teachings of a modern spiritual adept
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Poetry

where mystery, emptiness, and form are expressed with twilight language in verse

After Loki

After Loki I was the first to borrow Freyja’s cloak of falcon feathers. I flew to you. Flew across centuries and oceans. I could not bear the separation and so, not finding you quickly enough, I consulted the Thrice Burnt Thrice Born, the she-witch Gullvieg. She spoke:

                 “I am sorry but there is nothing I can say that would not 
                   perchance dismantle, denude, destroy the careful 
                   contrivance you call “your life.” And so,

                   I laid down on pine bow bed, wildflower, arch of bones,
                   Viking feast in the halls of Folkvangr. I practiced the s
                                                                                                         e
                                                                                                         x
magic of the old Norse: dwarves painted on the sides of barn timbers,
                                       the deep pull of ancient wells,
                                       the sorcery of touch wood,
                                                              skin bag
                                                              ermine gloves.

Due to my being a man, she would not at first see me. But she was Freyja’s sister and so  I told her it was of you. I knew she would understand the backward way of love; I told her you are my household. I told her that without you I have no poetry. She laughed like  lunacy. “Love’s unknowings outweigh human contrivances,” she whispered.

            She burnt plants: henbane, mushroom, pine sap. 
            She unmade man-ness, took away gendering.
            She went to her loom, loosened a knot in the woof,
            the ways in which you were hidden were undone. 

            She tied a knot, the enemy was bound.
            She made me a finder of futures and pasts.

That unsane sister tied the words ‘yours’ ‘mine’ to colored thread and wove them into the community of messengers – the bird headed females called envoys of sagas. Then and there I unbecame and became again. Now, unlike that odd species called “men,” I am not endangered (or engendered) by womanly freedoms….

Now when I die I will go with the half who journey to Freyja; let the men who only know battle go to Odin. - t.k.

t.k., tsogyelgar, traktung khepa

 

Priya Tsomo