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A Tribute to Ragnar

Ragnar Folk-Gatherer

 

Ragnar Witcomb earned the fitting name, „Folk-Gatherer“ in his lifetime. He was a staunch Heathen who not only worked hard to bring folk to the Cause of the Gods, but worked hard to bring them to a common table... to build bridges and forge bonds between Heathen, and to erode away the walls of division between folk in the interest of a cohesive effort in this great Heathen movement we share.

Shortly after his death, Ragnar's friends and supporters lobbied to have the anniversary of his passing given a fitting place as a „Day of Remembrance“ in the calendar of the organization he served, and to which his work was most dedicated... only to fall on the deaf ears of arrogance, for his not being recognized as a so-called „founder“ of the American Ásatrú movement.

We're not content to let this grave dishonour to his name and work stand unchecked!

Ragnar was not a member of the IG, but was indeed a friend  and supporter of its officers.. while the organization to which he dedicated his passion and efforts would let him fall forgotten in the shadows outside of the history of today's collective Heathen Folk, we will add his name amoung the host of those who enjoy Remembrance for their accomplishments within the reckoning(s) of our People.

In honour of a Heathen Pioneer and dear Friend, we name 26 Ostermond as a Day of Remembrance for Ragnar Folk-Gatherer!

 

Cattle die, kinsmen die:

You will also die someday-

But fame never dies

For the one who earns it.

[Hávamál 76]

 

 

Ragnarsmál

by James Hjuka Coulter

 

Now,
As the sun does break
And Shadows fail,
Upon the threshold
Of Delling’s gleaming abode,
I look to the East,
Towards the gleaming gate;
As the horse issues forth,
I do sing
Of passing days and nights
Full many-
The slow turning of the
Recent age,
In which Wyrd’s hand
Had set her weave,
Wondrously worked
Holy threads-
To set the course
For me to fare
Those well-worn roads,
A sure path.
The serpent-of-wagons
Fears not to brook
The stream,
Meander amoung
The Scrat’s comrades,
Biting through
The Ettin’s teeth-
Beyond these fertile
Green lands,
And a sea
Of whispering wheat,
Into dust-
Skrælings’ land.
The ring once stood,
A wickstead hale-
The Frith-hof
Of our people,
At the well-spring
Of troth-
Holy, mighty,
There, in that stead
Over which the sun does break,
And shadows fail
Upon the hate of steeds,
Wayfarers’ delight,
Before the pickets,
Hedge’s round,
Heimdall’s friend
Wound-twig’s master,
Keeper of þing-peace
Spied my approach,
The Chieftain’s guest,
Weary traveler.
“Welcome friend”
-True words did utter,
Frankly spoken.
His heart’s lights
Did speak
And freely offered
The sword-hilt’s friend,
A kinsman’s support
And niðing’s bane.
His grip sang
Of the strength
Of the deep-rooted tree,
Sure and firm-
A fair reflection
Of his given word.
My brother’s kithsman
Heard the calling-
Wondrous song
Of the resounding horn.
In blood, with honor
The stalwart thane,
Brave shoulder-companion
Unfailingly kept
His noble charges.
The oaks of Himmel’s Keep
-Brothers all-
Along the rams’ pathways,
Well-warded were they
With Loosetooth
In their company-
Grim warrior,
Swarthy-clad,
Keeper of trust,
Oath-bound to stand.
Thews did he gather,
Unlocked his
Chest of words;
The quiet whisperings
Of Oðinn-
Restless stirrings
Drove his hand.
A scribe amoung his kin,
The blood
Of the dwarves’ quarry
Poured forth:
Words were woven,
Scions of the Gleaming Child
Son of the Waves
-Glittering mantle
Of the cold, wet Deep-
Kinsmen’s thews
He did commit
Between the leaf-boards,
Coloured in Runes
-Mysterious signs,
Concealing wisdoms
-Holy knowledge-
His hands beheld.
Few were so lucky as I
To search within
That tome of generations-
Haakon’s trust
Was well rewarded.
Within the Ring,
Pledges kept firm-
Words of fealty
Marked well
By Men and Wights,
The weaving of the web
That binds man to man
-In Hold, In Luck.
Forseti’s student,
Ragnar-weaver,
Tall amoung men
Of whom he gathered,
Brought to the board
‘Neath broad-reaching boughs-
The green expanse
Of the Chieftain’s roof-tree.
Amoung the benches,
Well-worn seats,
Where friends do sit
In the company of friends
-Man’s delight-
To share in cups
Overflowing
With ale and mead,
Strengthens those bonds
When joy, men do share.
Generous,
The Chieftain’s thane
Certainly, was he-
Remembering well
Holy words once spoken
In ages long past,
Dim in recollecting,
The Words of Hár
He did keep close,
And shown readily in deed-
That: A man should always
Remain loyal to his friends,
Giving a gift for a gift.
And: so too, loyal
To his friends comrades-
And, never seek
Nor have
The friendship
Of their enemies.
Troth-full ever
Did the Oak of the Keep remain,
Giving freely
To kith and kin,
That which he enjoyed.
Upon the Land of Ale,
Unflinchingly he set
To stand
The amber flood-
That which springs
From the sky’s sorrow
-Cold tears that fall
From loftiest heights-
The blood of the Highlands,
Salt of the Earth,
Treasure of the Isle
-Bold, rich-
To accompany the leavings
Of the artisan’s hands-
Shafts innumerable
The spears of peace-
Twisted in care.
Singeing, their wispy spirits
Danced upon the
Gentle summer’s breeze
A joy to friends,
Of our people, gathered.
The strength of our lines,
Ensured by peace-
Furthered in the bonds
Which created a Folk,
Steeped in the ways
Of our Fathers’ Fathers-
Never to be forgotten,
Or forsaken again.
An ever-enduring troth,
Loyalty to the Gods-
Our People will endure
Through the Main
Of our Gathering.
Set into place,
Loosetooth, amoung men
Who once stood
Beyond the gard,
With-out the Hedge,
Sacred enclosure,
In which our children thrive.
Men did utter,
Spoke well the memory
Of this great thing.
Bragi did sing there;
To the Pillar
Of the Shield-wall,
He gifted the name
-Fittingly, to be remembered-
Through all the ages,
Slow turning of the tides,
Which Men endure:
Gatherer-of-the-Folk
-Ragnar Folk-Gatherer:
Weaver of Peace,
Servant of the Gods,
Friend of Man,
And Son of Heimdall.
Upon the horn was etched
Hoary Runes of telling;
The banner was stitched
In red-gold, the thread.
Surely,
Cattle die, kinsmen die:
You will also die someday-
But fame never dies
For the one who earns it.
Nor, it is said,
Of the judgment of the dead.
Fame is had, immortal
For the one celebrated in song.
Alas it is,
Ragnar Loosetooth,
Ragnar Folk-Gatherer.
Now,
As the sun does break,
And Shadows fail.
 

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Last updated: 21 Heumond 08