever escapes,
fortunate prize won by Haides, wearer of the wolfskin,
during the war between the Gods and Titans,
when brutal conflict decided control of the cosmos.
None were more brutal in that devastating fight than you,
eldest son of Kronos the Raweater, nor could the three-tined
trident or the fiery lightning-bolt compare with the ferocity
of your double-bladed axe, O Aidoneus, driver of the war-chariot
pulled by four swift midnight steeds. Once all the foemen
of the Gods lay beaten on the ground you locked them away
in remotest darkness, and placed the Hundred-handed Ones
as sentries over them to ensure that they stay put, building
your hall that receives all on the borders of Tartaros as added
protection, stout defender of shining Olympos, even if the
laughing divinities above do not often remember to invite you
to their lavish banquets. It is no concern of yours, handsome
and debonair Ploutos who carries the cornucopia, for you
and your tenebrous Queen hold splendid feasts of your own,
with the lucky ones among the dead as your honored guests,
along with your dear friends Dionysos who makes the wine flow,
Hekate mighty in magic, Hermes the guide of souls, veiled Despoina,
enticing Kirke daughter of the Sun, and Herakles tamer of wild beasts
who often are in attendance. Dark-minded God who once was moved
to tears by the music of Orpheus and to rage by the impiety of Pirithous,
they lie who say that you are cold and severe with a heart made of stone;
you feel things richly, perhaps even more so than your brothers, you
just don’t show it everywhere and to everyone, and it usually involves
your flower-lovely wife, Persephone the expert weaver, most valuable
of all the treasures in your broad kingdom, O dread sovereign who sits
upon the basalt throne surveying all that is yours in the gloomy twilight
of the underworld. Dis Pater who favors the myrtle and shuns the mint,
abominator of the red mullet who delights in the smell of asphodel,
oracular God served by priests who walk barefoot over flaming coals,
crafter of the enchanting narcissus and the horned owl who hunts by night,
master of the three-headed hound whose spittle turns to aconite
and the black rooster who heralds the arrival of the weary Sun
in the world below, invoked by those who seek to summon ghosts
and those who cleanse with sacred smoke, O white-robed Lord who hears
the prayers of the dying and grieving and never looks askance
at our suffering, renowned Klymenos, may my praises prove pleasing
to your ear and may you remember me fondly when I come before
your court and give an account of my days to your unbribable judges
Aiakos, Minos and implacable Rhadamanthys.
I will name the tokens and provide the appropriate passwords
which the venerable elders of my tradition entrusted me with,
and in return I hope for a better lot in the afterlife,
and that I may prove worthy to join the eternal feast
of the heroes and blessed initiates.

Hail to you Skírnir, shining prince
of the tree-loving Álfar, clever messenger
of the Gods, Freyr’s wise counselor
and loyal liegeman, wielder of the
terrifyingly powerful gambanteinn
and the sword that once belonged
to your Lord, which never ceases to thirst
for blood once it has been unsheathed.
Handsome seducer, who loves to laugh
and pluck the strings of the harp
while Bragi sings, but can be strong
and domineering when the situation
calls for it, as when you threatened
to beat the maiden Gerðr, and make
her watch as you murdered her father
if she would not accept your very reasonable
proposition, or when you journeyed to the halls of the
underhill Dverger and persuaded them, as only you can,
to forge the unbreakable fetter Gleipnir so that the Æsir
could bind that giant hellish hound Fenrir, sired
by Loki and Angrboða, Mistress of the Ironwood.
Hail Skírnir, rider of the wind-horse
and master of your mound, I pray,
bring the glad tidings of Yngvi to his people
in due season, and you shall be remembered too.