Young Sasha Keller has made his parents Jolene and Mike very happy by arriving to their arms this last week… All of our best wishes to Sasha and his Mum and Dad. May they all be happy together!
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our lifes star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar.
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory, do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
– William Wordsworth (17701850)
Mike and Sasha….
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Happy Friday.
Mike sent me pictures this week of his Son , Sasha. I could not resist. I met Mike at Sacred Elixirs, where he was kind enough to record as much of it as he could. (You can find the recordings on Earthrites.org) He has a wonderful site: Plant Consciousness.com Jolene and Mike are settling in with young Sasha up in the south bay hills at this time. Our warm wishes go out to them at the start of the great adventure!
Bright Blessings!
Gwyllm
On The Menu:
The Links
On Dying and Being Reborn – by Ralph Metzner
Poetry: Brendan Perry
Intimations Of Immortality From Recollections Of Early Childhood – William Wordsworth
Art… various Symbolist…
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On Dying and Being Reborn – by Ralph Metzner
(excerpt)
So long as you do not have this dying and becoming, you’re only a gloomy guest on this darkening Earth.
– J. W. Goethe
To die and be reborn is a metaphor for the most radical and total transformation that consciousness and identity can undergo. When our self-image or self-concept, the sense of identity with which (and as which) we have lived, comes to an end, then we feel as though the ego or self is dying. The pattern of this transformation metaphor is as follows: whatever I call “me” is finished and dying; then, after a period of turmoil and uncertainty, there is the “rebirth” of a new identity, a new sense of who “I” am. The transformation involves all aspects of the psyche, because it involves the central organizing principle of selfhood. The new self that is born is naturally of a childlike nature, filled with the wonder, joy, and spontaneity of childhood.
In the mystery religions of ancient times and in many traditional cultures, “death-rebirth” was and is the name of an initiatory experience. Associated with it are ritual practices such as entombment, profound isolation, or painful ordeals through which the initiate must pass. Afterward, the initiate customarily adopts a new name, perhaps a new garment, and sometimes a new role in society, all of which express the newly reborn being. Although we no longer perform the ancient rituals of death and rebirth, many people, in changing their name, lifestyle, or work, are publicly signaling that a transformation has occurred.
The transformed personality can live and thrive only if the previous personality has died. This is also the meaning of Meister Eckhart’s saying that the Kingdom of God (which symbolizes the transformed, enlightened state of consciousness) is “for none but those who are thoroughly dead.” Both physical and psychological dying are valued because they lead to a better state, a transformed and more enlightened state. Similarly, there is an ancient tradition that the practice of dying leads to liberation and wisdom. Thus we hear Socrates say that “true philosophers make dying their profession, and to them of all men death is least alarming.”
Many a mythic hero or heroine, including Gilgamesh, Inanna, Odysseus, the Grail knights, and the Mayan twins, undertake dangerous journeys into the underworld land of the dead in order to fathom the secrets of death and life. Such journeys pay homage to the power and mystery of death.
Every time something ends in us, it dies: thus we experience thousands of little deaths each day, each hour. Thoughts arise, die, arise again; images form, dissolve, form again; feelings well up from within, crest and recede, to emerge again later. Insofar as we are identified with these thoughts, images, and feelings, we die, are reborn, die again, are reborn, continuously. Rumi said that “every instant you are dying and returning.” The German theologian and mystic Johannes Tauler spoke of the great value of such daily dying: “A man might die a thousand deaths in one day and find a joyful life corresponding to each of them.” Anyone who has ever had the experience of letting go of some craving or attachment and has felt the sudden lift, the ecstatic freedom that comes from this, will know the truth of these statements.
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I first became aware of Brendans’ work with Dead Can Dance. Now I love Liza Gerrards’ voice and all, but my favourite bits would be Brendans’ soulful, though provoking works. His output is not what it should be, for my taste, but all good things comes to those who wait. I suggest picking up his Eye of The Hunter. great album that.
Enjoy.
G
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Poetry/Lyrics: Brendan Perry
The Captive Heart
The old clock is ticking now
Marks the space between us
Your memory enshrouds my heart
For I am held a captive
Sometimes my soul desires
To take leave of this old world
To spread these golden wings and fly
To the city of angels
But then if I close my eyes
I can see you standing there
Your face in permanence smiles
Your lips a chalice
Seems like Ive loved you all my life
Never thought Id find you
One day the muse may lend these words wings
So I can touch you
But hey!
Dont worry if the feelings not strong for you
I have lived my life in accordance
To the windfalls of passion
Though I know what it means
To be loved and then forgotten
I have seen too many men
Driven insane by their distractions
—
Voyage of Bran
Father father
Can you tell me
Where the hours go
Where time flows ?
It is written in the stars
Upon the milky way
That we must burn bright
Before we fade away ?
Mother mother
Can you tell me
Where the fire goes
When the flames cease ?
“From the ashes to the astral plain
Where the setting sun meets the sea, Brendan”
I live by the river
Where the old gods still dream
Of inner communion
With the open sea
Through the eye of the hunter
In search of a prey
Neither beast nor human
In my philosophy
If you don’t recognise me
Well it’s simply because
I’ve outgrown these old clothes
Time to move on
For you and I will outlive
The masks life gave us
When this shadowplay comes
To a close
—-
Medusa
When all you have left are your memories
And diamonds and pearls for company
I’ll be sailing to St. Lucia on the ocean breeze
With the moon and my scars for company
In your bedroom you keep an iron cage
Where a blackbird sings her freedom song
For you know the true value of keeping slaves
They sing the saddest of songs
Medusa you robbed me of my youth
Abandoned me on the tropic of solitude
Seducer of the shipwrecked and forlorn
You told me to undress
Then crowned my head with thorns
Medusa you robbed me of my youth
Abandoned me on the tropic of solitude
Seducer of the shipwrecked and forlorn
You told me to get dressed
Then turned my heart to stone
—
Sloth
Sometimes when I’m alone
I imagine that the world is a mirror
And in minds eye behold my dark inner nature
I’ve been waiting time on this time honoured whore
‘Til I get so confused I can’t see anymore
And I have crawled where I should have seen the signs
Dragging my feet when I could have been flying
Sometimes when I’m sad
I drink to the health of my torment
And dance at the altar
To the tune of a drunken black tango
I’ve been waiting time on this time honoured whore
‘Til I get so confused I can’t see anymore
Wastes my mouth trying to settle old scores
Dragging my feet when I could have been flying
Dragging my feet when I could have been flying
Dragging my feet
—
How Fortunate the Man with None
You saw sagacious Solomon
You know what came of him,
To him complexities seemed plain.
He cursed the hour that gave birth to him
And saw that everything was vain.
How great and wise was Solomon.
The world however did not wait
But soon observed what followed on.
It’s wisdom that had brought him to this state.
How fortunate the man with none.
You saw courageous Caesar next
You know what he became.
They deified him in his life
Then had him murdered just the same.
And as they raised the fatal knife
How loud he cried: you too my son!
The world however did not wait
But soon observed what followed on.
It’s courage that had brought him to that state.
How fortunate the man with none.
You heard of honest Socrates
The man who never lied:
They weren’t so grateful as you’d think
Instead the rulers fixed to have him tried
And handed him the poisoned drink.
How honest was the people’s noble son.
The world however did not wait
But soon observed what followed on.
It’s honesty that brought him to that state.
How fortunate the man with none.
Here you can see respectable folk
Keeping to God’s own laws.
So far he hasn’t taken heed.
You who sit safe and warm indoors
Help to relieve out bitter need.
How virtuously we had begun.
The world however did not wait
But soon observed what followed on.
It’s fear of god that brought us to that state.
How fortunate the man with none.
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Brendan Perry Bio
I was born in Whitechapel, London in 1959 to Anglo-Irish parents and subsequently raised and schooled in the East End of London, until my family emigrated to Auckland, New Zealand, seeking a new life and new opportunities. Having received no prior formal musical education, I began to play the guitar under the guiding influence of Maori and Polynesian muscians at the catholic school I attended in Ponsonby. After half hearted attempts to become a primary school teacher and then join the civil service, I drifted through a series of jobs until I was asked to join The Scavengers in 1977. At first I played bass Guitar later taking on the duties of lead vocalist when the original singer left the band. Apart from a handful of original songs we would cover music from the Stooges, New York Dolls, and the late 60′s Psychadelia. After two years of entertaining controversy, unable to secure a recording deal or live dates (largely due to the media’s sensationalist attitude towards punk) We decided to move to Melbourne, Australia, in 1979 and changed our name to the Marching Girls. In 1980 I left the Marching Girls to pursue a more creative personal musical odyssey, experimenting with tape loops, synthesis and alternative forms of rhythm.
In 1981 I formed Dead Can Dance with Simon Monroe and Paul Erikson (both of whom were to leave within the year soon after we had relocated to London) and of course Lisa Gerrard, who was to become my fellow navigator and soul musical companion for the next fifteen years. Today I live in Rural Ireland where I can be found indulging myself in mythological and natural interests such as Dragon Hunting.
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Welcome to the wide and tumbling world Sasha, may you grace it with your beauty and love!
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD
I
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;–
Turn wheresoe’er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
II
The Rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where’er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.
III
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every Beast keep holiday;–
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
Shepherd-boy!
IV
Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel–I feel it all.
Oh evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,
And the Children are culling
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother’s arm:–
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
–But there’s a Tree, of many, one,
A single Field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The Pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
V
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature’s Priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
VI
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a Mother’s mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely Nurse doth all she can
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.
VII
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years’ Darling of a pigmy size!
See, where ‘mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses,
With light upon him from his father’s eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little Actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his “humorous stage”
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.
VIII
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy Soul’s immensity;
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,–
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a Master o’er a Slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
IX
O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest–
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:–
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realised,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence in a season of calm weather
Though inland far we be,
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the Children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
X
Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young Lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound!
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
XI
And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
