Witchfire

Mayster Pouck with the Light Between His Horns

Mayster Pouck with the Light Between His Horns

The Cunningflame. The Fire of Heaven. The Promethean Fire. Witchfire. The Hidden Element. Throughout various cultures Fire has represented man’s artifice, man’s consciousness, man’s awareness, man’s cunning.

I think that man has forgotten this. They have forgotten that their heart, their spirit is gifted to them by the spirits, by the Gods. We have forgotten why we are able to build skyscrapers and huge roads and have a worldwide web. Now our fire is electric, cold and distant and expensive. What use have we of the trees now that would once fill our homes with sweet scents and cook our foods.

Ever since man was gifted with fire he has been able to work night and day. With fire man could work to build roads, form new weapons, read at night, work at night. He could use fire in new ways: to clear trails, burn forests, hunt, kill, heal. Now we have forgotten. We have forgotten our Fire.

That is physical fire, but there is another fire, an inner fire that represents our spirit and our artifice as a species. The Medium Between gifted it upon us at the beginning of the world. The Great Serpent gave that poisonous apple that inflamed our minds and taught us to be of the gods! It gave us Spirit. It gave us Knowledge. All in exchange for our mortality. And a fitting exchange! All the knowledge of the worlds at our hands in exchange for not being able to live forever. What could we do with that knowledge? Basically anything that we wanted.

This Fire gifted to us by the gods also gave us the knowledge to reach them again. In modern paganism books will tell us that our body is of the four classical elements, that is Air, Water, Earth and Fire. Air, Water, and Earth are easy to describe (Breath, Blood, the bones and muscles). But where is Fire? It is the Hidden Element, the Heat that we give off, the Fire of our Minds. It is that spark that gives us life that we can not explain. It is the electricity that runs our brains.

Without this we are dead, truly dead. Stopping the breath stops the billowing of the fires that warms the cauldron that heats the waters. Cutting out the blood pours waters onto the fires. Aging throws dirt upon the fire. It all connects, as it should be connected.

I call this Divine Fire the Witchflame or the Cunningflame. I also believe that it is this Fire that is used in witchcraft to create supernatural effects. In more modern terms this Fire may be called energy. When one is learning to create energy balls and such what one starts with rubbing their hands together (much like a force fire) until they feel a heat and maybe even a tingling sensation. This is of course easily explained away by science as the friction created when rubbing our skins together, but others can also feel this intense heat that we give off! Pulling our hands apart we can feel the energy (or perhaps fire) pulling away and creating a resistance. This is the first step to feeling the Fire, and sensing energy.

Many modern readers know about these techniques (to my knowledge there is something similar in most books about spellcraft today). However, what many do not include is the use of the breath. Our lungs are like billows that fuel the fire. We can heat up our bodies by breathing in and out very quickly and holding in our breath (though if one does this without practice they are likely to get light headed and faint). It is best to start with slow deep breaths to fuel this fire. I have had wonderful effects with blowing out the air as one would to build a small fire. From here after one has built the energy, the Fire, they can direct it through the hands, or through a device such as a wand or a staff to create fantastical effects. Or they might inflame their mind to send them into other worlds or to incredible heights!

This Fire is the Fire of the Serpent. Robert Cochrane would explain it as a serpent spiraling up the spine to the head, and indeed it does feel like that! I can really feel it in my head at the base of my cerebellum when I billow the Flames. It gives a brightening vision and everything seems to glow. Cochrane detailed this better in his explanation of the Treading of the Mill and compared the practice to the Kundalini, which details a kind of serpent energy that comes up from the Root Chakra (or the sexual chakra) all the way up to the Crown Chakra and beyond to gain cosmic wisdom. And is that not what the Serpent is? He is the Life Force; His Red Blood courses through our veins empowering us always.

Of course this Fire is dangerous, what fire isn’t? One can become too consumed in the flames, as the publisher of Cochrane’s letters warned about. They may become too sexually lustful, or too energetic, or too hot and feint. But through these burns hopefully comes the knowledge one needs for True Witchdom.

The manipulation of this Fire, this Inner Fire, and the manipulation of the physical flame are the traits that make the Cunning Witch so cunning. That is the Art of the Cunningflame. And he is a servant to it ever.

The Witchflame. It is the Light of the Stars. The Fire of the Sun. The Hidden Light Within the Land.

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This is me doing a reading of “to Her, from me”, which is the poem I just finished

to Her, from me

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to Her, from me

to Her, from me

I call to you, Old Hag!
You are skillful in the dread art o’ witchery.
Kindly lend that power.
Carefully:
Humans are irksome;
I am he, made to break
Upon oracular prowess granted.

So, I’m born o’ these
Fray’d voidal walls?
I’m born a small child?
A look into the overpower’d cauldron
Yields too varied—
Too—Ah! I cannot gasp
For I’m in a wench—
In a hag.

Here! A gift for a she-devil.
The way to ever-lasting
Shall be known to me.

Memories now are a too distant treat,
Were a once loved character in a story.
How can others thrive?
How hope can ever remain I know not.

Ah! My solemn made vows
Here laid bare!
Vitality did fill me!
All that you took of me
Have I given.

Kill, create, a-new!
That—O!—
That will-filled act,
My Dame!

Our Elderly Witchmother
Hangs my prepared,
Messy spirit
To stir me in
Unisex cauldrons
Crying tears.
I am burned—
I’m made whole.

Eat of Her vagina,
I am eager to.
I’m relishing a new power.

Legs splay open,
I take vows.
I’m made only in her.

~dAys Of mIsrUle 2ol1

*A note about this poem: This poem is constructed in the way of a Celtic Nine Poem. In this I started with a simple phrase that was nine letters in length. From here I constructed a larger poem about that phrase and around that larger poem I constructed what you have just read. To find the secret poem and phrase the reader need only count every ninth letter and record it onto a slip of paper. And then from that smaller poem count once more. I would like to express that the construction of these poems is both a mystery and a meditation. I found it eerie that the poem practically wrote itself. I also note that the inner poem is a direct reflection of the larger poem. For example: “So, I’m born o’ these/Fray’d voidal walls?/I’m born a small child?”  are derived from letters in the inner poem (“Bloody Vagina”). What other mysteries could have been derived from the secret phrase within?*

This is for the anthology “Witch Tits“. I would like to thank my friend C. Tassatowah for this opportunity. He has been an inspiration for me in how to express my sexuality in my Craft. Thank you.

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Hag Mother

Yet again part of a poem that I’m working on. I’ve actually written poems about that Horned Fellow, but I haven’t really bucked up the courage to write anything about Her. She is so…all encompassing, it is harder to grasp the fullness of Her Void, if you know what I mean. I can go on and on about how the Goatish Father is fleeting and beautiful and androgynous, but She…She is so beautiful in a different way. She is beautiful in that captivating, terrifying, rip your cloths off and be fearful of whether or not you’ve offended Her type way. But at the same time She is old and ugly and showing you the Shadow of your Soul. She just sucks you in.

Which is guess is the point.

It’s so strange, I rarely if ever do any conscious prayer, but I always think about these two gods. Or spirits, or whatever. Perhaps They are beyond the two definitions. They are constantly upon my mind, ever inflaming my purpose as a witch. They inspire me always.

Anyway, here is a taste of a Nine Poem that I am working on. A nine poem is a poem where every ninth letter is written down to create a secret word or phrase. It is done 3 times (9^3 for a total of 729 letters). It was from Peter Paddon that I first learned how to create these. They truly write themselves. There is something mysterious and meditative in their construction. I hope you enjoy.

“Hag Mother

O! Old Witch!
I’m born of a bloody vagina!
She so masters a Horny Devil.
Take of me the soul.
I am ever a lover.”

And then from this I have so far:

“I call to you, Old Hag!
You are skilled in the dread art o’ witchery.
Kindly lend me that power.
Carefully:
Humans are irksome;
I am he, made to break upon
Oracular prowess granted.”

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On Winter’s Eve

The Art of Paul Atlas-Saunders

I feel it, like a pull to my soul. The winter months are coming up and the whole of the world shall be topsy turvy. Life becomes Death, Light becomes Darkness and the Horned King rides over the world seeking out souls and miscreants.

All of Nature knows it.

The leaves here in Montana have turned to fire and flame, bursting with oranges and reds and yellows. They fall like embers from the trees, the last lights going out.

Be wary and take heed, for now the spirits are about. Do not look behind you and keep your doors locked. Every stranger may well be a spirit or a god, so be kind to them. Disguise yourself when you go out so your soul will not be stolen. Nor, in this way, will you be frightened, but you may be asked to a party of spirits to make mischief against the living. Will you accept such an invitation?

Give offerings to the dead, and leave out a lantern for your ancestors to see by, and to keep out those that you would wish to keep out. In this modern age we have electric lights, but it is best to use a live flame to empower the Warding Squash.

Winter’s hand stretches forth and all feel His touch. His great beard covers She Who Sleeps until spring comes again. Comfort yourselves among friends during this time and remember that you are lucky.

You are lucky to have the comfort of an electric or gas warmed house. You are lucky to have blankets manufactured by companies that you can buy from any generic store. You are lucky to have food that you do not have to find yourself. You are lucky to be alive.

Remember that your ancestors did not have the comforts that you have now; they had to fight for them! They really had to survive. We still need to, of course, but we survive in completely different ways than the humans of the past. We have sicknesses now that we have no cure for, and when we cure those we will have still more. Nature will adapt, just as we adapt; We were created in Her image!

Our ancestors feared Nature, and revered it, much like one fears and reveres a loving mother. In this modern age we still fear Nature, but few revere Her might. We fear Nature now because of what we have done to it. Pollution, war, famine caused by our mistakes. Slowly we are rectifying what we have started. What better way to start this than realise that you are still a part of Her, even if you feel removed.

Remember. Our primal needs are still there: food, warmth, a sense of purpose. During the Winter more than any other time is the time to Remember, to Reflect, to Craft and to Know. This is the time when we are most separated from Nature’s green grasses and living trees. Being surrounded by so much death, one may realise that one takes life for granted.

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