Hail to you Haides,
somber Lord of the silent lands,
where the chthonic Nymphs dance
on the shores of the Stygian river,
and the souls of great men dwell in gloom,
dreaming of their days upon the earth
when the Sun shone warmly on their faces.
You see all that transpires in your shadowy realm,
as you sit on your basalt throne
and stroke the shaggy heads of the fearsome hound.
The only light that you tolerate
are the gleaming cheeks of your bride,
pale like the moon on a clear summer’s night.
And her sweet smile is the only thing
capable of warming your heart:
otherwise you are cold and still
like the murky depths of the Styx.
But you are not a cruel God:
not once has Haides closed his doors to a suppliant soul.
You give shelter to all, regardless of their fame or fortune in life.
And to many, death’s oblivion comes as a welcome balm,
soothing their suffering and making an end to heartache.
Though you surround yourself with sterility,
you are in truth the Fertile One,
your black head crowned with myrtle
and holding plump grapes in your palm.
You nourish the seed that is planted in the earth,
and send forth ripe fruit in due season.
Without the first burial there could be no life –
and the second burial ensures the promise of future wealth.
So hail to you Haides, elder brother of Zeus,
worthy of equal honors to those of the Heavenly King.
Regardless of how much you’re worshiped here and now,
in time all men come to make offerings at your altar
and hail you as Lord and unrivaled Master.

Hail to you long-bearded Bragi, quick to the feast
and life of the party, who can keep your head
no matter how deep in your cups you get,
witness of oaths and boasts, always ready
with a joke, a story, or a song, you whose father
drank from the mead of poesy, you who have
Runes graven on your tongue, you who were able
to woo Iðunn, wordsmith, even after you slew her brother
and feuded with the remaining sons of Ivaldi.
You, Bragi, greet great warriors as they arrive in Valhöll
and ensure that the names and deeds of brave kings endure
forever, if only as kennings which the poets of today
have forgotten the meanings of so many centuries later.
When conflict arises, O Bragi, between Ásgarðr
and one of the other of the Nine Realms, it is to you
and your half-brother clever Hermóðr that Óðinn looks,
sending you out as emissaries, spies, or assassins as needed.
Such an important role would not have been given you
had you not proven yourself worthy of it; something Loki
should have considered before getting on your bad side.
Once it got going no Ás, Álf or Jötunn could pry you two apart,
and before it was done he claimed you owed him weregild
for the maiming you gave him, and so, Bragi, you offered Laufey’s
son your swiftest horse, your finest sword, and an arm-ring
forged for you by Ivaldi himself, all of which Loki refused.
Instead he demanded as recompense that you compose
a praise-song for Sigyn, his beloved and steadfast wife,
and when you finished singing it before the entire divine assembly
there wasn’t a single dry eye in that hall and Loki, satisfied,
could not recall why you Gods, closest of comrades,
had started fighting at all. So hail to you Bragi,
and may many more songs flow forth from you.

For Karl.

To Forseti

Hail to you clear-eyed Forseti, wise son of Baldr
the beloved and faithful Nanna, with a voice
that puts to sleep quarrels and a mind like a whirling stream,
able to solve the hardest of puzzles and settle any dispute
brought before you, no matter how tangled,
O you who preside over the law-court of the Æsir,
impartial, balanced, unbribable, justice-loving one
who leaves all parties feeling heard,
who stills strife and ends bloody feuds,
who can tell false from the true, Forseti,
Lord of the silver-roofed hall Glitnir with golden pillars,
where the aggrieved gather to hear you pass sound judgments
and give sage counsel to all, hear my prayer O gracious God,
and bring stillness, clarity, understanding and resolution
to a mind that is a jangle of contradictions,
wrong in its convictions, fearful, puffed up with pride
or whatever else is keeping me from seeing,
knowing, and doing what I should.

Hail to you O dolphin-riding Taras,
bearer of the torch of the Mysteries
like Iakchos whom you resemble,
and a spindle full of the best Apulian
wool dyed purple, as if you were
Kloster, the child of dance-loving Arachne;
but, as everyone knows, you are the son
of Poseidon of Tainaron whose temple
lies near the cave where Orpheus emerged
from the underworld and Satyria, beautiful
as a marsh flower, the daughter of Minos,
proud ruler of Knossos, the Troy of the West.
You, Lord, are a bane to pirates, kidnappers
and cheats, those honorless wolves of the sea,
and a blessing to honest folk who just want
to fish and sail off the coasts of lovely Italy,
for you Taras, have been given the power
to summon winds and send forth the wave-horses
of your father, as well as the ability to calm them.
Though you show yourself as a plump, naked boy
like you were when your ship was smashed to pieces
and you were cast ashore on the spot where,
years later, Phalanthos would lead his virgin-born men to,
after many adventures and many losses, founding
a Lakedaimonian colony named Taras after you,
that would, with your assistance, grow into
one of the greatest cities of Greater Greece –
but that is merely how you seem, for you, Taras,
are mighty indeed, and quick to hear and quick to respond
to the prayers of those in need, master of the gymnasium
and one who marches at the head of the Tarantine army,
fighting hard to bring them victory and safely home to their families,
protector of the lands around your city, and all the sheep, bees,
and vineyards that they contain, Taras the friend of Bakcheios
who cures destructive madness with secret dances and strange
nocturnal rites that will bring your fine city fame for centuries
to come. Hail Taras, tireless hero, may you thrive
as you make your people to thrive.

I call to you Óttar, Instein’s son, forever young, vanquisher
of Angantyr, ferocious warrior who knows the frenzy of the boar,
you who won your kingdom through cleverness and valor,
and governed your people with equanimity and just laws,
maintaining the peace of the Gods which causes the flocks
and fields to flourish. Óttar, favorite of Freyja the Vanadís,
though you performed many glorious deeds and your ancestry
is truly illustrious, filled with men such as Halfdan foremost
of the Skjöldungar, Isolf and Osolf the sons of mighty Ólmóðr,
Gunnar the Bulwark, Hrörek Ring-giver, and Sigurðr the slayer of Fafnir –
these and so many other heroes of yore that it proved difficult labor
for even the Etin Völva Hyndla to give an account of your line
going all the way back to Embla and Askr – and yet all of that
is overshadowed by your exemplary piety, Óttar the blessed,
you who built a shrine of stones for the Ásynjur that turned to glass
from the frequent altar-fires you lit to send the choicest portion
of the sacrifice wafting up to heaven as fragrant smoke,
and the hörgr was stained red from all the blood you spilled there
for the Ladies of Ásgarðr, the Álfar, and the Landvættir –
and that’s how you caught the eye of Freyja,
Blótgyðja and Mistress of the arts of Seiðr and Spá.
Óttar, while still a mortal lad utterly ignorant of who you were
and where you came from, you became her protégé
and shared the empty bed of the immortal Goddess of love and war
because what you did know well was all the ways of worship
and how to compose beautiful praise-songs for the whole host
of Holy Powers, and Freyja has always had a thing for poets,
which is why she married the God of inspired verse.
Óttar, I pray, help me to find the right words and ceremonies
to express how much I love my Gods and Spirits,
and how thankful I am for the multitude of blessings
they daily pour into our lives. Help strengthen my devotion
and make it constant as stone, so that I may walk true in their ways
and my thoughts and deeds always reflect the virtues and values
that are dear to their hearts. May I cherish and take great care
with the traditions that have been handed down to me
so that I have something of worth to pass on to those who come after.
Óttar I thank you, and will etch the memory of you in my heart
so that I may carry it with me as a reminder of how to be
for the remainder of my days, O guide and helper of polytheists.

Although our cat is clearly a Heathen (with a fondness for Thor and Frigga,) she maintains cultus for Bast and even tends her own shrine for the Goddess. Dua Bast, and may you continue to bless and keep our dear one healthy and safe!

For Teka Lynn

To Bast

Hail Bast who bears the was-scepter
and the precious alabaster jar
with which you anointed the body of Horus
after he bathed in your sacred lake at Boubastis,
you who wear the aegis that puts to flight
all manner of demons, on which the terrifying
visage of your son Maahes the Render
can be seen, O Bast, alluring consort
of Ptah, the maker of many splendid things,
Daughter of Rē, Protector of Lower Egypt,
Sekhmet’s companion in the hunt. wanderer
in the land of Punt, soothed by the sistrum
of Hathor, O Bast of many names and many roles.
For in Memphis you are known as Mistress of Ointments
and the one who delights in fragrant perfumes.
When the women of Thebes are getting married
they ask that you bless them with fertility and good luck
so they may bear a litter’s worth of fine offspring,
and later they call to you in the midst of their labor,
and afterwards beg you to watch over their young
so that they may grow healthy and strong.
To the Heliopolitans you are the Slasher, the avenger of Rē.
The learned scribes of Hermopolis have deduced
that you are the soul of Isis through clever wordplay.
And the Greek inhabitants of Alexandria name you
Aílouros in their tongue, she who wags her tail
and the Egyptian Artemis who adores the chase
and the light of the moon. O Bast, you are all of these things
and so much more, and I pray always that I am worthy
in your eyes to be a caretaker for one (or more!) of your children.

Although I’ve had wall calendars printed every year since the opening of the Bakcheion (and for several before that) this time around I’ve opted not to. We’ll still be marking the passage of the seasons and doing stuff to celebrate Dionysos’ festivals here in the temple and through the House of Vines – I’ll just be keeping track of things electronically. For those who like to plan ahead this is what Year 5 of the Bakcheion (2023 e.v.) is going to look like. Note that since we had to add the intercalanary month Eriaphioteion everything has slid forward a couple weeks. (The fun of keeping a lunisolar calendar.) Not included are the feast days of our Heroes and Heroines, which remain the same from year to year. 

White Season begins (Jan 1)
Noumenia of Kissos (Jan 22)
Lenaia (Feb 2)
Noumenia of Stephanos (Feb 21)
Anthesteria: Pithoigia (Mar 3)
Anthesteria: Choes (Mar 4)
Anthesteria: Chytroi (Mar 5)
Noumenia of Thyrsos (Mar 22)
Dionysia begins (Mar 31)
Gold Season begins (Apr 1)
Dionysia ends (Apr 6)
Noumenia of Nebris (Apr 21)
Noumenia of Kantharos (May 20)
Agrionia (Jun 16)
Noumenia of Prosopon (Jun 19)
Red Season begins (Jul 1)
Aletideia (Jul 17)
Noumenia of Kothornos (Jul 18)
Noumenia of Diktya (Aug 17)
Pannychia begins (Aug 18)
Pannychia ends (Aug 19)
Noumenia of Pelekus (Sep 15)
Black Season begins (Oct 1)
Noumenia of Botrys (Oct 15)
Oschophoria (Oct 21)
Noumenia of Boukranion (Nov 14)
Lampteria (Nov 24)
Noumenia of Athyrmata (Dec 13)
Foundation Day (Dec 31)

I’m putting a temporary hold on the hymns for the Gods of the Week. A couple things contributed to this decision. Firstly, I wanted to include a set for the Egyptian as well as Greek and Norse Gods, and that still requires some tweaking. Secondly, I’m feeling guilty and want to get the commissioned hymns out before I start this next phase of the project. And thirdly, since I’m already delaying there’s about sixteen others I want to finish first, those being: 

Commissioned:
al-Lāt
Asklepios’ family
Bast
Haides
Hekate (x4)
Persephone

The Others:
Euthymos
Freyr
Herkyna
Hybla
Jöfurr
Mousaios
Nehalennia
Phalanthos and Aithra
Phryne
Semele
The Sirens
Skírnir
Stuffo
Taras
Thoth
Thyia

And as for the informal poll, it looks like you guys are pretty decisively on the side of adding the Skythian, Slavic, Baltic and related Gods, so I’m taking it to the mat during our next divination session as there are a couple matters I need clarification on first. 

You don’t want to know how big my to-do list has grown. This book is gonna be fucking insane.

I was talking with a friend about the Polytheist Hymnal and she asked:

How long does it take for you to craft one of these?

To which I replied:

That’s a really good question, and the answer depends on where certain boundaries are drawn. I begin the writing process by getting into a particular altered state through a combination of prayer, meditation and the consumption of marijuana (and less frequently alcohol or other entheogens.) Then I go through my list and see if I can connect with any of the names on it. If things click then I start writing, which can take anywhere from 30 mins to 4 hours depending on how clearly things are coming through, how well I know them, if I need to do supplementary research, etc. (Though the research – if they aren’t a deity I have prior history with – is usually done before the writing process itself starts, and consists of familiarizing myself with their history and myths, epithets and symbolism, cult practices and regional expressions, as well as their relationships with other divinities and similar details that help me flesh things out.) If I can’t get into the right state, or don’t click with the deity I don’t write because I don’t think things like hymns should be forced, and because the writing itself often has a collaborative element, where I check in and see if what I’ve got works for them or if I need to include different epithets, allusions or even if the structure of the hymn itself needs to be changed. If I can’t feel these things out I either resort to divination or set the piece aside for another time when I can.

Insane. 

Hail brave Höðr stout in war, slayer of multitudes,
driver of Óðinn’s battle-chariot, excellent archer
who always strikes true, strong enough to drag
a many-oared ship ashore by yourself, savior
to those who fight under your banner and a terror
to your luckless enemies, you who have never seen
a foe capable of placing fear in your own heroic heart;
Höðr whose mind is sharp as the sword of Miming the Satyr,
good at solving riddles and devising battle strategy,
and better at coming up with persuasive speech
to sway those in the assembly hall to your side
or for goading your troops on to undying glory;
Höðr, your deeds of valor are beyond counting,
more than earning you a seat beside your father
in Valhöll where the Einherjar fight and feast –
and yet you dwell in the gloomy realm of Hel
with Baldr and Nanna instead, the perilous
shaft of anguish all that Gods and men remember of you.
But how many of them know why you were blind
when Loki held your hand, and why you flinched
away when he whispered into your ear? I will tell it –
years before you were out riding through a region
of extraordinary cold in a carriage drawn by reindeer
when you became lost and eventually found yourself
in a misty forest, where lived three sisters, wood-maidens
who could foresee the future and control the fortunes of war.
You beat them in a contest of wits, and since you already
possessed the luck of Geirvaldr himself, Höðr, you chose
their other gift. And they showed you everything,
including the crushing grief that you would bring
your mother Frigga. And so it was, Höðr, that you
sought to avert the fate that the wood-maidens had
revealed to you by plucking out your very own eyes
so that you could not possibly strike the Gleaming One,
the favorite of the Æsir. You chose darkness and pain
rather than to be a cause of suffering for those you loved,
and so I pray, Höðr, that your sacrifice never be forgotten,
and that you are with me when I am faced with impossible choices
and after, when I must endure their consequences. Hail Höðr,
son of Óðinn and Frigga who lost two sons that day.

Hail to you Þrúðr, who has the grace and rare
beauty of Sif your gold-haired mother,
and the strength and daring of your father
lightning-hurling Þórr. You alone of the Ásynjur
can lift the mighty hammer Mjölnir,
as you did that time Hrungnir Gullfaxi’s master
carried you kicking and screaming to Jötunheimr
and many a skull, knee and hand you crushed, Þrúðr,
before they had Þjazi bring you back home. Your
vengeance may have been thwarted that day by Hrungnir
the swiftly fleeing, but it sure caught up with him when Þórr
came knocking, wielding his returned Mjölnir.
You, Goddess, were much kinder when the confused Dvergr
Alvíss showed up on your doorstep, come to claim your
hand in marriage, a betrothal negotiated by the ever
helpful Loki Laufey’s son, the lawyer.
This time it didn’t take your loving and protective father Þórr,
nor the assistance of Móði and Magni, your heroic brothers, for
you got vengeance all on your own, and somehow, despite how Thorr
dawn-greeter treated him, managed to forge friendship bonds that endure
still with much-skilled Alvíss of the underhill folk, Þrúðr
sun-bright, of gentle disposition, pole-star and frith-upholder,
Þrúðr true-of-aim. And may we ever remember
you who give ale to the Einherjar of Óðinn Allfather,
Þrúðr, and we thank you for every kindness you show to our ancestors.

I will sing of the great hero Miletos,
slayer of monsters and founder of glorious cities
far from the red earth of Crete that nursed him.
He was born of golden Apollon the archer God
who sends and drives away plague, and Akakallis the dancer,
who wears daffodil crowns on her lovely head
with hair like the tamarisk tree, daughter of Minos
whose naval fleet made him undisputed ruler of the seas,
and cow-eyed Pasiphaë the Queen, and daughter of the Sun.
Zeus’ offspring visited her one night while Akakallis was sleeping
in the temple of Paiëon the Physician of the Gods, desperate to see
if she could dream up a cure to the scorpion curse
laid upon her father for his unfortunate infidelities;
but instead all that she saw was the Lord of the Tripod disrobing
and all resistance melted away. Nine months later she fled
through the woods carrying Apollon’s newborn son,
terrified of the baying hounds of Minos who pursued her,
when Akakallis spotted some rugged oak beneath which
she could stash the threshing-basket in which her precious child slept,
and then flee in the other direction to draw the murderous hounds away
from her miraculous boy. He might have died of hunger there,
or succumbed to a chill breeze had not a pair of wolves happened by
and taken him in as if he were one of their pups, even going so far
as to nurse the half human, half God with their own milk.
Though he grew up swift and strong among the wolves,
one day he was discovered by some herdsmen
who stole him away, fed him on milk of their cows
and raised Miletos according to the ways of their people.
With manhood came discontent, and a desire to see
what existed off this island he’d spent his whole life on.
Just when it was becoming unbearable Miletos was attacked
as he led his herd to a watering hole by a band of cattle-thieves,
unlucky brigands. Armed only with his walking stick
and a prayer to Apollon Alexikakos upon his lips
(though he did not yet know that it was his own father he petitioned)
Miletos charged his would-be attackers
like some wild, roaring bull causing them to scatter.
But they did not escape him, or his murderous frenzy.
Later, when he showed the pious herdsmen what remained
of the bandits’ corpses they were horrified,
and banished him from their community; self-defense was one thing,
but that level of brutality was utterly inhuman
and had no place among this peaceful, forest-dwelling people.
Miletos left his home in the shade of Mount Dikte
and made the journey to the Pythian oracle on the slopes
of Mount Parnassos, where the Korykian Nymphs hold their dances
and the Thyiades carry torches during their nocturnal revels
in winter when Bakcheios rules Delphoi and Apollon is off
visiting the mysterious people who live beyond the North Wind.
But when Miletos came to see the prophetic maiden
(for this was before the sacred law was changed,
and only venerable matrons were permitted to serve the God
in that capacity) the voice of Apollon sounded from her dove-like throat,
causing the underground chamber to shake and the Holy Ones
who normally interpreted the mantic utterances of the girl
began to shriek and run for cover. Clearly Loxias spoke,
first acknowledging Miletos as his son, and revealing
the man’s true name, for up until that point he’d simply
gone by what the herdsmen called him, Tauros,
on account of his superhuman strength.
Next far-seeing Apollon who expounds the will of Zeus
to mankind told Miletos to go beyond the bounds
of the Greek world, into the country inhabited by
fair-haired Lydians, savage Lykians, numerous tribes
of Thracian and Kimmerian and Persian horsemen, Skythians
who love gold and walk in smoke, and the descendents
of those Amazon women who were chased here from the steppes
by mad-making Dionysos, Savage and Carnivorous,
who would have annihilated them utterly had Artemis
of the crossroads, Mistress of the Ephesian Letters, not intervened.
Go! The God who shows the way proclaimed. Go to this distant country
where you can create a home for your wives and many fine children,
after overcoming numerous obstacles and hardships that would
grind down lesser men. The city you establish will become
the greatest city among the Greeks of Asia, itself going on to found
many far-famed cities and colonies of its own, all of which
will honor you foremost among their civic heroes,
and me for guiding and protecting you during your travels.
Three women will you marry, son of mine, and the last will be
the dark-eyed daughter of the river Maíandros that twists and turns
like Minos’ own labyrinth, and she will bear you a son, Kaunos,
who will lead a massive army uniting the disparate Lykian peoples
into a mighty and terrifying nation, and Byblis a daughter whose beauty
will be beyond compare, but who will shun every suitor that comes her way,
loving only her long-haired brother, who will flee your city
to escape the madness and destruction that lies in her fair arms.
The Moirai have spun this fate out for you already; would that I
could tell you different events will befall your family line
but when I am seated upon the tripod I am incapable of lying,
even to one whom I love dearly, such as yourself. So spoke Apollon,
and so the hero Miletos accepted what his father told him,
and gathered to him a troop of Cretans dissatisfied with the rule of Minos,
and they sailed off into the unknown, eager to make their fortunes
in that strange, far-off place – and Miletos never spoke of the tragic events
which Apollon foretold that day, even as he watched each one come to pass.

Hail brave Baldr, Prince of Ásgarðr
and Lord of the glorious hall Breidablik
which was always full of the sounds
of feasting, drinking and fighting
until you were sent on your long journey
from which you have not returned,
and now the place sits empty
and quiet as a sepulcher, O Baldr,
awaiting your return. Delight of the Ásynjur,
Ás bright as the treasure of the Dvergr,
greatly feared by the Jötnar, mighty hunter
among the Álfar, friend of Rán and Ægir
and their many daughters who ensured
you had fine conditions whenever
you went to sea in your finely-wrought
vessel Hringhorni, eager to see
what exotic wonders distant lands might hold.
O beloved of Nanna, noble son of Frigga
who hates the mistletoe, they say that once
you rode through the woods with Óðinn
the seiðmaðr, Mundilfari’s daughter Sinthgunt
whom the night-walkers cry out to,
Volla and her sister the incantation-weaver,
when your mount took a terrible strain
and threw you to the ground.
Not for your own pain, Baldr whose heart
is kind, but that of your steed
were you concerned with,
and so the group encanted a mighty healing charm,
voices entwining to magnify the power
and Phol’s foal was restored, and made better than ever.
And so it is when we humans come together
to pray in your beautiful name, O shining Baldr
of the battlefield, brother of Váli the avenger.

Hail to you Erinys, O beautiful
and dangerous denizen of Dis,
dispenser of justice and exacter
of divine retribution. O Erinys,
you who hate those who shed
the blood of kinfolk almost as much
as those who defile and despoil
sacred places, and especially
the sacred abodes of the Gods. O Erinys,
defender of the innocent
and protector of those who long for justice,
you who bear the torch and noose
as you walk among the tombstones
and along the lonely roads by night,
crocus-loving Goddess. O Erinys,
you who often appear to those below
as a Black woman blacker than the Midnight Sun,
with hair the color of a corpse-eating blue bottle fly,
holding a silver sword sharp like desire
and shaped like the Moon’s crescent,
and in your other elegant hand, Lady,
you hold a perfectly balanced scale
made of a man’s rib-cage and tendons,
wearing a gown of fingernails
and a blindfold soaked in blood.
But to the initiate, O Erinys,
you show yourself as a shapely woman
in a gown as radiant as the Noontime Sun,
with the head of a horse, holding out
a crown of ivy and a chalice of wine
for the soul that is parched from its long
and arduous journey through the Western lands.
And then you guide them safely the rest of the way
to the abode of the Blessed, the House of Vines
at the heart of the Labyrinth
where the eternal nuptials of the son of Kore
and the sister of the Starry Bull are celebrated.
Hail Erinys, Mistress of a host of airy phantoms,
wielder of the scorpion-whip, who took the side of Zeus
and slew a dozen of the enemy during the Gigantomachia –
you of many forms and many names and many functions,
but always dear to us who know you best, hail!

Hail to you Meili, lovely son of charming Óðinn
and brother and dear companion of Thor the Thunderer.
Your mother is a mystery; the majority call you
gentle child of Frigga the far-seeing Goddess,
while scholars of some sense would have you be
the offspring of Jörð who loves bees
and the flowers they help propagate
in every color contained in shimmering Bifröst;
but Egill Skallagrímsson the great warrior-poet sang
that honey-haired princess Xenodike
was wooed by Glapsviðr at a banquet
her father hosted to celebrate the bond
of guest-friendship they’d sworn
after taking in the suppliant king of the Gods,
who was wont to travel to distant lands in disguise
to test the wisdom, hospitality and strength
of those he encountered –
and I am inclined to believe him,
for you, O Meili, strong of arm,
often in the grip of poetic frenzy,
smasher of cities, rider of the untameable wind-horse,
you who know secret incantations
that can only be spoken
by the light of Máni,
you who hold the horn
with which libations are poured out
on the graves of the heroically slain,
you who are familiar with the coin that must be paid
to Sigyn’s attendant, Victory;
aching exhaustion, lungs on fire
and hardly able to draw a breath,
the sharp pain of the gash,
torn muscles and broken bones,
the familiar copper taste in your mouth,
limbs like lead and so heavy you don’t know
how to move them anymore,
but still somehow you manage to do it anyway,
and keep going until you can
deal death to the one who harmed you.
Only one who has been through this and worse
has anything of value to say about you,
Meili who is kind
to his father’s wolves and ravens –
may your name often
be upon our lips,
and your stories
full of bravery, daring,
adventure and love affairs aplenty,
never be far from our minds.

Hail Jöfurr, Lord of the Wild Boars!

I sing of Great Pan,
the Lord of Khemmis where the women weave,
and the fields of goat-rich Mendes.
Pan who is upon his mountain,
and travels with the elephant-hunters,
the shaggy-haired and cloven-hoofed one,
who chases the Nymphs through the rushes by the side of the Nile,
and sleeps in the shade of persea trees at noontide
to escape the blistering heat of Egypt’s sun.
You delight in the goat-smelling wine of barley
that is abundant in this land,
and dance gaily when the brown-skinned shepherd boys
bring out their pipes and play silly tunes to amuse their flocks.
In Alexandria there is a man-made hill for you
in the heart of the city, shaped like a great pine-cone
and covered in evergreens to remind you
of your sylvan haunts in far-off Arcadia,
the land where men eat acorns.
But long before Plato walked among the temples of Heliopolis,
and conversed with her priests about mathematics,
Pan was here and given honors
among the first rank of Egypt’s Gods,
the Eight who were before the Twelve.
For as the story goes, once Seth slew the fertile one,
the Lord of the double-horned crown,
none could find his lovely green body anywhere.
Isis and her dog-faced son looked far and wide,
visiting every district and beyond the borders of the Two Lands,
journeying even to foreign countries
which had never heard the name of Osiris before.
She wept great tears and beat her breast,
and cut off her hair at Koptos,
which ever since has borne that name,
meaning the place of bitter mourning.
All this was in vain, for the body of Egypt’s rightful King
lay sunk within the Nile waters
where he had fallen and drown,
slain by his brother’s hand.
And there he would have remained,
had Pan, that lusty fellow,
not been chasing slim-ankled girls along the shore.
He splashed into the water, laughing joyfully,
until he tripped on something in the water
and tumbled headlong beneath the waves.
The Nymphs, noticing that they were no longer pursued,
came back to find the God with horns
– for their fleeing was all pretense –
and when he rose up from the river they screamed in panic,
for Pan carried the corpse of the God upon his back.
Once recovered, they helped drag him to shore
and laid Osiris’ still form upon the sand.
They stood speechless in their horror,
overcome by their grief, none knowing what to do,
for dear Osiris was loved by all Egypt’s inhabitants,
save only his jealous-hearted brother.
Then Pan left the darlings of the rushes
to watch with tearful eyes over the body,
safeguarding it from further harm,
while he ran off to find the Queen of Heaven
and reunite her with her lost husband.
For this kindness Pan was honored in all the temples of Egypt,
and given a worthy sacrifice on the Day of Finding.
And so I, too, shall honor you Pan, O kind-hearted One
who does service to both Gods and men.

Hail magnificent Pan,
half beast and half man,
drive this pestilence back
with your dancing cloven hooves,
you who sport in the hills,
and carefully watch over our flocks
except during those couple afternoon hours
when you’re napping
or rolling around in a dark, damp cave
with some bosomy Nymph
or apple-bottomed country lad.
Any who have disturbed your slumber
or crossed your path when you’re out hunting by moonlight,
know how terrifying and merciless you can be
O son of Hermes and the most excellent weaver Penelope,
you who won the glory of your name
when you marched with Bakchos beyond Bactria
and slaughtered all his foes on the battlefield,
O Hornéd Deliverer, wielder of the net and crook,
with eyes of fire and a laugh that chills,
bring deliverance to us in our time of dire need
and we shall gaily remember you always.

Today is the dies mortis or anniversary of David Bowie’s death, so I figured I’d share this piece I wrote shortly after his passing. While due divination was performed to confirm that he was okay accepting hero cultus within the Starry Bull tradition and he’s shown up for a number of folks subsequently, a lot of the issues raised are still pertinent and worth considering.

It’s been an interesting couple of days, watching the world mourn the incomparable David Bowie. People die all the time – it’s what we do – but rarely are so many affected so deeply by the passing. Bowie was different though. “He was one of us.” Over and over again this sentiment has been expressed, by people from vastly different backgrounds and ideologies – and in every instance it’s true. His work, spanning decades and exploring every facet of what it is to be human and more, transcended boundaries and was infinitely relatable. Constantly reinventing himself and not just keeping up with the changing times and tastes but often anticipating and even shaping them, he influenced countless fellow artists who in turn influenced countless others. For many, his music was the soundtrack of our lives. Having been with us for so long and in so many ways, it’s hard to imagine the world without him.

And yet here we are.

To many Pagans and Polytheists this isn’t the end but rather the beginning. The man David Bowie may be no more, but the memory, the image, and something else endures beyond the grave and our traditions have ways of honoring that, of making space for him to continue to touch our lives, and more. He is now a spirit, one of the mighty dead and may, in time, become something even greater. There is talk of making him a saint, an hero, even a demigod.

I understand and deeply appreciate this sentiment. To me Bowie was so much more than just an immensely talented artist (though that would be reason enough to pay him cultus within my tradition.) There were times I could see my God and members of my God’s retinue reflected through him, and I know others have had similar experiences with their own divinities. And that’s why we need to proceed carefully.

These titles mean something, and carry with them certain obligations. Obligations on our end, and on the recipient’s. These forms of cultus are not something to rush into. Death is a process which both the deceased and those left behind must go through. Our rites exist to help us navigate that alien terrain.

Now, I’m not here to tell you how to conduct your worship. If you’re not a member of the Starry Bull tradition I could honestly care less what you believe or do in front of your shrine. But as part of the process I encourage everyone to think deeply and carefully about these matters. After all, this is a pretty unique situation we find ourselves in since, appearances aside, Bowie was not actually one of us.

If you know anything about him, you know that he was a deeply private man who worked hard to keep his family and personal affairs out of the limelight despite being an immensely popular performer from the 1960s on. Many of his close friends and professional colleagues, in fact, had no idea that he had been battling cancer for 18 months until they, along with the rest of us, learned that he had finally succumbed to his illness. That is an astounding feat in this age of the panopticon! What he shared with us was immense – but it was an artificial construction, and we should not presume a greater degree of intimacy than actually existed. You didn’t know David Bowie, however close you may have felt to him. You knew Ziggy Stardust, the Thin White Duke, Jareth the Goblin King, the Grand Old Man of Rock ‘n’ Roll, etc. etc.

David Bowie, the man, had religious beliefs and along with the boundaries he drew around his personal life these should be respected. More to the point, those beliefs could have a profound effect on his posthumous fate and status. As with the multitude of stage personae he crafted, Bowie’s religious and philosophical beliefs went through numerous metamorphoses over the decades. He explored Catholicism, Neopaganism, Occultism (of the Nazi variety and otherwise), Agnosticism, and other faiths but often came back to Buddhism, particularly Tibetan Buddhism which he studied under Lama Chime Rinpoche and the crazy-wisdom master Chögyam Trungpa.

If you are at all conversant with these traditions you understand why I bring this up, and it’s not just to recommend that we show deference toward his beliefs, laudable as that may be. Simply put, Bowie the man may no longer exist, here or in other realms, in a way that isn’t necessarily true of most dead people. The goal of Tibetan Buddhism, even more pronouncedly than in other forms of Buddhism, is complete liberation by the radical annihilation of ego-consciousness, a process hastened through elaborate ceremonies performed at the time of death. Now, it’s possible that Bowie will become a bodhisattva and choose to forgo nirvana so he can hang around and help other sentient beings attain bodhicitta-enlightenment; it’s equally possible that those ceremonies were not performed, either because as reports claim he was only surrounded by immediate family at the time of his passage or Bowie may no longer have been a practicing Buddhist, in which case he’s got the long road to walk ahead of him that we all do.

And this is not just so much theoretical speculation; if we are going to worship him we need to know, as much as we can, that there’s something there to be worshiped, what the nature of that something is, and what the appropriate form of worship is for that type of being. Which will take some time.

Whatever Bowie is becoming, it’s a process. You don’t just close your eyes and then open them on the other side a fully transfigured and elevated spirit. In ancient Greek religion, and Bacchic Orphism in particular, death was seen as a journey through another land with numerous obstacles and trials to overcome – paralleling in many respects what we find within Tibetan Buddhism. As the soul undertook this quest, the family it had left behind went through their own transitional phase, mirroring the process through the funerary and later mortuary rites they performed. These rites not only helped the family work out their grief, but assisted the soul in their underworld journey – indeed, without these rites there was a chance the soul could get trapped between the worlds and become a restless, vengeful spirit. These rites began with the washing and preparation of the body, either for burial or cremation. Offerings and libations were made, the family accompanied the body in procession to its tomb, more offerings were made – including the cutting of hair and shedding of blood – and then a period of seclusion and mourning began. During this time the family, especially those who had tended the body, were in a state of miasma or ritual impurity, which precluded them from conducting any public business or visiting shrines and temples. The loss of their loved one had created a gap through which the underworld powers could reach and claim more members of the family, by madness, disease and other calamities. It also forced them to focus on their loss and dredge up all of the pain and grief it caused. When this liminal period – ranging anywhere from days to weeks – was complete the family would perform purificatory rites and make more offerings to the deceased. For the next year or so, members of the family would be in a state of mourning, often wearing special clothing or amulets to reflect this, and performing a series of periodic rites, including feasting at the graveside and monthly libations.

Hero cultus followed a similar model – and may in fact have grown out of these domestic rites, except that the dead belonged not just to a particular family but the entire community. There was also a difference in status and power. While the dead could, in special circumstances – especially if proper rites had not been carried out – make their continued presence known through dreams, healing or sending illness, an increase or decrease of luck, fertility, wealth, etc. as well as violent physical manifestations this was a prerequisite for heroes, and very often what caused cultus to be established for them. Heroes were not, as we often think of them today, paragons of virtue to be emulated but powerful forces requiring placation and appeasement through offerings, rites, dances, athletic and artistic competitions, etc. Once they had been recognized and fully integrated into the community through these activities they would act on behalf of the populace, bringing protection and numerous other blessings to those who honored them. Often the hero’s sphere of influence extended only to the area surrounding the shrine where their mortal remains were kept and a number of ancient Greek poleis or city-states fought wars over possession of these relics. Some heroes, however, most notably Herakles, the Dioskouroi and Achilles transcended this limitation and worked wonders on behalf of numerous farflung Greek communities. Indeed these figures often straddled the blurry but resolute boundary between the Gods and the dead. Some attained full apotheosis or divinization while others received dual honors, as both a God and a hero. Later, during the Hellenistic and Roman period, many rulers received divine honors and cultus, sometimes while alive but most often posthumously. Additionally there were people who acted as mortal incarnations of the Gods. They were either born half-man and half-God, often claiming descent from a divine progenitor or else they became possessed by a deity who simply never left until their demise, at which point the person was either completely absorbed by the God, became the recipient of hero-cultus or underwent apotheosis and was regarded as a divinity in their own right. Dionysos and Aphrodite are the ones we find most often involved in this, though there were also New Hermeses, Herakleses and Zeuses.

Another option was for the individual to become a daimon, a type of spirit that inhabited the space between mortals and the Gods and included everything from ghosts to nymphs to abstract and often undifferentiated powers to foreign and unknown divinities. These beings were often more powerful than humans but less powerful than the major Greek gods themselves, and though long-lived lacked their distinguishing characteristic of immortality. Daimones could either be beneficent or malevolent, but there was always something uncanny and dangerous about them. Their shrines, when they had them, were places of oracular consultation, dream incubation and healing and they were particularly drawn to ecstatic, orgiastic rites and bloody sacrifices in which they received the entire victim as opposed to the Olympians who got the smoke of burnt bones and entrails while their worshipers consumed the meat in a communal feast.

While it’s possible that, from the Hellenic perspective, David Bowie could become any of these types of being – or even a combination of them – there is also another way this could play out. Rather than paying cultus to the man himself one could venerate one or even a variety of the personae he created and embodied over the course of his lengthy career, along the lines of a tulpa or egregore. As Harlequin and Pierrot – figures that fascinated Bowie and which he often portrayed on film and stage – show, the line between fiction and reality is not always an ironclad one, especially when empowered by belief and magic. If the last couple days have shown us anything, it is that millions of people over decades have been feeding these creations a tremendous amount of attention and emotion, which I suspect will enable them to make that perilous existential leap. This, I also suspect, will occur – if it has not already – independent of whatever fate awaits the man who came into this world as David Robert Jones in 1947.

Other religions have both similar and very different methods of engaging with their respected dead, which I won’t go into here as I have no interest in speaking on behalf of any tradition but my own. However I would encourage folks to, again, seriously consider the options available to them, what the implications of those options are, and the appropriate methods of worship that follow from that. Don’t rush into anything – not only is Bowie in the midst of his journey West and thus may not be in any condition to receive or respond to cultus, but if you’re serious about this you need to develop the proper structures and rituals, which are not only consistent with your own tradition but are pleasing and appropriate to him. Do not claim a status or title for him until you have determined that this reflects what he has become and that he is willing to receive and fulfill. After all, what good is it to claim him as a saint or an hero if he is indifferent to your prayers and offerings? Now, if he shows up in a dream or sends healing, inspiration, mantic revelations or other material blessings your way, or you get confirmation through divination or a trusted religious specialist, magician, shaman, spirit-worker or the equivalent in your tradition then by all means move forward in establishing cultus for him!

Does that mean that you should do nothing until then? Absolutely not! Make offerings, say prayers on his behalf to ease and assist him in his journey, reflect on how he has touched your life, enjoy his music and movies, share your thoughts and experiences with others who are currently grieving and do what you can to help them through it, make fearless and fabulous art and live your life in such a way that he would have been proud to call you friend had he known you. All of this is fine regardless of what comes later, and should be appropriate within any religious paradigm.

“Ich bin dann König.” – Bowie

Next week I’ll be writing hymns for the Gods of the day, with a couple tweaks.

Greek:

Hekate
Ares
Hermes
Zeus
Aphrodite
The Satyrs
Apollon

Norse:

Máni
Týr
Óðinn
Thor
Frigga/Freyja
Loki
Sunna