Spirals & Shards: Pagan Poetry from the Back of the Heart

By Raven Kaldera

To be a Pagan is to live in a world that is alive, all around you. Trees and stones and rivers have lives and spirits of their own. Gods send omens in the rustle of leaves, the advertisement in the mailbox, the song on the radio. I called this book Pagan Poetry from the Back of the Heart because so many of us write these poems in solitude, not for any other eyes, just scribbled down because we saw and felt and had to do something. These poems are from the part of the heart not often seen, the reclusive part that writes in the wee hours and then carefully saves what may never be seen. We tuck them away, between the old outworn toys from our childhood and the travel brochures for the trip we'll never take. One day, perhaps someone will want them. Who knows

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257312139

Raven Kaldera

Raven Kaldera is a Northern Tradition Pagan shaman who has been a practicing astrologer since 1984 and a Pagan since 1986. The author of Northern Tradition for the Solitary Practitioner and MythAstrology and coauthor, with Kenaz Filan, of Drawing Down the Spirits, Kaldera lives in Hubbardston, Massachusetts.

Book preview

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Part 1

Walking In The World

Numerology

Jules Crandall

One is the number, one the start;

The dark beat quickens in the new-formed heart.

A new soul lights up the dawning sky,

And self and Self look eye to eye.

Wanderer, always and never alone,

Look to the soul for your only home.

Two is the number, two the sides,

The mirror image with the Self collides.

Gold is the sun, silver the moon,

Double the paths of the partner’s rune.

Yin and yang in the heart unfold;

The scales may tilt but the balance holds.

Three is the number, three the odds,

The magic, the charm, the names of the gods.

The third face lifts the steel to the kill

As we bow our souls to the Triple will.

Knowledge comes from the unseen sea,

And time and tide will hold the key.

Four is the number, four the square,

The drumbeats measure in the frosty air.

Straight is the rudder, steady the helm;

From the tiniest seed grows the giant elm.

Earth, air, water, and fire to burn,

Time rolls on as the seasons turn.

Five is the number, five the fall,

The Horned God dances to the wild wind’s call.

Five the rays on man and star

And no one knows where the sea-dreams are.

The ships sail in bearing life’s bright song,

And the wheel of fortune rolls the world along.

Six is the number, six the flow;

The river runs on where the heart should go.

The artist’s hands, skill without peace,

Mold the senses into a masterpiece.

In love and harmony find your charms,

And take the shamrocks from a lover’s arms.

Seven the number, seven the blade,

Rend the veil and the mystery fades.

Feel no content with what is known—

Relativity is the philosopher’s stone.

Gods are made of many things;

From microchips to faerie rings.

Eight the number, eight the stride,

The earthly hearts through the rich fields ride.

Forward the step, ambition the mood,

The builder of empires in solitude broods.

Life will spring from the warmth of home,

Anchored firm in the mountain’s stone.

Nine is the number, nine the world,

Valiant the banners of glory unfurled.

Compassion and mercy will heal the rift,

For a helping hand is the greatest gift.

The Muses dance in a spiral ring;

From the spiral dance all life must spring.

Ten is the number, ten the fight,

The atom shatters in a blade of light.

The man-star glistens on throat and brow

As man’s hands reach for his ancient vow.

Far from the pull of earth’s warm cry,

Steel and fire tear a hole in the sky.

Eleven the number, eleven the wheel,

Inspiration can wound or heal.

Chameleon change of soul and form,

The gypsy’s laugh echoes through the storm.

Tools can be life or death in the hand—

Against time and tide no soul can stand.

Twelve the number, twelve the last,

Ruler of future, present and past.

Twelve the fates in the wheel of the sky;

The chains of loss are wings to fly.

Twelve watchers for the king’s last call,

The zenith and the final fall.

Thirteen the number, thirteen the center,

The dark place that you fear to enter.

The cauldron-womb you fear to see,

The gift that does not come for free.

The moons float by in splendor fey,

We must live the cycle or be swept away.

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Crow

Elizabeth Vongvisith

Old crow, old Crow,

show me the way through

those boundaries I cannot alter

with a wish or a prayer;

teach me how to cross over

from one state of being

to the one state of being,

dance with me under

the stark bare trees of early,

early spring, when the world

holds its breath before

leaping with both feet

into the churning meltwater,

and help me to be

undaunted and unafraid.

When you cock your head

that certain way, Crow, do you see

between the worlds, past

the gates of Hel or perhaps

into the lands of the Blessed,

full of mystical light?

Or both at the same time,

death and dark inertia coupled

with never-ending radiance

in your bright, clever gaze?

Do you see me as I am, or

as I would be, or both?

I would have you as my guide,

Raven’s little brother, or bother,

as we sneak in and out of places

we shouldn’t be, cast

stones at those in glass houses

and riot in the treetops

among your raucous kin

while they fume and swear

at us, unreachable in day or dark,

pouting and shaking their fists.

I would get into trouble,

your trouble, and understand,

appreciate, revel and delight in

what it is to turn the order of things

inside-out and upside-down

since that seems to happen

an awful lot to me, anyway.

Old crow, old Crow,

dancer in the shadows,

triumphant thief of the sun,

come with me, gliding on

your satin-feathered wings

as black as the heart of darkness

and tell me your anecdotes and fables

while we fly from one side of the world

to the other side of the