Magic Songs
* From a collection begun while working with Julia Blackburn, who found two of the poems.Magic is a universal language, a technique for transformation. It works by binding or loosing, invoking, destroying, leading away. Wherever they were, the women who said or chanted these incantations had the same purposes—they wanted to stop the flow of blood or start the flow of milk, to ease childbirth, to send a fever back into the forest it came from. For them, the word was not the refuge of the helpless but a medicine or a thunderbolt, a sacramental tool. Their words were acts.
The child's mother first wipes her sexual organ with the shirt and
then the child's face, saying:
Flee marvel from marvel.
Here is a greater marvel.
White partridges flew by and brought white milk.
They pour it out of the stone,
they pour it round out of the stone.
One hand fastens the sleeve of the other.
The axe by itself cuts the Evil Eyes.
Let the Evil Eyes melt away
like bees over the flowers,
like lard on the coals,
like foam on muddy water.
We shall tread over the water,
we shall make the Evil Eyes wither and dry up,
that they appear no more
I dance a strong dance.
The god comes on the rainbow
to his shrine.
He comes with the red rain
and the blue.
It is the sign of the god.
He comes down here to earth.
Dance, all ye children of his!
I cut all witchcraft from you.
Hiao!
I cut off the rainbow curses from you.
Hiao!
I cut all spirit-husband harm from you.
Hiao!
I cut from you the evil talk
of the watering place.
Hiao!
I cut from you the harmful talk
of the firewood-gatherers.
Hiao!
Whose womb do I have for my womb?
The gull’s womb I have for my womb.
Whose womb do I have for my womb?
The sea-fowl’s womb I have for my womb.
Earth-Woman, Earth-Woman,
may you fall sick.
Your milk turn to fire.
May you burn in the earth!
Flow, flow, my milk.
Flow, flow, white milk.
Flow, flow, as I will.
My child is hungry.
May the lion take you coming out of the thicket.
May he eat your flesh May your bones be lost.
May Gaweg beat you when he is angry.
May God protect me! How can weeping be stolen?
The woman who cannot nourish her child:
Let her herself take a piece of her own child's grave,
then wrap it up in black wool and sell it to traders.
Let her then say:
I sell it: buy ye it,
this black wool, and seeds of this sorrow.
Anne Twitty is an American writer and translator who lives in London and in Deyâ, Mallorca. She is currently working on a book of collected origin myths and magic songs