Since I started the Raven’s Crucible, I’ve been spending a lot more time writing, which has given me more of a chance to observe my own creative process. The more time I spend with it, the less credit I feel I can take.
The ancient Romans had the concept of a personal Genius – a spirit inhabiting the walls of a workshop or following a particular person, who inspired their creative endeavors. This idea had the effect of separating the outcome of an artistic process from the artist themselves. A masterful artist was not themselves a master, they were simply possessed of a masterful Genius; similarly, a middling artist was simply channeling the work of a less talented Genius. It isn’t until the Renaissance that you hear of people being a genius, instead of having a genius.1
This idea is reflective of my own experience. I don’t mean to imply that writing is always effortless and inspired. There are certainly bits that take several tries to get right, or that require long bouts of detail-oriented editing. But there are other times where it feels like I have connected to something greater. Where words flow smoothly, rapidly, and without any great effort on my part. It is most like recalling a text that you once knew well but haven’t heard for a long time – except it happens to be one you know you’ve never heard at all.
This idea of a spirit of creative Genius caught in my mind. If I write and I work with spirits, it seems only fitting I should be invoking this creative spirit into my efforts. With this goal I set out to write an invocation to the creative Genius.
I had a couple of false starts in this, until I struck on the idea of composing it like an Orphic hymn. For those who are unfamiliar, the Orphic hymns are a collection of eighty-seven brief poems invoking various Greek gods and goddesses. They date from the second or third century CE (roughly contemporary with the Greek magical papyri). They have been translated into English a number of times over the years, first by Thomas Taylor in 1792. As accurate translations go, Taylor’s is mediocre; he takes some significant creative license with the source material (including mapping the names of all the Greek deities to their Latin counterparts); for serious linguists, there are much better modern translations available.2
But what Taylor lacked as a translator, he made up as a poet. His versions of the Orphic hymns follow a strict scheme of meter and rhyme – uniform not just within any single poem, but across the entire collection together. They roll in peals of iambic thunder, like the beating of some wild and primal heart. For this reason (and also due to the fact that they’re all in the public domain) they’ve been incorporated as invocations in a number of modern magical systems.3 This seemed an excellent framework on which to build a classical invocation.
Taylor’s hymns consist of rhyming couplets of iambic pentameter. The length (as in the original poems) varies. For this, eight couplets seemed apt, given the Mercurial nature of a spirit who makes porous the boundary between words and magic. This was my starting point.
And from there the poem itself unfurled rather quickly. It was very much like it was coming through from somewhere else, using me as a conduit. In particular, the line referencing Phoebus popped fully formed into my head. I had to pause to Google who Phoebus was, and whether that was a reasonable reference to include.4 In the end I left it in, because it so clearly wanted to be there.
And so, without further ado, I present the Hymn to the Creative Genius:
Creative spirit bright, O Genius mine,
Who carries to our hearts the spark Divine!
Tis by your hand, uplifted to inspire,
Our words are limned in all-proclaiming fire.
We stand entombed by ignorance and fear,
‘Til by your light the walls are rendered clear.
Your inspiration laid before our sight,
Conveyed like sacred Hermes’s sandaled flight.
All glory, blessed spirit, on your name,
Imbuing to our arts your sacred flame.
Through each inspired work, your fame is grown,
Until their legacy eclipse our own.
Lend us your strength, your clarity, your grace.
Draw back the veils mundane from Phoebus’s face.
Inspired spirit of descending light,
Look graciously upon our mortal rite!
- Gilbert, E. (2009, February). Your Elusive Creative Genius. https://www.ted.com/talks/elizabeth_gilbert_your_elusive_creative_genius ↩︎
- For example:
Athanassakis, A. (2013). The Orphic Hymns. Johns Hopkins University Press. ↩︎ - I first encountered them in Rufus Opus’s Seven Spheres:
Opus, R. (2014). Seven Spheres. Nephilim Press. ↩︎ - From Google:
“In Greek and Roman mythology, Phoebus was the chief epithet of Apollo, the god of light, music, poetry, medicine, and the sciences. The word Phoebus comes from the Greek word phoîbos, which means ‘bright’, ‘radiant’, or ‘shining’.”
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