Through the Days…

“Necessity is the plea for every infringement of human freedom. It is the argument of tyrants; it is the creed of slaves”.—William Pitt

An odd day… weird news, odd events and strangeness everywhere I turned. Almost in complete counterpoint to the days leading up to Solstice.

Rowan had his gathering, and it was pretty nice. (a high point)

Another nice time was having Morgan stopped by, bringing some excellent music along as well. We talked about the Amadou et Mariam show, and went over the fine points, polishing our memories up, comparing notes…

We pray that the band will play the Zoo next time around. Nothing like it. It seems like a mini-festival (which I always enjoyed) under very optimum circumstances….

Anyway, I am rambling, so off to work I go…



on The Menu

The Links

The Thief Who Became a Disciple

Celtic Poems: A random selection

Photos: Ancient Grave Site from the Caspian Sea


The Links:

Sisters lose second coming cover

Planets, Bees, and a Donkey

Class Warfare: The Minimum Wage Goes Down

West Hollywood Seeks to Ease on Private Herb Smoking


The Thief Who Became a Disciple

One evening as Shichiri Kojun was reciting sutras a thief with a sharp sword entered, demanding wither his money or his life.

Shichiri told him: “Do not disturb me. You can find the money in that drawer.” Then he resumed his recitation.

A little while afterwards he stopped and called: “Don’t take it all. I need some to pay taxes with tomorrow.”

The intruder gathered up most of the money and started to leave. “Thank a person when you receive a gift,” Shichiri added. The man thanked him and made off.

A few days afterwards the fellow was caught and confessed, among others, the offense against Shichiri. When Shichiri was called as a witness he said: “This man is no thief, at least as far as I am concerned. I gave him the money and he thanked me for it.”

After he had finished his prison term, the man went to Shichiri and became his disciple.


Celtic Poems: A random selection

How Curious the Light behaves


How curious the light behaves

Reflecting off the dancing waves.

Oh how my very being craves

A view from down below.

Suspended in my watery lair,

I would not need to gasp for air,

For I’m no longer human there

Beneath the icy flow.

It’s peaceful there, but I have found

I still can hear the distant sound

Of voices of the souls who drowned

And left loved ones to mourn.

The lonely wails transmit the pain

Of those who just could not remain

So journeyed to the unknown plane

Of dead souls and unborn.

But in this world there still exist

Survivors who will always miss

The passion of their lovers’ kiss

That warmed them night and day.

Though here above the vast, cold sea,

My heart is without tragedy,

For I have someone dear to me

Who hasn’t passed away.

Never let that be untrue,

For I could not bear thoughts of you

Trapped underneath the ocean blue

Deprived of your last breath.

No harm to you would I condone,

For I’d be left here on my own

To face this tragic world alone,

A fate far worse than death.


The Harp of Cnoc I’Chosgair

Harp of Cnoc I’Chosgair, you who bring sleep

to eyes long sleepless;

sweet subtle, plangent, glad, cooling grave.

Excellent instrument with smooth gentle curve,

trilling under red fingers,

musician that has charmed us,

red, lion-like of full melody.

You who lure the bird from the flock,

you who refresh the mind,

brown spotted one of sweet words,

ardent, wondrous, passionate.

You who heal every wounded warrior,

joy and allurement to women,

familiar guide over the dark blue water,

mystic sweet sounding music.

You who silence every instrument of music,

yourself a sweet plaintive instrument,

dweller among the Race of Conn,

instrument yellow-brown and firm.

The one darling of sages,

restless, smooth, sweet of tune,

crimson star above the Fairy Hills,

breast jewel of High Kings.

Sweet tender flowers, brown harp of Diarmaid,

shape not unloved by hosts, voice of cuckoos in May!

I have not heard music ever such as your frame makes

since the time of the Fairy People,

fair brown many coloured bough,

gentle, powerful, glorious.

Sound of the calm wave on the beach,

pure shadowing tree of pure music,

carousals are drunk in your company,

voice of the swan over shining streams.

Cry of the Fairy Women from the Fairy Hill of Ler,

no melody can match you,

every house is sweet stringed through your guidance,

you the pinnacle of harp music.

– Gofraidh Fion O Dalaigh. 1385]


Lightenings viii

(Seamus Heaney)

The annals say: when the monks of Clonmacnoise

Were all at prayers inside the oratory

A ship appeared above them in the air.

The anchor dragged along behind so deep

It hooked itself into the altar rails

And then, as the big hull rocked to a standstill,

A crewman shinned and grappled down a rope

And struggled to release it. But in vain.

`This man can’t bear our life here and will drown,’

The abbot said, `Unless we help him.’ So

They did, the freed ship sailed and the man climbed back

Out of the marvelous as he had known it.

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