#source: traditional ballad

[theannotateddean]

Laura came with her, hugging her elbows. Mother, mother, make my bed/Make for me a winding sheet/Wrap me up in a cloak of gold/See if I can sleep. They didn’t play that when they thought she could hear it, and they didn’t sing it at all. But she had heard. Patrick tagged along with them. They sat in the dry brown grass a few feet from the Well, and examined it. “Still looks wrong,” said Ellen. “I can’t get over that pink.” Laura looked up the hill she had rolled down, and then squinted sideways at the house. In case they were not going home, she had better see just what Claudia was up to. She set him in a golden chair/She gave him sugar sweet. Laura stared at the mullioned windows, the odd sprouting round towers with their drapes of ivy, the red-tile roof going in humps like somebody’s drawing of the ocean, until her eyes watered. But she saw nothing except what was there. She laid him on a dressing-board / And stabbed him like a sheep.

Chapter 9, The Hidden Land

Dean is very specifically quoting the lyrics of Steeleye Span’s version of the ballad, which does not quite match verbatim any of the versions compiled by Child under Child 155 but keeps the same story and uses various phrasings from different versions throughout the lyrics. The most notable change in Steeleye Span’s version is the removal of the blood libel endemic to most versions of the ballad; in this version, little Sir Hugh’s murderer is only described as a lady dressed in green and no references to Judaism are made whatsoever:

Mother mother make my bed Make for me a winding sheet Wrap me up in a cloak of gold See if I can sleep Four and twenty bonny bonny boys playing at the hall Along came little Sir Hugh, he played with them all He kicked the ball very high, he kicked the ball so low, He kicked it over a castle wall where no one dared to go Out came a lady gay, she was dressed in green "Come in, come in little Sir Hugh, fetch your ball again" "I won't come in, I can't come in without my play mates all For if I should I know you would cause my blood to fall" She took him by the milk white hand, led him to the hall Till they came to a stone chamber where no one could hear him call She sat him on a golden chair, she gave him sugar sweet She lay him on a dressing board and stabbed him like a sheep Out came the thick thick blood, out came the thin Out came the bonny heart's blood till there was none within She threw him in the old draw well fifty fathoms deep

See the Sacred Texts page to compare all Child 155 variants.

See Sir Hugh or the Jew’s Daughter / Little Sir Hugh / The Jews’s Garden for more info on contemporary recordings and some analysis of the song itself, including multiple excerpts of commentary on the blood libel.

[berriblossom]

Oh, Great Divine!

☆| It's time for a SAGAU, more so a comforting one. Reader's gender is ambiguous and gender neutral, archons adore reader, in this sense the Nahida tag is platonic!|

☆ Tags/warnings! | Socially Aware Genshin AU, archons and people of Teyvat treat the reader as a god or heavenly figure, religious references (cathedral of Mondstat and Narukami/ Sangonomiya Shrines of Inazuma) some minor lore for reader, Reader is referred to as "Their Grace" or "My/Your Grace" and "The Great Divine" ALL PORTRAYALS ARE FICTIONAL!! anyway, enjoy.|

Within the lands or nations of Teyvat, for centuries the practice of worshipping an Archon was beyond common, more so for those who wish not to believe in spiritual practices concerning the gods of each element are more on the rare side to find. However even if such existed, there was one thing to never be doubted within the lands of Teyvat.

The Great Divine's presence over mortals and immortals alike.

The creation of Teyvat in many national mythos credits the sole ideas and creation to the Great Divine. Even the archons and the sources of their celestial names were blessed upon them by their divine grace. Depending on which nation you visit, some may say that their archon is specifically blessed by their grace.

In Mondstat, the nation of wind, song, freedom, wine, and bard's ballads, once every 100 years they celebrate the freedom blessed to them by Barbatos and the Great Divine. A tradition stretching for the last millennial to show the love and deeply routed affection given by its people and archon. Yes, Barbatos, or now the "drunken" bard known as Venti among his people. Every festival of a "New Eve" as they call it, is another 100 years for him to show his affection for his beloved divine. Despite his defiance to Celestia and the natural order placed after your departure, he still fully believes in your care and love for humans and archons alike. To Venti, whispering to the wind like he did with you thousands of years prior, even in his wind-spirit form. You'd sit together where now the great tree at Windrise and speak about the future of Teyvat, something despite having the authority over you simply spoke to him as:

"For what will come, Your nation will prosper and learn the true meaning of freedom and song..."

So to this day, he sits under that tree and thinks of the years since, missing your warmth from curling up in your hands as a wind spirit to laughing and humming beside you in his divine form. He has seen it for the last few hundred years, the art, songs, plays, books, and even food and weapons made in your name, and every hundred years he repeats the same. A small prayer from his soul is whispered into the wind as he tells his deep care and love for his dear grace. And the people of Mondstat no different, all gather at the great Cathedral and warmly sing about the Great Divine and Lord Barbatos as they place to wine, food, and gifts at the altar of your image. When alone Venti will sneak in and sit under your statue, missing the warmth of your hands but relishing the love in your image.

In Liyue, the nation of Geo, contracts, and the adepti, the greats divines are influenced by the first contract Rex Lapis made with them over 7000 years ago, even before Liyue was a fully combined nation. Zhongli remembers the conversation you two had, sharing a simple game of wit and tea. Then he was immature to your influence and power but now he relishes in it. Proudly in his vast historical knowledge, preaching his love and the power the great divine holds. How you could shape the sea with a flick of your wrist, how you've created mountains from your fingertips, how your vast knowledge is spread throughout teyvat as a bible to be studied and read over and over again. But mostly what he and all of Liyue celebrate is the contractable care and affection you give him and the people of Liyue.

This time around Liyue is a time spent every hundred of years a new eve of dawn as it is called, one Zhongli and his fellow adepti never get tired of. A time to give gifts of care to neighbors, friends, and even coworkers in the busy harbor. Even the Northland Bank celebrates by lowering interest on loans!

(But only for this amount of time and by the next New Eve of Dawn the Interest WILL reset)

But mainly it is a way to give worship to the Great Divine and their trust in Rex Lapis and his Adepti to protect and serve Liyue. Everything Zhongli has done was for your gratitude and divine love. So when a New Eve comes, he sits anywhere in Liyue, the mountains, hills, somewhere to overlook the harbor, and enjoys a warm cup of tea. Your favorite while imagining your smile as you talk, the games you'd two play. He watches his disciples and Apeti celebrate with gifts, food, and songs at your altar set around Liyue. He sips his tea and awaits your fated return, happy to share more memories and stories with you.

Within the land of Eternity, formerly transcience, Inazuma's style of celebration differs slightly from some nations. The Grand Narukami Shrine would hold a private ceremony, cleansing the sacred Sakura tree and your statue underneath, barhing the precious stone engravings with crisp clean water. Meanwhile the people if Inazuma would be celebrating on their own occasions, firewroks light into the clear sky, dancing ceremonies at the teahouse fill with guest.

However, the new electro archon herself sits alone at the top of Tebshukaku. Quietly walking down memeory lane in her mind. For the last five centuries of the New Eve of Dawn celebration, she'd sit in her space of Euthymia alone in solitude quietly sulking at the idea of your everlasting figure. How her and Makoto would chat down the lane of inazuma speaking about plans of you, speaking of your visions of the nation of electro, Makoto laughing at how embarrassed Ei used to be around you and your divinity. Now Ei smiles solemnly..

She knows now that she as archon must take the mantle, for in your teachings that it the goal of the heavenly principles you've left. Fated to return, she prays that you'd come to her first. She dreams and imagines in her meditations within her quiet Euthymia that you'd hold her. That her loneliness would be cured indefinitely. But for now she waits, with a plate of dango and some ofdly colored tea, shit eats alone as the fireworks set off atop Narukami island, she whispers a promise to herself and her nation on your honor.

"For it will be fate...my grace...you shall return to us...to eternity...we shall be reunited."

Far off in the lands of eternity, however, the island that formed the resistance sings and dances around the bonfire, the resistance army of Sangonomiya and Watatsumi laugh as they praise the late OmiKami, or the serpent god Orobashi. The fire dances as troops tell stories, shrine maidens sing and laugh, and her priestess sits while holding a book. She smiles softly. Kokomi looks above at the horizon and sees the corpse of their late god, she wishes silently to herself and for her ancestors to below the sea. That once the great spirit of life and forefather of the vishaps would return to bring life to the benevolent serpent. But for now, she sits alongside Gorou as they watch the troops enjoy the holiday.

Within Sumeru, however, and alongside it, Fontaine...the New Eve of Dawn has been on the academic calendar differently, which is how some older nations react. For those in the rainforest, it is a blessing of Lessor Lords Kusanali's birth. For the dessert, it is the bringing of a new promise for the scarlet sand kings doubted return. Within the nation of dendro, it is a holiday of now academic activities, no scholars shrouded in work, but a day off. The people worship by their own will and sit in taverns, bars, and cafes to drink mereily while chatting with friends. Some visit your altar within the Akademiya, and others pray at home.

Nahida sits on a branch of the great tree that houses the knowledge many wish to obtain, in her hands an ancient seed of fate, she herself has no memory or knowledge of where it came but holds ot and teasures its existence. For she has a kindling that it is tied to this divine spirit that is expected to awaken. From her small conversation with Apep, the seed is treasured. Hence, she holds it and feeds the growing plant bits of dendro elemental energy. She sighs as she watches the sun set and the cheers from the streets and grand bazars performances. Nilou must be dancing now, she thinks. She hums a small song while kicking her feet, her hands warm with caution. She may not know you yet, but she knows already... Your spirit and divine will watch for her and her nation. The goddess of wisdom has many questions for the great creator of this world, but for now, she just hums and sits happily, a great birthday gift indeed.

Meanwhile, in Fontaine, similarly, it is deemed a weekend off of work. Many go home, some go to the Opera to catch performances of the holiday, others read tabloids of the steambird that some random person in the court has the great divine in their basment all along. All fiction truthfully. Furina reads her book as she makes another plate of pasta macaroni. For the occasion, she bought extra special ragau to taste amazing. She dances around her kitchen listening to soft music. For years her mind would have doubted and even hated this day, anxious fears of disappointment and disapproval looks from her days as stabding archon. Would you have hated her? Did you think she failed fontaine and you? Was her a cursed human taking title of archon an insult to you? Furina had nightmares even of the prohecy and your return to see fontaine gone and underwater. But now, as the prophecy and fontaine were safe and out of fear, she ate and asked a good question this new century.

"What kind of pasta would their grace like..."

Soft rainfall drops onto the steps of the Palais Mermonia, the evening rain was forcasfed but welcomed, Neuvillette wrote on the papers softly, agreeing to a few celebratory events the Opera wanted to hold. Usually Lady Furina would be jumping for the task but here he was. Dread builded in his soul. This time of year brought many pains to Neuvillette.

A new century meant a new set of hundreds of years he gets to oulive humans, melusines maybe, but also the clock inches closer and closer to your return. Neuvillette spent early years of his lofe researching and discovering his species and kind for decades. Figuring that if you are the forefather and creator of vishaps and the sovereignty. Why was so many things done the way they were? Why ddi the power the gnosis and archons hold come from them? Why can't he understand your implications, even such his ancestors didn't wish to think against? What power do you hold and how did aid Fontaine in the end? He knew Focalor and Egeria spoke to you, even asking for forgiveness before your departure, so why? Neuvillette, places his pen downs and stands to look out the window of his office to look down at the streets of the Court of Fontaine, a glass of crisp water swirls in his hand. He sips slowly and sighs, coming to think.

"In this new century...please with it, may you come along too my grace."

In the nation of fire, victory, war and passion, raors could be heard from the stadium of flames as people of different tribes shouted and cheered the competitions down below. Surfing races, climbing achievements, conbat bouts, even break dancing competitions held. Mavuika sits at her throne above as her people cheer and celebrate, raising glasses, foods, gifts, and money even in your image. She slips away from the fesitivites to be alone in the speakers chambers, past the sacred flame, and into her personal get-away. Now empty, she stares at the famous wheel of the sun, Natlan has held for centuries, the same you blessed the first pyro archon with, as their rules of ruilibg were left in your favor. She smiles as she too holds her head high, similar to her ancestors before her.

She remebers before she was even archon, how her parents would tell stories of the Great divines influence, love, and power. That the spirit of victory belongs to the pyro archon yes, but the strength was given by you as well. She remembered your fave engraved in ancients temples and stones around Natlan and now some statues around the lands too. She knows too well her nation is blessed by your, not only for the peoples cheers and vitcories but the long-lasting stay they've had against the threat of the abyss thus far. Maybe when you return and ward off the abyssal threats for good, she top could ask something of you...for that she won't know until she sees you herself.

"Until we meet my grace...may your memeory burn eternal.. and your power live within my people."

-> Did i go overboard, yes...but eh...hoped you enjoy, and also i may make a small series out of this..who knows..

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Poetic Genres

Whereas a poetic "form" defines the way a poem arranges sounds, rhythms, or its appearance on the page, a poetic "genre" is something like the poem's style. Many poetic genres have a long history, and new poems almost always seek to explore a new aspect of the traditional style and thus to redefine the genre in some way. The following list is a selection of the major genres of poetry.

allegory A narrative with two levels of meaning, one stated and one unstated.

aubade A song or poem greeting the sunrise, traditionally a lover's lament that the night's passion must come to an end.

ballad Broadly speaking, the ballad is a genre of folk poetry, usually an orally transmitted narrative song. The term "ballad" applies to several other kinds of poetry, including the English ballad stanza, which is a form often associated with the genre.

blason A Renaissance genre characterized by a short catalogue-style description, often of the female body.

cento A poem composed entirely of lines from other poems.

dirge A funeral song.

dramatic monologue This might be called a "closet soliloquy": a long poem spoken by a character who often unwittingly reveals his or her hidden desires and actions over the course of the poem. The "I" of the dramatic monologue is very distinct from the "I" of the poet's persona. Robert Browning was a master of this genre.

eclogue A short pastoral poem; Virgil's eclogues are one of the first examples of this genre.

ekphrasis Originally a description of any kind, "ekphrasis" is now almost exclusively applied to the poetic description of a work of art.

elegy This genre can be difficult to define, as there are specific types of elegiac poem as well as a general elegiac mood, but almost all elegies mourn, and seek consolation for, a loss of some kind: the most common form of elegy is a lyric commemorating the death of a loved one. Greek elegiac meter, which is one source of what we know as the elegy today, is not normally associated with loss and mourning.

epic A long narrative poem that catalogues and celebrates heroic or historic deeds and events, usually focusing on a single heroic individual.

epigram A brief and pithy aphoristic observation, often satirical.

epitaph A tombstone inscription. Several famous poems end with the poet writing his own. (See, for example, Thomas Gray's "Elegy in a Country Churchyard" or W.B. Yeats's "Under Ben Bulben.")

epithalamion A song or poem that celebrates a wedding.

fable A brief tale about talking animals or objects, usually having a moral or pedagogical point, which is sometimes explicitly stated at the end. Aesop and la Fontaine are perhaps the most famous fable-writers.

georgic The agricultural cousin of pastoral, a georgic is a poem that celebrates rustic labor.

hymn A song of praise.

invective A personal, often abusive, denunciation.

lament An expression of grief.

light verse Poetry that is mostly for fun: this can mean anything from nonsense verse to folk songs, but typically there is a comical element to light verse.

lyric This genre encompasses a large portion of the world's poetry; in general, lyrics are fairly brief poems that emphasize musical qualities.

masque Courtly drama characterized by elaborate costumes and dances, as well as audience participation.

occasional verse Poetry written with reference to a particular event.

ode A long, serious meditation on an elevated subject, an ode can take one of three forms.

paean A song of joy or triumph.

palinode A recantation or retraction, usually of an earlier poem.

panegyric Poem or song in praise of a particular individual or object.

parody A comic imitation.

pastoral Originally a poem that depicted an idealized singing competition between shepherds, "pastoral" has come to denote almost anything to do with a rural setting, although it also refers to several specific categories of the genre. Associated genres of varying synonymity are idyll, bucolic, eclogue, and georgic.

psalm A sacred song.

riddle A puzzling question that relies on allegory or wordplay for its answer. Riddles are often short, and often include an answer to the question posed, albeit an unsatisfying one. The riddle of the Sphinx, which Oedipus solved, is a particularly famous example: "what walks on four legs in the morning, two at midday, and three in the afternoon?"

romance An adventure tale, usually set in a mythical or remote locale. Verse forms of the romance include the  Spanish ballad and  medieval or chivalric romance.

satire Ridicule of some kind, usually passing moral judgment.

tragedy This genre originated in ancient Greek verse drama and received extended treatment in Aristotle's Poetics, which made the downfall of the main character one of the criteria for tragedy. The genre has since expanded to include almost anything pertaining to a downfall.

verse epistle A letter written in verse, usually taking as its subject either a philosophical or a romantic question.

If these writing notes helped with your poem/story, please tag me. Or leave a link in the replies. I'd love to read them!

More: Word Lists ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[racefortheironthrone]

Any recommendations on where to start for someome who wants to know about Robin Hood?

Sure thing!

The thing about Robin Hood is that, because what we have are later written recordings and remixes of an older oral tradition, the sources are somewhat spread out between multiple texts. So what you want is a good collection of different sources, and preferably one that's a modern translation with regularized spelling (unless you like struggling with Middle English).

Waltz' The Gest of Robyn Hode: A Critical and Textual Commentary is a good place to start, because it not only has a modern translation of the Geste (the earliest written text of Robin Hood), but also a wealth of context and analysis.

Knight and Ohlgren's Robin Hood and Other Outlaw Tales also has a good selection of the Robin Hood ballads that introduced important characters like Guy of Gisborne, Maid Marian, Friar Tuck, and so forth to the narrative, as well as some of the 16th and 17th century Robin Hood plays that were responsible for the whole shift from the yeoman Robin Hood to the noble Robin (or Robert).

I can also recommend Ritson's Robin Hood: A Collection of All the Ancient Poems, Songs, and Ballads, Now Extant Relative to That Celebrated English Outlaw, which was the first scholarly attempt to collect and collate and make sense of the disparate historical texts and attempt to fit them into a coherent narrative.

Finally, you should probably read Walter Scott's Ivanhoe, which is the work of meta-fanfic that made Victorian medievalism the massive fandom that it was.

[thechanelmuse]

Pink Anderson (1900-1974)

Pink Anderson was a historic figure whose music included Piedmont-style blues, folk music, ragtime, and traditional ballads. He was born in South Carolina and early on sang in the streets for pennies. He was self-taught as a guitarist and toured throughout the Southeast with a variety of medicine shows (including Dr. William R. Kerr's "cure all medicine") during 1915-1945, picking up work wherever he could. He was employed not only as a musician and a singer but as a dancer and comedian.

Anderson recorded four titles in 1928 but did not make another record until Harlem Street Spirituals in 1950 for Riverside. At that time he recorded such traditional folk material as “John Henry,’ ‘The Ship Titanic,” and “Wreck of the Old 97.” He continued to work at parties, street fairs, and medicine shows during the first half of the 1950s before retiring for a time due to ill health. But in 1961, the Bluesville label recorded three albums of unaccompanied performances by Anderson, documenting him in Spartanburg, South Carolina. The titles of the three records, Carolina Blues Man, Medicine Show Man, and Ballad & Folksinger, vol. 3, sum up Pink Anderson’s life well and are a large slice of the repertoire that he had performed during the previous 35 years.

Pink Anderson stayed active on a part-time basis up until the time of his death in 1974. His music represents the Carolina blues, and the tradition of the constantly traveling folk singer.

Source

Floyd Council (1911-1976)

Floyd Council was a blues singer and guitar slinger who played in the East Coast / Piedmont style. He didn’t record solo often, but he’s still said to have recorded 27 songs, many backing up the legendary Blind Boy Fuller.

Born in North Carolina, Floyd began his musical career on the streets of Chapel Hill in the 1920s, performing with two brothers, Leo and Thomas Strowd as “The Chapel Hillbillies.” He recorded twice for ARC at sessions with Blind Boy Fuller in the mid-thirties, all examples of the Piedmont style. He was sometimes promoted as ‘Dipper Boy Council’, and ‘The Devil’s Daddy-in-Law,’ but these were likely the invention of record companies, not genuine nicknames.

Council suffered a stroke in the late 1960s which partially paralyzed his throat muscles and slowed his motor skills, but did not significantly damage his cognitive abilities. Folklorist Peter B. Lowry attempted to record him one afternoon in 1970, but he never regained his singing or playing abilities. Accounts say that he remained “quite sharp in mind.” Council died in 1976 of a heart attack, after moving to Sanford, North Carolina.

Source

Pink Floyd

Pink Anderson and Floyd Council were both featured on a Blind Boy Fuller album called Country Blues: 1935-1940. The sleeve of that album caught the eye of Syd Barrett, the frontman for London band, The Tea Set. Barrett changed the band's name to Pink Floyd, and the rest is history.

Source

[the-angry-folklorist]

Ok but what *type*/region/culture’s folklore 👀

Hiya! So my degree is specifically in Irish Folklore and Ethnography, which falls into the broader indo-european folklore tradition. English-language ballads are my speciality as I have a real deep love for them, but I would say that beyond that my other speciality/interest is in stories told purely for entertainment value [i.e., are not meant to be believed by anyone, as opposed to something like a legend.] Lots of Grimm's tales fall into this category! Myths do not, 98% of the time.

That doesn't mean it's my only interest- I love learning about myth from reputable sources and I ADORE good ethnological research done in conjunction with the community in question- but that's what I'm trained in!

[scotianostra]

On April 13th 1596 Walter Scott of Buccleuch freed notorious reiver William Armstrong of Kinmont in a daring raid on Carlisle Castle.

Perhaps the best known of the Border reivers (outlaw raiders or rustlers), William Armstrong of Kinmont’s first recorded raid was against the Milburns of Tyndale, in August 1583, when Armstrong was probably in his forties. In 1585 he accompanied the Earl of Angus`s campaign against the Earl of Arran and pillaged Stirling. Eight years later he was in Tynedale again with 1,000 men, carrying off over 2,000 beasts and £300 in spoils.

The events of 1596 and the rescue of ‘Kinmont’ Willie Armstrong represent a daring swashbuckling adventure. The fact that Kinmont led one of the most notorious bands of cut-throats ever to roam the Debatable Land seems to be irrelevant and in the tradition of the Border ballads we are to view him as a hero. His notoriety and activities were such that the Warden of the West Marsh’s deputy, Salkeld, captured Kinmont as he returned from a Truce Day at the Dayholm of Kershope. Kinmont was taken to Carlisle.

According to Border Law it should not have happened on a Truce Day and Walter Scott of Buccleuch who became known as The Bold Buccleuch, and was keeper of Liddesdale on whose land the arrest had been made, protested to the Warden, Lord Scrope. When Scrope refused to return Kinmont, Buccleuch became concerned that Scrope was anxious to hang Kinmont on the gallows at Harraby and so assembled a motley bunch of Elliots, Scotts, Armstrongs and Grahams to effect a rescue. Oral tradition has meant that the numbers vary from 40 to 200. The weather was atrocious which made crossing the River Eden very dangerous, but it did mean that the castle watch had taken shelter. Buccleuch left a group to cover the retreat and led the raiding party himself. Popular opinion has it that they must have had support from the inside because they entered the castle quickly. Thus with the aid of a sturdy Reiver, Red Rowan, Kinmont made his escape.

As is usual with these Border legends we look to the old sources of the story tellers before reading and writing was the norm, the old songs.

Arguably of recent times anyway, the nost famouse of thesensong collectors was Francis James Child an American scholar, if you follow my posts you will no doubt have seen me posting “Child Ballads” at times, this story comes from Child Ballad 186. This ballad is more unusual than most of the songs I know from the Child Ballads as it is longer than most at 20 verse so I wont post it, you can look it up on youtube as Child Ballad 168, but it’s over 9 minutes wrong in full!

[midwestbramble]

Forbidden Mysteries of Faery Witchcraft Book Review

I was very excited to read this when I first saw it because at the time I hadn't had the opportunity to learn much about "darker" aspects of witchcraft. By the time I got around to actually reading the book I already had experience in working with spirits and curses, but I still wanted to know what the Feri tradition taught about such things. Lets see what my thoughts were (and are).

Do note that this book continues teachings of the Feri Tradition found in the authors first book “Betwixt and Between” and may be confusing if you haven’t read that one first.

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Contents:

Synopsis

What I Liked

What I Didn't Like

Overall Thoughts

Conclusion

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Published 2018

"Whether your demons are ancient spirits or demons of your own making, you must confront them in order to reclaim the power they have stolen. Guiding you through enchantments, demonic rituals, divine possession, necromancy, and occultus maleficum, this book helps you cultivate and explore your forsaken shadows.

When you peer behind the veil of comfort and face your most powerful fears, you can truly begin to refine and strengthen your own magical will. In Forbidden Mysteries of Faery Witchcraft, you will learn to:

Summon primal underworld goddesses of the elemental powers

Walk the bone road and help trapped spirits cross over

Become a worthy vessel for divine possession

Perform as an oracle, speaking the wisdom of the gods on earth

Cast and break curses, the dark art of offensive magic

The powerful techniques of the Faery Tradition of Witchcraft await. Through these rituals, you will glimpse the secret inner workings of nature herself and open the doorway to unimagined sources of energy."

-from the back of the book

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What I Liked

The first chapter goes through several Scottish folktales of faery lore, such as the Ballad of Thomas the Rhymer. It also goes into how the Feri tradition interprets these folktales and myths in their own practice.

The second chapter talks about connecting with various types of ancestors, including blood, marriage, adoption, and the Mighty Dead.

In the first part of the book there are a lot of exercises and rites to help the reader engage with the material. They’re a little too formal for my tastes but plenty helpful for their purpose.

The author acknowledges that the tradition is influenced by Huna, which was created by a white man and appropriates Hawaiian language and culture. He talks about what he is doing to not continue the appropriation within the tradition which is nice to see.

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What I Didn't Like

The tradition works with Melek Ta’us which I’ve already spoken about in my review of the first book. The gist is that the tradition used the figure as another depiction of the devil which just perpetuates the narrative of the Yazidi people, from which Melek Ta’us originates, as devil worshippers, which has caused persecution of the people in their home region.

If you’ve kept up with news regarding Neil Gaiman, you may not like that the book makes reference to his works. The book was published before the abuses were made known but I wanted to make sure people knew.

The author uses the term Judeo-Christian. You can learn about the problematic history of this term here.

The author talks about demons as manifestations of our shadow. This is not what the shadow is. The book combines the ideas of actual demons through a Christian worldview with that of the Jungian shadow. This could lead to people demonizing perfectly normal emotions as well as a pipe line for toxic positivity. The author encourages working with these demons for integration with special rituals, however there is so much talk of purity while also trying to maintain that there is nothing wrong with yourself that it’s really just a form of cognitive dissonance. And a lack of understanding that the Jungian shadow is a metaphor, not an actual spirit to combat within yourself. The author even claims that the shadow is waging war against us, when it’s not. It’s just an aspect of yourself you are meant to acknowledge instead of hiding from.

Coming off of this idea, the author says shadow figures are demons. They are not! I’m so tired of people believing whatever Zak Bagans tells them. The most a shadow figure has ever done is accidentally gave someone a fright. They’re curious spirits who are easily spooked themselves. Kind of like a cat.

While this might be small for some, the author says “to plant, we must first plow.” Which just isn’t true agriculturally or otherwise. I’ve never once plowed or tilled my garden. Build the soil and it’s not necessary. It only serves to deplete nutrients.

The author includes spells, such as the reversal spell, and other practices either directly taken or inspired by Hoodoo. He at least gives credit where due but I don’t feel it’s his place to be teaching that with all the people who practice who keep saying NOT TO.

The book synopsis claims that the reader will learn how to cast curses. This is not true. In fact the author only ever talks about protecting yourself from curses, while at one point admitting he has never cast a curse and doesn’t need to. He also says that if you’re experienced you should already know how to cast a curse. False advertising for those who weren’t sure where to go for more information.

⛧─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───⛧

Overall Thoughts

This book is a mess. It doesn’t teach what it purports to and instead gives you a ritualized format for new age shadow work. Literally demonizing spirits and perfectly normal human reactions along the way. The only way I would recommend this book is if you really wanted to learn more about the Feri tradition from Storm Faerywolf.

⛧─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───⛧

Conclusion

If you still want to read the book it can be found on Amazon, Google Books, Llewellyn (the publisher), World of Books, Abe Books, and more.

More Reviews:

Mat Auryns Patheos blog

Esoteric Moment

[deimos-awaits]

Dreams of the Chaptermaster

My first little writing from Artificer Siderénia Teleiótita

Artificer Siderénia Teleiótita did not know where he was. This deeply concerned the Chaptermaster of the Ironsong, in a way the few other things did. He almost always knew at the very least where he was or what made his surroundings. To be so unprepared and unknowing of either was troubling. He was not wearing his armor that much he was sure of. The comfortable feeling of tons of ceramite was gone from his chest. It made them feel rather light and airy. The area around them was light and fragrant. Though covered in such a deep smoke or mist that it was hard to tell where anything was really. It reminded him of one of the poetdens on his homeworld of Astraea, at least on the side that devoted itself to the arts.

It took less than a minute for him to take stock of himself. He seemed to be wearing the robes and tunics common on the more wealthy parts of Astraea. He would rather have been in one of the old jumpsuits he had long grown accustomed to wearing. Further he wished that he had a mechandrite harness or any of his armor. Artificer Siderénia felt naked without it, especially without any knowledge exactly of where they were. The last thing that he could remember was celebrating a successful campaign against an eldar craftworld force with the Knightly House of Phobos and the First Deimos Explorator Fleet. The celebration was a subbed event, the heads of the three organizations, themself representing the Ironsong Chapter of Astartes, though he did indulge in specially acquired Fenrisian Ale. Maybe that was the mistake, and the ale imbibed by the sons of Russ. Warpcraft was his second supposition as to what was occurring though he was hoping that wasn't the case. The third most likely situation was he was dreaming.

Artificer Siderénia took one more moment to examine the air around him. It resembled the smoke clouds more often found on the poetdens of Astraea though unlike there, where a simple wave of the hand would result in more clear air with the incense brushing away and the ability to see whatever poet was crooning against the sound of brasswind instruments. He strode forward, though they were unable to out which direction they had initially started facing. Siderénia was confident enough though that the ground beneath was made of marble or some other similar stone. He bent down to feel it and it was as smooth and cold as they would otherwise expect. The smooth surface indicated some form of polishing and the as of yet unidentified light source seemed to confirm it was white stone with gold veining. Artificer Siderénia could Even see his own well kept beard and violet eyes in the reflection from the stone.It felt truly like he was in one of the more gaudy Emperor forsaken poetden. Upon recalling the simple fact about his homeworld’s musical traditions, a soft melody began to play in the air.

It sounded wrong, as if there was a faint hint of static with what was normally a live performance. The melody itself was strange and Artificer Siderénia did his best to try to appraise it before approaching. It seemed to be a strange melange of the work songs of his youth and the more restful ballads of a poetden though he could not make out any district words that either might have. He was put on high alert no matter where he was it was trying to put him at ease and failing.

If only he had his Omnissian power axe.

He was not often given to strong emotions, moderation and balance was after all key to his chapter's survival and thriving but he yearned for it now in this strange place. If this was the result of any of the Magi of Deimos they would learn why to never do this again. With little emotion visible he began to move towards whatever source of the music he could find. Damn Magos Aleph-Gimmel Bellerov-2.0 and her Fenrisian ale for addling their head enough they could not remember where they were. With a simple breath he moved forward, less a man moving forward but a rumbling mountain of steel, flesh, and ceramite moving forward in thundering footsteps. He never was one for subtly though there was an itching in the back of his head that wished that was more the case.

Artificer Siderénia kept walking until the smoke began to clear and his surroundings seemed to take a more solid form. The room they found themselves in was a similar amalgamation of all the poetdens he had ever been in. There was a stage at the edge of his vision where there was a youth of indeterminate gender - not uncommon on Astraea - crooning into a microphone hanging from the ceiling, tables spread out with small arrangements of flowers on them, gilded seats and incense burning everywhere. The song that youth with light hair and even paler skin was crooning was strangely difficult to focus on. There was also no band visible behind them to give the backing music. Dream or warpcraft Siderénia decided. Perhaps both. He was leaning towards dream given how most of the seats and tables present seemed suited to accommodate a man of his size and build and although that was not uncommon on Astraea due to it being his chapters homeworld but all of them being his size or larger? Strange.

He began to walk towards the youth on the stage. The fact that the youth either did not notice him despite seemingly being the only other person in the room or did not care that a nine foot tall transhuman was approaching was troubling. It was further troubling that the youth only had one breast whose swell was visible under their tunic. Warpcraft of what flavor was quickly becoming obvious to him.

Could he use any of the chairs here as a welcome? Were the chairs also similarly tainted? What would he have to do in order to escape this place? His thoughts began to march through his head in ordered fashion trying to discern exactly how to leave this warp spawned nightmare. The Ruinous Powers would not have him.

Siderénia was so focused on that he didn't notice at first the clapping congratulating the Youth's latest unintelligible song. The Youth took a bow before returning to croon in some language that was definitely no form of Gothic Siderénia had ever heard. He turned to see the source and perhaps find any other person here to find a giant of a man even by the standards of the Astartes. He has the same white hair as Siderénia, like the marbled floor and matching violet eyes. Siderénia’s hearts felt as if they had just stopped.

He yearned once more that he had his power axe.

It was impossible to deny who was sitting in front of him and Siderénia would not even begin to attempt to. The other man laughed. The laugh was far similar to the music playing. It was a thousand desires and dreams fulfilled all at once, and ten thousand desires left aching.

A few moments passed between them again with the smell of incense and the crooning threatening to overtake all of the senses. Siderénia simply stared, a gaze that in most cases would have caused any member of the Ironsong Chapter to shrink. The other person simply laughed again. “Hello darling. Are you enjoying the performance?”

Artificer Siderénia simply stared over more at the man begging the Emperor to be wrong about who this was.

“Well. Aren't you going to say something?” The other figure asked as if the few seconds, maybe even a minute, if that at most, of silence had begun already to bore him. The voice was similar enough to the laughing that it made him want to talk and respond. It was oozing with joy.

“No.”

The other man's broad smile seemed to twitch for a second. “Oh come on, Siderénia, you know you brought yourself here, won't you as least ask who I am? This is modeled after your homeworld after all.”

Siderénia glanced at the crooning Youth. Their performance though still entirely musical had begun to verge into a style that would have never been accepted on Astraea, Even given their relatively progressive standards. He looked back at the figure lounging in front of him. The tunic the other was wearing seemed to be made out of snake skin. “What would you have me say Fulgrim, snake, Gorgonbane?”

The Primarch of the Third Legion's face, Artificer Siderénia Teleiótita own Primarch, laughed again though there was no mirth this time. “First Rylanor, now you. Oh darling, darling. " Fulgrim tuted at him as if he was a child. "When I heard the little whispers the Imperium had decided to make a new chapter with my geneseed I just had to watch you know. It was so fascinating to watch you all grow.”

Artificer Siderénia Teleiótita stood as impassively and emotionless as any proud son of Ferrus Manus would. His chapter claimed their descent from the Gorgon. Now would be no different. “I hope you are disappointed.”

“Disappointed? Oh my dear son, Siderénia, I'm far from it. Your precious Ironsong has been an exemplary finishing force! And while the art you make tends to be more subdued, that can be fixed in time! I'm sure I can find a place for all mechanists.”

“No.” the world around Siderénia began to shudder and shake. It was like a hololith losing connection.

“No? Again that's really quite Dornian or even rather like… you haven't even heard my offer.”

“Snake, I want nothing of what you offer me.” Siderénia Teleiótita count feel the tug within him to submit to his primarch and do whatever the demon and but the chaptermaster held firm.

“I am your father,” Fulgrim stood now white hair cascading down in an impossibly beautiful wave. “I know what you have gotten up to with those Magi-”

Siderénia Teleiótita, against his better judgment, stepped forward and grabbed a chair as he did so. It was no Omnissian axe but it would have to do. “You are not my father. He is buried in Astraea’s soil, and though you are my primarch my allegiance is to the Emperor and Ferrus Manus.”

Fulgrim’s languid and easy attitude had swung towards anger and frustration. The entire poetden seemed to flicker into static. “I do not know by what Warpcraft you think you can escape but you will see,” and the human form he was talking fell away to reveal the demon prince beneath. Writhing scales and four arms reaching towards the all too human history master. “You are my children, you are not his!” one of Fulgrim's claws scratched his chin.

The Youth began to scramble and run off of the stage as the dream world was shaking.

Siderénia Teleiótita had no idea what Warpcraft was happening either. As far as he was aware no one even remotely close to them had access to warpcraft. He swung the chair at the daemon primarch ready to fight to his last here.

Then his eyes shot open.

Siderénia Teleiótita’s hearts were pounding and he was covered in sweat.

A familiar, though a tad forgettable Magos of Deimos, loomed over him. “Artificer Siderénia Teleiótita! Are you alright? Your heart beats were elevated, I was simply coming to ask for your presence at a meeting with the local planetary governor.”

Artificer Siderénia Teleiótita simply looked up at the Magos Tsephor-10.54 and attributed the headache to hangover as that dream faded almost instantly from memory. The rather fat techpriest had the strange ability to be almost forgettable while also unnerving. “I am fine. Aid me in putting on my armor and I will be there promptly.”

Siderénia Teleiótita did not notice the new scar on his chin.

[autumnslance]

FFXIV Write 2024: 27 Memory

(Hey it's the practically tradition, annual future fic! Spoilers for Endwalker's patch storyline.)

“Did you want the radio on this morning?” Tillie asked as she set out breakfast.

“Please,” Iyna answered, easing herself into her chair. Her right leg was stiff and aching this morning thanks to a shift in the weather. Even Viera grew old eventually, though she had never expected to be one of them with all the adventures and danger she had been through in her long life.

Tillie turned on the radio, the morning host going over said weather report while Iyna ate. There were also the morning’s newspapers to peruse. She liked to keep a few subscriptions rotating, to see where the biases were and who she had to write stern letters to.

Well, dictate to her assistant. Her handwriting was still shite, and her typing skills weren’t as good as they used to be. Her wrists and fingers ached too easily these days.

The weather report ended, with a brief word from the morning’s sponsor—some chocolatey beverage powder—and the next forty-five minutes of music began before general news. There was a brief identification of the song title and singer if it had lyrics, but otherwise the announcer remained silent.

Iyna was chewing on jam-covered toast when notes she had not heard in decades struck her ears. They had none of the magic of the old minstrel’s performances—regulations wouldn’t allow it for many good reasons—and there was a modern stylizing, but the song was unmistakably one of his, commemorating and embellishing on one of the Warrior of Light’s victories.

She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. It had all begun with a map they hadn’t been sure was real. They had found the treasure—and a gateway to the Thirteenth, and thus had begun a new adventure: to search the Void to find the lost Great Wyrm Azdaja, sister to Vrtra, the Satrap of Radz-at-Han.

They had not expected the twists and turns along the way. Had not expected Zero, or the Fiends, or Golbez. None of them had expected Zeromus, and the dive into Golbez’s domain on the moon’s reflection to fight the draconic voidsent.

Iyna remembered how close it was; the cracks in reality between the Thirteenth and the Source, the creature’s rage as it hammered them again and again with draconic void magics. Lotus draped over C’oretta’s head as she flopped to the ground. Dark had her axe that day, standing before the others, heaving and snarling as the darkness attempted to reconstitute. Aeryn straightening, rapier ready, about to rush in again. Zero’s hopeful light, able to pierce the deepest darkness. Vrtra’s call. The simulacra falling as a small dragonet manifested with the help of her brother’s Eye.

The song was coming to an end. “Who was the artist?” Iyna asked. “I missed it.”

“I don’t think they said yet,” Tillie replied. “Probably after, before they introduce the next one.”

Iyna nodded, and listened for the announcer. She smiled as he identified the modern artist as Nadim Ranaz, commemorating the two hundredth anniversary of Lady Azdaja’s return with a new rendition of the classic ballad. Ranaz was also a distant blood relation to the Warrior of Light, and his musical interests included rediscovering and modernizing the songs and ballads of his many-times-removed cousin, to spread and preserve them in the current era.

“It’s been some time since I’ve visited Thavnair,” Iyna mused. “Tillie, would you—”

“On it,” her assistant replied, pulling up contact information and beginning arrangements.

Two hundred years. Azdaja no longer needed her brother’s Eye, her own aether replenished, though she still had plenty of regrowing to do to reach her full power again. It would be nice to visit the dragons, to speak of old times, of old friends, and reminisce about that wild era before seeing the fruits of their labor in the peace and prosperity of modern Thavnair.

Iyna would also have to make a visit to Ranaz, sharing her carefully kept copies of the old minstrel’s songs—most of them from Aeryn’s own extensive collection.

Both of her old friends would like that. That wandering minstrel had only ever wanted to share his stories with the world, and Aeryn’s own bardic nature, so oft at war with her tendency to demure her heroics, would appreciate the songs being passed to a new generation.

After all, Iyna’s own self-appointed task as keeper of her friends’ legacies meant keeping those tales and their truths circulating for as long as she was able. To keep their memories alive in not only her heart but the rest of the world’s.

She wasn’t out of the fight yet.

She also was not at all the singer that Dark or Aeryn had been, but hummed a few bars anyway as she left the kitchen to prepare for her next adventure.

“Tales of loss and fire and faith...”

[vampiresuns]

ngl, I am yet to read The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, and watch the adaptation, but one thing that's popping out to me is the amount of people I've seen who assuming that, because Katniss knows the Hanging Tree song, she must be related to Lucy Gray, almost entirely forgetting the source material and its author.

because there are no chosen ones in The Huger Games. Never have been. There are a lot of elements that border on magical realism/the supernatural in the novels, from the character perspectives, but there is no predestination: it is all choice. Katniss isn't special because she's related to someone, she's special because of what she chooses and what that means in the context she's in.

if Suzanne Collins did one thing is write a web of social constellations and memory in constant conversation with the present. It doesn't matter if Katniss is or not related to anyone in TBOSAS. what matters is oral tradition and folk culture of the districts, specially D12 and within that district, The Seam, cannot be controlled. that it exists regardless of Capitol control. that it will always exist regardless of Capitol control. it is in direct conversation with the irl experiences of BIPOC in Appalachia and the working class in Appalachia (and in many places of the world by similarity of irl circumstances due to colonisation and class struggle alone) who have rich oral traditions that constitute an important part of USAmerican Folk, but exist on its own right.

you could interpret it as them being related, sure. nothing stops you: it could be just a hc, it could be analysis with more or less textual evidence, that's up to you. but as people in fandom or who engage with the world of THG we shouldn't ignore this reading bc it's so, so blatant. it is right there. in the end, one of the greatest tools these characters had to overthrow, cheat and avoid the Capitol was the existence of a second history, a local, working class, brown kind of history that in real life and for the characters is taken as non-existent and not valuable for the people in power.

and because it is not of importance, because those people think the people they oppress are barely human and therefore incapable of "actual" culture, it creates a massive blind-spot. these people have the audacity to keep existing. believe me the reason why Katniss knows those songs is because the Seam had the audacity to keep singing — not because it was capital P political, or capital R Resisting. but simply because they existed, against all odds. they lived, against all attempts to exterminate them.

there will still be singing, in the dark times. Suzanne Collins knows that.

[theannotateddean]

“Green Caves sorcerers don’t go to war,” said Ruth slowly. She looked suddenly frightened. “So why did Lady Ruth go?” Ted asked her. Ellen snickered. “Probably because she’s in love with Edward. You dress in men’s array, Ruthie, and quickly heal his wounds.” “And you and Laurie can dress in men’s array and carry the bandages,” said Ruth, absently; she still seemed worried.

Chapter 5, The Hidden Land

This is an indirect reference to a traditional ballad sometimes titled Jack Monroe (Roud 268, Laws N7, c. 1818) – Dean is most likely referencing the version recorded by Steeleye Span, based purely on the specific turns of phrases quoted by Ellen and her other references to Steeleye Span renditions of traditional ballads.

In this quote, Ellen is very deliberately paralleling the language used in stanzas 4 and 9.

There was a wealthy merchant, in London he did dwell. He had a beautiful daughter, the truth to you I’ll tell. She had sweethearts a-plenty and men of high degree But none but Jack the sailor her true love ere could be. Jack he’s gone a-sailing with trouble on his mind He’s left his king and his country and his darling girl behind. She went down to a tailor’s shop and dressed in men’s array She’s signed a bill of passage to convey herself away. Before you get on board, Sir, your name we’d like to know. She smiled all in her countenance, they call me Jack-A-Roe. I see your waist is slender, your fingers they are small. Cheeks too red and rosy to face the cannonball. I know my waist is slender, my fingers they are small, But it would not make me tremble to see ten thousands fall. The war soon being over she went and looked around, Among the dead and wounded her darling boy she found. She picked him up all in her arms and carried him to the town, She sent for a physician who quickly healed his wounds. This couple they got married, so well they did agree; This couple they got married so why not you and me?

The ballad itself tells the story of a young woman who crossdresses and follows her forbidden lover to war, saving him from his wounds. The parallel is apt for the characters / actual Lady Ruth and Prince Edward, who are ostensibly pining for each other in a forbidden manner.

See Jackie Munro / The Wars of Germany / There Was a Wealthy Merchant for more information on the ballad itself and its variants.

[anarchotolkienist]

51

The Gaelic folk-rock band Rùn-rìg's amazing version of a Mhic Iain 'ic Sheumais, a ballad that goes back to the 16th century and a battle in South Uist between Clan Donald and Clan MacLean - the foster-mother of the clan Donald chief sang it on the boat going out to his wounded bed when she was told by her men that her foster-son lay wounded, describing her emotional devastation. It also includes one of the rare mentions in modern Scottish Gaelic (as the habit had already largely disappeared at this time) of ritualised blood-drinking by women, which was a medieval habit during the Caoineadh, the keening of fallen male relations in battle - 'Latha blàr na fèithe/Bha do lèine ballach/Bha fuil do chuim chùbhraidh/A' drùdhadh tron anart/Bha mi fhèin ga sùghadh/Gus na thùch air m' anail - with some evidence for it in earlier sources and contemporary ones in Ireland, but this is to my knowledge the last mention of it in a keening in Scotland. A very interesting song.

I really like Rùn-rìg's early material, especially the ones in Gaelic - listening to it is as though you're listening to an alternate universe where rock was based on Gaelic traditional music, rather than southern American folk music (especially Black southern American folk).

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Lyric Subgenres

This is a summary of the kinds of poems that lyric poets return to most frequently. It is convenient to be able to name a poem by its kind, because you can then compare it to others of the same kind. Examples:

Address to the reader - "Pray thee, take care, that tak'st my book."

Ballad - "There lived a wife at Usher’s well, / And a wealthy wife was she; / She had three stout and stalwart sons, / And sent them o’er the sea."

Child's poem - "The Little Black Boy" (Blake)

Dawn poem (aubade) - "Get up! get up for shame! the blooming morn / Upon her wings presents the god unshorn."

Deathbed poem - "I heard a Fly buzz — when I died —"

Debate-poem - "Body / O who shall me deliver whole / From bonds of this tyrannic soul? . . . / Soul / What magic could me thus confine / Within another's grief to pine?"

Echo-poem - "Then tell me, what is that supreme delight? Light. / Light to the mind, what shall the will enjoy? Joy."

Ekphrasis (poem on an art object) - "Ode on a Grecuian Urn" (Keats)

Elegy - "Felix Randal the farrier, O is he dead then, my duty all ended?"

Emblem-poem (allegorical object) - "The Sick Rose" (Blake)

Epigram (short, pointed poem) - "I am his Highness' dog at Kew: / And pray, good sir, whose dog are you?"

Epitaph - Underneath this stone doth lie / All of beauty that could die.

Epithalamion (wedding song) - "And evermore they Hymen Hymen sing, / That al the woods them answer and theyr eccho ring."

Hymn - "Jerusalem, Jerusalem / Lift up your gates and sing, / Hosanna in the highest . . ."

Inscription - "I the poet William Yeats . . . / Restored this tower for my wife George: / And may these characters remain / When all is ruin once again."

Letter - "This is my letter to the world / That never wrote to me."

Lover's complaint - "And wilt thou leave me thus?"

Lullaby - "Lullay, lullay, thou tiny child."

Muse-poem - "The Solitary Reaper" (Wordworth)

Nocturne - "'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's."

Pastoral (rustic poem) - "The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing / For thy delight each May morning."

Political poem - "Easter, 1916" (Yeats)

Quest-poem - "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? / Thou art more lovely and more temperate."

Religious poem - "I saw eternity the other night."

Romance - "The Eve of St. Agnes" (Keats)

Seasonal poem - "Sumer is icumen in, / Lhude sing cuccu!"

Self-reflexive poem - "I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers."

Shaped poem - "Easter Wings" (Herbert)

Song - "It was a lover and his lass, / With a hey and a ho and a hey nonny no . . ."

Twin poems - "The Lamb" and "The Tyger" (Blake)

Valediction - "Adieu, farewell earth's bliss."

Variations on a theme - "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Black-bird" (Stevens)

There are many other such that one could name: the bird poem, the eclogue (a dialogue of shepherds), the georgic (a poem on farming), the testament (a poem making a will), the conversation poem (a poem of a middle, or familiar, style recounting a conversation among friends), and so on. The essential thing is to realize that almost any poem is a repeat of a preceding genre, perhaps an answer to it, perhaps a revision of it. Thinking “What kind of a lyric is this?” makes you more aware of its place in a genre tradition, and of its response to that tradition.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[frollodeathscene]

(little excerpt about hellfire's lyricism from the essay on religion in media I wrote for class)

‎

But there are times when the secular world of modern music and the powerful tradition of religious music intertwine and create something, both removed from, and nonexistent without, the sacred.

Committed to their image as a clean, family-friendly media conglomerate, Disney has long put to rest its raunchier subject material. No more drinking, no more smoking, no more violence. Every movie is smoothed into an edgeless ball of mediocrity, devoid of anything deemed even mildly offensive, all in an attempt to appeal to every demographic possible. Every song is designed to be an earworm, and most don’t mean to convey anything but a desire to sell dolls and CDs.

Then, there was that one time where they adapted one of the most infamous pieces of gothic literature into a movie for children.

Walt Disney Studios’ take on The Hunchback of Notre Dame remains one of my favorites. For as much as people dislike its darkness and lack of child-friendly themes, for as many stories I’ve heard of parents pulling their children out of the theater during its initial release, I will never stop believing that it’s the best in Disney’s repertoire.

And, of course, what would The Hunchback of Notre Dame be without Hellfire?

Including its prelude and thematic opposite (Heaven’s Light, which I will not include in this essay as I fear the length already), Hellfire, at just five minutes and twenty two seconds, stands of one of the most memorable moments in musical history. It is, in my own opinion, the crowning jewel of the film and encapsulates every aspect of what makes Hunchback so controversially masterful.

There is no doubt that Hellfire- and the film as a whole- are indirect forms of religious expression. Devoid of the usual pandering and ingratiating aspects of Christian animated media, it not only succeeds in displaying the benevolent, hopeful side of religion, but excels in its evils as well.

As the dreamy, soft-edged melody of Heaven’s Light fades into the sound of church bells, the song is taken from a gentle allegory of love as paradise to the echoes of Latin chants against stone walls. Here, the hopefulness of Quasimodo’s ballad is sent through a hazy mist of prayers and resurfaces in a rising anxiety.

Claude Frollo (originally an archdeacon, but a judge in this particular version) begins his own song by beseeching Mary. To confront the holy virgin, the sinless mother of God herself, with his temptations, to turn to an immortal woman as an escape from one of flesh and blood. He denies, and then he bargains, and then he denies again. Frollo’s cognitive dissonance from the image of superiority he projects onto others versus his struggles with the moral inferiority he feels within himself, which have been building since the very first minutes of the film, reach their narrative peak here as he ultimately refuses himself capable of sin.

His obsession with his own damnation and his deflection of personal responsibility chase him throughout the song as he faces an imaginary court of hooded monks. The echoes of Latin- the language of Catholicism, as if the church itself is judging him- counteract every desperate claim he makes: “It’s not my fault // (mea culpa)”, which directly translates to “my fault”.

Even the symbolism of fire itself is a double-edged sword. In the context of Christianity, fire both represents pain, suffering in Hell- and cleansing, purification. Frollo’s own struggle with sin, as represented by fire, is complimented by a desire to purify himself of his lust by burning its source. In a literal and figurative sense, he weaponizes his own fear against others- he both resents AND wields the very thing that destroys him. After all, whether fire is hellish or purifying, it still burns.

The song closes with Frollo’s leitmotif, a chorus of “Kyrie Eleison”, an older Greek prayer that roughly translates to “Lord Have Mercy”, and he collapses.

Hellfire, fraught with heavy symbolism, intertwined with such a controversial character, not only represents Catholicism, but some of its darkest consequences as well. A pure revelation of the sacred through creation.

[folk-enjoyer]

Folk Song Friday!

The Thresher Pete Seeger, 1963

"The Thresher" was written and recorded by Pete seeger in 1963. Its based off of the sinking of the USS Thresher nuclear-submarine that same year. 129 people, including some civilians, officers, and crewmen died. Pete Seeger wasn't the only folk artist who made a song out of the incident. Phil Ochs, Tom Paxton, and the Kingston Trio did as well.

Like the source I used for this post points out, this continues the tradition of folk songs being created out of ship disasters and sinkings. I think that's interesting because I can think of a lot of ship or boat disaster folk songs, but not a lot of train, or carriage, or car, or fire, disaster folk songs.

main source: "Four Ballads of the USS Thresher"