Month: December 2006

A friend’s eye is a good mirror.

-Celtic Proverb

Yes, it does come in threes…

I shall not repeat myself

I shall not repeat myself

I shall not repeat myself….

Have a good Friday… shooting this off at Midnight, monster winds coming our way… so we may not have electricity in the morning.

Have a brilliant weekend!

Talk Later,

Gwyllm

On The Menu:

The Three Links

Three Irish Quotes

Three Sufi Stories

Three Poems of Seamus Heaney

Three Paintings: Rossetti

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The Three Links:

Seven Legged Deer?

4,000-year-old Seahenge to rise again – but not until 2008

‘ My Plane’s Just Taken Off Withoug Me!’

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Three Irish Quotes

If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton,

you may as well dance with it

‘Tis better to buy a small bouquet

And give to your friend this very day,

Than a bushel of roses white and red

To lay on his coffin after he’s dead.

May the Blessings of the Light be on you,

Light Without and Light Within.

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Three Sufi Tales

The Two Kings

There were once two kings, a just and an unjust; and this one had a land abounding in trees and fruits and herbs; but he let no merchant pass without robbing him of his monies and his merchandise, and the traders endured this with patience, by reason of their profit from the fatness of the earth in the means of life and its pleasantness, more by token that it was renowned for its richness in precious stones and gems.

Now the just king, who loved jewels, heard of this land and sent one of his subjects thither; and it being told to the unjust king that a merchant was come to his kingdom with much money to buy jewels withal, he sent for him to the presence and said to him: ‘Who are you and from where do you come and who brought you here thither and why have you come?’

The merchant responded: ‘I am of such and such a region, and the king of that land gave me money and bade me buy therewith jewels from this country; so I obeyed his bidding and came’. Cried the unjust king, ‘Out with you! Don’t you know my fashion of dealing with the people of my realm and how each day I take their money? Why then do you come to my country? And furthermore, you have already stayed here since such a time!’

Answered the trader, ‘The money is not mine, not a penny of it; nay, ‘tis a trust in my hands, till I bring its equivalent to its owner’. But the king said, ‘I will not let you take your livelihood of my land so now you have to give me all your money or else you shall die!”

So the man said in himself, ‘I am fallen between two kings, and I know that the oppression of this ruler embraces all who abide in his dominions: and if I satisfy him not, I shall lose both life and money (whereof is no doubt) and shall fail of my errand; whilst, on the other hand, if I give him all the gold, it will most assuredly prove my ruin with its owner, the other king: wherefore no device will serve me but that I give this one a trifling part thereof and content him therewith and avert from myself and from the money perdition. Thus shall I get my livelihood of the fatness of this land, till I buy that which I desire of jewels; and, after satisfying the tyrant with gifts, I will take my portion of the profit and return to the owner of the money with his need, trusting in his justice and indulgence, and unfearing that he will punish me for that which this unjust king takes of the treasure, especially if it be but a little’.

Then the trader called down blessings on the tyrant and said to him, ‘O, king! I will ransom myself and this specie with a small portion thereof, from the time of my entering thy country to that of my going forth therefrom’. The king agreed to this and left him at peace for a year, till he brought all manner jewels with the rest of the money and returned therewith to his master, to whom he made his excuses, confessing to having saved himself from the unjust king as before related.

The just king accepted his excuse and praised him for his wise device and set him on his right hand in his divan and appointed him in his kingdom an abiding inheritance and a happy life-tide.

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The Dream

A visitor came to a Chishti pir. This visitor wanted to demonstrate his own knowledge of the Qur’an and intended to overpower the Chishti pir in a debate. When he entered, the Chishti pir took the initiative however and mentioned Yusuf and the dreams he has had according to the Qur’an. He then suddenly turned to his visitor and asked him if he could tell him about a dream, so that the visitor may give his interpretation thereof. After receiving permission the Sufi told that he has had a dream and both of them were in it. The Chishti pir then went on by describing the following dream event: “I saw your hand immersed in a jar of honey, while my hand was immersed in the latrine”.

The visitor hastened to interpret: “It is quite obvious! You are immersed in wrong pursuits whereas I am leading a righteous life”.

“But’, the Sufi said, “there is more to the dream”. The visitor asked him to continue. The Chishti pir then went on by telling this: “You were licking my hand and I was licking yours”.

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The Cobbler Who Became an Astrologer

There was in the city of Isfahan a poor cobbler called Ahmed, who was possesses of a singularly greedy and envious wife. Every day the woman went to the public baths, the Hammam, and each time saw someone there of whom she became jealous. One day she espied a lady dressed in a magnificent robe, jewels on every finger, pearls in her ears, and attended by many persons. Asking whom this might be, she was told, “The wife of the king’s astrologer”.

“Of course, that is what my wretched Ahmed must become, an astrologer,” thought the cobbler’s wife, and rushed home as fast as her feet would carry her. The cobbler, seeing her face asked: “What in the world is the matter, my dear one?”

“Don’t you speak to me or come near me until you become a court astrologer!” she snapped. “Give up your vile trade of mending shoes! I shall never be happy until we are rich!”

“Astrologer! Astrologer! Cried Ahmed, “What qualifications have I to read the stars? You must be mad!”

“I neither know nor care how you do it, just become an astrologer by tomorrow or I will go back to my father’s house and seek a divorce,” she said.

The cobbler was out of his mind with worry. How was he to become an astrologer – that was the question? He could not bear the thought of losing his wife, so he went out and bought a table of the zodiac signs, an astrolabe and an astronomical almanac. To do this he had to sell his cobblers’ tools, and so felt he must succeed as an astrologer. He went out into the market-place, crying: “O, people, come to me for all answers to everything! I can read the stars, I know the sun, the moon and the twelve signs of the zodiac! I can foretell that which is to happen!”

Now it so happened that the king’s jeweller was passing by, in great distress at losing one of the crown jewels, which had been entrusted to him for polishing. This was a great ruby, and he had searched for it high and low without success. The court jeweller knew that if he did not find it his head would be forfeit. He came to the crowd surrounding Ahmed and asked what was happening.

“Oh, the very latest astrologer, Ahmed the cobbler, now promises to tell everything there is to know!” laughed one of the bystanders. The court jeweller pressed forward and whispered into Ahmed’s ear: “If you understand your art, discover for me the king’s ruby and I will give you two hundred pieces of gold. If you do not succeed, I will be instrumental in bringing out your death!”

Ahmed was thunderstruck. He put a hand to his brow and shaking his head, thinking of his wife, said: “O, woman, woman, you are more baneful to the happiness of man than the vilest serpent!”. Now the jewel had been secreted by the jeweller’s wife, who, guilty about the theft, had sent a female slave to follow her husband everywhere. This slave, on hearing the new astrologer cry out about a woman who was as poisonous as a serpent, thought that all must be discovered, and ran back to the house to tell her mistress.

“You are discovered by a hateful astrologer! Go to him, lady, and plead with the wretch to be merciful, for if he tells your husband you are lost”. The woman then threw on her veil, and went to Ahmed and flung herself at his feet, crying: “Spare my honour and my life and I will tell all!”

“Tell what?” inquired Ahmed.

“Oh nothing that you do not know already!” she wept, “You know well I stole the ruby. I did so to punish my husband, he uses me so cruelly! But you, o most wonderful man from whom nothing is hidden, command me and I will do whatever you ask that this secret never sees the light”.

Ahmed thought quickly, then said: “I know all you have done and to save you I ask you to do this: Place the ruby at once under your husband’s pillow and forget all about it”. The jeweller’s wife returned home and did as she was bidden. In an hour Ahmed followed her and told the jeweller that he had made his calculations and by the sun, moon and stars the ruby was at that moment lying under his pillow. The jeweller ran from the room like a hunted stag and returned a few moments later the happiest of men. He embraced Ahmed like a brother and placed a bag containing two hundred pieces of gold at his feet.

The praises of the jeweller ringing in his ears, Ahmed returned home grateful that he could now satisfy his wife’s lust for money. He thought he would have to work no more, but he was disenchanted to hear her say: “This is only your first adventure in this new way of life! Once your name gets known, you will soon be summoned to court!”

Unhappily Ahmed remonstrated with her. He had no wish to go further in his career of fortune-telling, it simply was not safe. How could he expect to have further strokes of luck like the last, he asked? But his wife burst into tears and again threatened him with divorce.

Ahmed agreed to sally forth next day t the market-place, to advertise himself once more. He exclaimed as loudly as before “I am an astrologer! I can see everything which will happen by the power given to me by the sun, the moon and the stars!”

The crowd gathered again and a veiled lady was passing while Ahmed was holding forth. She paused with her maid and heard of the success he had had the day before with the finding of the king’s ruby, together with a dozen other stories, which had never happened. The lady, very tall and dressed in fine silks, pushed her way forward and said: “I ask you this conundrum. Where are my necklace and earrings, which I mislaid yesterday? I dare not tell my husband about the loss, as he is a very jealous man and may think I have given them to a lover. Do you, astrologer, tell me at once where they are or I am dishonoured! If you give me the right answer, which should not be difficult for you, I will at once give you fifty pieces of gold”.

The unfortunate cobbler was speechless for a moment, on seeing such an important-looking lady before him, plucking at his arm and he put a hand over his eyes. He looked at her again, wondering what he should say. Then he noticed that part of her face was showing, which was quite unsuitable for one of her social level, and the veil was torn, apparently in her pressing through the crowd. He leaned down and said in a quiet voice: “Madam, look down to the rent, look to the rent!”

He meant the rent in her veil, but it immediately touched off a recollection in her mind. “Stay here, o greatest of astrologers,” she said and returned to her house, which was not far away. There, in the rent in her bathroom wall, she discovered her necklace and earrings, which she herself had hidden them from prying eyes. Soon she was back, wearing another veil and carrying a bag containing fifty pieces of gold for Ahmed. The crowd pressed around him in wonder at this new example of the brilliance of the cobbler astrologer.

Ahmed’s wife, however, could not yet rival the wife of the chief court astrologer, so she still urged her husband to continue seeking fame and fortune.

Now, at this time, the king’s treasury was robbed of forty chests of gold and jewels. Officers of state and the chief of police all tried to find the thieves but to no avail. At last, two servants were dispatched to Ahmed to ask if he would solve the case of the missing chests.

The king’s astrologer, however, was spreading lies about Ahmed behind his back and was heard to say that he gave Ahmed forty days to find the thieves, then he prophesied, Ahmed would be hanged for not being able to do so.

Ahmed was being summoned to the presence of the king and bowed low before the sovereign. “Who is the thief, then, according to the stars?” asked the king.

“It is very difficult to say, my calculations will take some time,” stammered Ahmed, “but I will say this so far, your majesty, there was not one thief, but forty who did this dreadful robbery of your majesty’s treasure”.

“Very well,” said the king, “where are they and what can they have done with my gold and jewels?”

“I cannot say before forty days,” answered Ahmed, “if your majesty will grant me that time to consult the stars. Each night, you see, there are different conjunctions to study…”.

“I grant you forty days, then,” said the king, “but when they are past, if you do not have the answer, your life will be forfeit”.

The court astrologer looked very pleased and smirked behind his beard and that look made poor Ahmed very uncomfortable. Suppose the court astrologer was right after all? He returned to his home and told his wife: “My dear, I fear that your great greed has meant that I have now only forty more days to live. Let us cheerfully spend all we have made, for in that time I shall have to be executed”.

“But husband,” she said “you must find out the thieves in that time by the same method you found the king’s ruby and the woman’s necklace and the earrings!”

“Foolish creature!” said he, “do you not recall that I found the answers to those two cases simply by the will of Allah! I can never pull off such a trick again, not if I live to be a hundred. No, I think the best thing will be for me each night to put a date in a bowl, and by the time that there are forty in it, I shall know that it is the night of the fortieth day and the end of my life. You know I have no skill in reckoning and shall never know if I do not do it in this way”.

“Take courage,” she said, “mean, spiritless wretch that you are and think of something even while we are putting dates in the bowl, so that I may ever yet be attired like the wife of the court astrologer and placed in that rank of life to which my beauty has entitled me!” Not a word of kindness did she give him, not a thought of herself and her personal victory over the wife of the court astrologer.

Meanwhile, the forty thieves, a few miles away from the city, had received accurate information regarding the measures taken to detect them. They were told by spies that the king had sent for Ahmed, and hearing that the cobbler had told of their exact number, feared for their lives. But the captain of the gang said: “Let us go tonight, after dark, and listen outside his house, for in fact he might have made an inspired guess and we might be worrying over nothing”.

Everybody approved of this scheme, so after nightfall one of the thieves listening on the terrace just after the cobbler had offered his evening prayer, heard Ahmed say: “Ah, there is the first of the forty!” He had just been handed the first date by his wife. The thief, hearing these words, hurried back in consternation to the gang and told them that somehow, through wall and window, Ahmed had sensed his unseen presence and said: “Ah, there is the first of the forty!”

The tale of the spy was not believed and the next day two members of the band were sent to listen, completely hidden by darkness, outside the house. To their dismay they both heard Ahmed say quite distinctly: “My dear wife, tonight there are two of them!” Ahmed, of course, having finished his evening prayer, had been given the second date by his wife. The astonished thieves fled into the night, and told their companions what they had heard.

The next night three men were sent and the fourth night four, and so for many nights they came just as Ahmed was putting the date into the bowl. On the last night they all went and Ahmed cried loudly: “Ah, the number is complete! Tonight the whole forty are here!”

All doubts were now removed. It was impossible that they could have been seen, under cover of darkness they had come, mingling with passers-by and people of the town. Ahmed had never looked out of the window; had he done so, he would not even been able to see them, so deeply were they hidden in the shadows.

“Let us bribe the cobbler-astrologer!” said the chief of the thieves. “We will offer him as much of the booty as he wants and then we will prevent him telling the chief of police about us tomorrow,” he whispered to the others.

They knocked at Ahmed’s door, it was almost dawn. Supposing it to be the soldiers coming to take him away to be executed, Ahmed came to the door in good spirits. He and his wife had spent half of the money on good living and he was feeling quite ready to go. He did not even feel sorry that he was to leave his wife behind. She, in fact, was secretly pleased at having quite a lot of money left over to spend solely on herself.

“I know what you have come for!” he shouted out, as the cock crowed and the sun began to rise. “Have patience, I am coming out to you now. But what a wicked deed are you about to do!’ and he stepped forward bravely.

“Most wonderful man!” cried the head of the thieves. “We are fully convinced that you know why we have come, but can we not tempt you with two thousand pieces of gold and beg you to say nothing about the matter!”

“Say nothing about it?” said Ahmed. “Do you honestly think it is possible that I should suffer such gross wrong and injustice without making it known to all the world?”

“Have mercy upon us,” exclaimed the thieves and most of them threw themselves at his feet. “Only spare our lives and we shall return the treasure we stole!”

The cobbler was not sure if he was indeed awake or perhaps still sleeping, but realising that these were the forty thieves he assumed a solemn tone and said: “Wretched men! You cannot escape from my penetration, which reaches to the sun and the moon and knows every star in the sky. If you restore every chest of the forty I will do my very best to intercede with the king on your behalf. But go now, get the treasure and place it in a ditch a foot deep, which you must dig under the wall of the old hammam, the public baths. If you do this before the people of Isfahan are up and about, your lives will be spared. If not, you shall all hang! Go or destruction will fall upon you and your families!”

Stumbling and falling and picking themselves up, the band of thieves rushed away. Would it work? Ahmed knew he had only a short time to wait and find out. It was a very long shot, but he knew that he had only one life to lose and that he was in great danger anyway.

But Allah is just. Rewards suitable to their merits awaited Ahmed and his wife. At midday Ahmed stood cheerfully before the king, who said: “Your looks are promising, have you good news?”

“Your majesty!” said Ahmed, “the stars will only grant one or the other – the forty thieves or the forty chests of treasure. Will your majesty choose?”

“I should be sorry not to punish the thieves” said the king, “but if it must be so, I choose the treasure”.

“And you give the thieves a full and free pardon, O king?”

“I do,” said the monarch “provided I find my treasure untouched”.

“Then follow me,” said Ahmed and set off to the old hammam.

The king and all his courtiers followed Ahmed, who most of the times was casting his eyes to heaven and murmuring things under his breath, describing circles in the air the while. When his prayer was finished, he pointed to the southern wall and requested that his majesty ask the slaves to dig, saying that the treasure would be found intact. In his heart of hearts he hoped it were true.

Within a short while all the forty chests were discovered, with all the royal seals intact. The king’s joy knew no bounds. He embraced Ahmed like a father and immediately appointed him chief court astrologer. “I declare that you shall marry my only daughter,” he cried delightedly, “as you have restored the fortunes of my kingdom and to thus promote you is nothing less than my duty!”

The beautiful princess, who was as lovely as the moon on her fourteenth night, was not dissatisfied with her father’s choice, for she had seen Ahmed from afar and secretly loved him from the first glance.

The wheel of fortune had taken a complete turn. At dawn Ahmed was conversing with the band of thieves, bargaining with them; at disk he was lord of a rich palace and the possessor of a fair, young, highborn wife who adored him. But his did not change his character and he was as contented as a prince as he had been as a poor cobbler. His former wife, for whom he had now ceased to care, moved out of his life, and got the punishment to which her unreasonableness and unfeeling vanity had condemned her. Thus is the tapestry, which is our life, completed by the Great Designer.

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Poetry: Revisiting Seamus Heaney…

The Otter

When you plunged

The light of Tuscany wavered

And swung through the pool

From top to bottom.

I loved your wet head and smashing crawl,

Your fine swimmers’ back and shoulders

Surfacing and surfacing again

This year and every year since.

I sat dry-throated on the warm stones.

You were beyond me.

The mellowed clarities, the grape-deep air

Thinned and disappointed.

Thank God for the slow loadening

When I hold you now

We are close and deep

As the atmosphere on the water.

My two hands are plumbed water.

You are my palpable, lithe

Otter of memory

In the pool of the moment,

Turning to swim on your back,

Each silent thigh-shaking kick

Re-tilting the light,

Heaving the cool at your neck.

And suddenly you’re out,

Back again, intent as ever,

Heavy and frisky in your freshened pelt,

Printing the stones.

—

The Skunk

Up, black, striped and damasked like the chasuble

At a funeral Mass, the skunk’s tail

Paraded the skunk. Night after night

I expected her like a visitor.

The refrigerator whinnied into silence.

My desk light softened beyond the verandah.

Small oranges loomed in the orange tree.

I began to be tense as a voyeur.

After eleven years I was composing

Love-letters again, broaching the word ‘wife’

Like a stored cask, as if its slender vowel

Had mutated into the night earth and air

Of California. The beautiful, useless

Tang of eucalyptus spelt your absence.

The aftermath of a mouthful of wine

Was like inhaling you off a cold pillow.

And there she was, the intent and glamorous,

Ordinary, mysterious skunk,

Mythologized, demythologized,

Snuffing the boards five feet beyond me.

It all came back to me last night, stirred

By the sootfall of your things at bedtime,

Your head-down, tail-up hunt in a bottom drawer

For the black plunge-line nightdress.

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Sweeney’s Last Poem

There was a time when I preferred

the turtle-dove’s soft jublilation

as it flitted round a pool

to the murmur of conversation.

There was a time when I preferred

the blackbird singing on a hill

and the stag loud against the storm

to the clinking tongue of this bell.

There was a time when I preferred

the mountain grouse crying at dawn

to the voice and closeness

of a beautiful woman.

There was a time when I preferred

wolf-packs yelping and howling

to the sheepish voice of a cleric

bleating out plainsong.

You are welcome to pledge healths

and carouse in your drinking dens;

I will dip and steal water

from a well with my open palm.

You are welcome to that cloistered hush

of your students’ conversation;

I will study the pure chant

of hounds baying in Glen Bolcain.

You are welcome to your salt meat

and fresh meat in feasting-houses;

I will live content elsewhere

on tufts of green watercress.

The herd’s sharp spear wounded me

and passed clean through my body.

Ah Christ, who disposed all things, why

was I not killed at Moira?

Of all the innocent lairs I made

the length and breadth of Ireland

I remember an open bed

above the lough in Mourne.

Of all the innocent lairs I made

the length and breadth of Ireland

I remember bedding down

above the wood in Glen Bolcain.

To you, Christ, I give thanks

for your Body in communion

Whatever evil I have done

in this world, I repent.

Then Sweeney’s death-swoon came over him and Moling,

attended by his clerics, rose up and each of them placed a

stone on Sweeney’s grave.

On The Music Box: Le Cafe Abstrait Vol 1….

(Andromeda – Gustave Dore)

In Greek mythology, Andromeda was the daughter of Cepheus and Cassiopeia, king and queen of Aethiopia.

Cassiopeia, having boasted herself equal in beauty to the Nereids, drew down the vengeance of Poseidon, who sent an inundation on the land and a sea-monster, which destroyed man and beast. The oracle of Ammon announced that no relief would be found until the king exposed his daughter Andromeda to the monster, so she was fastened to a rock on the shore.

Perseus, returning from having slain the Gorgon, found Andromeda, slew the monster, set her free, and married her in spite of Phineus, to whom she had before been promised. At the wedding a quarrel took place between the rivals, and Phineus was turned to stone by the sight of the Gorgon’s head (Ovid, Metamorphoses v. 1).

Andromeda followed her husband to Tiryns in Argos, and became the ancestors of the family of the Perseidae through Perseus’ and Andromeda’s son, Perses. Perseus and Andromeda had six sons (Perseides): Perses, Alcaeus, Heleus, Mestor, Sthenelus, and Electryon, and one daughter, Gorgophone. Their descendants ruled Mycenae from Electryon down to Eurystheus, after whom Atreus got the kingdom, and include the great hero Heracles. According to this mythology, Perses is the ancestor of the Persians.

After her death she was placed by Athena amongst the constellations in the northern sky, near Perseus and Cassiopeia. Sophocles and Euripides (and in more modern times Corneille) made the story the subject of tragedies. The tale is represented in numerous ancient works of art.

Andromeda is represented in the northern sky by the constellation Andromeda which contains the Andromeda Galaxy.

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Gentle Reader,

Todays entry for you, as promised…. We are expecting a pretty large wind storm tonight, so if you don’t see an entry tomorrow, there was a very windy and electric-less reason.

Winds have been howling all night, heavy rains. Gust are expected up over 100mph tonight!

Yikes!

Getting ready for the Solstice and the ceremonies there-in. Hopefully, hopefully….

Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

The Links

Sema Ceremony In Seattle & Portland

Koans: The Stingy Artist & Just Go To Sleep

Poetry: The Amazing Blondel de Nesle & Richard The Lion Heart

Art: Gustave Dore….

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The Links:

Search for Extraterrestrial Life Using Chiral Molecules: Mandelate Racemase as a Test Case

300 Mazahua Indians seize Mexican plant

Rowan is Happy Happy!!!

Erm…Soy is making kids ‘gay’?

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Sema Ceremony of the Whirling Dervishes

My long time good friend and early spiritual mentor Susan Shipley informed me about these events; she will be there dancing in rememberance of Rumi’s passing. I expect these ceremonies and dances to be quite something else. I may well be there myself at the Portland event….

Sema Ceremony of the Whirling Dervishes

The Prayer Dance of Rumi – with a Sufi Music Concert

8pm Saturday, December 16 in Seattle

Spartan Gymnasium at Shoreline Community Center

NE 185th & Second Ave. NE, Shoreline, Washington

Directed by Postneshin Jelaluddin Loras. Featuring Master Sufi

Musicians direct from Turkey, Necati Çelik on oud, Arif Biçer on

ney & vocals, and Timuçin Çevikoglu on vocals and ney with

Musicians and Semazens of the Mevlevi Order of America.

Tickets $15 and $25 available at the door, or in advance at

www.brownpapertickets.com.

Info from Hafiz, 206-784-8178.

Sema Ceremony of the Whirling Dervishes

Shebi Arus – The Wedding Night of Hz. Mevlana Jelaluddin RUMI

4:30pm Sunday, December 17 in Portland, Oregon

Smith Hall Ballroom at Portland State University

1825 SW Broadway, 97201

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Koans:

Just Go To Sleep

Gasan was sitting at the bedside of Tekisui three days before his teacher’s passing. Tekisui had already chosen him as his successor.

A temple recently had burned and Gasan was busy rebuilding the structure. Tekisui asked him: “What are you going to do when you get the temple rebuilt?”

“When your sickness is over we want you to speak there,” said Gasan.

“Suppose I do not live until then?”

“Then we will get someone else,” replied Gasan.

“Suppose you cannot find anyone?” continued Tekisui.

Gasan answered loudly: “Don’t ask such foolish questions. Just go to sleep.”

—

The Stingy Artist

Gessen was an artist monk. Before he would start a drawing or painting he always insisted upon being paid in advance, and his fees were high. He was known as the “Stingy Artist.”

A geisha once gave him a commission for a painting. “How much can you pay?” inquired Gessen.

“Whatever you charge,” replied the girl, “but I want you to do the work in front of me.”

So on a certain day Gessen was called by the geisha. She was holding a feast for her patron.

Gessen with fine brush work did the painting. When it was completed he asked the highest sum of his time.

He received his pay. Then the geisha turned to her patron, saying: “All this artist wants is money. His paintings are fine but his mind is dirty; money has caused it to become muddy. Drawn by such a filthy mind, his work is not fit to exhibit. It is just about good enough for one of my petticoats.”

Removing her skirt, she then asked Gessen to do another picture on the back of her petticoat.

“How much will you pay?” asked Gessen.

“Oh, any amount,” answered the girl.

Gessen named a fancy price, painted the picture in the manner requested, and went away.

It was learned later that Gessen had these reasons for desiring money:

A ravaging famine often visited his province. The rich would not help the poor, so Gessen had a secret warehouse, unknown to anyone, which he kept filled with grain, prepared for those emergencies.

From his village to the National Shrine the road was in very poor condition and many travellers suffered while traversing it. He desired to build a better road.

His teacher had passed away without realizing his wish to build a temple, and Gessen wished to complete this temple for him.

After Gessen had accomplished his three wishes he threw away his brushes and artist’s materials and, retiring to the mountains, never painted again.

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Poetry: The Amazing Blondel de Nesle & Richard The Lion Heart

(Blondel de Nesle, dressed as a minstrel, finds the captive King Richard I of England by singing the first two couplets of a song they composed jointly.– Gustave Dore)

L ‘amours dont sui espris

Me semont de chanter;

Si fais con hons sopris

Qui ne puet endurer.

Et s’ai je tant conquis

Que bien me puis venter:

Que j’ai piec’a apris

Leaument a amer.

A li sont mi penser

Et seront a touz dis;

Ja nes en quier oster.

Remembrance dou vis

Qu’il a vermoil et cler

A mon cuer a ce mis

Que ne l’en puis oster;

Et se j’ai les maus quis,

Bien les doi endurer.

Or ai je trop mespris:

Ainz les doi mieuz amer.

Comment que j’os conter.

N’i a rien, ce m’est vis.

Fors que merci crier.

Plus bele ne vit nuns,

Ne de cors ne de vis;

Nature ne mist plus

De beaute en nul pris.

Por li mainiendrai l’us

D ‘Eneas et Paris,

Tristan et Pyramus,

Qui amerent jadis.

Or serai ses amis,

Or pri Deu de la sus,

Qu’a lor fin sole pris.

—-

I am on fire with a love

which compels me to sing;

I act like a man taken by surprise

who cannot resist.

And yet I have gained something

to boast of:

that I long ago learned

to love loyally.

My thoughts are of her

and always will be;

I shall never seek to transfer them.

The memory of her face,

rosy and bright,

has so penetrated my heart

that I cannot remove it;

and since I have asked for these pains

I must endure them.

No this is mistaken–

I should rather love them.

Whatever I may say,

there is nothing to be done, I think.

Except to cry for mercy.

No one ever saw a fairer lady

either of form or of face;

Nature has never endowed anything

with more beauty.

For her I shall continue the tradition

of Aeneas and Paris.

of Tristan and Pyramus,

all of whom loved long ago.

Now I shall be their ally,

And now I pray to God above,

That I might share their fate.

Blondel de Nesle – Trans Christopher Page

—-

Cuer Desirous Apaie…

Cuer desirous apaie

Douçours et confors;

Par joie d’amour vraie

Sui en baisant mors.

S’encor ne m’est autres dounez,

Mar fui onques de li privez.

A morir sui livrez,

Se trop le me delaie.

Premiers baisiers est plaie

D’Amours dedenz cors;

Mout m’angoisse et esmaie,

si ne pert defors.

He! las! por coi m’en sui vantez!

Ja ne me puet venir santez,

Se ce, dont sui navrez,

ma bouche ne rassaie.

Amours, vous me feïstes

Mon fin cuer trichier,

Qui tel savour meïstes

En son douz baisier,

A morir li avez apris,

Se pluz n’i prent qu’il n’i a pris;

Dont m’est il bien a vis,

Qu’en baisant me trahistes.

Certes, mout m’atraisistes

Juene a cel mestier;

N’ainc nului n’i vous istes

Fors moi engignier.

Je sui li plus loiauz amis.

Cui onques fust nus biens pramis.

He! las! tant ai je pis!

Amours, mar me nourristes!

Se je Dieu tant amaisse,

Con je fais celi,

Qui si me painne et lasse,

J’eüsse merci;

Qu’ainc amis de meilleur voloir

ne la servi pour joie avoir,

Con j’ai fait tout pour voir

Sanz merite et sanz grasse.

Se de faus cuer proiaisse,

Dont je ne la pri,

Espoir je recovraisse;

Maiz n’est mie einsi.

Amours, trop me faites doloir;

Et se vous serf sanz decevoir,

Ce me tient en espoir:

Qu’Amours nevre et repasse.

A Honeyed Consolation…

A honeyed consolation

will soothe anxious hearts

by true love’s exultation

I die by a kiss

unless another’s given me

I never will be free of it.

I’m delivered to death

If there’s too much delaying.

At first, a kiss is pleasure

of Love in the heart:

it brings dismay and anguish

if it’s lost without;

ah, then alas, why should I boast

my health no longer can return

by what I’m deprived of:

my mouth has no returning.

Love, you have made within me

a treacherous heart,

for you’ve put such a savor

into your sweet kiss

that you have taught it how to die

unless it takes more than it did

wherefore I clearly see

in kissing, you’ve betrayed me.

You surely drew me greatly

while young, to this means.

You never would deceive

another, just me.

I am the loyallest of friends

who ever had a promise made;

ah! so much worse for me!

Love, you have served me badly.

Had I loved God so greatly

as I have loved her,

and if I were tormented

I’d have mercy then,

And even well-intentioned friends

have been no help in having joy

as I’ve done all to see

unthanked and unrewarded.

If I asked out of falseness

(but that’s not the case)

I could get back my hoping,

but it’s not like that.

O Love, you make me ache too much

and if I serve without deceit

this will keep up my hopes,

for Love heals what he wounded.

Blondel de Nesle – Trans. James H.Donalson

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The Historical Blondel de Nesle

(fl 1180-1200)

Only two facts concerning him are known for a certainty: dedications of various songs to the oldest generation of trouvères indicate that he must have been born around 1155-1160; according to features of dialect in his songs, he hailed from Picardy, most likely the town of Nesle.

Some scholars have attempted to identify him with a powerful local lord named Jehan II, while others, pointing out that in contemporary mentions of him he is nowhere referred to as Messire or Monsignor, have suggested that he was a younger son of lesser nobility or perhaps a commoner.

Twenty-three of Blondel’s songs survive, some of them in ten or more sources, and seven of these with the music. So a third fact about him may be added to those two above: his chansons were exceedingly popular.

The work of Blondel that is featured in Coeur de Lion, Mon Coeur is listed as Chanson XI by Yvan Lepage

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Richard The Lion Heart…

(Richard The Lion Heart In Palestine – Gustave Dore)

Sirventes

Dalfin, fe·us voilh deresnier,

Vos e le comte Guion,

Que an en ceste seison

Vos feïstes bon guerrier,

E vos jurastes en moi:

Et me·n portastes tiel foi

Com en Aenqris a Rainart:

E sembles dou poil liart.

Vos me laïstes aidier

Por treive de quierdon:

E car savies qu’a Chinon

Non a argent ni denier;

Et roi voletz, riche roi,

Bon d’armes, qui vos port foi;

Et je suis chiché, coart,

Si vos viretz de l’autre part.

Encor vos voilh demandier

D’Ussoire, s’il vous siet bon:

Ni s’in prendetz vanjaison,

Ni lonaretz soudadier.

Mas una rien vos outroi

Si be·us faussastes la loi,

Bon guerrier a l’estendart

Trovaretz le roi Richart.

Ie vos vi, au comencier,

Large, de grande mession;

Mes puis troves ochoison

Que per forts chastels levier,

Laissastes don et denoi

Et cors et segre tornoi:

Mes n’est qu’a avoir regart

Que François sont Longobart.

E

Vai, sirventes: ie t’envoi

A Avernhe, et di moi

As deus comtes, de ma part,

S’ui mes funt pes, Diex les gart!

Que chaut si garz ment sa foi,

Que escuiers n’a point de loi!

Mes des or avant se gart

Que n’ait en pejor sa part.

Sirventes

Dauphin, I would like to ask

you and Guy the Count, as well,

who heretofore have always been

of the best of fighting men:

you swore your fealty to me

and you demonstrated faith:

Isenqrim’s faith to Renard –

are you made of rabbit-skins?

Now you’ve left off helping me

fearing there’ll be no reward,

for you know that at Chinon

there’s no copper, much less gold,

and you want a king who’s rich:

good at arms, inspiring you,

while I’m petty, cowardly,

so you turn the other way.

Once aqain, I have to ask,

if you think about Issoire:

if you’ll take revenge down there;

if you’ll raise your soldiers up,

but there’s one thíng I must grant:

though you’re false to honor’s law

you will find a fighter still

when King Richard takes the flag.

At the first, I thought you were

generous and noble men,

but you found occasion then

to deliver strongholds while

dropping gifts and courtly words,

horns and secret tournaments,

but just look around and see

that the French are Lombards now.

E

Sirventes, I’ll send you now

to Auvergne, to the two counts:

can tell them then, for me,

if unjustly they make peace,

God help them! For I don’t care:

if a lawless knave should lie,

but they should take care henceforth

not to take a lower place.

King Richard I (Lionheart) trans. James H.Donalson

—

I

Ja nus hons pris ne dira sa raison

Adroitement, se dolantement non;

Mais par effort puet il faire chançon.

Mout ai amis, mais povre sont li don;

Honte i avront se por ma reançon

— Sui ça deus yvers pris.

II

Ce sevent bien mi home et mi baron–

Ynglois, Normant, Poitevin et Gascon–

Que je n’ai nul si povre compaignon

Que je lessaisse por avoir en prison;

Je nou di mie por nule retraçon,

—Mais encor sui [je] pris.

III

Or sai je bien de voir certeinnement

Que morz ne pris n’a ami ne parent,

Quant on me faut por or ne por argent.

Mout m’est de moi, mes plus m’est de ma gent,

Qu’aprés ma mort avront reprochement

—Se longuement sui pris.

IV

N’est pas mervoille se j’ai le cuer dolant,

Quant mes sires met ma terre en torment.

S’il li membrast de nostre soirement

Quo nos feïsmes andui communement,

Je sai de voir que ja trop longuement

—Ne seroie ça pris.

V

Ce sevent bien Angevin et Torain–

Cil bacheler qui or sont riche et sain–

Qu’encombrez sui loing d’aus en autre main.

Forment m’amoient, mais or ne m’ainment grain.

De beles armes sont ore vuit li plain,

—Por ce que je sui pris

VI

Mes compaignons que j’amoie et que j’ain–

Ces de Cahen et ces de Percherain–

Di lor, chançon, qu’il ne sunt pas certain,

C’onques vers aus ne oi faus cuer ne vain;

S’il me guerroient, il feront que vilain

—Tant con je serai pris.

VII

Contesse suer, vostre pris soverain

Vos saut et gart cil a cui je m’en clain

—Et por cui je sui pris.

VIII

Je ne di mie a cele de Chartain,

—La mere Loës.

I

No prisoner can tell his honest thought

Unless he speaks as one who suffers wrong;

But for his comfort as he may make a song.

My friends are many, but their gifts are naught.

Shame will be theirs, if, for my ransom, here

—I lie another year.

II

They know this well, my barons and my men,

Normandy, England, Gascony, Poitou,

That I had never follower so low

Whom I would leave in prison to my gain.

I say it not for a reproach to them,

—But prisoner I am!

III

The ancient proverb now I know for sure;

Death and a prison know nor kind nor tie,

Since for mere lack of gold they let me lie.

Much for myself I grieve; for them still more.

After my death they will have grievous wrong

—If I am a prisoner long.

IV

What marvel that my heart is sad and sore

When my own lord torments my helpless lands!

Well do I know that, if he held his hands,

Remembering the common oath we swore,

I should not here imprisoned with my song,

—Remain a prisoner long.

V

They know this well who now are rich and strong

Young gentlemen of Anjou and Touraine,

That far from them, on hostile bonds I strain.

They loved me much, but have not loved me long.

Their plans will see no more fair lists arrayed

—While I lie here betrayed.

VI

Companions whom I love, and still do love,

Geoffroi du Perche and Ansel de Caieux,

Tell them, my song, that they are friends untrue.

Never to them did I false-hearted prove;

But they do villainy if they war on me,

—While I lie here, unfree.

VII

Countess sister! Your sovereign fame

May he preserve whose help I claim,

—Victim for whom am I!

VIII

I say not this of Chartres’ dame,

—Mother of Louis!

Translated by Henry Adams

______________

Have A Good One!

“The state welcomes only those forms of cultural activity which help it to maintain its power. It persecutes with implacable hatred any activity which oversteps the limits set by it and calls its existence into question. It is, therefore, as senseless as it is mendacious to speak of a ‘state culture‘; for it is precisely the state which lives in constant warfare with all higher forms of intellectual culture and always tries to avoid the creative will of culture.” (Rocker, Culture and Nationalism, Michael E. Coughlan, 1978, p.85)

Featuring the art of one of our favourites… John Duncan. The emphasis today is on the Sidhe/Fairy/Fey/Faery side of the world. Our constant companions though seldom seen. Here is to their world, and to those among us who have ventured in…

Bright Blessings,

G

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On The Menu:

On Banshees/Bean-Sidhe…

The Links

The Banshee Of The MacCarthys

Poetry:19th Century Irish Poems About Fairies (Featuring Alfred Percival Graves)

Art: John Duncan

____________

I am including this description because it is said to be fairly accurate. I have met several people who have experienced the Bean-Sidhe, and she marked their lives with her passings and fetching of souls of those with the the ancient blood-lines. There is an interesting book that I am trying to locate about the phenomena of her comings and goings in the Irish community of New York after the diaspora of the 1840′s-1850′s after the great famine. From what I read she kept coming back until the last born on Irish soil had died. She does not come for those born elsewhere, which in my mind is only proper. -G

On Banshees/ Bean-Sidhe…

The bean-sidhe (woman of the fairy) may be an ancestral spirit appointed to forewarn members of certain ancient Irish families of their time of death.

According to tradition, the banshee can only cry for five major Irish families: the O’Neills, the O’Briens, the O’Connors, the O’Gradys and the Kavanaghs. Intermarriage has since extended this select list. Whatever her origins, the banshee chiefly appears in one of three guises: a young woman, a stately matron or a raddled old hag. These represent the triple aspects of the Celtic goddess of war and death, namely Badhbh, Macha and Mor-Rioghain. She usually wears either a grey, hooded cloak or the winding sheet or grave robe of the unshriven dead. She may also appear as a washer-woman, and is seen apparently washing the blood stained clothes of those who are about to die. In this guise she is known as the bean-nighe (washing woman). Although not always seen, her mourning call is heard, usually at night when someone is about to die.

In 1437, King James I of Scotland was approached by an Irish seeress or banshee who foretold his murder at the instigation of the Earl of Atholl. This is an example of the banshee in human form.There are records of several human banshees or prophetesses attending the great houses of Ireland and the courts of local Irish kings. In some parts of Leinster, she is referred to as the bean chaointe (keening woman) whose wail can be The Banshee appearing as a hooded crowso piercing that it shatters glass. In Kerry, the keen is experienced as a “low, pleasant singing”; in Tyrone as “the sound of two boards being struck together”; and on Rathlin Island as “a thin, screeching sound somewhere between the wail of a woman and the moan of an owl”.

The banshee may also appear in a variety of other forms, such as that of a hooded crow, stoat, hare and weasel – animals associated in Ireland with witchcraft.

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The Links:

The Gospel of the Flintstones…

The X-Rated XMAS Tree

Mystery Amphibian…

Dog tunnels through snow to save owners

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The Banshee Of The MacCarthys

T. Crofton Croker

Charles Mac Carthy was, in the year 1749, the only surviving son of a very numerous family. His father died when he was little more than twenty, leaving him the Mac Carthy estate, not much encumbered, considering that it was an Irish one. Charles was gay, handsome, unfettered either by poverty, a father, or guardians, and therefore was not, at the age of one-and-twenty, a pattern of regularity and virtue. In plain terms, he was an exceedingly dissipated–I fear I may say debauched, young man. His companions were, as may be supposed, of the higher classes of the youth in his neighbourhood, and, in general, of those whose fortunes were larger than his own, whose dispositions to pleasure were, therefore, under still less restrictions, and in whose example he found at once an incentive and an apology for his irregularities. Besides, Ireland, a place to this day not very remarkable for the coolness and steadiness of its youth, was then one of the cheapest countries in the world in most of those articles which money supplies for the indulgence of the passions. The odious exciseman,–with his portentous book in one hand, his unrelenting pen held in the other, or stuck beneath his hat-band, and the inkbottle (“black emblem of the informer”) dangling from his waistcoat-button–went not then from ale-house to ale-house, denouncing all those patriotic dealers in spirits, who preferred selling whiskey, which had nothing to do with English laws (but to elude them), to retailing that poisonous liquor, which derived its name from the British “Parliament” that compelled its circulation among a reluctant people. Or if the gauger–recording angel of the law–wrote down the peccadillo of a publican, he dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever! For, welcome to the tables of their hospitable neighbours, the guardians of the excise, where they existed at all, scrupled to abridge those luxuries which they freely shared; and thus the competition in the market between the smuggler, who incurred little hazard, and the personage ycleped fair trader, who enjoyed little protection, made Ireland a land flowing, not merely with milk and honey, but with whiskey and wine. In the enjoyments supplied by these, and in the many kindred pleasures to which frail youth is but too prone, Charles Mac Carthy indulged to such a degree, that just about the time when he had completed his four-and-twentieth year, after a week of great excesses, he was seized with a violent fever, which, from its malignity, and the weakness of his frame, left scarcely a hope of his recovery. His mother, who had at first made many efforts to check his vices, and at last had been obliged to look on at his rapid progress to ruin in silent despair, watched day and night at his pillow. The anguish of parental feeling was blended with that still deeper misery which those only know who have striven hard to rear in virtue and piety a beloved and favourite child; have found him grow up all that their hearts could desire, until he reached manhood; and then, when their pride was highest, and their hopes almost ended in the fulfilment of their fondest expectations, have seen this idol of their affections plunge headlong into a course of reckless profligacy, and, after a rapid career of vice, hang upon the verge of eternity, without the leisure or the power of repentance. Fervently she prayed that, if his life could not be spared, at least the delirium, which continued with increasing violence from the first few hours of his disorder, might vanish before death, and leave enough of light and of calm for making his peace with offended Heaven. After several days, however, nature seemed quite exhausted, and he sunk into a state too like death to be mistaken for the repose of sleep. His face had that pale, glossy, marble look, which is in general so sure a symptom that life has left its tenement of clay. His eyes were closed and sunk; the lids having that compressed and stiffened appearance which seemed to indicate that some friendly hand had done its last office. The lips, half closed and perfectly ashy, discovered just so much of the teeth as to give to the features of death their most ghastly, but most impressive look. He lay upon his back, with his hands stretched beside him, quite motionless; and his distracted mother, after repeated trials, could discover not the least symptom of animation. The medical man who attended, having tried the usual modes for ascertaining the presence of life, declared at last his opinion that it was flown, and prepared to depart from the house of mourning. His horse was seen to come to the door. A crowd of people who were collected before the windows, or scattered in groups on the lawn in front, gathered around when the door opened. These were tenants, fosterers, and poor relations of the family, with others attracted by affection, or by that interest which partakes of curiosity, but is something more, and which collects the lower ranks round a house where a human being is in his passage to another world. They saw the professional man come out from the hall door and approach his horse; and while slowly, and with a melancholy air, he prepared to mount, they clustered round him with inquiring and wistful looks. Not a word was spoken, but their meaning could not be misunderstood; and the physician, when he had got into his saddle, and while the servant was still holding the bridle as if to delay him, and was looking anxiously at his face as if expecting that he would relieve the general suspense, shook his head, and said in a low voice, “It’s all over, James;” and moved slowly away. The moment he had spoken, the women present, who were very numerous, uttered a shrill cry, which, having been sustained for about half a minute, fell suddenly into a full, loud, continued, and discordant but plaintive wailing, above which occasionally were heard the deep sounds of a man’s voice, sometimes in deep sobs, sometimes in more distinct exclamations of sorrow. This was Charles’s foster-brother, who moved about the crowd, now clapping his hands, now rubbing them together in an agony of grief. The poor fellow had been Charles’s playmate and companion when a boy, and afterwards his servant; had always been distinguished by his peculiar regard, and loved his young master as much, at least, as he did his own life.

When Mrs. Mac Carthy became convinced that the blow was indeed struck, and that her beloved son was sent to his last account, even in the blossoms of his sin, she remained for some time gazing with fixedness upon his cold features; then, as if something had suddenly touched the string of her tenderest affections, tear after tear trickled down her checks, pale with anxiety and watching. Still she continued looking at her son, apparently unconscious that she was weeping, without once lifting her handkerchief to her eyes, until reminded of the sad duties which the custom of the country imposed upon her, by the crowd of females belonging to the better class of the peasantry, she now, crying audibly, nearly filled the apartment. She then withdrew, to give directions for the ceremony of waking, and for supplying the numerous visitors of all ranks with the refreshments usual on these melancholy occasions. Though her voice was scarcely heard, and though no one saw her but the servants and one or two old followers of the family, who assisted her in the necessary arrangements, everything was conducted with the greatest regularity; and though she made no effort to check her sorrows they never once suspended her attention, now more than ever required to preserve order in her household, which, in this season of calamity, but for her would have been all confusion.

The night was pretty far advanced; the boisterous lamentations which had prevailed during part of the day in and about the house had given place to a solemn and mournful stillness; and Mrs. Mac Carthy, whose heart, notwithstanding her long fatigue and watching, was yet too sore for sloop, was kneeling in fervent prayer m a chamber adjoining that of her son. Suddenly her devotions were disturbed by an unusual noise, proceeding from the persons who were watching round the body. First there was a low murmur, then all was silent, as if the movements of those in the chamber were checked by a sudden panic, and then a loud cry of terror burst from all within. The door of the chamber was thrown open, and all who were not overturned in the press rushed wildly into the passage which led to the stairs, and into which Mrs. Mac Carthy’s room opened. Mrs. Mac Carthy made her way through the crowd into her son’s chamber, where she found him sitting up in the bed, and looking vacantly around, like one risen from the grave. The glare thrown upon his sunk features and thin lathy frame gave an unearthy horror to his whole aspect. Mrs. Mac Carthy was a woman of some firmness; but she was a woman, and not quite free from the superstitions of her country. She dropped on her knees, and, clasping her hands, began to pray aloud. The form before her moved only its lips, and barely uttered “Mother”; but though the pale lips moved, as if there was a design to finish the sentence, the tongue refused its office. Mrs. Mac Carthy sprung forward, and catching the arms of her son, exclaimed, “Speak I in the name of God and His saints, speak! are you alive?”

He turned to her slowly, and said, speaking still with apparent difficulty, “Yes, my mother, alive, and–but sit down and collect yourself; I have that to tell which will astonish you still more than what you have seen.” He leaned back upon his pillow, and while his mother remained kneeling by the bedside, holding one of his hands clasped in hers, and gazing on him with the look of one who distrusted all her senses, he proceeded: “Do not interrupt me until I have done. I wish to speak while the excitement of returning life is upon me, as I know I shall soon need much repose. Of the commencement of my illness I have only a confused recollection; but within the last twelve hours I have been before the judgment-seat of God. Do not stare incredulously on me–’tis as true as have been my crimes, and as, I trust, shall be repentance. I saw the awful judge arrayed in all the terrors which invest him when mercy gives place to justice. The dreadful pomp of offended omnipotence, I saw–I remember. It is fixed here; printed on my brain in characters indelible; but it passeth human language. What I can describe I will–I may speak it briefly. It is enough to say, I was weighed in the balance, and found wanting. The irrevocable sentence was upon the point of being pronounced; the eye of my Almighty Judge, which had already glanced upon me, half spoke my doom; when I observed the guardian saint, to whom you so often directed my prayers when I was a child, looking at me with an expression of benevolence and compassion. I stretched forth my hands to him, and besought his intercession. I implored that one year, one month, might be given to me on earth to do penance and atonement for my transgressions. He threw himself at the feet of my Judge, and supplicated for mercy. Oh! never–not if I should pass through ten thousand successive states of being–never, for eternity, shall I forget the horrors of that moment, when my fate hung suspended–when an instant was to decide whether torments unutterable were to be my portion for endless ages! But Justice suspended its decree, and Mercy spoke in accents of firmness, but mildness, ‘Return to that world in which thou hast lived but to outrage the laws of Him who made that world and thee. Three years are given thee for repentance; when these are ended, thou shalt again stand here, to be saved or lost for ever.’ I heard no more; I saw no more, until I awoke to life, the moment before you entered.”

Charles’s strength continued just long enough to finish these last words, and on uttering them he closed his eyes, and lay quite exhausted. His mother, though, as was before said, somewhat disposed to give credit to supernatural visitations, yet hesitated whether or not she should believe that although awakened from a swoon which might have been the crisis of his disease, he was still under the influence of delirium. Repose, however, was at all events necessary, and she took immediate measures that he should enjoy it undisturbed. After some hours’ sleep, he awoke refreshed, and thenceforward gradually but steadily recovered.

Still he persisted in his account of the vision, as he had at first related it; and his persuasion of its reality had an obvious and decided influence on his habits and conduct. He did not altogether abandon the society of his former associates, for his temper was not soured by his reformation; but he never joined in their excesses, and often endeavoured to reclaim them. How his pious exertions succeeded, I have never learnt; but of himself it is recorded that he was religious without ostentation, and temperate without austerity; giving a practical proof that vice may be exchanged for virtue, without the loss of respectability, popularity, or happiness.

Time rolled on, and long before the three years were ended the story of his vision was forgotten, or, when spoken of, was usually mentioned as an instance proving the folly of believing in such things. Charles’s health, from the temperance and regularity of his habits, became more robust than ever. His friends, indeed, had often occasion to rally him upon a seriousness and abstractedness of demeanour, which grew upon him as he approached the completion of his seven-and-twentieth year, but for the most part his manner exhibited the same animation and cheerfulness for which he had always been remarkable. In company he evaded every endeavour to draw from him a distinct opinion on the subject of the supposed prediction; but among his own family it was well known that he still firmly believed it. However, when the day had nearly arrived on which the prophecy was, if at all, to be fulfilled, his whole appearance gave such promise of a long and healthy life, that he was persuaded by his friends to ask a large party to an entertainment at Spring House, to celebrate his birthday. But the occasion of this party, and the circumstances which attended it, will be best learned from a perusal of the following letters, which have been carefully preserved by some relations of his family. The first is from Mrs. Mac Carthy to a lady, a very near connection and valued friend of her’s who lived in the county of Cork, at about fifty miles’ distance from Spring House.

“To Mrs. Barry, Castle Barry”

“Spring House, Tuesday morning,

October 15th, 1752

“My Dearest Mary,

“I am afraid I am going to put your affection for your old friend and kinswoman to a severe trial. A two days’ journey at this season, over bad roads and through a troubled country, it will indeed require friendship such as yours to persuade a sober woman to encounter. But the truth is, I have, or fancy I have, more than usual cause for wishing you near me. You know my son’s story. I can’t tell you how it is, but as next Sunday approaches, when the prediction of his dream, or vision, will be proved false or true, I feel a sickening of the heart, which I cannot suppress, but which your presence, my dear Mary, will soften, as it has done so many of my sorrows. My nephew, James Ryan, is to be married to Jane Osborne (who, you know, is my son’s ward), and the bridal entertainment will take place here on Sunday next, though Charles pleaded hard to have it postponed for a day or two longer. Would to God–but no more of this till we meet. Do prevail upon yourself to leave your good man for one week, if his farming concerns will not admit of his accompanying you; and come to us, with the girls, as soon before Sunday as you can.

“Ever my dear Mary’s attached cousin and friend,

Ann Mac Carthy.”

Although this letter reached Castle Barry early on Wednesday, the messenger having travelled on foot over bog and moor, by paths impassable to horse or carriage, Mrs. Barry, who at once determined on going, had so many arrangements to make for the regulation of her domestic affairs (which, in Ireland, among the middle orders of the gentry, fall soon into confusion when the mistress of the family is away), that she and her two young daughters were unable to leave until late on the morning of Friday. The eldest daughter remained to keep her father company, and superintend the concerns of the household. As the travellers were to journey in an open one-horse vehicle, called a jaunting-car (still used in Ireland), and as the roads, bad at all times, were rendered still worse by the heavy rains, it was their design to make two easy stages–to stop about midway the first night, and reach Spring House early on Saturday evening. This arrangement was now altered, as they found that from the lateness of their departure they could proceed, at the utmost, no farther than twenty miles on the first day; and they, therefore, purposed sleeping at the house of a Mr. Bourke, a friend of theirs, who lived at somewhat less than that distance from Castle Barry. They reached Mr. Bourke’s in safety after a rather disagreeable ride. What befell them on their journey the next day to Spring House, and after their arrival there, is fully recounted in a letter from the second Miss Barry to her eldest sister.

“Spring House, Sunday evening,

20th October, 1752.

“Dear Ellen,

“As my mother’s letter, which encloses this, will announce to you briefly the sad intelligence which I shall here relate more fully, I think it better to go regularly through the recital of the extraordinary events of the last two days.

“The Bourkes kept us up so late on Friday night that yesterday was pretty far advanced before we could begin our journey, and the day closed when we were nearly fifteen miles distant from this place. The roads were excessively deep, from the heavy rains of the last week, and we proceeded so slowly that, at last, my mother resolved on passing the night at the house of Mr. Bourke’s brother (who lives about a quarter-of-a-mile off the road), and coming here to breakfast in the morning. The day had been windy and showery, and the sky looked fitful, gloomy, and uncertain. The moon was fun, and at times shone clear and bright; at others it was wholly concealed behind the thick, black, and rugged masses of clouds that rolled rapidly along, and were every moment becoming larger, and collecting together as if gathering strength for a coming storm. The wind, which blew in our faces, whistled bleakly along the low hedges of the narrow road, on which we proceeded with difficulty from the number of deep sloughs, and which afforded not the least shelter, no plantation being within some miles of us. My mother, therefore, asked Leary, who drove the jaunting-car, how far we were from Mr.[paragraph continues] Bourke’s? ‘`Tis about ten spades from this to the cross, and we have then only to turn to the left into the avenue, ma’am.’ ‘Very well, Leary; turn up to Mr. Bourke’s as soon as you reach the cross roads.’ My mother had scarcely spoken these words, when a shriek, that made us thrill as if our very hearts were pierced by it, burst from the hedge to the right of our way. If it resembled anything earthly it seemed the cry of a female, struck by a sudden and mortal blow, and giving out her life in one long deep pang of expiring agony. ‘Heaven defend us!’ exclaimed my mother. ‘Go you over the hedge, Leary, and save that woman, if she is not yet dead, while we run back to the hut we have just passed, and alarm the village near it.’ ‘Woman!’ said Leary, beating the horse violently, while his voice trembled, ‘that’s no woman; the sooner we get on, ma’am, the better’; and he continued his efforts to quicken the horse’s pace. We saw nothing. The moon was hid. It was quite dark, and we had been for some time expecting a heavy fall of rain. But just as Leary had spoken, and had succeeded in making the horse trot briskly forward, we distinctly heard a loud clapping of hands, followed by a succession of screams, that seemed to denote the last excess of despair and anguish, and to issue from a person running forward inside the hedge, to keep pace with our progress. Still we saw nothing; until, when we were within about ten yards of the place where an avenue branched off to Mr. Bourke’s to the left, and the road turned to Spring House on the right, the moon started suddenly from behind a cloud, and enabled us to see, as plainly as I now see this paper, the figure of a tall, thin woman, with uncovered head, and long hair that floated round her shoulders, attired in something which seemed either a loose white cloak or a sheet thrown hastily about her. She stood on the comer hedge, where the road on which we were met that which leads to Spring House, with her face towards us, her left hand pointing to this place, and her right arm waving rapidly and violently as if to draw us on in that direction. The horse had stopped, apparently frightened at the sudden presence of the figure, which stood in the manner I have described, still uttering the same piercing cries, for about half a minute. It then leaped upon the road, disappeared from our view for one instant, and the next was seen standing upon a high wall a little way up the avenue on which we purposed going, still pointing towards the road to Spring House, but in an attitude of defiance and command, as if prepared to oppose our passage up the avenue. The figure was now quite silent, and its garments, which had been flown loosely in the wind, were closely wrapped around it. ‘Go on, Leary, to Spring House, in God’s name!’ said my mother; ‘whatever world it belongs to, we will provoke it no longer.’ ‘`Tis the Banshee, ma’am,’ said Leary; ‘and I would not, for what my life is worth, go anywhere this blessed night but to Spring House. But I’m afraid there’s something bad going forward, or she would not send us there.’ So saying, he drove forward; and as we turned on the road to the right, the moon suddenly withdrew its light, and we saw the apparition no more; but we heard plainly a prolonged clapping of hands, gradually dying away, as if it issued from a person rapidly retreating. We proceeded as quickly as the badness of the roads and the fatigue of the poor animal that drew us would allow, and arrived here about eleven o’clock last night. The scene which awaited us you have learned from my mother’s letter. To explain it fully, I must recount to you some of the transactions which took place here during the last week.

“You are aware that Jane Osborne was to have been married this day to James Ryan, and that they and their friends have been here for the last week. On Tuesday last, the very day on the morning of which cousin Mac Carthy despatched the letter inviting us here, the whole of the company were walking about the grounds a little before dinner. It seems that an unfortunate creature, who had been seduced by James Ryan, was seen prowling in the neighbourhood. in a moody, melancholy state for some days previous. He had separated from her several months, and, they say, had provided for her rather handsomely; but she had been seduced by the promise of his marrying her; and the shame of her unhappy condition, uniting with disappointment and jealousy, had disordered her intellects. During the whole forenoon of this Tuesday she had been walking in the plantations near Spring House, with her cloak folded tight round her, the hood nearly covering her face; and she had avoided conversing with or even meeting any of the family.

“Charles Mac Carthy, at the time I mentioned, was walking between James Ryan and another, at a little distance from the rest, on a gravel path, skirting a shrubbery. The whole party was thrown into the utmost consternation by the report of a pistol, fired from a thickly-planted part of the shrubbery which Charles and his companions had just passed. He fell instantly, and it was found that he had been wounded in the leg. One of the party was a medical man. His assistance was immediately given, and, on examining, he declared that the injury was very slight, that no bone was broken, it was merely a flesh wound, and that it would certainly be well in a few days. ‘We shall know more by Sunday,’ said Charles, as he was carried to his chamber. His wound was immediately dressed, and so slight was the inconvenience which it gave that several of his friends spent a portion of the evening in his apartment.

“On inquiry, it was found that the unlucky shot was fired by the poor girl I just mentioned. It was also manifest that she had aimed, not at Charles, but at the destroyer of her innocence and happiness, who was walking beside him. After a fruitless search for her through the grounds, she walked into the house of her own accord, laughing and dancing, and singing wildly, and every moment exclaiming that she had at last killed Mr. Ryan. When she heard that it was Charles, and not Mr. Ryan, who was shot, she fell into a violent fit, out of which, after working convulsively for some time, she sprung to the door, escaped from the crowd that pursued her, and could never be taken until last night, when she was brought here, perfectly frantic, a little before our arrival.

“Charles’s wound was thought of such little consequence that the preparations went forward, as usual, for the wedding entertainment on Sunday. But on Friday night he grew restless and feverish, and on Saturday (yesterday) morning felt so ill that it was deemed necessary to obtain additional medical advice. Two physicians and a surgeon met in consultation about twelve o’clock in the day, and the dreadful intelligence was announced, that unless a change, hardly hoped for, took place before night, death must happen within twenty-four hours after. The wound, it seems, had been too tightly bandaged, and otherwise injudiciously treated. The physicians were right in their anticipations. No favourable symptom appeared, and long before we reached Spring House every ray of hope had vanished. The scene we witnessed on our arrival would have wrung the heart of a demon. We heard briefly at the gate that Mr. Charles was upon his death-bed. When we reached the house, the information was confirmed by the servant who opened the door. But just as we entered we were horrified by the most appalling screams issuing from the staircase. My mother thought she heard the voice of poor Mrs. Mac Carthy, and sprung forward. We followed, and on ascending a few steps of the stairs, we found a young woman, in a state of frantic passion, struggling furiously with two men-servants, whose united strength was hardly sufficient to prevent her rushing upstairs over the body of Mrs. Mac Carthy, who was lying in strong hysterics upon the steps. This, I afterwards discovered, was the unhappy girl I before described, who was attempting to gain access to Charles’s mom, to ‘get his forgiveness’, as she said, ‘before he went away to accuse her for having killed him’. This wild idea was mingled with another, which seemed to dispute with the former possession of her mind. In one sentence she called on Charles to forgive her, in the next she would denounce James Ryan as the murderer, both of Charles and her. At length she was torn away; and the last words I heard her scream were, ‘James Ryan, ’twas you killed him, and not I–’twas you killed him, and not I–’twas you killed him, and not I.’

“Mrs. Mac Carthy, on recovering, fell into the arms of my mother, whose presence seemed a great relief to her. She wept the first tears, I was told, that she had shed since the fatal accident. She conducted us to Charles’s room, who, she said, had desired to see us the moment of our arrival, as he found his end approaching, and wished to devote the last hours of his existence to uninterrupted prayer and meditation. We found him perfectly calm, resigned, and even cheerful. He spoke of the awful event which was at hand with courage and confidence, and treated it as a doom for which he had been preparing ever since his former remarkable illness, and which he never once doubted was truly foretold to him. He bade us farewell with the air of one who was about to travel a short and easy journey; and we left him with impressions which, notwithstanding all their anguish, will, I trust, never entirely forsake us.

“Poor Mrs. Mac Carthy–but I am just called away. There seems a slight stir in the family; perhaps–”

The above letter was never finished. The enclosure to which it more than once alludes told the sequel briefly, and it is all that I have further learned of the family of Mac Carthy. Before the sun had gone down upon Charles’s seven-and-twentieth birthday, his soul had gone to render its last account to its Creator.

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Poetry:19th Century Irish Poems About Fairies

(Featuring Alfred Percival Graves)

The Fairies

William Allingham

Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We daren’t go a-hunting

For fear of little men;

Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl’s feather!

Down along the rocky shore

Some make their home,

They live on crispy pancakes

Of yellow tide-foam;

Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain lake,

With frogs for their watch-dogs,

All night awake.

High on the hill-top

The old King sits;

He is now so old and grey

He’s nigh lost his wits.

With a bridge of white mist

Columbkill he crosses,

On his stately journeys

From Slieveleague to Rosses;

Or going up with music

On cold starry nights,

To sup with the Queen

Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget

For seven years long;

When she came down again

Her friends were all gone.

They took her lightly back,

Between the night and morrow,

They thought that she was fast asleep,

But she was dead with sorrow.

They have kept her ever since

Deep within the lake,

On a bed of flag-leaves,

Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,

Through the mosses bare,

They have planted thorn-trees

For pleasure here and there.

Is any man so daring

As dig them up in spite,

He shall find their sharpest thorns

In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We daren’t go a-hunting

For fear of little men;

Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl’s feather!

—-

The Fairy Nurse

– Edward Walsh

Sweet babe! a golden cradle holds thee,

And soft the snow-white fleece enfolds thee;

In airy bower I’ll watch thy sleeping,

Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping.

Shuheen, sho, lulo lo!

When mothers languish broken-hearted,

When young wives are from husbands parted,

Ah! little think the keeners lonely,

They weep some time-worn fairy only.

Shuheen, sho, lulo lo!

Within our magic halls of brightness,

Trips many a foot of snowy whiteness;

Stolen maidens, queens of fairy–

And kings and chiefs a sluagh-shee airy,

Shuheen, sho, lulo lo!

Rest thee, babe! I love thee dearly,

And as thy mortal mother nearly;

Ours is the swiftest steed and proudest,

That moves where the tramp of the host is loudest.

Shuheen, sho, lulo lo!

Rest thee, babe! for soon thy slumbers

Shall flee at the magic koelshie’s 1 numbers;

In airy bower I’ll watch thy sleeping,

Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping.

Shuheen, sho, lulo lo!

—-

Cusheen Loo.

Translated from the Irish by J. J. Callahan

[This song is supposed to have been sung by a young bride, who was forcibly detained in one of those forts which are so common in Ireland, and to which the good people are very fond of resorting. Under pretence of hushing her child to rest, she retired to the outside margin of the fort, and addressed the burthen of her song to a young woman whom she saw at a short distance, and whom she requested to inform her husband of her condition, and to desire him to bring the steel knife to dissolve the enchantment.

SLEEP, my child! for the rustling trees,

Stirr’d by the breath of summer breeze,

And fairy songs of sweetest note,

Around us gently float.

Sleep! for the weeping flowers have shed

Their fragrant tears upon thy head,

The voice of love hath sooth’d thy rest,

And thy pillow is a mother’s breast.

Sleep, my child!

Weary hath pass’d the time forlorn,

Since to your mansion I was borne,

Tho’ bright the feast of its airy halls,

And the voice of mirth resounds from its walls.

Sleep, my child!

Full many a maid and blooming bride

Within that splendid dome abide,

And many a hoar and shrivell’d sage,

And many a matron bow’d with age.

Sleep, my child!

Oh! thou who hearest this song of fear,

To the mourner’s home these tidings bear.

Bid him bring the knife of the magic blade,

At whose lightning-flash the charm will fade.

Sleep, my child!

Haste! for tomorrow’s sun will see

The hateful spell renewed for me;

Nor can I from that home depart,

Till life shall leave my withering heart.

Sleep, my child!

Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees,

Stirr’d by the breath of summer breeze.

And fairy songs of sweetest note,

Around us gently float.

—-

Song of the Ghost

Alfred Percival Graves

(Robert Graves Father)

When all were dreaming

But Pastheen Power,

A light came streaming

Beneath her bower: p. 135

A heavy foot

At her door delayed,

A heavy hand

On the latch was laid.

“Now who dare venture,

At this dark hour,

Unbid to enter

My maiden bower?”

“Dear Pastheen, open

The door to me,

And your true lover

You’ll surely see.”

“My own true lover,

So tall and brave,

Lives exiled over

The angry wave.”

“Your true love’s body

Lies on the bier,

His faithful spirit

Is with you here.”

“His look was cheerful,

His voice was gay;

Your speech is fearful,

Your face is grey;

And sad and sunken

Your eye of blue,

But Patrick, Patrick,

Alas! ’tis you!”

Ere dawn was breaking

She heard below

The two cocks shaking

Their wings to crow. p. 136

“Oh, hush you, hush you,

Both red and grey,

Or will you hurry

My love away.

“Oh, hush your crowing,

Both grey and red,

Or he’ll be going

To join the dead;

Or, cease from calling

His ghost to the mould,

And I’ll come crowning

Your combs with gold.”

When all were dreaming

But Pastheen Power,

A light went streaming

From out her bower,

And on the morrow,

When they awoke,

They knew that sorrow

Her heart had broke.

—-

The Fairy Host

By Alfred Percival Graves (Translated)

Pure white the shields their arms upbear,

With silver emblems rare o’ercast;

Amid blue glittering blades they go,

The horns they blow are loud of blast.

In well-instructed ranks of war

Before their Chief they proudly pace;

Coerulean spears o’er every crest—

A curly-tressed, pale-visaged race.

Beneath the flame of their attack,

Bare and black turns every coast;

With such a terror to the fight

Flashes that mighty vengeful host.

Small wonder that their strength is great,

Since royal in estate are all,

Each hero’s head a lion’s fell—

A golden yellow mane lets fall.

Comely and smooth their bodies are,

Their eyes the starry blue eclipse,

The pure white crystal of their teeth

Laughs out beneath their thin red lips.

Good are they at man-slaying feats,

Melodious over meats and ale;

Of woven verse they wield the spell,

At chess-craft they excel the Gael.

(Pygmalion and Galatea -Jean-Leon Gerome)

Here is the entry for today…. I have been setting up for a new painting. I am returning to an old theme of mine, that has had me captivated for many an outing with the paint or air brush; The Wheel Of Dharma. After I finish this entry, back to working on it. I have a smaller version I am working from, but have found some classic sources that are pretty sweet.

It seems the BBC has picked up a story run in Pravda a year ago: Russian squirrel pack ‘kills dog’ This of course is pure fantasy… It was debunked and now it is back, so what gives with the BEEB putting this one out?

The house last night was humming with activity, Mary with her sewing machine, Rowan was working on making talismans, and I was pulling my hair out with the prep for the painting. Had to use Melatonin to fall asleep I was so wound up…

Still working through Graham Hancock’s “Supernatural”. I really suggest that you pick it up. A great read.

That is it for today, hope your life is sweet.

Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

The Story of Pygmalion and Galatea

The Links

From Germany: The Dwarf’s Nose

Saif al-Rahbi Poems Part 2

Art: Jean-Leon Gerome

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The Story of Pygmalion and Galatea

as told by Orpheus in Ovid’s Metamorphoses; translated and with an introduction by Mary N. Innes; Penguin Books; 1955.

…As for the loathsome Propoetides, they dared to deny the divinity of Venus. The story goes that as a result of this, they were visited by the wrath of the goddess, and were the first women to lose their good names by prostituting themselves in public. Then, as all sense of shame left them, the blood hardened in their cheeks, and it required only a slight alteration to transform them into stony flints.

When Pygmalion saw these women, living such wicked lives, he was revolted by the many faults which nature has implanted in the female sex, and long lived a bachelor existence, with out any wife to share his home. But meanwhile, with marvelous artistry, he skillfully carved a snowy ivory statue. He made it lovelier than any woman born, and he fell in love with his own creation. The statue had all the appearance of a real girl, so that it seemed to be alive, to want to move, did not modesty forbid. So cleverly did his art conceal its art. Pygmalion gazed in wonder, and in his heart there rose a passionate love for this image of a human form. Often he ran his hands over the work, feeling to see whether it was flesh or ivory, and would not yet admit that ivory was all it was. He kissed the statue, and imagined that it kissed him back, spoke to it and embraced it, and thought he felt his fingers sink into the limbs he touched, so that he was afraid lest a bruise appear where he had pressed the flesh. Sometimes he addressed it in flattering speeches, sometimes brought the kind of presents that girls enjoy: shells and polished pebbles, little birds and flowers of a thousand hues, lilies and painted balls, and drops of amber which fall from the trees that were once Phaethon’s sisters. He dressed the limbs of his statue in woman’s robes, and put rings on its fingers, long necklaces round its neck. Pearls hug from its ears, and chains were looped upon its breast. All this finery became the image as well, but it was no less lovely unadorned. Pygmalion then placed the statue on a couch that was covered with cloths of Tyrian purple, laid its head to rest on soft down pillows, as if it could appreciate them, and called it his bedfellow.

The festival of Venus, which is celebrated with the greatest pomp all through Cyprus, was now in progress, and heifers, their crooked horns gilded for the occasion, had fallen at the alter as the axe struck their snowy necks. Smoke was rising from the incense, when Pygmalion, having made his offering, stood by the alter and timidly prayed, saying: “If you gods can give all things, may I have as my wife, I pray–” he did not dare say: “the ivory maiden,” but finished: “one like the ivory maid.” However, golden Venus, present at her festival in person, understood what his prayers meant, and as a sign that the gods were kindly disposed, the flames burned up three times, shooting a tongue of fire into the air. When Pygmalion returned home, he made straight for the statue of the girl he loved, leaned over the couch, and kissed her. She seemed warm: he laid his lips on hers again, and touched her breast with his hands–at his touch the ivory lost its hardness, and grew soft: his fingers made an imprint on the yielding surface, just as wax of Hymettus melts in the sun and, worked by men’s fingers, is fashioned into many different shapes, and made fit for use by being used. The lover stood, amazed, afraid of being mistaken, his joy tempered with doubt, and again and again stroked the object of his prayers. It was indeed a human body! The veins throbbed as he pressed them with his thumb. Then Pygmalion of Paphos was eloquent in his thanks to Venus. At long last, he pressed his lips upon living lips, and the girl felt the kisses he gave her, and blushed. Timidly raising her eyes, she saw her lover and the light of day together. The goddess Venus was present at the marriage she had arranged and, when the moon’s horns had nine times been rounded into a full circle, Pygmalion’s bride bore a child, Paphos, from whom the island takes its name….

_________________

The Links:

Computer Provides More Questions Than Answers

Nasca: Outlines of a mystery

Before the Wright Brothers…There Were UFOs

Virtual reality, virtual memories

____________________

(The End of the Sitting – Jean-Leon Gerome)

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From Germany: The Dwarf’s Nose

In a well-known town in Germany there lived for many years a shoemaker and his wife. He mended boots and shoes and made new ones when he had money to buy the leather, and she sold fruit and vegetables which she grew in their little garden. Many customers came to her stall in the market-place, being attracted by her neat appearance, and the way she arranged her wares.

This worthy couple had one boy, named Jacob; he was eight years old, handsome and well-grown. He helped his mother at the stall and sometimes carried home the customers’ purchases.

One day, as the shoemaker’s wife was sitting in the market-place, and little Jacob stood near calling out the prices of her vegetables, there came along an old woman, rather shabbily dressed, with a thin, pinched face, red eyes, and a long pointed nose. She leant on a long staff, and hobbled and halted as if her feet were covered with corns, and she looked as if every moment she might tumble on her nose.

“Are you Hannah, the vegetable woman?” asked she, wagging her head. “Let me see if you have what I want.” With her ugly brown hands she turned and tumbled the cabbages about, breaking their leaves; with her long, skinny fingers she poked here and there. When she had disarranged all the baskets, she grumbled “Bad stuff, wretched cabbages–much better to be had fifty years ago; bad stuff!”

These remarks made little Jacob angry, and he cried: “Listen, you horrid old woman; you call our vegetables ‘bad stuff,’ and with your long nose you sniff and smell at them so that no one else will care to buy them; but all the same the Grand Duke’s cook buys all he wants of us!”

The old woman looked at the bonny boy, and answered hotly: “My lad, my nose seems to please you. You shall have one like it, but longer still!” She picked over the cauliflowers again, and threw them back into the basket, muttering: “Bad cauliflowers, bad stuff!”

“Make up your mind what you want,” returned the shoemaker’s wife, indignant at the waste of time. “That were better than talking nonsense to my boy!”

“I will take these six cauliflowers,” said the old woman; “but I cannot carry them home. Let your boy come along with me and I will pay him for his trouble.”

The boy did not want to go; but his mother persuaded him, for she thought it would be wrong to let the feeble old dame carry such a load, and half crying, Jacob went.

The old dame walked slowly, and it was quite an hour before they reached a little house outside the town. She opened the door, and Jacob was quite surprised when he entered; for inside the house was beautiful. The walls and staircases were of marble, the furniture ebony inlaid with gold, the floors of glass so highly polished that Jacob slipped and fell. The old woman took a whistle out of her pocket, blew it, and immediately some guinea-pigs came in, and Jacob noticed with amusement that they wore men’s clothes and walked on their hind legs.

“Where are my slippers?” shrieked the old woman, shaking her stick at them, so that they were quite frightened. They came back again directly with two cocoa-nut shells soled with leather, and the old woman put them on.

Now she began to bustle about. She took Jacob by the hand and went quickly across the glass floor. At last she took him into a room something like a kitchen. “Sit down, little man,” said she, pushing him into the corner of a couch. “You have had a heavy load to carry. Men’s heads are not light.”

“What do you mean?” cried the boy. “They were cauliflowers I brought here.”

“Now you know that is a lie,” laughed the old woman; and took a man’s head out of the basket. The boy was dreadfully frightened, for he thought if this got known his mother would be in sore trouble.

“I must give you a little present,” said the old woman; “wait a moment and you shall have some delicious soup.” She whistled; and there entered several guinea-pigs in men’s clothes, with aprons on and cooking spoons stuck through their waistbelts; after them came several squirrels in white Turkish trousers; they also walked on their hind legs and wore green velvet caps on their heads. They bustled about and brought saucepans and dishes; and the old woman ran hither and thither in her cocoa-nut slippers, and Jacob saw she was evidently going to give him something good to eat. At last something in one of the pots began to boil over, and the smell filled the room. She took it off the fire, poured the contents into a silver soup tureen, and said: “Now, sonny, if you drink this soup, you will have all that you admire in me. And you might also become an excellent cook, only that you will never be able to find the particular cabbage of which it is made. Why does your mother not keep it on her stall?”

The boy hardly understood what she, meant; but he drank the soup eagerly and it tasted delicious. His mother had often made good things for him to eat, but nothing like this. While he was drinking the last spoonful, the whistle sounded for the guinea-pigs, and thick clouds of smoke began to fill the room. The fumes of the smoke confused little Jacob; he wanted to get away; he said he ought to be going back to his mother; but he seemed unable to move, and fell back on the couch and went fast asleep.

Wonderful dreams came to him. It seemed to him that he was changed into a squirrel, and he went about with the squirrels and guinea-pigs and had his duties like the others. At first he had to work as a shoemaker. As he had often helped his father he did not find that difficult. After a time, pleasanter work was given him. He had to go with some of the squirrels to get sunberries. The old dame preferred a certain sort; and as she had no teeth, she made her dinner off bread and sunberries.

After a year he was set to find drinking-water for the old woman. This was done in many different ways. The squirrels and Jacob had to fill the hazel nutshells with dew from the roses, and that was her drinking-water. As she was always thirsty, her water-carriers had plenty to do.

After another year he had indoors work to do; chiefly to keep the glass floors clean. He had to sweep them and then tie his feet up in cloths and so dust them.

In four years’ time he was put in the kitchen, and Jacob, from being scullery boy, became head pastry-cook, and his skill was so great that he was sometimes surprised; for pasties of two hundred different flavours, and the most delicate cabbage soups, he could make with greatest ease.

After he had been seven years in the old woman’s service it happened one day, when she had gone out with basket and staff, that Jacob had to draw a fowl and stuff and roast it before she came back. In the herb-room he suddenly noticed a cupboard he had not seen before. He looked in it and found inside a great many baskets of herbs. He opened one and found a herb of a quite different colour. He looked carefully at it; it smelt strong, and like the soup that the old woman had given to him on his first day there. But the smell was so strong that he began to sneeze, and sneeze and sneeze, until at last–sneezing he awoke.

He was lying on the old woman’s sofa and looked bewildered around.

“What strange things dreams are!” said he. “I could have sworn that I had been a squirrel; and as squirrel a clever cook. How my mother will laugh when I tell her: but how she will scold me for sleeping away from home, instead of helping her.

His limbs were stiff with long sleeping, and so was his neck, and every moment when he moved he either hit the wall with his nose, or when he turned over banged it against the doorpost. The squirrels and guinea-pigs ran busily here and there as if they would accompany him, but they gave it up as they saw him leave the house, and took their nutshells inside and by-and-by he heard them chattering in the distance. He felt very anxious as he got near the market. His mother sat in her usual place and had plenty of vegetables in her baskets; he could not have slept long; but it seemed to him that she was very sad, for instead of calling to the passers-by, she sat with her head resting on her hand; and as he came nearer, he saw she was looking paler than usual. At last he plucked up heart and said, “Mother, are you angry with me?”

His mother turned round, and shrieked with fright.

“Go away, horrid dwarf,” said she; “I do not like such jokes.”

“Dear little mother, look at me. I am Jacob, your son!”

“Now, this is really too much,” cried Hannah; “there stands a hideous dwarf, who says, ‘I am your son, your Jacob.’ For shame!”

Then all the market-women came to try and comfort this poor Hannah, whose fine boy had been stolen seven years ago.

Poor Jacob did not know what to think. They called him a hideous dwarf and spoke of seven years ago! What had happened to him?

When he saw that his mother would have nothing to do with him, he went with tears in his eyes to the booth where his father worked at his shoemaking, and stood by the door and looked in. The master was so busy that he did not notice him, but chancing to look round he cried out, “Good heaven! what is that? What is that?”

“Good day,” said Jacob, stepping in; “how are you?”

“Badly, little man,” answered his father to Jacob’s surprise, for it seemed he was not recognised. “I am so lonely, and old, and weak.”

“Have you no one who can help you?” asked Jacob. “Where is your son?”

“God knows!” answered the shoemaker. “Seven years ago he was stolen from the market-place.”

“Seven years ago!” cried Jacob.

“Yes, little man, seven years ago. An ugly old woman came to the market, tumbled about my wife’s vegetables, and bought so many that she could not carry them herself. My wife, good soul, sent our boy along with her–and we have never seen him. since.”

“And is that seven years ago, do you say?”

“Seven years next spring. We sought him everywhere the town crier ‘cried’ him, but all to no purpose.”

So spoke Jacob’s father, and returned to his last.

The youth realised now that he had not been dreaming, but that for seven years he had worked as a squirrel for the old woman. He stood for some time thinking over his strange fate, and then his father said: “Do you want anything, young man? A pair of slippers, or a case for your nose?”

“What is the matter with my nose? Why should I want a case for my nose?” asked Jacob.

“If I had such a horrible nose,” said the shoemaker, “I should put a red patent leather cover over it. You might do worse, little man!”

Jacob was dumb with annoyance. He felt his nose. It was about eight inches long. “Oh, for pity’s sake let me look in the glass,” said he, “it is not for vanity’s sake.”

“I have not one, but if you want to look in a mirror, go over the way to Barber Urban, he has one as big as your head!”

With these words he pushed the youth through the doorway, shut the door, and sat down to work. The boy went sadly across to the barber, whom he knew in years gone by.

“Good morning, Urban,” cried he. “Will you let me look in your looking-glass?”

“With pleasure,” laughed the barber. “You are a handsome youth, and a little bit vain, I am thinking.”

As the barber spoke a ripple of laughter went round the saloon. The dwarf, however, stepped to the glass and looked at himself. Tears came into his eyes. How dreadful he looked! His eyes were little; his nose hideous, it hung down over his mouth and chin; his head was deep set between his shoulders; his back and chest were humpy, like a well-filled sack. His clumsy body had thin short legs, but his arms were long, his hands brown, his fingers thin and bony, and when he reached them out they touched the floor. He was the most misshapen dwarf ever seen.

“Have you gazed long enough, my prince?” said the barber, as he laughingly looked on. “Come, enter my service, little man; you shall have whatever you ask for, if you only stand at my doors every day and invite the people to step in. I shall get more customers, and each will give you a present.”

Jacob was annoyed at this proposition, but it could not be helped. He told the barber he had no time for such service and went away. He intended, however, to pay a final visit to his mother.

He went to the market and begged her to listen to him. He reminded her of the past, and told her that the old woman had turned him into a squirrel, and had kept him there seven years. The shoemaker’s wife knew not what to say to this, and thought she had better talk it over with her husband.

She went with the dwarf to the shoemaker’s bench, and said:

“Listen! This dwarf says he is our long-lost son Jacob, and he has told me how he has been for seven years bewitched.”

“Wait a moment,” said the shoemaker. “I told him all that an hour ago, and now he goes to you with the tale. Take care, boy, or I will have you locked up!”

Thus saying, he took a bundle of pieces he had just cut and beat the dwarf over the back and arms so severely that he screamed and ran outside.

He found no one who pitied him or took compassion on him; and had to sleep, that night, on the stone steps of the church. When morning came he went into the church and prayed. Then he suddenly remembered that he could easily earn a living as a cook, and that the Grand Duke was fond of eating, and loved a good table. So he went to the Palace.

As he passed through its gates the doorkeeper asked what he wanted. He said he was a cook, and that he wished to see the major-domo.

When Jacob was taken to his office, the major-domo looked him up and down from head to foot, and said laughing: “So you want to be a cook. Whoever sent you to me has been making a fool of you.”

The dwarf would not let himself be disheartened. “Where there is plenty to eat,” said he, “an egg or two, some flour and sausage, will never be missed; give me a little meal to prepare, and then you will say, ‘He is indeed a cook, and no mistake.’”

The dwarf spoke earnestly, and it was amusing to see how his long nose wagged from side to side, and how he gesticulated with his long thin fingers.

“Very well,” said the major-domo, “just for fun we will go into the kitchen.”

It was a large, roomy, well-arranged apartment, fires were burning on twenty hearths, and kitchen utensils of every sort lay about and rubbed shoulders with kettles and pans and spoons and forks.

But when the major-domo entered all the servants paused in their work, and the only sound heard was the crackling of the fires.

“What has the Grand Duke ordered for his breakfast to-day?” asked the major-domo of an old cook whose position was “head of the breakfast department.”

“Danish soup and red Hauburg dumpling.”

“Good,” said the major-domo to Jacob. “Do you think you could prepare this difficult meal?”

“Nothing easier,” answered the dwarf. “For the soup I shall want the fat of a wild swan, turnips and eggs; for the dumpling, however, I shall want four different kinds of meat, some Madeira wine, goose-grease, ginger, and some mixed herbs and marjoram.”

“What magician has taught you?” cried the cook with astonishment. “We have never even heard of that herb; it must make the dish very much nicer.”

“Let us put him to the test,” said the major-domo; “give him the things that he requires.”

This they did, and arranged everything on the stove, but found that the dwarf was too short to reach them, so they put two stools together, and laid thereon a marble slab, and invited the little curiosity to begin his cooking.

When he had got everything ready he asked them to put both pots on the fire and let them simmer for a certain time; then he called out, “Stop!”

The pots were set aside, and the dwarf invited the major-domo to come and taste their contents.

The great man marched with dignity to the hearth, tasted, smacked his lips, and said: “Excellent, excellent, upon my soul!”

And the head cook shook the dwarf heartily by the hand and said: “You are a veritable master in the art. That herb gives it quite a special flavour.”

Just then a footman came to say that the Duke was waiting for his breakfast. The food was put on silver dishes and sent to table. The major-domo, however, took the dwarf into his room and entertained him there. They had not been together long before a messenger came to say that the major-domo was to go at once to the Duke.

The Grand Duke looked very pleased and stroked his beard.

“Well, major-domo,” said he, “who cooked my breakfast to-day? It has never been so good since I came into my kingdom. Tell me the name of the cook; we will send him a little present.”

“My Lord Duke, it is quite a history,” said the major-domo, and told him all that had happened.

The Grand Duke sent for the dwarf, and asked him who he was and where he came from.

The dwarf answered briefly, that he had no parents, and had been taught cooking by an old woman.

The Grand Duke asked no more, but made himself very merry over the new cook’s comical appearance.

“If you can stay with me I will give you every year fifty ducats and a handsome suit of clothes. In return for this you must cook my breakfast every day yourself and keep my kitchen clean. You shall be called ‘Longnose’ and wear the uniform of a deputy major-domo.”

“Longnose” fell on his knees before the Grand Duke, and kissed his feet, and promised to serve him faithfully.

The dwarf well fulfilled his duties; before he came, the Grand Duke had been sometimes inclined to throw the plates and dishes at the cook’s head; but since the dwarf had been in the house everything soon changed. Instead of three meals a day, the Duke ate five, and found everything delicious. He was always good-tempered and got stouter every day. The dwarf was the wonder of the town; people begged for permission to see him at work, and some of the best families obtained leave from the Duke for their servants to take lessons from him, and he earned no small amount of money this way.

He gave all this, however, to the other cooks, so that they should not be jealous of him.

So “Longnose” lived respected and prosperous, only troubled by the thoughts of his parents’ grief; but at the end of his second year’s service he had a great stroke of luck. As often as he could find time “Longnose” went to the market-place to buy poultry and fruit. One day at the end of the stalls he saw a woman sitting by a large coop of geese, which seemed not quite the common kind. He went up to her and felt and examined the birds. They seemed satisfactory, and so he bought three. He noticed with some surprise that, while two of the geese gobbled and grunted, the third was quiet and mopish, and sighed heavily like a human being.

“It is ill,” said he; “I must make haste and cure it!”

But the goose suddenly said:

“Treat me well, I’ll be your friend;

Treat me ill, your life shall end!”

“Longnose” was so startled that he dropped the coop, and the goose looked at him with soft, sad eyes and sighed.

“Why, you can speak!” cried Jacob. “I did not expect this. Do not be so unhappy. I will do all I can to help you. You certainly were not born with feathers on your back!”

“That is true,” said the goose. “I was not born in this terrible form, but while I was in my cradle it was prophesied that I should end my life in the kitchen of a Grand Duke!”

“Do not be alarmed, you poor thing,” said the dwarf; “nothing shall happen to you. I will take your coop to my own room, and will tell the major-domo that I am feeding up a goose on special green stuff for the Grand Duke’s table, and at the first opportunity I will set you free.”

The dwarf did all that he had promised. He built up a little cage for the enchanted bird in his own room, saying he wanted to fatten it up on special diet as a surprise for his master. As often as he had time he used to go and chat with her.

She told him all her history, and “Longnose” learnt that the goose was called Mimi, and was the daughter of Wetterbock the magician, who lived on the island of Gottland. He had quarrelled with an old fairy, who had revenged herself by turning his daughter into a swan, and bringing her to market.

When “Longnose” had listened to her story, she said:

“What you have told me about herb magic, and your own transfiguration after smelling a herb, convinces me that you have been bewitched by the perfume of these herbs, and that if you could find the plant used by the old fairy, you could regain your own appearance.”

Just at this time a very powerful Prince visited the Grand Duke, who sent for “Longnose” and said:

“This is an excellent opportunity for you to show what a master cook you are! The Prince who is coming to stay with me is a connoisseur in food, and a very wise man. See, now, that such meals be served as may quite astonish him. Never serve the same dish twice. You can ask my treasurer for anything you want. I would rather become poor than blush for my table.”

The little dwarf put all his skill forward. All day long he was to be seen in clouds of smoke from roasting fires, and his words of command were to be heard all through the kitchen.

The stranger Prince had been a fortnight at the Castle, and was well fêted and flattered. There were always five meals a day, and the Grand Duke was delighted with his cook’s skill, when he saw how his guest enjoyed himself. On the fifteenth day the Grand Duke sent for the dwarf, and presented him to the Prince, asking if he was satisfied with his cooking.

“You certainly know what is good to eat,” said the Prince to “Longnose”; “you have never repeated a dish all the time I have been here; and everything is splendidly served. But why have you delayed sending us a ‘Suzeraine’ pasty? It is the queen of dishes.”

“Longnose” had never heard of this queen of pasties, but he answered readily enough:

“My Lord, I hoped your gracious visit to this Court would be a long one, and I was waiting to offer this delicacy on the day of your departure.”

“Why have you never prepared this pasty for me?” cried the Grand Duke. “Think of another parting dish, and let us have the pasty to-morrow.”

“It shall be as my Lord wishes,” replied the dwarf. And he went out feeling as if his luck was over, for he had not the least idea how to make the pasty; and he went to his room and wept.

The goose, Mimi, asked what troubled him. “Dry your tears,” she said, when he told her; “we often had that pasty at my father’s table. I know exactly how it is made, and what you require for it, and if some little thing is left out, no one will be much the wiser.”

“Longnose” blessed the day when he bought this good little goose, and immediately set to work to make this queen of pasties according to her instructions. He first made a small one, and it tasted delicious, and the major-domo again praised his ability.

The next day he sent the pasty to table hot from the oven and decorated with a wreath of flowers; then put on his best suit and went to the dining-hall. As he entered the Court carver had just served both the Prince and Grand Duke with their portions, and on magnificent silver plates. The Grand Duke ate a mouthful, looked at his plate, and said:

“Truly this is the queen of pasties, and my dwarf is the king of cooks. Is he not, my friend?”

‘The guest took a bite and chewed and tasted, laughing to himself. “The thing is good enough,” said he, as he pushed his plate away, “but the ‘Suzeraine’ it certainly is not; I can answer for that.”

The Grand Duke frowned with anger and cried: “Dog of a dwarf how dare you trifle with your Lord?”

“Heaven knows, my Lord, I have made the pasty according to the best recipe; it must be right,” tremblingly answered the dwarf.

“It is a lie, you rascal,” shouted the Grand Duke, “my guest would not otherwise have found fault. I will have you chopped up and made into a pasty.”

“Have pity,” said the dwarf, throwing himself on his knees before the Prince. “Tell me what is lacking. Do not let me die for a handful of flour and a little bit of meat.”

“That would not serve any purpose, dear ‘Longnose’,” answered the Prince, smiling. “This pasty lacks a herb which no one about here knows. It is the herb ‘borage,’ a notable relish, and without it the pasty has not its true flavour, and neither your master nor I care to eat it!”

Then the Grand Duke stormed and raged. “By my soul,” he cried, “if you do not bring me the exact pasty to-morrow, your head shall be cut off and fastened on the gate of my Palace. Go, you little wretch. I will give you just twenty-four hours’ grace!”

The dwarf went weeping from the hall and told the goose of his fate, and that he must die because he had never heard of this herb.

“Tell me, my friend, are there any old chestnut-trees near the Castle?” asked the goose.

“Yes,” answered “Longnose,” “by the lake there is a large group; but why do you ask?”

“Well, at the foot of old chestnut-trees this herb grows,” said Mimi; “so take me under your arm and put me down by the trees, and I will try to find it for you.”

He took her up and went to the door. But a guard had been placed there and said: “I have orders that you are not to go out of the house.”

“But I must go in the garden,” said “Longnose.” “Send one of your fellows to the officer of the Palace and ask if I may go into the garden to look for herbs.” The guard did so, and the dwarf received permission to go into the garden. The goose wandered round and round the chestnut-trees, but could not find the herb, and cried with disappointment and sympathy. But the dwarf, who was also looking about, suddenly noticed some trees the other side of the lake and cried: “Over there, there is a large old tree, perhaps we shall be more fortunate.”

The goose flew along, and he ran after her as quickly as his little legs could carry him; the chestnut-tree threw a deep shadow, and it was so dark beneath its branches that it was difficult to see anything; but the goose suddenly stood still, flapped her wings with joy, and poked her bill into the long grass, and pulled something out, which she handed to the astonished dwarf and said:

“This is the herb, and here is a large patch of it, so you need never be without it again.”

The dwarf looked thoughtfully at the herb; its, sweet scent reminded him of the day when he was bewitched; the stalks and leaves were bluish-green, and it had a bright red flower with golden stamen.

“Thank God!” he cried at last. “How wonderful! I believe this is the very same herb which changed me from a squirrel to a dreadful little dwarf. Shall I taste a bit?”

“Not now,” said the goose. “Bring a handful with you, and let us go back to your room and collect all your things together, and then you shall see what the herb will do.”

They went back to his room, and the dwarf’s heart beat fast with excitement. After he had made a bundle of his clothes and safely concealed his money–about fifty ducats–he said: “Surely God has willed that I shall end this unhappy condition,” and he pushed his nose down in the bunch of herbs and inhaled the scent.

Then his whole body seemed to stir, he felt as if he had his own head on his shoulders. He looked at his nose in the glass, and it was getting smaller and smaller, his chest and back straightened out, and his legs grew longer.

The goose was greatly astonished.

“Oh, how you are growing! How tall you are!” cried she. “Thank God that nothing worse has happened to you. Now you are yourself again!”

Jacob was indeed happy, and he folded his hands and said a short prayer. But in his joy he did not forget his gratitude to the goose Mimi; and though he longed to go at once to his parents, he felt he must defer this pleasure for her sake, and said:

“To whom do I owe this happiness but to you? Without you I should never have found that herb, and must always have remained a dwarf or have been hanged by the Grand Duke. So first of all I must consider you. I will take you to your father; and he being so clever in magic will easily remove the spell from you.”

The goose shed tears of joy and they took their departure. Jacob got safely and unrecognised out of the Palace, and made his way as quickly as possible to the seashore, where Mimi’s home was.

There is little more to tell, except that they happily reached their journey’s end; and that Wetterbock was able to turn his daughter back into her former state, and that Jacob, laden with presents, made his way home. His parents welcomed him joyfully, and with the money Wetterbock had given him he bought himself a shop, and became rich and prosperous.

One thing more; after he had left the Palace things were rather unsettled; for the next day, when the dwarf did not bring the pasty as he promised, the Grand Duke raged and stormed and sent for Jacob to cut off his head. But he could nowhere be found. And the Prince said he believed the Grand Duke had hidden him away so that no one should rob him of his best cook; and accused the Duke of breaking his word.

Then war was declared between the two Princes, well known as the “Herb War,” and many battles were fought; but peace was made at last, and this was known as the “Pasty Peace,” because at the banquet the Prince’s cook served the celebrated “Suzeraine” pasty, so that the Grand Duke should taste it in perfection.

So you see that small beginnings have often great endings, and there is no more to tell about the Dwarf’s Nose.

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Saif al-Rahbi Poems Part 2

Museum of Shadows

White birds cross wide rivers

on nights more lonesome than widows of war.

Bridges and closed-eyes trees strolling

with passers-by,

as if in a museum of shadows.

From a distance you could see their shadows, staggering

among the stupidity of daytime’s

empty bottles.

You know them, one by one –

incurable curse,

nameless glories.

They came from a house next to your dreams,

searching for a heart more merciful than knowledge

and under the enormous shadows of a sombre dawn

they all disappeared

except for a single peal of laughter.

—

Distant Waters

In the murky mirrors of distant waters

the bird of desire soars beyond a sealed horizon

Faces split by the cawing of years

Chariots bark behind the walls

As if you came for a trip preceding birth

you follow a grand funeral of reminiscences

wearing a shirt stained with the blood of distances.

Struck with amnesia, camels

are lost in the alleyways

Dynasties crossing the desert

all drowned in quicksand

You walk with a lonely step

leaving every place its private wound

and every minaret a belt of howls.

Body smeared with departures,

those who came from distant waters tell you to stop

and watch your sin fleeing.

From Mudia Wahidah la Takfi li-Dhabh Usfur

[One Penknife Isn’t Enough to Slaughter a Bird],Oman, 1988

—-

Water Blessed by Prophets

Spoils granted by heaven

Water blessed by prophets

at the rock of their racking thirst

Flutter of the hoopoe’s wing at Solomon’s throne

From pain and delight you cry my love

from desire, erupting at the curve of longing

(My body’s veins are hidden rivers)

You walk around stripped of a wedding ring on

your finger

You were the lake dreamt of by the winds.

You shut all doors

so I can open up a door or window

and look through at your dark cave

your concealed treasures

where crescents and baskets dangle

with ripe fruits

and gazelles through whose movements the ignorance

of those who passed before me seeps.

The luxurious find

for the body that’s moulded with a breeze

And for him who loiters in the night of organs

the blood of desire oozes

in search of the spring that flows with abandon

in the delirium of the forest.

—-

Under the Roofs of Morning

My scream is still blossoming under

the roofs of morning.

Your city couldn’t stifle it.

My scream, on whose frost

I built a lawn –

a blind plunderer of the legacy of silence.

The screams of shepherds when their herd is startled

by a predatory animal

The screams of saints and demons

at the edge of doomsday

She carried it from town to town

like a nursing mother carries her child

like a tribe carries its seeds of origin

My only guide to the source of the river

in the blind darkness

in times of forgetfulness –

my scream under the roofs of morning

and night

is the witness to my silence

the witness of madness and pleasure.

You can’t take that away from me

no matter how big the claws and weapons.

From Al-Jundi al-Ladhi Ra’a al-Ta’ir fi Nawmih

[The Soldier who Saw the Bird in his Sleep], Cologne, 2000

—-

Bells will not toll tonight

The storm in front of my door

will not subside tonight.

Its Herculean armies have slammed shut the doors.

In the church’s fading light

I glance at monks pulling handcarts,

fleeing to the mountains

on horses that stretch and strain in the wind

as if from the Byzantine age.

On this memorial night,

bells will not toll,

the storm will never subside.

—-

Music

When I go out,

I leave the music on

to guard the souls of the dead,

music of the ancients that carries

the smell of grass,

and guards the gardens of Babylon

hanging in the depths.

When I go out,

I leave everything closed in on itself

except for the music throbbing in the empty lounges

and some oysters,

which I picked from the shore

on the night of the storm.

—-

From my room to the café

In the morning when I wake up,

the world wakes in my head

with creatures and screams smashing my bones.

I leave my room –

it’s like a cave filled with the slain –

and shuffle off to the café.

I look intently at my cup — it’s like a snake

relaxing on a summer afternoon –

and think: “This is my last cup in this city!”

But morning is still at its outset,

and I’ll have to go through wars and kisses

and will only discover their flavour

after centuries.

—-

Arrival

When I travel to a country,

rumours precede me there,

and I am aroused

like a wolf whose fantasies anticipate

its prey,

and I never arrive.

—-

Steps

I walk, I feel under my feet

a sky, trembling with all its victims,

and on my head, an earth

that has stopped rotating.

I hear a thunder of steps behind me,

steps of people coming

from the past,

silent as if they are dead.

Past, retreat a while,

let me finish today’s walk.

—-

Our old house

It’s as if I’m walking

through valleys, filled with fear,

valleys I can neither touch

nor easily recall.

As if I’m taking that first step there,

I walk into our old house, and find emaciated horses,

the ghosts of our ancestors

wander amongst their neighings.

The door opens onto this desert of absence

a smell of grilled fish,

a smell of gas,

wafting from the disused stove.

The jars as they were, speaking to the corners,

and water still boiling in the pots.

The sheep have come back from the fields

except for the one a wolf ate.

Saddles and guns hang on the walls

as if at a funeral gathering.

Tomorrow is Eid al-Adha+,

but the children have forgotten to buy new shoes,

or wash their feet before they slept.

White clouds wrap the neighbouring sky,

and accompany travellers to their distant villages.

And we are swimming in the festival rain,

where birds gently peck the air,

to wake it, with us, on the roofs,

where we dried our dates and dreams

on the clayey balconies

and fell between the feet of an agitated bull,

where the stains of an enervated sun

seize the house, with its birds and women

and ancient trees stumbling like

shepherds among ruins.

Beyond the fence

you can still see the palm trees,

like bewildered spirits colliding with minarets,

like ships lowering their sails

in misty seas,

and amid their somnolence and green dreams

lurks the evening’s next soirée.

+ the Sacrifice Festival

__________

(Phryne – Jean-Leon Gerome)

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Here is the Monday Entry… running late, gotta get back to the night time version!

Have a good one!

Gwyllm

On The Menu

Gustave Moreau Biography

The Links

The Quotes…

Algerian Fairy Tale: How the Caliph became a Stork

Saif al-Rahbi Poems Part 1

Art: Gustave Moreau

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Gustave Moreau(1826-1898). French painter, one of the leading Symbolist artists. He was a pupil of Chassériau and was influenced by his master’s exotic Romanticism, but Moreau went far beyond him in his feeling for the bizarre and developed a style that is highly distinctive in subject and technique. His preference was for mystically intense images evoking long-dead civilizations and mythologies, treated with an extraordinary sensuousness, his paint encrusted and jewel-like. Although he had some success at the Salon, he had no need to court this as he had private means, and much of his life was spent in seclusion. In 1892 he became a professor at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts and proved an inspired teacher, bringing out his pupils’ individual talents rather than trying to impose ideas on them. His pupils included Marquet and Matisse, but his favorite was Rouault, who became the first curator of the Moreau Museum in Paris (the artist’s house), which Moreau left to the nation on his death. The bulk of his work is preserved there.

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The Links:

DNA Gatherers Hit Snag: Tribes Don’t Trust Them

Verizon can’t count…

Squirrel Alert!: Squirrels to be given contraceptives

3rd Millennium BC Artificial Eyeball Discovered in Burnt City

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The Quotes:

“Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.”

“The only reason for being a professional writer is that you can’t help it.”

“The author of the Iliad is either Homer or, if not Homer, somebody else of the same name.”

“Typos are very important to all written form. It gives the reader something to look for so they aren’t distracted by the total lack of content in your writing.”

“A healthy male adult bore consumes each year one and a half times his own weight in other people’s patience.”

“Let us make a special effort to stop communicating with each other, so we can have some conversation.”

“People who have what they want are fond of telling people who haven’t what they want that they really don’t want it.”

“Everybody hates me because I’m so universally liked.”

“Everywhere is walking distance if you have the time.”

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Algerian Fairy Tale: How the Caliph became a Stork

Many years ago, on a lovely afternoon, the Caliph Casid of Bagdad sat at his ease on a luxurious sofa. It was a very hot day; he had had a sound nap, and had awakened in the happiest of moods. He drew a few puffs through his long rosewood-stemmed pipe, sipped the coffee brought by an obsequious slave, and stroked his long beard with an air of extreme satisfaction. It was evident that the Caliph felt at peace with the world. Indeed, at such an hour he was easy to approach, and so every day he received a visit from his Grand Vizier, Mansor.

But on this particular afternoon the Grand Vizier seemed rather thoughtful and disinclined to talk; so the Caliph, taking his pipe from his mouth, said:

“What is the matter with you to-day, Mansor?”

The Grand Vizier crossed his arms on his breast, and bowing low answered:

“Mighty lord, there is really nothing the matter; but outside the Castle stands a merchant who has such beautiful wares that I feel quite unhappy that I have no money to spare and to spend.”

The Caliph, who had always rather favoured the Grand Vizier, at once sent a black slave to conduct the merchant to his presence. Not many moments did he wait ere a little fat man, with sunbrowned face and ragged garments, appeared. This was the merchant, and he carried a pack containing all sorts of treasures–pearls and rings, richly ornamented pistols, golden cups and combs. The Caliph and the Vizier turned the articles over and over, and the Caliph bought some fine pistols for himself and Mansor, and for the Vizier’s wife a comb. While the merchant was packing up his wares in his box, the Caliph noticed therein a small drawer, and asked what it held. The merchant opened the drawer, and showed them a snuff-box containing some black powder, and a small piece of paper, on which was written something which neither the Caliph nor the Vizier could read.

“I got these from a merchant in Mecca,” said the pedlar, “and do not know what the writing means. If you like, you can have them for a trifling sum.”

The Caliph, who had in his library many rare manuscripts which he could not decipher, but in the possession of which he took pride, bought both snuff-box and paper and dismissed the pedlar. He was, however, very curious about the meaning of the writing, so asked the Vizier if he knew any one who could translate it.

“Gracious lord and master,” answered Mansor, “near the great Mosque lives a man named Selim the Scholar, who understands all languages. Bid him come hither; perhaps he can read these secret instructions.”

The learned man was sent for at once.

“Selim,” said the Caliph, “you are said to be well informed. Look at this writing: if you can read it you shall have a fine new coat; if you cannot, you shall be bastinadoed on back and feet, and every one shall know that Selim the Scholar has not the wisdom he pretends.”

Selim bowed humbly and said: “Thy will be done, great lord!” For some minutes he scanned the writing, then exclaimed: “This is Latin, great lord; if not, may I be hanged!”

“Then if it be Latin, tell us what it says,” returned the Caliph.

Selim read thus: “‘Thou, who this findest, praise Allah for his mercy! Whoever snuffs the powder in this box and says “Mutabor,” changes himself to the form of an animal, and will be able to understand animal language. Should he desire to resume his manhood, he need only turn to the east, bow three times, and repeat the word. But he must beware lest during his metamorphosis he laugh; if so, he will forget the magic word and remain for ever an animal.’”

Satisfied with Selim’s translation, the Caliph, binding him by solemn oaths not to divulge the secret between them, gave him a new kaftan and sent him away. To his Grand Vizier he said: “I call that a good bargain, Mansor! I should like for once in a way to be an animal. To-morrow morning come to me. We will go together outside the city, snuff a little of this powder, and understand, perhaps, the language of those which fly, swim, or crawl.”

Hardly had the Caliph Casid breakfasted the following morning ere the Grand Vizier appeared ready for the appointed walk. The Caliph put the snuff-box safely in his sash, and bidding his followers remain in the city, set out alone with the Grand Vizier. First they walked through the gardens of the Caliphate; but hurriedly, for they were anxious to try the experiment, and the Vizier spoke of a pond outside the walls where he had seen many animals, but particularly storks, whose dignified actions and hoarse cries had often attracted his attention.

The Caliph, therefore, decided in favour of the pond, and together they walked to its bank, where there were quite a number of these quaint birds, who took no notice of their approach, but continued to fish for frogs. At the same time they noticed overhead another stork which was hastening to join the rest.

“I’ll wager my beard,” said the Vizier, “that these storks have plenty to say to each other. What do you think of our turning storks for a time?”

“An excellent idea,” said the Caliph. “But first let us carefully remember exactly how to become men again. We must bow three times to the east, and say ‘Mutabor,’ then I shall be Caliph and you Grand Vizier. But, in the name of Allah, no laughing, or we shall indeed be in a fix!”

While the Caliph was speaking, he observed how the Stork above their heads balanced his wings and slowly dropped to earth. Quickly he drew forth the box, took a good pinch of snuff, the Vizier doing the same, and both cried: “Mutabor.”

Immediately their legs shrivelled and became thin and red; their lovely yellow slippers became storks’ feet and their arms wings; their necks stretched till they were nearly a yard long; their beards disappeared, and their bodies were covered with feathers.

“You have a beautiful bill, my Grand Vizier,” said the Caliph in some astonishment. “By the beard of the Prophet, this is indeed a transformation.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” said the Grand Vizier, bowing. “May I return it by saying that your Highness is even handsomer as a stork than as a Caliph? But would it not be as well to join our comrades at once, and ascertain whether we really can understand stork language?”

By this time the other Stork had settled down. It rubbed its bill against its feet, plumed its feathers and went to the pond. The two new Storks, however, hurried after it, and on nearing the group, to their amazement, heard the following conversation:

“Good morning, Madame Longlegs. You are out early this morning.”

“Good morning to you, dear Chatterbox! Yes, I have had a nice little breakfast. How have you fared? I suppose you only ‘pecked a bit’–a mere quarter of a lizard or hind leg of a frog!”

“Thank you very much. I have not much appetite to-day. Besides, I have to dance for the entertainment of my father’s guests. Excuse me if I leave you. I must practise a few steps.”

And without ceremony Miss Stork left her companions and at once began her posturing. The Caliph and the Vizier watched her with curious interest; but when she stood on one foot and waved her wings affectedly, they could no longer contain their feelings, but broke into a hearty peal of laughter.

The Caliph was the first to realise the seriousness of the situation. “This is a joke which gold cannot pay for,” said he.

The Grand Vizier, too, began to regret that they had not sufficiently remembered that they were on no account to laugh. He tried to conceal his discomfiture by exclaiming: “By Mecca and Medina! It would be a fine thing if I must remain a stork for ever. Can you, my lord, remember that stupid word? It has completely slipped my memory.”

Said the Caliph: “Three times must we bow towards the east; and then say ‘Mu— Mu— Mu—’” but no more could he recall, and both he and the Caliph had no choice but to remain Storks.

Sadly they wandered through the fields, not knowing what their unfortunate condition might bring upon them. Storks they must remain for the present. It was useless to return to the city and attempt to explain themselves, for who would believe a Stork if he said: “Good people, I am your Caliph!” Or, if belief were accorded, was it likely that the people of Bagdad would consent to be ruled by a Stork? So day by day passed by, and they sustained themselves with wild fruit, finding some difficulty in eating with those long bills. For lizards and frogs they had no appetite. Their one pleasure in this unfortunate state was the ability to fly, and they often flew to Bagdad, and from the roofs watched the doings in the city.

At first they only noticed much sorrow and bewilderment on the part of the people; but about four days after their transformation, as they were resting on the roof of the Caliph’s palace, they saw a splendid procession pass through the streets.

Drums and pipes sounded, a man in a gold and scarlet cloak sat on a splendidly caparisoned horse surrounded with liveried guards. Half Bagdad acclaimed him thus:

“Hail, Miszra, Lord of Bagdad!”

The two Storks looked at one another; and then the Caliph said:

“Guess you not, Mansor, why I have been bewitched? This Miszra is the son of my greatest enemy, the mighty magician Cassimir, who in an evil hour swore revenge against me. But I will not despair! Come with me, faithful companion in misery. Let us make a pilgrimage to the grave of the Prophet. Perhaps on that holy spot we shall recall the magic word.”

So they forsook the roof of the Palace, and flew towards Medina.

But they were not yet well accustomed to flying, for they had had little practice, and at last the Grand Vizier gasped out:

“Great lord, with your permission I will rest a little. You fly too fast for me. Evening draws near; would it not be well to seek some shelter for to-night?”

To this the Caliph agreed, and as they perceived in the valley near by a ruin which still had some sort of a roof, they flew in its direction. It had evidently been at one time a castle. Although terribly dilapidated, there were remains of stately apartments and splendid passages. The Caliph and the Vizier traversed these with some interest, but suddenly Mansor stopped.

“Lord and deliverer,” faltered he, “it is rather ridiculous for a Grand Vizier, even for a Stork, to be afraid of ghosts. But I hear sobbings and sighings, and my courage fails me!”

The Caliph paused and listened, and heard most unmistakably the soft weeping either of a human being or some animal. Full of impatience, he would have pressed forward to ascertain the cause of this distress, but the Grand Vizier seized hold of Casid’s wing so that he should not wantonly rush into any new danger. But it was no use. The Caliph, whether man or stork, had a brave heart, and wrenching himself free at the expense of a few feathers, he plunged into a dark passage. Ere long he came to some broken stairs leading to a door, only half fastened, and from behind which the sobs evidently came. Pressing his beak against this door and carefully awaiting surprises, he saw through the narrow opening a ruined chamber, lighted only by a deep casement window on the sill of which was sitting a large night-owl. Thick tears were streaming from her big round eyes, and with plaintive cries she bemoaned her lot. But when she saw the Caliph and the Grand Vizier she uttered a joyful cry. Hastily brushing the tears from her eyes with a dexterous movement of her brown wings, she, much to the astonishment of the two men, called out in excellent Arabic:

“Welcome, welcome, good Storks. You are the tokens of my deliverance; for long ago it was told me that through Storks I should meet with good luck.”

As soon as the Caliph recovered from his astonishment, he drew his feet together in an elegant pose, bowed his long neck, and said:

“Night-Owl! From your words I gather you are a fellow-sufferer with ourselves. But, alas! any hope you may have formed as to our capacity to assist you is doomed to disappointment. You will the better understand this if we relate to you our sad story.”

When the Caliph concluded his recital the Owl said:

“Listen to my tale of woe, and then you will agree that I am as unfortunate as you. My father is the King of India, and I, his only and unhappy daughter, am named Lusa. The magician Cassimir, who bewitched you, worked his arts on me also. He came one day to my father, and asked me in marriage for his son Miszra. My father threw him down the palace stairs. But the wretch determined on an abominable vengeance, and one morning when I was walking in the palace garden he disguised himself as a slave, and brought me a goblet containing a draught, which had the effect of changing me into an Owl. He then conveyed me to this place, and his hateful voice hissed in my ear these terrible words:

“‘In this horrible tower you shall remain till you die, unless some one, in spite of your hideous condition, will make you his wife. So I revenge myself on you and your father!’

“Since then many months have passed by, and all alone I have lived in this gloomy tower. Nature’s beauties cannot console me, for in the daytime I am blind; only at night can I see.”

The Owl paused, and again brushed from her eyes the tears caused by her sad thoughts.

The story told by the Princess made the Caliph very grave.

“It seems to me,” he said at last, “that between your troubles and mine own there is some resemblance; but where shall we find the key to this riddle?”

The Owl replied:

“My lord, I only know this, that when I was a quite young girl, a wise woman foretold that a Stork would bring me luck; and I have an idea how we may deliver ourselves.”

The Caliph was astounded, and asked what she meant.

“The magician who has wrought evil on us all,” said she, “comes once every month to these ruins. Not far from this apartment is a large hall; there he and others of his sort hold feastings and consultations. I have often watched them. They tell each other of their scandalous tricks; perhaps this next time they meet, the magic word you have so unfortunately forgotten may be disclosed.”

“Oh, dearest Princess,” cried the Caliph, “tell us when will they come, and where is the hall?”

The Owl was silent for a few minutes. Then: “Do not think me unkind,” said she, “but it is only on one condition that I can grant your wish–”

“Name it, name it,” cried Casid. “Every moment is precious, and no conditions will be too difficult!”

The Owl replied: “I also wish to be free; but this can only happen if one of you offers to marry me–that is the condition.”

At this the Storks seemed rather confused, and the Caliph beckoned the Grand Vizier aside.

“Mansor,” said he, whispering, “this is a stupid idea; but you can marry the Owl afterwards.”

“Indeed,” said the Vizier, “so that my wife may scratch my eyes out when I return home! Besides, look what an old man I am. You are young and unmarried, and can easily offer your hand to a young and beautiful Princess!”

“That is just the point,” sighed the Caliph dejectedly, drooping his wings. “How do we know she is young and beautiful? I do not care to buy a pig in a poke.”

They spoke seriously for some time, but when the Caliph realised that the Vizier would rather remain a Stork than marry the Owl, he gave way, and agreed himself to fulfil this hard condition. The Owl was delighted with the result of their conference. She assured them that they had all chanced to meet at a particularly lucky moment, for this very night the merchants would assemble.

So all three together they left the chamber and went towards the hall. Through many dark passages they softly stepped. At last a bright light streamed through a crack in a wall. As they approached nearer the Owl begged them to make no noise whatever. From the stones on which they stood they could perceive all that was going on in the hall. Many-coloured lamps shed a light equal to that of day. In the middle was a round table with a variety of choice dishes thereon. Round about the table were couches on which men were sitting. In one of these men the Caliph recognised the pedlar who had sold the magic powder. His neighbour at table was asking him for the latest details of his business. Then, among other anecdotes, he told the story of the Caliph and his Vizier.

“And what was the word you gave him?” asked another magician.

“A Latin word, ‘Mutabor,’” was the reply.

When the Storks heard this they were beside themselves with joy. They ran so fast from the place that the Owl could scarcely keep up with them.

Then said the Caliph to the Owl: “Saviour of my life and of the life of my friend, receive our ever-heartfelt thanks and honour me by becoming my wife.” Then he turned to the east, for the first rays of the morning sun were showing above the mountain-tops, and he and the Vizier bowed their long necks.

“Mutabor,” cried they, and in an instant were they restored to their former state; and in the delight of the moment the Caliph and Vizier laughed and wept in each other’s arms. But imagine their astonishment when they saw a lovely woman, most beautifully dressed, standing before them, who smilingly gave her hand to the Caliph.

“Cannot you recognise your Night-Owl?” said she; and the Caliph was so enraptured with her beauty and grace than he more than once declared that he was only too glad that he had been changed into a Stork.

Three very happy people journeyed together to Bagdad. The Caliph found among his clothes, not only the snuff-box, but his purse; and was therefore able to buy, in the villages they passed through, such things as were necessary, so without any delay they reached the city. Arriving there the Caliph heard strange news. He had been mourned as dead. Now, however, his people hastened to rejoice over his happy return, and with each hour their hatred of the usurper Miszra increased. The crowd rushed to the Palace and seized both father and son. The old man was sent by the Caliph to the tower in which the Princess had lived as an Owl, and there he was hanged. To the son, who was ignorant of his father’s magic arts, the Caliph gave the choice of death or a pinch of snuff. As he chose the latter, the Grand Vizier handed him the box. A mighty pinch–and the magic word pronounced by the Caliph changed Miszra into a Stork, and confined in an iron cage, he passed the rest of his life in the Palace garden.

Long and happily lived the Caliph Casid with his Princess wife: his happiest hours, perhaps, still being those of the Grand Vizier’s afternoon calls, when they often talked over their strange experiences. And sometimes when the Caliph was in a merry mood he would tease the Grand Vizier about his appearance as a Stork. He would strut stiffly up and down the apartment, flap his arms as if they were wings, and bow as the forgetful Vizier did, crying, “Mu, Mu!” This little scene always gave great delight to the Calipha and her children; but after the Caliph had made fun of his friend with his clapping, croaking, and bowing, and his “Mu, mu, mu!” the Vizier was wont to request that the part of the story referring to the Night-Owl the Calipha herself should relate.

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Saif al-Rahbi Poems Part 1

Suitcase

A man lives in a suitcase

his feet are crossroads –

a gloomy sky at each.

Once he saw a flock of sheep on the horizon

and remembered his grandfather

He lit a candle inside a cave

and kept circling it

century after century

until his shadow cracked

and his days welled up with tears.

—

Friends

From the dreariness of the road

they came

bundled up in coats whose belts

were the autumn of water-springs.

Their wounds galloped over

mountains and dreams

but never made it.

from the collection

Rajul Min al-Rub’ al-Khali [A Man from the Empty Quarter], Beirut, 1994

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No Country We Headed To

No woman we loved

the enemy didn’t conquer first.

No country we headed to

fire didn’t level down to the ground..

No wound we bandaged with our eyelids

didn’t fling wide open.

No arena

No child we begat under horses hooves

(What horses?)

No horizon, or memory unbuttoning

in the splendour of its hallway.

No childhood, even remote like Saturn

No lion, as he left at dawn along with his lair

The mountains’ eternal foundations collapsed

I don’t hear the crows cawing in the arac trees

Eagles were hanged by summits

No echoes

Nothing at all.

From Rajul Min al-Rub’ al-Khali

[A Man from the Empty Quarter], Beirut, 1994

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Scream

The scream that’s sunk inside

like an animal buried in a cave, prowls around

sleepers, along with its foreign soldiers,

forces them to go to

uncharted, distant lands.

The scream that comes down from the age

of enormous floods – my only

travel guide

my spoiled woman whom sometimes

I watch duping hyenas in my bed

then falling asleep in my etherized, tranquil

arms.

At times it falls upon distant summits,

wailing, like a primordial widow.

But tonight, as she abandons me,

I see at the far end of the forest

a wounded tigress watching me in admiration.

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Arrival

When I travel to a country

rumours arrive before me

I feel intoxicated

like a wolf whose dreams beat him to the prey

So I don’t arrive.

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A Tramp Dreaming of Nothing

And like a wave clawing

a hurricane,

I entered this world’s wilderness

throwing the treasures of my forefathers to the bottom of hell

honing my limbs on an exile-forged

blade.

And like a child who’s always losing the game,

I didn’t expect much from my ilk

I didn’t expect anything

but the clamour of doors and windows

being opened and shut near my head

with the innocence of aimless

storms.

But I exist and don’t exist

knowing I’m hallowed with emptiness

A chronicle missing no detail

lit with magical lanterns

and you need to plough its

heart for a

single tear

or confession.

You need to follow the moon of departure,

stretched between water and land, land

and grave,

in order to see a shadow in a cave.

A genie trembling in awe of God,

napping on the devil’s

thigh.

But I am here . . . Maybe now

I’m in a café,

watching the world from behind the glass

The pale sunset,

a hangover after yesterday’s trip

I’ll extinguish with today’s

and not care about anything

Let rivers dump their cities of garbage

into the sea

Let vagrants spit at the shrines of saints

and soldiers crop the heads of their barracks,

Let eagles soar high or low

That’s all.

It would be redundant to discuss

the relation between mouth and spring

or a village delirious under

the trap of the flood’s ribs,

or nice evenings of poets who dream of suicide aboard

a boat slowly sinking into water’s

haze

or by an axe suddenly plunging,

with no mercy.

You need to sell the furniture in your house

for morning coffee

(what house have you had?)

except for a tattered shoe over which

city nights stumble

and rags bequeathed to you by a dead friend

You remember (how could you forget?)

being chased by the scarecrow of poverty and Pharisees

and jackals

in Cairo and Damascus, in Beirut

and Algiers and Sophia and Paris and the rest

You remember it all, with the brilliance of birth,

the clarity of a crab crawling between

rivers like a tourist enchanted by Bedouin

tents.

O mother, sleeping on the bare

concrete

among the wreckage of hessian and scattered clothes

like the ruins of a village

razed by a thunderbolt.

There’s no field left for your anticipating

visions

We no longer listen to the crowing of roosters

or bring fish from the beach

There’s no dawn left whose feathers you play with

at the edge of the well

where you bade me farewell for the first time

seventeen years ago

(Don’t stay away for too long!)

A single step blew up the orbit

of miles

and joined in the delirium of galaxies.

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Saif al-Rahbi

is a poet and prose writer, born in 1956 in Sroor, a village in Oman. He was sent to school in Cairo when a young boy, and there began his lifelong passion for literature and poetry. He has lived and worked in Cairo, Damascus, Algeria, Paris for many years, London, and other Arab and European cities. His third poetry collection Ajras al-Qatia’a [The Bells of Rapture], published in 1985 when he was living in Paris, and marked him as “one of the most distinguished new poetic voices in the Gulf region”. Later, he returned to Oman and founded Nizwa, Oman’s main quarterly cultural magazine and highly regarded throughout the Arab world. Today he is its editor-in-chief. He has published a number of volumes of poetry, prose and essays.

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Welcome to Sunday… Kinda of a monograph today. I have been taken with the story of Lir for many a year. This is a melange of various images, story and poems. We also have a review of sorts and of course the links.

Have a great day,

Cheers,

Gwyllm

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On The Menu

Loreena McKennitts’ “An Ancient Muse”

The Links

The Children of Lir

Poetry: Various interpretations of “The Children Of Lir

The Art:Top Painting: John Duncan / 3 paintings by Brian Boylan

See More of Brian Boylans’ work here…

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On The Music Box: Loreena McKennitts’ “An Ancient Muse”

I first became aware of Loreena McKennitt in 1992, from KBOO radio in Portland Oregon. I was sitting a rather dull and stifling job in a bank, when I heard her music on the radio. At lunch time, I hopped a bus and went to the local record store and bought the album. Within a month, I had collected all the other albums…

Mary and I have seen her twice, Once in a medium size venue in Seattle, and once at a small theatre in Portland. Her shows are at the top of my list for best live performances… which she shares with Pink Floyd’s “Animal Tour”, and a couple of others.

Before I let you loose on the description that I copied from her site, let me say that this album came at the right time. Mary and I had all but given up hope that she would ever release another album, after the tragedy of her her fiance’s untimely death in 1998. Out of her tragedy she has brought forth an object of astounding beauty. If you buy but one album this year, make it this one. You can order it online, or at your local store.

Here is McKennitts’ web site: Quinlan Road You will find samples of the 9 tracks…

Beautiful Listening to you and yours…

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From Quinlanroad.com

“Tell me, O Muse, of those who travelled far and wide”

Aptly, it is an echo of Homer’s timeless Odyssey that introduces Loreena McKennitt’s seventh studio recording, the latest volume of a project she describes as “musical travel writing”. This time, the journey takes her in search of the Celts’ easternmost paths, from the plains of Mongolia to the kingdom of King Midas and the Byzantine Empire. Along the way, she muses on the concepts of home, of travel in all its incarnations, of the cultural intermingling that underpins human history and our universal legacies of conflict and hope.

Recorded at Real World Studios and featuring a host of acclaimed musicians, the album proffers a treasure trove of instruments, from harp, hurdy-gurdy and accordion to oud, lyra, kanoun and nyckelharpa (the Scandinavian keyed fiddle). Highlights include the seductive rhythms and Silk Road influences of first single “Caravanserai”; “Penelope’s Song”, a paean to steadfast love; and Loreena’s musical setting of Sir Walter Scott’s poem of star-crossed romance, “The English Ladye And The Knight”. Together, the nine songs that comprise An Ancient Muse conjure up a wide world’s worth of human stories that are as unique as they are unforgettable.

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The Links:

Special K: The story of a women who was saved by a rave drug

Nose Candy Suspension…

Historical Note: I Saw a Sea Monster, by Ralph Bandini

Planet-detector nears its launch

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The Children of Lir

From:Celtic Wonder Tales by Ella Young

Long ago when the Tuatha De Danaan lived in Ireland there was a great King called Lir. He had four children–Fionnuala, Aodh, Fiacra, and Conn. Fionnuala was the eldest and she was as beautiful as sunshine in blossomed branches; Aodh was like a young eagle in the blue of the sky; and his two brothers, Fiacra and Conn, were as beautiful as running water.

In those days sorrow was not known in Ireland: the mountains were crowned with light, and the lakes and rivers had strange starlike flowers that shook a rain of jewelled dust on the white horses of the De Danaans when they came down to drink. The horses were swifter than any horses that are living now and they could go over the waves of the sea and under deep lake-water without hurt to themselves. Lir’s four children had each one a white horse and two hounds that were whiter than snow.

Every one in Lir’s kingdom loved Fionnuala, and Aodh, and Fiacra, and Conn, except their step-mother, Aoifa. She hated them, and her hatred pursued them as a wolf pursues a wounded fawn. She sought to harm them by spells and witchcraft. She took them in her chariot to the Lake of Darvra in Westmeath. She made them bathe in the lake and when they were coming out of the water she struck them with a rod of enchantment and turned them into four white swans.

Swim as wild swans on this lake,” she said, “for three hundred years, and when that time is ended swim three hundred years on the narrow sea of the Moyle, and when that time is ended swim three hundred years on the Western Sea that has no bounds but the sky.”

Then Fionnuala, that was a swan, said:

“O Wicked Woman, a doom will come upon you heavier than the doom you have put on us and you will be more sorrowful than we are to-day. And if you would win any pity in the hour of your calamity tell us now how we may know when the doom will end for us.”

“The doom will end when a king from the North weds a queen from the South; when a druid with a shaven crown comes over the seas; when you hear the sound of a little bell that rings for prayers.”

The swans spread their wings and flew away over the lake. They made a very sorrowful singing as they went, lamenting for themselves.

When the Great King, their father, knew the sorrow that had come to him, he hastened down to the shore of the lake and called his children.

They came flying to him, four white swans, and he said:

“Come to me, Fionnuala; come Aodh; come Conn; come Fiacra.” He put his hands on them and caressed them and said: ” I cannot give you back your shapes till the doom that is laid on you is ended, but come back now to the house that is mine and yours, White Children of my Heart.”

Then Fionnuala answered him:

“The shadow of the woman who ensnared us lies on the threshold of your door: we cannot cross it.”

And Lir said:

“The woman who ensnared you is far from any home this night. She is herself ensnared, and fierce winds drive her into all the restless places of the earth. She has lost her beauty and become terrible; she is a Demon of the Air, and must wander desolate to the end of time–but for you there is the firelight of home. Come back with me.”

Then Conn said:

“May good fortune be on the threshold of your door from this time and for ever, but we cannot cross it, for we have the hearts of wild swans and we must fly in the dusk and feel the water moving under our bodies; we must hear the lonesome cries of the night. We have the voices only of the children you knew; we have the songs you taught us–that is all. Gold crowns are red in the firelight, but redder and fairer is dawn.”

Lir stretched out his hands and blessed his children. He said:

“May all beautiful things grow henceforth more beautiful to you, and may the song you have be melody in the heart of whoever hears it. May your wings winnow joy for you out of the air, and your feet be glad in the water-ways. My blessing be on you till the sea loses its saltness and the trees forget to bud in springtime. And farewell, Fionnuala, my white blossom; and farewell Aodh, that was the red flame of my heart; and farewell, Conn, that brought me gladness; and farewell, Fiacra, my treasure. Lonesome it is for you, flying far off in places strange to you; lonesome it is for me without you. Bitter it is to say farewell, and farewell, and nothing else but farewell.”

Lir covered his face with his mantle and sorrow was heavy on him, but the swans rose into the air and flew away calling to each other. They called with the voices of children, but in their heart was the gladness of swans when they feel the air beneath them and stretch their necks to the freedom of the sky.

Three hundred years they flew over Lake Darvra and swam on its waters. Often their father came to the lake and called them to him and caressed them; often their kinsfolk came to talk with them; often harpers and musicians came to listen to the wonder of their singing. When three hundred years were ended the swans rose suddenly and flew far and far away. Their father sought them, and their kinsfolk sought them, but the swans never touched earth or rested once till they came to the narrow Sea of the Moyle that flows between Ireland and Scotland. A cold stormy sea it was, and lonely. The swans had no one to listen to their singing, and little heart for singing amid the green curling bitter waves. The storm-wind beat roughly on them, and often they were separated and calling to one another without hope of an answer. Then Fionnuala, for she was the wisest, said:

“Let us choose a place of meeting, so that when we are separated and lost and wandering each one will know where to wait for the others.

The swans, her brothers, said it was a good thought; they agreed to meet together in one place, and the place they chose was Carraig-na-Ron, the Rock of the Seals. And it was well they made that choice, for a great storm came on them one night and scattered them far out over the sea. Their voices were drowned in the tempest and they were driven hither and thither in the darkness.

In the pale morning Fionnuala came to the Rock of the Seals. Her feathers were broken with the wind and draggled with the saitness of the sea and she was lamenting and calling on Aodh and Fiacra and Conn.

“O Conn, that I sheltered under my feathers, come to me! O Fiacra, come to me! O Aodh, Aodh, Aodh, come to me!”

And when she did not see them, and no voice answered, she made a sore lamentation and said:

“O bitter night that was blacker than the doom of Aoifa at the first to us! O three that I loved! O three that I loved! The waves are over your heads and I am desolate!”

She saw the red sun rising, and when the redness touched the waters, Conn came flying to her. His feathers were broken with the wind and draggled with the saltness of the sea. Fionnuala gathered him under her wings and comforted him, and she said:

“The day would not seem bitter to me now if only Aodh and Fiacra were come.”

In a little while Fiacra came to her over the rough sea. She sheltered and comforted him with her wings, and she cried over the waters:

“O Aodh, Aodh, Aodh, come to me!”

The sun was high in the heavens when Aodh came, and he came with his feathers bright and shining and no trace of the bitter storm on him.

“O where have you been, Aodh?” said Fionnuala and Fiacra and Conn to him.

“I have been flying where I got sight of our kinsfolk. I have seen the white steeds that are swifter than the winds of March, and the riders that were comrades to us when we had Our own shapes. I have seen Aodh and Fergus, the two sons of Bove Dearg.”

“O tell us, Aodh, where we may get sight of them!” said the swans.

“They are at the river mouth of the Ban,” said Aodh, “Let us go there, and we may see them though we cannot leave the Moyle.”

So much gladness came on all the swans that they forgot their weariness and the grievous buffeting of the storm and they rose and flew to the river mouth of the Bann. They saw their kinsfolk, the beautiful company of the Faery Host, shining with every colour under heaven and joyous as the wind in Springtime.

“O tell us, dear kinsfolk,” said the swans, ” how it is with our father?”

“The Great King has wrapped his robes of beauty about him, and feasts with those from whom age cannot take youth and light-hearted-ness,” said Fergus.

“Ah,” said Fionnuala, ” he feasts and it is well with him! The joy-flame on his hearth cannot quench itself in ashes. He cannot hear us calling through the night–the wild swans, the wanderers, the lost children.”

The Faery Host was troubled, seeing the piteous plight of the swans, but Aodh, that was a swan said to Fergus, his kinsman and comrade:

“Do not cloud your face for us, Fergus; the horse you ride is white, but I ride a whiter–the cold curling white wave of the sea.”

Then Fiacra said:

“O Fergus, does my own white horse forget me, now that I am here in the cold Moyle?”

And Conn said:

“O Fergus, tell my two hounds that I will come back to them some day.”

The memory of all beautiful things came on the swans, and they were sorrowful, and Fionnuala said:

“O beautiful comrades, I never thought that beauty could bring sorrow: now the sight of it breaks my heart,” and she said to her brothers:

“Let us go before our hearts are melted utterly.” The swans went over the Moyle then, and they were lamenting, and Fionnuala said:

“There is joy and feasting in the house of Lir to-night, but his four children are without a roof to cover them.”

“It is a poor garment our feathers make when the wind blows through them: often we had the purple of kings’ children on us.

“We are cold to-night, and it is a cold bed the sea makes: often we had beds of down with broidered coverings.

“Often we drank mead from gold cups in the house of our father; now we have the bitterness of the sea and the harshness of sand in our mouths.

“It is weariness–O a great weariness–to be flying over the Moyle; without rest, without cornpanions, without comfort.

“I am thinking of Angus to-night: he has the laughter of joy about him for ever.

“I am thinking to-night of Mananaun, and of white blossoms on silver branches.

“O swans, my brothers, I am thinking of beauty, and we are flying away from it for ever.”

The swans did not see the company of the Faery Host again. They swam on the cold stormy sea of the Moyle, and they were there till three hundred years were ended.

“It is time for us to go,” said Fionnuala, “we must seek the Western Sea.”

The swans shook the water of the Moyle from their feathers and stretched out their wings to fly.

When they were come to the Western Sea there was sorrow on them, for the sea was wilder and colder and more terrible than the Moyle. The swans were on that sea and flying over it for three hundred years, and all that time they had no comfort, and never once did they hear the foot-fall of hound or horse or see their faery kinsfolk.

When the time was ended, the swans rose out of the water and cried joyfully to each other:

“Let us go home now, the time is ended!”

They flew swiftly, and yet they were all day flying before they came to the place where Lir had his dwelling; when they looked down they saw no light in the house, they heard no music, no sound of voices. The many-coloured house was desolate and all the beauty was gone from it; the white hounds and the brightmaned horses were gone, and all the beautiful glad-hearted folk of the Sidhe.

“Every place is dark to us!” said Conn. “Look at the hills!”

The swans looked at the hills they had known, and every hill and mountain they could see was dark and sorrowful: not one had a star-heart of light, not one had a flame-crown, not one had music pulsing through it like a great breath.

“O Aodh, and Conn, and Fiacra,” said Fionnuala, “beauty is gone from the earth: we have no home now!”

The swans hid themselves in the long dank grass, till morning. They did not speak to each other; they did not make a lamentation; they were silent with heaviness of grief. When they felt the light of morning they rose in the air and flew in wide circles seeking their kinsfolk. They saw the dwellings of strangers, and a strange people tending flocks and sowing corn on plains where the Tuatha De Danaan had hunted white stags with horns of silver.

“The grief of all griefs has come upon us!” said Fionnuala. “It is no matter now whether we have the green earth under us or bitter sea-waves: it is little to us now that we are in swans’ bodies.”

Her brothers had no words to answer her; they were dumb with grief till Aodh said:

“Let us fly far from the desolate house and the dead hills. Let us go where we can hear the thunder of the Western Sea.”

The swans spread their wings and flew westward till they came to a little reedy lake, and they alit there and sheltered themselves, for they had no heart to go farther.

They took no notice of the days and often they did not know whether it was the moon or the sun that was in the sky, but they sang to each other, and that was all the comfort they had.

One day, while Fionnuala was singing, a man of the stranger-race drew near to listen. He had the aspect of one who had endured much hardship. His garments were poor and ragged. His hair was bleached by sun and rain. As he listened to the song a light came into his eyes and his whole face grew beautiful. When the song ended he bowed himself before the swans and said:

“White Swans of the Wilderness, ye have flown over many lands. Tell me, have ye seen aught of Tir-nan-Oge, where no one loses youth; or Tir-na-Moe, where all that is beautiful lives for ever; or Moy-Mell, that is so honey-sweet with blossom?”

“Have we seen Tir-nan-Oge? It is our own country! We are the children of Lir the King of it.”

“Where is that country? How may one reach it? Tell me! “

“Ochone! It is not anywhere on the ridge of the world. Our father’s house is desolate! “

“Ye are lying, to make sport for yourselves! Tir-nan-Oge cannot perish–rather would the whole world fall to ruin!

“O would we had anything but the bitterness of truth on our tongues!” said Aodh. “Would we could see even one leaf from those trees with shining branches where the many-coloured birds used to sing! Ochone! Ochone! for all the beauty that has perished with Tir-nan-Oge!”

The stranger cried out a loud sorrowful cry and threw himself on the ground. His fingers tore at the roots of the grass. His body writhed and trembled with grief.

The children of Lir wondered at him, and Aodh said:

“Put away this fierceness of grief and take consolation to yourself. We, with so much heavier sorrow, have not lamented after this fashion.”

The stranger raised himself: his eyes blazed like the eyes of a hunted animal when it turns on the hunters.

“How could your sorrow be equal to mine? Ye have dwelt in Tir-nan-Oge; ye have ridden horses whiter than the snow of one night and swifter than the storm-wind; ye have gathered flowers in the Plain of Honey. But I have never seen it–never once! Look at me! I was born a king! I have become an outcast, the laughing stock of slaves! I am Aibric the wanderer!–I have given all–all, for the hope of finding that country. It is gone now–it is not anywhere on the round of the world!”

“Stay with us,” said Fiacra, “and we will sing for you, and tell you stories of Tir-nan-Oge.”

“I cannot stay with you! I cannot listen to your songs! I must go on seeking; seeking;

seeking while I live. When I am dead my dreams will not torment me. I shall have my fill of quietness then.”

“Can you not believe us when we tell you that Tir-nan-Oge is gone like the white mists of morning? It is nowhere.”

“It is in my heart, and in my mind, and in my soul! It burns like fire! It drives me like a tireless wind! I am going. Farewell!

“Stay!” cried Aodh, “we will go with you. There is nothing anywhere for us now but brown earth and drifting clouds and wan waters. Why should we not go from place to place as the wind goes, and see each day new fields of reeds, new forest trees, new mountains? O, we shall never see the star-heart in any mountain again! “

“The mountains are dead,” said Conn.

“The mountains are not dead,” said Aibric. “They are dark and silent, but they are not dead. I know. I have cried to them in the night and laid my forehead against theirs and felt the beating of their mighty hearts. They are wiser than the wisest druid, more tender than the tenderest mother. It is they who keep the world alive.”

“O,” said Fionnuala, ” if the mountains are indeed alive let us go to them; let us tell them our sorrowful story. They will pity us and we shall not be utterly desolate.”

Aibric and the swans journeyed together, and at dusk they came to a tall beautiful mountain–the mountain that is called Nephin, in the West.

It looked dark and sombre against the fading sky, and. the sight of it, discrowned and silent, struck chill to the hearts of our wild swans: they turned away their heads to hide the tears in their eyes. But Aibric stretched his hands to the mountain and cried out:

“O beautiful glorious Comrade, pity us! Tir-nan-Oge is no more, and Moy-Mell is lost for ever! Welcome the children of Lir, for we have nothing left but you and the earth of Ireland!”

Then a wonder happened.

The star-heart of Nephin shone out–magnificent–tremulous–coloured like a pale amethyst.

The swans cried out to each other:

“The mountain is alive! Beauty has come again to the earth! Aibric, you have given us back the Land of Youth!”

A delicate faery music trembled and died away and was born again in the still evening air, and more and more the radiance deepened in the heart of Nephin. The swans began to sing most sweetly and joyously, and at the sound of that singing the star-heart showed in mountain after mountain till every mountain in Ireland pulsed and shone.

“Crown yourselves, mountains!” said Aodh, “that we may know the De Danaans are still alive and Lir’s house is builded now where old age cannot wither it! “

The mountains sent up great jewelled rays of light so that each one was crowned with a rainbow; and when the Children of Lir saw that splendour they had no more thought of the years they had spent over dark troublous waters, and they said to each other:

“Would we could hear the sound of the little bell that rings for prayers, and feel our swan-bodies fall from us!”

“I know the sound of a bell that rings for prayers,” said Aibric, ” and I will bring you where you can hear it. I will bring you to Saint Kemoc and you will hear the sound of his bell.”

“Let us go,” said the swans, and Aibric brought them to the Saint. The Saint held up his hands and blessed God when he saw them, and he besought them to remain a while and to tell him the story of their wanderings. He brought them into his little church and they were there with him in peace and happiness relating to him the wonders of the Land of Youth. It came to pass then that word reached the wife of King Largnen concerning the swans: she asked the king to get them for her, and because she demanded them with vehemence, the king journeyed to the Church of Saint Kemoc to get the swans.

When he was come, Saint Kemoc refused to give him the swans and Largnen forced his way into the church to take them. Now, he was a king of the North, and his wife was a queen of the South, and it was ordained that such a king should put an end to the power of Aoifa’s spell.

He came to the altar, and the swans were close to it. He put his hands on the swans to take them by force. When he touched them the swan-feathers dwindled and shrivelled and became as fine dust, and the bodies of Lir’s children became as a handful of dust, but their spirits attained to freedom and joined their kinsfolk in the Land-of-the-Ever-Living.

It was Aibric who remembered the story of the children of Lir, because he loved them. He told the story to the people of Ireland, and they were so fond of the story and had such pity for Lir’s children that they made a law that no one was to hurt a wild swan, and when they saw a swan flying they would say:

“My blessing with you, white swan, for the sake of Lir’s children!”

_____________

The Children Of Lir

– Katharine Tynan (1861-1931) From: Twenty One Poems by Katharine Tynan: Selected by W. B. Yeats

Out upon the sand-dunes thrive the coarse long grasses;

Herons standing knee-deep in the brackish pool;

Overhead the sunset fire and flame amasses

And the moon to eastward rises pale and cool.

Rose and green around her, silver-gray and pearly,

Chequered with the black rooks flying home to bed;

For, to wake at daybreak, birds must couch them early:

And the day’s a long one since the dawn was red.

On the chilly lakelet, in that pleasant gloaming,

See the sad swans sailing: they shall have no rest:

Never a voice to greet them save the bittern’s booming

Where the ghostly sallows sway against the West.

‘Sister,’ saith the gray swan, ‘Sister, I am weary,’

Turning to the white swan wet, despairing eyes;

‘O’ she saith, ‘my young one! O’ she saith, ‘my dearie !’

Casts her wings about him with a storm of cries.

Woe for Lir’s sweet children whom their vile stepmother

Glamoured with her witch-spells for a thousand years;

Died their father raving, on his throne another,

Blind before the end came from the burning tears.

Long the swans have wandered over lake and river;

Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir:

Gone and long forgotten like a dream of fever:

But the swans remember the sweet days that were.

Hugh, the black and white swan with the beauteous feathers,

Fiachra, the black swan with the emerald breast,

Conn, the youngest, dearest, sheltered in all weathers,

Him his snow-white sister loves the tenderest.

These her mother gave her as she lay a-dying;

To her faithful keeping; faithful hath she been,

With her wings spread o’er them when the tempest’s crying,

And her songs so hopeful when the sky’s serene.

Other swans have nests made ‘mid the reeds and rushes,

Lined with downy feathers where the cygnets sleep

Dreaming, if a bird dreams, till the daylight blushes,

Then they sail out swiftly on the current deep.

With the proud swan-father, tall, and strong, and stately,

And the mild swan-mother, grave with household cares,

All well-born and comely, all rejoicing greatly:

Full of honest pleasure is a life like theirs.

But alas ! for my swans with the human nature,

Sick with human longings, starved for human ties,

With their hearts all human cramped to a bird’s stature.

And the human weeping in the bird’s soft eyes.

Never shall my swans build nests in some green river,

Never fly to Southward in the autumn gray,

Rear no tender children, love no mates for ever;

Robbed alike of bird’s joys and of man’s are they.

Babbles Conn the youngest, ‘Sister, I remember

At my father’s palace how I went in silk,

Ate the juicy deer-flesh roasted from the ember,

Drank from golden goblets my child’s draught of milk.

Once I rode a-hunting, laughed to see the hurry,

Shouted at the ball-play, on the lake did row;

You had for your beauty gauds that shone so rarely.’

‘Peace’ saith Fionnuala, ‘that was long ago.’

‘Sister,’ saith Fiachra, ‘well do I remember

How the flaming torches lit the banquet-hall,

And the fire leapt skyward in the mid-December,

And among the rushes slept our staghounds tall.

By our father’s right hand you sat shyly gazing,

Smiling half and sighing, with your eyes a-glow,

As the bards sang loudly all your beauty praising. ‘

‘Peace,’ saith Fionnuala, ‘that was long ago.’

‘Sister,’ then saith Hugh ‘most do I remember

One I called my brother, one, earth’s goodliest man,

Strong as forest oaks are where the wild vines clamber,

First at feast or hunting, in the battle’s van.

Angus, you were handsome, wise, and true, and tender,

Loved by every comrade, feared by every foe:

Low, low, lies your beauty, all forgot your splendour.’

‘Peace,’ saith Fionnuala, ‘that was long ago.’

Dews are in the clear air and the roselight paling;

Over sands and sedges shines the evening star;

And the moon’s disc lonely high in heaven is sailing;

Silvered all the spear-heads of the rushes are.

Housed warm are all things as the night grows colder,

Water-fowl and sky-fowl dreamless in the nest;

But the swans go drifting, drooping wing and shoulder

Cleaving the still water where the fishes rest.

—–

The Children of Lir

– Sam Burnside

Wild things are out there, riding the dark waves

They dress the black rock of Carricknarone

Their shadows confound the stronghold of the White Field

An still, neither bell nor call to marriage breaks the silence

Aed

“After the change, for many days and many nights,

“the sea bubbled and boiled beneath my chest

“the air was afire with tongues of scarlet and yellow

“and breath came shallow and fast and score to me.”

Fiacra

“We are no wild things; we are

Finola and Aed, Fiacra and Conn. Yet it is known

“We have travelled long on salt weighted wings;

“We have long dined off sea salt and tear salt.”

Finola

“I find the world careless of its treasures

“it leaves behind in pool and in cove

“Coverlets of foamy lace. Under a full moon,

“When fish lie deep, I dream, bedecked in finery, I dance.”

Conn

“Always, at day’s break I draw near the smell of loam and leaf;

“the smell of damp grass draws me.

“Always at day’s end I am drawn to the sea’s land-march;

“the scent of cut grass and crushed wild parsley is dear to me.”

—–

Children of Lir

– George William (“A. E.”) Russell (1867–1935). Collected Poems by A.E. 1913.

We woke from our sleep in the bosom where cradled together we lay:

The love of the dark hidden Father went with us upon our way.

And gay was the breath in our being, and never a sorrow or fear

Was on us as, singing together, we flew from the infinite Lir.

Through nights lit with diamond and sapphire we raced with the children of dawn,

A chain that was silver and golden linked spirit to spirit, my swan,

Till day in the heavens passed over, and still grew the beat of our wings,

And the breath of the darkness enfolded to teach us unspeakable things.

Yet lower we fell and for comfort our pinionless spirits had now

The leaning of bosom to bosom, the lifting of lip unto brow.

Though chained to the earth yet we mourned not the loss of our heaven above,

But passed from the vision of beauty to the fathomless being of love.

Still gay is the breath in our being, we wait for the bell branch to ring

To call us away to the Father, and then we will rise on the wing,

And fly through the twilights of time till the home lights of heaven appear;

Our spirits through love and through longing made one in the infinite Lir.

Friday: Off to take on the task of the day.

I hope this finds you in some place of harmony.

I am struggling a bit with that myself right now.

Todays’ edition features a Portland fixture, Timbuktunes.

We have some nice poetry, and some fun links.

Have a good weekend…

The Solstice is nearly upon us.

Blessings,

G

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On The Menu:

The Links

Twisted Kitty!

Timbuktunes

The Poetry of Lao Tzu

___________

The Links:

Saint Paul Found?

Henry Rollins Speaks His Mind!

Digging dog’s archaeological find

Japanese Researchers Extract Vanilla From…

Wing Tunes!

__________

File Under: Twisted Kitty!

__________

Timbuktunes…

I will let you in on one of the best kept secrets of the best city on the left coast: Timbuktunes. Again, my friend Morgan introduced me to this most delightful of music stores. I walked in; and I found musics from around the world I had no idea about.

It is a great place for all kinds of music. World, American Root genres, avant-garde, classical, jazz and experimental musics…

As Andy Hosch, the owner and founder of Timbuktunes says: “Timbuktunes hopes that through sharing the love of music, it can help introduce people to new worlds of sound. World music can help to combat the xenophobia that plagues our society. We can celebrate cultural diversity through sound. Music can be highly instrumental in breaking down cultural barriers. In music, there exists a common thread of humanity that transcends political, social and religious differences.”

You feel this when you come in the door. Posters, material on the walls celebrate a vibrant world culture. Music from Andalusia, Malay, China, South America…

It is a great place to find what you may not know that you needed/wanted to hear…

Some suggestions from Timbuktunes for music:

Rachid Taha (Algeria) /Diwan 2 I actually obtained this the day it came in. Excellent. If you like his work “Bara Bara”, you’ll find this album very satisfying. The fusion elements in the music are exceptional, as well as the use of various languages. A wonderful, danceable melange. Recommended!

Listening Booths…

Rahim AlHaj (Iraq) / When the Soul is Settled: Music of Iraq

As received from his teachers and transformed by his considerable musical gifts and life experience, Rahim Alhaj carries on a significant strand of Iraqi musical tradition toward future generations – in his own way, in his own time. Alhaj studied music in Baghdad with Munir Bashir and other great teacher-performers. His extended improvisations on the oud, accompanied on Near Eastern percussion by Souhail Kaspar, include uniquely Iraqi pieces. Together they represent a proud tradition’s meeting with modernity.”

Tartit / Abacabok (Mali)

“As others have overtaken them, it’s easy to forget that Tartit were pioneers among the new generation of desert blues ensembles. But there’s a grave celebration in their mostly acoustic sound that’s so thoroughly rooted in both place and tradition, with singers backed largely just by drums and handclaps, with a one-string fiddle and three-string lute for melody. This is what they offer on the opener, “Tabey Tarate,” with male and female voices trading off in call and response over the rhythm. Abacabok sounds wonderfully spontaneous, as if they’d sat down with the producer and suddenly decided to make the record on the spot, drafting in occasional guests to offer change-ups, as electric guitar and bass do on “Ansari,” where the electricity brings them very close to Tinariwen. But that seems like a commercial concession; it’s when they’re most stripped-down that they shine brightest. Even a luminary like Afel Bocoum doesn’t do anything to enhance the purity of their sound. It might seem too stark for some ears, but there’s genuine beauty here.” ~ Chris Nickson

One Night @ the 1001, Vol 1: Moroccan Music Recorded by Brion Gysin

“Reissue of this long unavailable 1998 album, with new cover artwork. As surrealist painter, poet, novelist, audio experimenter, inventor of the Dream Machine, and favorite collaborator of William S. Burroughs, Brion Gysin would influence the most creative minds of the ’60s and ’70s. In 1954, Gysin launched his 1001 Nights club in Tangier. In his mythic restaurant that stayed opened only a few months, Gysin invited the best traditional Moroccan musicians to perform all night long. The first CD of this document is what the lucky Western and Moroccan customers of the interzone could hear at the time: a varied selection of pure traditional and trance music (along with other Joujouka master musicians, Bachir Attar’s father). Joujouka utilizes the technique of circular breathing backed by trance-inducing rhythms and sounds from the rhaita, reed flutes and small drums. A decade before Brian Jones brought this timeless music to the world, this is a unique document recorded by the inventor of the cut-up method himself, digitally remastered by Brion’s recordings heir Ramuntcho Matta and includes Paul Bowles’ exclusive introduction. The second volume of this double CD document is based on a spoken word tape called Dilaloo that is a precise description — written and read in 1956 by Brion Gysin “Master Brahim” himself — of an initiation ceremony in the village of Jajouka. Ramuntcho added a quiet electronic music background generated by a computer algorithm program that he created in Gysin’s random permutative spirit. Between the music of trance and the raw cry of being, we see the process of transformation at work. Trust your bones and put your faith in the Third Mind! Rare archives filed in the Aural Documents collection.”

Andy Hosch – Timbuktunes Founder

Master Musicians of Joujouka (Morocco) / Boujeloud

“The Master Musicians of Joujouka are often credited with being the first “world music” group. The Joujouka music for Boujeloud, or the Father of Skins, is frantic and has several movements which would equate to a symphony or the score of an opera if it were European classical music. The festival and ritual originate in the worship of the God Pan. In 1994, Frank Rynne began a two year long project recording the Master Musicians of Joujouka in their village. Sub Rosa released two CDs from these recordings, Joujouka Black Eyes and Sufi to critical acclaim in 1995 and 1996, respectively. This is the third and final CD from these intimate recordings to be released by Sub Rosa. Boujeloud contains several different renditions of the ritual music Boujeloud. Each version has a widely different character which is determined by the combination of musicians and the spontaneous improvisation of the lead players. Tracks 1, 2, 6, and 8 are flute versions from various combinations of the Masters, while track 3 features the intense sound of the massed rhaitas playing the ritual. There are also songs which are used in lead up to the ritual, and songs that the musicians use to drive Boujeloud/Pan out of the village. The musicians recorded on this CD span four generation of Joujouka masters. Master musician Mujehid Mujdoubi was 83 years old when he recorded his music for this CD: though he had lost the ability to play the double-reed rhaita, Mujehid’s lira playing fully demonstrates the musical dexterity which seventy years of playing honed to perfection. The core group who still live and play in the village are widely represented on this CD. The different versions of “Boujeloud” and the related songs allow the listener to experience the melodies and the improvisational nature of Joujouka music played live in its natural setting. These recordings are an intimate and unique experience.”

Visit Timbuktunes World Music site if you are curious, or would like to order. The Website is located at: WWW.Timbuktunes.com

If you are in Portland and want to stop by…

Timbuktunes World Music is located at:

4726-B SE Hawthorne / Portland, OR 97215 / (503) 239-0179

<>

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The Poetry of Lao Tzu

Beauty and ugliness have one origin.

Name beauty, and ugliness is.

Recognizing virtue recognizes evil.

Is and is not produce one another.

The difficult is born in the easy,

long is defined by short, the high by the low.

Instrument and voice achieve one harmony.

Before and after have places.

That is why the sage can act without effort

and teach without words,

nurture things without possessing them,

and accomplish things without expecting merit:

only one who makes no attempt to possess it

cannot lose it.

—-

The Tao that can be trodden is not the enduring and unchanging Tao.

The name that can be named is not the enduring and unchanging name.

(Conceived of as) having no name,

it is the Originator of heaven and earth; (conceived of as) having a name,

it is the Mother of all things.

Always without desire we must be found,

If its deep mystery we would sound;

But if desire always within us be,

Its outer fringe is all that we shall see.

Under these two aspects, it is really the same;

but as development takes place, it receives the different names.

Together we call them the Mystery.

Where the Mystery is the deepest is the gate of all that

is subtle and wonderful.

—

The Tao is (like) the emptiness of a vessel;

and in our employment of it we must be on our guard against all fullness.

How deep and unfathomable it is, as if it were the Honoured Ancestor of

all things!

We should blunt our sharp points, and unravel the complications of things;

we should attempt our brightness, and bring ourselves into agreement with the obscurity of others.

How pure and still the Tao is, as if it would ever so continue!

I do not know whose son it is. It might appear to have been before God.

—

The valley spirit dies not, aye the same;

The female mystery thus do we name.

Its gate, from which at first they issued forth,

Is called the root from which grew heaven and earth.

Long and unbroken does its power remain,

Used gently, and without the touch of pain.

______

I am working on another entry and it is taking a bit of time…

Here are some gems that I have been gifted with (Thank You Dale!), others that jumped forward almost yelling Pick Me, Pick Me! Well, how can you refuse?

I have a soft spot for Folk Tales, Myths Stories. In their interiors lurk pure gold. We have just to look.

Off to a customers…

Hope you enjoy this entry.

Gwyllm

—-

On The Menu

The Links

Ainu Tales: How a Man got the better of two Foxes

Koans

Poetry: Dale Pendell – 2 New Poems

__________

The Links:

Super kids: Indigo kids debate

Strange story of the king and hypnotist doctor

Life on Mars?

Racer Recovers From Severed Head

__________

Ainu Tales: How a Man got the better of two Foxes

A man went into the mountains to get bark to make rope with, and found a hole. To this hole there came a fox, who spoke as follows, though he was a fox, in human language: “I know of something from which great profit may be derived. Let us go to the place to-morrow!” To which the fox inside the hole replied as follows: “What profitable thing do you allude to? After hearing about it, I will go with you if it sounds likely to be profitable; and if not, not.” The fox outside spoke thus: “The profitable thing to be done is this. I will come here to-morrow about the time of the mid-day meal. You must be waiting for me then, and we will go off together. If you take the shape of a horse, and we go off together, I taking the shape of a man and riding on your back, we can go down to the shore, where dwell human beings possessed of plenty of food and all sorts of other things. As there is sure to be among the people some one who wants a horse, I will sell you to him who thus wants a horse. I can then buy a quantity of precious things and of food. Then I shall run away; and you, having the appearance of a horse, will be led out to eat grass, and be tied up somewhere on the hillside. Then, if I come and help you to escape, and we divide the food and the precious things equally between us, it will be profitable for both of us.” Thus spoke the fox outside the hole; and the fox inside the hole was very glad, and said: “Come and fetch me early to-morrow, and we will go off together.”

The man was hidden in the shade of the tree, and had been listening. Then the fox who had been standing outside went away, and the man, too, went home for the night. But he came back next day to the mouth of the hole, and spoke thus, imitating the voice of the fox whom he had heard speaking outside the hole the day before: “Here I am. Come out at once! If you will turn into a horse, we will go down to the shore.” The fox came out. It was a big fox. The man said: “I have come already turned into a man. If you turn into a horse, it will not matter even if we are seen by other people.” The fox shook itself, and became a large chestnut [lit. red] horse. Then the two went off together, and came to a very rich village, plentifully provided with everything. The man said: “I will sell this horse to anybody who wants one.” As the horse was a very fine one, every one wanted to buy it. So the man bartered it for a quantity of food and precious things, and then went away.

Now the horse was such a peculiarly fine one that its new owner did not like to leave it out-of-doors, but always kept it in the house. He shut the door, and he shut the window, and cut grass to feed it with. But though he fed it, it could not (being really a fox) eat grass at all. All it wanted to eat was fish. After about four days it was like to die. At last it made its escape through the window and ran home; and, arriving at the place where the other fox lived, wanted to kill it. But it discovered that the trick had been played, not by its companion fox, but by the man. So both the foxes were very angry, and consulted about going to find the man and kill him.

But though the two foxes had decided thus, the man came and made humble excuses, saying: “I came the other day, because I had overheard you two foxes plotting; and then I cheated you. For this I humbly beg your pardon. Even if you do kill me, it will do no good. So henceforward I will brew rice-beer for you, and set up the divine symbols for you, and worship you,—worship you for ever. In this way you will derive greater profit than you would derive from killing me. Fish, too, whenever I make a good catch, I will offer to you as an act of worship. This being so, the creatures called men shall worship you for ever.”

The foxes, hearing this, said: “That is capital, we think. That will do very well.” Thus spake the foxes. Thus does it come about that all men, both Japanese and Aino, worship the fox. So it is said.—(Translated literally. Told by Ishanashte, 15th July, 1886.)

_______

_______

Koans…

If You Love, Love Openly

Twenty monks and one nun, who was named Eshun, were practicing meditation with a certain Zen master.

Eshun was very pretty even though her head was shaved and her dress plain. Several monks secretly fell in love with her. One of them wrote her a love letter, insisting upon a private meeting.

Eshun did not reply. The following day the master gave a lecture to the group, and when it was over, Eshun arose. Addressing the one who had written to her, she said: “If you really love me so much, come and embrace me now.”

—-

The Last Rap

Tangen had studied with Sengai since childhood. When he was twenty he wanted to leave his teacher and visit others for comparitive study, but Sengai would not permit this. Every time Tangen suggested it, Sengai would give him a rap on the head.

Finally Tangen asked an elder brother to coax permission from Sengai. This the brother did and then reported to Tangen: “It is arranged. I have fixed it for you to start on your pilgrimage at once.”

Tangen went to Sengai to thank him for his permission. The master answered by giving him another rap.

When Tangen related this to his elder brother the other said: “What is the matter? Sengai has no business giving premission and then changing his mind. I will tell him so.” And off he went to see the teacher.

“I did not cancel my permission,” said Sengai. “I just wished to give him one last smack over the head, for when he returns he will be enlightened and I will not be able to reprimand him again.”

________

2 New Poems From Dale Pendell

This Day Like Any Other

–for Utah Phillips

I refuse to obey. I refuse the medal, the bullets, I

Countermand, I will not fire, I will not pay, I refuse,

I, we, together, we refuse, we won’t, we’ll sit,

We’ll stand, we won’t work. Sir, I refuse

To obey, great God, I refuse, I won’t, again, anymore,

This day, a jaguar day, this rattling of winds day,

This bread in the trampled landfill day, this,

Wounded and clawing, we won’t, I won’t, I refuse

To obey, Sir, it’s important, this fine day,

This turning and terrible day, this day the books

Litter the streets like washing, this day

The wall wails from rebuilding, this day the angels

Shudder in hiding, this day when the dead

Are too many, this day I refuse, Sir, to obey.

_______

The Ballad of the Hungry Ghosts

They have no breath, nor bones, nor blood;

They appear, and then dissolve.

Their only drive is for more and more

Until they own it all.

They have no children or family,

Neighbors, or sense of shame;

Their birth is a limited charter

Solely conceived for gain.

They’re called a corporate body

And given the rights of men:

Denizens of a nether world

To whom all flesh must bend.

Radio Station Is In Test Mode! Cut and Paste!

http://87.194.36.124:8000/radio

http://87.194.36.124:8001/radio-low

(Spoken Word coming soon!)

A late start… this is a second attempt on this blog. I somehow wrenched my shoulder; and the pain factor has been a bit silly. Distracting, that is the word.

Sunshine today, I am out for a walk.

Hope this finds you in a good place!

Gwyllm

On The Menu:

The Links

Fire Poker Zen

The Pixies of Dartmoor: The Pixies’ Revel

Poetry in the Indigenous World…

Art: Arthur Wardle (British, 1864-1949)

I have used his art in various projects over the years. Almost forgotten now days, he was one of the greats!

______

The Links

I Have Leary Surrounded – An Interview with John Higgs

BRITAIN’S LAST WITCH TRIAL

Did starving Neanderthals eat each other?

Legend of the sword in the lake halts plans to build huge dam in Manipur

______________________

________________

Fire-Poker Zen

Hakuin used to tell his pupils about an old woman who had a teashop, praising her understanding of Zen. The pupils refused to believe what he told them and would go to the teashop to find out for themselves.

Whenever the woman saw them coming she could tell at once whether they had come for tea or to look into her grasp of Zen. In the former case, she would server them graciously. In the latter, she would beckon to the pupils to come behind her screen. The instant they obeyed, she would strike them with a fire-poker.

Nine out of ten of them could not escape her beating.

______________________

I spent a lot of time on Dartmoor. Wonderful place, deeply haunted!

The Pixies of Dartmoor: The Pixies’ Revel

Once upon a time–we will begin the story in the orthodox fashion–an old farmer and his wife dwelt in a lonely house on the moor. Fortune could not exactly be said to have frowned upon them, for the couple might have been very much worse off than they were, but yet she had not turned towards them her brightest of smiles, they having rather more than their full share of toil. The farmer was out in his fields from morning till night, and when he reached the house was glad, after his supper and a short rest by the fire, to take himself off to his bed. But unfortunately, although he so much needed sleep, he was at length unable to obtain it, in consequence of the pixies having suddenly taken a fancy to visiting his house at night, and keeping up an incessant chattering in the kitchen, which was situated immediately underneath his bedroom. And so he frequently lay tossing about, not able to get a wink of sleep until far into the night, and sometimes never closed his eyes at all. He was reluctant to incur the enmity of the “little people” by driving them away, and so he bore this state of things for some time, till one night the noise was so great, that he jumped out of bed, determined to put a stop to it.

“What be the matter?” asked his dame, to whom he had not communicated his intention.

“‘Way, these here pisgies be a makin’ sich a rattle that I want put up wi’t no more. I’ll zee what they he up to; I can zee mun droo the ‘all in the planchin’.”

The farmer peeped down through the hole in the floor, and unobserved by the pixies was able to become a spectator of their proceedings. In the middle of the kitchen a number of them were dancing in a ring, while others were running and jumping about the room, at the same time all were shouting and making a great noise. On the shelves of the dresser several were perched, to the imminent danger of the good wife’s cups and plates, while some were climbing up the clock-case, and mounting the deal table, and jumping again to the floor, to run in and out of the circle of merry dancers. They were evidently enjoying themselves heartily, and the farmer felt almost inclined to let them alone, till the many sleepless nights he had endured came to his recollection. As he was considering the best means of ridding himself of his unwelcome company, he observed a pixy perched upon a stool immediately beneath him, and thinking how greatly he should frighten the noisy party if he could but strike one of them, he took up a steel-pronged fork which lay near him, and noiselessly putting his arm through the hole in the floor, let it drop right on to the pixy. The little fellow happened to commence capering about just as the farmer did this, and luckily for him the fork did not enter his body, but pinned him by the leg to the stool. He set up a great cry, and the pixies seeing what had happened, flew towards the door and rapidly made their exit through the keyhole. The unfortunate victim of the farmer’s vengeance attempted to follow, but while he was able to reduce his own size so as to go through the smallest of crevices without difficulty, he had no power to alter that of the stool, and consequently he stuck fast in the keyhole. Here he was captured by the master of the house, who had hurried down stairs when he saw the effect of his aim, and speedily released from his encumbrance.

The rural narrator from whom I had this story was unable to say what the farmer did with his prize, but let us hope that he merely intimated to him his desire to be permitted to sheep quietly in the future, and let him go.

The foregoing are but a few examples of the many tales that are related of the pixies, but they will serve to illustrate the various parts played by that fairy race when interesting themselves in the affairs of mortals. While they often manifest a readiness to assist in the work of the farmer, their actions were certainly somewhat erratic. A spirit of mischief seems not infrequently to have ruled them, though it would generally appear that unless some cause had been given them to tease or punish those who dwelt near their haunts, the latter were more likely to receive good than harm at their hands.

We have said that the age of the pixies is gone. And that they have almost disappeared before “the march of intellect ” is indeed the case; but while this is so, the exploits which are yet related of them remain as a not uninteresting portion of our folk-lore.

+

[a] While these sheets were passing through the press, an instance of superstitious belief was reported in the Western Daily Mercury, of 6th June, 1890. It appears that a few days previous to that date, some labourers were engaged in ripping bark in a wood at a short distance from Torrington, in North Devon. When the time arrived for them to leave their work, one of them separating himself from his companions went to another part of the wood, in order to fetch a tool which he had left there. As he stooped to pick it up, a most strange feeling came over him, and he felt himself utterly unable to regain an upright position. Around him he heard peals of discordant laughter, and became seized with the conviction that he had fallen under a spell of the pixies. In this uncomfortable predicament he averred that he remained for the space of five hours, and was even then only able to crawl away on his hands and knees. Not knowing in what direction he was proceeding, he fell at length into a stream, and on pulling himself out of it, recognized his whereabouts, and made the best of his way home. Here he was remonstrated with by his wife for not having turned his pocket inside out, a charm which could not fail to counteract the magic power of the pixies. It is stated that a man named Short–a tailor–was a few years since pixy-led in the same wood, and continued under the spells of the goblins until morning.

[b] It is somewhat interesting to note that in the story which comes to us from Torrington. the man was unable to find his way home until he met with a stream.

__________

______________________

Poetry in the Indigenous World…

A Shaman Climbs Up the Sky

Altaic, Siberia

The Shaman mounts a scarecrow in the shape of a goose

above the white sky

beyond the white clouds

above the blue sky

beyond the blue clouds

this bird climbs the sky

–

The Shaman offers horsemeat to the chief drummer

the master of the six-knob

drum he takes a small piece

then he draws closer he

brings it to me in his hand

when I say “go” he bends

first at the knees when I

say “scat” he takes it all

whatever I give him

–

The Shaman fumigates nine robes

gifts no horse can carry

that no man can lift &amp;

robes with triple necks

to look at &amp; to touch

three times: to use this

as a horse blanket:

sweet

prince ulgan

you are my prince

my treasure

you are my joy

—–

Invocation to Markut, the bird of heaven

this bird of heaven who keeps

five shapes &amp; powerful

brass claws (the moon

has copper claws the moon’s

beak is made of ice) whose

wings are powerful &amp;

strike the air whose tail

is power &amp; a heavy wind

markut whose left wing

hides the moon whose

right wing hides the sun

who never gets lost who flies

past that-place nothing tires her

who comes toward this-place

in my house I listen

for her singing I wait

the game begins

falling past my right eye landing

here

on my right shoulder

markut is the mother of five eagles

–

The Shaman reaches the 1st sky

my shadow on the landing

I have climbed to (have reached

this place called sky

&amp; struggled with its summit)

I who stand here

higher than the moon

full moon my shadow

–

The Shaman pierces the 2nd sky

to reach the second landing

this further level

look!

the floor below us

lies in ruins

–

At the end of the Climb: Praise to Prince Ulgan

three stairways lead

to him three flocks

sustain him PRINCE ULGAN!

blue hill where no hill

was before: blue sky

everywhere: a blue cloud

turning swiftly

that no one can reach

a blue sky that no one

can reach (to reach it

to journey a year by water

then to bow before him

three times to exalt him)

for whom the moon’s edge

shines forever PRINCE ULGAN!

you have use for the hoofs

of our horses you who give us

flocks who keep pain from us

sweet

prince ulgan

for whom the stars &amp; the sky

are turning a thousand times

turning a thousand times over

Translation after French version in Roger Caillois and Jean-Clarence Lambert, Trésor de la poésie universelle, 1958. The subtitles are derived from Mircea Eliade’s Shamanism.

_____

15 Flower World Variations

Yaqui

o flower fawn

about to come out playing

in this flower water

out there

in the flower world

the patio of flowers

in the flower water

playing

flower fawn

about to come out playing

in this flower water

–

in wilderness I am

that only melon

flowering

&amp; splitting

sending vines out

everywhere

you are

in wilderness

I am that only

melon flowering

&amp; splitting

sending vines out

in the flower world

out there

under the dawn

a pale blue cloud

will be grey water

at its peak

the mist will reach

will rain down

on the flower ground

&amp; shining

reaching bottom

where you are

in wilderness

that only melon flowering

I am

&amp; splitting

sending vines out

everywhere

–

when the fresh night comes

o night hawk

you fly up

o night hawk

out there

in the flower world

under the dawn

the light beyond us

you fly up

o night hawk

from a branch of mesquite

you fly up

o night hawk

–

(where is the rotted stick that screeches lying?)

the screeching rotted stick is lying over there

(where is the rotted stick that screeches lying?)

the screeching rotted stick is lying over there

there in the flower world

beyond us

in the tree world

the screeching rotted stick

is lying

over there the screeching

rotted stick is lying

over there

–

ah brother

look at you

a deer with flowers

brother

shake your antlers

little brother

shake your antlers

deer with flowers

why not let your belt

your deer hoofs

shake? why not vibrate

cocoons

strapped to your ankles

brother

shake them

little brother

shake &amp; roll

–

in one tree

one stick

who makes the sound of cracking

cracking wood?

in one tree

one stick

who makes the sound of cracking

cracking wood?

there in the flower world

the tree world

you do not have my

long grey body

in one tree

one stick

who makes the sound of cracking

cracking wood?

–

what’s this tree bent down with

flowers?

surely

it’s this flower stick

bent down

with flowers surely

what’s this tree bent down with

flowers?

surely

it’s this flower stick

bent down with

flowers surely

out there

in the flower world

the floral world

among the sagebrush

there’s a flower bush bent down with

flowers

surely it’s this flower stick

bent down with flowers

surely

–

out in the mountain there

these look like

doves

&amp; in the flower water

three of them

are grey &amp; bobbing

three of them are walking

grey &amp; side by side

there in the flower world

the dawn

out in the flower water

three of them

are grey &amp; bobbing

in the mountain there

these look like doves

out there

&amp; in the flower water

three are grey

&amp; bobbing

three of them are walking

grey &amp; side by side

–

you

like a mountain squirrel

old enchanter

sounding large

&amp; like a mountain squirrel

old enchanter

there in the flower world

the dawn

there in its light

that big place over there

that mountain canyon

sounding large

&amp; like a mountain squirrel

old enchanter

sounding large

–

to sleep in

these flowers

to crawl there

I who am flower-world creeper

who sleep there

who crawl in these flowers

out there

in the tree world

climbing this branch

I crawl up it

to sleep in

these flowers

I who am flower-world creeper

who sleep there

–

where are you standing

in the wind

dead grasses

grey &amp; shaking in the wind

dead grasses

where are you standing

in the wind dead grasses

grey &amp; shaking in the wind

dead grasses

there in the wilderness

the flower world

a pale blue cloud

will be grey water

at its peak

the mist will reach

will rain down

on the flower ground

&amp; shining

reaching bottom

where you are

where you are only

standing in the wind

dead grasses

grey &amp; shaking in the wind

dead grasses

–

ah brother

they want us to kill

this beaver

they want us to kill

ah brother

this beaver

this beaver

ah brother

they want us to kill

with a bow &amp; arrow

they want us to kill it

ah brother

with hair standing up

they were waiting

&amp; ran from us

broke down their doors to get in

now they want us

to kill it

ah brother

with a bow &amp; arrow

ah brother

they want us to kill it

–

flower

with the body of a fawn

under a cholla flower

standing there

to rub your antlers

bending

turning where you stand to rub

your antler

in the flower world

the dawn

there in its light

under a cholla flower

standing there

to rub your antlers

bending turning where you stand

to rub your antlers

flower

with the body of a fawn

under a cholla flower

standing there

to rub your antlers

bending

turning where you stand to rub

your antlers

——-

Song of a Dead Man

I do not want these flowers

moving

but the flowers

want to move

I do not want these flowers

moving

but the flowers

want to move

I do not want these flowers

moving

but the flowers

want to move

out in the flower world

the dawn

over a road of flowers

I do not want these flowers

moving

but the flowers

want to move

I do not want these flowers

moving

but the flowers

the flowers

want to move

–

now the cloud

will break

the cloud will break

&amp; now

the cloud will break

the cloud

will break

&amp; now the cloud

will break

the cloud will break

there in the flower world

under the dawn

this pale blue cloud

will be grey water

at its peak

the mist will reach

will rain down

shining

&amp; reaching bottom

now the cloud

will break

the cloud will break

&amp; now

the cloud will break

the cloud

will break

The Flower World settings were derived from traditional Yaqui Deer Dance songs in literal translations by Carleton Wilder, et al.

______

KIOWA “49″ SONGS

(1)

I don’t care if you’re married, I’ll still get you,

I’ll get you yet.

I don’t care if you’re married sixteen times,

I’ll get you yet.

When the dance is over, sweetheart,

I will take you home in my one-eyed Ford.

(2)

If you really love me honey, hey-yah.

If you really love me honey, hey-yah.

Come back, come back if you really love me honey.

I’m from Oklahoma, far away from my home,

Down here looking for you.

If you’ll be my honey, I will be your sugarpie.

I’m from Carnegie, so far away from my home,

Down here looking for you.

If you’ll be my snag, I’ll be your snag-a-roo.

(3)

You know that I love you, sweetheart, but every time I come around

You always say you got another one.

You know damn good and well that I love you.

To heck with your ole man.

Come up and see me sometime.

(4)

She said she don’t love me anymore because I drink whiskey,

I don’t care, I got a better one.

—-

Commentary

A popular form of contemporary Indian lyric, “49″ songs show up throughout the States “at powwows and other social gatherings, usually late in the evening after other types of dances and songs are completed.” The origin of the name has been various explained, in Alan R. Velie’s version, as derived from a burlesque show of the 1920s that toured Kiowa country with a California gold rush theme &amp; the repeated refrain, “See the girls of ’49, see the ’49 girls.” Applied to Kiowa women who were singing semitraditional “war-journey songs” with transformed lyrics, the name (so they say) stuck &amp; passed into the pan-Indian culture. “In singing ’49′ songs” – writes Velie – “the singers chant a nonverbal refrain to an accompanying drum beat. After an extended period of chanting, they sing the short lyric once, either in Kiowa or in English.” The words of the present versions are the original English – a good example of how a feeling for the “luminous detail” &amp; for the ironies of language &amp; behavior can be brought into an altered context. It should be noted, however, that the songs presented here as texts aren’t identical to those presented on the accompanying recording.

________

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

-Gary Snyder

(Emily Carr – Totem Walk At Sitka)

_________

Don’t let the minute spoil the hour. — Ted Joans

Working on projects and the like… Went out last night late with Morgan Miller for a birthday drink. He just turned 49. Hard to believe, as I met him when he was just a lad of 39! This entry came from a suggestion that Morgan made…

I spent lots of time trying to find poetry of Ted Joans perhaps the most under represented Beat/Surrealist Poet… (how does this happen?) Amazing stuff. Humbled by his dexterity with words.

Emily Carr work was a revelation to me. She paints the Northwest that I see inside! Wonderful work!

I want to thank Morgan for his turning me on to both artist who are featured today… I am always amazed at his depth of knowledge. Thanks Morgan for the good times, poetry and prodding.

Here is to our Northwest, and to the peoples who inhabit it. Be they Human, Raven Orca or Others.

On The Menu:

The Links

Emily Carr

AnêktcXô’lEmiX – A Chinook Story

Ted Joans – Poetry

__________

The Links:

The man I had drinks with last night: An Interview with Morgan Miller

W3- ANONYMOUS REMAILER

Teams Explore Roots of Angkor Civilization

Tropical forest biochemistry, the driving force in human evolution

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Emily Carr (December 13, 1871 – March 2, 1945) was a Canadian artist and writer.

She was born in Victoria, British Columbia, and moved to San Francisco in 1890 to study art after the death of her parents. In 1899 she travelled to England to deepen her studies, where she spent time at the Westminster School of Art in London and at various studio schools in Cornwall, Bushey, Hertfordshire, San Fransisco, and elsewhere. In 1910, she spent a year studying art at the Académie Colarossi in Paris and elsewhere in France before moving back to British Columbia permanently the following year.

Carr was most heavily influenced by the landscape and First Nations cultures of British Columbia, and Alaska. Having visited a mission school beside the Nuu-chah-nulth community of Ucluelet in 1898, in 1908 she was inspired by a visit to Skagway and began to paint the totem poles of the coastal Kwakwaka’wakw, Haida, Tsimshian, Tlingit and other communities, in an attempt to record and learn from as many as possible. In 1913 she was obliged by financial considerations to return permanently to Victoria after a few years in Vancouver, both of which towns were, at that time, conservative artistically. Influenced by styles such as post-impressionism and Fauvism, her work was alien to those around her and remained unknown to and unrecognized by the greater art world for many years. For more than a decade she worked as a potter, dog breeder and boarding house landlady, having given up on her artistic career.

In the 1920s she came into contact with members of the Group of Seven (artists) after being invited by the National Gallery of Canada to participate in an exhibition of Canadian West Coast Art, Native and Modern. She travelled to Ontario for this show in 1927 where she met members of the Group, including Lawren Harris, whose support was invaluable. She was invited to submit her works for inclusion in a Group of Seven exhibition, the beginning of her long and valuable association with the Group. They named her ‘The Mother of Modern Arts’ around five years later.

The Nuu-chah-nulth of Vancouver Island’s west coast had nicknamed Carr Klee Wyck, “the laughing one.” She gave this name to a book about her experiences with the natives, published in 1941. The book won the Governor General’s Award that year.

Her other titles were The Book of Small (1942),The House of All Sorts (1944) and Growing Pains (1946) Pause and The Heart of a Peacock (1953), and in 1966, Hundreds and Thousands. They reveal her to be an accomplished writer. Though mostly autobiographical, they have been found to be unreliable as to facts and figures if not in terms of mood and intent.

Emily Carr Institute of Art and Design, Emily Carr Elementary School in Vancouver, British Columbia, Emily Carr Middle School in Ottawa, Ontario and Emily Carr Public School in London, Ontario are named after her.

Emily Carr is interred in the Ross Bay Cemetery in Victoria. Her gravestone inscription reads “Artist and Author / Lover of Nature”.

___________

From the First Peoples of our land…

AnêktcXô’lEmiX – A Chinook Story

There was a town the chief of which had died. His two children were grown up; one was a girl and one a, boy. Early every morning the people went out to hunt sea-otters. The girl was always in the stern of the canoe. At dark they returned home. Five times they had gone hunting, then it grew foggy. Her hair became wet and she swallowed the water which dripped down from her hair. A long time the people remained there. Then she became pregnant. Blue-Jay was the first to observe it. He said: “Don’t you notice it? He made his sister pregnant.” Robin said: “Be quiet, Blue-Jay, you will make our chief’s children ashamed.” “Ha, he is the elder of us two and he ought to know better than I.”

After some time she became stouter. “Heh, we will run,” said Blue-Jay. “I am ashamed because her brother made her pregnant. We will leave them; we will move!” Then, indeed, the people believed Blue-Jay. Again the brother and sister went hunting sea-otters. In the evening they came home. Now there were no people and no houses. “Lo, they deserted us. Blue-Jay advised them to do so.” Then the brother continued: “Tell me who made you pregnant?” She replied, “I do not know.

Once when we went out hunting sea otters a mist came up and I swallowed the water which made me Qualmish.” Then they searched for fire. But the people had poured water into all the fires. The last house was that of their aunt, the Crow. It also was taken away. They walked about and there they heard the crackling of fire. The brother said to his sister: “Do you hear the fire?” After awhile it crackled again.

They found the place from where the sound appeared to come. They dug into the ground and found a shell. In the shell there was burning coal. “Oh,” they said to each other, “our aunt pitied us; she put the fire into the shell for us.” Now they started a fire. The next day they built a small house. There they lived for a long time.

One day a sea breeze arose. Early in the morning the man rose and went down to the beach. There he found ten cedar planks, each ten fathoms long, which had drifted ashore. He went up to the house and said to his sister: “I have found ten planks, each ten fathoms long.” They went to the beach, hauled them up to their house, and the brother made a large house. Then the brother said: “What kind of a blanket will you make for your son?”

In the morning he went down to the beach and there he found two small sea-otters. He said: “Oh, my poor nephew, this will be your blanket.” “He took them up to the house and said to his sister: “I found these sea-otters.” Then she was very glad. The brother said: “What soup are you going to make for your son?” In the morning he arose and went down to the beach. There he found a sea-lion. He skinned it and cut it, and then they boiled it.

Every day he went down to the beach, and every time he found two sea-otters. And their house was full of sea-otter skins. One morning he went to the beach; there was a whale. Then he ran back to his sister and cried: “A whale is on the beach!” His sister said in reply: “Every night the people on the other side of the ocean send us food. Those supernatural people love me. My boy’s father came. Now cut the whale.” Then he skinned it and cut it and they carried up the meat.

Now the Crow made herself ready to look for her nephew and her niece. She launched her canoe and paddled across, wailing all the time. When she had almost crossed the bay she discovered a house and saw smoke rising. She went on. When she was near the shore she saw a chief sitting on the roof of the house. [The latter said to his sister, when he saw the Crow coming:] “Our aunt who pitied us is coming there.”

She arrived and saw the whale on the beach. She [was very hungry,] went to the whale and pulled at the meat. Then her nephew said: “Come up to the house; why do you touch that rotten meat?” She replied: “Oh, I only looked at it,” and went up to the house. She entered and saw that it was full of whale meat. She went right up to the child [and wanted to take it in her arms], but the child began to cry. The sister said: “Oh, he is afraid of your tears.” They gave her water and she washed her face.

Then she tried again to take him, but still he cried. The sister said “He, is afraid of your breath.” Then she took water, cleaned her mouth and took him again, but still he cried. Then the sister said to her aunt: “Do you think he is a human being? Look here, he is the son of a supernatural being. They gave us that whale to eat.” “Oh,” said the Crow. They boiled whale meat for her and she ate it. After she had finished eating she went home. They gave her two pieces of blubber which she put into her mat.

The Crow went across the bay; and when she approached the town she cried: “O, my sister’s children, my sister’s children, birds flew up from you many times; eagles were eating you. O, my sister’s children, my sister’s children, gulls were eating you. Ravens were eating you, O, my sister’s children.” Now she came still nearer the town. Blue-Jay was sitting outside and saw her coming. When she had nearly arrived she cried again: “O, my sister’s children, my sister’s children, birds flew up from you; crows were eating you.”

Then Blue-Jay shouted: “Do you not notice? She names the Crow; she names the Crow.” Now she landed and went up to the house. Now all the people came into the Crow’s house. They asked her how she had found her sister’s children. She replied and told much. “I went across and I found their bodies full of birds which ate them. All kinds of birds ate them.” After she had finished, Blue-Jay was the first to leave the house. He went to the rear of the house, where he stayed.

Now, the Crow was silent. Robin, who was her deceased husband’s brother, remained with her. They sat on opposite sides of the fire. She had five children. Then she told him everything in a low voice, and Blue-Jay listened outside. She pulled out the food which she had carried home, cut it to pieces, and gave it to her children and to Robin. Her youngest daughter choked [when eating the blubber].

Then Blue-Jay, who had been peeping through the chinks of the wall, entered and slapped her nape. The piece of whale, meat flew out of her month. Blue-Jay took it up, went out, showed it to the people, and said: “Do you see? The Crow fed me.” He went to three houses showing it around, then he ate it. After some time it grew dark. The people were very hungry.

Then Blue-Jay said to the chief of the town: “O, chief, the house [of the young man whom we deserted] is full of whale meat. A supernatural being loved his sister. He invites me, and he has invited the Crow and Robin.” Late in the evening Blue-Jay came out of the house, took his large blanket [and went to his elder brother, Robin,] saying, “Robin, let us sleep under one blanket; I always get cold.” Robin replied: “Ya-a, I always sleep alone, and do not want anyone with me; sleep there at my feet.”

Now Blue-Jay lay down at Robin’s feet. Blue-Jay remained awake. When it was nearly morning Blue-Jay fell asleep. Now Robin and Crow made a canoe [ready]. Then Robin and the Crow went to their canoe and carried their property into it. Now Robin took a sharp stick and put it in the ground at Blue-Jay’s feet. Then Robin and the Crow went across to the young man and to his sister, and left Blue-Jay alone. Early in the morning when he awoke, he said: “Wake up, Robin,” and kicked him; but his feet struck the stick, and he hurt himself. “O, my feet!” he cried. “They left me here alone.” Then he went home to his children. Crow and Robin crossed the bay and went up to the house of the young man.

Early next morning Blue-Jay said: “Now, let us all go across.” They made themselves ready and went across. When they were in the middle of the bay a heavy gale arose, and the people almost died. They had to turn back. Five days [they tried to cross the bay], but every time they were driven back. Then they got across. Now it began to snow, and the people were covered with snow. They became very cold.

Thus their chief took revenge upon them. Then Blue-Jay went up to the house. [He found a knothole and called to Robin, who was in the house:] “Robin, open for me, I am cold. Bring me food, Robin, I am starving.” Robin did not reply. “Robin, take the tongs and put some food through this hole.” Robin was boiling meat. Then he took the tongs and put them into the boiling kettle. He pushed the tongs through the knothole. Blue-Jay [was so hungry that he] licked the fat off from the tongs.

He said: “Robin, Robin, tell the chief that I will give him my daughter in marriage, but let him open the door.” “Ya-a,” said Robin; “What shall he do with her? He wants your chief’s daughter [not yours].” Then Blue-Jay ran down to the beach and said to his chief: “The young man asks for your daughter and for my daughter.” The chief did not reply, and Blue-Jay ran back to the house and said: “Robin, the chief says he will give him his daughter.” Five times Blue-Jay ran down to the beach and back to the house.

Then his chief spoke; he made his daughter ready, and put on her dentalia, and so did Blue-Jay. Once more he ran up to the house and said: “Robin, I have made my daughter ready.” “Ya,” replied Robin; “She shall look after the chamber.” Now they brought the chief’s daughter up to the house and they opened the door.

On the following morning the sister had disappeared. Lo! The supernatural beings had taken her and her child away. The people remained in this place and made new houses.

Once upon a time the Crow gathered many potentilla roots [put them into her canoe] and crossed the sea. When she arrived at the country of the supernatural beings they all came down to the beach. They searched among her roots and found one ôguê’mEskôtit and one LE’môksin among them. These they ate, and threw away the Crow’s potentilla roots.

Then she went up to the house and met her niece, who said: “Do you think they are men, that you bring them potentilla, roots? Gather ôguê’mEskôtit and LE’môksin. When you come again bring all kinds of nice smelling roots, and bring one small basket of potentilla roots for me.” Then she said to her: “Take this bitch along; it belongs to your grandson. When you come near the shore say: ‘Catch a whale, Q!acî’nEmicLX.’” “Yes,” said the Crow, and then she went home. When she was in the middle of the ocean she said to the dog: “Catch a whale, Q!acî’nEmicLX. Do you know indeed how to catch whales?”

Then the bitch who lay in the stern of the boat arose. A whale came up. She bit it. Then the canoe rocked violently. “Hold it fast, Q!acî’nEmicLX.” Then the Crow became afraid and said: “Let go, let go, Q!acî’nEmicLX.” Then she let go the whale and lay down to sleep. The Crow landed [and when she arrived], she had lost her dog. She ran about and searched for it in. all the houses, but did not find it. Then she [was very sad and] did not eat because she liked her dog.

The Crow stayed here five days, and then again she gathered many roots of plants. She gathered ôguê’mEskôtit and LE’môksin. She gathered all kinds of nice smelling roots. She put potentilla roots in to one small basket. Then she crossed again to the country of the supernatural beings. Then they all came down to the beach. They [took the nice smelling roots and] ate them right there at the beach. She carried the potentilla roots up to her niece.

Now she saw her dog, which was in the house. [Her niece said:] “Do you think this is a common bitch? She returns. Why did you say in the middle of the ocean: ‘Take the whale?’ Therefore you became afraid. You must not say so until you are near the shore. Do you think they gave her to you as a present? She always returns. You will take her again when you go home. Do not search for her when you have lost her. She provides you with food when you are going.”

The Crow replied: “Yes.” And when she went back she carried that bitch along. “When you approach the land say: ‘Catch a whale, Q!acî’nEmicLX.’” Then she went home. The dog lay in the stern of the canoe. When they were near the town the Crow said: “Catch a whale, Q!acî’nEmicLX.” She did not move.

Then the Crow took some water, poured it over her and said: “Catch a whale; are you indeed able to catch a whale? “When they were quite near the shore she said again: “Catch a whale, Q!acî’nEmicLX.” Then she arose and caught a whale.

Again the canoe rocked. She said: “Hold it fast, Q!acî’nEmicLX.” Sometimes she did not say it right and cried: “Let go the whale, Q!acî’nEmicLX.” Then the whale drifted ashore. The people went down to the beach and cut the whale. They carried the meat up to house.

After some time the chief said: “I desire to go and see my sister.” Now the people made themselves ready and started in a large canoe. When they came near the country of the supernatural beings their chief said: “Take care, they will test us.” [When they had gone a little farther] the whole sea was covered with ice. He said to his people: “We will land after awhile.”

Now Blue-Jay became very cold, but he said: “I never get cold, I will stay in the canoe.” He jumped into the water and sank out of sight at once. Then a person shouted on shore: “Ehehiu, [Blue-Jay] killed himself.” Then the chief arose in the canoe; he took the ice and threw it away. Then that person shouted: “Ehehiu, how he threw away the ice of the supernatural beings.” “‘Ehehiu,’ you say, I threw it away; what made me fall down?,” [said Blue-Jay]. Then they went up to the house. The chief said: “Do not enter at once. After a while they will open their house.”

Now there was a sea-lion and a sea-cow (?), one at each side of the door. They stood in the doorway. Now Blue-Jay became very cold. He tried to jump into the house and the animals bit him. They had almost been unable to recover him. Then the chief stepped up and he took one sea monster in each hand and threw them away. “Ehehiu,” shouted the person [“how he throws away the sea lions of the supernatural people”]. “‘Ehehiu’, you say; I threw away those who bit me,” said Blue-Jay.

Then they all entered the house and stayed there. There were no people in it except the chief’s sister. [Blue-Jay said to his brother Robin:] “What will they give us to eat, Robin?” “Oh, be quiet,” replied Robin. Then said Blue-Jay: “Our chief’s fire makes noise just as this here.” There was only one log in the house. Then the person shouted: “Come down to the fire you who splits wood with his beak.”

Then a being came out [from under the bed] with a long beak who split the log. “Robin,” said Blue-Jay, “that was our great-great-grandfather’s slave.” “I do not know that he was our slave; you alone have slaves.” Then a fire was made and the whole house was full of smoke. The person shouted: “Come down to the fire, Smoke-eater.” “Robin,” said Blue-Jay, he also was our (great-great-grandfather’s) slave; he always carried me on his back and led you by the hand.” “I do not know that he was our slave; you alone have slaves.”

Then the smoke man came down and [they saw that] he had an enormous belly. He stepped into the middle of the house and swallowed all the smoke. The house became light. Then they brought a small dish and one cut of meat was in it. “Robin,” said Blue-Jay, “that is too little; that is not enough for all of us; I certainly shall not get enough.” Then a person shouted: “Come down to the fire you who cuts whale with his beak.”

Then a person came to the fire with a very sharp beak, who began to cut meat. He cut and cut until the whole dish was full. Then he blew upon it and it became a large canoe full of meat. They boiled it, and when it was nearly done they all went out and their chief took reeds. These he put into their months [and pushed them right through them] so that they came out at the anus. They all did so, also Blue-Jay.

Then they entered again and sat down. They made small holes where they sat and began to eat. They swallowed the meat and it went right out at the anus. Blue-Jay arose and there lay his anus. “Look here, Robin, my anus fell down right here!” Then the people took him by his arms, carried him out of the house, and pulled the reed out of his mouth. Then the chief and Blue-Jay entered again; he took three spoonfuls and he had enough.

Then the people continued to eat and the whale meat became less and less. Then they went out, took out the reeds and reentered. They continued to eat. Now they ate in the right way and finished all they had boiled. Then a person cried: “Ehehiu, how they eat all the meat of the supernatural beings!” Then Blue-Jay said: “Did you think I could not finish what you gave me to eat?”

Now they stayed in the house. Blue-Jay went out. He was oversatiated. He looked and saw a patch of kinnikinnik berries. He began to eat them, when a person called: “Oh, Blue-Jay eats the excrements of the supernatural people;” whereupon Blue-Jay said: “‘Ehehiu’, you say; do you think I eat them? I merely look at your kinnikinnik berries.”

They stayed there. After awhile a person came out of the house and said: “They wish to play with you; you will dive.” Blue Jay said: “We always dive in our country.” “Do you think they do as you are accustomed to?” said the woman. “When they dive the one dies and the other one has won.” She said to them: “Blue-Jay shall dive.” Blue-Jay went down to the water and threw the bushes out of his canoe into the water.

Then he and the diver fought against each other. They dived. Blue-Jay hid his club under his blanket. They jumped into the water and after awhile Blue Jay’s breath gave out. He came up and hid under the bushes which he had thrown out of his canoe. There he breathed and dived again. He said to the diver: “Where are you?” “Here I am,” she replied. After awhile his breath gave out again.

Once more he came up under the bushes. Four times he did so, and then he became tired. He went to look for the diver. He found her biting the bottom of the sea. She had her eyes closed. Blue-Jay took his club and hit her on the nape. The people saw something floating on the water and then a person said: “There is Blue-Jay.” He was, however, in the bushes which he had thrown out of his canoe. After a little while Blue-Jay jumped ashore and a person shouted: “Ehehiu, how Blue-Jay won over the diver of the supernatural beings.” “‘Ehehiu’, you say; we always dive so in our country,” said Blue Jay.

Then again a person stepped out and said: “They want to play with you; you will climb up a tree together.” Then Blue-Jay said: “We climb every day in our country.” But the young woman remarked: “Do you think they are just like Indians? They will place a piece of ice upright, then you will have to climb up the ice. When a climber falls down he breaks to pieces and the other one wins.”

Then they said to Blue Jay: “You shall climb up.” They placed upright a piece of ice which was so long that it reached to the sky. Blue-Jay made himself ready and tied his bearskin blanket around his belly. [The supernatural beings sent a] chipmunk who made himself ready [to climb up the ice]. They began to climb, and when they had reached a certain height Blue-Jay grew tired.

[Then he let go of the ice] and flew upward. [When he had rested] he again took hold of the ice. Then he grew tired again. He looked back to the one with whom he was racing and saw her climbing up with her eyes shut. She did not grow tired. Then Blue-Jay took his club [from under his blanket] and struck her on the nape. The chipmunk fell down. The people looked up and saw a person falling down. “Ah, that is Blue-Jay! There he falls down.” [But when they saw the chipmunk] a person shouted: “Ehehiu, how they won over the chipmunk of the supernatural beings.”

“‘Ehehiu’, you say; we always climb in our country.” Then their chief won two sea-otters.

Then they stayed awhile longer. Then again a person came out and said: “They want to have a shooting match with you.” Blue-Jay said: “We have shooting matches every day in our country.” The young woman said: “Do you think they are like Indians? They place people against each other. One stands on one side, the other on the other. [They shoot at each other,] the one dies, and the other wins.” Then they said to the Beaver: “You stand up [on our side].” They took a grindstone and tied it to his belly. They took another one and tied it to his back. The supernatural beings made the loon stand up on their side.

Then [the beaver and the loon] took their arrows and the loon shot at the beaver. The arrow broke and fell down. Then the beaver shot at the loon. “Uhû,” said he when he was struck by the arrow. Then the loon shot again. “Ha,” he said, and the arrow broke and fell down. Then he shot again at the loon. “Uhû,” he said, then fell on his back and died. “Ehehiu! How they won over the bird of the supernatural people.” Blue-Jay spoke: “You say ‘ehehiu’; we have shooting matches in our country every day.”

They stayed there some time longer. Then again a person came out of the house and said: “They want to play with you; you will sweat in the sweat house.” Blue-Jay spoke: “We always sweat in our country.” Then the young woman said: “They always heat caves, and when they are hot, they enter them. The one party will die, the other will win.” Then their chief said: “We must go into the cave.” Now the supernatural beings heated the caves. They got hot. There were two caves in a rock. [The chief and some of his people] went into one, the supernatural beings went into the other.

Then the caves were closed. The chief, however, took some ice and put it under their feet. They stood on it. After a little while a sound was heard like the bursting of a shell that is being roasted. Five times that sound was heard. Then the caves were opened; first that of Blue Jay’s people–they were all alive; next that of the supernatural beings–five of them were dead. They had won again. “Ehehiu! How they won over the supernatural beings.” “‘Ehehiu’, you say,” replied Blue-Jay, we use the sweat house every day in our country.

“Now the chief’s brother-in-law said: “Let us catch whales.” The sister told him: “Take care; they will try to put you to shame. This is their last attempt at you.” In the evening they went to catch whales. She took Blue-Jay and put him into her right armpit. Then she took Robin and put him into her left armpit [and told them]: “Now I shall keep you here; do not say ‘ehehiu,’ do not look!”

Then in the evening they all went down to the beach. She said to her elder brother: “Four whales will pass you, but do not throw your harpoon; when the fifth comes, then harpoon it.” Now the supernatural people stood there. The young woman took a torch in order to help her brother.

After a while a person shouted: “Yuyayuya, a flatfish whale comes.” [The chief did not stir.] After a while a person shouted: “Yuyayuya, an albatross whale comes; raise your harpoons.” Blue-Jay tried to look [from under the arms of the woman]. At once her torch began to flicker, and she pressed Blue-Jay, saying: “Do not look!” Then again a person shouted: “Yuyayuya, an elk whale comes; raise your harpoons.” [The chief did not stir.] Next a person shouted: “Yuyayuya, a sperm-whale comes; raise your harpoons.”

Then the sister said to him: “Now, look out; now the real whale will come.” Then a person shouted: “Yuyayuya, the whale of the supernatural people comes.” Blue-Jay tried to look [from his hiding place]. Then the torch of the young woman began to flicker and was almost extinguished. The people said: “Why does AnêktcXô’lEmiX’s torch always flicker?” The person shouted once more: “Yuyayuya, the whale of the supernatural people comes.”

Then AnêktcXô’lEmiX said to her brother: “Now the real whale will come.” The chief harpooned it and threw it ashore. “Ehehiu! How they threw ashore the whale of the supernatural people.” Blue-Jay replied: “Ehehiu,” and at once the torch was extinguished, and Blue-Jay [fell down from the armpit of the woman and] was drowned. He drifted away. Thus they won again. Their chief won again. Then they went home.

AnêktcXô’lEmiX said: “Coil up this rope in your canoe; when you get across tie Robin’s blanket to it.” [Then they started. When they were in the middle of the ocean the supernatural people] created a strong gale against those going home. Now they tied [Mink] on to the gunwale of their canoe [thus making it higher and preventing its being swamped]. They almost perished; finally they reached their home [safely. Then they tied Robin’s blanket to the rope. AnêktcXô’lEmiX pulled it back, and when she found the blanket at the end of the rope she knew that her brother had reached home safely].

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Ted Joans Poetry

“Let’s play that we all work from 9 to 5 and we are trying to pay for that split level home in Westchester and the wall to wall carpets and the never- ending payments on the flashy car, color TV, hi-fi, wash’n dry, deep freeze and other keeping up with the Joans deals.” —–”Playmate” -Ted Joans

‘The Sax Bit’

This poem is

just a poem of

thanks

This bent metal serpent/ holy horn with lids like beer

mug/ with phallic tail why did they invent you

before Coleman Hawkins was born ?

This curved shiney tune gut/ hanging lynched like/ J

shaped intitial of jazz/ wordless without a reed when

Coleman Hawkins first fondled it/kissed it with Black

sound did COngo blood sucking Belges frown ?

This tenor/alto/bass/baritone/soprano/moan/cry &amp;

shout-a-phone ! sex-oh-phone/tell-it-like-damn-

sho-isa-phone !What tremors ran through Adolphe

Saxe the day Bean grabbed his ax ?

This golden mine of a million marvelous sounds/black

notes with myriad shadows/or empty crooked tube of

technical white poor-formance/calculated keys that

never unlock soul doors/white man made machine saved

from zero by Coleman Hawkins !

This saxophone salvation/modern gri gri hanging from

jazzmen’s necks placed there by Coleman Hawkins

a full body &amp; soul sorcerer whose spirit dwells eternally

in every saxophone NOW and all those sound-a-phones

to be

—

Watermelon

It’s got a good shape / the outside color is green / it’s one of them

foods from Africa

It’s got stripes sometimes like a zebra or Florida prison pants

It’s bright red inside / the black eyes are flat and shiny / it won’t

make you fat

It’s got heavy liquid weight / the sweet taste is unique / some people

are shamed of it /

I ain’t afraid to eat it / indoors or out / it’s a soul food thing / Watermelon

is what I’m

Talking about Yeah watermelon is what I’m talking about

Watermelon

——

Airport Security

Mismanage your child care

To insure softer mattresses

From smoke stacking

Due to fast food fever

Shake all airplane underwear

To destroy wheelbarrow seeds

From sprouting

Due to altitudinal changes

—–

Above Him’

I saw Senghor

I was above him

Not hovering

Like a cloud

or a helicopter

but just a

High-lofty-observing

Poet

Looking down

At Senghor the poet

Who hovers high

Like a cloud

or a heavenly

helicopter

filled with leaflets

that shame betterflies’ wings

And rainbows end

I saw Senghor

the poet

Dressed in contradiction.

—

My Ace of Spades

MALCOLM X SPOKE TO ME and sounded you

Malcolm X said this to me &amp; THEN TOLD you that!

Malcolm X whispered in my ears but SCREAMED on you!

Malcolm X praised me &amp; thus condemned you

Malcolm X smiled at me &amp; sneered at you

Malcolm X made me proud &amp; so you got scared

Malcolm X told me to HURRY &amp; you began to worry

Malcolm X sang to me but GROWLED AT YOU!!

Malcolm X words freed me &amp; they frightened you

Malcolm X tol’ it lak it DAMN SHO’ IS!!

Malcolm X said that everybody will be F R E E ! !

Malcolm X told both of us the T R U T H . . . . . .

now didn’t he?

in: “For Malcolm”, p.5, in “Part I. The Life”

_____

Ted Joans (1928-2003), born Theodore Jones on July 4 on a riverboat in Cairo, Illinois, was a painter, a trumpeter, a jazz poet, travel writer, author of more than thirty-five books, including Teducation, The Hipsters (a book of collages), Black Pow Wow Jazz Poems, Funky Jazz Poems, Beat Poems, All of T.J. and No More, The Truth, The Truth, Afrodisia. After marrying a woman named Joan, he changed his name from Jones to Joans.

His parents had worked on Mississippi river runs. According to the story told, his father, a riverboat entertainer, put him off the boat in Memphis at age twelve and gave him a trumpet. In 1943, Joans’ father was pulled off a streetcar and killed by white workers during the Detroit race riots.

He earned a BFA degree in Fine Arts from Indiana University in 1951 and then joined “the Bohemia of Greenwich Village, USA,” where he was associated with the Beat generation of the 1950s. Along with Kerouac, Corso, Ginsberg, and Amiri Baraka, Joans began his poetic career in the artistic haven of Greenwich Village in the late fifties and early sixties. He was a friend of Beat icons Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg. Joans was mentored by Langston Hughes and encouraged by Allan Ginsberg but never received early fame during a career that spanned more than 40 years.

Apart from Beat (surrealistic) influences, Joans expanded his work and embraced more serious jazz-inflected sounds. As a jazz afficionado, Joans often wrote in the spirit and idiom of jazz. He considered himself a jazz missionary. His work is characterized by a black consciousness, a strong rhythm, and a musical language and sensibility closely linked to the blues and to the best of the avant-garde jazz. His style is thus associated with the oral tradition of African-American writing which exemplifies oral and jazz traditions. He explored many themes, including anti-militarism, life of a black expatriate, and the black American in search of African roots.

In 1955 he and some friends stunningly denied the death of jazz great Charlie Parker by scrawling “BIRD LIVES” all over New York.

“He used to rent himself out to upper-middle class parties as a beatnik,” recalled George Bowering, Canada’s poet laureate. “He was very comic.” Joans lived in Paris for several decades and traveled widely, often with a pocket full of garlic cloves because, he once said, they were “powerful preventative medicine.”

Though one of the the originals, Joans has been rarely included in Beat anthologies. He can be found in Ann Charters’ The Beat Reader, the hardcover version but not the paperback versions, yet one of his phrases is the title of one of Charters’ sections. Joans is a surrealist writer, one of the originals, but he is not to be found in those anthologies either. Most anthologies of African American writing (including the big Norton Anthology of African American Literature, edited by Henry Louis Gates Jr. and Nellie Y. McKay) exclude him. Yet, he is considered an influential figure in American and African-American literature. Amazingly, you will find him in Women of the Beat Generation, edited by Brenda Knight.

Joan was not a careerist; he was in search of the marvelous. He was an independent thinker.

A wanderer, he recited his poems in coffeehouses in New York and in the middle of Sahara Desert. He has lived in Harlem, New York, Bloomington, Indiana, Haarlem of The Netherlands, and even Timbuktu. His poetry has achieved international acclaim, and it is widely respected throughout Africa, Europe, and the United States. Joans is a considerable visual artist, one of his paintings, “Bird Lives,” hangs in San Francisco’s de Young Museum.

For the past few decades Joans spent summers in Europe and winters in Africa. At his death he was living in Canada.

He had moved to Vancouver several years ago and remained a prolific writer until his death. Joans was found dead in his Vancouver, British Columbia, apartment on May 7, said T. Paul St. Marie, an entertainer and family friend. He had been in poor health with diabetes. Joans was survived by 10 children. He was cremated with no funeral, as he wished.

(Emily Carr – Totem Forest)