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.”]

Hail holy Abaris, son of Seuthes the sage ruler
of the long-lived Hyperboreans who have their
dwelling at the headwaters of starry Eridanos,
and one of the Swan Maidens, priestesses who serve
the Archer God in his circular temple while Parnassos
is covered in snow and Pytho’s oracular tripod has fallen silent;
that temple where the arrow of Apollon was stored,
double of the constellation Oistos which was put in the sky
to commemorate the time when Leto’s son slew the Kyklopes,
fashioners of Zeus’ fiery bolts, and was exiled from heaven for it.
Apollon wandered far and wide until he had left behind
even the mighty sons of the North Wind, and arrived
in the land of Gryphons and birch forests and the Midnight Sun.
Covered in dust from the road, blood of the One-Eyed smiths,
ash that was all that remained of his son Asklepios,
and the tears he’d shed for him, Apollon waded into
Eridanos’ swiftly-rushing current and cleansed himself,
reducing everything to nothing in the white-capped waves
except his tears which became lovely honey-gold amber,
most prized among men. On the spot where Apollon’s
sandaled feet first stepped ashore after his cleansing,
your tribe built for him the great circular temple,
and he left his arrow in the custody of those who were chosen
as Neokoroi. Though Seuthes desired for you to follow
in his footsteps it was clear to see, Abaris, that even as a child
your religious vocation was deep and true, and so with his blessing
you began your studies with the Neokoroi, becoming
expert in the sacred lore, healing songs, divination
by weather and the entrails of sacrificial animals,
dream interpretation, purifications and all manner of cures.
You became a confidant of Apollon, a Nympholept,
a prophet, a philosopher, and an ascetic with unshorn hair
who could spend days in meditation without breaking
and shunned all mortal food, including alcohol, dairy,
and produce of the fields and wilds. Never had the Neokoroi
and Swan Maidens seen your like before, nor had anyone else
among your tribe – and you Hyperboreans are famed
throughout the world for your exceptional piety.
In such labor would you have gladly spent the remainder
of your days if the Archineokoros had not dreamed
that Apollon visited him and handed him the arrow from the temple,
saying that a great plague was about to befall mankind,
and he was sending you forth as his representative
to bring healing and cleansing to the world.
Humbly did you refuse at first, O Abaris, for you
did not think yourself deserving of such attention, but then
the Archineokoros bid you enter the adyton of the temple
and take up the arrow as a token of your office.
Obediently you did as he requested of you
and no sooner had your hand touched the shaft
then you were lifted up into the clouds. Hanging on
for dear life you were speedily conveyed over mountains
and steppes, across lakes and rivers, on through the territory
of the Kimmerians, Skythians, Thrakians and Keltoi
until you reached the borders of the Greek lands.
You drove out the plague, performed city-wide purifications,
discovered previously unknown Gods and Heroes
and instituted cults for them, reformed laws and customs,
conversed with wise men such as Pythagoras and Phalaris,
and after constructing the temple of Persephone at Sparta,
you straddled the arrow and rode off to share your teachings
and wonders with the Barbarian races, never to be seen
by a Greek again. Hail to you Abaris, best of the Hyperboreans,
and may you come visit our country too, for never has a people
been more in need of moral correction, pious instruction,
cures for countless ailments, and the blessings of Apollon
the Archer which you administer, than we are
in this time and place, O Abaris, the man of holiness.

A couple of explanatory notes are in order. First, the Hymn to Haides I posted is an older piece I’ll be including in the Polytheist Hymnal, not the hymn that Aidonian (who has been incredibly patient) commissioned, which I’m still trying to get to coalesce. Currently I’ve just got fleeting images and associations of a more localized expression of the God floating about.

I took some poetic license with the Hymn to Herkyna. Persephone’s goose is an iconographic motif found predominantly in Magna Graecian art; the only other place I’ve seen it is in connection with an obscure figure associated with the cult of Trophonios in Lebadeia, and that’s assuming that the two geese are the same. Which we have little reason for doing since the one is found in Boiotia, Central Greece and the other in Southern Italy, regions that had few cultural and other contacts; furthermore this local version of the Rape of Kore has her carried off by the river rather than being abducted while out picking flowers, which generally isn’t found in the Persephone traditions of Greater Greece (except possibly in the Grotta Caruso at Lokroi Epizephyrii.) Despoina, Demeter’s other daughter, who helps in the search is borrowed from the Lykosura Mystery cult in Arkadia, which has no connection to either locale as far as I’m aware. Demeter placing the soul of Herkyna in the body of a goose is a bit of an inside joke. The Trophonios cult bears a strong Pythagorean Orphic influence, as opposed to the more Bacchic strain of Orphism which the Starry Bull tradition is an expression of. The Pythagorean Orphikoi believed in reincarnation as well as the more general metempsychosis i.e. the transmigration or movement of a soul into different bodies – including those of animals, hence their putative vegetarianism. The distinction between the two is significant, though often elided among contemporary scholars and practitioners. (But not in the Starry Bull tradition where we believe in metempsychosis but not necessarily reincarnation; likewise, our tradition most assuredly is not vegetarian – especially considering the central role that thusia or animal sacrifice plays in it – though individual members are free to abstain, or to have a personal belief in reincarnation as they see fit.)

The Hymn to Váli contains some inside jokes as well – for instance the comparison of the Jötunn Rindr to a Ruthenian, which is a tweak on Saxo Grammaticus’ euhemerist account in the Gesta Danorum. Likewise in Saxo Óðinn consults three seers to learn what to do about the matter of Baldr; as an animist I don’t see why those three seers have to be human(oid) and so had the Sorcerer God ingest some amanita muscaria for the purpose instead. I also depart from Snorri who claims that Váli’s sole function was to avenge Baldr. Why would Óðinn have had to go to the extraordinary lengths of using seiðr to rape him into existence on Rindr when the Bölverkr could have simply slain Höðr himself or gotten some other Æsir, Vanir, Jötnar, Álfar, etc. to do it for him if he needed to avoid shedding the blood of kinfolk, or Höðr in particular, for some reason. Clearly, then, there had to be a dire need for him to take such drastic action, especially since the charming fellow is usually more patient and let’s say suave when he goes awooing. (Action that could have had undesired consequences such as provoking a war with the Jötnar.) Plus the other important detail that Snorri provides us about Váli is that he makes it through Ragnarök, when Gods such as Óðinn and Þórr do not. That certainly suggests to me that something more than simple vengeance is going on. Also I wanted to reflect Váli’s mixed Ás and Jötunn ancestry (though many forget that Óðinn is part-Jötunn himself) hence the allusions to ice, stone and avalanche in my description of him. As much as I respect Váli and enjoyed writing this hymn (part of my series on the sons of Óðinn) particularly since he is not among the popular Gods of contemporary Heathenry – it was also difficult as I have an immense fondness for Loki and have sworn to honor his family on account of the close bond between him and my God Dionysos. So you can be certain that there’ll be a hymn honoring Loki’s kin collectively, in addition to the individual pieces for Sigyn, Hel, etc. Ah, the fun (and at times conflicting interests) of practical polytheism.

There is more I wanted to say but that will have to suffice for now. 

Hail Váli, whose eyes are cold as ice,
whose heart is hard as stone,
and whose hands can be destructive
as an avalanche, except when you’re angry –
then it’s much, much worse.
Oh Váli who bears the magical sword
that once belonged to Höðr the Blind,
you who were born of a loveless union
between Óðinn the Binder and Rindr the Giantess
beautiful as a Ruthenian princess,
for a singular purpose your father foresaw
after eating a bunch of amanitas.
Oh Váli, daring in battle and excellent marksman,
it is said that your first kill occurred
on your first night after birth,
before your hair was combed,
before you were even bathed in fact,
you had sent Baldr’s adversary to the funeral fire.
Oh Váli who wanders the wintry wastes alone,
on your second day of life they say you held Loki tight
and made him watch as his son Nari was torn asunder
by his other son, your namesake, who had been
transformed into a wolf. Then you took his son’s entrails
and bound the lie-smith to three large stones with them,
the gut-threads becoming iron so that he could not escape
until the going dark of the Gods is upon us.
Oh Váli whose back and shoulders are strong enough
to carry the burden of the destiny you were cruelly conceived
to fulfill, you have spent every day since training
and preparing for the battle that is to come,
during which your reason for being will be manifest.
Until that fateful day and after I shall say
hail to the son whose father couldn’t be prouder,
Váli the valiant defender of Ásgarðr!

Hail Goddess Herkyna, you who loaned your name
to the river in Lebadeia where those who wish to consult
the oracle of your father Trophonios first must bathe.
They say that the river came to be in the following manner;
before she was the wife of Haides and the Chthonic Queen
Kore who delights in flowers was your girlhood friend,
and often the two of you would play among the vales
and caverns near your home. As a token of affection you gave
her a goose from your father’s pen as a pet, and for weeks
thereafter she was never seen without it. But then one day
as she was plaiting crowns in a meadow and you were dancing
to entertain the daughter of Demeter the goose jumped from her
lap and ran away, with you girls giving chase. It found its way
into a cave and hid under a rock until Kore came and lifted up
the rock. Then a great gush of water sprang from where the rock
had been, carrying her far away to another land. As day
turned into night and then back into day you searched all
along the muddy banks of the river with Despoina and her
grieving mother but found no sign of where dear Kore had gone.
Driven mad from despair and fear that she would never be found,
you flung yourself from the heights and into the rushing water
where you drowned, and thereafter the river came to be known
by your name. Because you had loved her daughter so
Demeter placed your soul in the body of the goose
she loved above all things, and gave you to Persephone
at her marriage feast, so that you could remain by her side
even when she was down below with Haides.
So hail to you Herkyna, companion and trusted confidant,
and I pray, please say a kind word concerning me
when it is my time to come before the infernal tribunal.

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.