Love Spell: Against endings

September 5, 2016

lovespell

All the endings in my life
rise up against me
like that sea of troubles
Shakespeare mixed
with metaphors;
like Vikings in their boats
singing Wagner,
like witches
burning at
the stake –
I submit
to my fate.

I know beginnings,
their sweetnesses,
and endings,
their bitternesses –
but I do not know
continuance –
I do not know
the sweet demi-boredom
of life as it lingers,
of man and wife
regarding each other
across a table of shared witnesses,
of the hand-in-hand dreams
of those who have slept
a half-century together
in a bed so used and familiar
it is rutted
with love.

I would know that
before this life closes,
a soulmate to share my roses –
I would make a spell
with long grey beard hairs
and powdered rosemary and rue,
with the jacket of a tux
for a tall man
with broad shoulders,
who loves to dance;
with one blue contact lens
for his bluest eyes;
with honey in a jar
for his love of me;
with salt in a dish
for his love of sex and skin;
with crushed rose petals
for our bed;
with tubes of cerulean blue
and vermilion and rose madder
for his artist’s eye;
with a dented Land-Rover fender
for his love of travel;
with a poem by Blake
for his love of innocence
revealed by experience;
with soft rain
and a bare head;
with hand-in-hand dreams on Mondays
and the land of fuck
on Sundays;
with mangoes, papayas
and limes,
and a house towering
above the sea.

Muse, I surrender
to thee.

Thy will be done,
not mine.

If this love spell
pleases you,
send me this lover,
this husband,
this dancing partner
for my empty bed
and let him fill me
from now
until I die.

I offer my bones,
my poems,
my luck with roses,
and the secret garden
I have found
walled in my centre,
and the sunflower
who raises her head
despite her heavy seeds.

I am ready now, Muse,
to serve you faithfully
even with
a graceful dancing partner –
for I have learned
to stand alone.

Give me your blessing.

Let the next
epithalamion I write
be my own.

And let it last
more than the years
of my life –
and without the least
strain –
two lovers bareheaded
in a summer rain.

Erica Jong

The Devil…

September 5, 2016

devil

That there is a Devil, is a thing doubted by none but such as are under the influences of the Devil.

Cotton Mather
On Witchcraft

September 5, 2016

what you are doing

September 5, 2016

pets<

summoning

He took the sacramental chalice, and stretching forth his bare arm, cried in a loud voice, ‘Come ye viewless ministers of this dread hour! come from the fenny lake, the hanging rock, and the midnight cave! The moon is red – the stars are out – the sky is burning – and all nature stands aghast at what we do!’ Then replacing the sacred vessel on the altar, he drew, one by one, from different parts of his body, from his knotted hair, from his bosom, from beneath his nails, the unholy things which he cast into it.

‘This,’ said he, ‘I plucked from the beak of a raven feeding on a murderer’s brains! This is the mad dog’s foam! These the spurgings of a dead man’s eyes, gathered since the rising of the evening star! This is a screech-owl’s egg! This a single drop of black blood, squeezed from the heart of a sweltered toad! This, an adder’s tongue! And here, ten grains of the gray moss that grew upon a skull which had lain in the charnel-house three hundred years! What! Not yet?’ And his eyes seemed like balls of fire as he cast them upwards. ‘Not yet? I call ye once! I call ye twice! Dare ye deny me! Nay, then, as I call ye thrice, I’ll wound mine arm, and as it drops, I’ll breathe a spell shall cleave the ground and drag you here!’

William Mudford
The Forsaken of God