14 new images, some from the vault, some from the new book coming out in December, others from the passing year now about to make its’ exit. Touching on Psychedelia, Surrealism, and Visionary impulses… there is something here to delight everyone! Check out the gallery! More of course contained within the calendar! Price is inclusive of shipping.
Click the Link Below to Order!
Thanks ever so much,
Nearly 200 pages, a hybrid of sorts, combining my artwork over the last 2 decades with chronicles of adventures along the path as well.
It has been a long time coming. I started discussing this book with Dale & Laura Pendell around 2010-2011 and started assembly 6 years ago. I gave up on it a few times, changed direction and when I finished up on the design, I sent it to, Tria Prima a very interesting publishing house on the recommendations of the writer, P.D. Newman. They answered in under 24 hours, saying that they wanted to publish it. Amazing really. When I sent my last one to New Traditions, I didn’t even get a rejection notice.
There are distinct sections in the book. Illustrations done for the Invisible College (a review I have been publishing for 15 years or more. It was started on the recommendation of the late great artist Robert Venosa & his wonderful partner Martina Hoffmann). There are sections as well for my visionary work, and for Radio EarthRites, another project spanning 17 years.
The writing covers various adventures from the mid 60’s to the present. Some of the entries are entheogenically fueled, others not so much.
This book is the first in a series of three that I have been contemplating producing. The second one is now in the works.
I will let everyone know when this edition is finally published, and available!
There are those who love to get dirty
and fix things.
They drink coffee at dawn,
beer after work,
And those who stay clean,
just appreciate things,
At breakfast they have milk
and juice at night.
There are those who do both,
they drink tea.
__ For The Children
The rising hills, the slopes,
lie before us,
the steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
In the next century
or the one beyond that,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.
To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:
learn the flowers
__ How Poetry Comes To Me
It comes blundering over the
Boulders at night, it stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light
__ Milton By Firelight
Piute Creek, August 1955
“O hell, what do mine eyes
with grief behold?”
Working with an old
Singlejack miner, who can sense
The vein and cleavage
In the very guts of rock, can
Blast granite, build
Switchbacks that last for years
Under the beat of snow, thaw, mule-hooves.
What use, Milton, a silly story
Of our lost general parents,
eaters of fruit?
The Indian, the chainsaw boy,
And a string of six mules
Came riding down to camp
Hungry for tomatoes and green apples.
Sleeping in saddle-blankets
Under a bright night-sky
Han River slantwise by morning.
In ten thousand years the Sierras
Will be dry and dead, home of the scorpion.
Ice-scratched slabs and bent trees.
No paradise, no fall,
Only the weathering land
The wheeling sky,
Man, with his Satan
Scouring the chaos of the mind.
Too dark to read, miles from a road
The bell-mare clangs in the meadow
That packed dirt for a fill-in
Scrambling through loose rocks
On an old trail
All of a summer’s day.
__ Night Song of the Los Angeles Basin
Los Angeles basin and hill slopes
Checkered with streetways. Floral loops
Of the freeway express and exchange.
Dragons of light in the dark
sweep going both ways
in the night city belly.
The passage of light end to end and rebound,
—ride drivers all heading somewhere—
etch in their traces to night’s eye-mind
calligraphy of cars.
Vole paths. Mouse trails worn in
On meadow grass;
Winding pocket-gopher tunnels,
Marmot lookout rocks.
Houses with green watered gardens
Slip under the ghost of the dry chaparral,
shrine to the L. A. River
The jinja that never was there
Where the river debouches
the place of the moment
of trembling and gathering and giving
so that lizards clap hands there
come pray, saying
“please give us health and long life.”
Slash of calligraphy of freeways of cars.
Into the pools of the channelized river
the Goddess in tall rain dress
tosses a handful of meal.
Gold bellies roil
mouth-bubbles, frenzy of feeding,
the common ones, the bright-colored rare ones
show up, they tangle and tumble,
godlings ride by in Rolls Royce
wide-eyed in brokers’ halls
lifted in hotels
being presented to, platters
of tidbit and wine,
snatch of fame,
churn and roil,
meal gone the water subsides.
The calligraphy of lights on the night
freeways of Los Angeles
will long be remembered.
__ The San Juan Ridge…. Gary’s home.
___________________________ Connla and the Fairy Maiden
CONNLA of the Fiery Hair was son of Conn of the Hundred Fights. One day as he stood by the side of his father on the height of Usna, he saw a maiden clad in strange attire coming towards him.
“Whence comest thou, maiden?” said Connla.
“I come from the Plains of the Ever Living,” she said, “there where there is neither death nor sin. There we keep holiday always, nor need we help from any in our joy. And in all our pleasure we have no strife. And because we have our homes in the round green hills, men call us the Hill Folk.”
The king and ail with him wondered much to hear a voice when they saw no one. For save Connla alone, none saw the Fairy Maiden.
“To whom art thou talking, my son? ” Said Conn the king.
Then the maiden answered, “Connla speaks to a young, fair maid, whom neither death nor old age awaits. I love Connla, and now I call him away to the Plain of Pleasure, Moy Mell, where Boadag is king for aye, nor has there been complaint or sorrow in that land since he has held the kingship. Oh, come with me, Connla of the Fiery Hair, ruddy as the dawn with thy tawny skin. A fairy crown awaits thee to grace thy comely face and royal form. Come, and never shall thy comeliness fade, nor thy youth, till the last awful day of judgment.”
The king in fear at what the maiden said, which he heard though he could not see her, called aloud to his Druid, Coran by name.
“Oh, Coran of the many spells,” he said, ” and of the cunning magic, I call upon thy aid. A task is upon me too great for all my skill and wit, greater than any laid upon me since I seized the kingship. A maiden unseen has met us, and by her power would take from me my dear, my comely son. If thou help not, he will be taken from thy king by woman’s wiles and witchery.”
Then Coran the Druid stood forth and chanted his spells towards the spot where the maiden’s voice had been heard. And none heard her voice again, nor could Connla see her longer. Only as she vanished before the Druid’s mighty spell, she threw an apple to Connla.
For a whole month from that day Connla would take nothing, either to eat or to drink, save only from that apple. But as he ate it grew again and always kept whole. And all the while there grew within him a mighty yearning and longing after the maiden he had seen.
But when the last day of the month of waiting came, Connla stood by the side of the king his father on the Plain of Arcomin, and again he saw the maiden come towards him, and again she spoke to him.
“’Tis a glorious place, forsooth, that Connla holds among short-lived mortals awaiting the day of death. But now the folk of life, the ever-living ones, beg and bid thee come to Moy Mell, the Plain of Pleasure, for they have learnt to know thee, seeing thee in thy home among thy dear ones.
When Conn the king heard the maiden’s voice, he called to his men aloud and said:
“Summon swift my Druid Coran, for I see she has again this day the power of speech.”
Then the maiden said ” Oh, mighty Conn, fighter of a hundred fights, the Druid’s power is little loved; it has little honour in the mighty land, peopled with so many of the upright. When the Law will come, it will do away with the Druid’s magic spells that come from the lips of the false black demon.”
Then Conn the king observed that since the maiden came Connla his son spoke to none that spake to him. So, Conn of the hundred fights said to him, “Is it to thy mind what the woman says, my son?”
“’Tis hard upon me,” then said Connla; “I love my own folk above all things; but yet, but yet a longing seizes me for the maiden.”
When the maiden heard this, she answered and said “The ocean is not so strong as the waves of thy longing. Come with me in my curragh, the gleaming, straight-gliding crystal canoe. Soon we can reach Boadag’s realm. I see the bright sun sink, yet far as it is, we can reach it before dark. There is, too, another land worthy of thy journey, a land joyous to all that seek it. Only wives and maidens’ dwell there. If thou wilt, we can seek it and live there alone together in joy.”
When the maiden ceased to speak, Connla of the Fiery Hair rushed away from them and sprang into the curragh, the gleaming, straight-gliding crystal canoe. And then they all, king and court, saw it glide away over the bright sea towards the setting sun. Away and away, till eye could see it no longer, and Connla and the Fairy Maiden went their way on the sea, and were no more seen, nor did any know where they came.
Well, it has been a while, has it not? Playing catch up at this point, all kinds of things going on!
If you haven’t read it already on my Substack: “The Time Has Come” Our son Rowan & his beloved, Suzanne was married on the first of September. We are beyond happy for the two of them. Read more about the occasion on the above link.
We spend time with our new in-laws, Dana & Rick. Amazingly nice people. I really am taken with Suzanne’s extended family. Musicians, college professors, schoolteachers, health workers, carpenters & construction workers. We met many of them whilst visiting in Colorado in July.
________________ On Notice: It looks as if my art & writing book is going to press in December. Very excited about that as you can imagine. Stay Tuned!
Radio EarthRites: Lots going on, new mixes usually lasting around 24 hours! Spoken word has been absent for a few months due to all of the activity this summer, but should be back soon. This is our new mix, starting October 2nd, 9:00PM “The Golden Path”
Please consider subscribing and supporting Radio Free EarthRites! 19 years on line!
Okay, back to the Hare’s Tale format! On the Menu:
Poesy – Rabia al Basri
The Fairy Wife
From Peter: Ambient Storms
________________ The Links: Rethinking the Luddites Have We Recorded Proof of Alien Civilizations? AI used in proper context The Aztec Empire…
Poesy – Rabia al Basri:
I have loved Thee with two loves –
a selfish love and a love that is worthy of Thee.
As for the love which is selfish,
Therein I occupy myself with Thee,
to the exclusion of all others.
But in the love which is worthy of Thee,
Thou dost raise the veil that I may see Thee.
Yet is the praise not mine in this or that,
But the praise is to Thee in both that and this.
If I adore You out of fear of Hell, burn me in Hell!
If I adore you out of desire for Paradise,
Lock me out of Paradise.
But if I adore you for Yourself alone,
Do not deny to me Your eternal beauty.
Your hope in my heart is the rarest treasure
Your Name on my tongue is the sweetest word
My choicest hours
Are the hours I spend with You —
O Allah, I can’t live in this world
Without remembering You–
How can I endure the next world
Without seeing Your face?
I am a stranger in Your country
And lonely among Your worshippers:
This is the substance of my complaint.
With my Beloved I alone have been,
When secrets tenderer than evening airs
Passed, and the Vision blest
Was granted to my prayers,
That crowned me, else obscure, with endless fame;
The while amazed between
His Beauty and His Majesty
I stood in silent ecstasy
Revealing that which o’er my spirit went and came.
Lo, in His face commingled
Is every charm and grace;
The whole of Beauty singled
Into a perfect face
Beholding Him would cry,
‘There is no God but He, and He is the most High.’
The Fairy Wife
VERY many years ago there lived in the farmhouse of Ystrad, in Nant y Bettws, the Vale of the Beadhouse, a youth who was joyous and active, brave and determined of heart. On moonlight nights he used to amuse himself with watching the Fairy Family dancing, and with listening to their music. One night they came very near the house, to a field near the lake, which was afterwards called Llyn y Dywarchen, the Lake of the Sod, there to beguile the night in merrymaking. The young fellow, as was his wont, went out to watch them. Immediately his eye fell on one of the fairy damsels, whose beauty was beyond anything he had ever seen in a human being. Her complexion was like blood upon snow: her voice was like the voice of a nightingale and as gentle as the breeze of a summer evening in a flower garden: her bearing was graceful and noble, and she tripped on the greensward as lightly as the rays of the sun had danced a few hours before on the ripples of the lake hard by. He fell in love with her over head and ears, and under the impulse of that sudden passion, when the merriment was at its height, he rushed into the middle of the fair crowd, snatched the lovely maiden in his arms, and ran off instantly with her into the house. As soon as the other fairies saw the violence that had been done by a mortal, they broke up the dance and ran off after her towards the house. But they were too late: the door was locked and bolted, and the stolen maiden was safely lodged in a chamber. The iron bolt and lock made it impossible for them to reclaim her, for the Fair Family abhor iron. When the young man had got her under his roof, he applied every means in his power to win her affection and asked her to marry him. She refused him, though he begged her time after time to be his wife. When, however, she saw that he would not allow her to return to her own people, she said to him, “I will not be your wife, but if you can find out my name I will be your servant.” He, thinking that the task was by no means impossible, reluctantly agreed to the condition.
But the task was harder than he had imagined. He tried every name that he had ever heard of, even such curious Bible names as Zeruiah, La-ruhamel and Hazelelponi, but found himself no nearer his point. Nevertheless, he was not willing to give up, and at last fortune came to his rescue. One night, as he was returning from Carnarvon market, he espied a number of the Fair Family in a turbary not far from his path. They seemed as if they were seriously deliberating together in council, and he at once thought to himself, “I am sure they are planning how to recover their stolen sister. Perhaps if I can get within hearing distance of them without being observed I shall be able to find out my darling’s name.”
On looking carefully around, he saw that a deep ditch ran through the turbary, and passed near the spot where the Fair Family sat in council. So he made his way round to the ditch and crept, on all fours, along it as quietly as a snail and almost as slowly, until he was within hearing of the group. After listening a while he found that he had been correct in his surmise: they were discussing the fate of the maiden whom he had carried away from them, and he heard one of them wailing aloud, “Oh, Penelope, Penelope, my sister, why didst thou run away with a mortal?”
“Penelope,” said the young man to himself; “that must be the name of my beloved: that is enough.” At once he began to creep back as quietly as he had crept there, and he managed to reach home without being seen by the fairies. When he got into the house he called out to the damsel, “Penelope, my heart of gold, come hither.”
She came forward and asked in astonishment, “Oh, mortal, who has betrayed my name to thee?” Then folding her tiny hands, she exclaimed, “Alas, my fate, my fate! ” But she resigned herself to her lot and took to her work as servant in earnest. Everything in the house and on the farm prospered under her charge. There was no better or cleanlier housewife in all the country around, or one that was more provident and thrifty than she was. She milked the cows three times a day, and they gave the usual quantity of milk each time. The butter she made was so good that it fetched a penny a pound more than any other butter sold at Carnarvon market. The young man, however, was by no means willing that she should be a servant to him, and he persistently begged her to marry him. Many a blow will break the stone, says the Welsh proverb, and she at last consented to be married. But, said she, “There is one condition you must observe: you must never strike me with iron: if you do, I must be free to leave you and return to my family.”
The young man would have agreed to any conditions, and this one he considered very easy to observe. So they were wedded, and lived happily together for years, and were blessed with two children, a boy and a girl, the images of their mother and the idols of their father. So wise and active was the fairy wife that he became one of the richest men of that country, and besides the farm of Ystrad he farmed all the lands on the north of Nant y Bettws to the top of Snowdon and all Cwm Brwynog, in Llanberis, or about five thousand acres.
One day the husband wanted to go to a fair at Carnarvon, and went out to catch a filly that was grazing in a field near the house, in order to sell her at the fair. But for the life of him he could not secure her, and he called to his wife to come to assist him. She came with-out delay, and they managed to drive the frisky young creature to a secure corner, as they thought: but, as he approached her to put on the bridle, the frolicsome animal rushed past him. In his anger he threw the bridle after her; but who should be running after her but his wife! The iron bit struck her on the cheek, and she vanished out of sight in a moment. But, though the broken compact had compelled her disappearance, the fairy wife could not forget her love for her children and husband. One cold night, a long time after this event, when the Dead Men’s Feet Wind was blowing, the husband was awakened from his sleep by a gentle tapping on the glass of his bedroom window. After he had given a response he recognised the gentle and tender voice of his wife saying to him:
“Should the cold oppress my son,
See his father’s coat’s put on
If my daughter feels the cold,
Wrap her in my skirt’s thick fold.”
She even contrived a way to see and speak to her loved ones regularly. The law of her country would not allow her to walk the earth after her return to Fairyland, so she made a large sod to float on the surface of the lake: on this she would spend hours and hours, freely conversing in tenderness with her husband and children on the shore. By means of this contrivance they managed to live together, until husband and children breathed their last. The floating island she made may still be seen, and it is from this that the lake acquired its name.
—————- From Peter, Ambient Storms:
Although sorely neglected, The Hare’s Tale still is in my heart. Please let me know if you still want these postings.
Sometimes you meet a great artist, and human. Noel is such a person. He recently had an almost catastrophic heart attack. Shortly after being admitted to hospital, he and his beloved Janae both tested positive for Covid.
At this point they are at home, recovering hopefully from all of this situation. Yet, they need assistance, as neither are able to work, and having no income at the present. This is a good cause, and truthfully any of us could be in the same situation in the US due to the abysmal medical & social systems that are in place.
I hope you can assist them get through this crisis period. Links to a Gofundme and Mealtrain are below. Please check out their story on those links.
“Asher” A new piece. I haven’t come up another name as of yet.
Magick is Afoot! “Art finds her own perfection within, and not outside of, herself. She is not to be judged by any external standard of resemblance.” – Oscar Wilde
Hello Dear Friends, off to the start of another Gregorian Calendar Event…
In General: The last year 2022, (as if you need reminding) was a wild ride for all and sundry. On the main, enjoyable, but gone, poof, just like that. I am okay with letting it go though. It seemed on the main to be a point of stasis on multiple levels. I am not going to wax on about politics. Sick of it, at this point. Just let me say I think we live in a failed system. House cleaning, is needed.
2022 might be the year that social media began to wane, and crawl back under the rock it emerged from. Seeing the slow cascading of Twitter into oblivion, FB looking dire, Instagram being cited for toxicity for young women, and Tiktok being a tool of the Chinese Government and disinfo central… Good riddance. It may take a few years, but we can pray for it to go away. I found this article to be quite enlighteningBring Back Personal Blogging
“The Garden” Invisible College Review #11
I will be putting out my art book soon. Re-editing of course. Almost there. Stressing about the minutiae re page design as I am given to do.
You are now reading the beginning of my re-imagining of “The Hare’s Tale”. which deals more with mythology, poetry, music, politics etc. There is some 20 years of personal writing, etc. scattered throughout the entries here.
I will continue to post art here, and at Instagram, Mastodon, Ello…
Top of the New Year!
Gwyllm Art Calendar! https://py.pl/7BMiMsCHJao
Available Now! (US sales only at this time)
My Art Calendar for 2023! 14 illustrations.
So, AI generated illustration has been tearing through the Interwebs as of late. People are claiming to be artist because their phrases/prompts are “creating” pieces. I have heard everything from, “Who has the time to learn?”, “Who wants to put in the years of discipline to produce “Art”?. Well I would suggest the term “Phrasers or Prompters” as opposed to artist.
AI “illustration” is based on software scavenging image from artist pieces that are resident on the web, yet, there is no recompense for said artist. See the article above… Is it outright theft?
Question: If you prompt a text generator AI to write a poem, does that make you a poet?
These are legitimate questions IMO. Thoughts? Do we end 40k years of human expression for convenience/speed?
Starting Off The New Year Spoken Word Events!
Spoken Word: Ancient Celtic Anarchy & Music Tuesday 1/3 8:00PM Pacific Coast Time & Friday 1/6 8:00PM Pacific Coast Time
More Spoken Word Coming. We are aiming to have an event every or every other day if possible. Request are appreciated!
On The Menu:
The Trooping Fairies – Changelings
Whit Griffin Poems
Martyn Bennett & Sorley MacLean/Poetry-Music
_____________________________________ Alan Stivell – I was lucky enough to see him perform this piece and others, twice. Once in Freiburg, Germany the late 1970’s, and then at McCabes’ in Santa Monica late 1980’s. He is the real deal.
————————————————– The Trooping Fairies Changelings…
Sometimes the fairies fancy mortals, and carry them away into their own country, leaving instead some sickly fairy child, or a log of wood so bewitched that it seems to be a mortal pining away, and dying, and being buried. Most commonly they steal children. If you “over look a child”, that is look on it with envy, the fairies have it in their power. Many things can be done to find out if a child’s a changeling, but there is one infallible thing–lay it on the fire with this formula, “Burn, burn, burn–if of the devil, bum; but if of God and the saints, be safe from harm” (given by Lady Wilde). Then if it be a changeling it will rush up the chimney with a cry, for, according to Giraldus Cambrensis, “fire is the greatest of enemies to every sort of phantom, in so much that those who have seen apparitions fall into a swoon as soon as they are sensible of the brightness of fire”.
Sometimes the creature is got rid of in a more gentle way. It is on record that once when a mother was leaning over a wizened changeling the latch lifted and a fairy came in, carrying home again the wholesome stolen baby. “It was the others,” she said, “who stole it.” As for her, she wanted her own child.
Those who are carried away are happy, according to some accounts, having plenty of good living and music and mirth. Others say, however, that they are continually longing for their earthly friends. Lady Wilde gives a gloomy tradition that there are two kinds of fairies–one kind merry and gentle, the other evil, and sacrificing every year a life to Satan, for which purpose they steal mortals. No other Irish writer gives this tradition–if such fairies there be, they must be among the solitary spirits–Pookas, Fir Darrigs, and the like.
– Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry
Edited and Selected by W. B. Yeats 
_____________________________________ Poetry: Whit Griffin “The Ones Who Listen”
(Extract:)At dawn a man with a golden beard
comes down to the brook A morning
of many-colored light Alphabets of
color The Cosmic Colour Fellowship
Friendhood A self-imposed envelope
of colorI think of some old monk or sage who
grew up in a traditional family in some
far-off place and has lived a very full
life of inner exploration And they reflect
back on the life they were born into and
“how far they have come,” and they ask,
“what have I done to deserve such a gift?”The Red Ray, the Life Ray Pass a laser
light through ruby and apply it to the
heart meridian Seeking the Land of
Immortality, the young prince finds himself
in the capital of the Blue Kingdom Cherenkov
radiation The blue men of the MinchYour heart is in the system of the Shewolf
Wrapped in a veil of shining silver mist
A cock crows and a golden star appears
on Lizina’s forehead Sandra’s holding
the leopardWe will cherish the past while not limiting
our perception of reality to the mindset of the pastThe beggar boy becomes Count Piro
Dick Grayson becomes Robin Trading
crow feathers for soy candles The dagger
which was to act as a passport Kosovo,
Field of BlackbirdsLeo Martello’s Witch-In in Central Park,
Halloween, 1970 Alberto Aguas giving
readings at the Metaphysical Bookshop
on Sutter Street, SFCA The anonymous
conversations in Quest Antonio Ricardo
of Turin emigrates to Peru, and in Lima
in 1584 prints a leaflet on corrections to
the calendarI do think that certain texts are almost
invisible to us until we are ready for them
They may sit patiently on a shelf for years,
and when our vibration meets the vibration
emanating from the book, it suddenly becomes
visible to us / materializes / manifests itself
in a tangible way It takes on a psychic shine
that catches our eyeCalvinism is the theology of slavery When
you put your mind in a cage you can put
human beings in cages Enough with the
death cult that invaded the Western hemisphere
The stone age didn’t end because we ran
out of stone. The force that formed the
stone can also dissolve it. Bacchus turned
the amethyst red. No god, but the translator,
turned Andromeda into a dromedary.
Tamberlane’s tent turned from white to red.
Red stones do not appeal to idealists. Roman
widows wore white. Rosicrucians believe iron
is the product of dark powers. The sly fox in
sympathy with the wily god. The lame god
is the provider of all good things.
___ A Welter of Cormorants
If you’re not too busy, my
house is on fire. No close-ups
please, I’m too old. Everything
can be mitigated with the proper
use of scented candles. The
Supreme Court turned the tomato
into a vegetable. Let’s not tussle
on this sandy shore; share the shell.
Around here we say carapace.
You’ve a penchant for the superfluous.
Outfitting a bass boat with an
astrolabe. A moped with no petrol
is just a bike. Help yourself to as
many samosas as you think you
deserve, then go back for seconds.
If animals could talk there’d be
more vegetarians. The moon
shines enough light for the muskrats
to find their ramble. We found
a didgeridoo in Saskatchewan.
The most heavily-scored eleven
minutes of my life.
—————— Martyn Bennett & Sorley MacLean
Of course, this brought up memories.
I dedicate this to those who await us on that far, far shore.
The weight of me in your arms.
A photo of the two of us in Fitzgerald’s Park.
Three years of age I was.
The weight of the pair of us.
Our weight together.
The weight of your hat shading your laughter.
My weight as you bore me for nine months.
The weight of sitting, getting up, lying down.
Your weight that I never lifted from the
Ground – before burying you in the ground.
Your living weight.
Your dead weight.
The weight of words rising and
Falling between us, the wingbeat of swans.
The heavy weight of prayers.
The feather weight of lilting.
The middle weight of memory, ancient spiral.
The weight of the music of your country voice in the city.
The weight of the lipstick on your lips airing vowels.
The weight of your fragrance in the bedroom after giving birth.
The weight of your maternal weariness asking me kindly to go outside.
The weight of your relations.
The weight of intimacy.
The weight of ancestry.
The weight of neighbours.
The weight of tribal lore.
The weight of the great world.
The weight of priests.
The weight of brothers.
The weight of drink.
The weight of history.
The weight of humour.
The weight of those who got away.
The weight of the otherworld.
The weight of your faith.
The sorrowful weight of your fear.
The weight of your shame.
The weight of the two of us as we met for lunch in the city.
The weight of my patience waiting for you at the chapel door.
The weight of your patience waiting for me to enter.
The weight of your praying.
The weight of the crosses of the world.
The weight of your appetite.
The weight of your lingering over food.
The airy weight of a girl stepping it out at a dance.
The weight of the accordion on your shoulders.
The weight of your two knees keeping time with dances.
The weight of your corpse as we waked you three nights and three days.
The weight of the terror in your eyes
As they called to you from the other side.
The weight of your refusal to go.
The weight of the anchor from yonder as it took a firm hold of you.
The weight of secrets that had nowhere now to hide.
The weight of unspoken love that death’s call freed in you.
The weight of confusion that had your head in a merry-go-round.
The weight of life draining away.
The weight of my last visit.
The weight of country folk making their way to the city.
The weight of their murmurings.
The weight of your conversation with us from beyond.
The weight of things you said when
Alive and continued to say in death.
The weight of your language, still.
The weight of the shower that didn’t allow us
To stand very long at the mouth of the grave.
The lightness of your soul that covered us like
The silk sheet on your bed after we buried you.
After we buried you.
(Thanks to Morgan Miller for sharing this to me yesterday.)
On The Menu:
Radio EarthRites Fund Raiser: Save The Music!
Cult | 09-04-22 | by [A]LCrego_
Dead Can Dance: Opium
Greek Fairy Tales: Fairy Hunting
Brendan Perry: The Voyage Of Bran
Dropping back into Blog Land for an entry. Not as much as I would like, but I have found myself with way too many irons in the fire, which does happen with me as I take on too many projects.
At the present, I am working on a talk that I will be giving online in June. I will keep you posted. Quite excited to get back into the ring again, I do wish that things would open up a bit to allow for a speaking tour, no matter how localized in the Northwest/Northern California. Hopefully Covid will burn itself out soon.
Working on Publishing, Radio EarthRites, and of course the SubStack. In my ADHD ways I spin my wheels way too frequently, trying to prioritize what is needed. Spring finally is asserting itself, here in the first weeks of old summer (Which traditionally started on the 1st of May. The back garden is a riot of colour, always amazing to experience.
I hope this finds you well, and not overwhelmed by the world. Hard at times, oh yes.
___________________ Radio EarthRites Fund Raiser: Save The Music!
Every so often we hold a fundraiser for Radio EarthRites.
This year it is more important than ever as our main storage hard drive has crashed, and some 800 GB of music & related files have been lost. (but recoverable!
We have gotten an estimate of $150 to around $600 for recovery of the information and files on the drive.
So, we are asking for a one-time donation or for folks to subscribe to the station to help us recover the music files and attending information we had stored on the drive.
If you can make a donation or sign up for a subscription it would be greatly appreciated.
We have a bunch of new music on the station, and now, a bunch of spoken word shows as well coming up.
e also have a new Radio EarthRites Program & Notes Page, which is also the Radio Page. Please check it out! Info on the music, spoken word, updates, etc.
Our Fund Raiser is being featured on the new page along with this coming week’s new schedule. Stay Tuned! More Music, Spoken Word!
I took my lyre and said:
Come now, my heavenly
tortoise shell: become
a speaking instrument
Leto and Niobe
Before they were mothers
Leto and Niobe
had been the most
devoted of friends
eternal daughter of God,
snare-knitter! Don’t, I beg you,
cow my heart with grief! Come,
as once when you heard my far-
off cry and, listening, stepped
from your father’s house to your
gold car, to yoke the pair whose
beautiful thick-feathered wings
oaring down mid-air from heaven
carried you to light swiftly
on dark earth; then, blissful one,
smiling your immortal smile
you asked, What ailed me now that
me me call you again? What
was it that my distracted
heart most wanted? “Whom has
Persuasion to bring round now
“to your love? Who, Sappho, is
unfair to you? For, let her
run, she will soon run after;
“if she won’t accept gifts, she
will one day give them; and if
she won’t love you — she soon will
“love, although unwillingly…”
If ever — come now! Relieve
this intolerable pain!
What my heart most hopes will
happen, make happen; you your-
self join forces on my side!
Hesperus The Bringer
O Hesperus, thou bringest all good things–
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
To the young bird the parent’s brooding wings,
The welcome stall to the o’erlabored steer;
Whate’er our household gods protect of dear,
Are gathered round us by thy look of rest;
Thou bring’st the child too to its mother’s breast.
Ode To Aphrodite
Deathless Aphrodite, throned in flowers,
Daughter of Zeus, O terrible enchantress,
With this sorrow, with this anguish, break my spirit
Lady, not longer!
Hear anew the voice! O hear and listen!
Come, as in that island dawn thou camest,
Billowing in thy yoked car to Sappho
Forth from thy father’s
Golden house in pity! … I remember:
Fleet and fair thy sparrows drew thee, beating
Fast their wings above the dusky harvests,
Down the pale heavens,
Lightning anon! And thou, O blest and brightest,
Smiling with immortal eyelids, asked me:
‘Maiden, what betideth thee? Or wherefore
Callest upon me?
‘What is here the longing more than other,
Here in this mad heart? And who the lovely
One beloved that wouldst lure to loving?
Sappho, who wrongs thee?
‘See, if now she flies, she soon must follow;
Yes, if spurning gifts, she soon must offer;
Yes, if loving not, she soon must love thee,
Come again to me! O now! Release me!
End the great pang! And all my heart desireth
Now of fulfillment, fulfill! O Aphrodite,
Fight by my shoulder!
Sappho To Her Girlfriends
This is my song of maidens dear to me.
Eranna, a slight girl I counted thee,
When first I looked upon thy form and face,
Slim as a reed, and all devoid of grace.
But stately stature, grace and beauty came
Unto thee with the years — O, dost not shame
For this, Eranna, that thy pride hath grown
Therewith? Alas for thee ! I have not known
One beauty ever of more scornful mien,
As though thou wert of all earth’s daughters queen!
Mnasidica is comelier, perchance,
Than my Gyrinna — ah, but sweetly rings
Gyrinna’s matchless voice ! In rapture-trance
I listen, listen, while Gyrinna sings.
Hero of Gyara is fleet of foot
As fawns, and as light-footed in the dance,
The dance taught by the measures of my lute.
Ever-impassioned Gorgo! — is it strange
That I grow weary of the change on change
Of thine adored ones? — of thy rhapsodies
O’er each new girlfriend, while the old love dies?
Joy to thee, daughter of a princely race,
For thy last dear one! Lie in her embrace —
Till shines a new star on thy raptured eyes!
Fonder of maids thou art, I trow, than she.
The ghost who nightly steal young girls, to be
In Hades of her woeful company.
This is my fair girl-garden: sweet they grow —
Rose, violet, asphodel and lily’s snow;
And which the sweetest is, I do not know;
For rosy arms and starry eyes are there.
Honey-sweet voices and cheeks passing fair.
And these shall men, I ween, remember long;
For these shall bloom for ever in my song.
Greek Fairy Tales: Hunting Fairies
I had never heard of fairies until one autumn evening in our summer home on the highlands of Petsà, which, eagle-like, watches over olive groves, raisin fields and the blue Corinthian Gulf. Laughter and voices raised in greeting woke me from my early sleep and told me that my Grandmother Adamis was being welcomed to the group of neighbor women who had gathered in our garden to tell stories in the moonlight.
“Is it about the Fairy Wife you are going to tell us tonight, Grandmother Adamis?” I heard someone ask.
“Or the Fairy Ring? I thought it was the Fairy Ring!” cried another voice.
“Oh, the fairies’ palace, Grandmother! You promised to tell us about their palace!”
Grandmother Adamis laughed. Rising on my elbow, I could see the younger women hurrying to make a place for her and pass her wine, nuts and cheese. In the center of the group a fire glowed red, in contrast to the clear, silver light of the full moon above. During the autumn months, after the corn is gathered, the grapes crushed and the barrels filled with wine, the villagers spend the evenings out of doors. The older women talk while the girls knit and sing. Now, on Grandmother’s arrival, the girls dropped their work and all grew silent to listen. Grandmother knew more paramythia, myths, than any woman in Eurostena, and she was a born story-teller.
In wonder and a breathless, ecstatic fear, I strained my ears to catch what snatches I could. As the strange stories followed one another, forms, pentamorphes, five times beautiful, seemed to glide before me: maidens in white with flowing, golden hair, handsome youths on horseback, chariots of cloud, seas shimmering with jewels, palaces light as foam and lovely as dew in sunshine. Oh, if I could see these things which Grandmother Adamis described! If I could hear the flute-like voices and silvery music which she said rang through the Fairy Hills!
But the fairies, it seemed, had some terrible, mysterious power. One must beware. One must not venture alone too high among the mountain tops. The fairies might—Grandmother’s voice would sink to a whisper and the circle of heads draw closer about her. I could learn only that all places are safe for him who carries a loaded gun, the highest hills and even the palaces of the fairies. With this thought, as the moon paled and the dawn came and the group in the garden dispersed, I slept.
A gun! That was my first idea on waking. I must have a gun. I intended to see fairies and visit fairy palaces, but where to find the gun? Then I remembered. As soon as I had learned to write at school, an old lady who lived in the neighborhood asked me to write letters for her to her son in America, because she could not write. The first time I went to her house, I noticed a huge, old-fashioned gun hanging on the wall. It had been used, she told me, by her grandfather in the War of 1821, and was called a Karabena. It was very clumsy and had grown rusty, but now as I pictured it, it seemed the most priceless of treasures. There remained only the question of how to make it mine.
For months, whenever I was in the old lady’s house, I gazed longingly at the Karabena every moment that I was not writing, and wondered how I could approach the subject. Then one day the following spring, the lady told me that I had been very good and that she wished to give me something in return for what I had done.
“Will you give me that gun?” I burst out.
“Oh, not that,” she said. “You don’t know how to use it. You would hurt yourself.”
I replied that I knew a great deal about guns from having read about them ever since the autumn. Besides, I said, I would accept nothing else from her, so at last she consented. The Karabena was mine.
It remained hidden for days among the barrels in our cellar, while I cleaned and polished it a little at a time, and collected powder and shot. Finally the gun was loaded and ready, and very proudly did I set out with it across my shoulder. From the stories of Grandmother Adamis, I understood that the fairies often appeared just at noon, but I started early since it was some distance to the top of the Neraidorahe, Fairy Hill, where the entrances to fairy palaces were said to be found. I was congratulating myself on getting away unseen, when my mother’s voice called from the doorway.
“Theodorake I, come back. Where did you get that gun?”
When I told her, she asked what I was about to do with it. My answer was sufficiently evasive.
“Well,” she said, “don’t try to shoot and whatever you do, don’t go up to the Neraidorahe! Evil will come to you!”
After waiting till she had returned to her work, I hurried through the village and started up the mountain.
“Ho, Theodorake!” rang out above me. The old shepherd known to everyone as Uncle Kostas was making his way down the slope toward me. Since I was in no mood for further interruption, I pressed on as if I had not heard.
“Ho there!” came the call again. “I know you, son of Perikles. Where are you going with that Karabena?”
“To the Neraidorahe to hunt fairies,” I replied casually.
“Stop!” He was directly above me now and he planted himself in my way. The picture of him, in his great, loose shepherd’s cloak, with its pointed hood thrown back, his short, full skirt and his brown shoes with a fluffy red ball on each pointed tip, is still vivid in my mind. “See those hills yonder,” he cried, his right hand extended in a dramatic gesture, his white hair blowing in the wind. “On one of those hills the fairies overpowered me. You do not know what they can do. Listen to me. I was older than you are and I had a better gun than your Karabena. A gun cannot save you. The fairies carried me away and kept me for a year and a day, and it was only by a miracle that I escaped from them. They can take you as they took me, but you may never get away. Listen to one who has lived in their palace and learned their ways and been their prisoner!”
Old Uncle Kostas with the help of his staff settled himself heavily on a stone in order to relate his adventure. This was my chance.
“The fairies will not scare me,” I told him. “I will fire at them and chase them back into their caves.”
I darted past him and went on up the mountain side. When I glanced back and saw him plodding slowly downward shaking his head, I laughed to myself. I would show them all.
In the steep, rocky slope above me were several great, black holes like yawning cavern mouths. Perhaps, I thought, these opened on moonlight-flooded gardens and shining palaces and all the beautiful things Grandmother had described. If I could frighten the fairies, I could enter unharmed and see for myself. Carefully I approached the holes, lay down behind a pine tree and made my Karabena ready to shoot at the first fairy that should appear.
Soon I heard the whistle of the noon train and I watched it far below as it hurried along the southern shore of the Gulf. The time had come. For a moment everything was still. Then the gently stirring air brought me a soft, whirring sound that grew louder and louder. The air itself, moving faster and faster, became a wind from the north, and at the same time in front of one opening something white went whirling around and around just above the ground.
A wild fear rushed upon me. The unknown terrors that were whispered of in the garden and the weird power that had seized Uncle Kostas, seemed to grip my heart. Clutching my gun I turned and tore down the mountain side like one mad. I slipped and stumbled, struck my feet against stones and scratched my arms on tree trunks, but nothing stopped me until I reached home and fell into the kitchen in front of my mother. I accepted her scolding humbly and never again did I go fairy-hunting.
________________________________________________ Brendan Perry: The Voyage Of Bran