Light in Dark

August 21, 2017

It was the twilight made you look
So kindly and so far.
It was the twilight gave your eyes
A shadow, and a star.

For loveliness is not to keep
Unto the skies alone;
And though the glories may be gone,
The heart will have its own.

Some likeness of a dream is shed
From all fair things, too far;
And so your eyes have left to me
A shadow and a star.

Josephine Preston Peabody

The Snow Queen in Eden

August 21, 2017

Boots crunch ice

She crosses the ice orchards at night
pausing to pick, from black trees
the brittle bodies of frozen birds.

Later, she will shake out her long hair by the fire
a thousand melting stars falling loose
and her hands will burn my skin.

My queen’s tongue tastes like razors –

She has devoured her magic mirror
and I have not the power to defy a woman
with a mouth full of glass.

There was a time we gathered wildflowers
and carried them to the edge
and threw them in the River That Eats Memory.

I wrung out my heart in those waters
but still, something clings –
her long fingers tossing petals, a sandal strap, sunlight.

But the river devours and mirrors cut
I spit blood in the bright snow
and comb my lady’s hair with numb fingers.

Laid out on fur coats, I dreamt of a river
where we washed out our hearts,
as winter eats the corners of the world.

Selena Bulfinch

The Power of Sound

Ever see an opera singer shatter a crystal glass? It is said that words are things and once spoken may cause the very thing to happen. Can there really be so much to the spoken word? Let’s explore the physical properties of the spoken word, or in other words, sound and its properties and discover the secret.

You first must learn that sound is caused by vibrating structures. That for sound to travel it must move through a material substance or medium. Sound travels as a wave motion. As a sound wave travels, in a medium, small displacements occur to the molecules in that medium or substance. These small displacements are a regular collective motion in which all the molecules, in a small volume of matter, move together. Think of this motion as compared to a small volume of water held by a container in which you would see a wave moving in the volume of water. This ordered wave motion is superimposed on the random thermal agitation or vibration of the molecules. We, therefore, look at sound waves as the molecules of the substance jiggling back and forth in a regular fashion. You know that sound is the result of vibrating bodies but beyond this you must know that a travelling sound wave transports energy.

When this sound wave is incident on, or striking, a body of matter there is absorption of that sound wave’s energy by that body. In some cases this will force the body to vibrate at the frequency of the incident wave. A state of resonance will occur when the vibration of the body and that of the incident wave are close in natural frequency. Sound can do some phenomenal things. For example, remember the high pitched note of the singer, when it is incident upon the crystal glass, causes it to break. But even greater is the Power of the spoken word or sound energy, when that energy is transmitted on the carrier wave of creative magickal thought. The spoken word is endowed with the Night Force when the creative thought behind that word is that of Night Consciousness. Your words are endowed with Night Force when your Magickal Consciousness is that of the Oversoul. Your words are as potent as your consciousness is equal to that of Night Consciousness. For your words to be life and accomplish that where they are sent, then your consciousness must be that of the Oversoul. Your will is the selector of the words, but for them to be more than mere words they must be endowed with Night Force through Night Consciousness. Let’s try it.

To begin with first see yourself as the Oversoul. Feel the Night Presence of your own Oversoul selecting the words with which you wish to create with. Then speak the words knowing that it is not you that says the words, but that it is the Oversoul who says the Words. Then those Words will go forth and do as they are sent forth to do. The greater your attunement with your Oversoul, the greater will be the potency of the Words. Keep your thoughts in tune with your Oversoul at all times. For your words to take on the Night Force you must become the Oversoul in all you do. Repeat the Words over and over again till you can feel the words take on a life of their own. Repeat them till your words are endowed with Night Force then they will go forth and create as you have said. There are no limitations to what your Words in Night Consciousness may do. They can bring to you your heart’s desire. They can literally move mountains. They can create life. There are no limitations to what you can do, so long as it is in accord with your Oversoul. As you are filled with the Sound of the Oversoul, now to fill yourself with the Energies of the Earth.

Phillip D Williams
The Book of Night Magic

…the antient Bards…communicated nothing of their knowledge, butt by way of tradition: which I suppose to be the reason that we have no account left nor any sort of remains, or other monuments of their learning of way of living. As to the later Bards, you shall have a most curious Account of them. This vein of poetrie they called Awen, which in their language signifies rapture, or a poetic furore & (in truth) as many of them as I have conversed with are (as I may say) gifted or inspired with it.

I was told by a very sober, knowing person (now dead) that in his time, there was a young lad fatherless & motherless, soe very poor that he was forced to beg; butt att last was taken up by a rich man, that kept a great stock of sheep upon the mountains not far from the place where I now dwell who cloathed him & sent him into the mountains to keep his sheep. There in Summer time following the sheep & looking to their lambs, he fell into a deep sleep in which he dreamt, that he saw a beautifull young man with a garland of green leafs upon his head, & an hawk upon his fist: with a quiver full of Arrows att his back, coming towards him (whistling several measures or tunes all the way) att last lett the hawk fly att him, which (he dreamt) gott into his mouth & inward parts, & suddenly awaked in a great fear & consternation: butt possessed with such a vein, or gift of poetrie, that he left the sheep & went about the Countrey, making songs upon all occasions, and came to be the most famous Bard in all the Countrey in his time.

Henry Vaughan
Letter to his cousin the antiquary John Aubrey in 1694

Brick by brick

August 20, 2017

Brick by brick
My castle grows
The towers rise
Out of the forest
Climbing into the air
Until they reach the stars
Joining earth and sky
Binding moon and sun
In the promise
Of magic to come

Sammi Cox

suitable last words

August 20, 2017

The Laurias came to Hammersing heath in the very bleakest of springs, and Mrs. Lauria, her urban spirit altogether failing at the sight of the place, went upstairs a few days after the removal with the suitable last words, “I am going to rest,” and lay down and died.

Phyllis Paul
We are Spoiled

‘I want to taste your flesh,’ he said. ‘Know your secret pleasures.’

‘I understand,’ she replied, quietly.

‘Do you? Because I love you louder than your demons will ever be able scream – ’

Without uttering another word he taped her mouth. She knew her position was hopeless. She was bound hand and foot, naked, totally at his mercy. Whatever perverted things he desired – sick fantasies of rape and violation. It was all possible now. And she’d given her consent…

He could rip the fucking soul from her body – what had she been thinking?

Then she heard him say, ‘The things I’ll do to you won’t feel that bad. At least to begin with. Best you lay still and let them happen. Don’t think about them. Try to take pleasure from each new experience…In time you’ll become addicted to my little games. Believe me you’ll crave them.’

She wanted to reply, to speak, but she couldn’t. Her head was a mad chaos of fear and passion. She made a series of muffled sounds behind the gag.

And then, God help her, he began.

She felt his hands on her. It was as if nerves in her body were being uncovered – once exposed they would hurt horribly. They would go on hurting all the rest of her life with a pain she’d never experienced before. A new agony let lose in the world. Behind her gag was a muffled cry or shout that she felt would never stop.

He was a cruel man, but exceptionally generous. After each fresh torment inflicted, he would mutter endearments to her.

Julian Paul
The Doll’s House

He was trembling slightly with the humiliation of this situation. He’d removed his clothes as she’d ordered, and now he started rubbing and pulling his cock. He looked down at the floor as he rubbed, blushing, hoping to hell he could cum quickly and get this ordeal over with.

‘I see that thing of yours is nice and hard, eh?’ she said. ‘You’re enjoying wanking in front of me, aren’t you?’

He glanced at her face. She was smiling at him.

‘Keep rubbing it,’ she said. ‘Go a little faster. Tell me when you’re near to cumming.’

‘I’m going to,’ he said, his voice little louder than a whisper.

‘STOP!’ she ordered. She went to a cupboard and took out a pint beer glass. He stood watching her, his cock throbbing and stiff, hands at his side. ‘You cum in this,’ she said, handing him the glass.

He started stroking his cock again, then moved the glass into position with his free left hand.

‘I’m going to cum,’ he said, and he did – almost immediately. She watched, smiling, her eyes intense but hard.

‘Good boy,’ she encouraged him. When he’d finally squeezed the last drop of his creamy spunk into the mug, she said, ‘Now you drink it, yes? Drink it all down – ’

Diana Shreffer
Silent Submissions

He looked at the old wooden table leg she was holding.

‘Anything can be a dildo, if you’re brave enough.’ She’d somehow managed to stretch a condom over one end of the leg. ‘Bend over for me,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘This is going where there ain’t no sunshine, mister – ’

‘That’s too big,’ he said. ‘It’ll split me.’

‘Shut up!’ She spat in his face then hit him on the side of the head with the table leg. ‘You’re a perverted little wimp and you’ll do exactly as I say – or I’ll make sure everyone knows all about you and your dirty little secrets. Now BEND.’

He complied without further complaint. What else could he do? He bent over and spread his cheeks with both hands. She came in closer.

‘This is going all the way up,’ she said.

On the third grunting try he felt the leg enter him. ‘Push,’ she ordered, and he did, slowly sliding on this huge wooden pole. ‘Look at that,’ she said. ‘I’ll be able to park my car up there by the time I’ve finished.’

He felt himself impossibly stretched around the solid wood. She began to move it in, and, not quite, out. She laughed as she worked.

‘I think you’re enjoying this,’ she said. ‘Look how stiff your cock’s become…’

Nigel North
House of Shame

                                                                               The birds against the clouds, their flapping sounds like snapping wires

As children we played with                 – never 
seeing them in the mirrored faces of 

our parents, returned home – No
I have returned, calling            ghosts bring back

cornfields & moons –         Didn’t we used to play?
I stood over     (memory has worn into glass) 

grass bodies of rabbits 
                        plotting cold, bending the road home

like a knee                                                      & mice
in a field mice in the graves we dug mice in the eyes

we’d wave our arms as in SOS 
away from the cats           but the cornfield

we brought with us –                          what’s left

of the house? what have we
conjured? We’ve conjured up Mother’s rooster

we’ve carried the moon’s light –

O dark what we buried. O animal bones.
Our bones on theirs                 who whispers dirt-

deep asking how we could be so cruel? O
          singing dark – for what we love. 

                                         II. 

Listen to the dead. We can get you 
                            there from here     (a dark space 

and forgotten – we)    in the place      where dead mice 
                            are just 
dead mice. 

You have returned home to un-
bury us. Home with its bent knee & cold

dirt in the fur. Home with its flick 
                           of hair like white rabbits. In our flanks 

secrets. In your hips, men
crying
in your skin, animal bones, your memories –

ghosts in
                           the cornfield            & searching.

Stephanie Bryant Anderson