Votives burn, twisting old beads on the worn red thread. Kelle. Irish. Druidic. Priestess. Holy harlots of the Goddess Kelle, Kale, Kali. Kele-De Bride of spirit. Kele- De, Kali- Ma, St Kilda, Kill, Cell, Cave. Culdees, Colidees, Cele-De. Kildare. Shrine of Kida-Kele, Brigit, Kilda- Kele- Brigit. Kali-Mari. Kel-Marie the pot goddess who formed us all out of clay. The beads twist in our fingers, the names familiar and spoken with devotion. Sweat drops off our tongues.
Hot Dew in the dark.
In the cave where we speak their names,
where we feel their beauty, their circuitous roads that wound through dance and horse and colorful cloth billowing under the sun.
The people who carried all of her pieces with them, held some of them closer and listened devoted. The grove of Tara, Terra Mater, Terah, Taramater. Who enclosed the Stone Phallus in her Gential Shrine. The stone Phallus who was Tranan, Thunder we called him. Taran-Tara a magic cry between the orgasms of Deities. Lightening. Mater Tara the first, the revered one, a goddess whose name has traveled.
Names slid up your arm, forming sounds until they reached your tongue. To know the 77 names of the Birch tree that gazes upon the healing well spring. To know the 162 names of Danu who called us to be here. To know the names of the Wolf Queens - is to know their endless living.
Knowing names is to grow in wisdom and understanding.
The name and the soul are of the same. There is trust.
We were baptized by mother's milk that ran down our crown.
Given our essential names drenched by her lactating breasts.
We were in the hands of the women who breathed our secret names under their breath. Under their gaze we grew into other names, and some of us dared to to learn the names of others, names only spoken when you have grown to become a healer. Every name you spoke from the Holy Ocean is a transference of energy to your people.
You are under the divine right of protection
Photography: Ariya Martin
