Memories of Wolves – Initiation

Memories of Wolves – Initiation

Devour and savour the ‘Memories of Wolves: Wolf Rain – Shamanic Initiation’. A deep and vivid poem that leads you into the memories of the wild wolf. Read and enjoy.

Love, Katy.

Memories of Wolves

Wolf Rain – Shamanic Initiation

My muzzle scents rushing blood,
Carpeting the snow red,
Fangs of the Puma.
Tore me apart seeking my heart.
 
Wolves snarling circling,
My brothers howl at Mother Moon,
To light the forest's dark tomb,
Ragged wounds pump scarlet terror.
 
They lay their teeth on my flesh,
Lifting me in soft jaws,
Clawed paws crunch through stars,
To the lair of Grandfather Bear.
 
Mother nuzzles, prods me
Into a nest of rancid hide,
Her muzzle snuffles death-filled slashes,
Pale eyes in white fur stare into my heart.
Black lips part and her tongue
Staunches blood, from torn side,
Ripping off rotting flesh,
Sisters join her. washing, healing,
Cooling my dream-filled fever.
 
They nestle around, beside, above me,
Not one inch of my flesh is left alone.
In delirium I groan and sleep to the beat
Of their protective hearts.
 
Three days pass full of pain,
Brothers, sisters, cubs and love.
I arise healthy again, strong,
But long for my own.
 
I leave their care, their safety
Travelling to the clearing by the lake.
There my brothers shake in horror, and relief,
I smile with black painted lips.
Showing sharp pointed teeth.
 
‘I return from the Dream Quest,
Blessed by the Great Ancestor.
Brother Puma tore apart my ignorant heart,
Sister Wolf sucked it whole again
Filling my new body
With Grandfather Wisdom.
 
Now I return as the Shaman, Wolf Rain.
Tonight around the fire
I will tell you of my terror,
I will tell you of my
Memories of Wolves

Copyright: Katy Walters
Wolf mother and cub

My Study: A Poem

My Study: A Poem

My lounge is a place of the heart. I think of carpets, sofas, the comfort of elderly visits. the surprise and birth of children. I remember family birthday parties with cake, blowing out candles and wishing. Spring with French doors open to roses, and horsechesnut trees. In whispers, I recall funereal buffets with soft weeping.

My study, however, is the silent home of my soul; of thoughts unspoken, turning into novels and poetry tapped out onto a plastic keyboard.


My Study

A sunlit room of oaken beams where dreams
Stream flowing through fresh windows,
Searching scarred shadows, papers shown, reams,
Of prose, doomed epitaphs, mellow.
Pastel portraits of animals long dead,
Haunting, dog running, flowers, fields,
The spring of adolescence, blossoms fed
On a winter of shattered innocence, concealed.
 
Figurines from ancient dynasties,
Pagan, Hindu, Buddhist, and Abrahamic,
hover in the mist of lost loyalties,
Whilst the Virgin steps on the serpent's hiss,
Outside the dark Cathedral of Trees,
Inspires, bringing sorrow to its knees.

Copyright: Katy Walters


Touching the Stones

Touching the Stones

Touching the Stones at Stonehenge

These black Leviathans, the Stones,
Point to constellations beyond mortal sight,
Point to the land beyond death,
Silent Sentinels, surround the vulva,
Of the Great Mother Goddess
Brooding looming into Palaeolithic night,
 
Was there chanting, writhing in light?
Faces painted, lips spewing rhythmic groans,
Pagan souls yearning the Goddess?
Sacrificing the innocent to dark sight,
Screaming, in drunken stupor,
To the Immortal, earth's eternal breath.
 
The feathered shaman, blowing fetid breath,
Of herb, wine, straining with glazed sight,
Summoning the strangeness, the nectar.
Of sacrificial blood, and over the stones,
The shrieks, the groans, the innocents' plight,
Presides the Great Bird Snake Goddess.
 
Yet this primordial circle of the Goddess,
Vibrates to the Universal rhythm, the breath
Of celestial scars, their shooting flight,
Pulsating through pagan bodies to ignite,
The tame, nurturing visions buried in bones,
Revealing mysteries of the Great Mother.
 
With flowers, ivy, blood and wine they beseech her,
The dancer, the chanter, the shaman, the godless,
Entreat her; beguile her, to appear in the stones,
To come from the dream soul, from the land beyond death,
To tear through the blanket of night, to come into sight,
To take their mortal souls into the eternal light.
 
To feel the Beloved and Terrible Goddess's might,
The bite of the snake the flight of their Snakebird Mother,
Taking their souls to the celestial abode, the light,
Fearless, ageless, seated with her on her totemic dais.
Far above the carvers of fear, of blackness and death,
And it is this for which they chant amongst the groans, the stones.
 
To touch the stones is to yearn for sight of pagan night.
For light upon the blood rites of rebirth and death,
Within the stone vulva of the Snake-bird Goddess of the night
Stonehenge at Sunset

For more content, please browse my site and read through my many blog posts.

Katy Walters

A Taste of Blake

A Taste of Blake

William Blake: 1757 – 1827, is one of my favourite artists. Evocative and often dark, and rich in mysticism and philosophy, I find his work inspiring and thought provoking. His cottage is local to me and I have many fond memories of enjoying a glass of red wine in the Fox Inn, down the road from the cottage, discussing poetry and painting with a dear friend – sadly departed.

I present a small taste of Blake’s works that I really enjoy – including the famous ‘Great Red Dragon’ painting, which features prominently and terrifyingly in the Thomas Harris novel ‘Red Dragon’, the resulting movies, and also the TV series ‘Hannibal’, which I recently re watched as a dark antidote to lockdown blues.


And behold a great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his heads. And his tail drew the third part of the stars of heaven and did cast them to the earth.

Revelations. 12:3–4 (King James Version)
The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun

Mad Song

By William Blake

    The wild winds weep
    And the night is a-cold;
    Come hither, Sleep,
    And my griefs infold:
    But lo! the morning peeps
    Over the eastern steeps,
    And the rustling birds of dawn
    The earth do scorn.

    Lo! to the vault
    Of paved heaven,
    With sorrow fraught
    My notes are driven:
    They strike the ear of night,
    Make weep the eyes of day;
    They make mad the roaring winds,
    And with tempests play.

    Like a fiend in a cloud,
    With howling woe,
    After night I do crowd,
    And with night will go;
    I turn my back to the east,
    From whence comforts have increas'd;
    For light doth seize my brain
    With frantic pain.
Hecate, by William Blake

I hope you enjoyed this taste of the genius of William Blake. I have many interesting posts that you may like. Please take some time to browse.

Love,
Katy

Can I Stay Here?

Can I Stay Here?

A few months ago, the world changed. Taking a break from my writing, I captured a precious moment outside my window. With all the global fear and confusion, I felt a longing to stay in that moment. Here is that moment, and the poem that it inspired.

The Birds Outside My Window

Can I Stay Here?

Time stood still; I was held in a bubble of joy.
Through a window, I watched our feathered friends survive.
All thought slipped away.
I became part of this simple act of nature – being.
For a few priceless moments, the world changed.
I lived with flowers, seeds,  water, birds – life.
Precious moments, no threat, no fear. 
In those exquisite moments, I experienced pure being,
no threat,  no fear, no pandemic.
 
Can  I stay here? Can I just Be? 
The Baby Thrush

Copyright © 2020 Katy Walters
All rights reserved


Please browse my website or view my many blog posts. I am sure you find much to enjoy.

Love,
Katy

Ravens

Ravens

Ravens

Fly from me Raven of Death,
You will not steal my breath,
Whilst l have spirit to fight
To put flight to your vigil.
 
Pick and nip some other where,
Sip blood and tear
More willing flesh.
 
My window of life
Is firmly closed to you,
I did not beckon your darkness,
My fevered muscles still a buttress,
Against your vehement feathers,
Go find some other mistress,
To delight in your blackness?
 
Although full blown,
I still own to the blossom
And the bud,
The Light and the Dove.

Copyright © 2006 Katy Walters

No Requiem for the Fisher Girls

No Requiem for the Fisher Girls
Winslow Homer: The Fisher Girls on Shore, Tynemouth

1800s and early 1900s, 1000s of girls employed as fish gutters, followed the fishing fleets. The work was long and hard, the girls gutted the fish and the “guts were taken out with a very sharp gutting knife. Their fingers were wrapped in “clooties” – bandaged cloths to prevent any knife nicks – but they endured painful sore hands. 


No Requiem

Moonstone mounds of herring,
Quiver,
Torn from the belly
Of the Sea Mother.
Her baldy rolling, groaning,
Bleeds,
Foam fingers clawing,
Plead.

The herring girl,
Slits the guts.
Fish eyes pale,
Beseech,
Steel flick of entrails –
Fish eyes flat.
No requiem for them.

The stench of fish, her breath.
Beauty weathered.
Bright eyes tired –
Girl's eyes flat.

Her dreams float with
Dead fish in parsley sauce.
No requiem for her.

Winslow Homer – Fisher Girl

If you have enjoyed this content, then please browse my website and blog posts. You will find information on my many books and even a gallery with photos and slideshows of my artwork. Love, Katy.

Copyright © 2010 Katy Walters
All rights reserved

Katy Walter’s Website

An Ode to Kingley Vale.

An Ode to Kingley Vale.

In Kingley Vale, near Chichester in West Sussex, England, nestles an ancient forest of yews over 2,000 years old, believed to be the oldest living organisms in Great Britain. Above this prehistoric combe stand The Kings Graves otherwise known as the Devil’s Humps. They are supposed to be the graves of Anglo Saxon Kings, and marauding Vikings.

 In the hours of darkness, it is sometimes said that the ghosts of ancient Druids haunt the forest mingling with the slain Anglo Saxons and slaughtered Danes. There are tales of the druids carrying out rituals and sacrifices in the hours of darkness, a darkness within which the trees bleed and change shape moving amongst the ghostly figures of the dead and the living. For some it is a place for spiritual healing, for others a place of dark rituals.

Buzzards have returned to Kingley Vale

Kingley Vale

Kingley Vale treads into my heart,

Its paths of loam roam arteries,

Twigs carve through capillaries.

Falling leaves, sleeve the skin.

Ancient peat, fleshing feet.

Roots grope the hungering breath,

Feeding, raising Sorcerer and Druid.

Slain sacrificial maid long dead,

Leavens the bread of my emptiness.

Ghouls whisper in death stench groves,

Of Wicca, the Priestess, the dagger.

Owl’s eyes light the night, as the raven cries,

Covering terror’s screams and death’s moans,

On stone altar the ravaging Warlock groans.

Moon Mother throws her silver lance,

Elf and fairy, gnome and crone,

Leap and weep in the ecstasy of dance.

The steel ping of the coca cola tin,

Snaps my reverie,

Kingley Vale treads gently

Back into the caverns of my soul

Whispering, forever, whispering.

Copyright: Katy Walters: 1998


Please take some time to visit my website, where you will find a gallery of my art and photos, contact details, and details about the many books I have written.

Katy Walter’s Website