Shekhinah Calling
Note: this is the latest in a series of hymns I’ve been writing to the Morrigan. Links to previous hymns are at the bottom of the post. When I first wrote this one a few weeks ago, I had in mind the blackness of occult (occluded) knowledge, the blackness of death and the womb, the black heart of innocence. In light of the grand jury decisions and #blacklivesmatter, though, the relevant lines seem to take on an additional meaning. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with it–it feels a little like appropriation–but after I played around with different lines, I had to acknowledge the Morrigan’s insistence that this was the way the poem should be. I suppose it’s useful to remember that, before a vitamin D deficiency in Northern Europe spurred a fluke in skin pigmentation, Europeans were dark-skinned.
Black goddess, your skin the fertile soil,
Your hair the verdant trees and grasses,
Your breasts the decorated hills;
You are the queen of the secret worlds,
She who devours her children.
Black goddess, your mystery is death and birth.
You speak to us in dream and song;
You sing to us in poetry.
Morrigan, I will anoint your image with sacred oils
And burn offerings of juniper and mugwort at your shrines.
Morrigan, I will embody the sweet, ferocious earth
And rise to the defense of its lands and its people.
Morrigan, I will listen for your many names
And sing your countless songs.
Bless us your earnest people, O Raven;
Grant courage to the cowardly
And humility to the brave.
Allow us to walk beside you in clarity and love.
In the depths of chaos, help us find peace.
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