Within her Maiden’s blood courses the wisdom of the ancients, and, little by little, she is writing her own holy book. By candlelight on early Winter mornings, she channels words of the ethereal feminine from out of the dust and onto the page. These verses are not her own, mind you, for they belong to the aching millions who share the soul-wound of the hunted Witch. As her daily invocation, she whisper-prays to the darkest Goddess she knows:
Speak through me, blessed Origin. Ascend from below like the feared demoness you are. Claw through my skin, and climb my bones. I live in a world left bleeding by your absence, and your daughters are calling you home. Cauldrons still bubble, and the ghosts of burned healers still roam. Feminist spirituality has grown pale for lack of sunlight, and even the bravest Witch often quivers in the shadows for fear of condemnation.
Speak through me, ye she-snake swimming in womb water. I will hear you, and I will not candy-coat your vitriol or righteous rage. Gift me with your bitter medicine, and I will not shy away from your forked tongue. Lick us alive, Dark Mother! We are using all the magick stored in our communal Book of Shadows to resurrect our fem-force. Our red hoods are down, and we are ready.
Speak through me, Wolf-Woman, and tell me what I need to know most right now. Tell me on what snow-capped mountain your frequency is highest, and I will go there. Tell me how to best stand against the ego-madness that would build walls around your holy ground and poison your waters. Tell me how to protect the children of our uncertain future, and I will make your words known.
Blessed and primal Creatrix, my body is screaming for you to take me over before the sun rises, and my heart-drum is pounding out a hymn in your memory. And I do remember, my lover. I remember the first buzz of ecstasy between my thighs, and I knew it was you. I remember the white-blue glow framing the tree-tops, and I knew it was you. The chill of Spring mud under my bare back, the scent of wet pine needles, the smoke of dried mugwort, and the juice of sex-prayer; vibrant in my Witch’s memory are these sensual benedictions, and I know them all as you.
Yes, yes, I feel you now. My guts are disintegrating, my ribs bending, and my heartbeat slowing, all to make room for you. My body is your holiest of holies, Wolf-Woman, and my eyes are glowing yellow. What verses have you for me today? Drip your wisdom from my lips like honey-mead drank too quickly, and I will forever be your scribe.
These are the Verses of the Wild Witch, a poetic ode to the holy feminine breathing us all into being. Ignite our magick with the old ways of stone circles and a time-worn longing for skyclad rituals in the mists. Here, amongst these musings, parables, and feminist faery tales, may we remember our birthright and affirm ourselves as Witch. The Wolf-Woman speaks through us all in mournful howls and knowing, narrow-eyed stares; I am not special. We Witches are all living antidotes to the poison of denigrated selfhood, environmental rape, and soul denial. Rise up, red-hooded temptresses and wild-eyed Priestesses. Rise up, and show the world your worth!
Danielle Dulsky is a long-time activist for wild woman spirituality and the divine feminine’s return. She is the author of Woman Most Wild (coming May 2017 from New World Library). A multi-media artist, yoga teacher and teacher trainer, and energy worker, Danielle is on a mission to inspire women to be fearless...