Poetry for the Esbat: "Unto the Hunter's Moon..." (2014)

Demons with cards under a full Moon,
from Patrick Valenza's "Whispers from an Inkwell." 

We can call it many things; The Blood Moon, Sanguine Moon or in my own previous labelings, the Blood & Bone Moon. In more southerly climes, one may still call this the Harvest Moon, but it's already a little late for us in this bioregion. There is snow on the mountains & we wake in the dark with frost coating most everything outside.

There are those who call it the Hunter's Moon & that makes sense to me because I have noticed that the Moose begin to look both increasingly sexy & decidedly more tasty at this time of year. The bucks begin to resemble long legged sausages & the ladies have such great looking haunches that I struggle with this weird quandary of wondering which I want more -- to have a rump & thighs like that for myself, or to gnaw on said rump & thighs. And thus, the Hunter's Moon.

A plump moose buck lounges on Autumn afternoon.

This is also the time of gearing up for the end of October festivities. I have grappled with Samhain plenty, repeatedly even. And last year's Samhain (which fortunately I had no computer to with which to write about it) was such a colossal misadventure, that I am calling it quits on Samhain. Just give me Hallowe'en, please. 

Cards from Patrick Valenza's
"Whispers from an Inkwell."

This Moon's Poetry for the Esbat reflects this sentiment, an embracing of of the fairy tale, the folklore & festivity that is Halloween. This is not the modern, over commercialized, Hallowe'en box-store caricature of the holiday, but the truly spirited cultural celebration of the unknown, the dark places with the safety & security of a shared venture into the theatre of ambiguity. It is about traditions, about becoming what we are not & using that ruse to enter those places we "shouldn't" go... 

It's also an aesthetic adventure, if you do it well. 

And I am not throwing the baby out with the bathwater, I am simply quite done with other people's versions of this time when the leaves turn & frost nips & strange spirits venture forth to brush elbows with the rest of us. I am done. No more psychodrama, no more tacky materialism, no more reconstructing of the "ancient past," please. I just want to dive into the celebration, swim deep & revel in each moment.

Cards from Patrick Valenza's
"Whispers from an Inkwell."

With this admittedly old fashioned sentiment in mind, I have found a piece submitted to Harper's Weekly in 1910. I suspect the commercialization of Hallowe'en was minimal at that time (at least the vulgar gore was). The poem speaks to the festive aesthetic, the celebration & the mystery. It reminds me of Palmer Cox's Brownie books which I like to read to the children whenever possible. One of the poem's strengths is that it does not neglect the importance of our Lady Moon's influence in all things Hallowe'en & even mentions the monkier "Hunter's Moon" -- perfect for this Esbat. 

I have also included some images of Patrick Valenza's not-exactly-Tarot deck, "Whispers from an Inkwell" which also capture that olde-tyme feeling, albeit a bit less festive than agonized (a mood generally characteristic of Valenza's work).


Hallowe'en, by J . K. Bangs
Published in Harper's Weekly, Nov. 5, 1910


Bring forth the raisins and the nuts--
To-night All Hallows' Spectre struts
Along the moonlit way.
No time is this for tear or sob,
Or other woes our joys to rob,
But time for Pippin and for Bob,
And Jack-o'-lantern gay.

Come forth, ye lass and trousered kid,
From prisoned mischief raise the lid,
And lift it good and high.
Leave grave old Wisdom in the lurch,
Set Folly on a lofty perch,
Nor fear the awesome rod of birch
When dawn illumes the sky.

'Tis night for revel, set apart
To reillume the darkened heart,
And rout the hosts of Dole.
'Tis night when Goblin, Elf, and Fay,
Come dancing in their best array
To prank and royster on the way,
And ease the troubled soul.

The ghosts of all things, past parade,
Emerging from the mist and shade
That hid them from our gaze,
And full of song and ringing mirth,
In one glad moment of rebirth,
Again they walk the ways of earth,
As in the ancient days.

The beason light shines on the hill,
The will-o'-wisps the forests fill
With flashes filched from noon;
And witches on thier broomsticks spry
Speed here and yonder in the sky,
And lift their strident voices high
Unto the Hunter's moon.

The air resounds with tuneful notes
From myriads of straining throats,
All hailing Folly Queen;
So join the swelling choral throng,
Forget your sorrow and your wrong,
In one glad hour of joyous song
To honor Hallowe'en.




Blessings & delight to you this Esbat, my friends.