This is certainly one of the finest poems ever written by Crowley, despite his bad image in media or in pop culture, he remains a major figure of the early 20th century’s Occult revival in Europe. He was quite an oppressed youth, because of his religious upbringing in the hostile and devoid of all freedom and free will religious environment in rural England. He traveled extensively, had a passion for mountain climbing, poetry, art and a good taste for life (who doesn’t have a good taste for life?), and in the end became one of the leading scholars of MAGICK and the OCCULT.
A lot can be said about him, lots of curses, lots of praises, negatives and positives, but in the end it really comes down to the perspective of each individual and how much he or she read, researched and know about him. It’s easy to watch a YouTube BBC TV documentary by the “legacy media”, where they portray him as a sick and psychotic pervert, having sex with goats and eating black cats for breakfast and dinner. It’s really how they portray him and want us to think and see him in this light. That’s one of the main reasons why there are no good documentaries about him or movies done in a proper way. A few writers are starting to emerge with properly researched books about him and I see that comes very much hand in hand within the confines and fields of the OCCULT revival of today. You see there are a lot of movies and books about Hitler and Stalin and other REAL psychopaths and tyrants, and they are willing to dissect them to the bone, (and even praising some of their actions and “deeds in the name of the war”), but you will not see much about Alister Crowley. And why? Well, I will tell you why. Because he knew too much and had dealings with very powerful people, and in the end he died in his own piss, totally broke and suffering from a drug addiction. That’s how they deal with you when you unstitch the fabric of reality and discover too many secrets. When they need you, you’re put on the pedestal and they give you everything you need. When you’re not needed anymore, they leave you to rot in obscurity and in the shadows of some deserted cottage in the country side, to die like a dog, cursing humanity and seeking retribution. …while they celebrate your own death in the royal palace. Of course “the powers that be” tried and succeeded quite well along the years to “character murder” Crowley, and we see the results today. As far as I see the reality of his legacy, he gave a lot of material and wisdom to all “truth seekers”, (not to be confused with your regular “troofer”) and he opened doors where no one really dared opening. Nowadays we see celebrities, degenerate rappers and movie stars and other so-called “musicians” using actual BLACK MAGICK against the unsuspected and brainwashed masses, and his famous statement from the Book of The Law “Do What Thou Wilt Shall Be The Whole of The Law” was very much misinterpreted and used in a negative and bad manner, with the sole purpose of extracting the very essence and energy from the fragile minds of the people subjected to their malignant spells. The experiments of ill-informed-stupid and ignorant teens done a great deal of harm and disservice to his image. Power is everything to them and they’ll even “sell their own mother for an Etruscan vase” if they had the chance to do it (to quote Sir Sean Connery from one of the Indian Jones movies). “Energy is eternal delight”,William Blake very rightly stated! It is very much so!
So I have not much else to say about Alister Crowley. If you enjoy his poems and books, feel free to enjoy reading (and maybe chant to yourself) the glorious “Hymn to Pan” below. There is no division here, and I don’t consider myself as his “devoted” or fanatical follower or a bloody CULT leader. Cult leaders don’t write poetry! That’s psycho-babble bollocks and I assure you, that many people who really know me will say the same. I make no division between him and W.B. Yeats also, contrary to the popular belief that there was an extreme hatred and venom between them. That’s just propaganda, put there to discourage people from looking and reading his books and knowing more about his personality. I like Yeats’ poetry as much as I like Crowley’s, and I think that both authors should be read and studied extensively, and it’s up to the individual to judge alone. Enjoy the music by Coph Nia and the poetry by Crowley, and be the master of your own soul and body. PAN IO PAN!
Thrill with lissome lust of the light,
O man! My man!
Come careering out of the night
Of Pan! Io Pan!
Io Pan! Io Pan! Come over the sea
From Sicily and from Arcady!
Roaming as Bacchus, with fauns and pards
And nymphs and satyrs for thy guards,
On a milk-white ass, come over the sea
To me, to me,
Come with Apollo in bridal dress
(Shepherdess and pythoness)
Come with Artemis, silken shod,
And wash thy white thigh, beautiful God,
In the moon of the woods, on the marble mount,
The dimpled dawn of the amber fount!
Dip the purple of passionate prayer
In the crimson shrine, the scarlet snare,
The soul that startles in eyes of blue
To watch thy wantonness weeping through
The tangled grove, the gnarled bole
Of the living tree that is spirit and soul
And body and brain — come over the sea,
(Io Pan! Io Pan!)
Devil or god, to me, to me,
My man! my man!
Come with trumpets sounding shrill
Over the hill!
Come with drums low muttering
From the spring!
Come with flute and come with pipe!
Am I not ripe?
I, who wait and writhe and wrestle
With air that hath no boughs to nestle
My body, weary of empty clasp,
Strong as a lion and sharp as an asp —
Come, O come!
I am numb
With the lonely lust of devildom.
Thrust the sword through the galling fetter,
Give me the sign of the Open Eye,
And the token erect of thorny thigh,
And the word of madness and mystery,
O Pan! Io Pan!
Io Pan! Io Pan Pan! Pan Pan! Pan,
I am a man:
Do as thou wilt, as a great god can,
O Pan! Io Pan!
Io Pan! Io Pan Pan! I am awake
In the grip of the snake.
The eagle slashes with beak and claw;
The gods withdraw:
The great beasts come, Io Pan! I am borne
To death on the horn
Of the Unicorn.
I am Pan! Io Pan! Io Pan Pan! Pan!
I am thy mate, I am thy man,
Goat of thy flock, I am gold, I am god,
Flesh to thy bone, flower to thy rod.
With hoofs of steel I race on the rocks
Through solstice stubborn to equinox.
And I rave; and I rape and I rip and I rend
Everlasting, world without end,
Mannikin, maiden, Maenad, man,
In the might of Pan.
Io Pan! Io Pan Pan! Pan! Io Pan!
Check Tobias Churton’s new book about the life and travels of Crowley to America, on the image below:
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