How the blog works

The poems on this blog are mostly written on the basis of my historical reading and are intended to be both educational and entertaining.
Recently I have also begun posting some of my work with Anglo-Saxon charms. This work is somewhat speculative and is conducted as an amateur researcher and keen Pagan historian.

Please feel free to use anything on this site as a resource if you think that it may be relevant to your needs.

Sunday 23 June 2019

Cye-der Space


Introduction
This poem or song is a reworking of a previous poem called ‘Seidr Space’.
In Old Norse, seiðr was a type of sorcery which involved the incantation of galdors (spells that were sung or chanted). Practitioners of seiðr were predominantly women (vǫlva or seiðkona "seiðr woman"), although there were male practitioners (seiðmaðr "seiðr-man") as well. practitioners connected with the spiritual realm through chanting and prayer.

The reference to Danes is taken from the popular Anglo-Saxon clerical view that they ruined us by teaching us how to drink.
Wine that's made from the bee’ is of course a reference to mead.
Melomel is a drink made from honey and fruit.

Fun Introduction
The reader should imagine sitting in a barn in the West Country with a group of ploughmen have a privet drinking session while careful watch is kept out for the wives.

For the full fun effect the reader should sing the poem in a melodious voice with their best West Country accent preferably with a flagon or horn of the brew in their hand.

Cye-der Space

Sing like a ploughman, a spell or three,
Open th'portal, to 'eaven for ee.
We wonder what's going, on in his 'ead,
When 'e zezs those words, and we 'ear what’s said

Them ploughmen they knew, about cye-der space,
Drink y'load dun, in a special place.
Sit in fairy circle, watch th'quarters four,
In case someone open, that secrete door.

Wozzall with that wine, that's made from th'bee,
Drink like a Dane with, that melomel glee.
Chase it down with pace, bottoms up with grace,
Slipping and sliding, into cye-der space.

Take old apple juice, bring it to y'brain,
Down horn of cye-der, and drink like a Dane.
Those Danes them knew how, to raise horns sky high,
Priests didn't like they, they led us a rye.

Ample ap-ples make, some jolly good juice,
But sip too much and, thy tongue wilt come loose.
Pass 'orn to th'left, th'circle to trace,
Sipping and sliding, into cye-der space.

Copyright Andrew Rea June 2019