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This is the first real installment of my long quest to combat the ancient aliens on all fronts, as well as give exposure to a pretty obscure topic: Mesopotamian Polytheism. We're here, we're pagan, and I'm here to explain it.

Homelessness and Polytheism

So, as of today I'm living out of hotels and my car. I'm still out a job. My altar setup is in storage, I have no home to sprinkle with water and fill with the scent of cedar. No stove to cook on, no fridge, my couch is in storage, my BOOK COLLECTION. It's.... I should be panicking more than I am. I don't know why I'm not. Part of the worst of it, for me, is the lack of sacred space. I don't have a home to connect my gods to. I'd see Nuska in the glow of my bedside lamp, Gibil in my oven that doubled as a kiln. I would greet Nanna when I saw him as I drove into the parking lot, and the nearby park had a stream where I'd done rites for Dumuzid and Geshtinanna. Gula had a votive statue on my altar, and I always had some sort of offering laid out for my personal gods. I had Nisaba's written cuneiform name (since she is the written word) in the most important place in my living room. But it's not like I'm going to roll over and quit. These are my gods. I am their servant. Even when I'm an uprooted disaster of a human being with little to offer, I can still offer a cup of water and a few words of heartfelt praise. This new chapter is going to be tough. I'm going to meet it with everything I've got, and I pray that my gods see and approve of my efforts. I have promises to keep, and I'll meet my potential even if I have to claw my way up. My gods, my goddesses, I think I relate more to Enheduanna now than I ever have. If all I have to offer is a cup of water and my own words, then that's what I'll do.

Gods have mercy, but I think My tongue tripped over itself today. Between the spark of thought And glitch of grammar My voice shorted out Like the bark of a hammer Against a sore thumb, And what's worse is the manner. See, sometimes my words Trickle out like a river In crystalline rivulets Of claret wine. And sometimes my home-grown Amber waves Upbringing Wellspring of sand-dune soft whispers And sandhill plum prickles Sprouts off of my tongue in the shape of dust devils Forged in the prairie fires Of a hail-blasted Southern church. I breathe the name of a god incarnate King substitute sacrifice When I stub my toe, And groan the name of a lord Who is no master mine. What do I do, when colloquialisms Have colonized my throat? Do I swallow them down, Do I drown them out, Do I let them run unchecked? It might be far more trivial Than it seems right now, for me, But as of yet I cannot tell If it's... feasible or not, to be Knocking down the walls of my well-founded Jericho And replacing them with the ziggurats Of Eresh and Nippur. I know the home of my heart And my soul has ceased its wrenching, But still I breathe the name of God From habit And catch my fists clenching. The field is grown stale and tired, And so the crops are rotated. The land of dust and burial Gives rise to a steadfast windbreak. May I be as strong as the juniper, Half blasted and leaning But proud in solidarity. May the line hold. May my fellows never falter, Stark against the searing blue And waves of amber-gold. Nisaba has erected her house in your precinct, O hall of the god of my mothers, And has taken her seat upon your dais.

On Happiness and Home

Lady with grain stems caught in her hair, Lady with strong hands for kneading dough, Lady with strong arms for the dough-shovel, Lady with sun-darkened skin and oven-fires caught in her eyes, Lady whose finery is a worker's tunic, Lady whose perfume is sweetwort and honey, Your voice is the music of flowing beer, Your laughter the chuckle of a clay bottle. Come home from your circling dance around the fire, Passing hand to hand and lips to lips! Come home from the young lioness's roaring tavern, From the kissing of wounds, from the heat of the sun. Ninkasi who gladdens the heart, come home! You are expected, awaited, beloved. Your strong hands have browned like good bread in the sun, And they slide over the pale skin of a fine noblewoman. Her milk-pale skin like fine holy linen, Her slender arms like slim reeds full of grace. Fingers calloused from the churning dough-shovel Twine with long digits like fragile spiders, Graceful ivory combs that spin long hair into art. She is quiet where you are joyful, She is delicate where you are vivacious, Yet her skill speaks with a voice as complex as poetry, As colorful as a tavern tale And just as clever in her transformation. Press your glad mouth to her buttoned lip, Lady. Let Uttu weave your black, barley-flecked hair. Lahar and Ashnan look upon you and smile, Emesh and Enten break bread under your roof, For what has more beauty than such perfect union Of a glad heart and a beautiful wife?

May Uttu be praised, may the name of Ninkasi be honey on my lips, And for the pen of her servant may Nisaba be praised.

——— *I wrote this with a heaping spoonful of UPG. There is no historical evidence for Ninkasi being gay for Uttu. Cool? Cool. Sumerian wives did brew beer though, as far as I can tell. **Lahar, the 'sheep' god notably referenced in the debate between Sheep and Grain, is heavily important to Uttu the goddess of weaving, just as Ashnan the grain goddess is important to Ninkasi, who is the brewer and the beer. ***Emesh, the god of 'summer', and Enten, the god of 'winter', as seen in the debate between Summer and Winter, both have a great deal to do with grain and livestock. From what I can tell by making inferences from other cultures, Summer is the time for brewing and Winter is the time for weaving, and it seemed significant enough that I had to include them.

Blank, unmolded, full of potential Churning energy beneath a placid face Riptide beneath glass Mirror beneath breath And the wind on the water Where Great Above kisses Great Below Swirls in empassioned churning, Sprays forth glittering droplets from the dark To dance in the sunlight. But the world is not a blank Word document, is it? Fill in the blanks. Color by numbers And throw your watercolors in the sea To watch them melt away Like morning mist Like the sinking sun Like distant shores. I digress. Clear your throat. Breathe in. Now breathe OUT Like startled birds Surging waves Scales rippling over sinew as they lunge forward, Forward, Forward. Nets cast free, flying, Snaring wings, A snarl of fins, Jewels in the deep And the magic of flight. The pelican rips her heart out To feed her crying young, The ocean is the mother Of the open-mouthed shore. Give her your tired, Your hungry, Your poor, Give a man a fish and he'll eat once more. Teach a man to fish and he'll thrive on the sea. So does a goddess The onrushing flood Temper her maelstrom and Tender with care The blessings of nets That catch kinsmen and kind In binds of compassion, Doing as ought be done. The pelican tears out her heart The nets reach skyward The goddess lends an ear The nets reach seabound Open palms catch ceaseless tears The nets reach over the earth Between fishermen And the Fisher of Men An open palm Lies outstretched In waiting. Lady Nanshe with the pelican at her feet, clad in glittering scales, May your name resound on the lips of the black-headed forever and ever.

These are the children of Ereshkigal, the dark-eyed: Ninazu, by Gugulanna Heaven's-Bull Namtar, by Father Enlil who sits enthroned in state Nungal, by the queen of the dead and the dust of time that keeps her secrets. These are their titles. Ninazu, city-god, Enega and Ešunna, death-and-life through vegetation and the shadow of the never-never in his blood. Pitiless mace of war, dying and rising serpent-friend. He will suck the poison from your wounds. Namtar, inexorable. Right hand of the sinister, mouth of hell's crown, messenger of An and Ereshkigal and Nergal. Commander of demons whose very name breathes a plague, unfaltering fate, dutiful minister of his mother's court, Death who is the issue of the Dead's All-Mother. Nungal, the neck-stock, the dusty threshold bolt, the screaming lock, the fanged river of ordeals. Rebirther, reformer, who dwells in the mountain where Utu rises. Hers is that corner of the underworld man can return from reforged, the house of dust and shadows where a broken man sheds his old skin or wears it as burial shroud. Goddess Prison-Warden, her mother's daughter in the realm of men, radiant hope and beautiful despair, cool water of compassion on fevered brows. Hear their names in the bellow of a bull, in the snarl of a dragon, in the tolling-bell tones of their mother and as soft as crematory ash. They sit on the borderline like ravens on a fence, silent dark eyes and subtle croaked secrets, twilight-and-dawn owls, young-and-old serpents. Poison and healing, life found in death. Fear. Learn. Become braver for it. Ereshkigal, for deserved awe of you and your children, may your names be marked by the black-headed ones.

The fabulously late sequel showing up with Starbucks and a fistful of personal devotional writings. More to come!

Polytheist Ramblings: Nisaba

I was going to title this “Finding Sanctuary”, but I think this fits with my little series better.

I talk a lot about other gods, because their influences are many-layered. It’s easy to talk about a goddess of the mountains when you live there, or a god of the furious sun when you’re melting. But how to talk about a goddess you’re sworn to? There’s something about the relationship that just won’t out with words, which is ironic considering.

My Lady Nisaba colored like the stars, whose body is the flecked barley, She who holds the Book of Names and who had a hand in the creation of her scribes, the goddess I revere and adore, is... as I said, words fail. Except for the part where she literally IS the written word. And then I’m laughing at my laptop screen again.

But my mind was wandering the other day, and I started mentally constructing a hypothetical temple. Something small and unobtrusive, but interesting. Maybe someplace busy, like New York, with the old back-alley surprise shops and classy old courtyards surrounded by sprouting skyscrapers. I’m rather attached to America, but I could see something similar in London. Either way, some sort of divot in the walls of glass and steel, a high-walled courtyard with a heavy door. But the door is left open, and the walls are soft with vines. It’s guarded by twin stone lions. The same ones you sometimes see in the yards of people trying too hard to look regal, maybe. But it’s an old practice. Probably inspired by the New York Library. Possibly a reflection of the statues that guarded kings and old polytheist temples. Either way, there would be lions, and maybe a carving of the Anzu Bird over the lintel.

In this hypothetical little sacellum, no if ands or buts about it, there would be a public bookcase or two. I’ve seen them around town, and they’re absolutely brilliant. The paving stones would be covered in all sorts of book quotes in as many languages as I could convince a mason to try, including Braille. At the back there would have to be a statue, and some of my thinking is probably inspired by when I wandered Granada and would stumble on an aljibe with a mosaic of the Virgin over it. In my head this looks a little bit close to the Madonna, and I’m not sure what I think of that. But there’d be a little plaque on the wall explaining who she is, and a basket or two for whatever a person might want to offer. I like the idea of a prayer box, I’ve seen those before, where you write on a slip of paper and it stays in the box as a secret. Or the papers are burned. Either way, both fit with the goddess of the written word and the old ways of burning offerings to lift your prayers skyward.

I have a lot of ideas, and no real means or resources to focus on them, but ideas are nice. I was thinking about this temple idea, and I wondered to myself what her sacred animal would be. There’s no record of one. Lions and bulls and dragons are all staple parts of the old hymns, but... I wanted to see if anything had developed over the years. In America we’ve developed this idea of giving teachers an apple, which is why I offer them to her. We associate twin lions with libraries because of the New York Library. Maybe there was more, hiding away with the book curses and scriptoriums.

I typed “Ten Most Iconic Libraries” into Google.

A good percentage of them are related to monasteries, which makes sense. Some of them had royal sponsorship at one point or another. There’s nods to their local history, the obvious relish of architects given room to play, some modernized and some stately old monuments. But there was one little detail that kept popping up in the descriptions: quite a few of the oldest libraries had a... symbiotic relationship of sorts with resident bats.

Bats and small birds like to hole up in unusual places, true. Check out your local mall food court and keep an eye out in the airport as you drag your suitcase down the moving sidewalk to see for yourself what I mean. But apparently your friendly neighborhood pest control has a taste for bookworms.

(For the record, the term ‘bookworm’ refers to any insect with a taste for literature. This extends to moths who eat cloth bindings and beetles who tunnel through the paper like wood, as well as the beetles after your leather tomes.)

In ancient Sumer, bats and birds were associated with Nanshe, especially pelicans. More specifically, owls were associated with lilitu-demons and possibly Ereshkigal. But then, their libraries more closely resembled the cooling rack at your local college pottery class. Not something many bookworms wanted to nibble.

Cultures change and religions evolve. I think I’ve found my answers, at least to this question. Especially considering how sometimes the endless shelves remind me of a quiet crypt (Seriously, my first time in a proper old crypt that was my first comparison). Maybe I’m obsessive and seeing connections, maybe bats are my favorite animal and I’m biased. But it’s interesting, to see the evolution of the gods. It’s interesting, to run the thought experiments, to ask the “what if”s, to make yourself at home on the outskirts and then see places where society has already met you in the middle, unnoticed.

For that matter, colophons are pretty cool too.

Nisaba za3-mi2-zu dug3-ga-am3

On Nuska: #justpolytheistproblems

I talk a lot about Nisaba, and for good reason. She's the goddess I'm sworn to, and very important to me. But I know I have a habit of hyperfocusing, and I know I love Nuska too. It's just that I have no idea how to express it sometimes. I write poetry for him, I praise him, I've got an icon and a candle for him on my altar, but. I want to give him something special. Yes, there's the food offering, but. I mean. I've offered bullet shells to Inanna and massive works of poetry to Nisaba. Nuska is a fire god, and more specifically deals with torches, lamplight, and purifying fire. What protects you at night, pretty much. He's also the vizier of Enlil who orders the E-kur, maintains it and keeps it spotless in addition to seeing out Enlil's commands. In my practice I view him as the son of Nanna and Ningal, and Gibil as a bit of a separate-but-related deity in charge of more work-oriented fire (cookstove, kiln, forge). Nuska is also an intermediary between a supplicant and the gods, as a god of fire which carries incense smoke and offerings to the heavens. So what on earth could I possibly get him as a gift? I have a nice incense burner, candles for days, the clay lamp I made for him as an icon. I don't really need more candles. Maybe a specific incense, like how I burn vanilla for Nisaba? But I don't know if that feels right either. I mean, I have a hunch about cinnamon incense, but. I can't exactly buy a bunch of tiki torches, and putting an old electric nightlight up there just wouldn't seem right either. Let's face it, they're pretty ugly. So. What do? I guess I'll figure something out, but feel free to commiserate or shout ideas.