Hretha Eorthan Modor - Heavily based on Hertha by Algernon Charles Swinburne

I am that which began, out of me the years roll,
Out of me God and man, I am equal and whole.
Before ever land was, before ever the sea,
Or soft hair of the grass, or fair limbs of the tree.

The fresh fruit of my branches, thy soul was in me,
Out of me man and woman, and wild-beast I set free.
First life on my sources, first drifted and swam,
Out of me are the forces, that save it or damn.

I the mouth that is kissed, and the breath in the kiss,
The seeker, the sought, the soul and the body that is.
I am that thing which blesses, my spirit elate,
That which caresses, with hands uncreate.

My limbs that measure, the length of thy fate,
I am thou whom thou seekest, I give thee thy trait.
I the grain and the furrow, the plough-cloven clod,
The ploughshare drawn thorough, the germ and the sod.

The deed and the doer, the seed and the sower,
Hast thou communed, in spirit as the food grower?
Hast thou known how, I fashioned thee,
Or given the thee thine fire, that impassioned thee.

Canst thou say in thine heart, thou hast seen with thine eyes,
What is here, dost thou know it? what was ancient and wise.
Mother, not maker, born, and not made,
Though her children forsake her, allured or afraid.

In the spring-coloured hours, when my mind was as May's,
There brake forth of me flowers, by centuries of days.
I bid you but be, I have need not of prayer,
I have need of you free, as your mouths are mine air.

Thy life-blood and breath, the life-tree am I,
Green leaves of thy labour, of sweat and cry.
I am in thee to save thee, give thou as I gave thee,
As my soul in thee saith, was it hard to be free?
Not as servant to lord, nor as master to slave,
Shalt thou give thee to me, as to thee I gave.

Andrew Rea January 2025

Heathen Autumn Wassail

 

Much work we must do, before months of cold,

Who knows what may now, come here to unfold.

But before winter, she cometh to town,

Wearing her garment, her snowy white gown.

 

Wassail unto Nerthus, keep us well fed,

A good crop of grain, wilt keep us in stead.

Our producer of, vast bountiful yields,

Thou now sleepeth in, Avalon’s green fields.

 

To old heathen gods, every one drink hail,

Point your horn upwards, and tell a tall tail.

Bring us more good ale, we raise our great horn,

Up with pointy end, drink to Barleycorn.

 

Pass horn to the left, wassail unto thee,

Let horn go around, merry let us be.

Made from best barley, we down it with glee,

Drink like a Dane, under Yggdrasil tree.

 

Let’s all see who can, make the biggest boast,

So tell a tall tail, and raise a new toast.

Let’s swear allegiance, to us we brave few,

Before cock crows in, early morning dew.

 

Us few stalwarts drink, long into dark night,

Making the most of, our long drinking rite.

Empty thy glass and, merry let us be,

Drink like a Dane, under Yggdrasil tree.

 

Copyright Andrew Rea Winterfelleth 2024

 

 

Magic

A galdor is sung or chanted,

A galdor is never spoken.

The Galdre is true to his craft,

His bond shall never be broken.

 

A hex on thee he incanted,

Wearing his spider pouch charm.

The wizard says abracadabra,

The magicion waves his right arm.

 

A magicion says alakazam,

Is his magic hocus pocus? 

Hay presto sayeth the conjuer,

With a flourish he shifts your focus.

 

The grimoire says sim sala bim,

Open sesame, Pandora’s box.

Some sorcery, or enchantment,

Keep your eye on the paradox.

 

A lucky charm worn on the wrist,

Could it be just a delusion.

An amulet worn as a broach,

Touch wood to break the illusion.

 

Notes

This poem is just a bit of fun. A galdor (from galen -to sing) is the Anglo-Saxon word for a spell which was sung or chanted, often used as part of a healing. A Galdre is the Anglo-Saxon word for a wizard. A small pouch with a spider in it was considered a lucky charm.

 

Three years a slave for Imperial Japan

 A poem about my late fathers experience as a Japanese POW

Captured on fifteenth, February forty two,

The fall of Singapore, the empire cries.

To surrender means, no longer human,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Jim Rea three times corporal, and twice busted,

Building the railway of death for those guys.

Without regard for human life or limb,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Horrific maltreatment, railway of death,

If missing two days, then your hut chief dies.

Disobey the Nippon, can lead to death,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Go beyond the fence, without permission,

Then harsh punishment, or death for those guys.

Malaria, sickness and starvation,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Dysentery, cholera, beriberi,

‘I and most have no boots, just a loin cloth.’

Excrement and maggots, surround latrines,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Many men walk in camp, like walking dead,

Some men attempt to, end their woeful demise.

I can not keep the rice down, four men died,

For every seven sleepers one man dies.

 

‘I fold Nippon uniforms drying on grass’,

Carefully make a, neat pile and arise.

Heart in hand stealthily, carry out of camp,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Trade in village for, what food I can get,

Back to camp with cart, piled high with supplies.

Harsh questions by camp guard, is this my end?

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

‘I have provisions, for two hundred men,’

Guard lets me through, I escape execution.

Share food round the hut, A rare day of plenty,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Ulcer on leg, due for amputation,

Maggots infect wound, no need to incise.

Long open leg wound, is carried to grave,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Rescued second September forty five,

Skin and bones survive, found by our allies.

‘Pies chase me in dreams, I wake up screaming,’

Each four meters of track, one more man dies.

 

Never speak of those, harsh brutal war crimes,

Wounds never heal, memories still reside.

Decimated by disease, or untreated wounds,

One hundred and two, thousand slaves there died.

 

Copyright Andrew Rea 30^th July 2023

Mid-Summers Eve in Town

 

 At the time of Henry VIII

 

As sun goeth down, on feast of Saint John,

Over proud street doors, oak branches appear.

Merry stout benches, are carried to street,

From branch decked doors, come gallons of beer.

 

Giggling young girls, with flowery garlands,

Frolicking men with, their large leafy crown.

Exuberant groups, of jovial folk,

In summery best, parade round the town.

 

As deep darkness falls, long touches are lit,

Rowdy crowds carry, fierce fiery staves high.

Flaming fagots start, to flicker in street,

The boisterous antics, amid the loud cry.

 

Dashing and dancing, to beat of tabor,

Bon fires spark and blaze, their flickering light.

Round pretty foreheads, of maids garlands twine,

As heavenly stars, begin to shine bright.

 

People crowd benches, and bowers in street,

Lucky flowers strewn, on twilight bench.

Green apple peals thrown, on the ground to read,

Some future husband's, letter to sense.

 

Let's all make merry, wassail this short night,

We raise and clash tankards, with cheerful high head.

Till dawn and sleep rob us, of festivity,

Creeping to oak branch, decked Mid-Summer bed.

 

Copyright Andrew Rea Winterfelleth 2022

The Jolly Meadow

 

The Jolly Meadow

Rambling through, the whispering weeds,

Crackling cowslip, scattering seeds.

Bumbling bees, beneath poplar trees,

Grumbling foxglove, sway in the breeze.

 

Ringing hare bells, making their sound,

Silth celandine, carpet the ground.

Pealing poppies, and talking trefoil,

Yabing yarrow, rise from the soil.

 

Bubbling buttercups, shouting shoots,

Dandelions with, their long tap roots.

Singing sorrel and Humming hemlock,

Tripping trefoil, and lady’s smock.

 

Yellow turrets of, tinkling toad flax,

With whistling vetch, in sun relax.

Swishing sweet peas, babbling blue bells,

Phonic primroses casting their spells.

 

Mumbling meadow sweet, waft the air,

Composing campanula, trumpets blare.

Roaring ragwort ,and hushed heartsease,

Grumpy grass pollen, makes you sneeze.

 

Singing nettles, hikery dicory dock,

Slowly wafting, white scented stock.

Rattled red clover, beneath the feet,

Cackling corn cockle, in fields of wheat.

 

Bountiful blue bells, and Monks Hood,

Murmuring mushrooms, hide in the wood.

Curious corn flowers, look amazed,

Cleaver clover, with daises dazed.

 

Copyright Andrew Rea March 2022

Will-o'-the-wisp

 

Over marshy ground, and dark boggy plain,

There dances a light, a flickering flame.

A will-o'-the-wisp, so eerie and bright,

Guiding lost souls through, the darkest of night.

 

With its ghostly glow, colours blue and green,

It travels about, its sly spectral scene.

A tempting allure, for those who may stray,

Leading from the path, to the land of fay.

 

But do beware for, this flickering light,

Is not what it seems, in the dead of night.

It's a trickster's game, a malicious sprite,

A devious dance, that leads one at night.

 

Yet, still it dances, that will-o'-the-wisp,

A haunting sylth sight, that's hard to resist.

A mystery that, captivates the mind,

An enigma of, nature for mankind.

 

So let it dance forth, that flickering flame,

A reminder of, nature's ancient game.

Symbol of mystery, and wonder untold,

The will-o'-the-wisp, a spectre of old.