Showing posts with label hag. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hag. Show all posts

Thursday, 16 August 2018

Witchlines: Wedding The Troll-Hag

Here is a second Witchlines tale inspired by The White Bear King Valemon, looking at things from the point of view of the troll-hag who takes Valemon captive. 

Wedding the Troll-Hag

Do you think me ugly? Do you fear my stony gaze, my teeth sharp as knives, my spiderweb hair, my blood-red lips? 

It’s true: I would have him—that handsome bear-king, Valemon. I would pull him into my bone-crushing embrace, bind him to my earthen breast, merge his wild beauty with my own wild monstrousness. I would draw him down deep into my body, to sleep with me as one.

I love the smell of decay. I love munching on bones, and reducing flesh to ashes and dust. I love to bring all life back to its beginning. I simply can’t help it, you see, for it is in my nature to do as Nature does.

Some see the rot, the darkness, the unknown, and they call it ugly, they call it frightening.

I have a hard, stony body, it’s so, hairy with root tendrils and mycelia. I am black and cold and unyielding. Yet if that is all you see you do not see true.

I would have Valemon—yes!—and I will, in time, for there is no avoiding Death. Yet I don’t take without giving first; and after I take I give yet again.

Don’t you see? That young woman would never have found him without me, would never have become a bear-wife, married to the wild; nor would she have lost him either. I drew them together, I pulled them asunder, and then led them both towards me. While I held him close, I ripped her clothes, tore her lily-white skin, half-starved her, and put some dirt under her fingernails. I steered her towards each fateful old crone—flesh of my flesh, knowing of my knowing—and I tested her, with each breath she breathed, each step she stepped, each word she spoke.

Is she kind? I asked. Is she courageous? Is she clever and resourceful? And most importantly of all: Does she love him as much as life itself?

You may think my methods harsh, my ways all too earthy. But if you want soft, you must be prepared to take the hard; if you want light, you’ll have to walk into the darkness. Show me that you can be unyielding, and only then will I yield. 

I am not so cruel as to take all. I am always willing to be generous, for I know that Life must have Valemon and his bear-bride before Death claims them. They have wild gifts that they must bring back to the tamed world; gifts gleaned from contact with my own chthonic realm. I will give them that.

Look again. Am I still hideous? Or do you see a glimmer of beauty in my eye, like the morning sun cresting the horizon? 

If you haven’t seen true yet, then let me reveal all: I am Life just as much as I am Death, for one cannot be without the other. I am the marriage of light and the darkness, night and day, fertile black soil and bleached white bones, plump juicy fruit and the sweet stench of decay. I am mother and lover to the bear-king, and to his bear-bride; and they are just as much me as any other earth-born being.

Know this: the wild must be free to wed itself to the human, and the human must be free to wed itself to the wild. The bear-husband must have his bear-wife, so that wild and human merge, furred, clawed, and kindly wild, else there is no wholeness or beauty.

And in the end, I’ll still have him, for everything is wed to me.

White Bear King Valemon, by Theodor Kittelsen
(Source: Wikimedia)

Thursday, 15 June 2017

Furies: A Poem

Two Furies, from a 19th century book reproducing an image frrom an ancient vase
(Source: Wikimedia Commons) 

lighting lightless eyes with fury 
that motion through emotion – anger – arrives 
teller of troubling truths, revealer of wrongs 

we’ve been told, we women, not to feel it 
certainly not to show it 
so unladylike, so inappropriate 

but we do feel it 

who can blame us? 
we are human, after all 
wilfully wronged and restrained
forced into shapes not our own 

taught no other way 
we push our anger down, hold it in 
feel it thickening in our throats 
until our voices flee 

this is what they want

rage flares within 
burns our hearts to black 
and we cannibalise ourselves 
until all that remains are empty 
silent shells 

they delight at this 

what they do not understand
– and what we are remembering – is that 
black is our colour, darkness our home 
and red blood flows through our chthonic bodies 
its own bright unlight 

we endure because life endures 
(despite hollowness and enforced silence)
by virtue of the dark 
its womblike circumference 
its still sanctuary   

and because of that pure, beautiful blackness 
they do not see 
when our shells ossify, become armour 
that protects us as we sprout 
wide shadowy wings that fly us to freedom

then we open our throats and speak truth 
singing serpent-tongued and winged
as we always were 
for it is our furies that show us the way


* * *

I’ve been thinking of anger recently, of how it is an emotion that has at times driven my writing. I seem to have so very much to say when rage is flaring in me, and it provides me with an energy I would not otherwise have.

A few years ago I read about a Canadian study by Dr. Cheryl van Daalen-Smith, called ‘Whispers and Roars: A Feminist Analysis of The Anesthetization of Girls’ Anger’, which made quite an impression on me at the time. Unfortunately, I’ve been unable to find the full article again (though it is mentioned here and here), so I cannot quote from it, but it dealt with the idea of anger as a positive and useful emotion, and explored the ways in which girls are taught to suppress it, resulting in loss of feeling and authentic self-knowing.

We tend to characterise emotions as either good or bad—happiness = good, sadness = bad—yet I think the truth is that emotions themselves are neutral. It is part of being human to experience the whole gamut, from the brightest of joys to the deepest of griefs. I, for one, think that a life lived feeling only the so-called ‘good’ emotions would be a very boring life indeed. Though emotions such as anger, fear or frustration may be unpleasant to feel, they are necessary, bringers of wisdom, growth and creative fire.

Anger, in particular, is a very useful emotion, as it alerts us to when an injustice is being done to ourselves or others. It tells us when something is wrong, and, when handled well, gives us a chance to put things right. Of course, anger can be a problem when it is expressed through behaviours such as aggression or violence; but what the study made clear to me is that it is as damaging, sometimes more so, when it is not expressed. Girls are often taught from a young age that showing anger—making a scene, disturbing the peace, rocking the boat, disagreeing (particularly with a male)—is wrong, unfeminine. Above all, we are expected to be ‘nice’, and this has the terrible side-effect of silencing us, often when we most need to speak. 

Thus, instead of being shown how to express anger in healthy ways, to speak up about the wrongs done to us and to protect ourselves from harm, girls—and the women they become—tend to suppress their anger, to force it back inside, where it festers away and causes an untold number of health issues, both psychological and physical. In being taught not to acknowledge and express anger we are also being taught to distrust our own feelings, disconnecting us from those feelings, from our bodies, and our intuitions. With anger turned inwardly, we become angry with ourselves, rather than angry about the external things/people/situations that really deserve our outrage.

It goes without saying that reading the aforementioned study made me angry—for myself and for all women and girls. Anger is indeed a negative emotion when it is anaesthetised, when it is stripped of its power—just as women are stripped of our own power in a patriarchal world—but when channeled in the right way, anger becomes positive, and positively powered. 

Clarissa Pinkola Estés writes in Women Who Run With the Wolves: Contacting the Power of the Wild Woman (1992):

In her instinctual psyche, a woman has the power, when provoked, to be angry in a mindful way—and that is powerful. Anger is one of her innate ways to begin to reach out to create and preserve the balances that she holds dear, all that she truly loves. It is both her right, and at certain times and in certain circumstances, a moral duty.

For women, this means there is a time to reveal your incisors, your powerful ability to defend territory, to say “This far and no farther, the buck stops here, and hold onto your hat, I’ve got something to say, this is definitely going to change.” (p. 363)

Expressing anger is something that I still struggle with, but being able to write it out is a way of releasing it from my body, so that it does not remain to build up inside and do harm. Hence, thinking of these things, I wrote the above poem.

On my journey as a writer I have discovered that I love to play with words, to double up and twist their meanings. Thus, in this context, the word ‘furies’ refers not just to the many angers that women feel, but also to the Furies (called the Erinyes in Greek), who were ancient chthonic deities of vengeance in Greek mythology. They are often described as being frightening in appearance, sometimes old hags, with black bodies, wings, and snakes wreathing their heads. The wings (whether of bird or bat) and the snakes call to mind the imagery of the Great Goddess, so often associated with birds and serpents. And of course, their black bodies and connection with the underworld, brought to mind the Dark Feminine too. Thus, the Furies in this poem represent far more than just themselves.

So, I share ‘Furies’ here, as an expression of my anger—and there are far too many things to be angry about these days—but also as a transformation of that anger, into a written creation that I hope will inspire others. It is all right to feel anger, all right to have flashing eyes and bared teeth, when needed, and to invoke the power of the Furies. Wrongs need to be righted, and if we women can learn how to harness our anger, then together we can be part of the process of change.

* * *

Addendum: Just yesterday I came across this utterly brilliant post by Trista Hendren, ‘Re-stor(y)ing Sanity’, on The Girl God blog. It is about girls/women, the anaesthetisation of rage, and Medusa—another snake-wreathed female ‘monster’. I thought it such a beautiful synchronicity that I had to tell you about it. Do go and have a read.

William-Adolphe Bouguereau, The Remorse of Orestes or Orestes Pursued by the Furies (1862), detail
(Source: Wikimedia Commons)

Tuesday, 15 November 2016

Finding the Hag Energy: When Madness is Good Sense

In the wake of recent events I wanted to share a few of the pieces I have read, written by wise women, that have helped to ameliorate my feelings of fear and dejection about what is now happening in our world. Things were bad enough already, but now the way forward is going to be even harder for women, for refugees, for indigenous peoples and other minorities, and for those of us who truly care about the Earth.

Yet, horrible as this state of affairs is, it may well be just what we need to stimulate real change and transformation. Perhaps this is the beginning of a new era, and we—the artists, dreamers and wild ones, the humble folk in humble houses—are the people who will make it come about.

For women in particular, we need to face our fears and tap into the energy that comes from our anger (an emotion that is usually, often wrongly, characterised as negative, and that we therefore tend to suppress), and let out the hag, the witch, the madwoman. For it is from the deep, dark and potent place of our anger—the place that knows this is wrong, and says enough is enough!—that the alchemical fires of transformation will originate.


As Emily Dickinson wrote: 

Much Madness is divinest Sense –
To a discerning Eye –
Much Sense – the starkest Madness –

We must learn to see with a discerning eye. That the ‘Sense’ that we are often presented with—that production is more important than people, that economic growth is more important than a living Earth—from businessmen, politicians and the like, is utter madness; while what they see as our ‘Madness’—our love of what is wild and natural and filled with life’s poetry, our kindness for people and living beings—is in fact good sense, and utterly right.

We must find the hags within us, wake the witches, let our goodly anger rise so that we can make things right. We must grow in confidence, ready our voices, write our stories, make our art, shout our protests. Because enough is enough. 

Here is much inspiration:

and so in the darkness we fight on by Sarah Elwell 

The Wild Woman in Irish Myth and Re-membering Women’s Stories by Sharon Blackie

This Fear is Old by Lucy H. Pearce

Alice Walker Tells Readers: Don’t Despair

Meeting the Times by Deena Metzger

And lastly, this stunning tale of drought and immigration in California, and a mythic renewing of the world: 

The Last Harvest of the World by Sylvia Linsteadt