My to-do list is getting a little large and unwieldy (and I haven’t even decided if I’m including the Baltic and Slavic divinities which I technically should since they’re part of the Starry Bear tradition.) So I put together a smaller, more select one. The first batch were arrived at via divination, the second are requests and commissions, and the third were my choice. I’m then going to use divination to decide the order in which I write – barring sudden, random inspiration in which case that God or Hero will get bumped to the top of the list. Once I’ve finished composing for this group I’ll come up with another and so on and so forth until I’m finished.

The author, totally not engaging in writing avoidance behavior

Heimdallr
Melampus
Njörðr
Nerthus
Kleopatra
Gullveig
Sokar

---

al-Lāt
Asklepios
Asklepios’ family
Haides
Hekate
Isa
Khnum
Máni
Nephthys
Persephone
Sekhmet

---

Baldr
David Bowie
Herakles
Iðunn
Mithras
Óðinn
Víðarr

Here are the results of the Year Divination I performed for the Bakcheion in 2023 e.v.

The year’s mystery is ηλακάτη or Distaff, and the deity who will be overseeing the year is Hekate of the Gallows. That should sure … make things interesting.

I further divined the stoicheia of each month, and came up with the following:

Κισσός (= Γαμηλιών)

Ν (Nu)

Nama (νᾶμα) flowing, rushing, bursting forth.
Neeo (νηέω) build, heap, pile up.
Neikos (νεῖκος) quarrel, strife, feud.
Noeros (νοερός) think, perceive, reflect.
Nusso (νύσσω) stab, pierce, nudge.

Στέφανος (= Ἀνθεστηριών)

Ψ (Psi)

Psammos (ψάμμος) crumbling, sandy, inconstant.
Psaros (ψᾱρός) speckled, dappled, discolored.
Psausis (ψαῦσις) brush, touch, graze.
Pseudo (ψεύδω) fake, lie, deceive.
Psophos (ψόφος) sound, noise, especially by that which cannot be seen

Θύρσος (= Ἐλαφηβολιών)

Φ (Ph)

Phantasma (φαντᾰσμα) apparition, phantom, mental image.
Phatizo (φᾰτίζω) tell of, express, promise.
Phiale (φῐάλη) offering dish, urn for funeral ashes, bowl for administering medicines.
Phobos (φόβος) dread, terror, fearful flight.
Phuo (φύω) bring forth, produce, formed by nature.

Νεβρίς (= Μουνυχιών)

Λ (Lambda)

Lekithos (λέκῐθος) the yoke of an egg.
Lethargeo (ληθαργέω) drowsiness, forgetting, sinking down.
Lousis (λοῦσις) washing, bathing, cleansing.
Lumeo (λῦμέω) to grieve, distress, or cause pain.
Luo (λύω) unbind, dissolve, release

Κάνθαρος (= Θαργηλιών)

Ρ (Rho)

Rabasso (ῤᾰβάσσω) to make a noise by dancing or beating time with the feet.
Radis (ῤάδις) cyclical, whirling, rotation.
Riza (ῤίζα) root, element, outflow.
Rimma (ῤιμμα) throw, cast, swing.
Roomai (ῤώομαι) to move with speed or violence, to rush on, forceful.

Πρόσωπον (= Σκιροφοριών)

Ω (Omega)

Ode (ῴδή) dirge, joyful songs, songs of praise.
Ope (ώπή) sight, unobstructed vision, full view. 
Orai (ὦραι) timely, seasonal, fitting produce.
Osis (ὦσις) thrusting, pushing, to bring forth.
Opheleia (ώφέλεια) assistance, advantage, source of gain or profit.

Κόθορνος (= Ἑκατομβαιών)

Χ (Chi)

Chairo (χαίρω) rejoice, take pleasure in, celebration.
Chasko (χάσκω) yawn, gap, chasm.
Cheima (χεῖμα) cold, frost, winter.
Choikos (χοϊκός) of earth or clay, funeral libations, of an age to take part in the Choes festival.
Chreos (χρεός) debt, obligation, fate.

Δίκτυα (= Μεταγειτνιών)

Α (Alpha)

Aeiro (άείρω) to lift, raise up, rise above. 
Aigle (αἵγλη) radiance, glory, splendor.
Aparche (άπαρχή) dues, first-fruits, preliminary offerings. 
Aphiemi (άφίημι) discharge, loose, set free.
Aoton (ἅωτον) the flower of its kind, prime, fairest.

Πέλεκυς (= Βοηδρομιών)

Θ (Theta)

Theiasmos (θειασμός) divine possession, an inspired utterance, given over to the Gods.
Thera (θήρα): hunting of wild beasts, the chase, a game.
Theoreo (θεωρέω) behold, observe, perceive.
Thura (θύρα) door, the other side, entrance.
Thuo (θύω) sacrificial offerings, consumed by fire, burning with divine longing.

Βότρυς (= Πυανεψιών)

Τ (Tau)

Talanton (τάλαντον) weight, scale, balance.
Teichos (τεῖχος) wall, boundary, end.
Teleio (τελειόω) make perfect, complete, consummate.
Timao (τίμάω) honor, acclaim, what is due one. 
Tonos (τόνος) cord, stretch, tension.

Βουκράνιον (= Μαιμακτηριών)

Ξ (Xi)

Xanthias (Ξανθίας) yellow, foreign, servile.
Xeraino (ξηραίνω) parch, wither, dry up.
Xenos (Ξενος) guest, stranger, wanderer.
Xunos (ξῦνός) common, public, general.
Xuston (ξυστόν) scraped, trimmed, cropped.

Αθύρματα (= Ποσειδεών)

Υ (Upsilon)

Ugeios (ὕγειος) healthy, sound, unbroken.
Upenerthe (ύπένερθε) beneath, under the earth, in the netherworld.
Us (ὖς) maternal, receptive, female genitalia. 
Uphaino (ύφαίνω) create, contrive, weave.
Uo (ὕω) rain, flow, water.

Tonight we also celebrate the marriage of Óðr and Freyja, for which – unsurprisingly – I have a playlist! 

In a recent interview for an online journal I was asked about the event that permanently bisected my life so that I now think of things happening before or after it.

My initial response was, “The event? Oh, dearie. I have accumulated dozens, hundreds of those over the years!” 

I mean, there’s my meeting Dionysos for the second time. Getting chased and devoured by the Titans. Giving my favorite leather jacket to a homeless man on the bus, followed shortly by Hermes reintroducing me to Spider. Carrying 300 Gods and Spirits simultaneously that night at Horse Creek. PLC. Olympia. The Coast. And bunches more that aren’t for public consumption. Each of these, large or small, set in motion a whole sequence of events that radically reoriented my life and my relationships with the divinities of the Starry Bull pantheon. 

There’s another I don’t often think of as part of that category, but I probably should. 

I’m going to say it was the summer of 2010, but that’s probably not true. My tiny apartment was swelteringly hot, that I know; especially after an hour of dancing and ecstatic celebration. Sweat dripping off my wine-flushed cheeks, I stumbled out to the designated smoking area by the dumpster and bike rack. Thankfully no one else was around since I was still deeply entheos and having conversations with invisible people as I struggled to light my clove cigarette. 

This was not the best of times for me. It wasn’t the worst either, thankfully, but I’d been out of work for a while, my writing plateaued resulting in notebook upon notebook of poems and essays I hated and eventually just threw out, and worst of all my religious life was a muddled, confusing mess. I had gone almost three weeks without even touching my shrines before tonight’s impromptu ritual catharsis. (Which is pretty impressive considering my apartment consisted of a computer desk, a fridge and every other inch was covered in devotional art or shrines. You have to work hard to ignore the Gods and Spirits when you’re as surrounded by them as I was.)  

Finished fumbling with my black Bic, I leaned against the rain shelter and enjoyed the cool night air against my hot skin and the cigarette’s sweet smoke. In the harsh glare of the overhead lamp I watched a little brown spider swing and dance in the air, mesmerized as she spun geometric shapes out of gauzy filament. And I envied her, for she was a born artist and killer. She never went through existential crises and wondered what to do with her prodigious talents, for nature had left no doubt in her. She was a maker and a hunter of beauty, nothing less and nothing more.

And I felt lost, my whole sense of self come unraveled.

This was not, as it happens, a condition unknown to me; normally however the whole identity obliteration thing was followed by the emergence of new personae. This time none had stepped forward. For a while I just kind of coasted, relying on habit and technique to carry me through. And it did. For a while. 

Even if others couldn’t tell, I could. I saw all the ways I wasn’t measuring up, the imperfections and failures, how I was just phoning it in and my heart wasn’t really in anything. This opened the way for doubt and despair and acedia to step forth, and they brought even nastier friends along with them. 

What hurt the worst (and this pain was the goad that eventually enabled me to drag myself out of the swamp) was the thought that I was disappointing my God, Dionysos. It was my own potent fear – he never had anything but words of encouragement for me. And somehow that just made it worse. You only say nice things to someone like that when you think they can’t handle the truth. (Yeah, I know how fucked up that sounds; one of many things I had to work through to find release from the oubliette.) There was also frustration bordering on resentment: I was struggling so badly because I did not know how to honor Dionysos best, which of his forms to focus on, what work he wanted me to do for him in the world. Nothing that had come before – roles or practices – was cutting it, so it had to be something new. He confirmed that that was the case, but wouldn’t tell me what needed to come next. I had to figure it out and choose for myself, he kept telling me. I would know when the time was right. 

But I didn’t know, and all my research and experimentation over those many months had only led to fruitless labor and endless dead ends. It was maddening, to say the least. I was almost ready to do the unthinkable and give up. 

Until I got a sudden urge to dance that night. I put on one of my random ritual playlists – mostly Dead Can Dance and Vas, with some NiN and Peter Murphy for seasoning – and puttered around my apartment for a while. I tidied my shrines, lit candles and made fresh offerings, prayed ex tempore, spent time quietly communing with them, and it felt good. Like visiting with old friends. Then I sat on the floor a while, swigging wine from the bottle and watching the mask above Dionysos’ shrine grow more and more lifelike. When the bottle was empty I rose unsteadily to my feet and began to dance for him, with him. 

At some point my dancing became aggressive, warlike. I furiously tossed my head back and side-to-side, stamped, beat my chest – I would have howled or screamed too, but was already subjecting my neighbors to a thick cloud of incense and Trent Reznor on repeat. But then I forgot about them and everything else in the world, and there was just me and Dionysos, him in me and me in him. 

And when I came back to myself, it was like the last eight months and all their scarring had never happened. My shoulders were lightened of their burden and my heart was beating properly again. All had fallen away and been washed clean in wine and the milk of the stars.

That’s mostly what I was thinking about as I stood there smoking, feeling more than thinking. I still didn’t know what I was supposed to do, but in that moment I didn’t care; I was too busy just being Dionysian and chatting with Dionysos to bother.

And then a scene from Oliver Stone’s Doors biopic began playing in my head. The concert where Jim’s hopping around in a whiskey-fueled trance surrounded by Indian ghost shamans. His bandmates are confused at first; he’s gone off script, he comes perilously close to the stage’s edge and his erratic, jerky movements could result in a tumble to concrete or being torn apart by ravening fans. But then they too come under the spell, infected by his ecstasy, and the group start to play as they have never played before. Soon the whole stadium is in the grip of the mad God and dancing with Dionysos like frenzied Bacchanals.  

I went back inside and thanked Dionysos for showing me the way. 

Three years later the Starry Bull tradition was born. 

Tonight isn’t just New Years and the eve of Kalendae Ianuariae — for those of us in the Starry Bull tradition it is the anniversary of the founding of the Bakcheion, which took place here in the scenic Hudson Valley lo, those many years ago. So a happy Foundation Day to y’all – and let’s kick it off in style!

To Akoites

Hail Akoites, helmsman of the Black Ship
of Dionysos loaded full of the blessings
he has in store for all the people
willing to welcome the God into their fine cities.
You were first to receive a portion
of the fortunate things when you
and your Tyrsenoi mates saw him
walking along the shore in fancy apparel
that made him seem some dissolute king’s son
who had escaped his father’s well-guarded palace
and wandered where he should not.
Or should I say that’s all your compatriots could see,
blinded as they were by the promise of the riches
they’d receive in return for him.
I do not know whether you just had a keener eye,
or if it was your pious nature that enabled you
to see past the clever disguise of Zeus’ beloved boy,
or perhaps it was a shimmer in the sunlight,
the well-timed caw of a seagull, a sneeze, or some other
chance occurrence that betrayed him to you,
but what is not in doubt is your bravery,
O stout-hearted Akoites, when you told the pirates
not to lay a hand on him, that he was something more
than he seemed, and they should just ferry him
to the other shore and be done with him. They did not listen,
as later you tried not to hear when phantom lions
and bears shimmering like starlight, tore their flesh and throats
transformed midscream as those who dove into the deep
wine-dark sea became dolphins, a marvel,
a creature that never before had been spotted in Poseidon’s waters.
Then, to your abject terror, the God was done with them,
and stood before you in all his glory, telling you to stand up
and fear not, for he was most pleased in you.
In return for the kindness you had shown him
he promised to grant you any boon you wished,
and overcome by reverence and the beauty
of his more than mortal form you begged to be his companion.
So he made you the first prophet of the Bacchic faith
after Orpheus, and you joined him in the revels,
journeying with Lyaios to many-gated Thebes
and gold-rich Lydia, the deserts of Bactria and Libya,
and even the snowy lands beyond Lykourgos’ Thrace
where the Borsythenes ranges like a maddened bull,
bringing to all these diverse places the gift of his mystic rites.
So hail to you, Akoites who has seen all this and more,
whose speech bears the force and weight of truth,
honored elder of our tradition, frenzied revealer
of the ceremonies of release and ecstasy,
may you always be hailed
when we gather in worship of He Who Frees.

For Sparrow

To Kleio

Hail Kleio, clever daughter of scheming Zeus
of many guises, and golden Mnemosyne
who preserves all; you are studious, disciplined,
and keen-eyed, missing little that transpires
either among the Fortunate Ones on Mount Olympos
or mortal men who are here for but a moment
and then gone, like the wheat in the fields
or like the soft, delicate, brightly hued
flowers beloved by your son Hyakinthos.
You can follow the threads of the Moirai
back to the hatching of the Primordial Egg
and forward until everything finally
condenses back into it. You watch as
primitive settlements along a winding river
morph into great cities and thence
continent-spanning empires,
only to fall to marauding outsiders
or creeping decay from within;
how many magnificent men
have you seen forged in adversity
until they rise up and claim glory and power for themselves,
only to be destroyed by their spear-won prize?
Scientists, scholars, philosophers, poets, artists, dancers and musicians
by the score have you known, and humble men ignored by their fellows
have not escaped your unwavering vision, Kleio – each one
you remember, and record his story for posterity.
Oh, you who are skilled at the lyre,
please hear my prayer Muse, and smile on me
as I seek to do honor to those who have come before.

My current to-do list for the polytheist hymnal project:

Achilles
Akoites
Alexander the Great
Marcus Antonius
Asklepios
Baldr
David Bowie
Dionysos
Freyja
Freyr
Frigga
Haides
Heimdallr
Hekate (x4)
Herakles
Iðunn
Imhotep
Isa
Khnum
Kirke
Kleopatra
Klio
Loki
Mani
Melampus
Jim Morrison
Nephthys
Norse pantheon
Óðinn
Óðr
Odysseus
Mithras
Njörðr
Persephone (x2)
Ptolemy Soter
Sekhmet
Sigyn
Skírnir
Sunna
Thor
Víðarr
Zeus

Hail to you Hel,
daughter of Loki who shakes the Earth,
great Queen of those Below,
Mistress of the shadows,
Lady of bones and dust,
frightening one of the far places
where men fear to go,
strong one who builds the boundaries
and knows how to tear them down.
Hel, you are strong of magic
and all the spirits tremble in your presence,
and the dead do whatever it is you command.
Hel, you know the broken heart,
and the painful ways to mend it.
Hel, you tear the layers from us,
hateful but necessary work,
as your whip brings purification through our tears.
Hail to you, terrible and revered Goddess,
but precious in the eyes of your devoted father.

I sing of Hekate,
three–faced crazy witch Goddess
dancing at the crossroads
with nooses in one set of hands,
blazing torches in the next,
and clutching snakes with her last.
Hear my cries and inspire this song
you who have witnessed rapes
and beheadings and bulls bleeding out roses,
O mystery–shrouded girlfriend of the vagabond,
charlatan, word–weaving, cattle–stealing priest
—Hermes, slayer of the many–eyed watcher of marriage’s Goddess.

Hail Medeia,
equal of Orpheus,
who knows spells,
and songs,
and all the secret stories
of plants and birds
and the honey-collecting bees.
Unflinchingly principled,
just and severe,
friend of the Nymphai with braided hair
and the rustic Boukoloi who roam the hills
in midnight masked revels.
You, Sorceress,
dwell in a snake-filled hut
far from humanity,
and can find your way
through all woods and wetlands easily,
you who remember
which mushrooms to harvest,
and which to avoid,
collector of bones,
loosener of knots,
brewer of strange potions,
and revealer of stranger mysteries still,
Medeia hail!

Queenly Medeia with midnight braids
and sharp white teeth, lips the color
of virgin’s blood on a flint blade,
cheeks smooth and pale as bone,
dress shimmering like serpent scale
as you stir the herb-strewn cauldron
and sing ancient chants to the infernal powers
in your bird-lovely and heavily accented voice.
O sister of Absyrtos, you are hard and cold and unforgiving
as the snow-covered Colchian soil that bore you,
daughter of Aeëtes and mother of the horse-loving
race of Medes, archers beyond compare;
like them your sight is keen and unwavering,
your justice is implacable,
your reason unclouded by sentiment,
you see all the probabilities an act may set in motion,
perceive both the intended and unforeseen consequences
and so, Crimson Mistress, you do not flinch
from making the tough, necessary choice
that others could not bear, but will benefit from.
Chief priestess of the Black Sea Hekate,
Granddaughter of the unconquered Sun,
attendant of frenzied Dionysos,
initiate of the Samothracian deities,
drummer in the orgies of Mountain Mother Rheia,
fellow-traveler of Orpheus and overseer of the Green Way,
familiar of Baba Yaga and dweller in the witchy hut on forest’s edge
hear my prayers and lend your cunning and your power
to the work I am undertaking,
and Lady, I shall share a portion
of my generous client’s gift with you.

Come, O Daughter of the Sun,
devoted Priestess of the Divine Bull,
Mistress of the rites of erotic ecstasy,
Pasiphaë the root-cutter,
mushroom-gatherer,
and bather in the milk of the poppy,
Pasiphaë who leads the dance,
and weaves probability,
Pasiphaë come and be welcome
in this home that loves the Gods,
you who travel the winding ways of dream
and send airy phantoms to reveal your will
to the pious sleepers in your sacred temple,
to lunatics, and to those who are drunk
on blue-green honey.
Accept the produce of our local fields,
bread baked according to unbroken tradition,
and milk from the best of cows,
and in return we ask you to watch over the pregnant
and ensure that fine sons and daughters
are born to our people, as once Pasiphaë
you bore many extraordinary children in Crete.

Hail Orpheus,
robed in night,
walker in smoke,
root-cutter,
master weaver,
hunter of meaning,
singer of mysteries,
inventor of rites of releasing,
founder of our sacred tradition,
speaker for the dead
and head of unerring prophecy.
Orpheus hail!

Hail to you Orpheus,
specialist in ancestral rites, you who heal
through madness, song and dance
Bacchic shaman, medium and interpreter
you who have gone below and feasted with the heroes
and come back up to your community,
a stranger inside and out.

She is the Mother of Sorrows and the Mistress of Pain,
the barren Goddess who mourns the Joyful Bull unjustly slain.
She is clothed in ashes and her eyes are white as bone,
her hair is used to wrap the dead and her skin is pale as falling tears.
She comes to welcome the souls and guide them home,
to ease their suffering in those frightful moments
before they breathe their last.
Each body she holds reminds her of the one she lost,
and how she washed his flesh with her tears
and kissed those soft lips once more,
before he descended into the West, never to return.
She walks among the shadows,
hard to see unless your time is near,
though if you listen closely,
the whisper of her black wings you may just hear.

Hear my prayers O Far-distant One,
the beautiful, the chaste, the unflinchingly loyal
Nanna Nepsdóttir, who is so rich in blessings
that she dispenses boons to all her fellow Ásynjur,
as when she gave Frigg a finely spun robe of purest linen,
and Fulla who keeps the Queen’s secrets was gifted
a finger-ring which gleamed brightly
as the smile of Sunna with unbraided hair.
Höðr, blinded by love, sought Nanna’s hand in marriage
but what is a hand compared to a heart?
And hers belonged forever to Borr’s grandson,
the brave, the brilliant, the breathtakingly fair Baldr,
and has ever since they met as youths
in that dark elf-haunted wood.
He was hunting the boar, and she was hunting him
and from that day when they embraced
beneath the gold-green leaves with the music of gentle rain
falling down all around them to love by,
that day and every day since the two have been inseparable.
Nanna bore her man a fine son, handsome and strong,
Forseti that can reconcile feuding parties
and put to sleep grievous suits before they’re hatched,
dweller in shining Glitnir of the silver roof and golden pillars,
with a spring in Heligoland so pure its water must be collected in silence.
Oh, how you must miss him.
Nanna, I know that yours was a happy union, for you, Goddess,
were willing to follow your Baldr into the dark
when that dart of humble mistletoe sent him down
to the sunless realm of Hela and her cold and colorless denizens.
You wait with Baldr yet, and will not return
to look upon the happy face of your boy
or the deathless ones in Ásgarðr
until the world above is born anew from the ash and ruin
left by blazing Surtr and his swarthy Giant horde.
Never once do you falter or doubt your husband
nor the great destiny that is his to bear, alone but for you;
Nanna, I plead, teach me to love the people in my life
with a measure of the love you give lucky Baldr
and I will remember him in song
and the other things dear to that fathomless heart of yours.

After the initial rush of poetic frenzy in the hospital I hit a block with the book about my experiences and insights surrounding the amputation, and despite my best efforts I haven’t been able to get through, over or around it. This has been especially annoying since I had a couple folks commission pieces for it as part of the medical bills fundraiser and I didn’t want to disappoint; also I’ve had no problem making progress on the festival book, the collection of political and philosophical essays, and the polytheist hymnal which are all nearly complete. (I’ve only gotten some editing and rearranging done on the Orphic Heathenry books, but also haven’t tried to do any new writing for them yet since I’ve been so busy with the others.) I think it’s finally time to put a bullet in the poetry book’s metaphorical head and move on, so I contacted all of the patrons and asked if they’d rather their donation go towards commissioning a hymn or get a refund instead. Most have opted for a hymn, which pleases me since I’ll get to write stuff for divinities I might not have considered on my own. My to-do list currently stands at about two and a half dozen hymns, which I’m hoping to have completed in the opening weeks of the new year if all goes according to plan. If you’d like to request a piece for your favorite Greek, Roman, Norse or Egyptian divinity shoot me an email and we’ll work out the details. It’ll end up being $20 a hymn via Paypal. (I’m too old and lazy to figure out other payment methods at this point.) I’m going to stop taking requests on Kalends, so be sure to get yours in soon!