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.

I call to you Hermes, unwed consort
of Aphrodite Ourania, trickster and thief,
guide of souls, sender of dreams,
wayfinder and world-walker. Hail Hermes
God of commerce, God of the Gymnasion,
God of the military oath, and favorite God
of Skythian kings, strong-minded tamers of horses.
You give forth eloquent oracles full of sound advice,
and assist the specialist in Magian rites to get justice
and retribution for their clients when the system
fails them. Hermes who blessed the fortunate ones
who built their city on the shores of bull-horned
Borysthenes, mightiest of all the rivers in Asia,
and who was carried by the Hellenes into far-flung lands
and always given an honored place in the agora
and homes of their countless colonies; as you once
heeded their prayers, O Hermes who hears, heed mine today.

Hail to you Lóðurr the Obscure, who causes
the land to be fruitful, and the people to be
plentiful and finely shaped, O force of attraction
and blazing manifestation who can cleanse
the impurity and ill-luck that comes of man’s misdeeds
by immersion in your sacred bath on Saturn’s Day.
O Lóðurr, to the Æsir you are a mystery; and the Álfar
are equally puzzled when asked about your nature
and activities. Even the ghost of the great Völva Gróa
summoned back to her mound grew tight-lipped
when interrogated about you; finally she confessed
that she saw the sons of Börr and Bestla the beautiful Gýgr
walking along the seashore when they came upon
the little capable Askr and Embla, void of destiny,
two pieces of driftwood entwined as one,
and out flew the knives of Óðinn, Hœnir and Lóðurr
who proceeded to carve mighty Runes into their bark;
the first cutting gave them spirit and life,
the second cutting wit and feeling,
and the third cutting form, speech, hearing, and sight.
Alföðr spoke their names into being with his voice
like the furious cry of the raven, and thus from humble
ashwood and elm were made the first humans, male and female.
She would tell no more, no matter how hard-pressed by Gangleri.
Even Svipdagr, when he summoned her a second time,
could not get Gróa to say whether you are a distinct God
or a mask worn by Vé, Loki, Freyr, Óðr or someone else,
and I don’t imagine I’ll find out either. So hail Lóðurr,
whoever you are and whatever you’ve been doing since
that initial act of violent creation at the dawn of the world,
and, I pray, may you be there after its twilight too.

Hail Loki, brother of Helblindi and Býleistr,
sons of needle-thin Laufey and the Jötunn Fárbauti,
full of deviousness and destruction like a thunderstruck
fire roaring through a dense thicket of leafy trees after
a sudden summer downpour; Lord of the stinging gadfly,
and the spider that creeps about on eight legs, the scorpion
that brings sudden, painful death with its venom, and the wolf
whose howl fills even stout men with dread; expert at tying knots,
master of the hook, bind-loosener, uncommon crook, you who can
open any lock and enter any room you please, inventor of the fishing net,
wielder of keys, and rider of breezes; Loki lie-smith, who knows how
to mix malice with mead, world-breaker, earth-shaker,
borrower of the cloak, teller of excellent jokes,
father of the worst of serpents and mother of the best of horses,
eater of hearts, speaker of unpleasant truths, Sigyn’s clever man;
I call to you, Loki of many names and many guises, whether you are
visiting your dear daughter in gloomy Helheimr, or walking with Óðinn
and Þórr, Mjölnir’s master, along the backroads of Iceland where the soil
is Nótt-black from volcanic ash and the people all eat fermented fish
and salted licorice, if you are flying over the snow-capped Føroyar cliffs
in falcon form or swimming against the swiftly eddying current as a
Vínland salmon, devising some elaborate scheme to use against
dull-witted Danish Trolls, or harassing a bunch of unbathed monks
so that they could not complete their matins prayers
in Northern Italy, where the long-bearded German kings came to settle,
or if you are sailing in the Black Sea with Hrymr at the helm of Naglfar,
your ship made of the nails of the slain, which you will use to ferry
your Ice Giant kin to the final battle at Vígríðr plain on the long foretold
day of doom; wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, Loki,
may my words reach your ear and turn your unquiet mind to me,
for I have much that I would convey to you, O much-loved
and much-hated Court Jester of the Æsir.

Hail to you whose name shall endure until the Gods gather
at the field of Vígríðr to drive back the forces of chaos
and dissolution which you taught us to combat
by keeping our space neat and tidy, oh well-brought up one,
best of the Swiss, Fuensanta Arismendi Plaza, Putzteufel
of the line of Andvari who walked the Earth in wisdom, piety
and quiet dignity, a model Heathen, and inspiration to other
polytheist revivals who now tends the hall of your beloved Sigyn,
steadfast and true, whom you were the living image of
to those lucky few who were blessed to know you.
You preferred the birds and beasts and beautiful trees and beaches
of Big Sur to the company of humankind generally, but nurtured devotion
and supported the labors of your community’s priests and spiritworkers
behind the scenes, never seeking clout or recognition for yourself
though you were active in the restoration of the cults of Rán, Ægir
and their Nine Daughters, wrote devotionals, and got the offspring
of the Ash and Elm to carry out mournful rites for Narfi and Váli,
unfairly caught up in the retribution of the Æsir, at a time when folks
would tremble and turn red and put their fingers in their ears if the name
of Laufey’s son was so much as whispered in their periphery.
Often was Loki’s name upon your lips, full of reverence, joy
and a longing always to understand his awful mysteries better.
You carried the light of the Gods in your heart and it shown through
in all you did, whether that was performing at the Basel Conservatory,
advocating for bodily autonomy, writing a biography of Clint Eastwood,
or volunteering to help those in need – all of this was strongly informed
by your values, which you preferred to act out rather than deliver some
long-winded sermon about. Cultured, practical, resourceful; you never forgot
that courage is a choice and that our deeds leave an impression of us
long after we are gone. To those you shared the mead-horn with,
and taught the true meaning of faith and frith and service to the Gods,
you live on in their memories and the minds of all those they’ve spoken to
about you. So hail to you, Fuensanta Arismendi Plaza, wearing the
myrtle-crown of the initiates and bearing in your dear and sanctified hands
the broom of Sigyn with which wickedness is swept away
and a key representing authority and the well-ordered home
that is pleasing to Frigga, Queen of the Gods
and the Mistress of gleaming Ásgarðr.

The Hymn to Jupiter-Sarapis is an acrostic, by the way.

Justly do men speak of you as the lord of the luminous
upper Heaven, where none but the noble eagle may fly,
proud father of Gods and men, whose all-seeing eye takes
inventory of the exceptional deeds of illustrious men like Alexander
the Great who sought your oracular blessing before founding the
eternal city that bears his name by the shores of the life-giving
river, or Vespasian who was raised from the rank of a common
soldier to rule the whole world and performed miraculous feats in
Alexandria through your power, healing the blind and even
raising the dead back to life. Such things seem beyond credible, but I know
all things are possible for a man who has the Gods on his side.
Prayer and worthy sacrifices move the hearts of the Gods to
increase the blessings of the pious, and none are more generous than Jupiter-
Sarapis who wears the double-crown of Egypt and wields the fiery
bolt of lightning to drive back the enemies of the
empire, keeping it strong and prosperous. From the Mediterranean
sea to the forests of Germany, the
towering peaks of Parnassos to the plains of the horse-riding Scythians –
all this has been forged into a single kingdom with you at the head.
Nowhere remains ignorant of you; innumerable are your temples and the
diverse populations call upon you, each in their own tongue,
glorifying your name for the good things you have done. You send the
rain that makes our crops grow so that mothers will have
enough food to fill the hungry bellies of their children.
And you taught men just laws so that we could get along with each other, and
through you we learned to reverence the ancestors and for
each man to care for his mother and father like the Gods.
Science, too, you instilled in our hearts, a
thirst to know all the secrets of Heaven and Earth, and what lies
beneath the surface, never satisfied with the simple answer.
Love of freedom you set within us as well, from your Greek name
eleutherios Zeus, that we may hate the tyrant and
shun his cruel ways, accepting only the yoke of justice
so easy to bear, for it has been fashioned by
the Gods who know the best way for man to live
his life, the middle course, avoiding
every extreme, both violent anarchy and slavish submission.
Most of all, however, you are honored for the concern you show the dead
and the mysteries you have wrought to guide us safely through the
nether realms. Through these rites our souls are purified of the sins
which each of us have committed, and we are shown
hallowed images that awaken within us a recollection of
our true nature and the divinity that
resides within our breast. We are filled with the
energy that makes possible our triumph over the underworld foes,
causing us to shine brightly as the stars in heaven. This is what your
initiates have to look forward to, and why we say
that Jupiter-Sarapis is great, three times great, and the most
excellent among the Gods!
Songs of praise for you never cause my tongue to
tire, nor my mind to grow weary of inventing new ways to
honor you, but
I must bring this particular hymn to a close.
Still, I shall remember you again with another one soon.

Hail to you, Zeus-Ammon,
Lord of the thundering storm
and the sea of sand,
you who speak sage counsels
to the tribe of men,
and send the flooding waters
that feed the desolate land.
Your face is ever-hidden,
for no mortal can look upon your immensity unscathed,
and even the holy Gods only recognize you
by the mighty ram’s horns
that rise from your midnight-black hair.
Your rule is supreme, O Lord,
for you have vanquished scores of your enemies,
and tread upon the back of the mad God,
the rebellious one, many-limbed Typhoeus,
howling his obscenities.
When you took your place upon the throne of Heaven,
order prevailed over the Earth
and just laws sprang up everywhere
like fruit upon the vine.
You have established
the Earth-born King to rule in your place,
and set him the task of caring for those laws
like a diligent gardener.
You also have charged him
with protecting his fellow-men,
the noble cattle of Zeus-Ammon,
whom you hold most dear.
Not one life, however humble,
is beyond your notice,
for you stand beside even the lowly farmer,
his guide and protection in uncertain times.
You, O Zeus-Ammon, are most just,
most good, and most powerful
of all the things on Earth, and Sea and Sky
– and I shall never tire of singing your praises,
even if I should reach a great old age.
Look kindly upon me as I think fondly of you,
O Glorious One of Siwah,
and bless me as I go about doing your work,
whatever task it is that you have appointed
me to do in this life of mine.

I will hear no more of the poet’s Apollo,
all sunshine and moderation
and bland admonishments
that men should know their place.
I do not say that they lie: he is a huge God,
I do not know him well,
and what they see may indeed be there.
But my Apollon is different.
He is the terrible archer whose arrows carry plague
and who danced on the corpse of the Python
after it mocked his mother.
My Apollon tore the skin from Marsyas
to teach him what being a true artist is all about.
My Apollon is a wolf-God,
a hunter in the wilds far from man.
He is a raven-God,
manifest in its night-black wings
and omenous eyes that see the mysteries
that lie beyond mortal confines.
The face of my Apollon is the jagged peaks of Parnassos,
snow-covered and stretching up to the heights of heaven.
His voice is the wind rustling through ancient trees
in midnight forests, and the staccato beat
of young men’s feet as they dance out the Paian for him.
His breath is the scent of burning bay leaves
and the sweat of the priestess as she struggles
to give birth to the prophetic words with which he has filled her.
My Apollon is in the swarm of bees and the icy depths of the virgin spring.
My Apollon is a God of light – but the light that shines out of the darkness.
My Apollon is a healer – but he heals through pain.
My Apollon is a singer – but of magical chants not pretty songs.
He lives far away, and it is a perilous journey to find him,
one from which no man returns unchanged.
This is my Apollon.
I will never be an initiate of his,
but I have had occasional and partial glimpses of him
and I love what he has shown me.
So I raise up this song to my Apollon,
since the other Apollo has been hymned plenty of times before.

To you we give these hallowed offerings,
a token of our immense affection
O kind–hearted Aphrodite,
loveliest of all the Goddesses
when you emerge from the pure waters
of the rushing river renewed in your power
and gleaming like the imperishable stars in heaven.
Your gentle feet tread the soft earth leaving no mark
save for the green grass and fragrant flowers
that rise up in your wake
proclaiming the arrival of a mighty and revered divinity
in the fair land of the well–born ones.
All the moss–haired Nymphs
who feast on the sweet honey of bees
and cavort with the trumpet–voiced geese
and cunning, food–thieving raccoons
on the shores of the Willamette
come out to greet you weaving a crown
of many–colored wildflowers to adorn your beautiful brow
which shines golden as the rays of the life–giving Lord Helios
who smiles as he watches you dance with effortless grace
amid the blossoming purple irises and the plentiful grape hyacinths.
These skilled daughters of the towering trees and misty raindrops
fashion for you an elegant gown of ivy–leaves to conceal
from all profane eyes the sight of your breasts—
white as the milk that flows from motherly cows,
soft as rose petals in the garden—
and your smoothly rounded hips which sway like leaves
caught in the breeze of a warm May afternoon.
Your hair, dark as the bedchamber of a bride on her wedding night
as she trembles in pleasure at the first exploring touches of her man,
the Nymphs gather with their sparrow–like fingers,
flying too swiftly for a mortal eye to follow
as they braid your perfumed locks and weave
shining stones, glass beads, twigs, rainbow–hued flowers,
the tiny bones of tiny animals
and other treasures that have been left for them
as pious offerings in their verdant, tree–shaded, water–fed haunts.
It was love and appreciation of nature’s beauty
that caused men to gift them such things
so the Nymphs feel it only proper
to return a portion of their yield back to you.
And so arrayed you rise from your bed of dew–moistened loam,
marvelous beyond words to describe,
and begin your grand procession through the fair land
of the well–born ones
followed by a troop of Nymphs and all the birds and animals
who call this place their dear home.
Laughter echoes through the woods
and gay song that brings contentment to the heart
and smiles to the lips of all who hear it,
even if they lack the vision to behold
the old Gods walking amongst them once more.
The whole earth rouses itself with life and color wherever you pass
as the gorgeous flowers unfurl
with the brilliant colors of early summer
and everything feels fresh and new, full of love’s bounty.
So for these and your countless other blessings
we thank you dear Aphrodite,
and pray that you find our offerings
as pleasing as we find you.

Hail to you dweller in the yew dales, Lord of the Silver Bow,
son of Sif and Þórr’s stepson, glorious Ullr who holds sway
in Ásgarðr whenever Óðinn is away. Far-strider, expert tracker,
friend of chilly Kári, Ullr, you who can cross the valley
swifter than a heron, master of Sámi sorcery who carves Runes
on the bones of your enemies and then wears them as shoes.
Ullr whose word is unbreakable as a sheet of ice over a lake.
Ullr who is invoked to give the ring-oath sanctity.
Ullr who loves to race Skaði down the snowy mountainside.
Ullr whose coat is made of the pelts of every animal you’ve hunted.
Ullr who learned seafaring and ice-fishing from the kind-hearted
Old Man of the Vanir, Njörðr who delights in the company
of your mother whose smile is warm and bright as Sunna at midday.
Ullr who accompanied mad-making Óðr on his quest to icy Jötunheimr
to steal back his beloved Freyja, and left behind many a Giant corpse
full of your death-dealing arrows in trade – God of these and so many
other wonderful things, hear my praises and know that you
are deeply revered in this household, O Ullr the Winter King.

I praise exultantly Horus Behdety,
whose plumage is colorful as the first blossoms of spring,
whose terror is in the hearts of evil-doers everywhere,
whose ardor produces an inundation in the loins of the Golden One.
May you always trample the serpent under your kingly boot!

Hail gallant Ares, God hymned by women
rejoicing in floral crowns and fragrant offerings,
when you bring their dear husbands
safely home from distant lands,
hardened by Enyo but enjoying all the more
the sweet things of Hestia’s domain.
Wise was Homer when he showed you, Thracian,
in the bed of the Paphian Queen
– ten months hence will witness a rich harvest of children
after these sleepless nights of welcome return.

O Sigyn, as you stood beneath the serpent,
catching its terrible venom in your bowl,
with resolute will, unshakable and immovable
as a mountain, to alleviate the suffering
of your sharp-tongued husband, so I pray Goddess
lend me your strength that I might stand firm
against my foes, doing what is right and just,
so I can protect my family and friends,
and never shirk my duties,
no matter how full of fear, or doubt,
or a desire to flee I may be.

Hail to you Hœnir, Marsh Lord, swift as thought,
keeper of secrets, God who gifted our ancestors
with cognition and the precious wisdom
that comes of quiet deliberation,
O King of the Vanir and travel-companion of Óðinn,
protector of Mímir’s head and master of many
types of divination, may you be hailed and always welcome
at the feast, Hœnir, long-legged brother of Loðurr.

Heimdallr who hears all, hear my prayer
from the turrets of Himinbjörg where
shimmering Bifröst meets the sky
and leads to numerous other realms
like a second mighty World Tree.
You see all that transpires
in these far-off places, scanning
the horizon for signs of Ragnarök’s arrival
when you will sound Gjallarhorn
and rouse the Gods to battle
against that which would threaten
the divine order established by the Three Brothers
from the remnants of their Giant ancestor
long, long ago.
You hold in your mind an image
of how things should be,
and act to bring things into alignment
with their ideal pattern,
creating order and harmony,
hale and concord
where there was chaos, violent
disagreement, defect and disease.
I beseech you, Heimdallr, drive out
these negative influences and anything else
that might cause me to stray
from my destined path of devotion to the Holy Powers,
and restore what is missing or damaged within me
so that I might better fulfill the will of my Gods and Spirits.
This I ask, Heimdallr, you who traveled about in secret,
propagating the lines of humanity,
and all their distinct crafts and customs,
and so know what it is for us to strive
and through great focus and direction of will
attain our particular glory.
Hail to you, most radiant God,
strong and stubborn as a ram on his mountain,
whether it pleases you to be called Heimdallr,
Rig, Hallinskiði, Gullintanni, Vindhlér
or any of the many other names you have adopted
during your journeys with Loki, Þórr and the Alföðr;
may your praises always be upon my lips
and your shrine piled with plentiful offerings,
O whitest Ás, and son of Nine Mothers.

There’s an interesting poem which folklorist B.G. Carshult published in his monograph Undenäsbygden genom tiderna concerning rites carried out at the Trollkyrka or “Troll’s church” in Tiveden, Sweden:

Kärken smyger på slingrande stig [The procession creeps on a meandering path]
helst osedd till Trollebergen. [preferably unseen to the Troll mountains/hills.]
Mässa skall hållas i dagarna tre, [A mass shall be held for three days,]
det varde början på helgen. [this will be the beginning of the holiday.]
Kolten är sid, så den nåder vid marken, [The frock is long, so it reaches down to the ground,]
håsorna äro i topparna vassa, [the socks are sharply pointed,]
hättan dras ned, så hålen för ögonen passa. [the hood is pulled down so that the holes fit for the eyes.]
Alla är lika förutom på längda, [Everybody looks alike except for the height,]
prelatus han räknar på mängda. [the prelate counts their number.]
Lösen den gives i lågmälder ton, [The password is given in a low voice,]
prelatus han bjuder tre stötar i horn. [the prelate blows three times in a horn.]
Elden den “köllas” av nio slags ved, [The fire is kindled with nine kinds of wood,]
det är gammal sed. [that is old custom.]
Offer till andarna skänkes, [A sacrifice is offered to the spirits,]
med blodet sig allom bestänkes. [everyone is sprinkled with the blood.]
Det bästa till andar föräras, [The best part is gifted to spirits,]
det som blir över skall av männerna täras. [what remains is to be consumed by the men.]
Uti midnattens timma [In the midnight hour]
då sjärnor beglimma, [when stars glitter,]
prelatus han tystnaden bjuder [the prelate asks for silence]
och männerna alla det lyder. [and this is obeyed by all the men.]
De falla till markone ner, [They fall down onto the ground,]
prelatus han bistert mot rymderna ser. [the prelate looks grimly at the heavens.]
Och svärjan och formlar i dälderna skallar [And incantations and summons echo in the dells]
prelatus han kallar på andar. [the prelate is summoning spirits.]
Allom de fick på sitt spörje ett svar, [Everyone received an answer to their question,]
ingen av androm fick då höra varom det var. [nobody got to hear from the other what that question regarded.]

That sure sounds Starry Bear as fuck.

But wait, it gets better!

Trollkyrka (“Troll’s church”) is a secluded butte-like rock in the heart of the National Park of Tiveden, Sweden, which served as a pagan sacrificial ground (horgr, see also blót) for centuries after Christianity became the dominant religion in Scandinavia. It may have been used as late as the 19th century, when popular tradition still held the mountain to be off-limits for Christians. According to H. Lidman (Gudanatt, dagar och nätter i Tiveden, Askild & Kärnekull, Stockholm. 1972:52) old people used to say: “No Christian can go there. The mountains of the troll church belong to the heathen trolls. If a Christian ventures there, he will come to grief.” In fact, local tradition relates that the mountain was used not long ago for heathen rites and that anyone who was not initiated and saw it risked either to be buried in a bog in the forest or sworn into the brotherhood. These precautions clearly indicate that the rites took place as late as the period 1604–1735, which was a time when there was a penalty of death on practising such rituals. (Wikipedia s.v. Trollkyrka)

[Respect my restraint in not titling this “Take me to Trollkyrka.”]