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The Memory of Cernunnos
- The Memory of Cernunnos -
The seasons art oft his playthings all, his fair and pretty milk-skinned maids;
The druids of many ancient tribes spoke passing mightily, his sacred words…
In Thessalia, the witches gathered with sickles in hand at his solemnest hour,
And for the Ram and the Goat of Mendes carved a bloody, unearthly, power.
At the grove of Cromcruach, the Horned God's image rose most fearsome…
And beneath his great horns, four maidens were bound together, all as one.
The Arch Druid's sickle rises, and falls upon each frightened lily's pale throat…
Flowers cut, all in bloom; seasons given up for yet another full year's span,
Given up unto Cernunnos, and the spirits of the harvest time: ram and goat…
In Thessalia and Erin this was done, by the natural gods' bloody command.
Dark was the wood of Cromcruach, in old Erin, and grayest was it of stone.
No one speaks of Cernunnos or the grove of Cromcruach, even still today…
No one wishes to contemplate the terrible old traditions, and their dire way.
But Samhain is their season, and fall air can come like chill beyond a void!
Little children in laugh and at play, dressed in costumes, every girl and boy…
Dressed as spirits both fell and fair, at Hallowed Eve, all of Man unknowing,
How once, such spirits walked with us as gods, whilst the wind was blowing!
But the wind remembers the bards whose art once did make the stones sing…
And the priests, and priestesses, who around such stones oft formed in a ring.
One cauldron of blood for the harvest, and one for the spirits of the mound…
Whose barrow is: the whole wide world, beneath the soil's earthen ground.
Black is that world, the world beneath the Mother Earth's flesh, and bone.
Out of the gloom betwixt the trees, the witches still do celebrate their rites,
And in the lands of Erin, far from Thessalia, haunted art the bleakest nights…
When the druids seek return from out the sod of their long forgotten graves.
They search for the four maids of the seasons, and they look across waves…
Across the waves, to Thessalia: where spectral sickles do glint of the Moon.
There, men hear the screams of the victims of a long-dead magical gloom…
For the gulfs of Hell art not distant enough wide: nor time ever so long past.
Not nearly enough so, to stifle the stamp of any ages as once so very vast…
Vast in passing, and in what was left behind: of that simple and primal faith,
As these things all have spirits of their own, they become a persistent wraith.
Naught haunts us ever the more than what so ever haunts us all as a whole.
Remember me… that pale shade cries; remember me, and thus know thyself!
None do escape the pull of ancestry, for blood recalls of all things most well…
Man hath such an ancestry, and it's sentience lives on in every person's heart.
A part of that ancient mind honors Cernunnos, and works a most frightful art.
A garland of flowers compliments a young maid; what had this been, of old?
It was the mark of one soon to be a bride of a god, but in the dust and mold…
For the graves of the sacrifices, were the beds of the dark gods' stolen brides.
The maids' ghosts now haunt the groves wherein now no great statue abides…
Forget me not they keen, like unto banshees out of legends, mourning death.
Remember me… their shadows cry; remember me, and so restore my breath!
Memory is an immortality to replace that which of old a jealous god so stole.
The Horned God hunts no more the forests, and fallen art all his monuments…
But for Man: crudest of all things carved as from the Divine's sad sentiments.
The seasons art oft his playthings all, his fair and pretty milk-skinned maids;
The druids of many ancient tribes spoke passing mightily, his sacred words…
In Thessalia, the witches gathered with sickles in hand at his solemnest hour,
And for the Ram and the Goat of Mendes carved a bloody, unearthly, power.
At the grove of Cromcruach, the Horned God's image rose most fearsome…
And beneath his great horns, four maidens were bound together, all as one.
The Arch Druid's sickle rises, and falls upon each frightened lily's pale throat…
Flowers cut, all in bloom; seasons given up for yet another full year's span,
Given up unto Cernunnos, and the spirits of the harvest time: ram and goat…
In Thessalia and Erin this was done, by the natural gods' bloody command.
Dark was the wood of Cromcruach, in old Erin, and grayest was it of stone.
No one speaks of Cernunnos or the grove of Cromcruach, even still today…
No one wishes to contemplate the terrible old traditions, and their dire way.
But Samhain is their season, and fall air can come like chill beyond a void!
Little children in laugh and at play, dressed in costumes, every girl and boy…
Dressed as spirits both fell and fair, at Hallowed Eve, all of Man unknowing,
How once, such spirits walked with us as gods, whilst the wind was blowing!
But the wind remembers the bards whose art once did make the stones sing…
And the priests, and priestesses, who around such stones oft formed in a ring.
One cauldron of blood for the harvest, and one for the spirits of the mound…
Whose barrow is: the whole wide world, beneath the soil's earthen ground.
Black is that world, the world beneath the Mother Earth's flesh, and bone.
Out of the gloom betwixt the trees, the witches still do celebrate their rites,
And in the lands of Erin, far from Thessalia, haunted art the bleakest nights…
When the druids seek return from out the sod of their long forgotten graves.
They search for the four maids of the seasons, and they look across waves…
Across the waves, to Thessalia: where spectral sickles do glint of the Moon.
There, men hear the screams of the victims of a long-dead magical gloom…
For the gulfs of Hell art not distant enough wide: nor time ever so long past.
Not nearly enough so, to stifle the stamp of any ages as once so very vast…
Vast in passing, and in what was left behind: of that simple and primal faith,
As these things all have spirits of their own, they become a persistent wraith.
Naught haunts us ever the more than what so ever haunts us all as a whole.
Remember me… that pale shade cries; remember me, and thus know thyself!
None do escape the pull of ancestry, for blood recalls of all things most well…
Man hath such an ancestry, and it's sentience lives on in every person's heart.
A part of that ancient mind honors Cernunnos, and works a most frightful art.
A garland of flowers compliments a young maid; what had this been, of old?
It was the mark of one soon to be a bride of a god, but in the dust and mold…
For the graves of the sacrifices, were the beds of the dark gods' stolen brides.
The maids' ghosts now haunt the groves wherein now no great statue abides…
Forget me not they keen, like unto banshees out of legends, mourning death.
Remember me… their shadows cry; remember me, and so restore my breath!
Memory is an immortality to replace that which of old a jealous god so stole.
The Horned God hunts no more the forests, and fallen art all his monuments…
But for Man: crudest of all things carved as from the Divine's sad sentiments.
Published 8th Feb 2015
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Anonymous
8th Feb 2015 5:22am
I find this poem sad but the beauty within it that makes me dream as I am still awake. Brilliant ink, dear Mother of My Soul.
10th Feb 2015 3:25am
Very glad you enjoyed it, sweet daughter! It is an interesting journey into ancient Celtic legend and lore, and one I knew would be enjoyed here on DUP. It does have a certain somber yet beautiful feel to it, now that you mention it honey... but that sort of feel is very appropriate to such a work, which evokes that similar vibe that I've oft sensed when reading many of the Celtic myths involving the Fair Folk and the old gods. Tales that oft possess the very dreamlike quality you spoke of, darling! :)
Anonymous
8th Feb 2015 11:15am
Fantastic read,dear Jessica,will add it to my list,to fully follow it,and re read your celtic epos of the 3 worlds...
10th Feb 2015 3:30am
So pleased to see you liked it, sister! I’ve always had a certain fascination with and liking for the old Celtic myths and legends… when I was a teenager I could not get enough of reading them, especially the tales of ancient Ireland. It makes me very happy to see how much my readers like this humble Celtic tale of mine! :D
