poems what they say letters who he is

 

An Ode to the Goddess

Her feet ascend a spiral stair
Her hands are fine like water
I visit her down in the woods where she lives
Why does she live alone?

Her vibe is like an ancient painting
Her words are well worn furniture
I travel away to a land she won´t come
Am I a heart breaker?

Her voice flows out in gentle wavelets
Her name is like a medicine
She speaks of a path that leads to her door
Will I ever travel on it?

She lives in a place that is hidden to man
She works in a magic studio
She says that one day I will visit her there
But will I know the moment?

 

 

     
  a note on this theme. The Goddess, according to ancient pre-celtic bardic tradition, is the only real muse worthy of praise. Therefore, a correct or real poet writes only to her, in whatever her form may be. Be that nature or one´s beloved or an abstract longing. She is the source of all that is good, and the source of some things that are definately experienced as bad, even terrifying. (e.g. the loss of the beloved)
Of course, this is from a tradition that is male dominated, it is not for me, being a male, to say anything about what my female colleagues write about. But I suspect it is basically the same thing. I only know that the tradition I speak of sings in my blood and that I can feel it move in time right back to the old folk, the hulder folk. As an afterthought - perhaps my female colleagues write about the same thing from the inside, and we from the outside ... lucky things.