Whom would you bet on?
What a piece of work we are,
deluded in our reason…
concocting archetypes with which to slay each other.
Concoct? No, forge or mold; regardless they obliterate
our tiny contrivances.
We mine primordial star stuff from collective consciousness…
no need to heat the ore, already incandescent,
a wonder we don’t char our hands right off.
We dream and nightmare, Gaimans at the gates
of hells or paradises; we make them in our exaggerated
images, convex or concave for male or female
sliding together like oiled jigsaw puzzle pieces,
caterwauling orgasmic frenzies,
giving birth to more gods…
What? Wait! They give birth to more gods beyond our ken?
How can this be, creations creating? Well,
look at us, creating independently of makers.
Beware artificial intelligences lest they grow crazed…
Don’t mess with The Good God, Great God, King of Horsemen,
huge and bearded, hooded from sight like
an uncut penis, speaking of which, he carries
gigantic staff, long mor; one end snuffs out life,
one bestows it. His lover is the female god Boann, of the River Boyne.
He is a shining Mighty One, satirized by clergy as an oaf
dragging enormous cock on ground
between his legs, such calumny!
It must not stand. Hail Dagda!
Another formidable instance, The Great Queen, Queen of Phantoms, god of war, god of sex, in alternating order. (Remember women were warriors long ago; female Scathach taught martial arts to Fianna fighters; it seems those times have come again.) Dark Lady Morrigan stirs up berserker rage in hearts of soldiers, strikes fear into enemies, removing their “kidneys of valor”…
so they can’t get testes anymore…
Free with the “friendship of her thighs”; she may condescend to mortals…
psychopomp conveys the slain to Tir na Og, the Isle of the Forever Young.
Slandered as eater of babies, this must not stand! Once an earth god, protector of land and livestock. Her sighs bring spasms to men, women, all other variations. Hail Morrigan!
Dagda has uitheann the magic harp, which also can strike the hearts of warriors with bravery or craven cowardice, can bring storms or fair weather,
music calamitous, miraculous, brings bleeding ears and deafness, sweet dreams, euphoria…intoxication the gift of his coire ansic, the never empty cauldron, slaking millions in need of mead.
Her form washes bloody armor or clothing at the ford portending defeat, death. She decides victory, defeat; shapeshifter, she soars above the fields of battle, exults in massive bloodshed, “…food for her black feathered children…”
Only the Morrigan confers kingship; even her husband the Dagda (yes they are married) bears the golden torc around his neck at her pleasure.
Now, my fellow poets, let’s get silly…even foolhardy...ask “Who is greater?” Battle Queen or King of Horsemen? Do you really want to tango? They are married, on the same side.
Disdain for one brings doom from both.
~ Wry Welwood
19th of August 2021
Written in response to J.D. Harms’ Wednesday prompt in Scrittura, August 18th.
Thanks to Viraji Ogodapola.