Nicors

 

Northern Lincolnshire, flat level lowlands,

And misty marshes moist.

Local folklore and, tales lost in time long,

Ancient tales now unvoiced.

 

In Lincoln there is, a haunted lake,

Nikerpole is its name.

Old English nicor, a water monster,

A risky mire of fame.

 

Old water monsters, of the wet land mere,

A night evil unseen.

Half-human creatures, and foul water-wyrms,

Move in dark depths obscene.

Nikerpole ghost lake, filled with nicors,

Too evil to approach.

Death dark shadow, the water surges beneath,

Only heros may encroach.

 

Beneath its surface, a murderous place,e

Uncanny depths at night.

Hidden under dark cloud, and deepest shadow,

Cloaked out of sight.

 

The cursed eerie, atmosphere of the lake,

A mooreland goblin blight.

Bedeviled monster-filled body of water,

Arcane water sprit.

 

No brave Beowolf here, to boldly battle,

The nicors deep below.

Undines and water goblins on the strand,

Silent slipping shadow.

 

Bottom of the mere, has never been delved,

By like of common folk.

Unnatural things, shine in the darkness,

Look out the creature woke.

 

Copyright Andrew Rea Lammas 2025

 

Notes

Nikerpole, Nykarpole, Nychar-pool, Nicarpool, Lincoln first mentioned in1296-8, is the pool inhabited by a nicor; the pool in question lay at the junction of Sincil Dyke and the Great Gowt. Nicors were water monsters and were also mentioned in Beowulf, notably in lines 422 and 575,

The Galdr’s Battle Spell

 

Oh thee Haegtesse, I do summon thee,

Decent from the sky, make our enemies flea.

Stir up much mayhem, before our great might,

Split their ranks asunder, put them to flight.

 

Blunt their feeble swords, and shatter their strength,

May their broad swords break, to half of their length.

Let their linden shields, splinter and shatter,

Let our enemy tremble, in dread and scatter.

 

With thunderous bolts, Wotan strike our prey,

Cause their spears to rot, their hopes to decay.

May heavens hail down, with wrath and strong storm,

Grimr assist us, and destory their swarm.

 

I summon Waldorfaedor, blind their sight,

Leave them stumbling, lost in shadowed night.

Tiw fill us all with, thy strong battle might,

Give us victory in, this true noble fight.

 

Drichten grant strength, that will never wane,

Advantage be ours, their efforts in vein.

May our swords and seaxs, stay ever bright,

Give us swift speed, of the fire drake’s flight.

 

May power of wild boar, reinforce our flanks,

We’ll slither like fishes, between their ranks.

Linden shields stand firm, and strengthen our hand,

Unyielding we rise, by Drichten we stand.

 

Copyright Andrew Rea Mid Summer 2025

Notes

Haegtesse - wild, armed supernatural women riding out in a group and causing harm havoc and mayhem! But also known to help warriors on the battlefield and hinder others.

Grimr - Wotan’s physical form on Earth.

Waldorfaedor - the solar god, the consort to Nerthus.

Tiw - the god of war, Tiw’s day became Tuesday.

Drichten - the Lord, as in god.

Fairy Ash Meadow

 

Why dost thou not go, to yonder meadow,

Where choral cow parsley, dost dwell and blow.

Weary willow herb, in tall bunches long,

Camp campanula, in clusters ding dong.

 

Partying plantains, march over the green,

And dosey dead nettle, darkly unseen.

Unnoticed fairies, they frolic about,

Where one may observe, young flowers to sprout.

 

Unseen by your eyes, fairies lark and play,

As merry field wights, in the meadow fey.

Those creatures unseen, hiding in their nook,

It’s not what one sees, it’s where you don’t look.

 

They glide through shadows, you may not yet see,

Flicker of vision, behind the ash tree.

Sprinkling fairy dust, growing the flowers,

Helped by a little, warm summer showers.

 

Concealed field wights and, small meadow sprites,

Nightly weaving their, misterious rites.

Protecting the ash, by side of the field,

Long staves, arrows spears, and Yule logs to yield.

 

Copyright Afterre Lithe 2025 Andrew Rea

 

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