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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: sea magic

TAKEN FROM THE BOOK OF TIDES: a sonnet sequence

04 Thursday Sep 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

book of tides, poem, Poetry, sea magic, sea witch, sonnet, waiting, women of the wild waves

THE CALL

Sing me up a good storm. Teach me to raise
a wild zephyr from a sun-bleached cottage

lost in fog on the red coast. I can gaze
in a pool to tell your fortune. A bridge

over flowing water is good shelter
from those who would do you harm. But sea-salt

and dried kelp are mysteries. Seafarer
I am not. I’m a child of bones, asphalt

and books, not brine and pink conch. There are flies
on my breasts and my dreams do me no good.

Shells, types of water, the winds; I go down
in my dreams to the bone-crushing depths, rise

into … what? But it calls. The tide, driftwood,
the sea.
If I cannot learn I will drown.

][

NINE WAVES MAGIC

“Utilize the power of the Nine … this spell works best if you cast it on the 9th hour of the 9th day of the 9th month of the year — September 9th at 9 am.” – taken from The Book of Tides.

][

This gray magic of yours from the ocean,
it is neither white nor black; like petrel

bones and shark teeth, it just is. A foreign
concept for those who think only evil

and good make up this world. Sea witchery
must be older than all that; since all life

came from powers that we blithely call sea.
I’ve read tales of the sea-gypsy, fish-wife

and storm-hag, mostly they’re patronizing
since they deal with women of the wild waves;

but they’re the teachers that I need to find.
Somewhere beyond the horizon’s fading

safety let me drift in a boat called Grave’s
End;
taught by those that the land has maligned.

][

“The sand dollar with its perfect 5-pointed star, Nature’s pentagram.” – taken from The Book of Tides.

][

THE RESPONSE

Left at the water’s edge, all that’s been blessed;
gray tools to use if only I knew how.

Winter’s North Wind, Summer’s South. Autumn’s West,
Spring’s East. Shark’s rib. The tooth of a sea-cow.

Flow and ebb, High and Low tide. Fog. Lightning.
Abalone. Clam. Welk. Nautilus. Cockle.

Cowry. Fish hook. Ti leaf. Sea glass. Kelp ring.
Sailor’s knot. Bladderwrack. Ash twig. Coral.

Offerings made into a Book of Tides.
This is as far as I can go. Beyond

this I don’t belong, yet. The sea’s deep gate,
all your tremendous dark, requires guides.

Who will help me fashion my driftwood wand?
I wait. Like all strangers and gods, I wait.

][

note:

The Book of Tides is an online resource that I highly recommend. Someday I hope to learn what the nine waves in Nine Waves Magic actually are.

wily weird sisters

05 Monday Aug 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Celtic mythology, cunnilingus, fabulous bisexuals, love spell, poem, Poetry, sea magic, seal girl, selkie, sonnet, wily weird sister

Don’t trust stories where boys, down in the kelp,
steal seal-skins from nude girls – they all end grisly.
Only a wily weird sister can help
romance a seal-girl. Go out to the sea
in a cow-hide boat. She will stand, murmur
love spells to the waves. The seal will surface,
then climb on board. A watery cat-purr
is sign of a selkie stirred. Seamless
is her fleshy skin, still, she wriggles out
as you cuddle her head and your sister
grips her hips, her mouth on her slit-pout,
licking up a storm. A seal-girl lover
will want you both, will soak your lips and chin.
That’s how you drive a seal out of her skin.

NOTE:

Stories and legends of sea spirits that live as seals in the ocean but have the ability shed their skin to become human on land can be found throughout Iceland, the Shetlands, the Orkneys, Northern England, Scotland and Ireland. The film The Secret of Roan Inish (1994) was based on such a myth.

boyish sea hag

30 Wednesday Jan 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Bermuda, blood kelp, El Salvador, Hebrides, natty dreads, ocean, reading waves, sea hag, sea magic, skerries, sonnet, Yahweh

I read these waters. The hoarse Hebrides;
the sun-blind surges of El Salvador;
Bermuda’s coral reefs; Dublin’s rock skerries.
I’m the middle between the void and shore.
Far out from in the waves comes the reply.
Mist of sundown rises, stretches away
across the horizon and distant sky.
Reading waves is like talking to Yahweh,
grumpy old man. I draw in the sea, shreds
of speech that wash away. I take sea-weed
off rocks, blood kelp, make them my natty dreads.
A spar is my staff. I am a half-breed;
boyish sea hag; living a life devoid
of words, either on shore or in the void.

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