Incantation for Large Projects

Tags

Elaine Stirling, Finno-Ugric, incantation, Kalevala, Law of Attraction, Louhi, manifestation, poetry, rhyme, rune singing, The Corporate Storyteller, trochaic meter, Väinämöinen, vibrational reality

The place of space the rhyme
of time and lure of pure they’re
coaxed divine from habiting
the daily fix of nothing wrong
and all is right in actions
that are fractioned whole
in one the swing relies on eyes’
horizon for the sun to rise
in time with every little
thing that flies in face
of parent and apparent and
a child who will lead us through
the turbulence and sing
us into opulence if that
be our desire and if not it
doesn’t matter for the babe
knows how to shatter every
obstacle that clatters in the
pestilence and virulence of
subjugating innocent momentum
is the starting gate of effervescent
practicums that go and come
and go and come with escalating
thunder drums and rainbows
with the promise of…

done oh yes oh done oh yes oh done oh
yes oh done oh yes oh done oh yes oh done
oh yes oh done oh yes oh done oh yes oh done

oh YES!

~~~

NOTE: The Kalevala meter of this incantation was practiced by shamans, both male and female, of the ancient Finno-Ugric nations, of whom Louhi and Väinämöinen may be the most famous practitioners.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

–Image from Amazing World
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Awaken, Hero! A Coded Poem

Tags

Castaneda, cognitive systems, don Juan Matus, Elaine Stirling, erotica, kundalini, Levantine lore, Meso-American mysteries, nagual, numerology, Quetzalcoatl, sacred geometry, Shekhinah, zero point field

Acrostic with adult content: Reader discretion advised

~~~

Seduction is One fine art, don’t you think?
Elevating thrill of Two bodies above all others
Recreating Eden with Three small words, I want you.
Perhaps you’ve heard me whisper, Four play designed to
Excite new moistures. Shame, you haven’t. Well, Five thousand
Nubile virgin queens await my instruction at Six, dripping beauty,
Thirsty for what you once gave, while Seven radiant gods pleasure me
In canticles. I summoned you Eight days ago, hero, and entered your
Night dreams boldly with Nine new positions
And straddled you at Ten years you wandered
Addled by my charms; Nine lives you’ve thrown away and
Now you are begging for what, Eight more?
If only things rose for you as they once did—Seven
Times a day, at your least; in one go, Six women,
No limits then to the power of a Five-wakened man,
Ecstatic. Happily, I say, the Four-cornered square turns diamond again
Positioning eternally Three men at the service of the spring-ripe
Regina, hungry at Two strokes past midnight I will arrive naked,
Egregious, my One hand wrapped around your feathered
Serpent, the other cupping Zero.

© Elaine Stirling, 2011
Image of “Eve Tempted” by William Blake

Lord of Bubbles

Tags

ancient deities, demonology, Elaine Stirling, emotional disorders, mythology, poetry

I

Today they call him Beelzebub,
lord of the flies, high-ranking demon
ward of gluttony and pride, and deemed
the adjutant to Satan, dark lord of us all.

To me, though, he was Baal, sweet
lord of grain and plenitude, of rain and
mighty feats, a Philistine whose way
with words caught hold the ear of
jealous kings. In armour bronze, they
marched to Ekron, to our city fair, they
felled our walls and temples, burned the
olive groves where Baal and his disciples,
I among them, met in secret counsel, his
dispellants we would learn. Repel them he
did not, but let them drag our lord to their
harsh failing lands, demanding that he
use his cursed magic to reverse what
they had made with bubbled,
closed minds.

II

And this he did, my sweet lord
Baal, he popped them, one by one,
restoring clarity to vision scaled by enmity
and self-declared divinity; the people in the
fields they saw him first, their grain replied
with multiple abundancy and next the
merchants found their wares swift
flying from their booths—it’s Bab-El
opened once again, they cried, the
holy Gate of God, praise Baal, aleluia,
all praise to our Lord Baal!

III

Who killed my lord for his
good works, I cannot say,
for jealousy has ears that
stretch across millennia, the
demon vice possessiveness
roams free and undetected
in our bubbled minds today.

They sent his body home to
us in rags; by then the flies
were feasting on his heart
and spleen; the mockers
had their way—oh look, haha,
it’s Baal, lord of the flies!

IV

The demon of the now
and then that calls itself
the dark lord isn’t real;
oppressor of the spirit light,
discourager of words, it offers
up depressive prayers that
medicate but never heal; in
pendulum she swings and
thinks himself both clever
and magnanimous in gloom.
If Baal were here—indeed,
he is—the true beseech to our
kind popper, Lord of Bubbles,
might be said like this:

Dear Baal, If I can’t be
your time and space and
bounce upon your springs
and steal your sexuality, I’ll
tell you what you feel and think,
a copier, opinionate, and if I can’t,
I’ll be the rug, pro bono, ‘neath your
feet, sweet writhing, I shall flatten
like the sole fish bottom feeder
that I sold in market once to you;
just do not leave me here entombed,
I pray, oh Baal, horned deity of plenitude,
inside this bubble head where fend I
must these nasty yapping foul-faced,
screeching, solar/lunar moods!

~~~
©Elaine Stirling, 2012

From Aladdin’s Journal

Tags

1001 Nights revisited, Elaine Stirling, mythology, poetry

The carpet of life
rolls out before you
and vanishes behind.
All that you pull with you
of the vanished carpet
is the death of you
waiting
waiting
to die.

~

Just because
the poet speaks
in metaphor does
not mean her
patience
with stupidity
is infinite.

~

The genie once
released never
willingly enters
the bottle again.

~

Words of the jinn are
consolation to the sober man,
torture to the drunk.

~

Behold this shapely vessel
with sigils lightly carved:
Rub me once for curiosity
twice for adventure
but beware,
be fully aware
of the third rub.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2012

in support of odd, sundered

Tags

Delphi, Elaine Stirling, Eleusinian Mysteries, manifestation, poetry, self-knowledge

constraint of form supports

Aegeus, King of Athens, consulting the Delphic Oracle

a pattern that creates

a world view

the poet

who views

molecular exchange or

perhaps subatomic in

the cringing of indifference

smashing ecstasies of pain

expresses form beyond

the cosmic through

continued lack of

interest in constraint

may one day find

that she is freed of it

while second third and

fourth who imitate

support the pattern

that creates a world view

***

The poem and title owe their existence to a discourse led by Ammonius, teacher of Plutarch, On the ‘E’ at Delphi, specifically, this passage: “…when we divide the several numbers into equal segments, the even parts asunder perfectly, and leaves inside a sort of recipient principle or space; if the odd is treated the same way, a middle part is always left over, which is generative.”

© Elaine Stirling, 2012

Waltzing with Lovecraft

Tags

dreams, Elaine Stirling, Halloween, horror, HP Lovecraft, poetry

After saying goodnight to my lover

H.P. Lovecraft (1890-1937)

. . . one, two, three . . . one, two, three

and hearing a strange beat in my head

. . . two, three . . . two three

I poured a warm snifter of brandy,

returned, feeling chilled, to my bed.

~

I drew up the satiny covers,

turned off the last of the lights

and recalling the thrill of his mouth

on my skin, I wasn’t prepared

for a lone violin in the dark

of the room in the loneliest

corner where I’d oft thought of

you, where I tore up the letters

and told you we’re through, now

a gypsy lament slowly bled into

view, silver threads like a matrix

of stardust and dew—two, three

~

one, two, three                                

one, two, three

~

I dove like a dormouse to the foot

of my bed, but the music continued

to weave through my dread, and I

felt a cold hand on the back of my

head and a voice softly saying,

the Waltz of the Dead is a song

that I love and I ask you, dear

lady, to give me the chance of a

dance, of a dance, of a dance,

two, three . . . two three.

~

He was tall and tuxedoed,

exceedingly thin and he smelled

of bay rum with a lavender tinge

of the graveyards he loved. Though

it shouldn’t have been my immediate

choice to accept the cold hand or to

notice the grin creeping through my

chagrin, there was something hypnotic

and weirdly erotic in the way

he reached out, and he called me

by name, and the one, two, three

beat of the the Waltz of the Dead

was arousing a strange kind of

heat in my toes and my head,

so I rose from the covers to find

I was donned in a gown of deep

red, not of silk, something fluid,

I really don’t know, but I saw from

the glint in his eyes he approved.

~

So we danced, yes, we danced

to the tune of a waltz through a

chandeliered hall where presidents,

singers and painters whose names

you’d recall though their graves are

well trod, were laughing and dancing

with hardly a care, and my partner

who’d written of madness and grief

through a terrible life was now light

on his feet and quite absent of strife,

and it gave me relief on this Hallowéd

Eve to know that the sorrows we

choose to perceive are but shadowy

steps of an infinite dance that is

leading us boldly to new circumstance.

~

After he’d shown me the realms

of the dead and my shoes were

danced off and my gown felt as

heavy as ribbons of lead, my sweet

new friend Lovecraft returned me

to bed where I drifted off gently

with dialogue, chapters and scenes

in my head of how we are weaving

through each other’s dreams and

how nothing has ever been, nothing

will ever be—one, two, three, one

two, three—bad as it seems.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2012

Ayenbite of Inwit

Tags

Elaine Stirling, Michael of Northgate, middle English, poetry, Prick of Conscience, remorse

How I would have loved

to speak of codes and antipodes

Artist unknown

with learned minds amid the oak

and pines of Kent with you; as

I recall, you were the cleric, senior

monk with tonsured head and

stoopéd gait that I mistook, most

stupidly for piety.

~

From dawn to dusk I scribed

your blighted notes that rambled

on loquaciously; you wouldn’t

stay to read or clarify, you had

your rounds among the villagers,

lost souls to save ‘neath petticoats

in haystacks, your long face held

grave as if to prove the earthly

weight of lust was greater than

the trust you hung on me like

shackles wove from brier.

~

Highwaymen, they say, know best

a naïve spirit when she crosses their

dark path; a weasel, your familiar,

snowy white, they say you saved it

from a trap—no doubt, you did, for

had you not saved thousands over

time from lives of quiet equity to battle

some messiah-like debauchery they

never would have known, if not

for you? I know your bite.

~

Now the twenty-seventh day

of this dark month has come again;

we stare across a precipice of space

and time; and though I glare, I am

quite safe from you and your

dominions with their lies and

dragon lairs of disappointment.

~

Seen enough, I’ll tap the final drops

of ink from off this quill and throw the

coded messages I squandered my

good life—and nearly this one too—

to write into the River Brill, ne’ermore

your ayenbite of inwit to uphold.

~

NOTE: On October 27, 1340, a Benedictine monk named Michael of Northgate completed a book called Ayenbite of Inwit, Kentish (middle English) for Prick of Conscience or Remorse. Literally translated, the title means “again-bite” of “inner knowledge”.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2012 (October 27)

Women of Fire, Center of Calm

Tags

Elaine Stirling, form poetry, French Renaissance, Inquisition, Marguerite of Navarre

During the 16^th century reign of Marguerite d’Angouleme, mystic queen of Navarre and author of Heptaméron, there lived at the crossroads near a village a wise woman, a witch of Saxon blood named Frances Clammety. Frances was

Marguerite of Navarre, known. as the Pearl of pearls, (1492-1549); portrait attributed to Jean Clouet or Leonardo daVinci.

born with a turned-in foot, considered a sign of the devil, and would have been drowned at infancy had not the cook of the royal kitchens taken pity on her, tending and raising the child near the great hearth ovens.

The following poem honours Marguerite and Frances in the form of a septime, an 8-stanza, 52-line poem that repeats a sequence of seven end words with a final envoi, a “setting forth” of seven-within-three lines. The word Heptaméron sources from Greek and means seven days. By means of this numeric doubling, we may draw closer to the healthful spirits of two fearless women and thereby raise our own spirits.

Women of Fire, Center of Calm

Hark ye, of darkened minds and sorrowing closed

hearts, draw near the fire to a time when pearl

of pearls, who held the throne with views oblique

and provident, had need of powers greater than the rank

ungodly priests, asphyxiating Christ upon His cross

with inquisitions, north and south, their storming

clouds fast blowing to Navarre a deadly cause.

~

The Saxon witch whom fools in their jesting cause

named France’s Calamity was tending pots of rank

and bitter herbs when did the carriage on a storming

eve arrive with inquiring royal blood. It is the pearl,

thought Frances, of whom I’ve dreamed. She closed

her book of spells and kissed the wooden cross

which hung beside the door, scarred and oblique.

~

O bleak they are, these times, said she of rank

noblesse who, cloaked and shivering, closed

the cottage door behind them. I bring a cause,

good Frances, that has need of your effect. Across

these mountains darkening forces rise, the pearl

of humanity to kill. I’ve heard your skills oblique

and true can overturn even the greatest storming.

~

The bawdy humour of the queen did cross

the sharply mind of Frances, who gazed oblique

upon her guest. It’s not your life, M’lady, or rank

you seek to save, but that of deeper storming.

‘Tis so, said Marguerite, I bring the cause

of universal woman and her pleasure-giving pearl

whom churches and weak husbands would see closed.

~

Dependent on no man the vibratory pearl

in darker courts they would excise; my storming

to the king avails me not. The market’s closed,

he says, to women who would claim joy’s cause

outside the marriage-sanctioned bed. He is oblique,

thereby not cruel but jealous guards my husband’s rank.

In sexly arts our swords do often clash and cross.

~

Womb powers rise they will again, storming,

said the witch, but fall ‘neath envious sisters’ cause;

we’ll find no friends of use behind the rugged cross

until we learn the oscillatory holy skills oblique

toward self-reliant stature that God gives holy rank

to mind above all else. Meanwhile, fast closed

we must remain to wrongful claimaints of our pearl.

~

The magicks that ‘twixt witch and queen oblique

transpired no earthly records ever will you cross,

to safeguard knowledge of the dew-kissed pearl

they buried casks with ancient secrets amid closed

and hidden chambers with impassioned storming;

their works, as one, assured deep pleasure’s cause

that would arouse both sexes to an everlasting rank.

~

If ye be man of goodly cause, embrace the storming

woman at the crossroads. Your rank she’ll lift oblique

by starlit pearl to heavens where no heart is closed.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2012