Levorcham’s Monologue

Photo ©Margaret McCarthy

It’s magic when you find the right word.
A poem is a spell —
every poet a spell-caster.
Slant rhyme! Vowel chime!
Distilled language;
as sap is the essence of the tree, poetry
is the stuff of spells —
magic cast through lexicon,
thought becomes word,
word becomes deed,
action grows
from its name.

I taught her the tree alphabet,
how to name the seven noble guardians of the wood,
Birch, Willow, Holly, Hazel…
Apple, Alder, Oak…
Sound out those names, their cadence
opens sacred groves to you.

I showed her how to call upon the four directions,
invoke their elements,
gave her tools to do so.

East. Air. Sword.
South. Fire. Wand.
West. Water. Cup.
North. Earth. Pentacle.

I taught her the colors and their correspondences-
White… Moon. Water. Willow. Pearl.
Black… Earth; Oak; Onyx.
Red; Fire. Holly. Ruby.

She learned how the most powerful
spells may be improvised —
the materials at hand seem just right.

To speak a name is to invoke
power over what you name.

Wing. Snow. Blood.
Black. White. Red.
Her very life depended, she said,
on those three colors; her entire story
hinges on those colors.
Black. White. Red.
That combination, Druid knowledge said,
is powerful magic.

the art of changing consciousness
at will! I taught her the invoking magic of the word –
she made those words her own.