The Loss of a Story Told: A Consideration of Bragi

A few of us are storytellers, our reputation is our verse, and by the fireside we sit, while others listen to our tales, of heartbreak, awe, victory, and mystery. The stories never get old, even though they be

Bragi-norse-mythology-20305987-450-450

told hundreds of times, always different, always the same. We write on the ground, in the sand and trace in the sky, meditations of word magic, channeled through the human voice. Few of us are storytellers, though there were once more.

A man god called Bragi was born to Odin and Frigg, with runes carved on his tongue. The sweet :alu: of skaldcraft flowed simply from his throat, and he told a tale or two in long halls. He was a poet, a character of this age. I think of Bragi and ask why this oral eloquence is now a rarity. Why the skalds and bards are so few and far in between. These days I find the only places the oral story is preserved is through the mouth of wide travelers, rainbow gatherings, heathen festivities and the like. When we want to hear a story we turn to our books. The spontaneity seems to have been nearly lost, and instead we focus on details and quotes, while missing the sentiment. As a wanderer, I see the important of the story to carry me on my ways. Over the years, my possessions have diminished simply because I have recognized them as invaluable. For me, my story is thee most important, that I keep close to my heart. No one can own or sell my story, and there is no other to tell it quite the same way.

I know a wordsmith, within, without, and I’ll tell you what he’s all about

He’s unassuming, quiet and stoic, but when given the talking stick he’s a real poet

There’s a glint in speckled eye, and whiskers on his chin

Drunk on the mead of language, none of that whiskey or gin

The blood of his experience is the core truth of which he speaks

And the myth perpetuates over the coming weeks

Who is this man who wandered into the field

With words and magic by the sacred fire circle to wield

I’ll have you know, his chin forest doesn’t come from age

His whiskers are growing grey, and he seems to us a sage

And I’ve heard a few of his stories, but they don’t get old,

Because the beauty is in the telling, of a shared story told

So drink a horn to Bragi, and tell a story too, for it’s better than a book, and people will appreciate it, between me and you.

hallinterior4

Highland Twilight

The roundhouse broods under murky skies, contrasting the ground in smoky hues,
I know I missed the stars last night, but the spice is still holding effect and I figured I should not wander far.
I stayed inside today, and now I sit by the hearth tending the flames, like they were to be taken care off.
No, they take care of me.
Inside my mind is mulling like wine and herbs, fermenting in the yeast of the valley of the primordial mountains.
I am estranged, unknown even with myself for the time being. Sitting in the dull light, and absorbing the silence through my skin, it is medicinal.
I bliss with the solitude, I pine with the solitude. Morbid and Enlightening
:Like an monition of a dream:
The one dream that goes in a circle. A Monk’s rest.
Here I am. I wonder how to move through it, and with it.
Ancient collective fears have their voice when I listen.
I must find Her. I must find Me.

These hands…

IMG_1476These hands have planted hundreds ov thousand ov trees, and foraged for medicines in wild’r lands

These hands have made sweetest love to women, and have clenched white with hate against thy foe

These hands have been cut, scarred, scratched, bled, frozen, burned, and tattooed

These hands have performed great works, and will perform many a ‘more

These hands have built cabins, raised tents, farmed land, tended to fauna, carried, and held

These hands have hitchhiked thousands ov miles across open country

These hands have written books, tomes, and journals ov the innermost heart

These hands have hailed the spirits ov nature, ov :S:un, ov :U:rth, and worked great magic

These hands have met the other hands ov the traveler, the brother, the friend, the lover

These hands have cast the runes, and traced graves, have searched and found… these hands fit in yours

Skjalfhenda (Shivering Rhymes): Tribute to WoV

This style of poetry is similar to Drottkvaet. According to Snorri, Invented by Thorvald Veili after being shipwrecked on an outlying skerry in the cold ocean. I have written this one as a tribute to the WoV, HTW! (I am not part of the tribe, but take great inspiration from their cultural affirmation, and neo-tribal ideals) The meter is determined by:

-Symmetrical stanzas of 8 lines

-Each line contains, three stressed staves

-Main stave is first stave in even lines

-At least two staves in odd line must alliterate with main stave and alliterating sounds in a line must only be separated by one syllable.

-Last stave in odd line must precede an unstressed syllable

-6 syllables in each line

-1st and 5th lines of the stanza must have two skothending syllables, one coming at the end of the line. (skothending have different vowel but same end consonant)

-Remaining lines must have two adalhending syllables, or full rhymes. (Adalhending rhymes have same vowel but dif. consonant)

WoV

Vinland wolves roam wild

When on Appalachian

Blackened by the brave staves

Begot by ginn giants

Horn and death hide they bore

Hexes in blot are wrought

Blood oath bespeaks Odal

Bane of him who is lame

ljóðaháttr

 

ETERNAL RECURRENCE (ljóðaháttr prosody) The_Wolves_Pursuing_Sol_and_Mani

Goddess Freya,

Goaded her chariot

Pulled forth by felines black

‘Fore Ragnarok come

And rip the nine worlds

Geri gapes with open maw

Primordial HrimTHurs

Giant heir of Nifel

Killing with cold touch

Man will deny Odin

The old man of Hlidskalf

Ere the eye is lost again

Nature is all thou creation

The one thing worth calling God

It is the root and the burning life, the one surrounding your sights.

No false religious lies to behold, they are weak!

The true nature exists for eternity

White capped forests!

The sun chases the moon!

Cold penetrable soil of mother earth

A revelry for the carnal to see…

I stand proudly atop your scape and contemplate the vast beyond

This is where I bred, and where I learnt the secrets

Shining rivers mirrors something pure

When aeons were still in the womb, you were here!

Never passing…

Eternal in the singular mind, possessive

From an epic journey passed stained time

High mountains are your towers of wisdom,

And in the constellations this night there is a cleansing

It is out there in the deep of night and deep of day

The one alive and awake

:Wolfshaman: 2263 R.E.

Othala ᛟ

Othala

Othala, inherit in the last branches and the trunk of ancestry

From whence I cam and where I shall lead

In you, I find what has already been in me

Not a discovery but an apotheosis of the esoteric

Gard of kindred, kith upon kin, clanic reverence

The echo from a distance resonates clearly