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Subscribe to this list via RSS Blog posts tagged in The Mississippi River

Posted by on in Culture Blogs

 

 

A Hymn to the Mississippi

 

Many-colored River,

Father of Waters,

to you I sing my praise.

 

I sing the White Mississippi,

iced-over, clad with snow.

 

Many-colored River,

Father of Waters,

to you I sing my praise.

 

I sing the Brown Mississippi,

heavy with silt of Spring.

 

Many-colored River,

Father of Waters,

to you I sing my praise.

 

I sing the Blue Mississippi,

son of the Summer Sky.

 

Many-colored River,

Father of Waters,

to you I sing my praise.

 

I sing the Golden Mississippi,

Sunset liquid fire.

Last modified on
Recent Comments - Show all comments
  • Steven Posch
    Steven Posch says #
    Thanks Jamie. I quite agree with you that ignoring gods is a pretty major act of impiety. (How did piety ever get such a bad name?
  • Jamie
    Jamie says #
    Mr. Posch, That's a fantastic prayer! I frequently pray to the local river God, and give thanks whenever I walk past. Pagans oft

Posted by on in Culture Blogs
Three Three-Second Rituals for Daily Use

 DN = Divine Name

 

When you're outside and see the Sun for the first time after waking, kiss your hand and say:

Love to you, my [DN].

If you are not wont to address the Sun by Name, kiss your hand and say:

Love to you, my Light.

 

When you're outside and see the Moon for the first time after waking, kiss your hand and say:

Love to you, my [DN].

If you are not wont to address the Moon by Name, kiss your hand and say:

Love to you, my Light.

 

When you're outside and see the major River in your area for the first time after waking, kiss your hand and say:

[Name of River], I kiss my hand to you.

If you are not wont to address the River by Name, kiss your hand and say:

River of Life, I kiss my hand to you.

Last modified on
A Promise to the Ferryman, or: How I Ended Up Sitting (Literally) Bare-Assed in the Snow One Midwinter's Eve

At the big public Samhain that year, everybody had paid a coin to the Ferryman to cross the River.

Obviously, money collected under such circumstances can't be put to just any use. After the ritual, we donated the bulk of it to the local AIDS hospice. (That seemed appropriate.) But the foreign coins and the gaming arcade tokens (talk about cheap) called for a different—if still respectful—disposal.

As it happens, one of the great rivers of the world flows through our city, so I volunteered to take the coins down to the Mississippi and throw them in.

Well, I put it off and I put it off. (It was a snowy year, if you want my lame-ass excuse.) Suddenly it was Midwinter's Eve, and I still hadn't disposed of the coins.

“This can't wait,” I thought. “It really has to be done tonight; tomorrow will be too late.”

So after our Mother Night ritual and feast, I drove down to the site where, 1000 years ago, a winter village once stood on the East Bank of the River. Like the ancient Egyptians, the Old People who lived there buried their dead across the River on the West Bank.

Being a warmish Yule that year, I was wearing my kilt: commando, of course. (You know what they say: With underwear, it's just a skirt.)

The warm weather had given the snow a slick crust. Just as I was negotiating the last snowbank down to the River....

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Recent Comments - Show all comments
  • Steven Posch
    Steven Posch says #
    Thanks, Erin. I think of it as ham on wry.
  • Erin Lale
    Erin Lale says #
    lol. I really enjoy your sense of humor.

Posted by on in Culture Blogs
A Bridge Dyed Red with the Blood of a Poet

Yule morning. A friend and I are driving back from singing up the Sun out of the Mississippi River valley.

Each year, as we have for decades, on Yule morning we sing the Sun up from a bridge once dyed red with the blood of a poet.

Surely such a bridge must stand forever.

My friend gets a text from his partner, who has decided to forgo the annual cold and discomfort of the river valley's microclimate, and instead has proceeded directly to the Sunrise brunch location towards which we're currently heading.

“Where is everyone?” she writes.

In fact, the singing was particularly good this year, and we lingered long to savor it. You could feel our songs calling up the Sun out of darkness. You could feel us calling the trees into bud, the apples into blooming and fruiting, all in their own proper season.

“'Minneapolis Bridge Collapses, Coven Killed,'” I intone in my best self-important banner-headline tone.

We riff off of this scenario for a few minutes, laughing.

“They'd still be telling stories about us a hundred years from now,” I say.

Last modified on

Posted by on in Culture Blogs
Bullhead

There were once two brothers who loved the same woman.

In a fit of rage, seeing which way the wind was blowing, the elder killed the younger. He tore him limb from limb, and threw the pieces into the Mississippi.

Now it so happens that this woman was a witch-woman. She paddled her canoe up and down the Mississippi, singing songs of power as she went, gathering the pieces of her lost love wherever she found them.

She found his head.

She found his torso.

She found his right arm.

She found his left arm.

She found his pelvis.

She found his testicles.

She found his right leg.

She found his left leg.

Up and down the River she paddled, from the Headwaters to the Gulf, singing songs of power as she went. All the parts of her lost love she found, all but one. A bullhead had eaten it.

Last modified on

Posted by on in Culture Blogs
A Rite for the Father of Waters

Procession to riverbank. People bear flowers, branches, and gifts for the River. Drums, incense.

At the river’s edge, officiant strips off robe (attendant receives it), and enters the water to the waist

Down drums.

Massed conch shells sound.

Libation Prayer (officiant).

Threefold Libation (officiant) [milk, wine, river water]. (Blasts on conch shells punctuate each libation.)

Hymn to the River (everyone).

People pray, make offerings.

Last modified on

Posted by on in Culture Blogs
Prayer to the Mississippi

Father of Waters,

bison horned,

god that flows

through the center

of our lives:

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Recent comment in this post - Show all comments
  • Aline "Macha" O'Brien
    Aline "Macha" O'Brien says #
    Beautiful!

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