“We ask the gods to hallow this place as we prepare to celebrate the blessings of Bragi.”
“We ask the gods to protect those who have joined us to celebrate our kinship with Bragi.”
Invocation to Bragi
Bragi, god of Poetry,
Husband to Idunna,
Son of Halfdan the old,
The one who chooses not to fight.
We ask you to join us this day as we celebrate the blessings you have given us.
Bragi, god of the word,
He who delights us with tales,
Brother to Dag,
Ancestors to Halfdan the Generous,
We ask you to join us as we celebrate this time of year,
Poetry and Toasts
Bound for other worlds
water-wagon, Ship of the wanes
Waters of our birth,
Deep waters of the Unconscious,
Nerthus, Dark Earth Mother;
Njord, God of the coastal seas;
Frey of the deep green woods;
Freyja, Mistress of Magick.
Earth and Water,
Birth, Death and Rebirth.
Dragon-boats deliver doom to Draug-devotees.
May the maling be mighty!
Coward Christ’s cringing cattle-
Mannaz made Fehu by a foul foreign faith.
Relics wrested from wretched worshippers;
Plunder plucked from pious prudes.
Forefgathers’ faith forsword:
Christ cannot help and woden won’t!
Fols’ fane flares in flames.
Victorious vikings voyage on.
Mighty the mauling meted out!
Hail Night and the Daughter of Night!
Gaze on us with gracious eyes,
Award us victory, we who wait.
Hail the Gods! Hail the Goddesses!
Hail Earth who gives to all!
Wisdom and fair speech give to us
And healing hands while we live.
A Fateful Visit
Urd hands you some dates
Fresh from the World´s Tree;
Skuld resumes her knitting,
her scissors laid by,
Verdandi is sitting
and choosing a dye;
She´s bored of plain white,
Why not colorful wool ?
Skuld starts to shred,
Urd empties her spool;
The wheel´s spinning motion
Makes dizzy your head;
You shouldn´t have eaten
That much gingerbread;
The couch is so cozy –
The thread goes ‘snap’ –
You jerk from your dozing –
Of armies upon human skin,
my raven feather´s dipped in ink,
not in the dew of battle-field.
The pen´s swift stroke decides which lines
are reaped for the eternal hall,
which words are culled from thinking´s fray
and which into oblivion fall.
Red as battle fierce and gory,
Trembling shakes the earth and quakes
As the Einherjar march to glory.
Blow, Heimdall, blow, set the wild echoes flying;
To Gjallarhorn answer, heroes, Hela’s hordes defying!
With Gods they die in yon dark sky,
Fall slain on hill and field and river;
They give their soul to reach the goal,
Protect us from the giants forever.
Blow, Heimdall, blow, set all Vigrid replying;
Blow the horn; fight, o heroes – dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how sweet and clear,
Once more the old horn sounding near!
The young Gods call again to all,
To listening Lif and Lifthrasir!
Blow, young Gods, blow, a new Midgard espying;
Blow, young Gods, answer, eagle – flying, flying, flying!
his lays were of love and of lore;
with wisdom and wit he wielded the words
as well as his weapon before.
Their bounty now came from their fields of corn
not from battlefields any more;
for feasting and drinking they raised the horn,
not for the signals of war.
The voice of the Skald rose mellow as mead;
the maidens were smiling warm
when he praised their tresses, golden as wheat
or the wealth on a ring-giver´s arm.
And through the glad night they cheered all along:
“A song still, a song !”
The youths for fortune the seas would roam,
their sails being scattered like leaves
by the autumn wind, which those at home
heard whistling around the eaves.
A tapestry woven of memory´s twine
at times the Skald would unfold,
collecting old glory like grapes from the vine
when valorous deeds were retold.
The old fighters felt suddenly unrest
and glanced at their swords on the wall;
but the women, sighing, gazed into the west
whence their sons should have come with the fall.
But still they bid, when the hours grew long:
“A song, one more song.”
Like tides of sea passed the seasons; a day
of winter shone cold on the coast.
The hair of the hall folk was grizzled and gray,
and the Skald´s was as white as frost.
He sang of their kinsmen who´d come no more,
long lost to the ocean or mound,
whose ships now sailed to a stranger shore
by unknown waters bound.
That his voice had a catch, and a shimmer his eye
was maybe from the smoke or the fire;
but when his wizened hands stopped play,
a string did snap on his lyre –
And he said in a silence that lasted too long:
“No song, no more song.”