Today is Wednesday.
Comes every once a week.
Today happens to be one day after Bloomsday-- the 105th Bloomsday in fact. A grand celebration.
Today is two days before Juneteenth this year. Another great celebration.
But not on Wednesday.
Wednesday's child is full of woe.
Wednesday. Wounds day. Wasn't day.
Which is Woden's Day.
Few remember that it is his day.
Fewer still would give what he gave for a draft of wisdom at Mimir's Well.
Woden, whose name derives from roots meaning "rage, madness, excitation," but also "melody, poetry, spiritual arousing."
The furious wodewoses, tamed into woodhouses. Gave up their eight-legged horses for prams and bicycles.
The runes brought down by Woden-- screaming after nine days transfixed by his own spear on the spine of the world-tree -- are shrunk down now into the glyphs on the subway map.
But the poets remember: lurking under all change dwells still the original, waiting for a rent in the times or a slip in the sky to come forth again.
So Marianne Moore's "Wood-Weasel":
"The inky thing/ adaptively whited with glistening/ goat-fur is wood-warden. In his/ ermined well-cuttlefish-inked wool, he is/ determination's totem."
And even more so Ted Hughes from Wodwo:
"The bear is digging/ In his sleep/ Through the wall of the Universe/ With a man's femur/ ...[from "The Bear"]," while
"The lark begins to go up/ Like a warning/ As if the globe were uneasy...Like sacrifices set floating/ The cruel earth's offerings/ /The mad earth's missionaries./ ...[from "Skylarks"]."
Ah, Woden's Day.