The collection of hymns and prayers my wife and I collaborated on is now available. Order your copy today.

An apocalyptic exploration of sex, death, drugs, politics and madness.

Exciting news, folks – Catharsis: a sequel to Gods and Mortals is now available through Amazon and other online retailers. Get your copy today! 

One of the best parts of the production was how fucking polytheist it was. And I don’t just mean that they kept the hymns to assorted deities in, which not every production does. But the whole thing began with an invocation of the ancestors of the place, going back generation through generation to the Lenape people; Tiresias was dressed as an houngan and at one point Dionysos shouts “àṣẹ!” and instead of setting it beside the streams of Dirke and Ismenos they called on Hudson and the other local Harlem river. I think these flourishes helped bring the audience more fully into the sacred atmosphere of the play; they were also nice parallels to the ceremonies the Athenians conducted during the Dionysia. All it lacked was a parade of war orphans and giant phalloi, culminating in a bull sacrifice and it would have been perfect. 

Here I am in the park, waiting for the Classical Theatre of Harlem’s production of The Bakchai to start. Shortly after I slipped into a state of entheos that did not lift until well after we got home.

No matter how familiar you are with this play there is nothing quite like seeing it performed live. The leads were phenomenal, especially the aftermath of the interrogation scene where a tarted up Pentheus, with breaking voice, begs Dionysos to make him beautiful; they touch foreheads for a pregnant moment and the God responds, “You are.” Fuck, man. I’m tearing up just typing this, many hours later – that’s how good it was.

But don’t take my word for it – here’s my wife’s account, from a letter she wrote to the company. Our household made a sizable donation to these sacred artisans of Dionysos and will definitely be attending future productions, though I think it’ll be tough for them to top this one. 

Hail Thor who truly shines in the heavens,
glint of Sunna reflecting off the golden wheels
of your goat-drawn carriage, billowy beard
blowing in the breeze, sparks shooting from
your glowing hot hammer gripped in invincible
iron gloves, strength enhanced by your mighty belt
and cheeks flushed from Óðr’s wine, gulped down
at the start of your journey as you set out to slay
the murky horde of wicked Wights and gnarly Ents
assembled against the impregnable walls
of gleaming Ásgarðr. Ride on, O Strider
ever in defense of all that is good, holy and true,
and know that this household stands with you
and shall never let your shrine be barren of offerings.

Thor who noisily protested when
Loki lie-smith said he needed to put on
Freyja’s cloak and underthings,
color his cheeks and walk and talk
in an affectedly dainty manner
to court a brutish Jötunn or three
– but did it anyway, big enough
to withstand a little humiliation
for the wellbeing of his people.
Hail O God who is worthy to wield Mjölnir
and on that day Þrúðvangr’s Lord proved
the Goddess of Courtesans’ equal too
in the arts of attraction and seduction,
so great are you, Thor, at all you set your mind to.

I call upon the loud-riding Storm God,
the rumbler and stirrer and striker from afar,
Thor who sends the nourishing rain
and winds that shake loose stagnancy
and pollution. You are joyful when you come
home to your wife and many dear children,
quick to laugh and always ready with
a humorous story from your travels,
especially when ale trickles down
your thick red beard, and lovely-eyed
golden Sif is at your side
to wipe it away and kiss the lips
that so often have professed
undying love for her.
Nothing pleases Thor the yeoman’s God
more than plowing Sif’s fields
and scattering seed into the tight furrows,
and many months later reaping
a bounty of swollen fruit and wheat
the color of her lovely curls,
not even walloping ill-tempered þurs
or putting arrogant jarls in their place.

Hail Thor, protector of the shrine,
preserver of the lore and sacred rites,
friend of the priest, and defender of the poet
– for you know how important these things
are to the health, longevity and well-being
of the people and without them how
vulnerable we are to the nothing
that seeks the annihilation of all existence,
a greater threat than ever Ragnarök could be.

I hail the powerful soul of Thor, defender of the
downtrodden and one who sets things to right,
God of the raging storm and the awful destruction
it brings, Lord of lightning strikes and thunder claps,
rowdy, raucous, and reveling son of crafty Óðinn
and the lovely Giantess Fjörgyn;
never, Thor, have you encountered an adversary
in the Nine Realms that you backed down from,
even when whole hosts were arrayed against you.
You can crush mountains with Mjölnir, grasp anything
you please with Járngreipr, and wearing Megingjörð
drag bullish rivers from their bed, changing
their swiftly rushing courses entirely.
When the elements are out of alignment,
and divine order is in danger of unraveling
it is you, Thor, who rushes in to fight
the cause of the corruption, injustice and hate
and through their defeat you hallow all once more,
O Prince of Ásgarðr and delight of your father.

Hail Thor whose name brings terror
to the hearts of the unrighteous and impious,
slayer of the wicked and monstrous,
strong one who drives back chaos and destruction,
wielder of the staff Gríðarvölr which renders
curses, disease, and grievous wounds powerless.
Once, they say, you and your charge Þjálfi
were on a great sea-journey when you came
ashore at Hlésey, where the Gods often feasted
in the great hall of their good friend Jötunish Ægir;
but this day there was no banquet or plentiful
horns of mead to be found, but instead an island
entirely desolate, sorrowful and unmanned.
All the womenfolk had been driven mad from their
homes into the wild places by Óðr who was furious
with them. She-wolves they seemed, and scarcely women
any longer as they danced and ran about screaming
with hair unbound, wearing beast-skins with serpents for torcs,
and nothing on beneath, brandishing iron cudgels and axes
as if they weighed nothing, and eating the raw
and bloody flesh of animals they captured
and with their bare hands tore to pieces.
Þjálfi had not even finished securing your ship
when a throng of them rushed down onto the beach
and began flinging iron, rocks and leafy missiles
ripped straight from the tree at you and servile Þjálfi,
who fled the scene in abject fear. You endured their assault
Thor, and then smote each of the false-bitches in turn
with Gríðarvölr, restoring their stolen sanity to them.
You then walked the length and breadth of Hlésey,
hunting the women down and informing
their trembling husbands that it was safe to come out
of hiding once more, and Þjálfi came too.
To this day your festival is kept among them
loud-roaring and thundering redeemer,
and your memory shall endure among us forever too,
O Thor the mighty, vanquisher of his foes.

I call upon you Thor, the one who rides alone
in your cart drawn by Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr
through lands near and far, visiting the high
and the low alike, testing the hospitality
and other noble virtues of the sons of Askr
and daughters of Embla. You are called
friend of the common man, for oft have you found
that those who have the least are quickest
to give the most. Likewise those who know well
how brief, brutish and uncertain life can be
make the best use of what has been given them;
they know too that simple pleasures are the fillingest,
and being scarce must be enjoyed to the utmost
when and where they are found. And oh, son of Óðinn,
do you graciously reward the generosity of the folk,
sending a sudden rainstorm so their crops will prosper
rather than succumb to drought, and their goats
produce plentiful bleating young as their nets strain
to contain so many fish and somehow there are
more cheeses in their larder than their pails collected milk,
all because they set out for you humble traveler’s stew,
crusty bread and a flagon of homebrew, the best
that they had. Thor, may every house receive you so,
and each treat you better than the one before.

We hail you Sigyn, brave, calm, steadfast
and enduring Goddess who is there
for your husband in his time of greatest travail
and can bring Loki back from the brink
of destructive madness with just a touch
or a soft word, Sigyn we hail you! You who are full
of quiet wisdom and certainty, no matter how bleak
and hopeless things may seem, Sigyn we hail you!
You who unfailingly point the way to the true,
the right, and the holy, Sigyn we hail you!
You who preserve the home, the family, and tradition,
Sigyn we hail you! You who are always there
to offer the lost, the suffering, and the weary
your loving support, grace and gentle guidance,
Sigyn we hail you!

May my words be pleasing to you, O gracious Sigyn,
as once your words were pleasing to Loki’s son Váli
when he returned from playing in the golden groves of Iðunn
with a bruise on his knee, grass and leaves stuck to his clothes,
cheeks pink and damp from tears and blue-grey eyes 
full of confusion and hurt. After hugging him tight
you brushed him clean, took out your lunchbox
with ladybugs on it, and sat him down on your lap.
He seemed so small and fragile then, and you would
protect him from all that the Nine Worlds hold if you could,
but some things are beyond even the power of the Gods.
You bid him tell his story and it seemed he had been playing tag
with Þórr’s boys Móði and Magni, Kōmos, the son of Óðr and Freyja,
his older sisters Hnoss and Gersemi, and Váli the giant child
of Óðinn and Rindr who was foreordained to avenge
his fallen brother Baldr (even though Loki had not yet
sharpened the dart of mistletoe.) Without provocation
the burden of Rindr’s arms flew into a fury, pushed little Váli
to the ground and when he staggered to his feet got all of
the other children to give chase, shouting horrible things at him
until they had hounded the boy to the boundary-marker
of his father’s property and into the arms of his mother.
Wise Sigyn, you spoke to your son until you had
broken the fetters of his sorrow and were rewarded
with a chubby-cheeked grin and musical laughter.
You opened your lunchbox full of treasures rivaling
anything a Dvergr has ever crafted, and allowed
your Váli to draw out whatever he pleased. He chose
a diamond-shaped bullroarer gifted you by Óðr
and a little red rubber ball that also came from him.
With these trinkets all his pain, humiliation and rage
were forgot, and he toddled off to play by himself.
Sigyn, likewise I pray, speak the words that cut through anger
and bring us back to our rational senses, and help us not
to be cruel or to needlessly prejudge others.

Freyja taught you well, Sigyn, her ways of allurement
and of gratifying any desire the mind might conceive,
the sorcery of the garden and of the kitchen, the mysteries
of managing the purse and an orderly run household,
and everything that goes into keeping a husband healthy,
happy and satisfied, both in and out of bed. Things that
your mother, or perhaps your aunty, should have guided you through.
But as always your sister was there to fill in the holes, and many a time
has skillful-tongued Loki proclaimed his indebtedness to Njördsdottir
for your schooling, O Goddess of Ladybug Delight,
but in truth you were a very apt pupil, especially when it came
to matters of the boudoir. Truly Loki is a lucky God,
and he knows it too, which perhaps is why he does not go about
siring lines of doughty Heroes, Kings, and Magician-Poets like Óðinn,
Heimdallr, Þórr and Freyr. (Though, in fairness, if he was hung like Freyr
it would be a terrible sin not to put it to good use.) And so I hail you
exquisite example of wifeliness and hometender extraordinaire,
and ask your blessings upon the heads and hearts of each member
of our household and in looking to your fine example
we all shall prosper and get lucky.

I hail you Sigyn, for your heart was strong
and large enough to accept the other wife
of your husband and all their monstrous brood
into your happy home and life, and you shared
in the children’s rearing as if they had come
from your very own womb, no matter how savage
and nerve-fraying they could be. Under your loving
but stern direction they grew large and powerful,
the constant companions of Narvi and Váli
and oh, what mischief the lot of them got up to!
Once the pup Fenris chased Ratatoskr up a tree
and then could not get down again, and another time
you nursed Jörmungandr through a terrible toothache,
and you even talked a teenaged Hela out of her room
when she was angry with Angrboða
for not letting her date a boy from Niðavellir.
The challenge of parceling out Loki’s time and affection
you met with dignity, grace, understanding and good humor,
as well as a great deal of careful communication,
something even Gods cannot escape. What’s more,
you came to love She of the Ironwood as deeply
as you care for your own dear sister Freyja.
And so I ask that your blessings and guidance flow
always into our home and help me to show the same
consideration and kindness to my deeply cherished ones.

O dolorous Sigyn I pray, you who have endured
what no soul should ever have to – the laying to rest
of your parents and your children both.
The latter sorrow has oft been on the lips of poets,
but even the precious names of those who bore you
have disappeared from among mortal men.
The High One may have seen what happened,
Heimdallr may have heard, and the Queen of the Gods,
Frigga too may know, but if so she will speak not a word
of the matter, for it is too covered in grief and bitter tears
to revisit. Instead your story begins
with a child of astounding beauty, hair in tight braids
and clutching a stuffed wolf doll to her tender breast,
staggering into the Vanic lands with her linen dress torn
and stained with soot and blood. So Njörðr found her
near the shores of the great sea, and scooped her up
in his big, strong arms. He stroked her back and whispered
kind things to her as he carried her home
and placed her in the care of his daughter lovely Mardöll,
close to being the girl’s agemate. She made her laugh and shared
her pretty dresses, dolls and other playthings with the girl
while Njörðr armed himself and went out to investigate
what had happened to her parents and if need be
to avenge them. Whatever the Terror of the Deep discovered
he kept it to himself and raised the fosterling
as his own adored and true daughter, naming her Victory Girl
for what she had gone through to join his clan.
These mysteries are yours, Sigyn,
and teach us why family is so dear to you.

Sometimes all that it takes, Sigyn you know all too well,
is just one bad day and a single match tossed
to bring the whole shithouse burning down.
Everyone focuses on Laufey’s son, brand him
a dangerous troublemaker and hold you up
as his support and longsuffering, dutiful spouse
– and sure, you are – but do they ever stop to consider
what sort of Goddess that sort of God would wed?
Oh, you love to laugh, and often he would make you –
but you love watching the powerful squirm even more,
especially when what they most wish to remain secret
is brought into the light. And you would don masks with him,
and roam the streets together in noisy revel, egging him on
to perform more clever and daring pranks, jokes
and assorted buffoonery until he went too far.
Nor did you leave his side when the brawling started,
but instead drew your blade and leapt right in,
kicking more Æsir than ever your husband did,
and biting more too! What, do people think your name
just an ironic sobriquet – it’s truth in advertising,
and you’ve more than lived up to it. When the Jötnar
stormed Ásgarðr in retaliation for the flyting of Þjazi
you took up ash-spear and buckler to fend them off
and sent three or possibly four to Hel just by yourself.
So hail to you, Goddess of the mighty arm and withering laugh,
and Sigyn I pray, stand with us in our time of distress
and protect this home just as fiercely from all its foes,
mortal and otherwise.

I call out to Sigyn, the Goddess who loves
the way moonlight reflects off the rainbowy scales
of swift salmon struggling against the current,
and how the white teeth of wolves shine in the gloom
as they race through snowy woods and lift their shaggy throats
in salute to wide-ranging Máni, and when lightning bugs flit
and dance around like elegant Álfar or the fiery wheels
in Nótt’s purple cloak, and the stillness of those long hours
before golden-haired Sól shows herself when anything
seems possible, even an end to your husband’s endless torment.
Hear me, Lady, as your husband hears you when you return
from having emptied the bowl and you tell him of all
these beautiful things, and weave soothing myths from them
to distract from the searing pain, and though it does not
he appreciates the effort and bears it all manfully, for your sake;
this is my prayer, O Sigyn who so delights in the nocturnal
that you named your own son after Nótt’s giant father,
soon may you be able to stand again in Loki’s firm embrace
enjoying these and countless other dark sights together.

Radiant Hermes who shines gloriously
from a dark, damp cave
like the liquid gold brought in tribute
by Nymph-loving bees,
the glint of treasure piled up,
the sudden flash of insight,
glittering sequins and confetti
of a skillful street performer
hoping to make it big,
and the eyes of a dog on the porch
watchful for thieves and strangers,
I pray to you, friend of Dionysos
the Midnight Sun, adviser and Leader
of a third of his numerous Host,
bless this house which reveres you
and never tires of singing your praises
or making plentiful offerings to you.

O Muses, lift your melodious voices in praise
of grace-giving Hermes and his Lady,
the loud-crying Brimo who administers justice
to the souls in Haides. They met, it is said,
in a field of rushes beside a swiftly-eddying river
where the Good Shepherd had brought his charges down
for watering, and she had come to collect flowers and plait
crowns for her Queen and double Persephone
of the lovely harvest feast. While the flock munched
and drank and wandered shoreside, Hermes talked her up
and helped her find the prettiest flowers to pluck;
their hands touched, as each reached to grab
the same purple narcissus, then their eyes connected
in longing, and finally they were on the ground,
removing the hindrance of their clothing
while the animals around them
went about their oblivious business,
and all was right with the world.
For it is never wrong, O Maidens Nine,
to laud Hermes Nomios, the Lord
of Mount Kyllene and bearer of the long staff,
tireless, potent, expert searcher and keen interpreter of signs,
who does not forget or leave one hanging dry
or all tangled up, and in brambles.