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| "Infernal Apparition" by Paul Lormier, 1848 |
Lilith. (and the lilītu?)
Dark Moon, She is (they are). But I shall explain...
"The energy of the evening was lacking & what little there had been died away in an unceremonious manner. At an unusually early hour, the other women -- now more than vaguely disaffected -- meandered home, leaving just the two of us & the Night. She stood, I sat. I looked up at her & realized how much & in how many ways I will miss her. She has always struck me as unusually carefree & a touch New-Agegy, but not tonight. This was supposed to be our parting, but she was mad, mad, mad. There was room now to speak of taboos -- that which has left us all reeling inside but was left unsaid. Instead of exchanging pleasantries, we shared our chagrin. Raising her rich, full, singer's voice in disgust, she shrieked, 'Why the fuck do we train for this shit if we do not use it for anything?!? The time is over! No more messing around -- if you know how to do Magick, do it people!'"
Who said this? Was it the dark, luscious woman before me, or was it... Her?
As far as I can tell, the Earth has split open & one large, festering pustule of human loathing has been loosed from its containment. (Not that it is the only one.)
So be it.
(as long as those of us with any wit do not remain idly grazing in the pastures)
***
The Works. So many, so little time.
I began an ambitious project a year or so ago (one of many, believe me) -- a shrine to Lilith.
It is not for me, it is for Her.
It has waited patiently for me to complete it, but the time for patience is over. Her rage & despair are mine. They are ours.
May Her fire be unleashed & may Her steely, self-assured grit carry us through the unwanted Darkness (there is a difference). I will do my part to facilitate this.
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| Rupi Kaur, artist, poet, woman. |
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| Segovia Amil, artist, poet, woman. |
Use your Magicks*, Women.
And remember this: The moon lives in the lining of your skin.
***
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| Like the feline, She sleeps ever so lightly. The Moon/La Luna, from Patrick Valenza's Trionfi Della Luna & Trionfi Della Luna Paradoxical limited ed. sets. |
The Esbat... not something I would normally associate with Lilith, a Dark Moon sort of creature. I am not one for Dark Moons (or Lilith really) until now & that stems purely from an elephantine indignation shared with so many of my kind.
Women:
We are magnificent.
Thus, it is in a kind of tangled web of Moon forces, womanhood & sheer exasperation that I present the poetry for this Esbat.
Ode to Naked Beauty, by Pablo Neruda
With a chaste heart
With pure eyes I celebrate your beauty
Holding the leash of blood
So that it might leap out and trace your outline
Where you lie down in my Ode
As in a land of forests or in surf
In aromatic loam, or in sea music
Beautiful nude
Equally beautiful your feet
Arched by primeval tap of wind or sound
Your ears, small shells
Of the splendid American sea
Your breasts of level plentitude
Fulfilled by living light
Your flying eyelids of wheat
Revealing or enclosing
The two deep countries of your eyes
The line your shoulders have divided into pale regions
Loses itself and blends into the compact halves of an apple
Continues separating your beauty down into two columns of
Burnished gold
Fine alabaster
To sink into the two grapes of your feet
Where your twin symmetrical tree burns again and rises
Flowering fire
Open chandelier
A swelling fruit
Over the pact of sea and earth
From what materials
Agate?
Quartz?
Wheat?
Did your body come together?
Swelling like baking bread to signal silvered hills
The cleavage of one petal
Sweet fruits of a deep velvet
Until alone remained
Astonished
The fine and firm feminine form
It is not only light that falls over the world spreading inside your body
Yet suffocate itself
So much is clarity
Taking its leave of you
As if you were on fire within
The moon lives in the lining of your skin.
Extra Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends. You may need them.
*We all have them. What is yours?
(If you have no answer to this question, find it.)
3 comments:
Once again you've touched me in that place...I don't know the name of that spot, it's like an itch you can't find, a hunger that food won't satisfy...the spot is like a switch. And when it flips I want to strip down and run naked through the woods and shriek like a night bird or a demon cat in heat, or walk the city streets and leave my scat on the monuments of famous dead ravagers and rapists.
I recognize that spot. It is difficult to satisfy.
You might like this book I just finished: Lilith: Queen of the Desert by Anya Kless. It is a devotional anthology of sorts. Some of the pieces I am not particularly fond of, others are quite stirring.
<3
Thinks I'll add it to my list!
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