A winter exorcism (an ode to the Morrigan)

I admit the message is a bit ambiguous, if not flat out disturbing: She who inflames anger and violence — the warrior’s rage — also provides for its catharsis. Indifference and rage can both kill. The Morrigan, however, is an ambiguous figure herself — like Kali of the burning ghat, dancing the world’s destruction. She and the dance are neither good nor evil; they simply are. How hard that is to express in a world obsessed with hierarchical dualism!

Oh, the taste of it on the tongue!
Steel. An icycle edge. Deep ice.
A coldness so keen, its touch burns
pine tips, torches the ridge with white.

Cold etches blue whorls on my face.
It strips me of armor, my skin
bared to the bullets of the wind,
lover’s embrace of the tundra.

Let Her fire fill you with wildness.
Return the cold blow with the hot,
a steel clash so loud it rips the
veil of silence from the secret.

Phantom Queen, she turns all lands to
the pyre of our hate, of grievance
methodically stacked as for a hearth.
It waits for your brand, that tinder.

Let Her fire fill you with wildness.
Do nothing — but dance, pound your feet
into the ash. Sweat drives out cold.
Pounding feet still the killing blow.

Let Her fire fill you with wildness.
Fire and ice: both kill the world
and create it. It’s all the dance.
Oh, the taste of it on the tongue!

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About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
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