It’s the last day of March, and thus, like a few years ago, I really need to tie up all the loose ends of PantheaCon 2014 so I can move forward with the rest of the year. It’s really hard for me to believe that PantheaCon was finished over forty days ago…it feels like infinitely longer than that, and yet it also seems like it was just yesterday, in certain respects. I don’t know that I’ve truly “caught up” with my life after returning from it…it doesn’t quite feel like it, and certain things that are still not done from before it are still not done now.
But, as of the end of this post, this last thing will be, and then I can do a recap post after this with everything, in case you want to more easily refer to some of these matters in the future.
So, what is there left to do, you might ask? Well, write poetry, of course!
One other thing needs a poem after PantheaCon this past year, and I’m doing it not only because it does deserve it, but because I was able to spend so little actual time with the matter concerned, but it deserves a great deal more than that. What I am referring to, of course, is the Coru Cathubodua’s temple to the Morrígan. Thus, without further ado, here’s the poem.
Isin Tempul na Morrígnae
A house–not woven–with four walls
in a hostel with ten full halls
for a few days was given to Her
with raven’s feathers and wolf’s fur.
Refuge of heroes from far lands
with silence, darkness, image stands
so that offerings at Her feet
might be given on ground not peat.
Devotees in droves to the place
came for prayers before Her face
and warriors of the past drank
fine liquors at fulacht‘s bank.
No house for Her, like raven’s flight,
no house, like lonely wolves at night;
for Her, no roof-beam, no cow’s shed,
for Her, no floor, like eel’s stream-bed…
But for a time, precious few days
when tribes gather in older ways
a home, at last, She had again
that praise continues, or begins.
A healing prayer to Her I speak
for broken foot and scald-crow’s beak,
for shattered rib and wounded eye
in words the Hound spoke not awry.
Morrígan, great crow, phantom queen
of sovereignty and battle’s scream
and prophecy, to you praise falls
in house–not woven–with four walls.
Ad-rae buaidh ocus bennacht, a Mhorrígan!
Bendachta Dé ocus An-Dé fort!
Victory and blessings to you, O Morrígan!
The blessings of the God and the Non-Gods be upon you!