05/04/2026
Poem entitled: Searching for Magick
By: Gwydion Pendragon
I was taught to light the candle first,
to strike the match like it were an invocation,
to lay the herbs in trembling palms,
to whisper to the Moon, and to my Ancestors,
and my words will rise on the air itself.
And yes, the flame is Sacred.
Yes, the incense lifts.
Yes, the bowl, the blade, the stone,
the chant, the circle, the crystals,
all help the heart remember.
But deeper still than my Altar’s smoke,
deeper than Ritual Rhythm,
there is an older Temple,
and it has always lived in me.
It lives in the hush behind my ribs,
in the ache that rises when wind moves through trees,
in the tears that come for no reason
except that the soul has recognized itself
in Birdsong, in River Water, in precious moments
at the crossroads
between Twilight and Stars.
I have gone searching for Magick
in forests, in cards and bones, in candles, in stars,
and every path, if followed far enough,
curved gently inward.
There, at the center,
I found no throne, no distance, no gate,
but a pulse…
A living spark.
A quiet and undying, “Yes”.
The Goddess was not separate from this.
She was the breath inside the breath.
She was the dark soil of my longing,
the wild bloom of my Becoming.
She was the hand on my back
when I thought I was alone.
She was the voice that said,
“Beloved, look:
What you seek in Sacred things
has been flowering in you all along.”
As above, so below.
As within, so without.
The stars do not mock us with their beauty,
they echo us.
The river does not withhold its wisdom,
it flows in our own blood.
The oak does not stand apart in its power,
it reminds us to root.
The fox, the fern, the rain-wet stone,
the Ancestors in ash and memory,
the land itself breathing beneath our feet,
all murmur the same bright truth:
“You belong”.
You were never an exile here.
You were never a stranger to the living world.
You are made of the same first miracle…
the same sacred fabric…
the same dreaming matter..
that spun the Moon round and taught seeds to split open.
This is the witch's way, I think.
Not mastery.
Not conquest.
Not manifest destiny
But Remembrance.
To know that the Charm is only a doorway,
the Ritual only a mirror,
the Spell only a song
meant to wake the ancient Knowing
sleeping softly in the bones.
Meditation clears the waters.
Invocations open the hands.
Herbs help to steady the feet.
But the Magick, the true Magick,
is the Divine Fire at the center of your being
that no grief can drown,
no silence can erase,
no Patriarchy can burn.
It is the moment you finally hear
your own Spirit say,
I am of Earth.
I am of Star.
I am of the Goddess.
I am woven, not separate.
I am Sacred, not someday, but now.
And Home,
Home is not only a place.
It is the Returning.
It is the instant the soul stops wandering
and kneels inside itself,
not in shame,
but in wonder.
Home is when the Inner Flame
and the world's great fire
recognize each other.
When the land is no longer scenery,
but kin.
…when your purpose is no longer a prize to be hunted
but a Truth to be inhabited.
Then even your sorrow becomes Sacred.
Even your questions become lanterns…beacons.
Even your ordinary hours begin to shine
with the soft gold of the Divine.
So light the Candle, yes.
Cast the Circle.
Connect with Stone and Crystal.
Sing to the Moon.
Yes, sing to the Moon.
Kneel in moss.
and…Listen deeply.
But do not forget:
the first Altar beats in your chest.
The first Temple is the Spirit of your Soul.
The first and final Spell
is the one that whispers through all living things:
“Wake up, Beloved.”
“You are the Magick.”
“You are the Doorway.”
“You are the Evocation and the Answer.”
You are the Child of the Earth, itself…
the Breath of Spirit,
the Living Ember of She who watches over us,
and you have been Home
since the very beginning.
---Gwydion Pendragon
