The witch has powers

February 4, 2020

Among the archetypes, the witch is a fascinating figure. When someone calls another “a witch,” we know exactly what they mean. The witch has powers. She is uncanny and unholy. She lives outside the borders of civilization and has been ostracized because her ways stand in opposition to accepted values, thus challenging our own impulse to conform. To not conform, especially as women, puts us at risk of being called a witch (or the rhyming word that begins with a B).

Ann and Barry Ulanov wrote in The Witch and the Clown: Two Archetypes of Human Sexuality:

“The witch figure presents an awesome image of the primordial feminine concern with herself. Maternal life spends itself like life’s blood flowing outward to nourish the sounds and bodies of loved ones. In the witch figure, life flows inward and downward to fuel the dark recesses of a woman’s psyche or a man’s anima.”

The witch reminds us there may well be unnamable and untamable aspects of ourselves where passions stagnate and fester. What parts of us don’t fit into the conventional idealized feminine? Do we harbour an urge that wishes to transgress and to cross borders? Historically, innocent women have been tortured and killed because the prevailing masculine rule feared female sexuality.

Dale M. Kushner
Mothers, Witches, and the Power of Archetypes

Matches for playthings

December 5, 2019

Sex is, directly or indirectly, the most powerful weapon in the armoury of the Magician; and precisely because there is no moral guide, it is indescribably dangerous. I have given a great many hints, especially in Magick , and The Book of Thoth — some of the cards are almost blatantly revealing; so I have been rapped rather severely over the knuckles for giving children matches for playthings. My excuse has been that they have already got the matches, that my explanations have been directed to add conscious precautions to the existing automatic safeguards.

Aleister Crowley
Magick Without Tears

It’s all in a name –

November 30, 2019


November 10, 2019

Magick is the process by which various parts of the God/dess are transformed or rearranged into new manifestations or arrangements.

Wicca study group UK


November 9, 2019

I wish I were a magician. I would cast a spell to remove all your uncertainties. Kiss you and take away all your fears. Instead I’m here, waiting for my turn to make mistakes again, trying again.

The Witch is embedded in our minds as the figure of nightmares, coded as a metaphor, an association. She is one of us only in touch with the supernatural and in possession of otherworldly wisdom. As such, Witches have historically provided a perfect canvas for projection of human pettiness, fear of the unknown and the all-encompassing mystery that is woman. Along came film, extending a powerful outlet for visual re-enactment of our collective imagination, and viola  —  the Witch has form, shape, a broom, a cat, warts, a hut, crystal ball and whatnot. The figure is now embroidered in imagery, and her universal presence is as fiercely visual as it is elusive.

Sonja Baksa

Witch! Witch! She is a Witch! ?

Web of Dreams

March 5, 2019

She wove a web of dreams
made of love and sex
trapping his heart to the spells
of witchcraft brewing
in the dark cauldrons
of the forbidden realms
hidden within the colours
of seduction swirling
in the magic of her eyes

his blood was poisoned
with a desire for the hands
he would never hold
his soul infected with a longing
for a heart he would never touch
helpless to burn in a love
he could only feel

a love she would never see

or touch

or know

and he lays trapped
in her web of dreams
forever lost
to the charms and spells
of her magic and witchcraft

helpless to the madness
of the rhythm of voodoo
drumming and beating wildly
under the bones of his ribs
his heart burning
for the song of her name
both forever and never hers

Akira Chinen

Cast a spell –

February 24, 2019

If I had the power, I’d cast a spell to make the bastard jack off on the hour every hour regardless of his location; and then have him eat wasps for tea on Sunday.


December 11, 2018

Cursed black heart,
Cursed gold heart striped with black;
Thighs and breasts I have loved;
Lips virgin to my thought,
Sweeter to me than red figs;
Lying tongue that I have cherished.
Is my heart wicked?
Are my eyes turned against too bright a
Do I dazzle, and fear what I cannot see?
It is grievous to lose the heart from the
Death which tears flesh from flesh is a
grievous thing;
But death is cool and kind compared to
This horror which bleeds and kindles,
These kisses shot with poison,
These thoughts cutting me like red knives,
Swift rider on the clashing clouds,
Ruler over brass heavens,
Mighty ruler of the souls of men,
Be merciless to me if I mistake this
As I will be merciless if I learn a bitter
I burn green oil to you,
Fresh oil from fair young olives,
I pour it upon the ground;
As it drips I invoke your clemency
To send a sign.
Witches are moon-birds,
Witches are the women of the false,
beautiful moon.
To-night the sign
Maker of men and gods.
To-night when the full-bellied moon
swallows the stars.
Grant that I know.
Then will I offer you a beastly thing and
a broken;
Or else the seed of both
To be your messengers and slaves forever,
My sons, and my sons’ sons, and their
sons after;
And my daughters and theirs throughout
the ages
For your handmaidens and bedfellows as
you command.
How the white sword flickers!
How my body twists in the circle of my
Behold, I have loved this woman,
Even now I cry for her,
My arms weaken,
My legs shake and crumble.
Strengthen my thews,
Cord my sinews to withstand a testing.
Let me be as iron before this thing,
As flashing brass to see,
As lightning to fall;
As rain melting before sunshine it I have
wronged the woman.
The red flame takes the oil,
The blood of my trees is sucked into fire
As my blood is sucked into the fire of
your wrath and mercy,
O just and vengeful God.”

Body touches body. How sweet the
spread of loosened bodies in the coil
of sleep, but a gold-black thread is
between them. An owl calls deep
in the wood.
Can you see through the night, woman,
that you stare so upon it? Man,
what spark do your eyes follow in
the smouldering darkness?
She stirs. Again the owl calling. She
rises. Foot after foot as a panther
treads, through the door—a minute
more and the fringes of her goat-
skin are brushing the bushes. She
pushes past brambles, the briars
catch little claws in her goat-skin.
And he who watches? As the tent –
lap flaps back, he leaps. The bearer
of the white sword leaps, and follows
her. Blur of moonshine before —
behind. He walks by the light of a
green-oil oath, and the full moon
floats above them both.
Seeded grass is a pool of grey. Ice-white,
cloud-white, frosted with the spray
of the sharp-edged moon. Croon—
croon—the wind in the feathered
tops of the grass. They pass—the
witch-white woman with the gold-
black heart, the flower-white woman
—and his eyes startle, and answer
the bow curve of her going up the hill.
The night is still, with the wind, and the
moon, and an owl calling.

On the sea side of a hill where the grass
lies tilted to a sheer drop down,
with the sea splash under as the
waves are thrown upon a tooth of
rock. Shock and shatter of a golden
track, and the black sucking back.
The draw of his breath is hard and
cold, the draw of the sea is a rustle
of gold.
Behind a curl of granite stone the man
lies prone. The woman stands like
an obelisk, and her blue-black hair
has a serpent whisk as the wind lifts
it up and scatters it apart. Witch-
heart, are you gold or black? The
woman stands like a marble tower,
and her loosened hair is a thunder-
shower twisted across with lightnings
of burnt gold.

Naked and white, the matron moon urges
the woman. The undulating sea
fingers the rocks and winds stealthily
over them. She opens the goat-skin
wide—it falls.
The walls of the world are crashing down,
she is naked before the naked moon,
the Mother Moon, who sits in a
courtyard of emerald with six black
slaves before her feet. Six—and a
white seventh who dances, turning
in the moonlight, flinging her arms
about the soft air, despairingly lift-
ing herself to her full height, strain-
ing tiptoe away from the slope of
the hill.
Witch-breasts turn and turn, witch-
thighs burn, and the feet strike al-
ways faster upon the grass. Her
blue-black hair in the moon-haze
blazes like a fire of salt and myrrh.
Sweet as branches of cedar, her
arms; fairer than heaped grain, her
legs; as grape clusters, her knees and
ankles; her back as white grapes with
smooth skins.

She runs through him with the whipping
of young fire. The desire of her is
thongs and weeping. She is the green
oil to his red flame. He peers from
the curl of granite stone. He hears
the moan of the crawling sea, and
sees—as the goat-skin falls so the
flesh falls….
And the triple Heaven-wall falls down,
and the Mother Moon on a ruby
throne is near as a bow-shot above
the hill.
Goat-skin, here, flesh-skin there, a skele-
ton dancing in the moon-green air,
with a white, white skull and no
hair. Lovely as ribs on a smooth sand
shore, bright as quartz-stones speck-
ling a moor, long and narrow as
Winter reeds, the bones of the skel-
eton. The wind in the rusty grass
hums a humeral-chant sat to a jig.
Dance, silver bones, dance a whirl-
igig in a crepitation of lust. The
waves are drums beating with
slacked guts. Inside the skeleton is
a gold heart striped with black, it
glitters through the clacking bones,
throwing an inverted halo round the
stamping feet.

Scarlet is the ladder dropping from the
moon. Liquid is the ladder—like
water moving yet keeping its shape.
The skeleton mounts like a great grey ape,
and its bones rattle; the rattle of the
bones is the crack of dead trees
bitten by frost. The wind is desolate,
and the sea moans.
But the ruby chair of Mother Moon
shudders, and quickens with a hard
fire. The skeleton has reached the
last rung. It melts and is absorbed
in the burning moon. The moon?
No moon, but a crimson rose afloat
in the sky. A rose? No rose, but a
black-tongued lily. A lily? No lily,
but a pruple orchid with dark, writh-
ing bars.

Trumpets mingle with the sea-drums,
scalding trumpets of brass, the wind-
hum changes to a wail of many
voices, the owl has cased calling.

“White sword are you thirsty?
I give you the green blood of my heart.
I give you her white flesh cast from her
black soul.
Vengeful and cruel Father,
God of Hate,
The skins of my eyes have dropped,
With fire you have consumed the oil of
my heart.
Take my drunken sword,
Some other man may need it.
She was sweeter than red figs,
O cursed God!”

Amy Lowell

The Sabbat Song

October 25, 2018

Sleep is waking, waking sleep
we ride the broom across the deep,
fair is foul and foul is fair
by bee and cat, by hound and hare,
the living die and the dying live
we turn the shears and the sieve,
light is darkness, darkness light
to farers through the mystic night,
up is down and down is up
to seekers of the cauldron-cup,
lords are churls and churls are lords
we leap across the bridge of swords,
birth is death and death is birth
we tread the paths beneath the earth,
Bride is Hag and Hag is Bride
Between the times we rage and ride,
day is night and night is day
for farers on the witching way.

Nigel Jackson
Call of the horned piper