The Invocation of Thor

The Invocation of Thor

I see the dark piercing eyes of Thor
as I step through the mirror, a response
quick and definite to the flashes of
invisible light that blinds us both
momentarily as the electric force of
our energies click without ordinary
explanation.

There is a shadowy netherworld that
lays beyond both eyes and mirrors,
not immediately visible to the surface;
this hall of Bilskirnir, in the region
of Thrudheim, where this place of
might casts a spell with numbers and
symbols,

underneath all life as we know it. My
inner nature is gilded to the all-enveloping
nature of wilderness, where aromatic
spins of air full to the moon, create a
polarity through incantation. Rhythm
measured with the moaning precipice
of water,

empties itself into my cupped hands, as
my flesh concedes to the thunderstorm.
Rain exorcises, eats away at earth, until
it turns the color of dried blood, beautiful
to the knife and hammer that wave sounding
into my palms; poetry from the son of Odin,
and Jord, the earth goddess.

Tanngrisni and Tanngnost chariot in the
the darkest blue through the psychometry
of tulle and reliquaries, invoking His
protection through ritual not sacrifices.
I am a mammal receptacle for energy,
my thoughts can be felt as the tangible
particles they are,

hitting with the same brass that filters
black forces like a metallic talisman
devout to consecrating protection images,
storing up then releasing magick as a
symbol of life, and death; a combination
of the female and male principle as they
harbor our souls from the Midgard Serpent.

In the space between two worlds I hunt for
the queer smell of violets in a bed of floating
lilies; playing with the overhead lights, I can
see the gods outside, the profile of their faces.
I wade through my own sicken voice in the
night, shadows and silhouettes everywhere,
as the shift of fabric moves,

in communion. Synchronicity is an optical
merge that pours from the Heavens, showering
me with all things esoteric and obscure. It
is the hands of a clock that chimes in modulation
only for those who follow the craft of the wise.
In my poetry there is devotion. In my poetry,
half of the words,

get sliced off the paged. Thor, Thor, Norse God
of Thunder I invoke thee! What Odin cannot
articulate, what Jord cannot grow, what Sif
cannot produce, I promise through imagination,
fully in my tradition, in my spirit. I will be
the mistress Jarnsaxa, holding the bloody blade,
ragged through open hands,

white flesh spreading the purity of love, into
both of our hands, endless, sensible, urged by
a Skylark in front of a mirror, warm to the cobblestone
beneath her feet, reflection into destination; self-born
into the primal deep of Asgard where the dwarfs
Brok and Eitri, conjure the sea, forgotten in the empty
world of eyes and wounded hands.