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 A 16th-Century Witch-Song

Because of its imagery, we sing Green Grow'th the Holly at Yule, but the love of which it speaks is evergreen.

Green grow'th the Holly; so doth the Ivy.

Though Winter blasts blow ne'er so high,

green grow'th the Holly.

As the Holly groweth green,

and changeth not its hue:

so I am, ever have been,

unto my Lady true.

 As the Holly is ever green, the lover declares, so his (or—why not?—her) love for this Lady is forever true.

Green grow'th the Holly; so doth the Ivy.

Though Winter blasts blow ne'er so high,

green grow'th the Holly.

As the Holly groweth green,

with Ivy all alone:

when flowers may not be seen,

and greenwood leaves be gone.

The song is more than 500 years old. Some attribute it—ironically, surely—to that most notoriously fickle lover, King Henry VIII. (Written, perhaps, for the six-fingered Anne Boleyn, reputed in her day to be a witch?) Though Henry was indeed a skilled musician and composer of music, I myself remember a time (if you'll pardon the comparison) when all pagan chants were variously ascribed to Starhawk, and remain dubious.

Green grow'th the Holly; so doth the Ivy.

Though Winter blasts blow ne'er so high,

green grow'th the Holly.

Now unto my Lady

promise to her I make

from all others, only

to her I me partake.

But we sing it as a Witch song: a song of faithfulness, not only to a mortal lover, but to the Craft itself, and to the Craft's Lady.

Remember that Green—as in the song Greensleeves, also attributed to Henry VIII—has ever been the fairy color. Bear in mind that the Goddess of Witches is known also as the Queen of Elfhame, of whom it is said: She hath a grip of all the Craft.

 Parthenogenetrix

n. one (f.) who brings forth without benefit of intercourse

I coined the word parthenogenetrix while still in high school. (Yes, I was a pagan egghead back then. I suppose I still am.) My long-term intent was to see it in the OED.

The word has potential biological applications (ask any domestic pigeon or California condor), but I intended it theologically at the time. (This was, after all, during the Silver Age of Matriarchy.) Poetic it's not, but parthenogenetrix has at least the advantage of transparency—to the hyper-literate, anyway—readily construing as a portmanteau of parthenogenesis (“virgin” birth—or, at least, conception) and genetrix (the grammatically feminine form of genitor—one who begets or creates).

Parthenogenetrix tells a story, an origin story. This is no creation ex nihilo, but rather ex ipsa, from herself. That's how the Lady does things. With Her, it's all personal.

Goddess bless him, my best friend at the time (and fellow egghead) Doug Julius used to make a point of using the word regularly in conversation—which, as you can well imagine, required some pretty impressive intellectual gymnastics. He also, to my delight, made jokes about “parthenogenetricks.” When the punning starts, you know it's the real thing.

These days, a quick web-search turns up a handful of parthenogenetrices, virtually all in religious or mythological contexts. The Virgin Mary, Sophia, the Goddess of Witches: parthenogenetrices all. Each occurrence, surely, constitutes an independent coinage. Given context, the word virtually suggests itself.

What follows is a witches' back-and-forth song to be sung at New Moon, Full Moon, or whenever. Everyone sings the first, second, and fourth lines, while a single voice improvises a new third line each time through. I've given thirteen examples here, but obviously the possibilities are endless.

The tunes, of course, are many. (Witches!) Feel free to come up with your own.

Blessed Be the Moon

Blessed be the Moon

blessed be She

Lady of Heaven

so mote it be

Blessed be the Moon

blessed be She

Queen of the Stars

so mote it be

...Mother of Witches...

...Flier by Night...

...Three-in-One...

...One-in-Three...

...Lamp of the Poor...

...Silver Maiden...

...Sun of the Night...

...Lady of the Lake...

That selfsame Moon

that rides the sky,

whose silver likeness

I wear above my heart;

that selfsame Moon

that danced with us

in human form

this sabbat past:

Quick: where's the Moon, right now?

Can you point?

I, of course, have no idea when or where you may be reading this. For all I know, the Moon may be on the other side of the planet from where you are right now.

But if you're a witch, shouldn't you know where the Moon is? Ideally, at all times?

And if (like me) you don't quite qualify for über-witch status yet, you can still figure it out.

First question: what phase of the Moon are we in? (If you don't know that, shame on you: hand in that pentagram, stat. Now bin—or, better, recycle—those Wicca 101 books, and go take a walk in the woods.)

Second question: what time of day is it? (If you don't know that, you really need to get out more.)

OK, here's the doggerel mnemonic, courtesy of The Witches' Almanac:

 Now our lady the Goddess had never loved,

but she would know all mysteries, even the mystery of Death,

so she journeyed to the Underworld.

So begins Wicca's foundational story of the Goddess's Descent into the Underworld.

It's an etiological masterpiece, the tale of the making of the First Witch. But for now, I'd like to linger here with this first sentence. Often it gets glossed over in a rush to get to the good stuff, but that's a shame, really. As a first sentence, it's a brilliant set-up, and my gods: talk about rich characterization.

Now our lady the Goddess had never loved... Well, there's your foreshadowing. You know exactly what's going to happen in this story: she's going to fall in love. That's the central mystery, after all. But look at what else it says about her.

I wore the little silver goddess for years.

Then I lost her.

What struck me most was how much I missed her.

I own some beautiful jewelry, but—ritual aside—rarely wear it. The little silver goddess was the only exception: both symbol and reality, herself her own best symbol.

Then she was gone.

A coven-sib gave her to me (I think for Yule) years ago. Simultaneously unobtrusive and monumental, she's of no particular culture. Schematic, asymmetric, she beautifully embodies what singer-songwriter Sparky T. Rabbit once described as the perfect New Pagan aesthetic, managing somehow to look “both old and new at the same time.”