Ragnarok

Dark clouds appear, Ragnarok it begins;

Our Witan thought not of this dim nightmare.

The dark elves gather to fire their elf shot,

Flying venom lands here and everywhere.

Folk scurry and fight out of fear as the;

Smithers work hard and forge the dark elf shot.

Pestilence befalls the towns and heathland,

Loki is about he weaves his dark plot.

The kindly Angel of Death roams the land;

Who can he help to cross over or spare.

Wilt the coming season the grey beards see,

The great mead halls of Valhalla prepare.

No elder old enough to point the way,

The many grey haired had best stay inside.

The quarantine bell is about to toll,

We will see each other on the other side.

Copyright Andrew Rea on the feast of St Benedict 2020

(The patron saint of Europe)

Snow

White blossoms of snow, as the day lengthens,

Fall from the heavens, as the cold strengthens.

A wintery veil, of elfin white crowned,

Forms a comfortable, wrappage for the ground.

Children lark and laugh, like merry field wights,

Oblivious of, these cold chilly nights.

In nightly revels, with their frivolity,

They have overwatched, in their jollity.

Crisp wintery form, descends from the sky,

An elfin white mist, falling from high.

Through the heavy snow, the gait of night stark,

Whose specter full many, a man doth mark.

Winding chill winds howl, along the long leigh,

Stand fast, dost fear? Dost fear to ride with me?

Some durst not venture, on this elfin night,

Doth the still moon shine, in the soft snow bright.

The holly tree with, his snowy white crown,

Dreaming of when, summer cometh to town.

O tree, full oft, hast thou been so bedecked,

Snowy down blanket, with emerald spikes flecked.

Trudge home contemplating, that cheerful glass,

Heavy gait of night, wilt soon come to pass.

Jack frost soon be gone, if he dost intend,

And bring the bitter, wintertide to an end.

Copyright Andrew Rea, First week in Advent 2019

Raising the Devil

Raising the Devil

The Devil take you, they said to John Dee,
Between the Devil, and the deep blue sea.
Awd Scrat the Devil, looks after his own,
If you raise him, better the Devil known.

Talk of the Devil, he's sure to appear,
The Devil is in the detail, I fear.
In league with the Devil, said men of power,
With luck of the Devil, he left the tower.

Devil made me do it! was he mislead?
Have the Devil to pay, in guise of red.
Between the Devil, and the deep blue sea,
What the Devil was, to become of Dee.

You can go to the Devil, for what you knew,
Sell your soul to the Devil, and pay your due.
Don't speak of the Devil, unless you dare,
Devil in disguise, and Devil may care.

Give the Devil his due, bow your head low,
Play Devil's advocate, reap what you sow.
They said Devil take you, and burn in Hell,
But he shamed the Devil, and broke their spell.

Introduction
A collection of 24 sayings about the Devil and one or two others with reference and apologies to doctor John Dee.

Chanting the Land Charm

This is an attempt to divide the Land Charm into syllables and chantable lines, with parallel text to assist in comprehension. The line structure is intended to provide a rhythm.

The reader is of course welcome to attempt to divide the charm up in other ways to produce a different rhythm. The land charm is part of a lengthy procedure to restore fertility to bewitched land.

The charm has been transcribed from Leechdoms, Wortcunning and Starcraft of Early England, Charms, A charm for bewitched land P399. The charm itself on pages 402-403.

Note that charms were always either chanted or sung. 

The Land Charm

Er-ce! er-ce! er-ce! Eor-than mo-dor geun-ne the se

Erce ! Erce ! Erce ! Mother Earth, may the

al-wal-da ec-e drih-ten ae-cer-a wex-en-dra ond

Almighty grant thee, the eternal Lord acres waxing and

wri-den-dra eac-nien-dra ond el-nien-dra scea-fra hen-se

wontoning sprouts fertile, brisk creations, the

scir-e waest-ma ond thae-re bra-dan be-re waest-ma ond

rural crops and the broad barley crops and

thae-re hwi-tan hwae-te wsest-ma ond eal-ra eor-than waest-ma

the white wheaten crops, and all the crops of earth.

geun-ne him ec-e drih-ten ond his ha-li-ge the on

Grant the owner God almighty and his hallows in

heo-fo-num synt thaet hys yrth si ge-frith-od with eal-ra

heaven who are that his farm be fortified gainst all

feon-da ge-hwae-ne ond heo si ge-bor-gen with eal-ra

fiends, gainst each one, and may it be embattled round gainst

beal-wa ge-hwylc tha-ra lyb-la-ca geond land saw-en. On

baleful blastings every one, which sorceries may through a land sow.

Nu ic bid-de tho-ne wal-dend se the thas wo-ruld on

Now I pray the wielder of all, him, who made this world

ge-sceop se ne sy nan to thaes cwi-dol wif ne to thaes

of yore that here be none so cunning woman, that there be none so

craef-tig man thaet a-wen-dan ne mae-ge wo-rud thus

crafty man who shall render weak and null, words so

ge-cwe-den-e Thon-ne man tha sulh forth dri-fe ond tha

deftly neatly said. Then let one drive forward the plough and

for-man furh ons-ceo-te.Cweth Thon-ne hal wes thu fol-de

cut the first furrow. Sing: When hail to thee thou

fi-ra mo-dor beo thu gro-wen-de on go-des faeth-me

firm earth mother by the growing of God’s embrace

fo-dre ge-fyl-led fi-rum to nyt-te.

with fodder Our folk to feed.

There'll auways be Romford

There'll auways be Romford or so-ige n' chips, sor-id mate

Arm from like Ornchurch, in case ya didn't know,

Me mum an dad were poor, we didn't ave much dough.

Its that dodgy taan, next Romford like innit,

Men aul look like bull dogs, an girls arn't aff in it.

It's a 'slag town’ innit, of orange tinged east enders,

Girls walk arand, with dodgy make up on benders.

Daun look at the lads, specil when they’re gattered,

They'll take it as a slur, an ya will be battered.

We had it aul like, brewery, pub an chippy,

Do what yer like, except d'ant be na ippy.

In Romford that made yar, a dodgy art-sider,

The lads would give yar, a proper street slider.

Off daun Romford markit, on sat-day arta-noon,

Barra boyz an veg, yar can't aff ear em croon.

Get yar pair-a caulies, for only artha pand,

Mate gies me that fiver, I'll puta sack in yar and.

There woz na ba-ar sight, than chippy wi spuds,

Got the right dough mate? Just daun't gi him na duds.

This flippin geezer adda, dodgy nine bob note,

Chippy lost is cool, ee took im, by the throat.

Ar ya ge-in ready/in an urri, to meet ya ancestors,

Before ya like spoil ya, cot-on polyesters.

I add to look away, we didn't ave a nurse,

Len sud-nly ee faund, another in is purse.

Its find a girl and bang er, for lads on Friday nights,

While girls walk arand, with dodgy make up an highlights.

Bu we woz aul appi, attending to ar thirst,

There'll always be Ornchurch, coz Romford ai'nt the worst.

Copyright Andrew Rea Lammastide 2019

Introduction

I wrote this to explore the accent that I tried desperately not to acquire. I grew up in this area, it could get a bit rough at times. In my day there was a kind of paranoia on the streets among young people, when you passed someone of similar age in a side street there was a temptation to look back, as often as not they would be doing the same.

The 'street slider' is my expression for being shoved to the side with great force with the clear intention of downing someone – it happened to me once close to Romford station, perhaps because I had long hair.

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

The Haegtesse Rides Out

The Haegtesse Rides Out

The clerical troupe, came padding along,

Riding sturdy steeds, on trodden path long.

In green shady wood, through vast dark forest,

Then thundering in, came a frightening guest.

A fearsome shrill voice, a terrible sound,

Pounding Heathen hoofs, thunder on the ground.

Women from the sky, ride out in a pack,

The helmet beings, behind our cold back.

We shiver and cringe, with nowhere to hide,

Their red eyes flaming, ever onward they ride.

Like ghosts of wild woods, thrashing and smashing,

Gliding through forest, thundering crashing.

Mighty cavalcade, women of power,

Tha mihtigan wif, make everyone cower.

Coming from the right, drawing up beside,

Clashing spears and shields, screaming on they cried.

Their three pronged weapons, with scarlet dripping,

Supernatural terror, branches ripping.

Shadowy shield-maidens, such curses they cast,

Swiftly traversing, and rushing straight past.

Ridding in straight line, Haegtesse ride out,

Wearing ragged tatters, they scream and shout.

Dark shadow goers, rip forest ahead,

The hags disappear, and leave us with dread.

Copyright Andrew Rea, April Fools Day 2019

Introduction

This poem is an expansion of a supposed sighting of the Haegtesse recorded in Anglo-Saxon writings.

As they went, praying, through a vast forest, heard a fearsome voice, assuredly from a kind of terrible being, on the right-hand side alongside them, terrifyingly making a great noise an old woman, with her garments ragged and holding in her hand a bloody three-pronged weapon, and in a swift course traversing the vast woods and rushing past, following after him in a straight line.