Mabon

One of my first poems written for use in a Druid ritual.

Summer is now over,

Autumn has begun,

Night conquers day,

Harvest moon for the sun.

Honour the Green Man,

Mabon son of Mordon,

Goddess of the Earth,

On the Feast of Avalon.

Burn the Wicker Man,

Mother turned to Crone,

Goddess of winter food,

Reaping on Harvest Home.

Copyright Andrew Rea Autumn 2006

Invocation by the Rune Trees

This is a short piece based on the five trees that have their own runs. I have split 'Thorn' into Blackthorn and Hawthorn.

Invocation by the Rune Trees

By the power of, the mighty old oak,

By the ash that wares, the sacred fire cloak.

By the protection of, the bold blackthorn,

Under Hawthorn garland, where thee were born.

By the witness of, the long living yew,

By the birch bursting forth, that is first to renew.

I call all rune trees, to witness our rite,

And guard us here on, this fine feasting night.

Protect us from foes, with your noble might,

And help make sacred, this fair woodland site.

So mote it be

Copyright Andrew Rea August 2014

My Poems on Youtube

The following of my poems are now on Youtube. They can be found by using the search parameters following the title. Unfortunately using the titles will not work and I have not been able to set individual hyperlinks. All of the listed poems can also be found with the introductions in text form on this blog.

Thou arte Aelfscyne:   Anglo saxon poetry by Andrew Rea

On the Spindle Side:   Anglo saxon poetry by Andrew Rea 2

Aelfred:   Anglo saxon poetry by Andrew Rea 3

Dark Forest Rite:   Anglo saxon poetry by Andrew Rea 4

Wassail the Apple Tree:   Anglo saxon poetry by Andrew Rea 5

The Corn Dolly:   Anglo saxon poetry by Andrew Rea 6

Twelfth Night:   Anglo saxon poetry by Andrew Rea 7

Kissing Friday:   Anglo saxon poetry by Andrew Rea 8

A Maying:   Anglo saxon poetry by Andrew Rea 9

Return ye Haegtesse:   Anglo saxon poetry by Andrew Rea 10

The Corn Dolly

Historical Introduction

This poem is based on the tradition of the corn dolly and the idea that the corn has a spirit which should be preserved through the winter to be returned to the earth in the spring to ensure fertility.

The poem draws from the image contained within an Anglo-Saxon Psalter which shows a corn field being reduced to a single ‘clump’ known as ‘the neck’. In the foreground a peasant is shown holding a ‘corn dolly’ in the shape of a cross with five blades for each hand and the head.

The method of cutting the ‘neck’ is based on surviving traditions which were common until modern times.

References to Nerthus a fertility goddess replaced largely by Frigg in late Saxon times and Wuldorfador ‘glory father’ representing the Solar Logos, are taken from the writings of St Bede and are mentioned in his ‘On the computation of time’

The idea of the ‘sol cakes’ are again taken from Bede, where he refers to the second month of the year called Solmonath (February). Which is said to mean Mud Month. (compare sol with soil and think of ground conditions at this time of year). The cakes were planted into the ground as an offering to both Nerthus and Wuldorfador.

We have no surviving recipe for the sol cakes, but given that the tradition of ploughing the corn dolly into the ground at the start of ploughing and sowing season was widely observed until modern times it seems possible that the dolly would have been broken up and added to a mixture of some kind, perhaps of flour of various grains, and returned to the ground uncooked to preserve its fertility.

The harvest feast is recorded in Saxon law as a reward for the harvest work done on the lord’s field.

The drinking feast after ploughing starts in Solmonth, is again recorded in Saxon law as a reward for work.

The Corn Dolly

Goddess Nerthus, out of her womb born,

Goddess Frigg became, the Queen of the Corn.

Cared for and nurtured, by Wuldorfador,

Plentiful abundance, for winter’s store.

Standing tall and straight, we do thee adore,

Sudden end with sharp blade, as if to war.

Thine neck wilt be cut, with greatest of care,

Thine spirit set free, by he who doth dare.

With his flying scythe, falling to the ground,

Into three sheaves, to be twisted and bound.

Preserving the spirit, of summers corn,

To be reborn again, we shalt not mourn.

The Corn Queen’s spirit, now safely preserved,

First loaf of bread, in the rigs to be served.

The first day of harvest, feast and wassail,

To the Harvest Queen, let us now drink hail.

Revered through the long, winter months of gloom,

Looking and guarding, over spinning loom.

In the New Year’s soil, thee wilt be reborn,

Our offering to, a new crop of corn.

We fashion thee into, a small Sol Cake,

To keep thine life whole, we wilt not thee bake.

Into the mud, we return thee to Earth,

Dolly a symbol, of goddess rebirth.

The dollies power, to be now released,

After so much ploughing, the drinking feast.

Much ale to be drunk, this Sol Monath day,

Tomorrow we plough, but tonight we play.

Hail to thee Nerthus, Earth Mother of men,

Five blades for thine head, and thine fingerers ten.

Filled with ample rations, to bring us grace,

Be fruitful in, Wuldorfador’s embrace.

Copyright Andrew Rea 2009

Lughnasadh

Introduction

This is one of my first poems and was written specifically for a Druid Lughnasadh (Lammas) ritual and has since also been used at Wiccan and Unitarian rituals.

Lughnasadh

Loaf mass tide, the harvest reap,

The Corn king he is dead.

Feast of plenty among the rigs,

Give thanks the Corn king’s bread.

Lammas tide, we’ll drink a toast,

To the dolly, the spirit of the corn.

Gather the grain to make the loaf,

John Barleycorn shall be reborn.

Copyright Andrew Rea Lughnasadh 2006

The Sceadugengan

Introduction

From Beowulf line 702: 'Com on wanre niht scriðan sceadugenga'.

In the colourless (wan) night came gliding (or creeping) the shadow goer (or shadow walker).

This passage from Beowulf refers to the monster Grendel.

Sceadugengan or "shadow-goer", (pronounced: shay-ah duh gen-ghan) (Singular: Sceadugenga), from Old English sceaduwe (shadow) and gan (to go).

Other extracts from Beowulf:

Line 159 …..but the retch was persecuting

The dark death shade warriors old and young;

He lay in wait and set snares, in the endless night he held

The misty moors; men may say not

where the haunts of these Hell-Runes be.

Thus many offences that foe of mankind,

That terrible lone traveler…

649 ….and darkening night all over,

Shadow-helm’s shapes came slivering,

Black beneath the skies.

710 He came from the moor, under hills of mist.

The Sceadugengan

Came shadows through grey night striding,

Through the dark wood forest gliding,

Formless shapes their outline hiding,

Silent Sceadugenga.

What manor of beast alive or dead,

They dwell in forests of dark dread,

On brave shield maidens be they fed,

The swift Sceadugenga.

On shadow dark gloomy grey nights,

Without a form these beastly wights,

Going about their silent rites,

Elf or Sceadugenga.

But who hast seen them in the face,

Or chasing prey at their fast pace,

Or at their nest in their full grace,

The Sceadugengan.

Only brave men with charms showing,

On their tunics pouches sowing,

Spells and galdors to their knowing,

Risk the Sceadugenga.

Distant sounds of branches snapping,

Pitter patter stealthily tapping,

Slowly with thine spirit sapping,

Go the sceadugengan.

Who dares to go at dark of moon,

With shadows shifting into doom,

Guarded with that sacred rune,

The spell casting genga.

Swiftly moving gliding shadows,

Speeding faster than thine arrows,

Seeking the unguarded hallows,

Spector Sceadudenga.

In shadows spirits come and go,

Hel's cold dark demons from below,

As they do reap so shall they sow,

Come sceadugengan.

At deepest dark of night they meet,

Beware that thee do not them greet,

or thee may well become their meat,

Hungry sceadugengan.

Copyright Andrew Rea July 2014

T'Rowan Poem (or Oh eck I'm on' t'moors bah tat)

Background folklore:
In Yorkshire, the second of May was called ‘Witchwood(rowan) Day’, when rowan pieces were taken and fixed over the door, for the head of the bed and so on. They must be cut with a household knife from a tree the cutter had never seen before. It must be taken home by a different route from the one taken to get there.

A branch of rowan in the bed prevented the occupant from being hag ridden [i.e. having nightmares caused by the Night Hag] while a piece placed on the pillow kept both evil spirits and witches away.

This poem attempts to portray the antics of a Yorkshire man, of no fixed intelligence, attempt to use this tree to rid him of his nightmares.

Useful expressions:Bah tat - without hat

Pop me clogs - die
Lass - wife
Go, t' foot of stairs - be surprised
A|fooar - before
To ride bear-arsed t'brat-fud on that - a knife or chisel that is very blunt
Fell, beck an dale - moor, stream and hill
O-erm - home
Befuddled - confused
By t'rack o'th'eye - without the use of a measure
N'matter - no difference
Tak - take
Any road up - in any case
Nowt but spit an glue - not very well made
Neither nowt nor summat - neither nothing nor something, ie it's useless.

T'Rowan Poem  (or Oh eck I'm on' t'moors bah tat)

I had nightmares, about an old nag,

After so many nights, being ridden by ’hag.

I were barely middlin, and gone t'dogs,

And were feeling that, I might pop me clogs.

Now I've herd that, a branch o’ rowan tree,

In’t bed will keep nightmares, away from thee.

Lass she'll go, t' foot of stairs wi dogs!

If owt like, will stop me popping me clogs.

Now t’ second of May, be Witchwood Day,

So I gang t'fetch rowan, feeling bit gay.

Then I gang down t’ gate, feeling bit pore,

T' get a knife, I ad’nt seen afooar.

Well I went t’ Jack, an ee gave me one,

A knife that is! It were all blunt an done.

I could ride bear-arsed t'brat-fud on that,

But Jack ee ses nowt, ee just grinned an sat.

Nah then I'm oft t'fells, t'find 'rowan tree,

So oft I gang, t'cut branches three.

Oft I gang over, t'fell, beck an dale,

If ever I get o-erm, I'll tell thee a tail.

  

A proper witchwood, growing from out 'rock.

By 'eck, it were champion, proud as a... thingy in't front.

Wi blunt knife in't and, I climbed up quite high,

I cut two fine twigs, by t'rack o'th'eye.

I bound twigs wi care, wi red thread t' form 'cross,

Of right equal length, then in't bag did toss.

Wi spare twig f 'bed, I must be mad as 'hatter,

It were same length, near as makes n'matter.

Well it's important, to tak new path o-erm,

But I only knew, one way back t'roam.

So I spun round, an went t'way I faced,

Befuddled wi hast, in't fells I raced.

Six hour later, I found village again,

Arf o which I were, trudging in't rain.

Lass she told me that, I must be insane,

And any road up, it were all in vain.

But over 'door I laid, witchwood cross t'rest,

When me lass saw it, she were well impressed.

"It looks nowt but spit an glue" ses she. Oh!

"It’s neither nowt nor summat y know"! Oh!

Thought t' give er ride, on 'white handled knife,

Bear-arsed t'brat-fud an back, but feeling rife.

I put spare sprig on, er pillow at 'head,

Perhaps t'night, I won't ave hag in't bed.

Copyright Andrew Rea Litha 2014