the Daimon comes not as like to like but seeking its own opposite, for man and Daimon feed the hunger in one another’s hearts. Because the ghost is simple, the man heterogeneous and confused, they are but knit together when the man has found a mask whose lineaments permit the expression of all the man most lacks, and it may be dreads, and of that only.
We pass from this life and dissolve into naught
And our hearts are weighed with the feather of Maat.
Escort me to your eternal mansion;
I raise up the cup and adore Babalon!
— In Nomine Babalon: 156 Adorations to the Scarlet Goddess
The Hermetic Library arts and letters pool is a project to publish poetry, prose and art that is inspired by or manifests the Western Esoteric Tradition. If you would like to submit your work for consideration as part of the Arts and Letters pool, contact the librarian.
“‘Who?’ says the Psalmist (and remember that the Psalms were the sacred hymns used in the Hebrew Mysteries), ‘Who will go up to the hill of the Lord, and ascend to His holy place? Even he that hath clean hands and a pure heart’; whence it comes that we wear white gloves and aprons as emblems that we have purified our hearts and washed our hands in innocency.” [via]
“Night came upon me thus—a wizard hand
Grasping with silence the reluctant land.
Through night I clomb—behind me grew the light
Reflected in the portal of the night.
I reached the crest at dawn—pallid I stand,
Uncomprehending of the sudden sight.
The river and the bridge! The river flows,
Tears of young orphans for its limpid woes.
The red bridge quivers—how my spirit starts,
Its seeming glory built of widows’ hearts!
And yet I could disdain it—heaven knows
I had no dear ones for their counterparts.” [via]
“Then, shameful sisterhood of earth’s disdain,
Your lips shall speak your hearts, and understand;
Your lovers shall assuage the amorous pain
With spiritual lips more keen and bland,
And ye shall take God’s hand.” [via]
“The reason, and by the reason he meant deductions from the observations of the senses, binds us to mortality because it binds us to the senses, and divides us from each other by showing us our clashing interests; but imagination divides us from mortality by the immortality of beauty, and binds us to each other by opening the secret doors of all hearts.” [via]
“We write of great writers, even of writers whose beauty would once have seemed an unholy beauty, with rapt sentences like those our fathers kept for the beatitudes and mysteries of the Church; and no matter what we believe with our lips, we believe with our hearts that beautiful things, as Browning said in his one prose essay that was not in verse, have ‘lain burningly on the Divine hand,’ and that when time has begun to wither, the Divine hand will fall heavily on bad taste and vulgarity.” [via]