Month: January 2007

The Arrival of Eildon Gabriel Wilkinson

Eildon & Andrew

‘Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting

The soul that rises with us, our life’s star

Hath had elsewhere its setting

And cometh from afar:

Not in entire forget fulness,

And not in utter nakedness

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God who is our home’.

My Nephew Andrew and his Girlfriend Catherine welcomed Eildon Gabriel into the green and tumbling world this morning at 12:37 at Providence Hospital in Portland.

It was a difficult birth, but Mom and Eildon seem to be doing well. Eildon is 21 inches long, and weighed in at 8lbs 10.6oz! Catherine stands only 4’11″ so I guess you can do the math on why the delivery was a bit difficult.

All and all it was an eventful, wonderful evening. We will be off to visit them soon, so I am going to tie this up for today.

(We could not visit with Catherine as she was having a series of procedures done, and frankly, I would not of put her through having her picture taken right after birth!)

—

Auntie & Gran awaiting Eildon’s’ arrival…

Rain and her boyfriend Erik sleeping – waiting for Eildon…

(Rain is Andrews’ friend from school)

I had heard about Rain for years, but it never came to pass that we met.

Nice circumstances to meet someone though!

Carlie and Eathan

Eathan and Andrew… Twin brothers.

Carlie is Eathans’ sweety, and is a very lovely, wise and patient person. We had a great time together waiting for the arrival.

Carlie came up from Eugene for the weekend, to see Eathan, and to meet Eildon!

Andrew is lucky having a twin like Eathan, who seems eager to help out with the young’un!

Miss Monica from Andrew’s work…

Monica took the day off to be their for support. A really sweet and very intelligent person.

When it got around 12:25, Monica sprang up and headed to Catherines’ room. Mary and I felt the same urge. We got their and we heard Catherine struggling with it. The 3 of us meditated together, and started breathing in harmony… Shortly after, Eildon came into the world.

We danced around the corridor, hugging with joy. Shortly afterwards, the Doctor came out, obviously exhausted. He was very pleasant, but had been through the wringer.

—

Andrew finally brought Eildon out and was greeted by family and friends…

Monica headed home, exhausted but blissed out. She had also finished up her High School Diploma as well on Thursday, at the local community college.

We got to spend a bit of time with Andrew… and then headed home.

We will be back to visit, and get more Baby pics, and maybe some of Catherine as well if she is up to it…

Blessings,

Gwyllm

Dad and Lad, just before they went back into the birthing room

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD

-William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

I

THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

The earth, and every common sight,

To me did seem

Apparelled in celestial light,

The glory and the freshness of a dream.

It is not now as it hath been of yore;–

Turn wheresoe’er I may,

By night or day,

The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

II

The Rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the Rose,

The Moon doth with delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare,

Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair;

The sunshine is a glorious birth;

But yet I know, where’er I go,

That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

III

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,

And while the young lambs bound

As to the tabor’s sound,

To me alone there came a thought of grief:

A timely utterance gave that thought relief,

And I again am strong:

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;

No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;

I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,

The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,

And all the earth is gay;

Land and sea

Give themselves up to jollity,

And with the heart of May

Doth every Beast keep holiday;–

Thou Child of Joy,

Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy

Shepherd-boy!

IV

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call

Ye to each other make; I see

The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;

My heart is at your festival,

My head hath its coronal,

The fulness of your bliss, I feel–I feel it all.

Oh evil day! if I were sullen

While Earth herself is adorning,

This sweet May-morning,

And the Children are culling

On every side,

In a thousand valleys far and wide,

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,

And the Babe leaps up on his Mother’s arm:–

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!

–But there’s a Tree, of many, one,

A single Field which I have looked upon,

Both of them speak of something that is gone:

The Pansy at my feet

Doth the same tale repeat:

Whither is fled the visionary gleam?

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

V

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar:

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home:

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

Shades of the prison-house begin to close

Upon the growing Boy,

But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,

He sees it in his joy;

The Youth, who daily farther from the east

Must travel, still is Nature’s Priest,

And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended;

At length the Man perceives it die away,

And fade into the light of common day.

VI

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;

Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,

And, even with something of a Mother’s mind,

And no unworthy aim,

The homely Nurse doth all she can

To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,

Forget the glories he hath known,

And that imperial palace whence he came.

VII

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,

A six years’ Darling of a pigmy size!

See, where ‘mid work of his own hand he lies,

Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses,

With light upon him from his father’s eyes!

See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,

Some fragment from his dream of human life,

Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;

A wedding or a festival,

A mourning or a funeral;

And this hath now his heart,

And unto this he frames his song:

Then will he fit his tongue

To dialogues of business, love, or strife;

But it will not be long

Ere this be thrown aside,

And with new joy and pride

The little Actor cons another part;

Filling from time to time his “humorous stage”

With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,

That Life brings with her in her equipage;

As if his whole vocation

Were endless imitation.

VIII

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

Thy Soul’s immensity;

Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep

Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,

That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,

Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,–

Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!

On whom those truths do rest,

Which we are toiling all our lives to find,

In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;

Thou, over whom thy Immortality

Broods like the Day, a Master o’er a Slave,

A Presence which is not to be put by;

Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might

Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,

Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke

The years to bring the inevitable yoke,

Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?

Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,

And custom lie upon thee with a weight

Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

IX

O joy! that in our embers

Is something that doth live,

That nature yet remembers

What was so fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed

Perpetual benediction: not indeed

For that which is most worthy to be blest–

Delight and liberty, the simple creed

Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:–

Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise;

But for those obstinate questionings

Of sense and outward things,

Fallings from us, vanishings;

Blank misgivings of a Creature

Moving about in worlds not realised,

High instincts before which our mortal Nature

Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:

But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,

Which, be they what they may,

Are yet the fountain light of all our day,

Are yet a master light of all our seeing;

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make

Our noisy years seem moments in the being

Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,

To perish never;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,

Nor Man nor Boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,

Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence in a season of calm weather

Though inland far we be,

Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea

Which brought us hither,

Can in a moment travel thither,

And see the Children sport upon the shore,

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

X

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!

And let the young Lambs bound

As to the tabor’s sound!

We in thought will join your throng,

Ye that pipe and ye that play,

Ye that through your hearts to-day

Feel the gladness of the May!

What though the radiance which was once so bright

Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind;

In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be;

In the soothing thoughts that spring

Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,

In years that bring the philosophic mind.

XI

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,

Forebode not any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquished one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day

Is lovely yet;

The Clouds that gather round the setting sun

Do take a sober colouring from an eye

That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;

Another race hath been, and other palms are won.

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,

To me the meanest flower that blows can give

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

1803-6.

This would of been out earlier, but have been on the run since early on. My nephew Andrew has stepped up to the plate and is participating in the birth of his girl friend Catherines’ baby as the father. . So we have been out, getting a mattress for the crib (a big thank you to Rebecca & Steve Zaglen) A 5 gallon bucket for diapers, and stopping by the store for clothes etc. They are great kids and I think they are beginning to get a small inkling of the world of changes heading their way in about 6-16 hours. I may post some baby pics tomorrow. I talked to Andrew at the hospital, she is a 3 cm and working kinda hard. Good Luck to the 3 of ya!

Continuing with the Irish Theme, some interesting historical stuff about the views of land, and the transitions of peoples in the poetry.

Working on the last bits of the Magazine, so be aware of that if you like.

Hope life is sweet for ya all. Wonders abound, and a little wonder is on the way….

___

On The Menu:

The Links

A bit of Scottish Humour

Power and Landscape in Ireland

Poetry: The Matter Of Ireland Pt 2

Art Jim Fitzgerald

Pax,

G

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The Links:

W pushes envelope on U.S. spying

12th century BC carving may hold the secret of Karnak Temple

But It’s Thomas Jefferson’s Koran!

Chasing the elusive Skunk Ape

Wacky Weather In The Heartland…

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A Wee Bit Of Scottish Humour

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Power and Landscape in Ireland

Copyright © 1985, 1986, 1988, 1994 Cainteanna na Luise

INTRODUCTION

In Irish druidism “power” in the landscape is conceived by rather different ontological parameters than in Hermetic Magic or in systems using “leys”.

There are, first, two types of “power” (there are, in fact, three, but the first is simply that by which a thing exists at all – X has it, and exists, or X does not have it (is functionally self-contradictory, etc.) and doesn’t exist. There is no “amount” to this and so it cannot be “patterned”). The two types (which can be patterned) are:

Brí – intrinsic, inherent power. This may be “developed” or “atrophied” but can not, substantially, be changed in potential amount.

Bua – power that is gained or lost, depending upon actions.

Landscape has, as does everything else, both types. Skipping, for the moment, that these may be “keyed” to certain affinities, in summary a place’s brí is linked to it’s basic nature. Isolated hills, sea cliffs, etc., have higher intrinsic brí. A place’s bua is determined (and changed) by what occurs there (a major battle, etc.). In fact, it is more complicated because humans deliberately pick high-brí places for their religious and, less often, political centers, thus layering bua over the already existing brí. While usually this occurs so that the bua develops the brí, the opposite can occur. The Mallacht Dhealúis, great curse of bareness, laid upon Teamhair by a coven of 13 Irish saints is an example. In this case, the saints’ own brí-empowered bua was used to drain and ward-restrict the bua of “Tara” and hinder its bua. The site once had a great deal of both, but it now has fairly low bua, while retaining brí in a form difficult, but not impossible, to access.

Brí may be “keyed” by its basic nature, but bua is far more likely to be keyed because it is gained or lost by specific actions. Personally keying may involve not only one’s own bua being compatible but season, time of day, and so forth, since such bua is highly contextual.

Brí, and far more often bua, may become “keyed”, that is it may gain affinity or malevolence toward other types of brí/bua (some people may, for example feel “at home” in a place that others will feel uncomfortable in). In a few cases, a place will have general malevolence (the term frithbhuachán is used for either a place or thing that drains bua and assaults brí. (see also the note on Drombeg below.)

Taking brí and bua together, no man-made-like grid patterns these powers. The “map” of a country’s power does not resemble a geometric human network, but a naturally occurring one, resembling maps showing rainfall or physical elevation. That is, there may be sharp demarcations, or gradual ones. Entire areas may be low in both bua and brí (except in small limited areas, a high bua level is unlikely to occur without at least moderately high brí, although the reverse is not true: indeed the feeling of “awe” experienced at some natural “wilderness” sites results from them having quite high brí, although they may have only minimal bua.

IRELAND IN GENERAL

Again, taking brí and bua together, the “power-map” of Ireland shows great contrasts. (The reader is here warned that the author has spent a good deal of time throughout much of Ireland but there exist substantial areas he has not visited; a “reading of the literature” can only supply indications, and he will use “seems” for those areas he has not verified personally.) Overall, the west is higher in power. Major concentrations (i.e. fairly large areas with high levels of power) exist in the Inishowen peninsula and the area north of Sligo to fairly far south of it. This seems to also be the case for western Co.Mayo. The area around Cong, the Aran Islands, and the peninsulas of Kerry and western Cork have quite to very high power. Eastern Ireland seems to have far less areas of high brí/bua. The author has not visited most of Antrim, but none of the seanchais or ancient tales indicate this are as having a high degree of power and this would seem to be the case for most of northeastern Ireland. There are patchy areas of high power near Armagh and the Mournes (including Sliabh Guillion). Cos. Meath and West Meath contain the largest areas in the east, with additional patchy areas in a band south of there, from the Sliabh Blooms through Kildare and Wicklow. The entire southeast seems to have little power at all (the author has not visited this area much, but it is not mentioned at all in the seanchais as having any power and it is traditionally the area at which Ireland has always been invaded by foreign cultures and was the first to lose both the traditional and the Irish language so these historic facts are substantial evidence that it indeed is “power poor”.

SPECIFIC EXAMPLES

The following, better known sites, may serve as examples. Cainteanna na Luise No.11 (Samhain 1986) contains additional information on the author’s personal experiences at various sites; the below is deliberately slanted toward the general, and to exemplify a variety of types of sites.

Teamhair: there is still a great deal of keyed brí here. Both the author and others have worked here to specific activate the brí, and support the remaining bua while adding to it. These activities have caused changes, including, it appears, counter-reaction, perhaps deliberately but more likely as a result of the Mallacht Dhealúis reacting to being opposed (the outward manifestations include the statue of Patrick which a co-worker of the author magically cracked being soon taken down, but the Irish government having begun to newly limit access).

Tlachtga: the hill of the Brune Samhna or Samhain fire ritual contains mangled bua and brí.

Newgrange: traditionally a cómhla bhreac or gate to the Otherworld, it has brí and bua, but has had so much “alternate” bua attempted to be imposed on it, that these are reduced (by the last is meant that many people have directed buanna (bua-plural) of radically conflicting types at Newgrange – imagine a Christian shrine for peace being the scene of a battle between Moslems and Hindus at which immediately afterward a group of atheists put on a comedy show – or a commercial for cigarettes during a documentary on the dangers of smoking!). Newgrange, like Teotihuacan, has had tens of thousands of people actively directing their totally incompatible (with it, but as importantly with each other!) energies at it and the original balance is quite, literally, stewed.

Maynoth: no brí to speak of, but high bua specifically keyed to the dominance of the Christian church. (if you are pagan and go, one of the few places you need wards.)

Aran Islands: Dún Aoghusa has high natural brí, more than its bua, but the latter is also quite high. Dún Dubh Cathair has both high, but less bua (in total and as ratio to brí) than Dún Aohghusa. On Inish Maen, Dún Conor exhibits more bua than brí. Other areas, here unnamed because of on-going workings, on the Islands contain at least as high, probably higher levels of brí.

Sligo Area: the entire area around Sligo has fairly to very high brí, and moderate to high bua. Knocknarae, Carrowmore, Kesh, Ben Bulben, Magh Tuiread (no.2), Carrowkeel, Deerpark, Kreevykeel, etc., all have good levels of both brí and bua.

Donegal: Sliabh Liag is fairly high brí with a little bua, of a rather hard to define type, mixed in. “Malin Head” (or Fíorcheann na hÉireann, the True Top of Ireland, to give it its proper name) has little bua, but massive brí. Indeed the highest brí is separated from the mainland by a violent gash in the earth which always appears to be a deliberate separating-itself from tampering. The Grianán of Aileach has muted brí and moderate bua.

Belteny: high bua and brí, with the bua, if you can key to it, somewhat higher.

Kerry: the Kenmare River estuary, Inbher Scéine has moderately low brí, but can exhibit superb bua if properly keyed (in this case, all the seanchais and the author’s own experience are explicit: this is where Amhairghin first arrived in Ireland). Dunmore Head, the most westerly point of Ireland has strong brí. The author is unable to comment on the general bua due to personally imposed keying.

West Cork: the only time the author visited the “most photographed stone circle in Ireland”, Drombeg, he could hardly rate the brí for the extremely negative iarrairdeall (one of several druidic methods of “sensing” different types of “vibes”, beyond the scope of this article). This was not bua in the general sense, but a reaction of the site to its bua having been (recently, but not by him!) assaulted. This did not appear frithbhuachán in the usual sense, i.e. not a “keying”. Such an occurrence is rare but makes accurate readings difficult.

Dublin: the Garden of Remembrance, comparatively meager in brí, has a very high level of bua, surprisingly for a modern monument with some Christian elements, keyed specifically to pagan druidism. (The most Christian element is the cross-shaped pool, almost all of the rest, including the golden dedication and the magnificent “Children of Lir” is thoroughly – that it is in downtown Dublin, awesomely – pagan. It is, in effect, a “war memorial”, but one like none other in the world, and it honors ALL of those “who died for Irish freedom”, by the intent of its designers or by the gods having a hand, in its motifs honoring the Tuatha Dé Danann and Amhairghin’s Men of Míl more than it does those of the Easter Uprising.

THE OTHERWORLD

The general public notions of the “Otherworld” being located at the bottom of lakes, on distant islands, in hills, etc., is totally contradicted by the seanchais. It exists everywhere. The druidic conception of it is far closer to the “parallel universes” described in science fiction novels than to the way it is depicted in medieval (largely Christian influenced) folktales. The islands, caves, and other motifs are the result of a simplistic reading of sloppy translations. What is being exemplified is idircheo (literally “between fogs”) or the idea that “you can’t get there from here”. Unless the direct intervention of the Sídhe is involved as a “leading-by-the-hand” guide, mortals cannot enter an Saol Eile (the Irish term for the Otherworld and not the same as Tír na Marbh, or the Land of the Dead) directly, but must first traverse a “null zone” . The dark passage of a cave, a fog at sea, etc., are simply examples of this idircheo. Places “associated with” the Otherworld are more likely to simply be ones where idircheo are more stable than in others, although a few more-or-less permanent cómhlaí breac (“speckled gates”, i.e. accesses) exist.

DINNSEANCHAIS

There exists a large body of seanchais termed “Dinnseanchas” which purport to explain why points of landscape bear specific names. The tradition itself is quite valid, and is somewhat similar (and not at all identical) to the attitude toward the land held by native Australians. However, the dinnseanchais are the most “monk-eyed”/monkeyed-with of all “ancient” Irish literature. The majority of them are worthless. Their compilers sought to include as many places as possible, and as with all such “quantity over quality” attempts, the result is a farce. Many of the “explanations” given are early medieval or Norse, others are the result of the local people in one township bearing a grudge against those living in the neighboring township and so concocting folklore to support “it really happened here!”, and a large number are pure invention by the compilers themselves, taking the actual name and inventing stories (often directly contradicted in valid seanchais) to explain the name. (“Let’s see – ‘Washing Ton’ – there was a giant with a lot of laundry and…”). Unless one is well versed in all of the ancient literature, and able to read it in the original (for the names are often based on just such “alternate readings” as “Washing Ton”), one best avoids the dinnseanchas completely.

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Poetry: The Matter Of Ireland Pt 2

(The Tuatha Dé Danann victorious over the Fomor, Lugh proclaims the peace. The lines on milking refers to the terms of the peace including that the Fomor supply their knowledge of dairy science.)

The Convocation of the Establishment

It is established steadfast bright and accurate

(this) aftermath (of the battle).

O people of the world,

it has come that all has been made manifest

to our flowering ones.

Understanding of milkings will come.

Made great are those (who were) reduced

by my judgement/esteem

(by) my singing chants of oaks*

to (those of) youthful feats of riding

in quick (soon over) weeping.

Vanish sorrow!

Joy/welcome is bound on the men below me.

The sun* gives home to (these) arrangements

to those cherished ones who are free.

Go forth O men to the banquet-halls.

I establish the frame-work of this home

(this) binding establishment

concerning (our) mutual angers in (the) heart.

The Fomors of the bright sea do vanish.

O turn great path/way!

Life to Ireland!

Destruction to foreign petitions/chants

and long-life to men,

bright games-playing be prosperous,

from today forever

be there peace between Fomor and Ireland!

—

(After the battle the Morrigu relates two alternate prophecies. the text of the second about the world’s degradation (not is destruction) is incomplete, but the first, of prosperity, runs:)

Morrigu’s Prophecy

Peace to (as high as) the sky

sky to the earth

earth beneath sky

strength in everyone

a cup very full

a fullness of honey

honour enough

summer in winter

spear supported by shield

shields supported by forts

forts fierce eager for battle

“sod” (fleece) from sheep

woods grown with antler-tips (full of stags*)

forever destructions have departed

mast (nuts) on trees

a branch drooping-down

drooping from growth

wealth for a son

a son very learned

neck of bull (in yoke)

a bull from a song

knots in woods (i.e. scrap-wood)

wood for a fire

fire as wanted

palisades new and bright

salmon* their victory

the Boyne (i.e. Newgrange) their hostel

hostel with an excellence of length (size)

blue (new) growth after spring

(in) autumn horses increase

the land held secure

land recounted with excellence of word

Be might to the eternal much excellent woods

peace to (as high as the) sky

be (this) nine times eternal

—

On The Menu:

The Links

The Fairy Nurse

Poetry: The Matter of Ireland Pt 1

Art: Jim Fitzgerald

One of those all Irish, all the time kinda days. We will be travelling through Ireland in legend, story and poetry for at least a couple of days. A quick view of the changing of the Gods, the coming of new peoples, others departing for the Land of Faery, or the Western Isles, maybe a bit of romance from days past, and hopefully we will work up into the present at some time.

I hope you enjoy….

Gwyllm

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The Links:

From our friend Colleen: Trying to Clear Absinthe’s Reputation

Urban Combat Skateboard

FAA blames UFO report on weird weather

Yep, We Are Still Here!

60 Years of Dead Sea Scrolls Controversy

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The Fairy Nurse

There was once a little farmer and his wife living near Coolgarrow. They had three children, and my story happened while the youngest was a baby. The wife was a good wife enough, but her mind was all on her family and her farm, and she hardly ever went to her knees without falling asleep, and she thought the time spent in the chapel was twice as long as it need be. So, friends, she let her man and her two children go before her one day to Mass, while she called to consult a fairy man about a disorder one of her cows had. She was late at the chapel, and was sorry all the day after, for her husband was in grief about it, and she was very fond of him.

Late that night he was wakened up by the cries of his children calling out ‘Mother! Mother!’ When he sat up and rubbed his eyes, there was no wife by his side, and when he asked the little ones what was become of their mother, they said they saw the room full of nice little men and women, dressed in white and red and green, and their mother in the middle of them, going out by the door as if she was walking in her sleep. Out he ran, and searched everywhere round the house but, neither tale nor tidings did he get of her for many a day.

Well, the poor man was miserable enough, for he was as fond of his woman as she was of him. It used to bring the salt tears down his cheeks to see his poor children neglected and dirty, as they often were, and they’d be bad enough only for a kind neighbour that used to look in whenever she could spare time. The infant was away with a nurse.

About six weeks after–just as he was going out to his work one morning–a neighbour, that used to mind women when they were ill, came up to him, and kept step by step with him to the field, and this is what she told him.

‘Just as I was falling asleep last night, I heard a horse’s tramp on the grass and a knock at the door, and there, when I came out, was a fine-looking dark man, mounted on a black horse, and he told me to get ready in all haste, for a lady was in great want of me. As soon as I put on my cloak and things, he took me by the hand, and I was sitting behind him before I felt myself stirring. “Where are we going, sir?” says I. “You’ll soon know,” says he; and he drew his fingers across my eyes, and not a ray could I see. I kept a tight grip of him, and I little knew whether he was going backwards or forwards, or how long we were about it, till my hand was taken again, and I felt the ground under me. The fingers went the other way across my eyes, and there we were before a castle door, and in we went through a big hall and great rooms all painted in fine green colours, with red and gold bands and ornaments, and the finest carpets and chairs and tables and window curtains, and grand ladies and gentlemen walking about. At last we came to a bedroom, with a beautiful lady in bed, with a fine bouncing boy beside her. The lady clapped her hands, and in came the Dark Man and kissed her and the baby, and praised me, and gave me a bottle of green ointment to rub the child all over.

‘Well, the child I rubbed, sure enough; but my right eye began to smart, and I put up my finger and gave it a rub, and then stared, for never in all my life was I so frightened. The beautiful room was a big, rough cave, with water oozing over the edges of the stones and through the clay; and the lady, and the lord, and the child weazened, poverty-bitten creatures–nothing but skin and bone–and the rich dresses were old rags. I didn’t let on that I found any difference, and after a bit says the Dark Man, “Go before me to the hall door, and I will be with you in a few moments, and see you safe home.” Well, just as I turned into the outside cave, who should I see watching near the door but poor Molly. She looked round all terrified, and says she to me in a whisper, “I’m brought here to nurse the child of the king and queen of the fairies; but there is one chance of saving me. All the court will pass the cross near Templeshambo next Friday night, on a visit to the fairies of Old Ross. If John can catch me by the hand or cloak when I ride by, and has courage not to let go his grip, I’ll be safe. Here’s the king. Don’t open your mouth to answer. I saw what happened with the ointment.”

‘The Dark Man didn’t once cast his eye towards Molly, and he seemed to have no suspicion of me. When we came out I looked about me, and where do you think we were but in the dyke of the Rath of Cromogue. I was on the horse again, which was nothing but a big rag-weed, and I was in dread every minute I’d fall off; but nothing happened till I found myself in my own cabin. The king slipped five guineas into my hand as soon as I was on the ground, and thanked me, and bade me good night. I hope I’ll never see his face again. I got into bed, and couldn’t sleep for a long time; and when I examined my five guineas this morning, that I left in the table drawer the last thing, I found five withered leaves of oak–bad luck to the giver!’

Well, you may all think the fright, and the joy, and the grief the poor man was in when the woman finished her story. They talked and they talked, but we needn’t mind what they said till Friday night came, when both were standing where the mountain road crosses the one going to Ross.

There they stood, looking towards the bridge of Thuar, in the dead of the night, with a little moonlight shining from over Kilachdiarmid. At last she gave a start, and “By this and by that,” says she, “here they come, bridles jingling and feathers tossing!” He looked, but could see nothing; and she stood trembling and her eyes wide open, looking down the way to the ford of Ballinacoola. “I see your wife,” says she, “riding on the outside just so as to rub against us. We’ll walk on quietly, as if we suspected nothing, and when we are passing I’ll give you a shove. If you don’t do YOUR duty then, woe be with you!”

Well, they walked on easy, and the poor hearts beating in both their breasts; and though he could see nothing, he heard a faint jingle and trampling and rustling, and at last he got the push that she promised. He spread out his arms, and there was his wife’s waist within them, and he could see her plain; but such a hullabulloo rose as if there was an earthquake, and he found himself surrounded by horrible-looking things, roaring at him and striving to pull his wife away. But he made the sign of the cross and bid them begone in God’s name, and held his wife as if it was iron his arms were made of. Bedad, in one moment everything was as silent as the grave, and the poor woman lying in a faint in the arms of her husband and her good neighbour. Well, all in good time she was minding her family and her business again; and I’ll go bail, after the fright she got, she spent more time on her knees, and avoided fairy men all the days of the week, and particularly on Sunday.

It is hard to have anything to do with the good people without getting a mark from them. My brave nurse didn’t escape no more than another. She was one Thursday at the market of Enniscorthy, when what did she see walking among the tubs of butter but the Dark Man, very hungry-looking, and taking a scoop out of one tub and out of another. ‘Oh, sir,’ says she, very foolish, ‘I hope your lady is well, and the baby.’ ‘Pretty well, thank you,’ says he, rather frightened like. ‘How do I look in this new suit?’ says he, getting to one side of her. ‘I can’t see you plain at all, sir,’ says she. ‘Well, now?’ says he, getting round her back to the other side. ‘Musha, indeed, sir, your coat looks no better than a withered dock-leaf.’ ‘Maybe, then,’ says he, ‘it will be different now,’ and he struck the eye next to him with a switch. Friends, she never saw a glimmer after with that one till the day of her death.

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Poetry: The Matter of Ireland, Pt 1

1. Fáistine Teachta dTúath Dé Danann

(In the First Battle of Moy Tuireadh, the Firbolg druids interpret a dream of their king to prophesize the arrival of the Tuatha Dé Danann.)

The Arrival of the Tuatha Dé Danann

A tale for you,

youths across ocean,

a thousand heros will fill (web) the sea,

speckled* (magic) ships will moor here,

all death declared.

A folk each of magic incantations,

a bad doom will strike false science,

good portents will ebb peaceful bindings,

all contention will be routed.

—

(At the beginning of The Second Battle of Moy Tuireadh, a traveling poet, Cairbre, visits the court of Bress, king of the gods, and is denied due hospitality. The next morning Cairbre rises and topples Bress from his throne with this poem. The tale is thus not only the primary myth of the duty of hospitality, but the basic myth of the power of poets.)

Cairbre’s Satire on king Bress

Without food quick on a platter

without fresh milk for a calf to grow on

without lodging for a man when night prevails

without sweetness for men of art – such is (the like) of Bress

No longer is prosperity Bress’s.

—

(The Tuatha Dé Danann Figol prophecizes the battle and its result)

Figol’s Prophecy

Battle will be verified and portended

of flame through(out) its contest of valour.

An ash-tree* grey sea has come to (us),

a poison not alive,

a millstone (crowd) of foreigners.

Surety (certainty) will break (over-turn).

Lugh of the Long-Arm will burn (rage).

Terrible blows of Ogma golden very red will break

for that demanding (the) life of kings.

tribute-taxes will be turned (transformed),

(the story of) lives will be celebrated,

the ploughman(ship) of grain will (be made to) come.

the milk of the tribe will be declared.

Be freemen each in his sovereignty.

Declare (it) without a goal of plunder.

Hither (an advantage)!

Be there life from it.

Be (they) freemen each of them not a slaves of (other) persons,

O Nuada, (you) will thrust them away by a spear-tip of battle,

and battle will be verified and portended.

—

Lugh circles his own hosts. on one leg, with one eye closed, one hand behind his back (a form of ritual known as “corrguíneacht” or “crane- prayer”) and chants this rosc. (Corrguíneacht is usually associated with cursing, but in this case Lugh uses it instead as a blessing for his own troops’ victory).

Lugh’s Crane Magic

Havoc its strain of battles shared death there.

In this a battle after foreigners broke (our) shared settlement

by destruction of it. They will be defeated by hosts.

O Fairy-hosts, land of men on guard,

birds of prey rain down (on them), men without choice.

Be hindered (the) foreigners. Another (the other) company fears,

another company listens, they are very terribly in torment,

dark (sad) men (are they). Roaring brightly ninefold* are we!

Hurrah and Woe! Leftward*! O you my beautiful ones!

Sacred will be the sustenance after cloud and flowers

through its powerful skills of wizards.

My battle will not dwindle until (its) end.

Not cowardly my request with (their) encountering me

with a land of rushes laid waste by fire

death’s form established, death on us given birth.

Before (the presence of) the Sídhe with each of them,

before Ogma I satisfy,

before the sky and the earth and the sea*,

before the sun and the moon and the stars*.

O Band of warriors my band here to you

My hosts here of great hosts sea-full

(of) mighty sea-spray (boiling) smelted golden powerful,

conceived, may it be sought upon the field of battle.

Joint death its strain. Havoc its strain.

“There is no reason for amazement: surely one always knew that cultures decay,

and life’s end is death” (The Purse-Seine, 1937)-Robinson Jeffers

New Years done, time rolls on. We start it off with a revisit to Robinson Jeffers, getting acquainted with some new music and some excellent tales from the Iroquois.

Started reading Dale Pendell’s new book “Inspired Madness” (The Gifts of Burning Man). I have to say it set my head on fire last night. The whole night I dreamed I was at Black Rock City. If you get a chance to read this fine book, do. I am almost done with it, then I am passing it on to Rowan and Mary, hopefully I can convince them to come with me this year…

Hope the New Year is going well,

Gwyllm

On The Menu

The Links

Loreena McKennitt – Caravanserai (Live @ Alhambra 2006)

Tales of the Iroquois

Guezos – “Manoliño”

Poetry: Robinson Jeffers

Loreena McKennitt – The Bonny Swans

Enjoy!

_________

The Links:

Invasion Of Mickeys’ Cousin

Science told: hands off gay sheep

Reductionist Fodder? : Ghost in the Machine

Flights of fancy, or UFOs?

____________

Loreena McKennitt – Caravanserai (Live @ Alhambra 2006)

____________

Tales of the Iroquois:

The Hermit Thrush

Long ago the birds had no song. Only man could sing. Each day man greeted the rising sun with a song. The birds, as they flew by, listened to the beautiful song and they wished they too could sing. One day the Creator visited the earth.

The Creator walked around on the earth looking at all the things he had created. He noticed, though, that there was a great silence. Something was missing.

As the Creator thought about this, the sun sank behind the western hills. Then he heard the distant sound of a drum followed by the chanting of the sunset song. The sounds pleased the Creator.

When the Creator looked around, he noticed that the birds were also listening to the singing. “That’s what’s missing!” said the Creator. “Birds should also have songs.”

The next day the Creator called all the birds to the great council. The birds came from far away.The sky filled with flying birds and the trees and bushes bent under the weight of so many birds.

The Creator sat on the council rock. The birds perched and became quiet. The Creator spoke.

“Would the birds like to have songs and be able to sing as the people sing?” With one voice, the birds replied, “Yes! Yes!”

The Creator spoke to them. “At tomorrow’s dawn, fly as high in the sky as you can. When you can fly no higher, it is there where you will find your song. The bird who flies the highest will find the most beautiful song.”

The next morning, all the Creator’s birds gathered upon the land. Excitement spread throughout the birds. One small brown thrush was not excited. He was perched next to a great eagle. He looked at the strength of the eagle and thought to himself, “What chance do I have of reaching the most beautiful song? This eagle is so great. I will never be able to compete with a bird such as he.”

The eagle, eager for daybreak, took no notice of the small brown thrush near him. The thrush had an idea. The thrush flew to the eagle’s head and quickly hid beneath his feathers. The eagle stretched his wings. “With my great wings, I will surely fly to the most beautiful song.”

At that moment, the first break of dawn appeared. With a great roar of wings, the birds took off. The morning sky remained dark as so many birds flew up higher and higher.

The first bird found his song. He had flown so hard you could hear a hum coming from his wings. The hummingbird song plainly calls, “Wait, wait for me.” Next the cowbird tires, and as he flies down to the earth, he sees other birds weaken and find their songs.

The sky began to darken once again. As the sun went down behind the horizon, only the Eagle, the Hawk, the Owl, the Buzzard, and the Loon flew higher.

As daybreak came the next day, only Eagle, the chief of all birds, was left. He flew steady and strong until the sun was halfway in the sky. He looked and saw he was the only bird left in the sky. He began triumphantly soaring to the earth. The thrush awoke from his sound sleep at the back of eagle’s head. He hopped off the eagle’s head and began flying upward. The eagle saw the thrush begin his journey, but was exhausted. The eagle could do nothing more than stare at him in anger.

The little thrush flew higher and higher. He soon came to a hole in the sky. Entering the hole, he heard a beautiful song coming from the Spirit World. He stayed and learned the song. When he had learned it perfectly, he took leave of that place and returned anxiously to earth. He could not wait to share this most beautiful song with the others.

As he came closer to earth, he could see council rock, and he could see the great eagle, Stagwia, waiting for him. All the other birds waited in silence for thrush’s arrival upon the earth.

The thrush, nearing the earth, no longer felt proud of his song. He began to feel ashamed that he cheated to find this song. He feared Stagwia, for he was the one thrush cheated out of the song. He flew in silence to the deep woods. He hid in shame under the branches of the largest tree. He could not proudly share his song.He was so ashamed that he wanted no one to see him.

There you will find him even today. The Hermit Thrush never comes out into the open because he is still ashamed that he cheated. Sometimes, he can’t help himself, though, and he must sing his beautiful song. When he does this, the other birds stop singing because they know the song of the Hermit Thrush is from the Spirit World. That is why the Hermit Thrush is so shy and that is why his song is the most beautiful song of all the birds.

—

Why There Are Mosquitoes

Many winters ago two giant mosquitoes appeared on either side of a river. These giant creatures were as tall as a good sized pine tree. As the Indian people paddled down the river in their canoes, these giant creatures would bend their heads and attack them with their beaks. The mosquitoes killed many people.

Knowing that these giant mosquitoes were waiting to attack any canoe that floated down the river, the people began to shun this particular stream. It was then that these giant creatures moved to other streams to seek their prey.

For a while, it was a reign of terror for the Iroquois who were great canoe travelers. They never knew just when these giant mosquitoes would pounce out and devour them.

Finally, one day a war party was organized to seek out these creatures and to destroy them. Twenty warriors in two great canoes floated down a river where they expected the mosquitoes to be. In their hands, ever ready, they held their bows and arrows. Fastened to their belts were their war clubs and hunting knives.

Suddenly, two shadows loomed over them and a giant beak pierced one of the canoes. Giving their war cry, the warriors filled the air with many arrows. The battle was terrific! The giant mosquitoes seemed to be everywhere at the same time. in a little while, half the warriors had been killed.

The remaining braves determined to die courageously. They hid behind trees and bushes. They surrounded the mosquitoes who were unable to get them because of the thick branches. The Iroquois buried many of their arrows in the bodies of the two mosquitoes. Finally, after most of the arrows had been shot and the supply had become low, the two mosquitoes fell to the earth. They were covered with many wounds. Immediately, the warriors fell upon them with their war clubs and, with powerful blows, they tore the bodies of the mosquitoes apart.

From the blood of the two giant mosquitoes there sprang many little mosquitoes and the air was soon filled with them> These little mosquitoes, like their grandfathers, are fond of the taste of human blood. They hate man for killing their grandfathers and are continually trying to get revenge upon man for this reason.

This is how mosquitoes came to be. The battle took place on the Seneca River in New York State.

_________________

Guezos – “Manoliño”

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Poetry: Robinson Jeffers

Shine Perishing Republic

While this America settles in the mold of its vulgarity, heavily thickening to empire,

And protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out, and the mass hardens,

I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots to make earth.

Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances, ripeness and decadence; and home to the mother.

You making haste, haste on decay: not blameworthy; life is good, be it stubbornly long or suddenly

A mortal splendor: meteors are not needed less than mountains: shine, perishing republic.

But for my children, I would have them keep their distance from the thickening center; corruption

Never has been compulsory, when the cities lie at the monster’s feet there are left the mountains.

And boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man, a clever servant, insufferable master.

There is the trap that catches noblest spirits, that caught-they say-God, when he walked on earth.

(written in 1926!)

—

Summer Holiday

When the sun shouts and people abound

One thinks there were the ages of stone and the age of

bronze

And the iron age; iron the unstable metal;

Steel made of iron, unstable as his mother; the tow-

ered-up cities

Will be stains of rust on mounds of plaster.

Roots will not pierce the heaps for a time, kind rains

will cure them,

Then nothing will remain of the iron age

And all these people but a thigh-bone or so, a poem

Stuck in the world’s thought, splinters of glass

In the rubbish dumps, a concrete dam far off in the

mountain…

—

The Great Explosion

The universe expands and contracts like a great heart.

It is expanding, the farthest nebulae

Rush with the speed of light into empty space.

It will contract, the immense navies of stars and galaxies,

dust clouds and nebulae

Are recalled home, they crush against each other in one

harbor, they stick in one lump

And then explode it, nothing can hold them down; there is no

way to express that explosion; all that exists

Roars into flame, the tortured fragments rush away from each

other into all the sky, new universes

Jewel the black breast of night; and far off the outer nebulae

like charging spearmen again

Invade emptiness.

No wonder we are so fascinated with

fireworks

And our huge bombs: it is a kind of homesickness perhaps for

the howling fireblast that we were born from.

But the whole sum of the energies

That made and contain the giant atom survives. It will

gather again and pile up, the power and the glory–

And no doubt it will burst again; diastole and systole: the

whole universe beats like a heart.

Peace in our time was never one of God’s promises; but back

and forth, live and die, burn and be damned,

The great heart beating, pumping into our arteries His

terrible life.

He is beautiful beyond belief.

And we, God’s apes–or tragic children–share in the beauty.

We see it above our torment, that’s what life’s for.

He is no God of love, no justice of a little city like Dante’s

Florence, no anthropoid God

Making commandments,: this is the God who does not care

and will never cease. Look at the seas there

Flashing against this rock in the darkness–look at the

tide-stream stars–and the fall of nations–and dawn

Wandering with wet white feet down the Caramel Valley to

meet the sea. These are real and we see their beauty.

The great explosion is probably only a metaphor–I know not

–of faceless violence, the root of all things.

_______

Loreena McKennitt – The Bonny Swans

Manannan beg mac y Leirr, fer vannee yn Ellan

Bannee shin as nyn maatey, mie goll magh

As cheet stiagh ny share lesh bio as marroo ‘sy vaatey’.

Little Manannan, son of Lieirr, who blessed our land,

Bless us and our boat, well going out

And better coming in with living and dead in the boat.

____________

(‘Bear us swiftly, Boat of Mananan, to the Garden of the Hesperides’)

Ah, the last entry of a Year, and the first of the New Year. I am combining these two days for the portal of transformation that they are.

I want to give thanks for all the kind words, messages and thoughts I have recieved this year. It has been very heartening. Earthrites & Turfing grew at a fantastic this year, from some 1000 visitors a month to around 12,000! Quite a bit of growth, I would say.

We end and begin with a tip of the hat to heritage; An overview of music, story and poetry from the widespread Celts. From Brittany, The Isle of Man, Scotland, Ireland and ending with Galacia. I find it important at least to yours truly, to touch on these points in an ever blending world. Hang on to where you came, but embrace the future.

We have seen a year of changes, for my kith and kin it seemed to be a good one. We have health, happiness in our measure, and hope for the future. My son continues to develop in his unique way, and he is gathering his wings, fledgling no longer. He makes good choices in friends, and his writing and artwork are taking some interesting paths.

We have seen a possible change in the wind for the planet, the retaking of the 2 Houses by the Democrats; whilst I have no illusions about the Democrats, it does point to possibilities.

This was a year where almost daily notice was given about the changing climate. For a change, it seems that people are heeding the warnings, as islands disappear, and glaciers evaporate. Locally, more people are on bikes, and electric vehicles are becoming a common occurrence.

I want to thank all of my friends, across the world from Europe to Australia for their love and good wishes. I am blessed, truly blessed by the community that is unfolding across the globe. Thank the good Goddesses and Gods for that most interesting human invention; ‘The Internet’ which made this possible.

With that said, I hope you all have a wonderful new year. As it picks up steam, remember to be a part of the change that we all want to see.

Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

On The Menu:

Our Beloved Bard From Brittany: Alan Stivell

The Links

Celtic Cosmogony

Loreena McKennitt- The Mummers Dance

Poetry For The Land And Sea…

From Galacia: Milladoiro – O bruxo da montaña/The wizard of the mountain

_______

(Our Beloved Bard From Brittany: Alan Stivell)

_______

The Links:

Graham Hancock on Art Bell

Science told: hands off gay sheep

Gateway to the Next Mexican Revolution? :A Year of Unprecedented Turmoil

The Other Mystery of Easter Island

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Celtic Cosmogony

IN the beginning was the boundless Lir, an infinite depth, an invisible divinity, neither dark nor light, in whom were all things past and to be. There at the close of a divine day, time being ended, and the Nuts of Knowledge harvested, the gods partake of the Feast of Age and drink from a secret fountain. Their being there is neither life nor death nor sleep nor dream, but all are wondrously wrought together. They lie in the bosom of Lir, cradled in the same peace, those who hereafter shall meet in love or war in hate. The Great Father and the Mother of the Gods mingle together and Heaven and Earth are lost, being one in the Infinite Lir.

Of Lir but little may be affirmed, and nothing can be revealed. In trance alone the seer might divine beyond his ultimate vision this being. It is a breath with many voices which cannot speak in one tone, but utters itself through multitudes. It is beyond the gods and if they were to reveal it, it could only be through their own departure and a return to the primeval silences. But in this is the root of existence from which springs the sacred Hazel whose branches are the gods: and as the mystic night trembles into dawn, its leaves and its blossoms and its starry fruit burgeon simultaneously and are shed over the waters of space. An image of futurity has arisen in the divine imagination: and Sinan, who is also Dana, the Great Mother and Spirit of Nature, grows thirsty to receive its imprint on her bosom, and to bear again her offspring of stars and starry beings. Then the first fountain is opened and seven streams issue like seven fiery whirlwinds, and Sinan is carried away and mingled with the torrent, and when the force of the torrent is broken, Sinan also meets death.

What other names Connla’s Well and the Sacred Hazel have in Celtic tradition may be discovered later, but here, without reference to names, which only bewilder until their significance is made known, it is better to explain with less of symbol this Celtic Cosmogenesis.

We have first of all Lir, an infinite being, neither spirit nor energy nor substance, but rather the spiritual form of these, in which all the divine powers, raised above themselves, exist in a mystic union or trance. This is the night of the gods from which Mananan first awakens, the most spiritual divinity known to the ancient Gael, being the Gaelic equivalent of that Spirit which breathed on the face of the waters. He is the root of existence from which springs the Sacred Hazel, the symbol of life ramifying everywhere: and the forms of this life are conceived first by Mananan, the divine imagination. It throws itself into seven forms or divinities, the branches of the Hazel; and these again break out endlessly into leaves and blossoms and fruit, into myriads of divine beings, the archetypes and ancestral begetters of those spirits who are the Children of Lir. All these are first in the Divine Darkness and are unrevealed, and Mananan is still the unuttered Word, and is in that state the Chaldaic oracle of Proclus saith of the Divine Mind: “It had not yet gone forth, but abode in the Paternal Depth, and in the adytum of god-nourished Silence.” But Mananan, while one in essence with the Paternal Lir, is yet, as the divine imagination, a separate being to whom, thus brooding, Lir seems apart, or covered over with a veil, and this aspect of Lir, a mirage which begins to cover over true being, is Dana, the Hibernian Mother of the Gods, or Sinan in the antique Dinnshenchus, deity first viewed externally, and therefore seeming to partake of the nature of substance, and, as the primal form of matter, the Spirit of Nature. Mananan alone of all the gods exists in the inner side of this spirit, and therefore it is called his mantle, which, flung over man or god, wraps them from the gaze of embodied beings. His mantle, the Faed Fia, has many equivalents in other mythologies. It is the Aether within which Zeus runs invisibly, and the Akasa through which Brahm sings his eternal utterance of joy. The mantle of Mananan, the Aether, the Akasa, were all associated with Sound as a creative power, for to the mystic imagination of the past the world was upsung into being; and what other thought inspired the apostle who wrote, “In the beginning was the Word”?

Out of the Divine Darkness Mananan has arisen, a brooding twilight before dawn, in which the cloud images of the gods are thronging. But there is still in Lir an immense deep of being, an emotional life too vast, too spiritual, too remote to speak of, for the words we use to-day cannot tell its story. It is the love yet unbreathed, and yet not love, but rather a hidden unutterable tenderness, or joy, or the potency of these, which awakens as the image of the divine imagination is reflected in the being of the Mother, and then it rushes forth to embrace it. The Fountain beneath the Hazel has broken. Creation is astir. The Many are proceeding from the One. An energy or love or eternal desire has gone forth which seeks through a myriad forms of illusion for the infinite being it has left. It is Angus the Young, an eternal joy becoming love, a love changing into desire, and leading on to earthly passion and forgetfulness of its own divinity. The eternal joy becomes love when it has first merged itself in form and images of a divine beauty dance before it and lure it afar. This is the first manifested world, the Tirnanoge or World of Immortal Youth. The love is changed into desire as it is drawn deeper into nature, and this desire builds up the Mid-world or World of the Waters. And, lastly, as it lays hold of the earthly symbol of its desire it becomes on Earth that passion which is spiritual death. In another sense Angus may be described as the passing into activity of a power latent in Lir, working through the divine imagination, impressing its ideations on nature in its spiritual state, and thereby causing its myriad transformations. It is the fountain in which every energy has its birth, from the power which lays the foundations of the world, down through love and every form of desire to chemical affinity, just as Mananan is the root of all conscious life, from the imperial being of the gods down to the consciousness in the ant or amœba. So is Dana also the basis of every material form from the imperishable body of the immortals to the transitory husk of the gnat. As this divinity emerges from its primordial state of ecstatic tenderness or joy in Lir, its divided rays, incarnate in form, enter upon a threefold life of spiritual love, of desire, and the dark shadow of love; and these three states have for themselves three worlds into which they have transformed the primal nature of Dana: a World of Immortal Youth: a Mid-world where everything changes with desire: and which is called from its fluctuations the World of the Waters: and lastly, the Earth-world where matter has assumed that solid form when it appears inanimate or dead. The force of the fountain which whirled Sinan away has been spent and Sinan has met death.

The conception of Angus as an all-pervading divinity who first connects being with non-being seems removed by many aeons of thought from that beautiful golden-haired youth who plays on the tympan surrounded by singing birds. But the golden-haired Angus of the bards has a relation to the earlier Eros, for in the mysteries of the Druids all the gods sent bright witnesses of their boundless being, who sat enthroned in the palaces of the Sidhe, and pointed the way to the Land of Promise to the man who dared become more than man.

But what in reality is Angus and what is Dana, and how can they be made real to us? They will not be gained by much reading of the legendary tales, for they are already with us. A child sits on the grass and the sunlight falls about it. It is lulled by the soft colour. It grows dreamy, a dreaminess filled with a vague excitement. It feels a pleasure, a keen magnetic joy at the touch of earth: or it lays its head in a silent tenderness nigh a mother or sister, its mood impelling it to grow nearer to something it loves. That tenderness in the big dreamy heart of childhood is Angus, and the mother-love it divines is Dana; and the form which these all-pervading divinities take in the heart of the child and the mother, on the one side desire, on the other a profound tenderness or pity, are nearest of all the moods of earth to the first Love and the Mighty Mother, and through them the divine may be vaguely understood. If the desire remains pure, through innocence, or by reason of wisdom, it becomes in the grown being a constant preoccupation with spiritual things, or in words I have quoted before where it is better said, “The inexpressible yearning of the inner man to go out into the infinite.”

Of Dana, the Hibernian Mother of the gods, I have already said she is the first spiritual form of matter, and therefore Beauty. As every being emerges out of her womb clothed with form, she is the Mighty Mother, and as mother of all she is that divine compassion which exists beyond and is the final arbiter of the justice of the gods. Her heart will be in ours when ours forgive.

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(Loreena McKennitt- The Mummers Dance)

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Poetry For The Land And Sea…

Traditionary Ballad – Mannanan Beg Mac y Leirr

The following is a translation of the lines as they stand in the Manx song, without regard to any poetry in English

If you would listen to my story,

I will pronounce my chant

As best I can; I will, with my mouth,

Give you notice of the enchanted Island.

Who he was that had it first,

And then what happened to him;

And how St. Patrick brought in Christianity,

And how it came to Stanley.

Little Mannanan was son of Leirr,

He was the first that ever had it;

But as I can best conceive,

He himself was a heathen.

It was not with his sword he kept it,

Neither with arrows or bow,

But when he would see ships saving,

He would cover it round with a fog.

He would set a man, standing on a hill,

Appear as if he were a hundred ;

And thus did wild Mannanan protect

That Island with all its booty.

The rent each landholder paid to him was,

A bung e of coarse meadow grass yearly,

And that, as their yearly tax,

They paid to him each midsummer eve.

Some would carry the grass up,

To the great mountain up at Barrool;

Others would leave the grass below,

With Mannanan’s self, above Keamool.

Thus then did they live;

O l think their tribute very small,

Without care and without anxiety,

Or hard labour to cause weariness.

—

Land of Legends

by Stephen Lewis Ingham Pettit

Some say in the distant dawn the giant hand

of Finn MacCumhal (+) once hurled this land –

(a tiny clod of earth, to him)

and missed his Scottish foe;

so here it lies, an island given birth

by superhuman force, between old kingdoms.

But how grand, to us, this realm of mountain shapes

and sunset skies and racing shadows!

A place of faery pastures,

of golden gorse,

of cairns of olden tyme and tales of long ago.

Yet we who dwell here know

we set our feet where once immortals trod,

who left their magic here. Here –

is the sometime throne of the ocean god,

Mannanan,

by which his cloak of mists invisible became

a plaything of his starry will- Here,

every mountain rill

whispers enchantment still,

murmurs the old god’s name.

(+Pronounced MacCool)

—-

The First That Had Her

From Mylechairane,1859

“Manannan beg va Mac y Leirr,

Shen yn chied er ec row rieau ee.”(+1)

HAST thou not heard the feats of Man’nan (+2) sung,

Who o’er this Isle a silver mist-shroud flung,

To veil the treasure from Sea-rovers’ eyes,

Searching the waters for his fairy-prize ?

This Merchant Manxman of the solemn smile,

First legislator of our rock-throned Isle,

Dwelt in a fort (withdrawn from vulgar sight),

Cloud-capp’d BAROOLE (+3) upon thy lofty height.

From New-year-tide round to the ides of Yule,

Nature submitted to his wizard rule:

Her secret force he could, with charms, compel

To brew a storm or raging tempests quell;

Make one man seem like twenty in a fray,

And drive the Stranger (+4) over seas away.

But they who read our Island lore aright,

Know that this curious Myth the fact bedight,

How that one Manxman, erst, was worth a score

Of savage Warriors from rude Scotia’s (+5) shore.

–

+1 Translation Manannan the little was son of Leirr,

He was the first man that ever had her.” Meaning the Island. Island is feminine in Manx.

+2,The Manx believe Mannan Mac Lear, to have been their first legislator, and hold him in great reputation for his wisdom.” SACHEVEREL.

+3 ,On the highest point of South Baroole are the ruins of walls of most unusual magnitude. On the steepest and least accessible side the walls are of inferior strength, but on the northern side they are 27 feet in thickness.”- KERRUISH’S Guide, p. 186.

+4 ” Our most Gratious and excellent Lord, Sir John Stanley, King of Man and the Isles. In the Vigill of your Lady Set. Mary, Anno Domini 1422, att his Castle of Rushen, &C., &C., gave for Law, that ‘Alsoe that all Scotts avoid the Land with the next Vessell that goeth into Scotland, upon Paine of Forfeiture of their Goods, and their Bodys to Prison.’ “-Ordinances and Statutes of the Isle of Man previous to the Revestment (MILLS), p. 27.

+5 In the “good old times,” the Manx law permitted a native of the Isle to kill a Scotchman, provided he afterwards went over to Scotland and stole a white skin, meaning a white goat, and so giving the Scotch an opportunity of retaliating (by killing him) ; or he was to forfeit three white goats-plentiful in those days as sheep are in these.

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(From Galacia: Milladoiro – O bruxo da montaña/The wizard of the mountain)

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