Month: February 2007

Monday… I am leaving the house so this is brief….

On The Menu

The Links

The Quotes

Amazigh (Berber) Music

A Tale of Seven Brothers

The Other Intifada – Poetry Of The Amazigh Women

__________________

The Links:

Study Explains Why Psychedelic Drugs Produce Different Neurological Effects

Cosmic Calendar: Spaceshapes – triangle and pinwheel

Archaeology trumps oil, gas

Poll shows most Britons want Blair to resign now</a

_________________________

The Quotes:

“The denunciation of the young is a necessary part of the hygiene of older people, and greatly assists in the circulation of their blood.”

“Skeptical scrutiny is the means, in both science and religion, by which deep insights can be winnowed from deep nonsense.”

“I never know how much of what I say is true.”

“Thomas Jefferson once said, ‘We should never judge a president by his age, only by his works.’ And ever since he told me that, I stopped worrying.”

“Idealism is what precedes experience; cynicism is what follows.”

“Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much.”

__________________________

__________________________

A Tale of Seven Brothers

By Mustapha Baztout

Almond and Olive

Olive trees and almond trees, beloved of the Berber people, grew all around grandmother’s house. The almond blossom gave pleasure to the eye, and perfumed the evening air. And the olives – well, there was the dark beauty of the trees, but so much more besides.

The hard, dramatically grained wood of the olive tree can be used for everything from salad spoons to roof-struts, and grandmother’s house was thatched with brush from olive branches. Olives and olive oil played a large part in the meals she cooked; and the fire we so often gathered around in the evenings was fuelled by olive wood. Do you like baked potatoes? If you do, you’d have loved the ones we used to cook in the embers of that fragrant fire. And when the fire was cold and spent, those olives still hadn’t gone beyond usefulness. Grandmother said the ashes of an olive fire, rubbed into the scalp, are an effective preventative for dandruff!

So as the evening draws on, imagine yourself breathing in the almond-scented air, praise the powers that be for all the gifts of the almond and the olive, and take your place in the family circle to hear another of grandmother’s stories…

A Tale of Seven Brothers

Once upon a time there was a girl called Aicha who lived with her father and her stepmother in a little village in North Africa. She grew up as most girls do, playing with the other children of the village, but she was called a daddy’s girl because she spent as much time as she could with her father. Perhaps this was because Aicha’s mother had died when she was very young, or perhaps it was because Aicha’s step-mother had a daughter of her own, and looked coldly on Aicha.

As time went on Aicha’s stepmother began to notice that Aicha claimed a lot of her father’s attention. She got jealous on behalf of her own daughter, and began thinking how she might get rid of Aicha. One day when she was tidying up their little house her glance fell upon a ball of string and an idea came to her. She slipped the string into her pocket and called to Aicha.

“Come child,” she said. “Leave your father in peace. You and I are going for a walk.”

Aicha followed her stepmother obediently and soon they were making their way up a mountain path. Aicha’s stepmother handed her the end of the string, saying, “You hold onto this and I’ll hold the ball, then you won’t get lost.”

They crossed the river that ran into their valley, and walked through the dark forest that grew round the mountain’s knees.

“Where are we going?” said Aicha.

“You’ll see,” said her stepmother, and went on climbing.

Onwards and upwards they went until at last they reached the top of the mountain, where they stopped to gaze at the tiny houses and people in the valley far below. Suddenly Aicha saw her stepmother’s ball of string bouncing away from her and rolling down the mountainside.

“Stupid girl!” said her stepmother. “You pulled on the string and made me drop the ball. Now just you go and fetch it back.”

Aicha didn’t remember pulling on the string but being a dutiful girl, she handed the end of the string to her stepmother and ran off down the mountainside after the bouncing ball. Soon she ran into the dark forest. Keeping her eye on the string that would lead her to the lost ball, she soon came out of the other side of the forest, and saw the string disappearing into the river. Without stopping she waded in, following the string through the water, out the other side, and on down the mountain.

At last she came to the end of the string – and found no ball to take back to her stepmother. She walked back up to the river and down the mountainside again, looking under every bush and behind every rock, but she couldn’t find the ball. Eventually she gave up and decided to follow the string back to her stepmother. But she had wandered a long way in search of the ball, and now she couldn’t find the string, either.

Nor could she find the mountain path. She looked around at strange hills and strange valleys. She was in a place she had never seen before and she didn’t know her way home.

Her stepmother on the other hand, knew her way home very well. As soon as she’d seen Aicha wade into the river she had reeled in her string, rolling it into a ball once more. Then with a satisfied smile, she had turned away from her unwanted stepdaughter and headed back to the village.

-o0o-

Up on the mountainside, far from home, Aicha watched the evening sun going down and wondered where she was going to spend the night. Looking around, she spotted a wisp of smoke rising in the distance and headed towards it. As darkness fell she came upon a pleasant little house with sweet wood-smoke rising from its chimney. She could hear someone moving about in the house. She wanted to show herself but she was frightened, so she let herself in quietly and hid in the animals’ feed-store at the back of the house.

Presently there was a commotion of talking and laughter outside. Aicha poked her head out of her hiding place and saw six young men striding towards the house. As she watched, a seventh – the one she had heard moving around inside – came out to greet them. Aicha thought they seemed like a happy, friendly band of brothers. It appeared that one had stayed home to keep house and prepare supper whilst the others had been out hunting. As the brothers bustled into the kitchen and settled down to their supper, Aicha felt hungry and lonely and wished she could join them in the warm, bright kitchen. But caution led her to stay hidden.

The next morning six brothers set off at sunrise to go about their daily business. Aicha noticed that today a different one took a turn staying home to keep house. Aicha watched him until he went outside to tend the garden and water the fruit trees. As soon as he did so, Aicha crept into the kitchen, aiming to earn her dinner. Glancing regularly out of the window to check that the young man was still busy amongst his trees, Aicha cleaned up the kitchen, laid the table and cooked supper. Then, feeling it would now be fair to take some food for herself, she crept back to her hiding place clutching a bowl of stew in one hand and a piece of bread in the other. As she quietly ate her meal the young man came in from his gardening, thinking it was time to clean up the kitchen and prepare supper.

“What magic is this?” he cried, when he walked into a clean and tidy kitchen and saw the supper bubbling away on the stove!

Soon his tired and hungry brothers trooped back into the kitchen. He sat down with them, wondering how to tell them about the strange events of the day, but before he could find the words one of his brothers exclaimed: “This stew is delicious. You’re a better cook that I knew, brother!”

Another agreed, and added: “And the table is so clean I thought it was a new one.”

“And the windows have never been so clean!” added a third.

Another commented on the dish of flowers that decorated the table, another on the sweet strewing-herbs on the floor. By now the guilty brother had his mouth full and was enjoying his dinner and the praise and so somehow, he said nothing.

The same thing happened the next day, and the next, until all the brothers had a guilty secret. Then at last, walking home on a beautiful, fragrant evening, the first brother who had experienced the ‘strange magic’ could keep silent no more.

“But the same thing happened to me!” said his next brother when he’d heard the confession.

“And to me!” said the next.

So when they got home that night they searched the house for their mysterious helper. But Aicha was quick and clever, so that wherever the brothers searched, she was always somewhere else. At last the young men gave up and sat down to their supper – a particularly delicious couscous that Aicha had made, served up with dishes of olives and salad from their garden. As they commented on the tasty food, Aicha crept into the doorway to listen and find out what they thought of her.

“If our helper’s a girl, she will be our beloved sister,” said one.

“And if he is a boy, he will be our most esteemed brother,” said another.

And so at last Aicha decided it was safe to show herself. The brothers greeted her with delight and made a fuss of her, and told her she should live with them as long as she liked and have the best share of all that they had.

-o0o-

Life went on happily enough. The brothers were as good as their word – Aicha had the best share of everything and was allowed to do as she liked. Only one rule did the brothers impose on her, and that was little enough trouble to her. They had a big tabby cat who lived in front of the kitchen fire, and no-one was allowed to disturb that cat.

As the brothers left the house on the first day after Aicha had shown herself, the youngest had turned to her and said, “The cat has a dry broad bean somewhere, that she likes to play with, so be careful when you are sweeping up. See that you don’t touch it.”

Aicha had no objection to letting the cat keep her toy. She went about her business every day, keeping house, working in the garden, preparing supper. But one day when she was sweeping the floor, she was a bit annoyed because the cat had left her toy in the middle of the floor and gone off to sit in the sunshine.

“Come here and collect your broad bean!” called Aicha.

But the cat was busy washing herself and wasn’t interested.

Aicha called her again, so the cat looked up with heavy lidded green eyes and she said, “I’m busy. I don’t want my toy any more.”

So Aicha shrugged her shoulders and carried on sweeping. Soon the cat’s dry broad bean was in the fireplace along with all the dust and rubbish Aicha had collected up. That was all very well until the cat had finished cleaning herself and came into the kitchen looking for new amusement. She looked all around for her toy and couldn’t find it, so she called to Aicha: “Where is my dry broad bean?”

“It’s in the fire,” Aicha replied. “You said you didn’t want it any more.”

“I want it now,” yowled the cat. “Give me my toy, or I’ll wee on the fire!”

“Never mind,” said Aicha. “I’ll find you another toy.”

“Naaao, I want my dry broad bean!” yowled the cat, and she refused even to look at the piece of wool Aicha offered her, or the twist of straw, or even the bunch of catnip.

“I want my dry broad bean!” she yowled.

And when Aicha shrugged her shoulders and turned away, that angry cat weed on the fire.

“Oh you silly cat!” cried Aicha. “Now I will have to go out and beg an ember from someone so I can restart the fire for supper!”

“That’s okay,” said the cat, who was happy now, playing with her rescued broad bean.

Aicha sighed and shook her head then she cleaned out the fireplace, laid a new fire, and then set out to find someone who might offer her an ember to re-light it.

_______________

The Other Intifada – Poetry Of The Amazigh Women

(Photos are not of the Poets…)

At first glance, Nanna Ferroudja appears the typical grandmother from the mountains of Kabylia, dressed in the traditional taqendurt n leqbayel (Kabyle dress) and fuda (skirt apron), monolingual in Takbaylit (the regional Tamazight of Kabylia), with no formal schooling, and unable to read or write. But Nanna Ferroudja is more than the caretaker of her grandchildren, the keeper of her hearth. She is a poetess and a die-hard Amazigh militant.

Nanna Faroudja’s face is lined with the sorrows and trials of her 67 years of life. Much of her sorrows and experiences have been verbalized in her poetry. Her lyrics address various topics, including: the current crisis in Kabylia, emigration from Kabylia, family issues, and the Algerian war against the French. She started creating poems at age 24, at the death of her brother during the war. The tragedies of war and oppression, the struggle for freedom and Amazigh recognition has been the source of her inspiration.

Since the recent events emanating from Kabylia began in April of this year, her poems, which are a release of her griefs and fury, have flowed more quickly. When the uprising started, she was abroad, helping to care for a newborn grandchild. This did not stop her, however, from participating in all the demonstrations in support of the people of Kabylia, which were held in the surrounding cities of her host country. She surprised the participants with the elocution of her spontaneously-created poetry, becoming a symbol and an inspiration for the area’s Amazigh diaspora.

Please note that these translations are not literal. They are interpretations of the text in order to preserve the structure of the poems while faithfully conveying the meaning behind the words to a different culture, represented by the language of translation. Nanna Ferroudja was consulted throughout the translation processs. The poems have been transcribed by Karim Achab, Amazigh scholar and linguist. The English translations are the joint effort of K. Achab and Blanca Madani.

Ayen yedran di tmura

(What happened in Kabylia)

The heart cries, the soul is wounded

Because of what happened in Kabylia

Many youth were killed

Their lives yet unfulfilled

They gave their lives for Tamazight

That’s about honor, not robbery

Let’s agree to unite

As we did against the French

A million-and-a-half dead

Yet freedom has not come

CSnatched by the undeserving

Such dishonor, but do they care?

Today things have grown clear

Algeria is scorned by foreign lands

You who are bright, awaken!

Come, free us

That we may live in dignity.

—

Netswahqer

(Disgrace)

My heart cries impatiently

Oh, my brethren, we are a disgrace

We have known nothing each day but war

Many youth have died

More bloodshed than the raging waters of a torrent

They all died for Tamazight

Which the others long tried to conceal

My brethren, do not surrender!

With valor, we will overcome!

Blessings on the martyrs

Their names inscribed in History

Luckily, the saviors were not all gone

They unearthed it, Tamazight

Its brilliance will finally sparkle

My brethren, do not retreat

The bloodshed must be honored with our freedom.

—

Nanna Ferroudja, having suffered through the miscarriage of her first child, her only boy, eventually bore and raised three healthy girls. In 1985, when her youngest was still a teenager, she lost her husband, with whom she’d shared her life for 28 years. Then, eleven years later, she suffered the pain of separation when her youngest daughter, who had been her only constant companion since her older daughters had married, left with her new husband to North America.

Lgwerba

(In exile)

ADiscretely, I cry,

Cries, Oh Brethren, no one hears

I left it behind

The country where I was raised

Like birds, we flew

To the lands of others

We left our families, tearful

Separated; there was no other choice

I took a seat in a machine

Flying so high in the sky

My feet touched the land of Canada

Where I found folks, so kind

I looked for people from Kabylia

To unite our goals and strength

When we call our mothers

It is but a voice through the wire

Mothers be patient, don’t worry

We will return one day.

—

Tafsut Imazigen di Kanada

(Amazigh Spring in Canada)

$It is about Canada

A country inundated in snow

It drained Kabylia of its brains

And left the villages desolate

Families were left behind lamenting

What torture, this heart broken in pieces

KBe grateful to them, oh, Canada

Honor the immigrants with respect

This is the Day of Tamazight

Future generations will know It

Greetings to the immigrants

To each and every one.

A Sunday Treat….. A nice way to start the day. Take your time, explore a bit!

Enjoy,

Gwyllm

——

On The Menu:

The Links

The Story of the Three Genjias

Poetry: Eavan Boland

Musical Focus: Mercan Dede

______________

The Links:

23: How weird Is That?

Evangelicals eyed in Brazil

2012 and the Old Equator

________________

Mercan Dede

________________

The Story of the Three Genjias

Once upon a time in a certain place there lived three men who all had the same name — Genjia. One was the tribal chief, the second a carpenter, and the third the chief’s steward.

Genjia the carpenter was married to an exceptionally beautiful woman. Genjia the steward fancied her and dreamt day and night of having her for himself. But she was a very upright woman and would not let him get anywhere near her. Finally, he was driven to find some way of killing the carpenter in order to attain his end.

After a while, the father of Genjia the chief died. The steward saw in this a golden opportunity for eliminating the carpenter. Every day he secretly studied the calligraphy of the Buddhist scriptures and succeeded in reproducing the old-fashioned and esoteric style in which they were written. He then wrote a document in this style and handed it to the chief, saying, “Master, here is a document I came across the other day. I cannot understand a word of it and have brought it here specially for you to decipher.”

Genjia the chief was baffled by the writing and passed it on to his secretary in charge of documents. After reading it, the secretary said, “This document claims to be from the old chief. In it he says that he has ascended to heaven and is now serving as an official there, but he doesn’t have an official mansion. He asks you, Master, to send him a carpenter — the most skilled you have — to direct the construction of such a mansion.”

Genjia the chief thought constantly of his father and was most concerned to hear that he had nowhere to lay his head in heaven. He sent for Genjia the carpenter, showed him the document and ordered him to go to heaven at once.

Genjia the carpenter was greatly startled. He dared not refuse, however, and could only plead for time, “How could I disobey your order, Master! But I need some time to prepare. Please allow me seven days. After that time, please hold a Twig Burning Ceremony in the hemp field behind my house to send me off. Then I’ll be able to ascend to heaven to build the mansion for the old chief.”

Genjia the chief considered this request reasonable and willingly agreed.

When Genjia the carpenter left, he went round making a few investigations. He wanted to find out where the chief had got this idea. He eventually discovered that it had originated in a classical document found by Genjia the steward. He put two and two together and concluded that it must be a sinister plot against him hatched by the steward.

He went home and consulted with his wife. “The most absurd thing has happened. The chief wants me to go and build a mansion in heaven. He must have been tricked into it by Genjia the steward. I did not dare refuse, but asked him to hold a Twig Burning Ceremony behind our house before I go. It would be no use trying to disobey him now. There is only one way for me to get out of this alive. The two of us must dig a tunnel under cover of night leading from the field to our bedroom, and then you can hide me there later. In a year’s time I will find some way to get even.”

The wife was shocked by this tale. Hatred for the steward filled the very marrow of her bones. She was willing to do anything to save her husband. So every day when night fell, the two of them dug the tunnel in secret. On the seventh day it was completed. They sealed the entrance with a slab of stone and scattered soil on it, so that people wouldn’t notice it.

The eighth day came, the day for the carpenter to ascend to heaven. At the head of a retinue of elders and stewards and with a great din of bugles and drums, the chief came to send him off. They made a pile of faggots in the hemp field and asked Genjia the carpenter to sling his tool-kit over his shoulder and carry his bag in one hand. They made him stand in the middle, lit the faggots and watched the smoke rise, “carrying him up to heaven”.

Genjia the steward was afraid that as soon as the faggots were lit, the carpenter would spoil everything by crying out in terror. “Come on !” he shouted to the crowd. “Blow your bugles and beat your drums! Laugh and cheer! Genjia the carpenter is on his way to heaven to build a mansion for our old chief. Isn’t that a wonderful thing!”

The chief came over to have a look. Genjia the steward pointed gleefully to the rising smoke and said, “Master, you see, there goes his horse. Genjia the carpenter is on his way to heaven.”

The chief was delighted.

The moment the faggots were lit and the smoke began rising into the sky, Genjia the carpenter raised the slab and escaped through the tunnel back to his own bedroom.

He confined himself to his house for a whole year. His wife went to great lengths to find milk, butter and other nutritious food for him; and as he did no work, by the end of that year he was plumper and fairer-skinned than ever.

Meanwhile, Genjia the steward tried a thousand and one ways of seducing the carpenter’s wife, and she tried a thousand and one ways of avoiding him. He failed completely to attain his goal.

While Genjia the carpenter was hiding at home, he diligently practiced the calligraphy of the Buddhist scriptures. He prepared a document written in the authentic style and kept it on his person. On the first anniversary of his “ascent to heaven” he went and stood on the very spot where he was supposed to have been burned, the same tool-kit on his shoulder and the same bag in his hand. He called out, “How is everybody? I’ve just got back from heaven.”

His wife was the first to come out. She pretended to be extremely surprised and hurried over to report the news to the chief.

The chief was very happy when he heard that Genjia the carpenter was back. He gave him a hero’s welcome with bugles and drums, and invited him to stay in his mansion. He wanted to find out how his father was faring in heaven.

On meeting the chief, Genjia the carpenter said in a very serious tone of voice, “When I was constructing the official mansion in heaven, the old chief treated me with exceptional kindness, just as you always do, Master. That’s why I’m in such good shape! The mansion is finished, and what a magnificent building it is — ten times the size of an earthly mansion! Only one thing is lacking: a steward. The old chief misses his old steward dearly. He very much wants the steward to go up to heaven and manage things for him. After a period of time he can come back.” This said, he promptly produced the document and showed it to the chief, adding that it was the old chief who had asked him to bring it down.

Genjia the chief read the document and was totally convinced by the whole story. Presently he sent for Genjia the steward and asked him to go and work for the old chief in his newly-built mansion in heaven.

When Genjia the steward saw Genjia the carpenter standing there and looking so well after his “ascent to heaven,” and when he heard the vivid description of heaven given by the carpenter, he just didn’t know what to think. “Perhaps I really possess some sort of magic power”, he thought to himself. “It was my idea for him to go to heaven, and he actually seems to have done so! Perhaps it really is possible to fly to heaven, and the old chief really does have a new mansion there!”

He followed the carpenter’s example and asked for seven days to get ready, and a Twig Burning Ceremony to be held in the hemp field behind his house to send him off to heaven. He thought that since Genjia the carpenter could come back, he could too. On the eighth day, as on the previous occasion, Genjia the steward stood in the middle of the faggots with a box on his shoulder and a bag in his hand. As on the previous occasion, there was a great din of bugles and drums, and the chief gave the order to light the faggots and send him off to heaven.

But the outcome this time was somewhat different. One difference was that after everything was over, a pile of charred bones was found among the ashes. Another difference was that the steward never came back. He stayed on in heaven forever to help the old chief run his mansion.

______________

Göksel Baktagir – Mercan Dede

______________

Poetry: Eavan Boland

Daphne With Her Thighs In Bark

I have written this

so that,

in the next myth,

my sister will be wiser.

Let her learn from me:

the opposite of passion

is not virtue

but routine.

I can be cooking,

making coffee,

scrubbing wood, perhaps,

and back it comes:

the crystalline, the otherwhere,

the wood

where I was

when he began the chase.

And how I ran from him!

Pan-thighed,

satyr-faced he was.

The trees reached out to me.

I silvered and I quivered. I shook out

My foil of quick leaves.

He snouted past.

What a fool I was!

I shall be here forever,

setting out the tea,

among the coppers and the branching alloys and

the tin shine of this kitchen;

laying saucers on the pine table.

Save face, sister.

Fall. Stumble.

Rut with him.

His rough heat will keep you warm and

you will be better off than me,

with your memories

down the garden,

at the start of March,

unable to keep your eyes

off the chestnut tree –

just the way

it thrusts and hardens.

—

Child Of Our Time

for Aengus

Yesterday I knew no lullaby

But you have taught me overnight to order

This song, which takes from your final cry

Its tune, from your unreasoned end its reason;

Its rhythm from the discord of your murder

Its motive from the fact you cannot listen.

We who should have known how to instruct

With rhymes for your waking, rhythms for your sleep,

Names for the animals you took to bed,

Tales to distract, legends to protect,

Later an idion for you to keep

And living, learn, must learn from you, dead.

To make our broken images rebuild

Themselves around your limbs, your broken

Image, find for your sake whose life our idle

Talk has cost, a new language. Child

Of our time, our times have robbed your cradle.

Sleep in a world your final sleep has woken.

—

The Atlantic Ocean

This stone, this Spanish stone, flings light

Like acid in my eyes. Walls splice the day.

Our freighter chokes, then belches anthracite,

Fresh water up by noon. We are away.

A shrivelled Europe faces

Starboard. Our guzzling boat

Bloats on fish, swallows, chases

The anchor down its throat.

Waves are conjurors, splashes sleeves,

Up which aces of past and future hide.

One man finds love, another what he grieves

By watching. To me they are another side

Of life, not one to do

With retrospect or manners

But with the ballyhoo

Of war, the hoist of banners.

Out of this ocean now, its menacing storms,

Out of its cryptic structures, its tribal

Tides, out of its secret order, from the cabal

Of trade wind and water, look, a Soviet forms!

A squad of drops batters

The sky for a second, wears

Out its force, then turns and tears

Each imperial crest to tatters.

The waves are agitating now, the sea

Itself becomes the theatre of the battle.

Lesser waves congregate, they settle

On a policy for all. All agree

Not to abandon their will

To fight, their fierce airs

Their stormy posture until

Victory is theirs.

So what has started well can flourish still,

As for example, underneath the tide

The marvel of structured self-protecting coral –

Now a milestone, sure to be a guide

To the she-whale, the sperm-whale nosing

Clear of the shark, the porpoises

Braceleting the ships’ bows.

The octopus intricately dozing.

No wonder it beats like an alternate heart in me,

No wonder its drops fill and fall from my eyes

In familiar drops. It’s in the family.

At last I see, at last I recognize

In its wild station,

Its ice and riot, its other

Prowess, of my revolution

The elder brother.

—

Listen, This is the Noise of Myth

this is the story of a man and a woman

under a willow and beside a weir

near a river in a wooded clearing.

They are fugitives. Intimates of myth.

Fictions of my purpose. I suppose

I shouldn’t say that yet or at least

before I break their hearts or save their lives

I ought to tell their stories and I will.

When they went first it was winter; cold,

cold through the Midlands and as far West

as they could go. They knew they had to go –

through Meath, Westmeath, Longford,

their lives unraveling like the hours of light –

and then there were lambs under the snow

and it was January, aconite and jasmine

and the hazel yellowing and puce berries on the ivy.

They could not eat where they had cooked,

nor sleep where they had eaten

nor at dawn rest where they had slept.

They shunned the densities

of trees with one trunk and of caves

with one dark and dangerous embrace

of islands with a single landing place.

And all the time it was cold, cold:

the fields still gardened by their ice,

the trees stitched with snow overnight,

the ditches full; frost toughening lichen,

darning lace into rock crevices.

And then the woods flooded and buds

blunted from the chestnut and the foxglove

put its big leaves out and chaffinches

chinked and flirted in the branches of the ash.

And here we are where we started from –

under a willow and beside a weir

near a river in a wooded clearing.

The woman and the man have come to rest.

Look how light is coming through the ash.

The weir sluices kingfisher blues.

The woman and the willow tree lean forward, forward.

Something is near, something is about to happen;

Something more than spring

and less than history. Will we see

hungers eased after months of hiding?

Is there a touch of heat in that light?

If they stay here soon it will be summer; things

returning, sunlight fingering minnowy deeps

seedy greens, reeds, electing lights

and edges from the river. Consider

legend, self-deception, sin, the sum

of human purpose and its end; remember

how our poetry depends on distance,

aspect: gravity will bend starlight.

Forgive if I set the truth to rights.

Bear with me if I put an end to this:

she never turned to him; she never leaned

under the sallow-willow over to him.

They never made love; not there; not here;

not anywhere; there was no winter journey;

no aconite, no birdsong and no jasmine,

no river and no woodland and no weir.

Listen. This is the noise of myth. It makes

the same sound as shadow. Can you hear it?

Daylight grays in the preceptories.

Her head begins to shine

pivoting the planets of a harsh nativity.

They were never mine. This is mine.

This sequence of evicted possibilities.

Displaced facts. Tricks of light. Reflections.

Invention. Legend. Myth. What you will.

The shifts and fluencies are infinite.

The moving parts are marvelous. Consider

how the bereavements of the definite

Are easily lifted from our heroine.

She may or she may not. She was or wasn’t

by the water at his side as dark

waited above the Western countryside.

O consolations of the craft.

How we put

the old poultices on the old sores,

the same mirrors to the old magic. Look.

The scene returns. The willow sees itself

drowning in the weir and the woman

gives the kiss of myth her human heat.

Reflections. Reflections. He becomes her lover.

The old romances make no bones about it.

The long and the short of it. The end and the beginning.

The glories and the ornaments are muted.

And when the story ends the song is over.

Eavan Boland is an Irish poet.

Boland was born in Dublin on 24 September 1944. Her father, Frederick Boland was a career diplomat and her mother was the post-expressionist painter, Frances Kelly.

She was educated in London and New York as well as in her native Dublin; graduating from Trinity College with a first class honors degree in English Literature. In 2004 she received an honorary degree from Trinity.

Eavan Boland’s first book of poetry was “New Territory” published in 1967 with Dublin publisher Allen Figgis. This was followed by “The War Horse” (1975), In Her Own Image (1980) and Night Feed (1982), which established her reputation as a writer on the ordinary lives of women and on the difficulties faced by women poets in a male-dominated literary world.

Boland’s publications also include: An Origin Like Water: Collected Poems 1967-1987 (1996), Outside History: Selected Poems 1980-1990 (1990), and a prose memoir Object Lessons: The Life of the Woman and the Poet in Our Time (1995). Her collection In a Time of Violence (1994) received a Lannan Award and was shortlisted for the T.S. Eliot Poetry Prize. All of her volumes of poetry have been Poetry Book Society Choices in the UK.In the United States her publisher is W.W.Norton. Her volume of poems “Against Love Poetry” (W.W. Norton 2001) was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year.

She is co-editor of The Making of a Poem: A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms (with Mark Strand; W. W. Norton &amp; Co., 2000). She also published a volume of translations in 2004 called After Every War (Princeton University Press). The translations are of German-speaking women poets.

Boland has taught at a number of universities, including Trinity College, Dublin. She was also writer in residence at Trinity College, Dublin, and at the National Maternity Hospital.

She is currently Bella Mabury and Eloise Mabury Knapp Professor in the Humanities at Stanford University in Palo Alto, California, and Melvin and Bill Lane Professor for Director of the Creative Writing program there.

She is married to author Kevin Casey; they have two daughters.

____________

Mercan Dede….

On the Music Box: Nick Drake/Time Of No Reply

First, a Blessing on You and Yours this Imbolc under the full moon!

Blessing For Hearth-Keepers

Brighid of the Mantle, encompass us,

Lady of the Lambs, protect us,

Keeper of the Hearth, kindle us.

Beneath your mantle, gather us,

And restore us to memory.

Mothers of our mother,

Foremothers strong.

Guide our hands in yours,

Remind us how

To kindle the hearth.

To keep it bright,

To preserve the flame.

Your hands upon ours,

Our hands within yours,

To kindle the light,

Both day and night.

The Mantle of Brighid about us,

The Memory of Brighid within us,

The Protection of Brighid keeping us

From harm, from ignorance, from heartlessness.

This day and night,

From dawn till dark,

From dark till dawn.

______

Have a good weekend, and if you can visit the radio this weekend, we will have a host of new music and on the spoken word, poetry.

Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

On The Menu

From The Diamond Sutra

The Links

What’s Happening In Philadelphia Next Week

Three Zen Parables

Poems of Stéphane Mallarmé

______________

From The Diamond Sutra…

Subhuti said to Buddha: World-honored One, will there always be men who will truly believe after coming to hear these teachings?

Buddha answered: Subhuti, do not utter such words! At the end of the last five-hundred-year period following the passing of the Tathagata, there will be self-controlled men, rooted in merit, coming to hear these teachings, who will be inspired with belief. But you should realize that such men have not strengthened their root of merit under just one Buddha, or two Buddhas, or three, or four, or five Buddhas, but under countless Buddhas; and their merit is of every kind. Such men, coming to hear these teachings, will have an immediate uprising of pure faith, Subhuti; and the Tathagata will recognize them. Yes, He will clearly perceive all these of pure heart, and the magnitude of their moral excellences.

Wherefore? It is because such men will not fall back to cherishing the idea of an ego-entity, a personality, a being, or a separated individuality. They will neither fall back to cherishing the idea of things as having intrinsic qualities, nor even of things as devoid of intrinsic qualities.

Wherefore? Because if such men allowed their minds to grasp and hold on to anything they would be cherishing the idea of an ego-entity, a personality, a being, or a separated individuality; and if they grasped and held on to the notion of things as having intrinsic qualities they would be cherishing the idea of an ego-entity, a personality, a being, or a separated individuality. Likewise, if they grasped and held on to the notion of things as devoid of intrinsic qualities they would be cherishing the idea of an ego-entity, a personality, a being, or a separated individuality. So you should not be attached to things as being possessed of, or devoid of, intrinsic qualities. This is the reason why the Tathagata always teaches this saying: My teaching of the Good Law is to be likened unto a raft. [Does a man who has safely crossed a flood upon a raft continue his journey carrying that raft upon his head?] The Buddha-teaching must be relinquished; how much more so mis-teaching!

__________

The Links:

silicone ‘nerve’ bra

Mars Anomalies

Vampire child found in China

Scientists offered cash to dispute climate study

__________

What’s Happening In Philadelphia Next Week…

Templeton Research Lectureship Program on the Constructive Engagement Between Science and Religion (2005-2008)

A Special Presentation in Association with the Spirituality, Religion, and Health Interest Group:

Entheogens, Enlightenment, and Experimental Humanities

Thomas B. Roberts, Ph.D.

Professor Emeritus at Northern Illinois University

Author: Psychoactive Sacramentals

Wednesday February 7th, 2007,

10:00 a.m. -12:00 noon

Medical Alumni Hall

(pizza will be provided after the lecture)

Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania

3400 Spruce Street

Philadelphia, PA 19104

1st Floor Maloney

For questions, please contact 215-614-0332 or go to www.mindreligion.com

_________________

Three Zen Parables

A Mother’s Advice

Jiun, a Shingon master, was a well-known Sanskrit scholar of the Tokugawa era. When he was young he used to deliver lectures to his brother students.

His mother heard about this and wrote him a letter:

“Son, I do not think you became a devotee of the Buddha because you desired to turn into a walking dictionary for others. There is no end to information and commentation, glory and honor. I wish you would stop this lecture business. Shut yourself up in a little temple in a remote part of the mountain. Devote your time to meditation and in this way attain true realization.”

—

The Voice of Happiness

After Bankei had passed away, a blind man who lived near the master’s temple told a friend:

“Since I am blind, I cannot watch a person’s face, so I must judge his character by the sound of his voice. Ordinarily when I hear someone congratulate another upon his happiness or success, I also hear a secret tone of envy. When condolence is expressed for the misfortune of another, I hear pleasure and satisfaction, as if the one condoling was really glad there was something left to gain in his own world.

“In all my experience, however, Bankei’s voice was always sincere. Whenever he expressed happiness, I heard nothing but happiness, and whenever he expressed sorrow, sorrow was all I heard.”

—

Great Waves

In the early days of the Meiji era there lived a well-known wrestler called O-nami, Great Waves.

O-nami was immensely strong and knew the art of wrestling. In his private bouts he defeated even his teacher, but in public he was so bashful that his own pupils threw him.

O-nami felt he should go to a Zen master for help. Hakuju, a wandering teacher, was stopping in a little temple nearby, so O-nami went to see him and told him of his trouble.

“Great Waves is your name,” the teacher advised, “so stay in this temple tonight. Imagine that you are those billows. You are no longer a wrestler who is afraid. You are those huge waves sweeping everything before them, swallowing all in their path. Do this and you will be the greatest wrestler in the land.”

The teacher retired. O-nami sat in meditation trying to imagine himself as waves. He thought of many different things. Then gradually he turned more and more to the feeling of the waves. As the night advanced the waves became larger and larger. They swept away the flowers in their vases. Even the Buddha in the shrine was inundated. Before dawn the temple was nothing but the ebb and flow of an immense sea.

In the morning the teacher found O-nami meditating, a faint smile on his face. He patted the wrestler’s shoulder. “Now nothing can disturb you,” he said. “You are those waves. You will sweep everything before you.”

The same day O-nami entered the wrestling contests and won. After that, no one in Japan was able to defeat him.

——-

Poems of Stéphane Mallarmé

At The Tomb of Verlaine

Anniversary – January 1897

The black rock, angered

that the blast should make it roll

shall not pause between

pious hands hoping to sense

resemblance to human ills,

as if to bless some

dire moulding. Almost always

if here the ring-dove

coos, this immaterial

mourning burdens with many

nubile folds the star

nourished by tomorrows, whose

scintillations shall

silver the crowd. Who, gazing

on the solitary flight

in external form

seeks our vagabond – Verlaine?

He is hidden in

the grass, Verlaine, so as not

to take by surprise without

a naive consent

the lip that is drinking there,

inhaling his breath

from a brook less than profound,

and calumniating death.

—

When The Shades Threatened

When the shades threatened

with their fatal law, as in

some past Dream, desire

and disease of vertebra,

grieving to perish under

funeral ceilings

they folded up within me

implacable wings.

Luxury, O ebon hall

where, to ensnare a king,

the garlands of

a celebration intertwined

their deaths, you are but

an arrogance belied by

the darknesses in eyes of

the lone one blinded

by his faith. – Yes, I know that

far off in this night

the Earth casts, in a great flash,

the strangest of mysteries

from centuries of

horror that darken it less.

Space all its own, and

whether increased or denied

revolves in that ennui

that takes the vilest

fires as witnesses to prove

it was a great star

in all its festive radiance

lit the flames of genius.

—

Spring

The fevered spring has sped regretfully

Clear-eyed winter, season of tranquil art,

My being, governed by a phantom heart

Gives one long yawn, and stretches lazily.

Within my skull, bound like an ancient tomb

With iron belt, a snowy half-light breathes.

Through fields that chant the vast refrain of leaves

Forlorn, I chase a faint and lovely dream.

Weary, and prostrate with the scent of trees,

I press my dream face-downwards into death,

Biting the warm soil where the lilac grows;

Half-buried, wait release from tedious earth …

– Meanwhile the blue beams on the hedgerow dawn,

And flower-birds that chirrup in the sun.

_________

Quite a nice day here in Portland. I worked with my friend Morgan yesterday delivering beer to pubs. Quite a bit of fun in its own way. More of that coming up. I guess I will be getting in physical shape with it all!

—

The Four Points Of Pondering Of This Day For Yours Truly:

How do we make the world more beautiful for our passing through this life?

Who is it that we touch?

How do we do less harm?

What is the nature of love?

Perhaps these are the eternal questions… but I like the running of them through my mind.

Working on a new website, hopefully soon it will be revealed!

If you haven’t downloaded the magazine, you don’t know what you are missing! 8o)

Pax,

Gwyllm

On The Menu

The Links

Deirdre of the Sorrows

Poetry: William Butler Yeats…

_____________

The Links:

Green Your IPOD: Tokyo micro garden

Microsoft Focuses on “Immortal Computing” Concept

Druids call for burial

Greeks give Zeus an extreme makeover

______________

Deirdre of the Sorrows

By Megan Powell

Fedlimid the bard hosted a festival for his lord King Conchobar of Ulster, while in the same house Fedlimid’s wife cried out in pain.

At the end of her labor, a servant entered the room where Fedlimid, Conchobar, and the rest of the guests celebrated. “The child is a girl,” she told Fedlimid.

While a boy would have been preferable, this news in itself was not disastrous. But then the druid Cathbad stood.

“She will grow to be beautiful,” Cathbad announced, speaking not only to Fedlimid but to the entire room. “Her name shall be Deirdre, and she will be the most beautiful woman in the world. But that beauty shall bring death to many heroes, and much sorrow to Ulster.”

Having uttered his prophesy, Cathbad sat. Conchobar’s warriors demanded that the child be killed.

“I will not allow it,” Conchobar said. “Such beauty will not be destroyed needlessly. I will arrange for Deirdre’s care, and when she is of a suitable age, she will be my wife.”

Fedlimid nodded eagerly. Such a match was a great honor, and it was only Conchobar’s intervention that guaranteed the girl’s survival.

Conchobar hid his prize deep in the mountains, away from the eyes of other men. As she matured, Deirdre only saw three people: a nurse, a fosterer and a teacher.

One day, Deirdre watched as her fosterer killed a calf to eat. The calf’s blood ran bright red in the snow, and a raven swooped down.

“If there were a man with hair as black as that raven, skin as white as that snow, and cheeks as red as that blood, I would wish to marry him,” Deirdre said, in what was perhaps the first manifestation of her second sight.

“There is such a man,” replied her teacher, Levarcham. While she was intelligent, Deirdre was also innocent; and since it was approaching the time when she was to marry the king, Levarcham supposed that she should know something of the world. “His name is Naoise, a son of Usnach. He is of the same race as the king your husband.”

“I should like to meet this man,” Deirdre said.

Her teacher hesitated. Deirdre was indeed as beautiful as Cathbad had predicted, and Conchobar wanted a virgin bride.

“I have never met Conchobar,” Deirdre continued. “Perhaps this Naoise can tell me something of him, and what I can expect as his wife in Ulster.”

Levarcham was convinced of Deirdre’s innocent intentions, and Naoise had an honorable reputation, so the meeting was arranged.

On the appointed day, Deirdre’s teacher escorted Naoise to meet her. “You are ideed beautiful, lady,” Naoise said in amazement, for he had not imagined that such beauty existed. “You are fit to be the wife of the king.”

“I had hoped that you might speak to me of my husband, and the other heroes of Ulster,” Deirdre said. So Naoise began to relate tales of great deeds, and eventually Deirdre’s teacher withdrew.

“Naoise,” Deirdre interupted. “I thank you for your stories, but they are not the true reason I wanted to see you.”

Naoise looked puzzled.

“I have never met Conchobar,” Deirdre said. “I have heard tales of his great deeds–your tales and others’. But all that I truly know of him is this: he took a babe from its parents, and kept his future wife as a prisoner with only the company of the animals and three people. I do not wish to be married to such a man, Naoise. I wish to be married to you.”

Naoise could not believe it. He would never have hoped to win such an unbearably beautiful woman’s love.

“You are the king’s,” he said, knowing as he spoke the words that he did not care. “If I took you away from him, we should have to live as exiles.”

“Exiles from what?” Deirdre asked. “Exiles from a land where we cannot possess what we most desire. I would embrace such an exile.”

“As would I,” Naoise said, and took her in his arms.

“Then come for me tonight,” Deirdre said. “I have never caused trouble; they will not expect me to try to escape.”

“I will be here,” Naoise promised. “And I will ask my brothers to join me as well.”

That night, Deirdre met the sons of Usnach outside the few buildings which had been the only home she had ever known. No one cried out in alarm; her disappearance was not noted until the morning, by which point Deirdre, Naoise, Ardan and Ainle were well on their way to Alba.

They formed an alliance with one of Alba’s kings. In return for aiding him in his battles–for the sons of Usnach were accomplished warriors–the exiles were allowed to wander freely.

They lived off the land, following the deer, and finally settled on the shore of Loch Etive. Deirdre had never been so happy. The first real decision of her life had been the right one. For their part, the sons of Usnach were satisfied. Their free lifestyle was welcome. Ardan and Ainle loved Deirdre as a sister; they felt no less priviledged than Naoise to have met her and won her affection.

Upon hearing of Deirdre’s abduction, Conchobar was outraged at the betrayal of the sons of Usnach. Later, when Deirdre’s complicity seemed undeniable, he raged inwardly at her as well. But he did not speak of his anger, and instead waited.

When he judged enough time had passed, he posed a question to his warriors as they feasted at Emain Macha. “Have any of you heard of a nobler company than those of us assembled here?”

Laughing, the heroes shook their heads.

“Yet we are not as great as we might be,” Conchobar continued. “The prowess of the sons of Usnach is well known. Why, they alone could defend Ulster against any other province. It is shameful that they remain exiles, especially for so pointless a reason as the fickleness of a woman. I would gladly welcome them back.”

The rest of the company nodded. “We would have counseled this, save for the heat of your anger,” they said.

“My anger has cooled,” Conchobar replied lightly. “I shall send a champion to fetch the sons of Usnach.”

After the feast, Conchobar privately summoned Conall the Victorious. “Tell me, Conall, what would you do if you were sent to bring back the sons of Usnach, but they were killed despite your promise of safe conduct?”

“I would kill the man that killed them,” Conall replied, “as well as any man who had a part in the plan.”

Conchobar nodded, and dismissed Conall. Then he secretly called Cuchulainn, son of Sualtam, and asked the same question.

“No man who performed such a deed would be safe,” Cuchulainn vowed. “Not even you could offer me a bribe sufficient to quell my wrath.”

After Cuchulainn left, Conchobar summoned Fergus, son of Roy, and posed the question a third time. “Such a foul deed would be avenged,” Fergus said. “I would slay any man–save you, of course, my lord–who had conspired to perform such murders.”

Conchobar smiled. “I am anxious to see the sons of Usnach again. Set out tomorrow, with all speed, and do not return without them. Return to Ireland at the Dún of Borrach, and do not linger. In fact, even if you yourself meet with some delay, send the sons of Usnach forward without you, for I weary of their exile.”

Fergus set out in his galley for Alba, accompanied by his two sons, Illannn the Fair and Buinne the Ruthless Red. When they reached Loch Etive, they debarked, and Fergus called out.

Naoise, Deirdre, Ardan and Ainle heard Fergus’s cry. “That was a man of Erin,” Naoise said, looking up from a game of chess.

Deirdre felt a sudden dread. “No,” she insisted. “That is a man of Alba. Pay no attention.”

But her warning was ignored, and Ardan went down to the shore and met Fergus and his sons. He brought them back, and the brothers were overjoyed at the message of friendship Fergus bore.

“The king wishes you to return from exile,” Fergus said. “I personally offer a promise of safe conduct, should you return to Ulster.”

“I wish to greet our fellows again,” Ardan said.

“Are they any more beloved than your brothers and I?” Deirdre asked.

“I long for the sight of the land I knew,” Ainle said.

“How can it compare to the beauty of Alba?” Deirdre asked.

“When it was a choice between Ulster without you, and exile with you, I gladly chose exile,” Naoise said to Deirdre. “But if I can again be welcome in Ulster, with you by my side, how could I do otherwise?”

“Listen to me,” Deirdre pleaded. “This will end badly, I am sure of it. We must not return.”

But the sons of Usnach were determined to return to their own land, so unhappily Deirdre boarded the galley with them the next morning. “We shall never see this land again,” she predicted quietly.

They landed at the Dún of Borrach, as Fergus had arranged with Conchobar. Unknown to Fergus, Conchobar had spoken to Borrach, ordering that he hold a feast. Unable to refuse Borrach’s hospitality, Fergus decided that he must send his charges on without his company.

“For the king was very clear, and said that nothing must delay you,” Fergus said. The sons of Usnach were annoyed at this change of plans; Deirdre was terrified. “My sons shall accompany you, and guarantee your safety.”

A vision came to Deirdre: Naoise, Ardan, Ainle, headless, and Illann dead as well, under a cloud of blood. “No, I beg you. We must not go. At least let us wait for the end of the feast.”

But once again, her advice was ignored, and they continued to Emain Macha. Conchobar received them splendidly, and placed the palace, the Red Branch House, at their disposal.

That evening, Conchobar summoned Deirdre’s old teacher, Levarcham. “Go and see Deirdre, and tell me if she is still the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Levarcham kissed Deirdre, who wept to see her teacher once more. “Beware the king,” Levarcham said. “He is kind and hospitable now, but he plots treachery.” She took her leave quickly, and returned to Conchobar. “It is sad,” she told the king. “She lived a hard life in the mountains of Alba; it has ruined her.”

Conchobar’s jealousy cooled, and he considered letting Naoise keep this woman who was no longer beautiful. But later, after he had drunk more wine, he sent a second messenger to bring him news of Deirdre’s appearance.

This messenger went in secret, and peered in a window. Deirdre glimpsed the spy, and cried out in outrage. Enraged, Naoise flung a chessman at the man, and put out one of his eyes.

“Truly, her beauty is great,” the wounded man told Conchobar. “Though it cost me one eye, I would gladly have stayed and gazed upon her with the other.”

These words rekindled Conchobar’s rage. He ordered his warriors to set fire to the Red Branch House. “Slay all within,” he shouted. “All save Deirdre!”

Fergus’s son Buinne ran outside as the first firebrands were thrown. He put out the fire, and slaughtered those men who came within reach. Seeing the prowess of only one of the five men inside the House, Conchobar called Buinne to him.

“I offer you land, and my friendship,” Conchobar said. “I am king; they are exiles. Abandon their cause.”

Buinne hesitated, and accepted Conchobar’s offer. He survived the night, and expected to become rich. But the land that Conchobar gave him, which had been green and fertile, turned barren that night, indignant that it was owned by a traitor.

After Buinne’s defection, Illann ran outside and continued the slaughter. “He will accept no bribe,” Conchobar predicted. So he turned to his son Fiacha, and gave him magic weapons, including his own shield. This shield was called “Moaner”, and roared whenever the man who carried it was in danger.

Fiacha fought Illann, who proved the stronger warrior. As Fiacha crouched beneath the shield, it roared for help. From a distance, Conall the Victorious heard the roar, and feared for his king’s life. He ran toward the duelists and, without pause, drove his spear through the body of Illann.

“I did not seek the king’s death,” Illann managed to say, having guessed the reason behind Conall’s action. “The sons of Usnach are inside, who came here under my father’s safe conduct. I only seek to protect them.”

Conall believed Illann’s dying words, and suspected the king’s involvement in the treacherous attack. He turned and slew Fiacha, who should have died at Illann’s hand.

All that night, the sons of Usnach beat back Conchobar’s warriors. But they began to tire, and with the dawn light realized that they must escape the Red Branch House or soon die.

“Stand in our center, behind our shields,” Naoise told Deirdre. “We shall protect you.”

They emerged, and cut their way past many warriors. In despair, Conchobar called the druid Cathbad.

“They must not escape,” the king said. “Do something to stop them, place a spell on them.” And, when Cathbad hesitated: “I promise to spare their lives.”

Cathbad agreed, and cast the illusion of a stormy sea about the exiles. Naoise tried to bear Deirdre on his shoulders, and keep her above water, but the water continued to rise. The sons of Usnach dropped their weapons, and they swam.

Conchobar’s men seized the sons of Usnach. Despite his promise to Cathbad, Conchobar condemned them to death.

The men of Ulster had witnessed the bravery of the sons of Usnach, and knew something of the king’s treachery; they all refused carry out the executions. Conchobar had to enlist the aid of a Norwegian, whose father had been killed by Usnach and who wished revenge upon the family.

Though they did not protest their sentence, the sons of Usnach each begged to be the first to die, and so avoid witnessing the deaths of the others. “Wait,” Naoise said. “This bickering must end. I shall lend our executioner the great sword “Retaliator”, given to me by Manannán son of Lêr. We shall die together.”

The sons of Usnach knelt beside one another, and with a single blow of the divine sword, all three were beheaded together.

Deirdre wept over her husband and his brothers, and cursed Conchobar. “I hate you more than any man alive,” she declared. “Perhaps even more than the man that struck the blow that killed them.”

“You must also be punished,” Conchobar said. “And if you hate me so much, then that shall be part of your punishment. And after a year, I will give you to the Norwegian for a year, so that you may enjoy the company of us both.”

This pronouncement did not affect Deirdre in the least; all that she feared had already come to pass. As Conchobar bore his prize to his palace, she broke away and hurled herself from a great height, breaking her body on the rocks and following the sons of Usnach into death.

Conchobar saw the prophesy of the druid Cathbad fulfilled. The men of Ulster never again trusted him. Fergus, when he heard what had happened, slaughtered many of Conchobar’s warriors, including his son. He and his own men then fled to Ailill and Medb of Connaught, Ulster’s greatest enemies. Cathbad cursed the king and the kingdom.

Ulster continued for a time, diminished and tarnished, and then fell. The buildings went to pieces, and grass grew up over them, and wild animals lived where once great men had walked.

______________

Poetry: William Butler Yeats

The Cap and Bells

The jester walked in the garden:

The garden had fallen still;

He bade his soul rise upward

And stand on her window-sill.

It rose in a straight blue garment,

When owls began to call:

It had grown wise-tongued by thinking

Of a quiet and light footfall;

But the young queen would not listen;

She rose in her pale night-gown;

She drew in the heavy casement

And pushed the latches down.

He bade his heart go to her,

When the owls called out no more;

In a red and quivering garment

It sang to her through the door.

It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming

Of a flutter of flower-like hair;

But she took up her fan from the table

And waved it off on the air.

`I have cap and bells,’ he pondered,

`I will send them to her and die’;

And when the morning whitened

He left them where she went by.

She laid them upon her bosom,

Under a cloud of her hair,

And her red lips sang them a love-song

Till stars grew out of the air.

She opened her door and her window,

And the heart and the soul came through,

To her right hand came the red one,

To her left hand came the blue.

They set up a noise like crickets,

A chattering wise and sweet,

And her hair was a folded flower

And the quiet of love in her feet.

—

He hears the Cry of the Sedge

I wander by the edge

Of this desolate lake

Where wind cries in the sedge:

Until the axle break

That keeps the stars in their round,

And hands hurl in the deep

The banners of East and West,

And the girdle of light is unbound,

Your breast will not lie by the breast

Of your beloved in sleep.

—

The Wheel

Through winter-time we call on spring,

And through the spring on summer call,

And when abounding hedges ring

Declare that winter’s best of all;

And after that there’s nothing good

Because the spring-time has not come —

Nor know that what disturbs our blood

Is but our longing for the tomb.

—

Her Praise

SHE is foremost of those that I would hear praised.

I have gone about the house, gone up and down

As a man does who has published a new book

Or a young girl dressed out in her new gown,

And though I have turned the talk by hook or crook

Until her praise should be the uppermost theme,

A woman spoke of some new tale she had read,

A man confusedly in a half dream

As though some other name ran in his head.

She is foremost of those that I would hear praised.

I will talk no more of books or the long war

But walk by the dry thorn until I have found

Some beggar sheltering from the wind, and there

Manage the talk until her name come round.

If there be rags enough he will know her name

And be well pleased remembering it, for in the old days,

Though she had young men’s praise and old men’s blame,

Among the poor both old and young gave her praise.

_______________