Pagan Poetry

An old favorite of mine that I happily share with you. Some of the best Pagan literature came out of Green Egg and much of it lives on in canon now.

THE MODERN ESOTERICIST
by Bill Beattie, from Shadowplay To the tune of “I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major General”

I am the very model of a modern esotericist
A seasoned astral traveler and edifying exorcist,
A sparkling star astrologer, a dead adroit necromancer,
A dab hand as a palmist and a card as a tarotmancer,
I’ve old tradition lineage from Celtic to Hispanical;
I’ve channeled Dion Fortune and I’ve busted cults satanical;
Elusively mysterious in Eleusinian Mysteries,
I’ve disproved ninety-three percent of Margaret Murray’s histories.
My patented aphrodisiacs would make a satyr hornier
I’ve manifested unicorns in Southern California.
In short, in matters magickal, I’m manic as a terrorist;
I am the very model  of a modern esotericist!
I am the very model of a modern esotericist.
My mystic methodology’s inherently empiricist!
I’ve glided over Glastonbury on broomsticks that I travel on;
I won’t deny the rumors that I ghost-wrote Mists of Avalon.
A truly great Great Riter and a master of tantrickery,
I’ve been up the Shining Pathways til the Guardians are sick of me.
I dazzle neo-Pagans as I tango round the Wiccan ring
And, miracle of miracles, I sometimes stop their bickering!
I’ve raised the ghost of Crowley in a Gnostic Mass invoking in
Sumerian, Bavarian, Etruscan and Enochian.
I’d sing another chorus but I must rush to see my therapist;
I am the very model of a modern esotericist!

From the Green Egg vol. XXIV no.95

…and for those who are not “Pirates of Penzance” by Gilbert & Sullivan literate, here is the tune:

Plus one of my own:
PASSINGS
And so it is that all things work in cycles
In beginnings and endings,
Births, deaths and rebirths,
Destruction and rebuilding,
For that is the way of nature
And the cycle of the Wheel.
The new will forever
Stretch away all
That is old and outmoded
And detrimental to our progress,
Not always with our consent
Or discretion.
People come and go in our lives
Leaving occasional tokens
Of their presence, influence and passing:
A house, a baby, a feeling…
And then they are gone
Like a scent stolen
By a summer breeze.
Others affect us in ways
That we could never imagine
Upon first meeting them,
When eyes make the first contact
And we discern
In our deepest self
The connection of future friend, lover, spouse;
Not always recognizing
That identification
On a conscious level.
Oft times if we knew
In that first meeting
Of the pain that would ensue
With the passage of time
And the continuation
Of that relationship,
We would flee
With our lives and our souls intact,
Never daring to glance that way again,
Gladly foregoing any pleasure
That connection would have delivered
In favor of the blissful lack of anguish
Should that meeting have never occurred;
Embracing instead the void that would have been pain
Had we been but
A little more careful,
A little more insightful,
And a little less impulsive.
Yet then, we would never have lessons,
We would never have the joy of love
And the wisdom of the Ages.
We would never grow and we would never live.
If we guided our own progress and chose our own lessons
There would be none.
To feel love and to chance pain
Or to feel safe and chance nothing,
I would choose love.

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