On The Verge….

Went out to Corbett yesterday to look at a job, up the old highway along the Sandy River… Beautiful up there. Amazing what 20 minutes on the road in Oregon will get you. From Deep Urban to Deep Country: Flash

On the way back in, we hit a monsoon, the rain was so thick that we were very quickly hydroplaning along. Argh.

This is an eclectic entry today. This and that, cobbled together in some sense of order. I hope you enjoy…

Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

Think Different

The Links

Discrimination Against Pagans – Starhawk….

25 Laws About Cats

From Ireland: The Poetry of Vona Groarke

Artist: Ferdinand Hodler

Ferdinand Hodler was born in Berne but worked mostly out of Geneva. He is known as one of the greatest Swiss painters of the late 19th to early 20th centuries. However, his early work consisted of uninspired landscapes.

In 1890, Hodler had a shift in style with his painting Night and began painting in the dark, allegorical theme. These paintings contain stylized figures in patterns of color, form and lines.

Hodler named his approach to painting Parallelism but was also seen as a member of the Symbolist, Art Nouveau, and Expressionist movements. Towards the end of his life, he returned to landscape painting.

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Think Different…. 8o)

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The Links:

Death by Caffeine

Tree Spirit Project

I just wanted to thank our Republican Administration for this: U.S. wildlife agency cutting 565 jobs, closing refuges

Yikes! For the business man on the go!

Flaky or fact? Are ‘power spots’ wacky … or what?

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Discrimination Against Pagans

Starhawk….

When my youngest stepdaughter was ten, she was warned by her mother not to be too open, in school, about the fact that she comes from a Wiccan family. About ten minutes later she came running in, waving a dollar bill, and pointing at the words, “In God We Trust”.

“How come they get to put their God on the money, and we can’t even talk about ours?” she asked, outraged.

We laugh at that story now, but it hints at what it feels like to grow up in a family that fears to openly proclaim their religious identity. While I can’t speak to the issue of discrimination against Catholics, I can say that religious discrimination against Pagans and Wiccans and indigenous religions is omnipresent in the U.S.

Many people still associate our religions either with worship of the Christian devil (he’s not in our pantheon) or with the spell-casting, broomstick riding witches of fairy tales. Either we’re evil, or we’re unreal, satanic or deluded, the victims of the modern day inquisition or the butt of jokes. Many Wiccans and Pagans remain ‘in the broom closet’, fearing harassment, persecution, the loss of jobs or custody battles—all of which have happened in recent years—should they come out publicly and proclaim their faith.

Pagans in prison have faced restriction of their right to have chaplains of their faith minister to them and perform ceremonies, and restrictions on receiving books and materials. No Pagan who openly acknowledged her faith could run for public office, beyond the local level, and expect to win.

Pagans in the military have faced harassment, at times—while in other situations the military has supported their right to practice their religion and to celebrate their religious ceremonies. Currently, widows and families of Pagan soldiers are struggling to get the Department of Veterans’ Affairs to allow the Wiccan pentacle on their grave markers. The most active case is being pressed by Roberta Stewart, the widow of Sgt. Patrick Stewart, a Pagan soldier who was killed in Afghanistan, aided by Circle Sanctuary and Americans United for Separation of Church and State.

Personally, I’ve found discrimination but also openness and true fellowship from other religious leaders. In the 80s and 90s, I taught in Dominican Matthew Fox’s Creation Spirituality program at Holy Names College. There I met many priests, ministers, and religious sisters as students and fellow teachers, and found great commonalities in our faith and values.

The current Pope, who was then the head of the Commission on the Doctrine of the Faith, silenced Matthew Fox, because of his courageous writings and progressive theology, but in part also because he employed a Witch. The college refused to fire either him or me—but Dr. Fox eventually left the Dominican order and entered the Episcopal priesthood.

Many Wiccans and Pagans are deeply involved in interfaith work. Some are members of their local interfaith councils. Others devote their volunteer time to public education. Very slowly, the prejudice is changing. I look forward to a time when no one in this country need be afraid to be open about their religion, when every prisoner can be comforted and challenged by a chaplain of their faith, and any soldier who dies in action can be buried beneath the religious symbol of their choosing.

More information can be found on the following websites:

Military Pagan Network

http://www.milpagan.org/

Circle Sanctuary

http://www.circlesanctuary.org/

Matthew Fox: Friends of Creation Spirituality

http://www.matthewfox.org/sys-tmpl/door/

Covenant of the Goddess

http://www.cog.org/

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25 Laws About Cats

1 – Law of Cat Inertia

A cat at rest will tend to remain at rest, unless acted upon by some outside force – such as the opening of cat food, or a nearby scurrying mouse.

2 – Law of Cat Motion

A cat will move in a straight line, unless there is a really good reason to change direction.

3 – Law of Cat Magnetism

All blue blazers and black sweaters attract cat hair in direct proportion to the darkness of the fabric.

4 – Law of Cat Thermodynamics

Heat flows from a warmer to a cooler body, except in the case of a cat, in which case all heat flows to the cat.

5 – Law of Cat Stretching

A cat will stretch to a distance proportional to the length of the nap just taken.

6 – Law of Cat Sleeping

All cats must sleep with people whenever possible, in a position as uncomfortable for the people involved as is possible for the cat.

7 – Law of Cat Elongation

A cat can make her body long enough to reach just about any counter top that has anything remotely interesting on it.

8 – Law of Cat Acceleration

A cat will accelerate at a constant rate, until he gets good and ready to stop.

9 – Law of Dinner Table Attendance

Cats must attend all meals when anything good is served.

10 – Law of Rug Configuration

No rug may remain in its naturally flat state for very long.

11 – Law of Obedience Resistance

A cat’s resistance varies in proportion to a human’s desire for her to do something.

12 – First Law of Energy Conservation

Cats know that energy can neither be created nor destroyed and will, therefore, use as little energy as possible.

13 – Second Law of Energy Conservation

Cats also know that energy can only be stored by a lot of napping.

14 – Law of Refrigerator Observation

If a cat watches a refrigerator long enough, someone will come along and take out something good to eat.

15 – Law of Electric Blanket Attraction

Turn on an electric blanket and a cat will jump into bed at the speed of light.

16 – Law of Random Comfort Seeking

A cat will always seek, and usually take over, the most comfortable spot in any given room.

17 – Law of Bag / Box Occupancy

All bags and boxes in a given room must contain a cat within the earliest possible nanosecond.

18 – Law of Cat Embarrassment

A cat’s irritation rises in direct proportion to her embarrassment times the amount of human laughter.

19 – Law of Milk Consumption

A cat will drink his weight in milk, squared, just to show you he can.

20 – Law of Furniture Replacement

A cat’s desire to scratch furniture is directly proportional to the cost of the furniture.

21 – Law of Cat Landing

A cat will always land in the softest place possible.

22 – Law of Fluid Displacement

A cat immersed in milk will displace her own volume, minus the amount of milk consumed.

23 – Law of Cat Disinterest

A cat’s interest level will vary in inverse proportion to the amount of effort a human expends in trying to interest him.

24 – Law of Pill Rejection

Any pill given to a cat has the potential energy to reach escape velocity.

25 – Law of Cat Composition

A cat is composed of Matter + Anti-Matter + It Doesn’t Matter.

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From Ireland: The Poetry of Vona Groarke

The Couch

A gap-minder on the Gortmore road

when the cattle are on the move,

I am flap and holler, borrowed bluff

and none of it will last long enough

to see the heat of them scatter,

the brown of them take any hold.

Wait on a while, say thirty years,

for one to stray through the gate

of my sitting room, to come to a standstill

by the hedge of the window sill, to squat

and haunch, to lie low as a brown heat

splayed for refuge in the gap of four a.m.

The Round House

The hump and clatter of an older sister’s sex,

the father putting out to sea in a burlap sleep;

the heft of pelt that is ridden with lice and a spoor

of excrement or semen or caked blood;

the wheeze of that most distant cousin,

the slump of one persistent grandmother;

the general accretion of foul breath:

postholes for the home that draws itself

from the inside out and round again, from the hub

of the hearth to radial sleepers under their communal skins,

out over the heads of the banded oaks reeling in

the doglegged flight of geese that knows its way

by the grain of the wood in the centre post

where the circle kinks when the child turns over

once in his sleep so his arm falls crook

on his mother’s side, as though to clasp

or to sweep up these relatively parabolic lines

and to brush them clean away into the corners

that come later on with their allowances, reprieves,

and their straightforward (if too pointed) pecking order.

Windmill Hymns

In the shadow of the windmill, we put down our lives.

Something about its girth and ballast, the sun on its back,

the shiftless, amber absolute of it, foreclosed on other options.

We put down our lives as if for a moment––a break for tea

or to deal with an enquiry in the yard––and something about

its stalwarth dereliction shut at once the chance of things

ever picking up again. Now, seven years on, this is us

finding the storeys equal to our time and too ornamental.

Even its decay does not refuse the compliment of sunshine,

the way the moon rubs up against it, or clouds distract

themselves upon its brim. What we were after then was a stopgap

for the lives we thought we’d live, that wouldn’t be banked

in small-talk, disappointments, lack of cash; the intended,

blue-sky lives that would have us tilting at an evening do,

with arms like French film-stars and mouthfuls of moonlight

to slip us downstream into bed. That was then. I lie. It never was.

This instead is the relief of getting nowhere, of knowing

from the start how it must end. The same momentum,

self-same pace that drags itself and all its consequence

over the bones of another rattled year. I suppose, at some point,

it will stop, and all the shunt and grind of the day-to-day

come creaking towards another new conclusion, a new plan:

the last sacks loaded, the carts dismissed, handshakes,

gates pulled shut from the outside and then a silence

gaining on the sails, settling there, the way birds do, and the air,

the damp, the mould will all do now. How long before the wood

lets itself down on willowherb that finds itself at bay in shuttered light;

before the doors give up the ghost; the floors shrug the way the windows

cannot bring themselves to do, until lads with slingshots

and deadeyes see to them? How long until the ivy takes a hold

and starlings, like quicksilver, like silverfish, like a fastness

of silver spilled out on the stones? And us? We don’t move.

Our way of holding on, of saying, we’ve stayed too long,

is like the way the children have of stopping play

to stand stock-still under the whir of starlings’ hide-and-seek.

That what’s missing should be called “the coping” makes me

want to lay my face against the stone; let ivy root in my teeth;

weather grout my skin, my eyes take on the evening and its down.

Let my children stand within an inch of my life, so the way

their breath aspires could be the sky, or something close, to me.

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Vona Groarke was born in the Irish Midlands in 1964. Her poetry collections with The Gallery Press include Shale (1994), Other People’s Houses (1999), Flight (2002), shortlisted for the Forward Prize (UK) in 2002 and winner of the Michael Hartnett Award in 2003 and Juniper Street (2005). In 2004 Flight and Earlier Poems was published by Wake Forest University Press in the US. Poetry Prizes include the Hennessy Award, the Brendan Behan Memorial Prize, Strokestown International Poetry Award, the Stand Magazine Poetry Prize, and runner-up in the Times Literary Supplement Poetry Competition (2003). She has been Writer-in-Residence with the National University at Galway and at Maynooth, and with Cavan County Council. She was co-holder of the Heimbold Chair in Irish Studies at Villanova University (Spring 2004). She now lives with her family in North Carolina where she teaches at Wake Forest University.

The Monday Rush….

(Lawrence Alma-Tadema – Hero)

Already caught up in the Monday Rush… Talked to Mike Crowley over the weekend, and got to share a pint with my friend Morgan. Rowan tied up the loose ends of ‘Guys and Dolls’ and now will be home before 9:00 every evening. Spring is bursting out all over, Portland is a blaze of colour…. It is very lovely.

Ta Ta for now!

Gwyllm

On The Menu:

Coyote and the Another One

A Primer on Shamanism in Northwest Amazonia in 2006 (Peter Gorman!)

Poetry: Christopher Buckley

Art:Lawrence Alma-Tadema

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Coyote and the Another One

As told by Charles Phillip White

Two Coyotes were crossing a farmers field. Both Coyotes were strangers to each other for they had never met. Just as they were about to introduce themselves they heard the farmer yell, “There’s a Coyote in the field!” The first Coyote turned to the other and told him to run! They both started to run for the trees when they heard the farmer yell, “And there goes another one!”. Finally both Coyotes made it to the cover of the trees and they started to introduce themselves. “I never saw you before, I am Wanderer, I am a Coyote like you.” The other Coyote looked at him oddly and said, “I am Sleek, but I am not a Coyote like you.”

“Yes you are,” said Wanderer.

“Oh no I am not,” replied Sleek.

“Look my friend, you are confused. You have ears like mine, you have a tail like mine, our fur is the same, our snouts are the same, everything is the same, you are just like me and we are both Coyotes,” Wanderer tried to explain. “Listen let’s run across the field again and you will see,” challenged Sleek. So off they ran. First went Wanderer and again the Farmer yelled, “There goes that darn Coyote.” Then Sleek took afoot and the Farmer yelled, “And there goes another one… again!”

When the two Coyotes reached the other side of the field they ducked into the woods. Wanderer turned to sleek and said, “There! Didn’t you hear the Farmer? He called us both Coyotes.” Sleek look disappointed with his new confused friend and said, “Yes I heard the Farmer. He called you a Coyote, but I am an `Another One’.”

Our problem is, we are listening to the Farmers tell us who we are. Something to talk about.

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A Primer on Shamanism in Northwest Amazonia in 2006

By Peter Gorman

This article is a long hand version of a talk I gave at the 2nd Shamanism Conference in Iquitos in July, 2006. I wanted to discuss several important, but often overlooked aspects of shamanic healing, particularly as it relates to ayahuasca healing, but also as it relates, at least in one instance, to San Pedro healing. There is also an important aspect of healing given by Bertha Grove, a Southern Ute elder from Durango, Colorado, which will help those involved in healing to deal with the disease-factor with which they are working.

With that in mind, this is more a primer on several little discussed aspects of Shamanism, as practiced primarily in northwest Amazonia today, but which might hold substance for plant medicine or shamanism elsewhere as well.

I’m going to begin with a supposition: that all matter has a life force. By that I mean that all matter—and probably anti-matter too for argument’s sake—is sentient, and has will, personality and the ability to make choices.

Now I’m going to add a second supposition: That all matter—and anti-matter for argument’s sake—dates from the first moment of time. That you and I can trace our lineage back to that moment, even if we were just cosmic dust balls billions of years from becoming slime creatures and millions of years further away from coming out of the primordial soup and clambering up onto land.

The same would hold true for a mountain, a rock, a flower. Everything we know and millions of things we don’t know trace back to that first moment when matter exists. If we were to look at a mountain, for instance, and apply my first supposition, imagine what that mountain has gone through since the dawn of time, imagine what it has experienced, and now imagine what it would be like to be able to communicate with that mountain about those experiences. It’s my belief that that’s doable; it’s my failure that I don’t know how to communicate with that being, its will, its personality. But that doesn’t mean it’s not doable, just that I fail at it.

Imagine the same for an ocean, for a fish that’s just been bitten by a predator, for a plant.

Plants, like everything else, are our co-dwellers in the universe. But man has a special relationship with plants. They provide, and have since the beginning of time, the bulk of our food, our clothing, our shelter. Some provide us with the loveliest scents; some with extraordinary color. They’re the source of our medicines, their roots work with soil and stone to keep the surface of the earth intact. They go so far as to take the poisonous carbon dioxide that humans exhale and turn it back into human-life-giving oxygen. That’s some relationship. Of course it may be that plants only invented us to distribute their seeds, so I’m not suggesting they live to cater to us. But they do provide us with much of what we need to exist on this planet.

Among the flora of the world as we know it, several plants are not just allies, they are considered Master Plant Teachers. You might extend that to read: Master Plant Teachers of Man. These plants might be considered gate keepers. These plants are the plants that allow us, we humans, to slow down enough to communicate with the mountains; to speed up enough to communicate with a hummingbird, to visit the other realms past and present and simultaneous that are here but that we don’t ordinarily see or hear within the band widths of our senses.

When I say other realms that are already here, what I mean are other realities that co-exist with ours. Imagine a dog whistle. You blow it, you hear nothing. Your cat hears nothing. Birds hear nothing. But blow it close enough to a dog and the dog will yelp in pain at the sound.

Now the dog hears it but you can’t. But it was still there. Your hearing just didn’t have a broad enough band. Now what I’m suggesting the Master Plant Teachers do is broaden the bands of your senses so that we see, hear, feel, touch, taste and sense things we can’t under ordinary circumstances.

Now the Master Plant Teachers include—and they are frequently called the 7 Master Plant Teachers—include Datura, Iboga, San Pedro cactus, Peyote, Ayahuasca, Amanita Muscaria….and I always forget the seventh, though I believe it’s Ololuqui, used by the Mazatecs and other indigenous groups in Mexico. There are undoubtedly others whose existence man has either not yet discovered or whose existence is being closely guarded by the peoples who use them.

There are a number of minor Plant Teachers as well, among them cannabis, Salvia divinorum, a number of species of mushrooms, coca, opium poppies and so forth. All of these are vital and can help alter the perspective of man but what separates them from the Master Plant Teachers is the depth of their teachings, the power or knowledge they are capable of imparting to man.

These teachers all have, I believe, the will and have made the choice to be teachers to mankind. They all, also, have built in mechanisms that ensure that mankind has to want to ingest them, has to want the knowledge they can impart or realize once they have opened the gates they guard for us. Most of them prevent frivolous or accidental use simply by being physically difficult to ingest. One might pick a peyote button and eat it with little difficulty, but to eat the 30-or 50 or 500 one would need to have the spirit of Peyote convinced that you want to learn what he has to teach is a very difficult thing. Similarly, the vile taste of datura or ayahuasca, coupled with the intense purging—often from both ends—that accompany the drinking of these teas, makes frivolous or accidental use almost impossible.

So while the rose suggests we come to her to bathe in her glorious scent, the Master Plant Teachers warn us away from them. You pretty much have to want what they have to offer, and be willing to prove it with physical discomfort, before they will share.

But once they do, well, when those gates are once opened they will never quite close all the way again. Your broadened band of senses will never quite be able to forget seeing or interacting with the spirits you encountered, the spirits that are sharing your/our space. In other words, the spirits never leave once you’ve made their acquaintance.

A clear example of that occurred several years ago. I was at my friend and teacher Don Julio Jerena’s home up the river from Iquitos in Peru. I had my wife and two sons with me—they were all born in Amazonia and loved going to Julio’s.

My younger son, Marco, was maybe 11 or 12. He’d been around ayahuasca several times: the first time Julio put a drop on his forehead; the next time a drop on his tongue. The third time he was permitted to wipe his finger around the cup after I drank, and so forth. But he’d never done ayahuasca in the sense of actually drinking.

But on this occasion I had some guests with me and on the day we were going to drink we all went out with Julio very early in the morning to collect the Banisteriopsis caapi vine and Psychotria viridis leaves he was going to use to make the ayahuasca. He also collected small pieces of bark from the Lupuna Negra, Catawa and Chiri caspi trees that he was going to use as admixtures. I insist on people wanting to drink taking that walk: If a 90-year old curandero can do it, and is doing it for us, the least we can do is keep him company. Marco joined us.

When we returned to Julio’s he began to cook the ayahyasca while we had breakfast—our only meal of the day—and then I sent everyone out for a long hike in the jungle. I did and do that for several reasons: I want them physically tired before doing ayahuasca. I want them tired enough that they are not concerned with whether they left enough cat food out at home, 3,000 miles away. I want them empty and clear so that the spirits, who often whisper, can be heard.

I also want them full of the sights and sounds of the jungle—from which ayahuasca comes and with which its spirit has grown up. And then I also want people to have an empty stomach before drinking, so that when they purge they can purge the bile of their lives, rather than undigested eggs. I’ll get more into that in a moment.

When people come back from the hike they are generally too tired to remember their own names, full of the things they’ve seen and been shown by my crew in the jungle, and their stomach’s are empty.

And not long after that it’s time to drink. Now some people choose not to drink, and for them there is always a feast of food waiting. And at Julio’s, in his platform hut, the kitchen is maybe 10 fee away from the living area we drink in, so that food is close and can be awfully tempting.

On the night in question my son, Marco came back from the hike and headed straight to the kitchen to eat. But then he stopped, came back to me, and said he thought he wouldn’t eat, but that he’d drink ayahuasca instead, if Julio and I would allow it. We did.

An hour or two later, probably twenty minutes after he drank, Marco called me to his side, saying he was frightened. I held him and let him lay his head and shoulders on my lap as I sat on the floor. At times it seemed that if I let him go he’d fly away. But Julio and ayahuasca are gentle and in two hours it had passed and Marco went to sleep shortly after that.

In the morning I was surprised when one of my guests came to me in the kitchen and sort of angrily demanded to know how on earth I could have let an 11 or 12 year old drink ayahuasca. I said it never occurred to me that he shouldn’t drink as he’d done everything asked of everyone else and then wanted to drink. Plus, he’d been born into a world where ayahuasca’s use was traditional.

“But what on earth could Marco have possibly learned at his age?” I was asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “Let’s ask him if he learned anything.”

We did, and Marco responded. “Well, before last night I was always afraid of the dark because I thought that’s when ghosts came and I was afraid of ghosts. But last night I realized they’re always here, right here with us. Only it takes ayahuasca to be able to see them and hear them and talk with them. So now that I know they’re everywhere all the time, and now that I talked with them and see they’re not all just trying to kill me, like I thought, I don’t think I’ll be afraid of the dark anymore.”

And he wasn’t.

Of course, once Marco was able to see the ghosts with ayahuasca, he didn’t stop seeing them either. And now, even at 18, he often calls me into his room at night to ask me to tell one or two of them to stop talking so loudly as he’s trying to sleep. Or to speak more clearly if they want Marco’s help with something.

So that’s Master Plant Teacher work. It’s often very simple, just like it was with Marco. Of course, if you don’t want to learn that ghosts or spirits are everywhere, if you don’t want to learn what a flower is ‘thinking’ or how badly a tree feels when you prune its branches, you may not want to deal with the Master Plant Teachers, who seem to always give you what you need, and rarely give you what you want.

In my own case, some of the teachings have taken years and dozens of sessions to learn; others have been very simple but no less profound. Once, years ago, I was in an ayahuasca dream and asked the spirits what I could do to make a better living as a writer. Without hesitation a spirit said: “Drink less. Write more.”

That was it. The whole answer. So I drank less, wrote more and pretty soon was able to support my family on investigative journalism…no mean feat in a world which does not highly reward those who spend their time exposing hypocrisy and corruption in government quarters. Or acknowledging them in my own.

Realizing that inviting the spirit of a master plant teacher like Ayahuasca into your life has lasting repercussions is just one of the frequently overlooked but important aspects of these plants. There are several others I’d like to discuss as well.

Healing is a vital element of all of the Master Plant Teachers. With ayahuasca, with which we are concerning ourselves, that healing occurs on physical, emotional and spiritual levels, sometimes all in the same session. In northwestern Amazonia, home of ayahuasca, illness is almost always seen as a symptom of a disorder or disturbance on another plane. Accessing that plane and identifying that disorder will frequently eliminate the symptom. Ayahuasca is one of the methods curanderos—healers—use to access those other planes.

One other thing to remember is that in that same region, things like Mal Ojo, the Evil Eye; Seloso, jealousy, and other forms of negative energy, whether produced by a person or by a brujo—sorcerer—paid by a person, are considered to produce very real results. That’s because of a belief, or awareness, that intentions, like everything else, have a life force. And the life force of negativity, just like the life force of positive thinking, effects what it touches.

That said, at its most basic level, a person living on a river might go to a curandero and say that he’s got a problem. His problem is that his chickens keep dying and he doesn’t understand why. He asks the curandero to drink ayahuasca to see what’s causing it.

The curandero drinks, contacts his spirit allies and asks them the cause of the problem. They in turn might show him that a neighbor who is angry with the chicken farmer is adding a touch of poison to the chicken’s feed at night.

But the work doesn’t end there. A good curandero would look further, to see what might have caused such anger, and see that the chicken farmer, at some earlier time, had caused a problem for the neighbor.

When the curandero comes out of his dream he has good news and bad news for the chicken farmer. The good news is he’s identified the problem. The bad news is that until the chicken farmer acknowledges the initial wrong he did to his neighbor, the poisonings will continue and the chickens will keep dying.

Many of the healings are quite simple in retrospect: a man keeps hurting himself shortly after he sells his bananas and suspects someone of giving him the evil eye, so he goes to the curandero and asks him to drink ayahuasca to see who it is. The curandero does, contacts the spirits, and sees that it’s not the evil eye, but that the man, every time he sells his crops and has a little money, gets drunk and hurts himself. The solution is to stop celebrating when the crops are sold.

On one occasion in Iquitos I was present when a man came to a curandero named Juan. The man was beside himself. He was certain that his wife was cheating on him and about to leave him for another man and he couldn’t bear the thought. He wanted to know whether it was true and who the man was.

On this occasion, Juan, the man and I all drank. And all of us saw the same thing: we saw the woman—I only presumed it was the wife in question as I didn’t know her—speaking with a man on a busy square.

When the dream was over the man was even more distraught. “I knew it! I knew it! She’s no good and she’s leaving me!!!” he sobbed.

Juan asked the man to try to revisit the scene in the ayahuasca dream. He asked the man if he could identify the place. The man did: It was the Plaza 28, not far from the center of town.

Juan then asked the man to try to calm down enough to see the man in the vision clearly. This time when the man grew even more distraught: “She’s cheating with a Priest! A priest!”

Juan laughed. “No. She’s not cheating. Did you hear what they were talking about?”

The man said he hadn’t.

“She was telling him that you are so jealous that you always think she’s cheating. And then you hit her. And now, even though she still loves you, she cannot take your jealousy and the beatings anymore. So she was talking with the priest about getting a divorce.”

The man started to deny it, then began to sob and admitted that what Juan said was true. He kept beating her because he thought she was so beautiful that everyone wanted her and he didn’t want her to leave him.

Those healings are quite typical of the work a curandero does with the people he treats. But ayahuasca healing is not limited to those sorts of things. In sessions with my friend Don Julio, I’ve had guests clear up physical ailments that ranged from Irritable Bowel Syndrome to imaginary pain from the loss of a limb. I had one guest nearly three years ago come to the jungle to die. She was in end-stage cancer and wanted to disappear in the Amazon. She arrived taking a mountain of pills, from painkillers to anti-depressants. She cut out the anti-depressants prior to the trip—they would have had a bad-to-lethal effect in combination with ayahuasca—then drank twice with Julio and once with Don Francisco at Sachamama. She hated the trip. She hated me. She hated the jungle.

Nearly three years later she wrote me recently from southern Italy, where she’s touring on a motorbike, still cheating death. And still wondering why she is alive. The answer is that Julio, while under the influence of ayahuasca, saw some plants she needed to take to eliminate her cancer. The day after the second ceremony he had one of his sons collect them and made the woman a tea from them. She drank them religiously for a week—after that she was no longer with me so I can’t be certain she drank them at all. But they seem to have bought her a couple of good years at least.

One type of healing that is common with ayahuasca is soul-loss, a condition most Westerners have never even heard of, and if they have, not something they would believe is real. Soul-loss is a condition in which a person’s soul, life force, flees the body, generally during a traumatic experience, leaving the body nearly lifeless. If not treated, if the life force is not reunited with the body quickly, the person will frequently die, and if they don’t die, will be little more than vegetable.

Not long ago, an old indigenous Matses woman who lived not far from Julio, was washing clothes in her canoe on the river. She looked into the water and saw her recently deceased husband. He was calling to her to join him. Then she saw her own grave next to his. This we learned later. What those who were there saw was the woman suddenly lurch forward and fall from the canoe, screaming. She climbed onto the riverbank and began racing headlong through tall grass toward the village she lived in. In her panic she stumbled on a fallen tree trunk hidden in the grass and fell, hitting her head.

Her nephews brought her to Julio. They had to carry her from the canoe. Her breathing was very shallow, her eyes were rolled back in her head. She did not respond to touch.

Julio had her laid down on a hut floor and began to treat her. He chanted, cleansed her with smoke and Florida Water (the ubiquitous holy water of northwest Amazonia), then went into a trance that lasted perhaps an hour. During the trance he was as lifeless as she, except for moments of agitation when his fists would clench, his shoulders shudder and he would speak unintelligibly. He began to sweat profusely. When he came out of the trance his clothes were soaked through and he told the Matses men to bring her back the next day at the same time.

She left as lifelessly as she’d arrived, and she arrived the next day as lifelessly as she’d left.

The second day’s treatment was much like the first, except that Julio forced a little bit of a plant decoction he’d had his son make into the woman’s mouth. And this time, when Julio was in his trance and would tense up, the woman began to tense up as well. She was still unconscious, but moaned perceptibly, and gritted her jaw.

When he was finished he told her nephews to bring her back to finish her treatments the next day at the same time.

When she was gone Julio related that he’d seen the woman see her husband in the river calling to her. Then she’d seen her grave. It was such a shock that her soul fled, leaving her to fall from the canoe then race mindlessly until he’d fallen.

During the third treatment, while Julio began to chant, the woman began to move. She moaned, clenched her jaw and folded her hands into fists. She began to move her torso. Within an hour she opened her eyes and there was recognition in them. Julio chanted and cleansed and the woman was given a little more of the plant medicine—this time she tried to object to it—and her movements began to take on a solidity. An hour later and she was asking what Julio was doing and why she was there.

Another hour and she could be helped to her feet and, with assistance, walked back to the canoe. She’d gotten her soul back.

The next day she returned, still weak, and Julio asked what had happened to cause her soul to flee: She told the same story Julio had told two days earlier.

Ayahuasca is frequently called La Purga, the purge, because users tend to physically purge themselves. Generally, within 20-40 minutes of drinking ayahuasca, a person will be overcome with an impossible-to-resist urge to vomit that’s sometimes accompanied by a similarly uncontrollable urge to excrete. The ayahuasca dream generally sets in shortly after the purge.

Many people don’t understand the purge, but it is one of the most effective healing elements of ayahuasca—touching on the physical, emotional and spiritual levels at the same time.

In northwest Amazonia, among the most typical illnesses are gastro-intestinal problems. The reasons for this are many: in some places fish are sun-dried, but get wet in sudden showers, then dried again before being eaten. Parasites thrive on that setting. Likewise, meats from wild animals often carry parasites that, if not cooked well enough, will transmit to humans. Meat and fish headed to the markets in Iquitos will often be salted but otherwise uncooked and might be unsold in tropical heat and humidity for weeks.

Ayahuasca cleans out those parasites better than any other medicine available in the region.

But for those suffering emotional and spiritual issues, la purga is equally effective. Normally, it’s recommended that a person drinking ayahuasca fast for at least several hours and often for a full day before drinking. That ensures an empty stomach. But it won’t diminish the purging effects.

The difference in the purge on an empty stomach though is that instead of vomiting lunch, the participant will have a chance to vomit some of the bile of their lives. Things they carry around which clutter up their mental and spiritual arenas uselessly. Most of us don’t even realize what we are carrying: None of us can remember the first time we were scolded by what was, until then, the loving voices of our mother or father, but it certainly left a scar to realize that we were no longer simply loveable. Few of us remember all of the hearts we broke, or the lies we told breaking them. Many of us remember those who broke our hearts and every little lie that was told in doing it. That’s emotional junk that we’re better off tossing. Guilt for something we cannot fix? Get rid of it. La Purga encourages you do just that. Its spirit reaches down into the depths of your soul and roots around for those things, then brings them to the surface—in the frightening moments of ego-dissolution (which is why I gave ayahuasca the name Vine of the Little Death years ago)—in a wretched reliving, and then allows you to eliminate them. It’s not like vomiting at all: It’s as if great chunks of physical matter are explosively hurled from the bottom of your bowels—the vomiting often sounds like a waterfall in reverse, the water rushing up the rocks and violently cascading from your mouth. My guests swear they vomited heaps; in truth they rarely vomit more than the few ounces of ayahuasca they drank as they have nothing physical in their stomachs to eliminate.

That purge is often the most vital element in ayahuasca healing. One client who had a difficult time with the purging—it lasted all night—but had little in the way of visions, wrote six months later to say “How can I quantify the ayahuasca experience? Let’s just say that before the trip to Peru every day I woke up and wondered if today was the right day to put a pistol in my mouth and end it all. And now, every day, I wake and think: What a great day to be alive.” That’s healing on an extraordinarily deep level.

Another client once drank with his wife. She spent the time under ayahuasca’s influence in a dream state, hardly moving after a short purge. He, on the other hand, vomited and shit himself for three hours, rolling around on the hut floor begging for mercy from whatever god he believed in.

The next morning, both of them wanted to talk with Julio. I interpreted. The wife had had a series of extraordinary visions that Julio skillfully interpreted; the husband demanded to know why his wife had visions of her future and things she needed to do to get a business off the ground while he had done nothing but puke and shit uncontrollably all night.

I asked the question of Julio, who laughed. “Tell him I was going to paint him with the colors of ayahuasca, but that when I looked inside him I realized that he was like a living room that was full of broken furniture, garbage on the ground, peeling walls. Who could paint a room like that? No one. So I had to spend the night cleaning it all out to get it ready for painting. Tell him I’ll paint him next time.”

The fellow was skeptical, but the next time he drank he purged lightly and then spent the night enraptured in visions.

Another element of healing that’s frequently overlooked must be touched on. Curanderos in both the Amazon and elsewhere often have to suck illnesses—physical, emotional, spiritual—from their patients. But illnesses, like all other matter, are sentient and have the same will to live as other things.

The person who explained that to me originally was Bertha Grove, a curandera from the Southern Ute tribe outside of Durango, Colorado. She was an elderly woman, a perfect image of a grandmother, but very very powerful and mystical. I had attended several all night peyote ceremonies with the Utes, during which Bertha was always present and one of her grown sons was always the Roadman, or ceremony leader. It had taken probably a year to get permission to attend the first. After several I asked permission to bring my sister, a designer (she designed the MTV logo among other things) who had become an acupuncturist. Bertha said okay and Pat joined me.

The ceremony that evening was being held for a youngster who was quite ill. At one point during the ceremony Bertha stood, took the boy and began to suck the top of his head. In a few minutes a sort of squishy sound started and it felt as though something spongy and wet were leaving his crown and entering her mouth. She briefly stepped outside the tee-pee.

In the morning Bertha called my sister and I to her side outside the tee-pee. “You both saw what I did in there, didn’t you?” she asked. We said we had.

“I sucked that boy’s sickness out. But I don’t know if you understand that that sickness wants to live. It’s just as willful as you or me. And now if I suck that sickness out and spit it out it’s going to be lying on the ground just waiting for someone to step on it and then that person is going to get sick. They might not get the same sickness the boy had because sickness can change its shape and affect different people different ways, but it will always be sickness or something bad.

“So when we Indians suck out a sickness we don’t swallow it. We spit it out and always wrap it up in something—not that you can see, something like invisible gauze—and send it off somewhere to a place where it will never be allowed to land on someone else and make them sick. It’s a far off planet that’s cold. That’s where I send mine. Other healers send theirs to their own places.

“Now the reason I’m telling you this,” she said to my sister, “is that last night I saw you. I saw that you are an excellent healer. But you have a problem. You’re taking sickness out of people and you don’t know to get rid of it so it’s just staying on you. You’re covered in a lot of sicknesses and you’ve got to stop because even though you’re strong you are going to get real sick, real soon if you don’t get rid of all that.”

Six months later my sister did get sick: she got a host of illnesses that were apparently unrelated but which have left her crippled and in pain for the past 20 years.

In my own experience, I once went through an experience that lasted numerous sessions with ayahuasca over a two or three year period. My wife and I were living in Iquitos, Peru with our children and we were breaking up. Or she was breaking up with me, and it was tearing me apart. We had a bar at the time, The Cold Beer Blues Bar, and every time I had clients to take out to the jungle they were getting cured and I began to get jealous. One day I told a customer over the bar that “All my clients are getting healed, but I’m the one that needs healing.”

It was said as a joke but must have had truth to it because the next time I drank ayahuasca with Julio, as I slipped into my dream I heard the rustling of grass that grew louder and louder as it grew closer and then suddenly found myself surrounded by little beings. I couldn’t really see what they looked like but was aware they were beings. “We heard you,” one of them said.

“Heard me?”

“Yes. We heard you and it’s your time to get worked on, to get healed. The only thing we’ll have to do is tear you apart, get rid of the bad stuff and then put you back together.”

The thought of that was terrifying. “I was only kidding!” I fairly shouted as they began to climb on me and pull me to pieces.

“No you weren’t. You’re just afraid you’re going to die. We’re here to heal you.”

The next several hours were brutal, feeling myself torn apart, terrified, unable to move. And when they were done, they said they had more work to do and that I should not fight them so hard next time, that it wouldn’t hurt so much if I just let them work.

The next time and the next eight or 10 times I drank they always returned and it never got easier. I would hear the rustle of that grass and go into sheer panic. They worked on me despite my protests, trying to get the pain and anger I was carrying around out of me.

One night, while drinking with Don Francisco at Sachamama, I heard the rustling and nearly screamed. I was beyond fear at that point, and thought that drinking away from Julio would leave the doctors behind. It didn’t.

But that night when they came they only worked for a little while, then began to show me things: The showed me a light stone and told me it would heal things. They sang me songs to repair myself, and then they took me to a place that was sort of a huge cavern dimly lit in red. All throughout the cavern were huge piles and mounds and hills and even mountains of rotten, fetid garbage. The smell alone made me vomit horribly. It was an unbearable place. And the sounds! Every few seconds there would be a crashing sound somewhere in the cavern that was as loud as an airplane exploding, a thunderous roar that seemed to shake the whole cavern and me with it.

For some reason I couldn’t or didn’t leave. I began to grow accustomed to the light and when I did I saw movement on the heaps and piles. I looked more closely and realized that there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of the beings I called the doctors there. They were scooping up the rotten material and doing something with it so that it was transformed into something good. I don’t believe they explained that to me but it was as clear as if they did. And then I realized that this was one of the places where all the evil, all the rotten things in the world go. What was crashing in to the place were the bad things done and thought by people and the stink was the stink of greed and jealousy, avarice and willful infliction of pain. That’s what made it so horrid.

And at the same time I thought that I thought of Bertha Grove and her far off planet and knew that should the need arise, this red room would be a place to put illness and evil so that the doctors could transform it the way they’d been trying to transform me by trying to eliminate my anger at my ruined marriage.

The lessons were not for naught. That same evening, when the ceremony was over and people were ready to go to sleep, one of my guests was still in the middle of a very difficult ayahuasca dream. She asked Francisco and another curandero who had run the ceremony with him not to leave but they did, leaving just myself and a youngster whose mother was one of my guests, to take care of the sick guest. Sick is not the right word: She was certain she was being attacked psychically and thought she would die. I don’t know if she would have but she believed it and her fear might have caused it if nothing else, so she had to be treated as if what she said was true.

I didn’t know what to do so started singing. I only had one or two very little ayahuasca songs, so I sang blues songs that I thought would calm her down. And after perhaps an hour, when things didn’t seem to be getting better, the doctors suddenly began to talk to me. They told me to look at her and see if there were any black holes in her. If there were they told me to retrieve the light stone and run it through them. I felt silly but did: the holes closed. And the more holes I found the easier it was to spot them. They told me to blow wind on her. Not breath, but wind, and taught me how to do it so that when the air came from me it really came from way behind me and by the time it came from my mouth it had tremendous force, like a storm wind that came roaring from a far off place. And they told me to keep singing and told me to take any bad things I found on her and just open a door anywhere—it would be the door to the red room—and put the bad things in there. I did as told.

Perhaps three or four hours went by before my guest began to come back to her body and I knew she’d be alright.

Interestingly, when Francisco and the other curandero returned at about dawn to look in on her I challenged them on why they’d left, knowing she was in such a bad state. Francisco simply said, “It was your turn to heal her tonight. You knew what to do.” Or something like that. It took me off guard. I’d never been put in that position before.

I rarely am asked to heal anyone. But on occasion it does happen, and one recent event cemented Bertha Grove’s warning about sicknesses as good advise.

It was this past summer, in July of 2006.

Because of his age, Julio’s children encouraged him to move from the jungle to Iquitos last year. They were no longer living with him full time, and were afraid that if he fell no one might see him to help him for a day or more until one of them—living there only part time—would find him.

But there exists several layers of shamanism in Peru—and undoubtedly elsewhere—that most of us non-locals don’t see. One is the belief that the spirit allies Julio has made during his lifetime, as with any other curandero, will be passed to whomever is at his side when he dies. In that world, those sentient beings take years to acquire as genuine allies, and the chance to simply ‘get’ more by being near a curandero when he dies is a temptation that has caused more than one curandero to kill another. I don’t understand why the spirits would work with someone who has killed their friend—perhaps they don’t—but still, the race and battle to acquire the allies of a powerful curandero like Julio is very real.

And Julio’s appearance in Iquitos was an indication to many of them that he is growing weak and will die soon. To that end, at least one but perhaps more than one, curandero began to try to weaken him further by “shooting” him with virotes—invisible darts that can do physical damage. Their use is generally reserved for brujos, curanderos who have fallen off the spiritual path of curing and onto the selfish path of power acquisition. Many curanderos go through a stage in their lives when they behave as brujos because of the allure of power—which brings with it money and goods and women and so forth. In my experience most grow out of that stage and return to a positive path, but not all of them do. Those that don’t are the people available for hire to send out the evil eye, tempt women to cheat on their husbands, cause accidents and so forth.

Virotes, can best be described as thorns that are sent by intention that enter the body invisibly, though they then begin to take a physical toll. In Julio’s case the virotes had left him listless and weak to the point where he couldn’t feed himself.

One of his sons-in-law came to my room in Iquitos and told me to hurry to Julio’s, that he thought Julio would die. I’d been with Julio in the jungle just two weeks earlier and so was taken completely by surprise at the news. On the way over—accompanied by a young healer friend named Aaron—Juan, Julio’s son-in-law, explained that Julio had been recently attacked and hit with several virotes. I’d been called on to locate and remove them before they killed Julio.

That was way over my head. Still, I had to try.

When we arrived at Julio’s he was lying in bed, his breathing shallow. I had him brought to the front room and began to clean him with tobacco smoke and Florida Water. He sat in a chair, hands on his knees, his face looking old and lifeless. I began to chant. Aaron lit some sandalwood and began to clean Julio with that, and took over the chanting whenever I stopped.

I tried to ‘see’ Julio; not look at him so much but see where the virotes were lodged. I couldn’t. We worked for an hour, after which Julio began to move his hands and said that he was tired. We left him for the day.

The next day we returned and continued to chant and cleanse; after-two-and-a-half hours he was perceptibly better and Aaron and I were exhausted.

The third and last day was different. This time I could clearly see what looked to be bad things in Julio: In his stomach, his legs, even his neck. While Aaron chanted, I began to suck them out: each one that came loose entered my mouth like a ball of thick phlegm. I quickly spit them out, opened a door to the Red room and asked the doctors to take them from me and turn them into something good.

There were probably five or six things that had to go. The one in his neck, however, came out so suddenly that it slipped down my throat: Instantly I convulsed and began to vomit violently. The vomiting was followed by choking and I thought I got rid of it—or most of it, at least. But I could feel something rotten deep inside me, something awful. I decided to work at eliminating it in my room later that day and turned my attention back to Julio. In two hours or so he was beginning to clean himself, smoking a mapacho and taking over the chanting for Aaron and I. He was strong and he was angry. He began to shout to whomever had done this to him that they would never have his genio’s, his spirits, for allies.

Aaron and I were again exhausted, but Julio was better and that was what counted.

But that evening and for the next two days I would periodically vomit violently. I got a fever and was sweating through several shirts a night. During the day Aaron worked on getting the ‘thing’ out of me, and on the third day, it came loose and I was able to get it into the Red Room.

But it was a reminder that what Bertha had said was true: The sickness has a will to live. That I would be so instantly sick surprised me, but it also reinforced the idea that there are many many things I, at least, have no real understanding of.

Another point I think needs making, as it frequently comes up in conversations related to the use of ayahuasca, San Pedro, Peyote—and probably with all of he Master Plant Teachers—is the question of the value of a curandero. The question that arises is whether or not a curandero—in the case of ayahuasca or San Pedro—or a Roadman—in the case of peyote—is necessary. The answer, I think, is that they’re not necessary—the plants will teach you what they want to teach you whether there is a curandero or not. But I think that the extraordinary work a good curandero can do can add whole dimensions to the experience.

On a physical level, the curandero is the master preparer of the ayahuasca. He must be compared to a chef, rather than a cook. More than that, however, his interactions with the spirits of the plants he’s working with are what’s of great value. The plants must give up their chemicals to whoever puts them in a pot and boils them. That’s the chemistry of it.

But the curandero, through his relationship with the sentient side of the plant, can encourage those plants to give up more than their chemical components, to give up their life-force, their essence. This is not to be underrated. Two bottles of ayahuasca may look alike, may have been cooked in identical pots with identical ingredients for an identical length of time but they are rarely the same. Imagine a battery of chefs lined up at identical stoves using identical ingredients in an identical recipe with each doing exactly the same things at the same time. You might imagine that each of the dishes will be identical, but you’d be wrong. Each will be quite different depending on the relationship each chef has to the spirits of the ingredients he or she is using.

On a spiritual level, the value of a curandero or roadman is even more pronounced. He or she has generally spent years becoming intimate with the spirits of the plants. Moreover, the curandero might have several plant allies and depending on the needs of those drinking on a given day might have a variety of admixture plants they can add to the basic ayahuasca vine and leaf recipe. Julio likes to add a bit of bark from both the perpetually light and dark sides of the Lupuna Negro tree to provide easier access to the realms of light and darkness; he likes to add Catawa sometimes to burn out something negative; he might add Chiric sanango when he knows he needs to work very very deeply with someone or someone needs to visit the world of the dead. And each of those plants, and several others he might utilize, bring their individual spirits and personalities to the ceremony.

Too, the curandero, with the help of his spirit allies, can keep other, curious but uninvited spirits from joining the ceremony—spirits who might not mean harm but whose presence will nonetheless interfere with the ceremony the curandero wishes to run.

And running the ceremony is really what a curandero does. It might look to an outsider as if Julio is just sitting on a stool, chanting and shaking a chacapa, a leaf rattle, but he is doing much more than that. He is seeing what each person is dreaming. His icaros, songs, are sending some further out into their dreams and pulling others back down to earth at the same time. He’s healing everyone simultaneously as well, even those who don’t know they need it. He is asking his plant spirit allies to work with everyone and his allies respond.

Until you’ve experienced it, that is a difficult thing to believe. One former guest of mine who has become a great friend, had this experience. It was the first time he’d had ayahuasca. I think I had six guests, four of them women. My friend Lynn was not having much of a reaction to the medicine and at one point in the ceremony, he told me the next morning, he mentally called out to Julio to show him something, give him a hint whether there was really anything going on or whether he’d taken a very expensive trip for nothing.

“I had my eyes open while I was thinking that,” he said. “And as soon as I did, Julio suddenly stood and grew to 14-feet tall and his chacras began spinning with the most fantastic lights, shooting colors all over the space and me. And then he very clearly said. ‘Now can I get back to the work I was doing on the women?’

“In that moment I understood something fantastic happens out in that realm—a realm that I wasn’t certain even existed until that point in time.”

Another guest who discovered the unusual ways in which a curandero works was a fellow named Lee. Lee and his wife had come to Peru seeking to learn something of Peru’s alternative healing possibilities, as his wife had a terrible illness she was keeping at bay with alternative medicines and she wanted to stay ahead of the curve.

They had asked for a private tour and had asked me to assemble the best curanderos from around Peru in Iquitos. One of them was a San Pedro healer, Victor Estrada, an extraordinary man who’s been a teacher of mine for years. Victor’s own teacher was in Iquitos and he didn’t mind the trip from the mountain city of Cuzco at all.

We’d arranged for a San Pedro ceremony the day after Victor arrived, with just Lee, his wife, Victor and a daughter he’d brought, and I as the participants. We all drank several cups of the still-warm, thick green San Pedro, and then Victor began to work. Unlike Julio, Victor is very hands-on his patients, and he worked on Lee’s wife for several minutes—pulling and pushing her energy, which was visible to all with our broadened bands of vision, then turned his attention to Lee.

He had Lee lie down, then selected a stone from a bag he carried. He began to run the stone over Lee’s body. But it wasn’t a stone any longer: It was a scalpel, and each time he moved it blood would come from the incision. It was plain to see, and something I’d heard about but never witnessed before, a psychic surgery.

Victor cut Lee open, took out a mass of his insides, washed them, cut out pieces Lee no longer needed then did the same with Lee’s nasal passages. Pieces of rotten flesh made a pile on the ground. Blood soaked Lee’s clothes and the ground on which he lay.

And then Victor replaced the good parts of what he’d removed and sewed Lee up.

Lee was exhausted and stayed on the ground for hours. Victor continued to chant, but was obviously exhausted as well.

The ceremony ended not long after dawn, and in the early light there was no blood on the ground, no pile of rotten meat. I asked Victor about what I’d seen and he laughed. “I wanted you to see that,” he said. “It’s the work the way we do it with San Pedro. We just do it on one of your other bodies, so the blood is real, but real in another reality. Here only the effects are real. Your friend was quite sick.”

It was only months later that Lee brought up the fact that he’d suffered from some uncomfortable or debilitating condition all of his life, but that the condition was cured that night. Now nearly 10 years later, it’s never returned.

A few days later, I took Lee and his wife to Julio. I’d refused to bring him into the city and Lee, while not thrilled, grudgingly went along on the 17 hour riverboat to get to his pueblo.

Julio was glad to see me and we arranged for a ceremony the following night.

It was a beautiful ceremony, and in the morning Lee came to me. “Peter, something happened last night that I don’t understand and maybe you can help. You know how much work Victor did on me the other night?”

I told him yes.

“Well, the purpose of this trip is to find new alternatives to help keep my wife’s disease in remission and so last night I determined that the ceremony would be for her, not me.

“So I drank, then lay down and just looked at the sky. And then I looked at Julio. And he was talking with someone sitting next to him, and they were speaking in English. And Julio suddenly says ‘You know, I can’t work on him if he keeps his legs crossed like that.’ And instantly, my legs, which I hadn’t realized were crossed, uncrossed themselves without me doing it. And for the rest of the ceremony I couldn’t cross them again. How did that happen?”

“I don’t really know,” I said. “I do know that there was no one physically sitting next to Julio last night, and I do know that Julio can’t speak a word of English. Not on this physical plane, anyway. But on those other levels, all sorts of things happen. And uncrossing your legs with his intention would be the least of what he can do.”

Those sorts of healings and experiences I don’t believe occur without the presence of a curandero.

There are many many other elements to ayahuasca and ayahuasca healing but these, I think, are some of the most important basics.

_______

Poetry by Christopher Buckley

Red Hills and Bones

No one takes the absence

into account the way I do –

this rind of backbone, the bridge

and scale of its blank articulation,

sustains some perfectly whole

notes of light against the raw

muscle of the land unbound,

the undercurrents surfacing

in concert with the white riffs

of cholla spotting the swales.

Put right, one part of loss

counterpoints the next, leaves us

much to see despite the frank

abrasion of the air, Finally,

this thighbone is every bit

the bright, hard stuff of stars

and against the hills’

rust and clay sets free

a full, long silence here

that as much as anything

sings all my life to me.

Road Past the View

From my window

on the expanse

the road goes out

a silver blue, a vein

dying flame-like for Santa Fe.

It makes a wide smooth sweep

loving the hills, the sand

handwritten with sun.

Past the trees and mesa

which do not count for much

in the eye’s long run,

it almost stands up in air

and breaks cleanly

toward the peaks

of the Sangre de Cristo

powdered with that distant

and imagined light.

The road points finally

high and to the left,

some other corner of the earth,

but slides back easily

in the sharp angle of my thought,

saying always its little bit

about roads, how the shape

and direction of things assist

the heart, and are vital signs

by which we reach for what

is just beyond our view.

Sky above Clouds

My first memory

is of the brightness of light –

light all around –

a quilt of it, a patchwork

of red and white blossoms on blue

like these clouds down the evening sky,

their form, their budding lines . . .

My mind holds them

stretching away

above the day’s cadenza,

that half hour when the hills

glow and lift on a last held note –

it is then that my mind saunters

over the cool, immaculate squares,

over the horizon line,

the next hill, where light flowers

across the finite trellis of this world . . .

Palo Duro Canyon

Weather seemed to go over it,

wind and snow blew by the slit

in the plains as if it wasn’t there.

We descended into that lone, dry place

down the cattle trails at evening;

the hills were sheer and

had a fiery, primeval film.

Even clouds hovered flame bright,

and far to the bottom

red rings of light,

perilous as the very place

Alighieri stood, or the dream

when your bed rises into the air

and you are about to fall . . .

We climbed out on all fours

and against the far sunset ridge

a long line of cattle headed down

like black lace on the canyon edge –

I kept my eye on a small wedge of blue

winging high and away.

(Lawrence Alma-Tadema – Faust and Marguerite)

The Sunday Express…

(Francis Danby – The Wood Nymph’s Hymn to the Rising Sun)

Working against the weather today… so this is just a wee quick entry.

Blessings,

Gwyllm

On The Menu:

Richard Thompson – She Moves Through The Faire

Poetry/Lyrics: She Moved Through the Faire

Dead Can Dance – The Wind That Shakes The Barley

Poetry/Lyrics: The Wind That Shakes The Barley

Art: Francis Danby

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Richard Thompson – She Moves Through The Faire…

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She Moved Through the Faire

My young love said to me: My mother won’t mind,

And my father won’t slight you for your lack of kind.

She put her arms ’round me; these words she did say:

It will not be long, love, ’til our wedding day!

Then she stepped away from me, and she moved thru the Faire,

And so fondly I watched her move here and move there;

At last she turned homeward, with one star awake,

As the Swan in the evening moves over the lake.

Last night she came to me, my dead love came in,

And so soft did she move that her feet made no din;

She put her arms ’round me; these words she did say:

It will not be long, love, ’til our wedding day!

Padraic Colum

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(Francis Danby – Dissapointed In Love)

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Dead Can Dance – The Wind That Shakes The Barley…

——

The Wind That Shakes The Barley

I sat within the valley green, I sat me with my true love

My sad heart strove the two between, the old love and the new love

The old for her, the new that made me think on Ireland dearly

While soft the wind blew down the glen and shook the golden barley

‘Twas hard the woeful words to frame to break the ties that bound us

But harder still to bear the shame of foreign chains around us

And so I said, “The mountain glen I’ll seek at morning early

And join the bold united men, while soft winds shake the barley”

While sad I kissed away her tears, my fond arms round her flinging

The foeman’s shot burst on our ears from out the wildwood ringing

A bullet pierced my true love’s side in life’s young spring so early

And on my breast in blood she died while soft winds shook the barley

But blood for blood without remorse I’ve taken at Oulart Hollow

And laid my true love’s clay cold corpse where I full soon may follow

As round her grave I wander drear, noon, night and morning early

With breaking heart when e’er I hear the wind that shakes the barley

Robert Dwyer Joyce

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(Francis Danby – A View Of Cader Idris)

The Western Light…

Never give children a chance of imagining that anything exists in isolation. Make it plain from the very beginning that all living is relationship. Show them relationships in the woods, in the fields, in the ponds and streams, in the village and in the country around it. Rub it in.—Aldous Huxley, Island

It has been a bumpy ride for the last few days here at Earthrites.org. It seems our ISP (Bluehost.com) decided to move Earthrites.org (1 hour notice at 1:00 in the morning) and change the DNS numbers… One would think that they had some foresight in these matters. Obviously, that is expecting too much. This resulted in the site being unavailable for almost 48 hours. Way to go guys! Thanks for heads-up.

So Earthrites.org has been down ever since, and the editing, and collating of info, stories and poetry for Turfing went out the window.

The search for a new home other than Bluehost.com is on the agenda now. If you know of any good ISP’s please let us know.

It is a shorter entry today, as I pull things back together here.

On The Menu:

The Dagda

Poetry: W.B. Yeats ‘The Old Age Of Queen Maeve’

Art: Francis Danby

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The Dagda

And it was at Brugh na Boinne the Dagda, the Red Man of all Knowledge, had his house. And the most noticeable things in it were the Hall of the Morrigu, and the Bed of the Dagda, and the Birthplace of Cermait Honey-Mouth, and the Prison of the Grey of Macha that was Cuchulain’s horse afterwards. And there was a little hill by the house that was called the Comb and the Casket of the Dagda’s wife; and another that was called the Hill of Dabilla, that was the little hound belonging to Boann. And the Valley of the Mata was there, the Sea-Turtle that could suck down a man in armour.

And it is likely the Dagda put up his cooking oven there, that Druimne, son of Luchair, made for him at Teamhair. And it is the way it was, the axle and the wheel were of wood, and the body was iron, and there were twice nine wheels in its axle, that it might turn the faster; and it was as quick as the quickness of a stream in turning, and there were three times nine spits from it, and three times nine pots. And it used to lie down with the cinders and to rise to the height of the roof with the flame.

The Dagda himself made a great vat one time for Ainge, his daughter, but she was not well satisfied with it, for it would not stop from dripping while the sea was in flood, though it would not lose a drop during the ebb-tide. And she gathered a bundle of twigs to make a new vat for herself, but Gaible, son of Nuada of the Silver Hand, stole it from her and hurled it away. And in the place where it fell a beautiful wood grew up, that was called Gaible’s Wood.

And the Dagda had his household at Brugh na Boinne, and his steward was Dichu, and Len Linfiaclach was the smith of the Brugh. It was he lived in the lake, making the bright vessels of Fand, daughter of Flidhais; and every evening when he left off work he would make a cast of the anvil eastward to Indeoin na Dese, the Anvil of the Dese, as far as the Grave End. Three showers it used to cast, a shower of fire, and a shower of water, and a shower of precious stones of pure purple.

But Tuirbe, father of Goibniu the Smith, used to throw better again, for he would make a cast of his axe from Tulach na Bela, the Hill of the Axe, in the face of the flood tide, and he would put his order on the sea, and it would not come over the axe.

And Corann was the best of the harpers of the household; he was harper to the Dagda’s son, Diancecht. And one time he called with his harp to Cailcheir, one of the swine of Debrann. And it ran northward with all the strength of its legs, and the champions of Connacht were following after it with all their strength of running, and their hounds with them, till they got as far as Ceis Corain, and they gave it up there, all except Niall that went on the track of the swine till he found it in the oak-wood of Tarba, and then it made away over the plain of Ai, and through a lake. And Niall and his hound were drowned in following it through the lake. And the Dagda gave Corann a great tract of land for doing his harping so well.

But however great a house the Dagda had, Angus got it away from him in the end, through the help of Manannan, son of Lir. For Manannan bade him to ask his father for it for the length of a day and a night, and that he by his art would take away his power of refusing. So Angus asked for the Brugh, and his father gave it to him for a day and a night. But when he asked it back again, it is what Angus said, that it had been given to him for ever, for the whole of life and time is made up of a day and a night, one following after the other.

So when the Dagda heard that he went away and his people and his household with him, for Manannan had put an enchantment on them all.

But Dichu the Steward was away at the time, and his wife and his son, for they were gone out to get provisions for a feast for Manannan and his friends. And when he came back and knew his master was gone, he took service with Angus.

And Angus stopped in Brugh na Boinne, and some say he is there to this day, with the hidden walls about him, drinking Goibniu’s ale and eating the pigs that never fail.

As to the Dagda, he took no revenge, though he had the name of being revengeful and quick in his temper. And some say it was at Teamhair he made his dwelling-place after that, but wherever it was, a great misfortune came on him.

It chanced one time Corrgenn, a great man of Connacht, came to visit him, and his wife along with him. And while they were there, Corrgenn got it in his mind that there was something that was not right going on between his wife and Aedh, one of the sons of the Dagda. And great jealousy and anger came on him, and he struck at the young man and killed him before his father’s face.

Every one thought the Dagda would take Corrgenn’s life then and there in revenge for his son’s life. But he would not do that, for he said if his son was guilty, there was no blame to be put on Corrgenn for doing what he did. So he spared his life for that time, but if he did, Corrgenn did not gain much by it. For the punishment he put on him was to take the dead body of the young man on his back, and never lay it down till he would find a stone that would be its very fit in length and in breadth, and that would make a gravestone for him; and when he had found that, he could bury him in the nearest hill.

So Corrgenn had no choice but to go, and he set out with his load; but he bad a long way to travel before he could find a stone that would fit, and it is where he found one at last, on the shore of Loch Feabhail. So then he left the body up on the nearest bill, and he went down and raised the stone and brought it up and dug a grave and buried the Dagda’s son. And it is many an Ochone! he gave when he was putting the stone over him, and when he had that done he was spent, and he dropped dead there and then.

And the Dagda brought his two builders, Garbhan and Imheall, to the place, and he bade them build a rath there round the grave. It was Garbhan cut the stones and shaped them, and Imheall set them all round the house till the work was finished, and then he closed the top of the house with a slab. And the place was called the Hill of Aileac, that is, the Hill of Sighs and of a Stone, for it was tears of blood the Dagda shed on account of the death of his son.

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The Old Age Of Queen Maeve – W.B. Yeats

A certain poet in outlandish clothes

Gathered a crowd in some Byzantine lane,

Talked1 of his country and its people, sang

To some stringed instrument none there had seen,

A wall behind his back, over his head

A latticed window. His glance went up at time

As though one listened there, and his voice sank

Or let its meaning mix into the strings.

MAEVE the great queen was pacing to and fro,

Between the walls covered with beaten bronze,

In her high house at Cruachan; the long hearth,

Flickering with ash and hazel, but half showed

Where the tired horse-boys lay upon the rushes,

Or on the benches underneath the walls,

In comfortable sleep; all living slept

But that great queen, who more than half the night

Had paced from door to fire and fire to door.

Though now in her old age, in her young age

She had been beautiful in that old way

That’s all but gone; for the proud heart is gone,

And the fool heart of the counting-house fears all

But Soft beauty and indolent desire.

She could have called over the rim of the world

Whatever woman’s lover had hit her fancy,

And yet had been great-bodied and great-limbed,

Fashioned to be the mother of strong children;

And she’d had lucky eyes and high heart,

And wisdom that caught fire like the dried flax,

At need, and made her beautiful and fierce,

Sudden and laughing.

O unquiet heart,

Why do you praise another, praising her,

As if there were no tale but your own tale

Worth knitting to a measure of sweet sound?

Have I not bid you tell of that great queen

Who has been buried some two thousand years?

When night was at its deepest, a wild goose

Cried from the porter’s lodge, and with long clamour’

Shook the ale-horns and shields upon their hooks;

But the horse-boys slept on, as though some power

Had filled the house with Druid heaviness;

And wondering who of the many-changing Sidhe

Had come as in the old times to counsel her,

Maeve walked, yet with slow footfall, being old,

To that small chamber by the outer gate.

The porter slept, although he sat upright

With still and stony limbs and open eyes.

Maeve waited, and when that ear-piercing noise

Broke from his parted lips and broke again,

She laid a hand on either of his shoulders,

And shook him wide awake, and bid him say

Who of the wandering many-changing ones

Had troubled his sleep. But all he had to say

Was that, the air being heavy and the dogs

More still than they had been for a good month,

He had fallen asleep, and, though he had dreamed

nothing,

He could remember when he had had fine dreams.

It was before the time of the great war

Over the White-Horned Bull and the Brown Bull.

She turned away; he turned again to sleep

That no god troubled now, and, wondering

What matters were afoot among the Sidhe,

Maeve walked through that great hall, and with a sigh

Lifted the curtain of her sleeping-room,

Remembering that she too had seemed divine

To many thousand eyes, and to her own

One that the generations had long waited

That work too difficult for mortal hands

Might be accomplished, Bunching the curtain up

She saw her husband Ailell sleeping there,

And thought of days when he’d had a straight body,

And of that famous Fergus, Nessa’s husband,

Who had been the lover of her middle life.

Suddenly Ailell spoke out of his sleep,

And not with his own voice or a man’s voice,

But with the burning, live, unshaken voice

Of those that, it may be, can never age.

He said, “High Queen of Cruachan and Magh Ai,

A king of the Great Plain would speak with you.’

And with glad voice Maeve answered him, “What king

Of the far-wandering shadows has come to me,

As in the old days when they would come and go

About my threshold to counsel and to help?’

The parted lips replied, “I seek your help,

For I am Aengus, and I am crossed in love.’

“How may a mortal whose life gutters out

Help them that wander with hand clasping hand,

Their haughty images that cannot wither,

For all their beauty’s like a hollow dream,

Mirrored in streams that neither hail nor rain

Nor the cold North has troubled?’

He replied,

“I am from those rivers and I bid you call

The children of the Maines out of sleep,

And set them digging under Bual’s hill.

We shadows, while they uproot his earthy housc,

Will overthrow his shadows and carry off

Caer, his blue-eyed daughter that I love.

I helped your fathers when they built these walls,

And I would have your help in my great need,

Queen of high Cruachan.’

“I obey your will

With speedy feet and a most thankful heart:

For you have been, O Aengus of the birds,

Our giver of good counsel and good luck.’

And with a groan, as if the mortal breath

Could but awaken sadly upon lips

That happier breath had moved, her husband turned

Face downward, tossing in a troubled sleep;

But Maeve, and not with a slow feeble foot,

Came to the threshold of the painted house

Where her grandchildren slept, and cried aloud,

Until the pillared dark began to stir

With shouting and the clang of unhooked arms.

She told them of the many-changing ones;

And all that night, and all through the next day

To middle night, they dug into the hill.

At middle night great cats with silver claws,

Bodies of shadow and blind eyes like pearls,

Came up out of the hole, and red-eared hounds

With long white bodies came out of the air

Suddenly, and ran at them and harried them.

The Maines” children dropped their spades, and stood

With quaking joints and terror-stricken faces,

Till Maeve called out, “These are but common men.

The Maines’ children have not dropped their spades

Because Earth, crazy for its broken power,

Casts up a Show and the winds answer it

With holy shadows.’ Her high heart was glad,

And when the uproar ran along the grass

She followed with light footfall in the midst,

Till it died out where an old thorn-tree stood.

Friend of these many years, you too had stood

With equal courage in that whirling rout;

For you, although you’ve not her wandering heart,

Have all that greatness, and not hers alone,

For there is no high story about queens

In any ancient book but tells of you;

And when I’ve heard how they grew old and died,

Or fell into unhappiness, I’ve said,

“She will grow old and die, and she has wept!’

And when I’d write it out anew, the words,

Half crazy with the thought, She too has wept!

Outrun the measure.

I’d tell of that great queen

Who stood amid a silence by the thorn

Until two lovers came out of the air

With bodies made out of soft fire. The one,

About whose face birds wagged their fiery wings,

Said, “Aengus and his sweetheart give their thanks

To Maeve and to Maeve’s household, owing all

In owing them the bride-bed that gives peace.’

Then Maeve: “O Aengus, Master of all lovers,

A thousand years ago you held high ralk

With the first kings of many-pillared Cruachan.

O when will you grow weary?’

They had vanished,

But our of the dark air over her head there came

A murmur of soft words and meeting lips.

Mad Suibhne (Mad Sweeney)

Suibhne and `Eorann :

Author: Suibhne Geilt (Mad Sweeney) c.A.D. 1175

Now `Eorann, who had been Suibhne’s wife, had by that time married G`uaire son of Congal son of Scannl`an….And Suibhne came to the place where `Eorann was. G`uaire had gone hunting that day… And the madman settled on the lintel of the hut in which `Eorann was, and spoke these words: “Do you remember, girl”, said he “the great love we had for each other when we lived together? And now sleep and comfort are your lot” said he, ” and it is not so with me.” Suibhne then spoke as follows, and `Eorann answered him:

Suibhne:

1. Sleep is your lot, lovely `Eorann, committed to a bet with your lover. It is not so here with me: long have I been restless.

2. Lightly great `Eorann, did you say these pleasing words, that you would not live were you be parted for a single day from Suibhne.

3. Today it can be quickly seen that you set little store by your old friend: you are warm on the good down of a bead; I am cold without till morning.

`Eorann: 4. Welcome to you bright madman: you are my dearest of all men; though sleep be its lot, my body is wasted since the day I heard you were as naught.

Suibhne: 5. Dearer to you is the king’s son who leads you to the carefree banquet: he is your chosen wooer; you seek not your old friend.

`Eorann 6. Though the king’s son should lead me to carefree banqueting-halls. I should prefer to pass the night in the narrow hollow of a tree with you, O husband, were it in my power.

Suibhne: 7. It were better for you to give love and affection to the husband who has you as his one wife than to an uncouth famished dreadful fear inspiring wholly-naked madman.

`Eorann: 8. Were my choice of all the men of Ireland and Scotland given me, I should prefer to live blamelessly on water and cress with you.

Suibhne: 9. No path for a loved lady is that of Suibne here on the track of trouble: cold are my beds at Ard Abla; my cold dwellings are not rare.

`Eorann: 10. It saddens me indeed, toiling madman, that you should be unsightly and in distress; it grieves me hat your skin has changed its color and that briars and thorn-bushes should tear you.

Suibhne: 11. I speak not to find fault with you, tender radiant gentle lady: Christ son of Mary (mighty bondage), He it is who has brought me to wretchedness.

`Eorann: 12. I wish we could be together, in order that feathers might come over our bodies and that I might roam through light and dark with you every day and every night.

Suibhne: 13. I have spent a night in Mourne of the pleasant sounds; I have traveled to the lovely estuary of the Bann; I he roamed over Ireland to its limit; I have visited the monastery of the grandson of S`uanach.

He had hardly said those words when the host coming in from every direction filled the encampment. He then rushed away in wild flight, as he had often done.

Source:

Anonymous, c. A.D. 1175: Speech-poem within the prose narrative of Buile Suibhne.,(The Madness of Suibhne)

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Little antlered one, little belling one,

melodious little bleater,

sweet I think the lowing you make in the glen.

Home sickness for my little dwelling has come upon my mind,

the calves in the plain, the deer on the moor.

Oak, bushy, leafy, you are high above trees;

Hazel, little branchy one, wisdom of hazel nuts.

Alder, you are not spiteful, lovely is your colour,

you are not prickly where you are in the gap.

Blackthorn, little thorny one, black little sloe bush,

Apple tree, little apple tree, violently everyone shakes you.

Bramble, little humped vine, you do not grant fair terms;

tearing me till you are sated with blood.

Yew, you are conspicuous among tombs;

Rowan, little berried one, sacred is your lovely white blooms.

Holly, little protector, door against storms;

Ash tree weapon in the hand of the warrior, baneful are you.

Birch, smooth, blessed, proud, melodious,

how lovely is each entangled branch at the top of your crest.

Aspen, as it trembles from time to time

I hear its leaves rustle and think it is the foray;

Ivy, you are familiar in the dark woods.

A year to last night

have I been among the gloom of branches,

between flood and ebb,

without covering around me.

Without a pillow beneath my head,

among the fair children of men;

there is peril to us, O God,

without sword, without spear.

Without the company of women;

save brooklime of warrior-bands—

a pure fresh meal—

watercress is our desire.

Without a foray with a king,

I am alone in my home,

without glorious reavings,

without friends, without music.

Without sleep, alas!

let the truth be told,

without aid for a long time,

hard is my lot.

Without a house right full,

without the converse of generous men,

without the title of king,

without drink, without food.

Alas that I have been parted here

from my mighty, armed host,

a bitter madman in the glen,

bereft of sense and reason.

Without being on a kingly circuit,

but rushing along every path;

that is the great madness,

King of Heaven of saints.

Without accomplished musicians,

without the converse of women,

without bestowing treasures;

it has caused my death, O revered Christ.

Though I be as I am to-night,

there was a time

when my strength was not feeble

over a land that was not bad.

On splendid steeds,

in life without sorrow,

in my auspicious kingship

I was a good, great king.

After that, to be as I am

through selling Thee, O revered Christ!

a poor wretch am I, without power,

in the Glen of bright Bolcan.

The hawthorn that is not soft-topped

has subdued me, has pierced me;

the brown thorn-bush

has nigh caused my death.

The battle of Congal with fame,

to us it was doubly piteous;

on Tuesday was the rout;

more numerous were our dead than our living.

A-wandering in truth,

though I was noble and gentle,

I have been sad and wretched

a year to last night.

O woman who pluckest the watercress

and takest the water,

thou wouldst not be without something to-night

even though thou didst not take my portion.

Alas, O woman!

thou wilt not go the way that I shall go;

I abroad in the tree-tops,

thou yonder in a friend’s house.

Alas, O woman!

cold is the wind that has come to me;

nor mother nor son has pity on me,

no cloak is on my breast.

If thou but knewest, O woman,

how Suibhne here is:

he does not get friendship from anyone,

nor does anyone get his friendship.

I go not to a gathering

among warriors of my country,

no safeguard is granted me,

my thought is not on kingship.

I go not as a guest

to the house of any man’s son in Erin,

more often am I straying madly

on the pointed mountain-peaks.

None cometh to make music to me

for a while before going to rest,

no pity do I get

from tribesman or kinsman.

When I was Suibhne indeed

and used to go on steeds—

when that comes to my memory

alas that I was detained in life!

I am Suibhne, noble leader,

cold and joyless is my abode,

though I be to-night on wild peaks,

O woman who pluckest my watercress.

My mead is my cold water,

my kine are my cresses,

my friends are my trees,

though I am without mantle or smock.

Cold is the night to-night,

though I am poor as regards watercress,

I have heard the cry of the wild-goose

over bare Imlech Iobhair.

I am without mantle or smock

the evil hour has long clung to me (?),

I flee at the cry of the heron

as though it were a blow that struck me.

I reach firm Dairbre

in the wondrous days of Spring,

and before night I flee

westward to Benn Boirche.

If thou art learned, O fair, crabbed one,

my field …

there is one to whom the burden thou takest

is a grievous matter, O hag.

It is cold they are

at the brink of a clear, pebbly spring—

a bright quaff of pure water

and the watercress you pluck.

My meal is the watercress you pluck,

the meal of a noble, emaciated madman;

cold wind springs around my loins

from the peaks of each mountain.

Chilly is the wind of morn,

It comes between me and my smock,

I am unable to speak to thee,

O woman who pluckest the watercress.

The woman:

Leave my portion to the Lord,

be not harsh to me;

the more wilt thou attain supremacy,

and take a blessing, O Suibhne.

Suibhne:

Let us make a bargain just and fitting

though I am on the top of the yew;

take thou my smock and my tatters,

leave the little bunch of cress.

There is scarce one by whom I am beloved,

I have no house on earth;

since thou takest from me my watercress

my sins to be on thy soul!

Mayest thou not reach him whom thou hast loved,

the worse for him whom thou hast followed;

thou hast left one in poverty

because of the bunch thou hast plucked.

May a raid of the blue-coated Norsemen take thee!

Thine has not been a fortunate meeting for me,

mayest thou get from the Lord the blame

for cutting my portion of watercress.

O woman, if there should come to thee

Loingseachan whose delight is sport,

do thou give him on my behalf

half the watercress thou pluckest.

Encountering The Other… Then and Now

Dear Readers…

The subject matters of this entry was started by a conversation with Rowan. He was talking about his need to find an idea for a one-act play… I suggested that he look in the realm of mythology… The Tale of Ossian, Suibne, Thomas The Rhymer.

There had also been a conversation on the Earthrites group about lights in the forest i.e. Will O’ The Wisp, as well as other forms of phenomena associated with the ‘Good People’. Our his/her-stories are filled with tales of encounters between humans and… the others. Everywhere you go on this green and tumbling world is found tales of the other ones.

So today’s entry touches on older tales, and some of the newer encounters… I think you may find them intriguing….

Being ill has some interesting dividends: Lucid Dreaming. I had a raging case of it last night. The mind goes in such odd directions at times.

Have To Hop,

Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

The Links

The ‘I’

Excerpt:The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies

Bee Quotes

Apparent Communication with Discarnate Entities Induced by Dimethyltryptamine (DMT)

Poetry: Thomas The Rhymer

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The Links:

Experts reveal ‘ancient massacre’

Strangest Deaths…

Where There Is A Will…

Malaysian monks face ant dilemma

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Excerpt:The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies

AMONG other Inƒtances of undoubted Verity, proving in theƒe the Being of ƒuch aerial People, or Species of Creatures not vulgarly known, I add the ƒubƒequent Relations, ƒome whereof I have from my Acquaintance with the Actors and Patients, and the Reƒt from the Eye-witneƒƒes to the Matter of Fact. The firƒt whereof ƒhall be of the Woman taken out of her Child-bed, and having a lingring Image of her ƒubƒtituted Bodie in her Roome, which Reƒemblance decay’d, dy’d, and was bur’d. But the Perƒon ƒtollen returning to her Huƒband after two Years Space, he being convinced by many undenyable Tokens that ƒhe was his former Wyfe, admitted her Home, and had diverƒe Children by her. Among other Reports ƒhe gave her Huƒband, this was one: That ƒhe perceived litle what they did in the ƒpacious Houƒe ƒhe lodg’d in, untill ƒhe anointed one of her Eyes with a certain Unction that was by her; which they perceaving to have acqainted her with their Actions, they fain’d her blind of that Eye with a Puff of their Breath. She found the Place full of Light, without any Fountain or Lamp from whence it did ƒpring. This Perƒon lived in the Countrey nixt to that of my laƒt Reƒidence, and might furniƒh Matter of Diƒpute amongƒt Caƒuiƒts, whither if her Huƒband had been mary’d in the Interim of her two Years Abƒence, he was oblidged to divorƒe from the ƒecond Spouƒe at the Return of the firƒt. There is ane Airt, appearingly without Superƒtition, for recovering of ƒuch as are ƒtolen, but think it ƒuperfluous to inƒert it.

I SAW a Woman of fourtie Years of Age, and examined her (having another Clergie Man in my Companie) about a Report that paƒt of her long faƒting, [her Name is not intyre.] 1 It was told by them of the Houƒe, as well as her ƒelfe, that ƒhe tooke verie little or no Food for ƒeverall Years paƒt; that ƒhe tarried in the Fields over Night, ƒaw and converƒed with a People ƒhe knew not, having wandered in ƒeeking of her Sheep, and ƒleep’t upon a Hillock, and finding her ƒelf tranƒported to another Place before Day. The Woman had a Child ƒince that Time, and is ƒtill prettie melanchollyous and ƒilent, hardly ever ƒeen to laugh. Her natural Heat and radical Moiƒture ƒeem to be equally balanced, lyke ane unextinguiƒhed Lamp, and going in a Circle, not unlike to the faint Lyfe of Bees, and ƒome Sort of Birds, that ƒleep all the Winter over, and revive in the Spring.

IT is uƒuall in all magicall Airts to have the Candidates prepoƒƒeƒƒit with a Believe of their Tutor’s Skill, and Ability to perform their Feats, and act their jugling Pranks and Legerdemain; but a Perƒon called Stewart, poƒƒeƒƒed with a prejudice at that was ƒpoken of the 2d Sight,

and living near to my Houƒe, was ƒoe put to it by a Seer, before many Witneƒƒes, that he loƒt his Speech and Power of his Legs, and breathing exceƒƒively, as if expyring, becauƒe of the many fearfull Wights that appeared to him. The Companie were forced to carrie him into the Houƒe.

IT is notoriouƒly known what in Killin, within Perthƒhire, fell tragically out with a Yeoman that liv’d hard by, who coming into a Companie within ane Ale-houƒe, where a Seer ƒat at Table, that at the Sight of the Intrant Neighbour, the Seer ƒtarting, roƒe to go out of the Hous; and being aƒked the Reaƒon of his haƒt, told that the intrant Man ƒhould die within two Days; at which News the named Intrant ƒlabb’d the Seer, and was himƒelf executed two Days after for the Fact.

A MINISTER, verie intelligent, but miƒbelieving all ƒuch Sights as were not ordinar, chanceing to be in a narrow Lane with a Seer, who perceaving a Wight of a known Viƒage furioƒlie to encounter them, the Seer deƒired the Miniƒter to turn out of the Way; who ƒcorning his

Reaƒon, and holding him ƒelfe in the Path with them, when the Seer was going haƒtily out of the Way, they were both violently caƒt a ƒide to a good Diƒtance, and the Fall made them lame for all their Lyfe. A little after the Miniƒter was carried Home, one came to tol the Bell for the Death of the Man whoƒe Repreƒentation met them in the narrow Path ƒome Halfe ane Hour before.

ANOTHER Example is: A Seer in Kintyre, in Scotland, ƒitting at Table with diverƒe others, ƒuddenly did caƒt his Head aƒide. The Companie aƒking him why he did it, he anƒwered, that ƒuch a Friend of his, by Name, then in Ireland, threatened immediately to caƒt a Diƒhfull of Butter in his Face. The Men wrote down the Day and Hour, and ƒent to the Gentleman to know the Truth; which Deed the Gentleman declared he did at that verie Time, for he knew that his Friend was a Seer, and would make ƒport with it. The Men that were preƒent, and examined the Matter exactly, told me this Story; and with all, that a Seer would with all his Opticks perceive no other Object ƒo readily as this, at ƒuch a Diƒtance.

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Pray for our little sisters, and refuse GMO food products. We are losing them, apparently to our mismanaged dealings with nature…

Bee Quotes:

“The bee is more honored than other animals, not because she labors, but because she labors for others”

“Aerodynamically, the bumble bee shouldn’t be able to fly, but the bumble bee doesn’t know it so it goes on flying anyway.”

“Life is a mosaic of pleasure and pain – grief is an interval between two moments of joy. Peace is the interlude between two wars. You have no rose without a thorn; the diligent picker will avoid the pricks and gather the flower. There is no bee without the sting; cleverness consists in gathering the honey nevertheless.”

“What is not good for the swarm is not good for the bee.”

“Every saint has a bee in his halo”

“If God is a flower, you should feel yourself a bee that sucks its honey;”

“That buzzing-noise means something. If there’s a buzzing noise, somebody’s making a buzzing-noise, and the only reason for making a buzzing-noise that I know of is because you’re a bee. ….

And the only reason for being a bee that I know of is making honey…..

And the only reason for making honey is so as I can eat it.” So he began to climb the tree.”

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Apparent Communication with Discarnate Entities Induced by Dimethyltryptamine (DMT)by Peter Meyer

(With thanks to Erowid for keeping this up on-line!)

DMT Personal Reports –

Personal reports As regards the nature of the DMT experience, we are still at the Baconian, data-gathering, stage. Before going on to offer some generalizations and speculation I shall here present some descriptions of DMT experiences, especially insofar as they relate to the question of contact with discarnate entities. Because the use of DMT is still illegal in certain countries whose governments do not yet recognize a person’s natural right to modify his or her consciousness in whatever way desired, the authors of these reports shall for now remain anonymous.

Subject S (no previous experience with DMT; written communication):

My first attempts with DMT have left me with some serious thoughts… I did less than 10 mg on my second attempt and had a very weird experience. Not only did I have what I can only call a “close encounter,” I was left with two thoughts. First, they were waiting for me, and they were not “friendly.”… ion the] third attempt lit] seemed like they could not wait for me to experiment. In this event, I did not have actual contact, but rather “felt” them wanting to get into my consciousness. The actual experience was far more frightening than any major “trip” previously experienced…. I was profoundly affected.

Subject O (description of first DMT experience; written communication):

Remember to breathe. Recline and get into position, subsumed by the momentum; before me I see an irridescent membrane, taut and gently pulsating, something stretching and pushing towards me, on the other side, straining to emerge. fissure rends, tears and inside I glimpse the existence of something/place consisting of a dense whirling body of brilliantly multicolored primordial life/thought stuff, seeping and beckoning… I breathe and return into the plexus, center of my being, to witness myself as an outline-constructed 2-0 diagramatic shell of many coherent light-points, revolving quadrated vortices, large central to smaller and then tiny outer, phosphorescent green and I… enter into utter emptiness, space matrix…. [I]mpression of basic colors, unmuted blue, yellow and red, shimmering into being depth imperceptible yet defined within the space, endlessly recurring back from/into the corner when, slowly, from around the edges they peer towards me, watching eyes bright and watching in small faces, then small hands to pull themselves, slowly, from behind and into view; they are small white-blond imp-kids, very old in bright, mostly red, fogs and caps; candy-store, shiny, teasing and inquisitive, very solemn and somewhat pleased (ah, here you are!) watching me as I meet only their eyes bright and dark without any words (look!) or any idea remembered they only want to convey (look!) through their eyes that I must know that THIS is what they/we are doing…

Subject O (second DMT experience; written communication):

…I found myself once again in the company of the “elves, ” as the focus of their attention and ministrations, but they appeared much less colorful and altogether preoccupied with the task at hand, i.e., pouring a golden, viscous liquid through a network of long, inter- twining, transparent conduits which led into the middle of my abdomen…

Subject G (very experienced with DMT; Gracie [44], #5):

We each had taken 150 mg of pure MDA…. About hour 4, 1 decided to try smoking some DMT…. This time I saw the “elves” as multi– dimensional creatures formed by strands of visible language; they were more creaturely than I had ever seen them before…. The elves were dancing in and out of the multidimensional visible language matrix, “waving” their “arms” and “limbs/hands/fingers?” and “smiling” or “laughing, ” although I saw no faces as such. The elves were “telling” me (or I was understanding them to say) that I had seen them before, in early childhood. Memories were flooding back of seeing the elves: they looked just like they do now: evershifting,, folding, multidimensional, multicolored (what colors!), always laughing weaving/waving, showing me things, showing me the visible language they are created/creatures of, teaching me to speak and read.

Subject T (several previous DMT experiences; verbal communication):

I saw a tunnel, which I flew down at great speed. I approached the end of the tunnel, which was closed by two doors on which was written: THE END. I burst through these and was carried up through seven heavens, breaking through each one in turn. When I emerged at the top I was flying over a dark landscape (it seemed to be Mexico). I felt that this was all so weird that I should be scared (perhaps I had died), but I did not feel scared. I continued to fly on, over a ravine, leading up to a mountainside, and eventually saw a campfire. As I approached this, cautiously, I saw that on the other side of the fire was a human figure wearing a sombrero, whom I intuitively knew to be Don Juan. He invited me to come closer, and spoke to me.

Subject V (very experienced with DMT; verbal communication):

I was in a large space and saw what seemed to be thousands of the entities. They were rapidly passing something to and fro among themselves, and were looking intently at me, as if to say “See what we are doing” … I noticed what seemed to be an opening into a large space, like looking through a cave opening to a starry sky. As I approached this I saw that resting in the opening was a large crea- ture, with many arms, somewhat like an octopus, and all over the arms were eyes, mostly closed, as if the creature were asleep or slumbering. As I approached it the eyes opened, and it/they became aware of me. It did not seem especially well-disposed towards me, as if it did not wish to be bothered by a mere human, and I had the impression ! wasn’t going to get past it, so I did not try.

Subject M (several previous DMT experiences; written report; each of the following paragraphs in this section is a description of a separate experience):

(i) It was not until my fifth DMT trip that I became aware of alien contact. I took two inhalations from a mixture of 75 mg of DMT wax (less than 100″/0 pure) and mullein. The visual hallucination was experienced as overwhelming, totally amazing, incredible and unbelievable. I could only surrender to the experience, reminding myself that I would survive and attempt to deal with the sense that what I was seeing was completely impossible. I wondered whether this was what dying was like and reassured myself, through noting my breathing, that I wits still alive. What I was experiencing was happening too quickly to comprehend. At one point I suddenly became aware of beings,, who were rapdily flitting about me. They appeared as dark, stick-like beings silhouetted against a rapidly- changing kaleidoscopic background. Although I could not make out much detail, I definitely feIt their presence.

(ii) On the sixth occasion I took two inhalations of about 35 ms of pure DMT in a glass pipe. Immediately upon closing my eyes I was overwhelmed by visual hallucination. This seemed to last but briefly, whereupon I passed abruptly through to another realm, los- ing all awareness Of my body. II was as if there were alien beings there waiting for me, and I recall that they spoke to me as if they had been awaiting my arrival, but I cannot remember exactly what was said. This time, rather than (or as well as) flitting about me, the entities approached me from the front, rapidly and repeatedly, appearing to enter and pass through me. I could make no sense of what was happening. I opened my eyes and made contact with my companions, locating myself once move in the room from which had begun. Immediately I completely forgot what I had just experienced. The contents of the room appeared stable but weirdly distorted. I was able to recognize and to talk to my companions, but I felt and appeared very disoriented. …. The memory of this experience came back only when, Inter that evening, I smoked the remainder of what was left in the pipe — not enough to break through, but enough for me to remember….

(iii) …I got deeply into the visual hallucination. I was barely able to remind and to reassure myself that “DMT is safe,” though I had some difficulty recalling tire name “DMT. With eyes closed, I experienced intense, overwhelming visual imagery. I was seeing a large, extremely colorful surface, like a membrane, pulsating toward and away from me. …I recalled that I had seen this before, on previous DMT trips, but had forgotten it. During this experience I was aware of my breathing and heartbeat, and was careful to continue breathing deeply. The pattern was in intense hues, and its parts seemed to have meaning, as if they were letters of an alphabet, but I could not make sense of it. I was quite amazed. I felt that I was being shown something, and I tried to understand what I was seeing, but could not. I also heard elf-language, but it was not meaningful to me. Eventually the visions subsided with no breakthrough and no overt alien contact.

(iv) ! smoked at around 2 a.m. with little effect and some vaguely unpleasant visual hallucination (harlequin-like gargoyles?). This might have been due to being tired and to having eaten substantially a few hours before. There was a sense of alien presence. Upon awakening next morning I noticed that my electronic alarm clock, while obviously still “ticking,” had stopped at the time I had been smoking the previous night. I have never known the clock to stop in this way before or since.

(v) Smoked 40-50 mg of DMT wax. …An overwhelming and con- fusing experience. My heart rate seemed to go way up, which caused me some concern. I had to remind myself that one does not die from smoking DMT. The experience was disjointed and erratic. There were white flashes, like subtitles in a film, except that they were not verbal but rather like a white-energy-being rushing quickly through the scene from left to right (what I now think of as “the white lightning being”). There was a strange, incomprehensible auditory hallucination. Confusing and unpleasant. I reflected that this is what hell might be like (good practice for hell: stay calm and try to observe what is happening).

(vi) Upon lying back I became aware of brightly colored, moving patterns, which I remembered having seen before on DMT (but having forgotten about — indeed even now, a half-hour later, I cannot recall them clearly). I was then immersed in a totally weird state, like being in a large multicolored hall whose walls (if it had walls) were moving incomprehensibly. …Apart from occasional awareness of my breathing I was hardly aware of my body at all. I seemed to be in another world, disembodied, and feeling flabbergasted. I seemed to be aware of the presence of other beings in the same space, but had only fleeting glimpses of them, as if they were shy about appearing to me. In this state I did not know what to do. It was as if I was offered a wish by the dragon but dill not understand what was being offered — or even that there was a dragon at all. Throughout there was elf-music, and elf-language in the background. I did not attend much to this since the visual effects were so overwhelming. As the influence of the DMT wore off I felt myself losing contact with this state and I knew that I would forget what was happening. It felt as if there were beings “waving goodbye. “

(vii) I smoked 40 mg of pure DMT mixed with some marijuana. …I quickly entered into the trance state without noticing any great amount of the usual patterned visual hallucination. …I seemed to be falling away, spiraling into some large, black void, after which I seemed to be in a bright, open space in the presence of two other beings. Their forms were not very clear, but they seemed to be like children, as if we were together in a playground. They appeared to be moving very rapidly….The two beings seemed to be frying to attract my attention, and to communicate something to me, but I could not understand. It was as if they were trying to make me understand where I was. One even seemed to be holding up a sign, like a speech balloon, but, as I recall, the sign was blank. I attended to my breathing, and with this came an increased sense of serf- identity, and with this a lessening of contact with the two beings.

(viii) Smoked 40 mg spread over mint leaves, in three tokes, sifting upright. 1Lly intention was to see what spirits, if any,, are currently about me. As the experience came upon me I managed to keep that intention, or at least, “What spirits…’” and also remembered to breathe regularly. A strange state of mind ensued, one of dynamic, patterned energy, in which I was not sure whether I was perceiving a scene, with a moving being, or not. I finally realized that the answer to my question regarding spirits was that there were indeed many around me, and that they were merry, hiding and playing a joke on me. However, I did not specifically see or hear any.

(ix) Smoked 40 mg of DMT wax spread over mint leaves as usual, sifting up leaning against a pillow….As the trance came on I was overwhelmed with visual imagery that I did not even attempt to make sense of. I struggled to remember who I was…..[I]] turned my attention to the visual component, and what I saw was an incredible amount of stuff coming at me in waves, sort of rolling toward me. There were two beings in the scene, and they were doing the rolling, definitely throwing all this stuff at me — I don’t know why. The scene changed, and there was more visual hallucination, but I don ‘t remember the details — all happening very quickly.

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Thomas the Rhymer

True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;

A ferlie he spied wi’ his e’e;

And there he saw a ladye bright

Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.

Her skirt was o’ the grass-green silk,

Her mantle o’ the velvet fyne;

At ilka tett o’ her horse’s mane,

Hung fifty siller bells and nine.

True Thomas he pu’d aff his cap,

And louted low down on his knee

‘Hail to thee Mary, Queen of Heaven!

For thy peer on earth could never be.’

‘O no, O no, Thomas’ she said,

‘That name does not belang to me;

I’m but the Queen o’ fair Elfland,

That am hither come to visit thee.

‘Harp and carp, Thomas,’ she said;

‘Harp and carp along wi’ me;

And if ye dare to kiss my lips,

Sure of your bodie I will be.’

‘Betide me weal; betide me woe,

That weird shall never daunten me.’

Syne he has kiss’d her rosy lips,

All underneath the Eildon Tree.

‘Now ye maun go wi’ me,’ she said,

‘True Thomas, ye maun go wi’ me;

And ye maun serve me seven years,

Thro’ weal or woe as may chance to be.’

She ‘s mounted on her milk-white steed,

She ‘s ta’en true Thomas up behind;

And aye, whene’er her bridle rang,

The steed gaed swifter than the wind.

O they rade on, and farther on,

The steed gaed swifter than the wind;

Until they reach’d a desert wide,

And living land was left behind.

‘Light down, light down now, true Thomas,

And lean your head upon my knee;

Abide ye there a little space,

And I will show you ferlies three.

‘O see ye not yon narrow road,

So thick beset wi’ thorns and briers?

That is the Path of Righteousness,

Though after it but few inquires.

‘And see ye not yon braid, braid road,

That lies across the lily leven?

That is the Path of Wickedness,

Though some call it the Road to Heaven.

‘And see ye not yon bonny road

That winds about the fernie brae?

That is the Road to fair Elfland,

Where thou and I this night maun gae.

‘But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue,

Whatever ye may hear or see;

For speak ye word in Elfyn-land,

Ye’ll ne’er win back to your ain countrie.’

O they rade on, and farther on,

And they waded rivers abune the knee;

And they saw neither sun nor moon,

But they heard the roaring of the sea.

It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight,

They waded thro’ red blude to the knee;

For a’ the blude that ‘s shed on the earth

Rins through the springs o’ that countrie.

Syne they came to a garden green,

And she pu’d an apple frae a tree:

‘Take this for thy wages, true Thomas;

It will give thee the tongue that can never lee.’

‘My tongue is my ain,’ true Thomas he said;

‘A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!

I neither dought to buy or sell

At fair or tryst where I might be.

‘I dought neither speak to prince or peer,

Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!’—

‘Now haud thy peace, Thomas,’ she said,

‘For as I say, so must it be.’

He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,

And a pair o’ shoon of the velvet green;

And till seven years were gane and past,

True Thomas on earth was never seen.

The Potion In Motion…

Putting this entry together was a bit of fun. I hope that you will enjoy it. It reminds me of a feast of sorts…

Chest is still gippy, but my head is clearing up a bit. Mary is still down. It should make for an interesting work day.

Very warm here Sunday, unseasonably so. Odd weather lately. Walked with Sophie, she was worn out by the time we got back. Must be all that winter coat…

Work is progressing on the magazine, 2 articles almost complete on some of our featured artist. The look is a bit different, and this edition promises to be a bit larger. It is exciting seeing it come together.

Today’s emphasis is on: A Marriage Made In Surrealist Heaven… for obvious reasons. The giggle of the week, I swear.

Have a good one!

Gwyllm

On The Menu:

The Links

A Marriage Made In Surrealist Heaven

Hofmann’s Potion

Seven Phases of Social-Cultural Transformation Catalyzed by LSD and Psychedelics

Coyote and the Monster

The Michael McClure Moment: Grace In Poetry

Michael McClure Biography…

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The Links:

Metzner Alchemical Divination

Crystal Caves Of The Giants…

Study Uncovers Memory Aid: A Scent During Sleep

Homeland Security revives supersnoop

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A Marriage Made In Surrealist Heaven: Bob Dylan Sings Dr. Seuss…

(oh yeah…. it likes FireFox, and not IE)

Dylan Hears A Who!

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Hofmann’s Potion – LSD Documentary

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Seven Phases of Social-Cultural Transformation Catalyzed by LSD and Psychedelics

Ralph Metzner, Ph.D.

The first consciousness-expanding experience, triggered by LSD or another psychedelic (or by some other catalyst), often represents a significant transformative turning point in an individual’s life. Similarly, the introduction of psychedelics into Western culture in the mid-twentieth century catalyzed a series of profound socio-cultural transformational movements. These movements represent synchronistic expansions of consciousness in the collective psyche of humanity, with heightened awareness of new possibilities and commitment to creatively realizing them. As such, these transformative movements represent a response of the collective psyche of humanity to the combined evolutionary survival challenge posed by nuclear weaponry, environmental devastation and runaway population growth.

I propose to review the processes of cultural transformation triggered by the discovery of consciousness-expanding drugs from the point of view of G.I. Gurdjieff’s Law of Seven. This principle, which Gurdjieff stated is one of two fundamental cosmic laws (the other being The Law of Three), states that every process of transformation, at every level — individual, collective, planetary, cosmic, microcosmic — proceedes in seven stages, like a musical octave. At the points where in music there is a half-tone progression — mi to fa and si to the next do, there needs to be an external shock of some kind in order for the transformative process to continue unfolding — otherwise forces of degeneration and inertia bring about its collapse or diversion into other pathways. So here is my suggestion of hos these seven phases have played out over past seven decades.

1940s – Do. At the height of World War II, Albert Hofmann discovers (which is his term) LSD “accidentally”, a few months after Italian-American physicist Enrico Fermi succeeds in creating the first nuclear chain reaction, which lead to the making and explosion of the first atomic bombs. Thus, in the 1940s, we saw the simultaneous development of atomic energy and a psychactive drug that acts like a soft atomic explosion in the human mind, changing forever the worldview and basic life-orientation of all who experienced it. First applications of LSD in CIA and military experiments, psychotomimetic research, and psycholytic therapy.

1950s – Re. The decade of the 1950s saw the introduction into the culture of several mind-expanding plant-based shamanic spiritual movements. R. Gordon Wasson rediscoveres the sacred mushroom ceremony of the ancient Aztecs, publishing his account in LIFE magazine in 1957. This triggers a movement in which tens of thousands North American and European hippies start experimenting with hallucinogenic mushrooms, at first wild and then also cultivated. The spread of hallucinogenic mushroom use and cultivation connects the psychedelic movement to age-old animistic, shamanistic traditions. Also in the 1950s a Brazilian rubber tapper starts a church (one of three) in which the Amazonian shamanic entheogen ayahuasca is the central sacrament, initiating a grass-roots religious revitalization movement that has thousands of adherents worldwide.

1960s – Mi. Experiences with psychedelic drugs (LSD, psilocybin) move out of the psychiatric clinics and laboratories. Timothy Leary and associates begin their research with psilocybin in “supportive settings” at Harvard University; and in 1963 publish The Psychedelic Experience – A Manual Based on the Tibetan Book of the Dead. Around the same time, in California, novelist Ken Kesey and his band of Merry Pranksters stage rock concert “acid tests”, in which thousands of people take LSD, while listening to music and watching light-shows. Thus was born a revolution in collective consciousness, in which hundreds of thousands of people, perhaps millions, had one or more profound, life-changing psychedelic experiences. Renowned philosophers Aldous Huxley, Alan Watts, and Huston Smith testify to the authenticity of the religious/spiritual dimensions of psychedelic experience.

Synchronistically, the 1960s saw the beginnings of the environmental movement (Rachel Carson’s 1962 Silent Spring was a major catalyst); the civil rights, anti-discrimination movement, inspired by Martin Luther King; the anti-war movement, galvanized by the televised horrors of Vietnam; the women’s liberation movement, with its “consciousness-raising” circles (Betty Friedan’s 1963 The Feminine Mystique was a major catalyst); an upsurge of creative innovation in music, the arts, fashion and literature; the “sexual revolution” and increased freedom of sexual expression, catalyzed in part by the contraceptive pill. Even though there is no evidence of a causative connection between ingestion of psychedelics and these transformation movements, each of them represents an expansion of consciousness, a transcending of the existing limited conventions, attitudes and norms. Together, they constitute what was justly called a counterculture.

The shock: The assasinations of John F. Kennedy (1963), Martin Luther King (1968) and Robert Kennedy (1968). The humiliating defeat of the United States in Vietnam.

1970s – Fa. The effect of the shock on the “movement”(of consciousness expansion) is to induce profound soul-searching and retreat from overt political activism. For mainstream culture, the use of psychedelics becomes a minor footnote in the War on Drugs, which swings into higher and higher gear in the Nixon and Reagan years. Marijuana is, and remains, in the middle and hotly contested ground: life-saving and mind-assisting medicine for millions, taboo issue for the political class. Inner consciousness-development movements of all kinds – Asian yoga and meditation systems, new forms of transpersonal experiential psychotherapy, New Age spiritual practices, neo-shamanic and neo-pagan interests are cultivated and become academically respectable.

1980s – Sol. All the transformative social movements that began in the 1960s continue to thrive, deepen, diversify and develop, reaching into all sectors of society: varieties of environmental/ecological perspectives, such as deep ecology; varieties of feminist, civil rights and social justice movements; transpersonal and ecumenical approaches to religion and spirituality. The rise of AIDS puts a corrective brake on the sometimes reckless exuberance of the sexual revolution. The spread of cocaine and crack cocaine intensifies the drug war, with its rampant abuse and corruption of civil liberties, and incalculable profits for international criminal drug cartels as well as the money-laundering financial systems of the aboveground economies of many countries, including the US. Use of the classical psychedelics remains almost invisibly underground. Alexander Shulgin creates MDMA, the first of many phenethylamine empathogens, used as a valuable adjunct to psychotherapy. It spreads from the couch to the street, becomes demonized and illegal. Rave parties of thousands, involving Ecstasy, begin in England, spread to the US and around the world.

The new Dionysian revels spread throughout the suburban middle-classes as well as youth culture. Mushroom culture and ayahuasca religions continue to spread internationally.

1990s – La. The Soviet empire collapses, leaving the US as the “sole superpower”, increasingly nakedly dedicated to economic and military imperialism around the globe. The dizzying rise and spread of the internet fosters global interconnectivity in every area of life, from crime and commerce to science, education , information (including information about drugs) and activist solidarity. Multinational corporations foster economic hegemonic globalization. Growing global and public awareness of the multiple mounting global environmental disasters (climate change, species extinction, overpopulation, pollution, deforestation, exhaustion of resources) loom ever larger. Prohibitionist Drug War policies continue, defying logic, justice and common sense. The psychedelic underground continues, becomes more knowledgeble, with clear intentionality toward healing, therapeutic and spiritual values. Shamanic practices, work with animal, plant and spirit allies, herbal and natural medicine, organic farming and nutrition – all expand vigorously. New more conscious, non-medical approaches to birth and birthing, and death and dying, gain more adherents. A living systems worldview emerges in philosophical scientific circles.

2000s – Si. With the election of George W. Bush, in a Supreme Court coup d’état (not unlike Hitler’s legal accession to power in 1932) the ambitions of world domination, the Imperium Americanum, stand ever more clearly revealed. Fascism internally, imperialism externally. “Democracy” becomes a smoke-screen cover word for militarism, “free trade’ a smoke-screen cover word for neo-colonialist exploitation. International arms control and environmental treaties and institutions are abandoned with hardly a murmur of dissent or opposition from Congress or the media. The most progressive economic and political activities occur outside of the US: in Europe, some parts of Asia, some parts of Latin America. Then comes:

The second shock: Sept. 11, 2001. The attack on the World Trade Towers.

In the aftermath, the dominant direction – imperialist domination and corporate globalization – is intensified by vengeful and pre-emptive militarism. As Hitler used the Reichstag burning, the US government now uses two so-called wars – on Drugs and on Terrorism – to fuel fear in the population and establish a police “security” state. As of 2003, the United States has turned itself into a loathed pariah in the international community, ridiculed for its stupendous ignorance and arrogance and feared only because its hand is on unparalleled military destructive power and its seeming determination to use it.

Whether the external shock, like those in the 1960s, will have the effect of ultimately strengthening the movements of consciousness transformation remains to be seen. For the individual, at this point, the aims and practices of spiritual development and the demands and needs of the larger society and world seem to be coinciding, since the ordinary political means of stopping the juggernaut of pre-emptive wars juggernaut seem ineffective.

In the high-stakes cosmic game of planetary catastrophe, the Earth has one (or more) trump cards: ecological disasters could occur on such a scale that it would force the diversion of all technological and financial resources to address them. I confess to sometimes wishing it might happen thus. On the other hand we cannot wait or hope for this card to be played.

The internet is a wild card – that can amplify all other plays, and create unexpected opportunities and openings for progressives and activists.

Those of us that are more interested in the preservation of life in all its astonishing diversity and beauty, than in the enlargement of personal or group power and wealth, have only the same resources we’ve always had: the capacity to move (and help each other move) into expanded, awakened consciousness; the purity and strength of our intention; and the courage and creativity to realize the vision that, in the motto of the 50,000 at the Porto Alegre World Social Forum meetings, another world is possible.

(This essay is based on a presentation at the MindStates IV conference May 23-25, Berkeley; a version was published in GaiaMediaNews in honor of the 60th anniversary of the discovery of LSD).

Coyote and the Monster

A long, long time ago, people did not yet inhabit the earth. A monster walked upon the land, eating all the animals–except Coyote. Coyote was angry that his friends were gone. He climbed the tallest mountain and attached himself to the top. Coyote called upon the monster, challenging it to try to eat him. The monster sucked in the air, hoping to pull in Coyote with its powerful breath, but the ropes were too strong. The monster tried many other ways to blow Coyote off the mountain, but it was no use.

Realizing that Coyote was sly and clever, the monster thought of a new plan. It would befriend Coyote and invite him to stay in its home. Before the visit began, Coyote said that he wanted to visit his friends and asked if he could enter the monster’s stomach to see them. The monster allowed this, and Coyote cut out its heart and set fire to its insides. His friends were freed.

Then Coyote decided to make a new animal. He flung pieces of the monster in the four directions; wherever the pieces landed, a new tribe of Indians emerged. He ran out of body parts before he could create a new human animal on the site where the monster had lain. He used the monster’s blood, which was still on his hands, to create the Nez Percé, who would be strong and good.

________________

The Michael McClure Moment: Grace In Poetry

HUMMINGBIRD ODE

THE FAR-DARTER IS DEAD IN MY HAND, THE BEAUTIFUL

SHABBY COLORS

and the damp spots where the eyes were. Small form

that was all spirit, smashed on the plate

glass window. The green head and ruby

ruffles. The beautiful shabby colors

and the damp spots where the eyes were.

All head and chest and the Eros-spear

of the beak. Moving like Cupid

in the fuschias.

Hummingbird and spike of desire.

The huge chest and head and the beautiful

shabby colors. Tiny legs

thrust back in the last stiff agony.

WHAT’S ON YOUR SIDE OF THE VEIL??

DO YOU DIP YOUR BEAK

in the vast black lily

of space? Does the sweetness

of the pain go on forever?

IS THERE COURAGE THERE IN THE NIGHT?

WHERE ARE THE LOVES THAT MAKE THE BLOSSOM

of your body? Do they still spin

in the air? Your wives

and loves? Are you now

more than this meat? Finally

A STAR??

RAVEN’S FEATHER, EAGLE’S CLAW, EVERY

SONG EVER CHANTED

by the whale hunter

is a collector’s item

and wafts like mountain fog

from node to node before becoming clouds.

EVERY

BACKWARD

LOOK

puts us in touch with sentiment,

and hurts less than peering forward,

for tomorrow is the shadow of today.

Even the blue jay

gloats over his stash

of brass buttons. See the octopus play

with the exoskeleton

of his prey.

The statement’s convolution

confounds what is already done.

Bulldozed hillsides.

Scarlet flower bugles on the mountain top

overlook the graveyard.

Such elegant music when we make it

(for poets call it music)

surprises

US

in the act

of what we do.

The hand plays hide and seek

with the eye, and we grow

great brains

in honor of the game.

Then we dance and the music

follows at our footsteps

and we stop to listen

as it passes by.

WE

HEAR

THE MUSIC

OF

our selves!

Call it animal nature — or name it Civilization.

PEYOTE POEM, PART I

Clear — the senses bright — sitting in the black chair — Rocker –

the white walls reflecting the color of clouds

moving over the sun. Intimacies! The rooms

not important — but like divisions of all space

of all hideousness and beauty. I hear

the music of myself and write it down

for no one to read. I pass fantasies as they

sing to me with Circe-Voices. I visit

among the peoples of myself and know all

I need to know.

I KNOW EVERYTHING! I PASS INTO THE ROOM

there is a golden bed radiating all light

the air is full of silver hangings and sheathes

I smile to myself. I know

all there is to know. I see all there

is to feel. I am friendly with the ache

in my belly. The answer

to love is my voice. There is no time!

No answers. The answer to feeling is my feeling.

The answer to joy is joy without feeling.

The room is a multicolored cherub

of air and bright colors. The pain in my stomach

is warm and tender. I am smiling. The pain

is many pointed, without anguish.

Light changes the room from yellows to violet!

The dark brown space behind the door is precious

intimate, silent and still. The birthplace

of Brahms. I know

all that I need to know. There is no hurry.

I read the meanings of scratched walls and cracked ceilings.

I am separate. I close my eyes in divinity and pain.

I blink in solemnity and unsolemn joy.

I smile at myself in my movements. Walking

I step higher in carefulness. I fill

space with myself. I see the secret and distinct

patterns of smoke from my mouth

I am without care part of all. Distinct.

I am separate from gloom and beauty. I see all.

_____________________________________

(SPACIOUSNESS

And grim intensity — close within myself. No longer

a cloud

but flesh real as rock. Like Herakles

of primordial substance and vitality.

And not even afraid of the thing shorn of glamour

but accepting.

The beautiful things are not of ourselves

but I watch them. Among them.

________________________________________

And the Indian thing. It is true!

Here in my apartment I think tribal thoughts.)

_________________________________________

STOMACH!!!

There is no time. I am visited by a man

who is the god of foxes

there is dirt under the nails of his paw

fresh from his den.

We smile at one another in recognition.

I am free from time. I accept it without triumph

— a fact.

Closing my eyes there are flashes of light.

My eyes won’t focus but leap. I see that I have three feet.

I see seven places at once!

The floor slants — the room slopes

things melt

into each other. Flashes

of light

and meldings. I wait

seeing the physical thing pass.

I am on a mesa of time and space.

! STOM-ACHE!

Writing the music of life

in words.

Hearing the round sounds of the guitar

as colors.

Feeling the touch of flesh.

Seeing the loose chaos of words

on the page.

(ultimate grace)

(Sweet Yeats and his ball of hashish.)

_______________________________

My belly and I are two individuals

joined together

in life.

________________________________

THIS IS THE POWERFUL KNOWLEDGE

we smile with it.

_________________________________

At the window I look into the blue-gray

gloom of dreariness.

I am warm. Into the dragon of space.

I stare into clouds seeing

their misty convolutions.

The whirls of vapor

I will small clouds out of existence.

They become fish devouring each other.

And change like Dante’s holy spirits

becoming an osprey frozen skyhigh

to challenge me.

___________

About Michael McClure…

Michael McClure has long been noted for the popularity of his dynamic poetry performances. At the age of 22 he gave his first poetry reading at the legendary Six Gallery event in San Francisco, where Allen Ginsberg first read Howl. Today McClure is more active than ever, writing and performing his poetry at festivals, and colleges and clubs across the country.

“The role model for Jim Morrison,” as the Los Angeles Times characterized Michael McClure, has found sources in music from Thelonious Monk and Miles Davis to the composer Terry Riley with whom his poetry readings frequently share a bill.

Recently McClure joined with composer Terry Riley to create a CD titled I Like Your Eyes Liberty. The CD explores spontaneous music and voice (working together) expressing the outrageous and mystical in both artists.

McClure has worked extensively with his old friend Ray Manzarek, the Doors’ keyboardist, at festivals and colleges and clubs. They appeared with saxophonist David Sanborn on NBC-TV performing a jazz rendition of McClure’s “Love Lion Blues.” Mystic Fire released a 70 minute video of the duo and a compact disk “Love Lion” followed. McClure and Manzarek’s second CD “There’s a Word” carries their explorations even further.

Another video of Michael and Ray’s conversations and performances “Third Mind” was premiered on television by the Sun Dance Channel.

McClure reads with an actor’s command and a singer’s sense of timing, his impact “transports audiences to a very different and intriguing place.” He has given hundreds of reading in venues as varied as the Fillmore Ballroom, Yale University, The National Biodiversity Conference at the Smithsonian, and the Library of Congress. His audiences have ranged from an intimate dozen at a tiny Maui bookstore, to tens of thousands at San Francisco’s Human Be-in in San Francisco, and to multitudes at Airlift Africa. One of the poet’s favorite readings was to, and with, four lions at the San Francisco Zoo – a film of this reading is often shown on TV. McClure’s world-wide performances include Rome; Paris; Tokyo; Lawrence, Kansas; London; and in a bull ring in Mexico City.

The Poetry Flash described a reading by the poet “McClure – dressed in black – stood and uttered his words with a sort of sultry precision. His gestures punctuated his words (a poetry of the body), enthralling, enlisting a dynamic tension between audience and performer that didn’t let up till the words stopped.” A reviewer of a recent London reading wrote, “McClure’s West Coast delivery was deliberate, cool, spacious…”

The Journal-World in Lawrence Kansas offered these observations of McClure at the William Burroughs celebration, “McClure looked cool. Yet he grew warm, wending lyrical words around the air and across the hall, The coolness fell away with his simple elegance in word and presentation… McClure was controlled and read with steady jazz rhythms, a perfect, minimal chart of spoken words.”

He has received numerous awards, including a Guggenheim Felowship, an Obie Award for Best Play, an NEA grant, the Alfred Jarry Award, and a Rockefeller grant for playwriting. McClure has written twenty plays and musicals which are performed in the U.S. and abroad. His play The Beard provoked numerous censorship battles, in Los Angeles, the cast was arrested after each performance for fourteen nights in a row. Later The Beard received two Obies in N.Y.C. and was warmly embraced in both London and Paris. The play has played a role in U.S. censorship and free speech battles since 1966 when it won the first lawsuit that tried to ban its performance.

The poet is featured in several films among them Scorcese’s The Last Waltz, in which his reading of a poem by Chaucer “lilted, rolled, and seduced the audience into the lyric tonality of Middle English” (Atlanta Poetry Review). McClure played a Hells Angel in Norman Mailer’s film Beyond the Law. He does a cameo in Peter Fonda’s Hired Hand.

McClure has made two television documentaries – The Maze and September Blackberries. His fourteen books of poetry include Jaguar Skies, Dark Brown, Huge Dreams, Rebel Lions, Rain Mirror and Plum Stones. He has published eight books of plays and four collections of essays, including essays on Bob Dylan and on environmental issues. His novels are The Mad Cub and The Adept.

__________

The Sunday Offering…

“Are you a God?” they asked the Buddha. “No,” he replied. “Are you an angel, then?” “No.” “A saint?” “No.” “Then what are you?” Replied the Buddha, “I am awake.”—Huston Smith

Dear Readers,

Sick as a dog today. Combination of allergies and chest cold. Actually the allergies started it, and then everything went south after… ( I have since managed to pass this remarkable illness on to Mary who is down now as well.)

A small offering today, but fun. Have a good one.

Back to bed,

Gwyllm

On The Menu:

The Links

The Fly

Two Gems In The Crown Of Hafiz

Art: Jean-Leon Gerome

_____________

The Links:

Pot smoker gets pardon

Crystal amulet poses question on early Christianity

England: Awe of the rings

The Pitjantjatjara Word for Tourists and Ants Is One and the Same

______________

______________

Two Gems In The Crown Of Hafiz

Wild Deer

الا ای آهوی وحشی کجایی

Where are you O Wild Deer?

I have known you for a while, here.

Both loners, both lost, both forsaken

The wild beast, for ambush, have all waken

Let us inquire of each other’s state

If we can, each other’s wishes consummate

I can see this chaotic field

Joy and peace sometimes won’t yield

O friends, tell me who braves the danger

To befriend the forsaken, behold the stranger

Unless blessed Elias may come one day

And with his good office open the way

It is time to cultivate love

Individually decreed from above

Thus I remember the wise old man

Forgetting such a one, I never can

That one day, a seeker in a land

A wise one helped him understand

Seeker, what do you keep in your bag

Set up a trap, if bait you drag

In reply said I keep a snare

But for the phoenix I shall dare

Asked how will you find its sign

We can’t help you with your design

Like the spruce become so wise

Rise to the heights, open your eyes

Don’t lose sight of the rose and wine

But beware of your fate’s design

At the fountainhead, by the riverside

Shed some tears, in your heart confide

This instrument won’t tune to my needs

The generous sun, our wants exceeds

In memory of friends bygone

With spring showers hide the golden sun

With such cruelty cleaved with a sword

As if with friendship was in full discord

When flows forth the crying river

With your own tears help it deliver

My old companion was so unkind

O Pious Men, keep God in mind

Unless blessed Elias may come one day

Help one loner to another make way

Look at the gem and let go of the stone

Do it in a way that keeps you unknown

As my hand moves the pen to write

Ask the main writer to shed His light

I entwined mind and soul indeed

Then planted the resulting seed

In this marriage the outcome is joy

Beauty and soulfulness employ

With hope’s fragrant perfume

Let eternal soul rapture assume

This perfume comes from angel’s sides

Not from the doe whom men derides

Friends, to friends’ worth be smart

When obvious, don’t read it by heart

This is the end of tales of advice

Lie in ambush, fate’s cunning and vice.

—-

Saghi Nameh

ساقی نامه

O Bearer, bring the wine that brings joy

To increase generosity, & let perfection buoy

Give me some, for I have lost my heart

Both traits from me have kept apart

Bring the wine whose reflection in the cup

Signals to all the kings whose times are up

Give me wine, and with the reed-flute I will sing

When was Jamshid, and when Kavoos was king

Bring me the elixir whose grace and alchemy

Bestows treasures, from bonds of time sets free

Give me so they’ll open the doors once again

Of long life and the bliss that will remain

Bearer give the wine that the Holy Grail

Will make claims of sight in the Void and thus fail

Give me so that I, with the help of the Grail

All secrets, like Jamshid, themselves avail

Speak of the tale of the wheel of fate

proclaim to the kings and heroes of late

This broken world is in the same state

As seen by Afrasiab, the mighty, the great

Whence his mobilizing army generals

Whence cunning heroes’ war cries and calls

Not only his palace has gone to the dust

Even his tomb is destroyed and long lost

This barren desert is in the same stage

As the armies of Salm & Toor were lost in its rage

Bring the wine whose reflection in the cup

Signals to all the kings whose times are up

Well said Jamshid, the old majestic king

Worthless is this transient stage and ring

Come Bearer, that fire, radiant, bright

Zarathushtra, beneath the earth, seeks so right

Give me wine, in the creed of the drunk

Whether fire-worshipper or worldly monk

Come Bearer, that wholesome drunk

Who is forever in the tavern sunk

Give me, ill repute bring to my name

The cup and the wine I shall only blame

Bring Bearer, the water that burns the mind

If lion drinks, forest will burn and grind

Courageous, I’ll go hunting lions of fate

Mess up this old wolf’s trap and bait

Bring Bearer, that high heavenly wine

That angels with their scent would entwine

Give me wine, I’ll burn it like sweet incense

Its wise aroma I will sense now and hence

Bearer, give me the wine that makes kings

Witnessing its virtues, my heart sings

Give me wine to wash away all my flaws

Joyous rise above this rut’s deadly claws

When the spiritual garden is my abode

Why have me bound to a board on this road

Give me wine and then see the Ruler’s face

Ruin me & see treasures of wisdom and grace

And when I hold the cup in my hand

In the mirror everything I understand

In my drunken state, kingship proclaim

A monarch, when I am drunken and lame

Drunken, pearls of wisdom unveil

In hiding secrets, the selfless fail

Hafiz, drunken, songs will compose

From its melody Venus’ song flows

O singer, with the sound of the stream

Of that majestic song muse and dream

Till I make my work joy and ecstasy

I will dance and play with robe of piety

Given a crown and throne by his fate

The fruit of the kingly tree of this estate

Ruler of the land, and Lord of the time

The grand and fortunate King of the clime

He is the greatness vested in the Throne

comfort of bird and fish from Him alone

For the blessed, he is light of the eyes

Yet he is the gift of the soul of the wise

Behold, O, auspicious bird

The happy inspiration to be heard

The world has no pearls in its shells like Thee

Fereydoon and Jamshid had no heirs like Thee

Instead of Alexander, be here many a year

Know thy heart and discover joy is near

But seditious fate many plans may devise

Me and my drunkenness troubled by Beloved’s eyes

One, for his work, may pick up the sword

Another’s business only deals with the word

O Player, play the song of the new creed

To music of the stream tell to my rival breed

Finally with my enemy I have a chance

At victory, in the skies I can glance

O Player, play something pleasing to the ear

With a song and a Gahzal begin a story, dear

My sorrows have tied me to the ground

Raise me with my principles that are sound

O singer, with the sound of the stream

Play and sing that majestic song I dream

Make the great souls happy with you

Parviz and Barbad remember too

O Player, paint a picture of the veil

Listen, inside, they tell a tale

Sing a minstrel’s song, such

That Venus’ harp dances with her touch

Play so the Sufi goes into a trance

Drunken, in Union, leaves his stance

O Player, tambourine and harp play

With a lovely tune, sing and sway

Deceptions of the world make a vivid tale

The night is pregnant, what will it entail

O Player, I’m sad, play one or two

In his Oneness, as long as you can, play too

I am astounded by the revolving fate

I don’t know who will next degenerate

And if the Magi set one on fire

Don’t know whose light will then expire

In this bloody resurrection field

Let the cup and jug their blood yield

To the drunk, of a good song, give a sign

To friends bygone, a salutation divine…

The Hosting….

Land of Heart’s Desire, Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood, But joy is wisdom, time an endless song.

William Butler Yeats

THE HOSTING OF THE SIDHE

The host is riding from Knocknarea,

And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;

Caolte tossing his burning hair,

And Niamh calling, ‘Away, come away;

Empty your heart of its mortal dream.

The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,

Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,

Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,

Our arms are waving, our lips are apart,

And if any gaze on our rushing band,

We come between him and the deed of his hand,

We come between him and the hope of his heart.’

The host is rushing ‘twixt night and day;

And where is there hope or deed as fair?

Caolte tossing his burning hair,

And Niamh calling, ‘Away, come away.’

__________________

Today’s entry revolves around my perennial favourite, W.B. Yeats.

I find the return as good as the discovery; like a clear stream found again. Yeats poetry has been either on the bookshelf or by my bedside since I was twenty or so years old, maybe even earlier. I find renewal in his works and thoughts, I would hope it might be that way for you as well.

The art is from John Duncan, a Scotsman that my Mary first turned me onto. It is hard to find his work, as he is judged a minor figure in the art world. Just the same, his work evokes the Celtic Dreamtime very, very well.

Lots going this weekend, Rowan’s Play, editing the new magazine, a visit from our friend Irina, and a host of other activities…

Here is to the week-end, I wish you well!

May Beauty unfold before you, above you, below you, behind you. (and of course, within you)

Gwyllm

On The Menu:

The Inner Life Of A Cell (Thanks Cliff!)

A Visionary -W.B. Yeats

From Ireland: The Black Thief and Knight of the Glen

Poetry: Revisiting W.B. Yeats

Art: John Duncan

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Thanks To Cliff: The Inner Life Of A Cell (HQ)

___________________

A VISIONARY – W.B. Yeats

A young man came to see me at my lodgings the other night, and began to talk of the making of the earth and the heavens and much else. I questioned him about his life and his doings. He had written many poems and painted many mystical designs since we met last, but latterly had neither written nor painted, for his whole heart was set upon making his mind strong, vigorous, and calm, and the emotional life of the artist was bad for him, he feared. He recited his poems readily, however. He had them all in his memory. Some indeed had never been written down. They, with their wild music as of winds blowing in the reeds, 1 seemed to me the very inmost voice of Celtic sadness, and of Celtic longing for infinite things the world has never seen. Suddenly it seemed to me that he was peering about him a little eagerly. ‘Do you see anything, X—–?’ I said. ‘A shining, winged woman, covered by her long hair, is standing near the doorway,’ he answered, or some such words. ‘Is it the influence of some living person who thinks of us, and whose thoughts appear to us in that symbolic form?’ I said; for I am well instructed in the ways of the visionaries and in the fashion of their speech. ‘No,’ he replied; ‘for if it were the thoughts of a person who is alive I should feel the living influence in my living body, and my heart would beat and my breath would fail. It is a spirit. It is some one who is dead or who has never lived.’

I asked what he was doing, and found he was clerk in a large shop. His pleasure, however, was to wander about upon the hills, talking to half-mad and visionary peasants, or to persuade queer and conscience-stricken persons to deliver up the keeping of their troubles into his care. Another night, when I was with him in his own lodging, more than one turned up to talk over their beliefs and disbeliefs, and sun them as it were in the subtle light of his mind. Sometimes visions come to him as he talks with them, and he is rumoured to have told divers people true matters of their past days and distant friends, and left them hushed with dread of their strange teacher, who seems scarce more than a boy, and is so much more subtle than the oldest among them.

The poetry he recited me was full of his nature and his visions. Sometimes it told of other lives he believes himself to have lived in other centuries, sometimes of people he had talked to, revealing them to their own minds. I told him I would write an article upon him and it, and was told in turn that I might do so if I did not mention his name, for he wished to be always ‘unknown, obscure, impersonal.’ Next day a bundle of his poems arrived, and with them a note in these words: ‘Here are copies of verses you said you liked. I do not think I could ever write or paint any more. I prepare myself for a cycle of other activities in some other life. I will make rigid my roots and branches. It is not now my turn to burst into leaves and flowers.’

The poems were all endeavours to capture some high, impalpable mood in a net of obscure images. There were fine passages in all, but these were often embedded in thoughts which have evidently a special value to his mind, but are to other men the counters of an unknown coinage. To them they seem merely so much brass or copper or tarnished silver at the best. At other times the beauty of the thought was obscured by careless writing as though he had suddenly doubted if writing was not a foolish labour. He had frequently illustrated his verses with drawings, in which an unperfect anatomy did not altogether hide extreme beauty of feeling. The faeries in whom he believes have given him many subjects, notably Thomas of Ercildoune sitting motionless in the twilight while a young and beautiful creature leans softly out of the shadow and whispers in his ear. He had delighted above all in strong effects of colour: spirits who have upon their heads instead of hair the feathers of peacocks; a phantom reaching from a swirl of flame towards a star; a spirit passing with a globe of iridescent crystal–symbol of the soul–half shut within his hand. But always under this largess of colour lay some tender homily addressed to man’s fragile hopes. This spiritual eagerness draws to him all those who, like himself, seek for illumination or else mourn for a joy that has gone. One of these especially comes to mind. A winter or two ago he spent much of the night walking up and down upon the mountain talking to an old peasant who, dumb to most men, poured out his cares for him. Both were unhappy: X—– because he had then first decided that art and poetry were not for him, and the old peasant because his life was ebbing out with no achievement remaining and no hope left him. Both how Celtic! how full of striving after a something never to be completely expressed in word or deed. The peasant was wandering in his mind with prolonged sorrow. Once he burst out with ‘God possesses the heavens–God possesses the heavens–but He covets the world’; and once he lamented that his old neighbours were gone, and that all had forgotten him: they used to draw a chair to the fire for him in every cabin, and now they said, ‘Who is that old fellow there?’ ‘The fret’ [Irish for doom] ‘is over me,’ he repeated, and then went on to talk once more of God and heaven. More than once also he said, waving his arm towards the mountain, ‘Only myself knows what happened under the thorn-tree forty years ago’; and as he said it the tears upon his face glistened in the moonlight.

This old man always rises before me when I think of X—–. Both seek–one in wandering sentences, the other in symbolic pictures and subtle allegoric poetry–to express a something that lies beyond the range of expression; and both, if X—– will forgive me, have within them the vast and vague extravagance that lies at the bottom of the Celtic heart. The peasant visionaries that are, the landlord duelists that were, and the whole hurly-burly of legends–Cuchulain fighting the sea for two days until the waves pass over him and he dies, Caolte storming the palace of the gods, Oisin seeking in vain for three hundred years to appease his insatiable heart with all the pleasures of faeryland, these two mystics walking up and down upon the mountains uttering the central dreams of their souls in no less dream-laden sentences,and this mind that finds them so interesting–all are a portion of that great Celtic phantasmagoria whose meaning no man has discovered, nor any angel revealed.

Footnotes

15:1 I wrote this sentence long ago. This sadness now seems to me a part of all peoples who preserve the moods of the ancient peoples of the world. I am not so pre-occupied with the mystery of Race as I used to be, but leave this sentence and other sentences like it unchanged. We once believed them, and have, it may be, not grown wiser.

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From Ireland: The Black Thief and Knight of the Glen

In times of yore there was a King and a Queen in the south of Ireland who had three sons, all beautiful children; but the Queen, their mother, sickened unto death when they were yet very young, which caused great grief throughout the Court, particularly to the King, her husband, who could in no wise be comforted. Seeing that death was drawing near her, she called the King to her and spoke as follows:

`I am now going to leave you, and as you are young and in your prime, of course after my death you will marry again. Now all the request I ask of you is that you will build a tower in an island in the sea, wherein you will keep your three sons until they are come of age and fit to do for themselves; so that they may not be under the power or jurisdiction of any other woman. Neglect not to give them education suitable to their birth, and let them be trained up to every exercise and pastime requisite for king’s sons to learn. This is all I have to say, so farewell.’

The King had scarce time, with tears in his eyes, to assure her she should be obeyed in everything, when she, turning herself in her bed, with a smile gave up the ghost. Never was greater mourning seen than was throughout the Court and the whole kingdom; for a better woman than the Queen, to rich and poor, was not to be found in the world. She was interred with great pomp and magnificence, and the King, her husband, became in a manner inconsolable for the loss of her. However, he caused the tower to be built and his sons placed in it, under proper guardians, according to his promise.

In process of time the lords and knights of the kingdom counselled the King (as he was young) to live no longer as he had done, but to take a wife; which counsel prevailing, they chose him a rich and beautiful princess to be his consort–a neighbouring King’s daughter, of whom he was very fond. Not long after, the Queen had a fine son, which caused great feasting and rejoicing at the Court, insomuch that the late Queen, in a manner, was entirely forgotten. That fared well, and King and Queen lived happy together for several years.

At length the Queen, having some business with the hen-wife, went herself to her, and, after a long conference passed, was taking leave of her, when the hen-wife prayed that if ever she should come back to her again she might break her neck. The Queen, greatly incensed at such a daring insult from one of her meanest subjects, demanded immediately the reason, or she would have her put to death.

`It was worth your while, madam,’ says the hen-wife, `to pay me well for it, for the reason I prayed so on you concerns you much.’

`What must I pay you?’ asked the Queen.

`You must give me,’ says she, `the full of a pack of wool, and I have an ancient crock which you must fill with butter, likewise a barrel which you must fill for me full of wheat.’

`How much wool will it take to the pack?’ says the Queen.

`It will take seven herds of sheep,’ said she, `and their increase for seven years.’

`How much butter will it take to fill your crock?’

`Seven dairies,’ said she, `and their increase for seven years.’

`And how much will it take to fill the barrel you have?’ says the Queen.

`It will take the increase of seven barrels of wheat for seven years.’

`That is a great quantity,’ says the Queen; `but the reason must be extraordinary, and before I want it, I will give you all you demand.’

`Well,’ says the hen-wife, `it is because you are so stupid that you don’t observe or find out those affairs that are so dangerous and hurtful to yourself and your child.’

`What is that?’ says the Queen.

`Why,’ says she, `the King your husband has three fine sons he had by the late Queen, whom he keeps shut up in a tower until they come of age, intending to divide the kingdom between them, and let your son push his fortune; now, if you don’t find some means of destroying them; your child and perhaps yourself will be left desolate in the end.’

`And what would you advise me to do?’ said she; `I am wholly at a loss in what manner to act in this affair.’

`You must make known to the King,’ says the hen-wife, `that you heard of his sons, and wonder greatly that he concealed them all this time from you; tell him you wish to see them, and that it is full time for them to be liberated, and that you would be desirous he would bring them to the Court. The King will then do so, and there will be a great feast prepared on that account, and also diversions of every sort to amuse the people; and in these sports,’ said she, `ask the King’s sons to play a game at cards with you, which they will not refuse. Now,’ says the hen-wife, `you must make a bargain, that if you win they must do whatever you command them, and if they win, that you must do whatever they command you to do; this bargain must be made before the assembly, and here is a pack of cards,’ says she, `that I am thinking you will not lose by.’

The Queen immediately took the cards, and, after returning the hen-wife thanks for her kind instruction, went back to the palace, where she was quite uneasy until she got speaking to the King in regard of his children; at last she broke it off to him in a very polite and engaging manner, so that he could see no muster or design in it. He readily consented to her desire, and his sons were sent for to the tower, who gladly came to Court, rejoicing that they were freed from such confinement. They were all very handsome, and very expert in all arts and exercises, so that they gained the love and esteem of all that had seen them.

The Queen, more jealous with them than ever, thought it an age until all the feasting and rejoicing was over, that she might get making her proposal, depending greatly on the power of the hen- wife’s cards. At length this royal assembly began to sport and play at all kinds of diversions, and the Queen very cunningly challenged the three Princes to play at cards with her, making bargain with them as she had been instructed.

They accepted the challenge, and the eldest son and she played the first game, which she won; then the second son played, and she won that game likewise; the third son and she then played the last game, and he won it, which sorely grieved her that she had not him in her power as well as the rest, being by far the handsomest and most beloved of the three.

However, everyone was anxious to hear the Queen’s commands in regard to the two Princes, not thinking that she had any ill design in her head against them. Whether it was the hen-wife instructed her, or whether it was from her own knowledge, I cannot tell; but she gave out they must go and bring her the Knight of the Glen’s wild Steed of Bells, or they should lose their heads.

The young Princes were not in the least concerned, not knowing what they had to do; but the whole Court was amazed at her demand, knowing very well that it was impossible for them ever to get the steed, as all that ever sought him perished in the attempt. However, they could not retract the bargain, and the youngest Prince was desired to tell what demand he had on the Queen, as he had won his game.

`My brothers,’ says he, `are now going to travel, and, as I understand, a perilous journey wherein they know not what road to take or what may happen them. I am resolved, therefore, not to stay here, but to go with them, let what will betide; and I request and command, according to my bargain, that the Queen shall stand on the highest tower of the palace until we come back (or find out that we are certainly dead), with nothing but sheaf corn for her food and cold water for her drink, if it should be for seven years and longer.’

All things being now fixed, the three princes departed the Court in search of the Knight of the Glen’s palace, and travelling along the road they came up with a man who was a little lame, and seemed to be somewhat advanced in years; they soon fell into discourse, and the youngest of the princes asked the stranger his name, or what was the reason he wore so remarkable a black cap as he saw on him.

`I am called,’ said he, `the Thief of Sloan, and sometimes the Black Thief from my cap; `and so telling the prince the most of his adventures, he asked him again where they were bound for, or what they were about.

The prince, willing to gratify his request, told him their affairs from the beginning to the end. `And now,’ said he, `we are travelling, and do not know whether we are on the right road or not.’

`Ah! my brave fellows,’ says the Black Thief, `you little know the danger you run. I am after that steed myself these seven years, and can never steal him on account of a silk covering he has on him in the stable, with sixty bells fixed to it, and whenever you approach the place he quickly observes it and shakes himself; which, by the sound of the bells, not only alarms the prince and his guards, but the whole country round, so that it is impossible ever to get him, and those that are so unfortunate as to be taken by the Knight of the Glen are boiled in a red-hot fiery furnace.’

`Bless me,’ says the young prince, `what will we do? If we return without the steed we will lose our heads, so I see we are ill fixed on both sides.’

`Well,’ says the Thief of Sloan, `if it were my case I would rather die by the Knight than by the wicked Queen; besides, I will go with you myself and show you the road, and whatever fortune you will have, I will take chance of the same.’

They returned him sincere thanks for his kindness, and he, being well acquainted with the road, in a short time brought them within view of the knight’s castle.

`Now,’ says he, `we must stay here till night comes; for I know all the ways of the place, and if there be any chance for it, it is when they are all at rest; for the steed is all the watch the knight keeps there.’

Accordingly, in the dead hour of the night, the King’s three sons and the Thief of Sloan attempted the Steed of Bells in order to carry him away, but before they could reach the stables the steed neighed most terribly and shook himself so, and the bells rung with such noise, that the knight and all his men were up in a moment.

The Black Thief and the King’s sons thought to make their escape, but they were suddenly surrounded by the knight’s guards and taken prisoners; where they were brought into that dismal part of the palace where the knight kept a furnace always boiling, in which he threw all offenders that ever came in his way, which in a few moments would entirely consume them.

`Audacious villains!’ says the Knight of the Glen, `how dare you attempt so bold an action as to steal my steed? See, now, the reward of your folly; for your greater punishment I will not boil you all together, but one after the other, so that he that survives may witness the dire afflictions of his unfortunate companions.’

So saying he ordered his servants to stir up the fire: `We will boil the eldest-looking of these young men first,’ said he, `and so on to the last, which will be this old champion with the black cap. He seems to be the captain, and looks as if he had come through many toils.’

`I was as near death once as the prince is yet,’ says the Black Thief, `and escaped; and so will he too.’

`No, you never were,’ said the knight; `for he is within two or three minutes of his latter end.’

`But,’ says the Black Thief, `I was within one moment of my death, and I am here yet.’

`How was that?’ says the knight; `I would be glad to hear it, for it seems impossible.’

`If you think, sir knight,’ says the Black Thief, `that the danger I was in surpasses that of this young man, will you pardon him his crime?’

`I will,’ says the knight, `so go on with your story.’

`I was, sir,’ says he, `a very wild boy in my youth, and came through many distresses; once in particular, as I was on my rambling, I was benighted and could find no lodging. At length I came to an old kiln, and being much fatigued I went up and lay on the ribs. I had not been long there when I saw three witches coming in with three bags of gold. Each put their bags of gold under their heads, as if to sleep. I heard one of them say to the other that if the Black Thief came on them while they slept, he would not leave them a penny. I found by their discourse that everybody had got my name into their mouth, though I kept silent as death during their discourse. At length they fell fast asleep, and then I stole softly down, and seeing some turf convenient, I placed one under each of their heads, and off I went, with their gold, as fast as I could.

`I had not gone far,’ continued the Thief of Sloan, `until I saw a grey- hound, a hare, and a hawk in pursuit of me, and began to think it must be the witches that had taken the shapes in order that I might not escape them unseen either by land or water. Seeing they did not appear in any formidable shape, I was more than once resolved to attack them, thinking that with my broad sword I could easily destroy them. But considering again that it was perhaps still in their power to become alive again, I gave over the attempt and climbed with difficulty up a tree, bringing my sword in my hand and all the gold along with me. However, when they came to the tree they found what I had done, and making further use of their hellish art, one of them was changed into a smith’s anvil and another into a piece of iron, of which the third soon made a hatchet. Having the hatchet made, she fell to cutting down the tree, and in the course of an hour it began to shake with me. At length it began to bend, and I found that one or two blows at the most would put it down. I then began to think that my death was inevitable, considering that those who were capable of doing so much would soon end my life; but just as she had the stroke drawn that would terminate my fate, the cock crew, and the witches disappeared, having resumed their natural shapes for fear of being known, and I got safe off with my bags of gold.

`Now, sir,’ says he to the Knight of the Glen, `if that be not as great an adventure as ever you heard, to be within one blow of a hatchet of my end, and that blow even drawn, and after all to escape, I leave it to yourself.’

`Well, I cannot say but it is very extraordinary,’ says the Knight of the Glen, `and on that account pardon this young man his crime; so stir up the fire, till I boil this second one.’

`Indeed,’ says the Black Thief, `I would fain think he would not die this time either.’

`How so?’ says the knight; `it is impossible for him to escape.’

`I escaped death more wonderfully myself,’ says the Thief of Sloan, `than if you had him ready to throw into the furnace, and I hope it will be the case with him likewise.’

`Why, have you been in another great danger?’ says the knight. `I would be glad to hear the story too, and if it be as wonderful as the last, I will pardon this young man as I did the other.’

`My way of living, sir,’ says the Black Thief, `was not good, as I told you before; and being at a certain time fairly run out of cash, and meeting with no enterprise worthy of notice, I was reduced to great straits. At length a rich bishop died in the neighbourhood I was then in, and I heard he was interred with a great deal of jewels and rich robes upon him, all which I intended in a short time to be master of. Accordingly that very night I set about it, and coming to the place, I understood he was placed at the further end of a long dark vault, which I slowly entered. I had not gone in far until I heard a foot coming towards me with a quick pace, and although naturally bold and daring, yet, thinking of the deceased bishop and the crime I was engaged in, I lost courage, and ran towards the entrance of the vault. I had retreated but a few paces when I observed, between me and the light, the figure of a tall black man standing in the entrance. Being in great fear and not knowing how to pass, I fired a pistol at him, and he immediately fell across the entrance. Perceiving he still retained the figure of a mortal man, I began to imagine that it could not be the bishop’s ghost; recovering myself therefore from the fear I was in, I ventured to the upper end of the vault, where I found a large bundle, and upon further examination I found that the corpse was already rifled, and that which I had taken to be a ghost was no more than one of his own clergy. I was then very sorry that I had the misfortune to kill him, but it then could not be helped. I took up the bundle that contained everything belonging to the corpse that was valuable, intending to take my departure from this melancholy abode; but just as I came to the mouth of the entrance I saw the guards of the place coming towards me, and distinctly heard them saying that they would look in the vault, for that the Black Thief would think little of robbing the corpse if he was anywhere in the place. I did not then know in what manner to act, for if I was seen I would surely lose my life, as everybody had a look-out at that time, and because there was no person bold enough to come in on me. I knew very well on the first sight of me that could be got, I would be shot like a dog. However, I had not time to lose. I took and raised up the man which I had killed, as if he was standing on his feet, and I, crouching behind him, bore him up as well as I could, so that the guards readily saw him as they came up to the vault. Seeing the man in black, one of the men cried that was the Black Thief, and, presenting his piece, fired at the man, at which I let him fall, and crept into a little dark corner myself, that was at the entrance of the place. When they saw the man fall, they ran all into the vault, and never stopped until they were at the end of it, for fear, as I thought, that there might be some others along with him that was killed. But while they were busy inspecting the corpse and the vault to see what they could miss, I slipped out, and, once away, and still away; but they never had the Black Thief in their power since.’

`Well, my brave fellow,’ says the Knight of the Glen, `I see you have come through many dangers: you have freed these two princes by your stories; but I am sorry myself that this young prince has to suffer for all. Now, if you could tell me something as wonderful as you have told already, I would pardon him likewise; I pity this youth and do not want to put him to death if I could help it.’

`That happens well,’ says the Thief of Sloan, `for I like him best myself, and have reserved the most curious passage for the last on his account.’

`Well, then,’ says the knight, `let us hear it.’

`I was one day on my travels,’ says the Black Thief, `and I came into a large forest, where I wandered a long time, and could not get out of it. At length I came to a large castle, and fatigue obliged me to call in the same, where I found a young woman and a child sitting on her knee, and she crying. I asked her what made her cry, and where the lord of the castle was, for I wondered greatly that I saw no stir of servants or any person about the place.

` “It is well for you,” says the young woman, “that the lord of this castle is not at home at present; for he is a monstrous giant, with but one eye on his forehead, who lives on human flesh. He brought me this child,” says she, “I do not know where he got it, and ordered me to make it into a pie, and I cannot help crying at the command.”

`I told her that if she knew of any place convenient that I could leave the child safely I would do it, rather than it should be killed by such a monster.

`She told me of a house a distance off where I would get a woman who would take care of it. “But what will I do in regard of the pie?”

` “Cut a finger off it,” said I, “and I will bring you in a young wild pig out of the forest, which you may dress as if it was the child, and put the finger in a certain place, that if the giant doubts anything about it you may know where to turn it over at the first, and when he sees it he will be fully satisfied that the pie is made of the child.”

`She agreed to the scheme I proposed, and, cutting off the child’s finger, by her direction I soon had it at the house she told me of, and brought her the little pig in the place of it. She then made ready the pie, and after eating and drinking heartily myself, I was just taking my leave of the young woman when we observed the giant coming through the castle gates.

` “Bless me,” said she, “what will you do now? Run away and lie down among the dead bodies that he has in the room (showing me the place), and strip off your clothes that he may not know you from the rest if he has occasion to go that way.”

`I took her advice, and laid myself down among the rest, as if dead, to see how he would behave. The first thing I heard was him calling for his pie. When she set it down before him he swore it smelled like swine’s flesh, but knowing where to find the finger, she immediately turned it up, which fairly convinced him of the contrary. The pie only served to sharpen his appetite, and I heard him sharpening his knife and saying he must have a collop or two, for he was not near satisfied. But what was my terror when I heard the giant groping among the bodies, and, fancying myself, cut the half of my hip off, and took it with him to be roasted. You may be certain I was in great pain, but the fear of being killed prevented me from making any complaint. However, when he had eaten all he began to drink hot liquors in great abundance, so that in a short time he could not hold up his head, but threw himself on a large creel he had made for the purpose, and fell fast asleep. When I heard him snoring, as I was I went up and caused the woman to bind my wound with a handkerchief; and, taking the giant’s spit, reddened it in the fire, and ran it through the eye, but was not able to kill him.

`However, I left the spit sticking in his head, and took to my heels; but I soon found he was in pursuit of me, although blind; and having an enchanted ring he threw it at me, and it fell on my big toe and remained fastened to it.

`The giant then called to the ring, where it was, and to my great surprise it made him answer on my foot; and he, guided by the same, made a leap at me which I had the good luck to observe, and fortunately escaped the danger. However, I found running was of no use in saving me, as long as I had the ring on my foot; so I took my sword and cut off the toe it was fastened on, and threw both into a large fish-pond that was convenient. The giant called again to the ring, which by the power of enchantment always made him answer; but he, not knowing what I had done, imagined it was still on some part of me, and made a violent leap to seize me, when he went into the pond, over head and ears, and was drowned. Now, sir knight,’ says the Thief of Sloan, `you see what dangers I came through and always escaped; but, indeed, I am lame for the want of my toe ever since.’

`My lord and master,’ says an old woman that was listening all the time, `that story is but too true, as I well know, for I am the very woman that was in the giant’s castle, and you, my lord, the child that I was to make into a pie; and this is the very man that saved your life, which you may know by the want of your finger that was taken off, as you have heard, to deceive the giant.’

The Knight of the Glen, greatly surprised at what he had heard the old woman tell, and knowing he wanted his finger from his childhood, began to understand that the story was true enough.

`And is this my deliverer?’ says he. `O brave fellow, I not only pardon you all, but will keep you with myself while you live, where you shall feast like princes, and have every attendance that I have myself.’

They all returned thanks on their knees, and the Black Thief told him the reason they attempted to steal the Steed of Bells, and the necessity they were under in going home.

`Well,’ says the Knight of the Glen, `if that’s the case I bestow you my steed rather than this brave fellow should die; so you may go when you please, only remember to call and see me betimes, that we may know each other well.’

They promised they would, and with great joy they set off for the King their father’s palace, and the Black Thief along with them.

The wicked Queen was standing all this time on the tower, and, hearing the bells ringing at a great distance off, knew very well it was the princes coming home, and the steed with them, and through spite and vexation precipitated herself from the tower and was shattered to pieces.

The three princes lived happy and well during their father’s reign, and always keeping the Black Thief along with them; but how they did after the old King’s death is not known.

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Poetry: Revisiting W.B. Yeats

INTO THE TWILIGHT

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn,

Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;

Laugh, heart, again in the gray twilight;

Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.

Thy mother Eire is always young,

Dew ever shining and twilight gray,

Though hope fall from thee or love decay

Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.

Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill,

For there the mystical brotherhood

Of hollow wood and the hilly wood

And the changing moon work out their will.

And God stands winding his lonely horn;

And Time and World are ever in flight,

And love is less kind than the gray twilight,

And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

THE VALLEY OF THE BLACK PIG

The dews drop slowly and dreams gather: unknown spears

Suddenly hurtle before my dream-awakened eyes,

And then the clash of fallen horsemen and the cries

Of unknown perishing armies beat about my ears.

We who still labour by the cromlec on the shore,

The grey cairn on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew,

Being weary of the world’s empires, bow down to you,

Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.

THE POET PLEADS WITH THE ELEMENTAL POWERS

The Powers whose name and shape no living creature knows

Have pulled the Immortal Rose;

And though the Seven Lights bowed in their dance and wept,

The Polar Dragon slept,

His heavy rings uncoiled from glimmering deep to deep:

When will he wake from sleep?

Great Powers of falling wave and wind and windy fire,

With your harmonious choir

Encircle her I love and sing her into peace,

That my old care may cease;

Unfold your flaming wings and cover out of sight

The nets of day and night. p. 43

Dim Powers of drowsy thought, let her no longer be

Like the pale cup of the sea,

When winds have gathered and sun and moon burned dim

Above its cloudy rim;

But let a gentle silence wrought with music flow

Whither her footsteps go.

UNDER THE MOON

I HAVE no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde,

Nor Avalon the grass-green hollow, nor Joyous Isle,

Where one found Lancelot crazed and hid him for a while;

Nor Ulad, when Naoise had thrown a sail upon the wind;

Nor lands that seem too dim to be burdens on the heart:

Land-under-Wave, where out of the moon’s light and the sun’s

Seven old sisters wind the threads of the long-lived ones,

Land-of-the-Tower, where Aengus has thrown the gates apart,

And Wood-of-Wonders, where one kills an ox at dawn,

To find it when night falls laid on a golden bier.

Therein are many queens like Branwen and Guinivere;

And Niamh and Laban and Fand, who could change to an otter or fawn, p. 84

And the wood-woman, whose lover was changed to a blue-eyed hawk;

And whether I go in my dreams by woodland, or dun, or shore,

Or on the unpeopled waves with kings to pull at the oar,

I hear the harp-string praise them, or hear their mournful talk.

Because of something told under the famished horn

Of the hunter’s moon, that hung between the night and the day,

To dream of women whose beauty was folded in dismay,

Even in an old story, is a burden not to be borne.

The Thursday Feast…

Special Plates

Notice how each particle moves.

Notice how everyone has just arrived here

from a journey.

Notice how each wants a different food.

Notice how the stars vanish as the sun comes up,

and how all streams stream toward the ocean.

Look at the chefs preparing special plates

for everyone, according to what they need.

Look at this cup that can hold the ocean.

Look at those who see the face.

Look through Shams’ eyes

into the Water that is

entirely jewels.”

Rumi

Ah… welcome to the Thursday Feast. The plates are heaping today, with Poetry, Art, Parable and Myth.

So sit you down, take your place and tuck in Gentle Reader. I lay it all out before you now… There is enough here for all, and maybe a treasure concealed within….

On The Feasting Board:

The Links

From Victoria: Fredo Viola

Mulla Nasruddin & The Mirror

Sky Gods and Earth Deities – Ralph Metzner

The Hunter and the Bird

Three Poems of Hazret-i Uftade

Two Poems from Rumi

Art: The Neo Classical Parade….

Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

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The Links:

Embraced by many religions, ‘Labyrinth’ allows broad discussion of faith issues

First-Ever Dwelling Mound Found in Germany

LI teacher sues, claiming she was falsely accused of being witch

New priest for old faith

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On suggestion from Victoria… Fredo Viola

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Mulla Nasruddin got so drunk that there was a fight with another drunkard, and he had wounds and scratches all over his face.

He came home in the middle of the night, looked into the mirror and thought, “Now, tomorrow morning is going to be difficult!” How is he going to hide these wounds and these scratches? His wife is bound to know and she will say, “You got drunk again and you have been fighting again!” How to hide it?

A great idea occurred to him. He searched in the medicine chest, found some ointment. He put it on his wounds and scratches, was very happy, pleased with himself that by morning things would not be so bad… and went to sleep.

Early in the morning when he was still in bed, his wife shouted from the bathroom, “Who has put ointment on the mirror?”

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Sky Gods and Earth Deities

Ralph Metzner

One very significant and very ancient source of the split between humans and nature in the Western world came with the transition from earth goddess to sky god religions and the concomitant institution of patrirarchy. Very different and conflicting stories began to be told, reflecting a more distanced, fearful and aggressive relationship between humans and nature, and between humans and gods. In this essay, I discuss the conflict-laden mythic legacy resulting from these profound cultural upheavals. 1

About 6000 years ago the first wave of Indo-European Kurgan tribes began to migrate out of their presumed homeland in South-Central Asia. Backed by the power and mobility of horses and wheeled chariots, these people (previously known also as Aryans) invaded and conquered the relatively peaceful agrarian Earth Goddess cultures of Old Europe, as well as Anatolia, Iran and India. Over the course of the next two to three millenia these nomadic pastoralists imposed an entirely new set of ideologies and values that have been at the foundation of the Western worldview ever since. For the matrilineal, matricentric order of the Neolithic village, they substituted a patrilineal and patriarchal system that became the norm in the Bronze Age, Iron Age and all subsequent ages up to the present. A pantheon of sky and warrior gods was superimposed on the earth and nature divinities of the original inhabitants of Old Europe, resulting in what Marija Gimbutas has called “hybrid mythologies.” A similar transition from goddess-centered religions to the cults of male law-giver gods, also reflected in radically transformed mythologies, occurred in the Semitic cultures of Mesopotamia, Egypt and the Eastern Mediterranean.

The pervasiveness of the Indo-European language family and the associated parallels in religion, worldview and mythology have been known since the 19th century, when scholars first thought of Sanskrit as the mother tongue of Indo-European languages. Numerous parallels were found to exist between words and names, such as that for the ruling deity, the “Lord of the Shining Sky”: Sanskrit Dyaus and Deva, Baltic Dievas, Old Germanic Tiwaz or Ziu, Greek Zeus and Latin Deus. Although some earlier scholars, such as Bachofen, had described an archaic period of Mutterrecht, there was only fragmentary knowledge about the pre-Indo-European cultures and much was misunderstood. What we now understand as undercurrents of Old European religion, persisting beneath the Indo-European overlay, went unrecognized and were typically characterized as “mysterious”, “obscure”, “very old”, “minor deities”, or even as “an older generation of gods”.

However, persistent residues of the Old European religion and culture do indeed exist and are identifiable in myths, symbols, folklore and ritual practices. Thanks in large measure to the work of Marija Gimbutas, the symbolic language and mythic imagery of these most ancient cultures have been re-discovered and fully described in the second half of the 20th century. As Gimbutas writes, in the concluding section of The Civilization of the Goddess, “The functions and images of Old European and Indo-European deities, beliefs in an afterlife, and the entirely different sets of symbols prove the existence of two contrasting religions and mythologies. Their collision in Europe resulted in the hybridization of two symbolic structures in which the Indo-European prevailed while the Old European survived as an undercurrent.”2 During the hundreds, even thousands of years of cultural interaction there was undoubtedly not only conquest, assimilation and superimposition of an alien religion, but also intermarriage of peoples, a blending and combining of religious and mythic images. Gimbutas’ concept of hybrid mythologies provides a kind of corrective lens with which many previously obscure and incomprehensible features of European mythology can be understood.

In a similar vein, the poet-mythologist Robert Graves, in his book Greek Myths, first published in 1955, wrote that “In the Hellenic invasions of the early second millenium BC… small armed bands of herdsmen, worshipping the Aryan trinity of gods — Indra, Mitra, and Varuna — attached themselves peacefully enough to the pre-Hellenic settlements in Thessaly and Central Greece…Thus a male military aristocracy became reconciled to female theocracy, not only in Greece, but in Crete, where the Hellenes … exported Cretan civilization to Athens and the Peloponnese.”3 The ancient nature-goddess cults were appropriated and twisted for ideological purposes. Hera, one of the forms of the ancient Great Goddess, whose cult was overrun, almost certainly with much resistance by her worshippers, is ridiculed in Greek myths as the complaining wife of a robust, adulterous father-god. Athena, a form of the ancient life-giving bird-goddess, is transformed into a cool warrior strategist, born fully armed out of her father Zeus’ head — thus eliminating any traces of her true origin and status, turning her into a “brain-child” of the father-god.

The invading Hellenes’ take-over of the pre-existing matricentric goddess cults is vividly portrayed in .he well-known stories of the Olympian gods, including Zeus and Apollo, with their seduction (more accurately called rape) of local goddesses, nymphs and nature spirits, as well as human women, priestesses of the Goddess. One example is the substition of the solar god Apollo for the earth goddess Gaia as the protector deity of the cave oracle at Delphi. Another is found in the story of the Cretan princess Europa, after whom the continent is named: Zeus changed himself into a gorgeous bull, whom she trustingly rode, not knowing of his intent, in order to seduce her. According to Graves, this myth reflects the Olympian’s take-over of the Minoan sacred bull-cult, in which the priestesses rode on the bull in processions, and danced with the bull in the games. A third well-known example is the abduction rape of Persephone, daughter of the Cretan Earth-goddess Demeter, by Hades, ruler of the Underworld, brother of Zeus, with the latter’s complicity.

Some Greek gods and goddesses, however, were not Olympians. They clearly belong to the older stratum of Earth- and Goddess-centered religion. Pan, the horned, goat-bodied god of wild and domesticated animals, was invoked by lusty country people in orgiastic celebrations. Robert Graves suggests that the satyrs, portrayed as goat-bodied with rampant phallus, were goat-totem tribesmen whose chosen god was Pan. To the Christians, with their life-negating attitudes, he was the chosen embodiment of the horned and hooved devil. Around the time of Christian beginnings a legend arose that sailors on a ship in the Eastern Mediterranean had heard a supernatural voice proclaim “Great Pan is dead”. But in the underground pagan traditions of witchcraft and folklore Pan survived: he became the Lord of Animals, the Wildman covered with hair, who represented our connection with the non-human natural world, particularly animals. His feminine counterpart was the Lady of the Beasts, whom the Greeks knew as Artemis and the Romans as Diana, the protectress of witches. In the Celtic world Pan resembles Cernunnos, the shaman-god with deer-antlers, holding a snake and surrounded by animals.

Another non-Olympian, the androgynous Dionysus, was an ancient vegetation deity, originally from Asia, who spread the wine-cult throughout the Mediterranean area. The Hellenic Greeks coopted his cult, among others, by inventing a fantastic story of Zeus carrying and birthing him from his thigh. He was the god of intoxication and ecstatic transcendence, and to deny his power was to risk madness. His cult followers were primarily women, who found in his annual rites temporary escape from domination by their men. These maenads, and accompanying satyrs, processed and danced through the night woods in his honor, singing and shrieking in wild abandon, provoked perhaps by the ingestion of wine with hallucinogenic mushrooms. In the later classical period, the Dionysus cult was adopted and adapted into the Orphic mysteries of death and rebirth, where Dionysus symbolized the immortal soul, transcending death.4 In the European Middle Ages, Dionysus the vegetation god reincarnates as the leaf-masked Green Man of foklore, whose mysterious visage graces many Gothic churches.5

In Egyptian mythology, the parallel to Dionysus was Osiris, the green-skinned god of vegetation and regeneration, whose repeated deaths, followed by resurrections with the aid of his sister-consort Isis, symbolize the recurring cycles of death and renewal in vegetative life. The conflict between Osiris and his violent and envious brother Seth reflects the ongoing clash and competition between the matricentric farming cultures along the Nile and the marauding bands of herder-warriors who lived in the harsh, arid conditions of the peripheral desert regions. On a more cosmic level, the struggle between Osiris and Seth became a metaphor for the general polarity between generation and destruction, or good and evil. The Greek mythographer Plutarch, wrote that “they (the Egyptians) give the name of Osiris to the whole source and faculty creative of moisture, believing this to be the cause of generation and the substance of life-producing seed; and the name Seth (or Typhon) they give to all that is dry, fiery, and arid, in general antagonistic to moisture.” 6

In India, one can see marked similarities and mythic parallels between Dionysus and Siva. Alain Daniélou has argued that Siva was actually the phallic vegetation god of the pre-Aryan Dravidians of India, who was coopted by the Brahmins and turned into the ascetic god of yogis, as well as the Lord of the Dance (Nataraja), who dances the universe into being.7 Thousands of shrines containing the lingam-yoni (phallus-vulva) stone carving are found all over India, testifying to his androgynous erotic potency and the disguised persistence of the old fertility cults. During the Tantric revival, in the first few centuries of the common era, there was a resurgence of Shakti (Goddess) worship, and sensual-sexual experience in the context of sacramental ritual was acknowledged as a path to spiritual realization. Siva and Shakti in ecstatic embrace became the guiding images of Tantric yogis. They embody the reconciliation and mutuality of male and female energies, and the healing of the dissociative split common in the patriarchal and ascetic traditions.

Among the Semitic peoples of ancient Mesopotamia the thousand-year long transition from a matricentric Goddess-oriented culture to patriarchal culture is reflected in the transformations between Sumerian and Babylonian religious mythology. In Sumerian religion, Inanna is Queen of Heaven and Earth Goddess, whose temples contain the granaries, and whose priestesses express their devotion to the Goddess through sacred sexual rites. Inanna’s son-lover Dumuzi, the shepherd king, is sacrificed each year to ensure the continued fertility of the land, and reborn each year with the renewal of springtime vegetation. In Babylonian mythology, the solar warrior-god Marduk, is the leader of a rebellion against the power of the older Creatrix Mother, personified in the form of a great female dragon, Tiamat, whom Marduk slays. He first splits her in half like an oyster, the two halves becoming the sky and the sea; then comes the rest of creation — the planets, the seasons, plants, animals and humans. Eventually, in a kind of compromise or accomodation with the older religion, the Babylonians established a male-dominated family or council of gods with their consorts and children, much like the Vedic pantheon in India, the Greek Olympian family and the Nordic-Germanic family of Aesir gods.

In the Babylonian Gilgamesh epic, the oldest written literature in the Western world, the two mythic-religious strands are closely interwoven. The epic opens with an ironic paean of praise to the semi-divine hero-king Gilgamesh, builder and ruler of Uruk, who is so arrogant and tyrannical that the people of the city complain to their gods, begging them to intervene. The gods then turn to the older Creatrix Mother Goddess Aruru, asking her to create a counterpart to Gilgamesh, one who can match his strength and contain his overbearing arrogance. The Goddess does so and Enkidu is born, who is a Wildman, covered with hair and living with the animals. Enkidu is seduced by a priestess of the goddess Ishtar, using her erotic arts. He abandons the wild life-style of running and hunting with animals and goes to the city to meet Gilgamesh. The two men first fight and then become best friends, performing numerous heroic deeds and adventures. Enkidu the Wildman is more in touch nature: he inteprets certain dreams of Gilgamesh as warnings against abusing and disrespecting the divinities of nature.

Various aspects of the conflicting and blending layers of religious ideology are suggested in this complex and beautiful tale. There is the domination and tyranny of the warrior-hero, as experienced no doubt by the adherents to the older religion. There is resistance on the part of the original people and their Goddess religion, as they ask for help from the creator deities. The original civilizing role of the feminine is acknowledged, as the wildman is domesticated into urban life by the priestess of the Goddess. In the background of the story is the transition from the hunting-gathering “wild” state, to life in the farming villages and towns of the Neolithic, with their temples, priesthoods and warrior-kings.8

In the religious mythology of the Nordic-Germanic people, there is fascinating evidence for the interaction between the Indo-European Kurgan invaders and the Old European cultures. We find this in the myths of the prolonged warfare and eventual peacemaking between two families of deities, the Aesir and the Vanir. The clashing and hybridizing of religions and worldviews between Indo-Europeans and Old Europeans is clearly discernible here, even although the later Indo-European layer is obviously dominant. In that sense Nordic-Germanic mythology serves as an example of a pattern of cultural transformation that occurred all over Europe, and the Near East, over the course of many centuries.9

The Aesir are primarily sky- and warrior-gods, including Odin, Tiwaz or Tyr, and Thor the Thunderer. On the other hand, the Vanir, including Nerthus, Njörd and the brother-sister pair Freyr and Freyja, are primarily earth- and nature-deities. Archaeological evidence in the form of carved inscriptions and images on stelae or ornaments, indicates that both the Aesir and Vanir deities were worshipped at particular sites. They are portrayed in the myths as two different families or clans of divinities who are often at odds and even at war. Presumably this reflects the conflict, drawn out over many centuries, between the invading Indo-Germanic tribes from the East and the aboriginal populations of Old Europe who resisted the attempted assimilation. It seems probable that after the Indo-Germanic people had settled in Central Europe, the Vanir continued to be the gods of the farmers and fishermen, while the Aesir were worshipped by the military aristocracy, who had appropriated the land and established their domination.

Several earlier scholars had proposed that the myth of the war between Aesir and Vanir reflects the actual historical conflict, in the 2nd millenium BCE, between the indigenous “Megalith culture” of Southern Scandinavia and Western Europe, whose gods were the Vanir, and the invading Indo-Aryan “Battleax culture”, whose gods were the Aesir.10 The views of the French mythologist Georges Dumézil, who identified a tripartite model of divine and human functions in Indo-European cultures, are often cited as countering this view. Dumézil says that the Aesir-Vanir war myth refers to conflict between two different social classes within Indo-European society, the warriors and the farmers. But this is not really inconsistent with the Indo-European invasion theory. On the contrary, it affirms that the Germanic story fits the pattern of Indo-European conquest and subsequent assimilation of the Old European cultures.As Mircea Eliade, the eminent historian of religion, has written,

the invasions of the territories inhabited by the Neolithic agricultural populations, the conquest of the autochthons by militarily superior invaders, followed by a symbiosis between these two different types of societies, or even two different ethnic groups, are facts documented by archaeology; indeed they constitute a characteristic phenomenon of European protohistory, continued, in certain regions, down to the Middle Ages. But the mythological theme of the war between the Aesir and the Vanir precedes the process of Germanization, for it is an integral part of the Indo-European tradition. In all probability, the myth served as the model and the justification for a number of local wars, ended by a reconciliation of the adversaries and their integration into a common society.11

The only term I would question here is “symbiosis”, since this refers to a mutually supportive relationship between two different species. The more appropriate ecological metaphor for the Indo-European takeover would seem to be “parasitism”, in that the interests of the host (the agricultural societies of Old Europe) were subordinated to the interests of the parasite invaders (the Indo-Germanic pastoral warrior societies), at least at first. In time, of course, accomodation must have occurred as well as assimilation, so that a coherent social order developed, with hierarchically organized castes or classes. Hybrid myths were created, with their associated artistic and ritual forms, expressing the strengths and values of both cultures. I like to imagine the situation as analogous to a palimpsest, with the deeper, older strata of religious imagery detectable in fragments, through the dominant, later overlay.

When we look at classical mythology, both of the Mediterranean areas and of Northern Europe, there are three mythic complexes that clearly reflect this clashing of cultures and blending of mythologies. There is a group of myths that justify invasion and domination, the self-justifying stories of the Indo-European or other pastoralist invaders. There is a second group of myths of resistance and retaliation, in which the popular resistance to the Aryan take-over is expressed, what one might also call “the revenge of the goddess”. And thirdly, there is a group of myths of compromise and reconciliation, which express the harmonizing and accomodation that presumably was reached by the people who had found a way to reconcile their differences.

Myths Justifying Invasion and Domination

There is a central myth found in many Indo-European societies, including Indians, Iranians, Greeks, Romans, Celts, Germans and Hittites, of a divinely justified cattle-raid. Besides the horse, the most revered animal for the Indo-Europeans was the cow. There is, for example, a Nordic-Germanic creation myth in which the first proto-human giants were licked out of salty ice-blocks by the primal cow Audhumla, whose milk then also nourished them. The cow also features prominently in Vedic mythology, and is revered in India to this day. Among Indo-Europeans and other pastoralists, cattle have always been the measure of a man’s wealth. In the cattle-raiding mythic complex, there is a hero figure (such as the Greek Heracles, the Celtic Cuchulainn) who loses his cattle to a monster, generally associated with the local non-Indo-Europeans. The hero then re-captures the cattle, sometimes with the help of a warrior god. According to historian J.P. Malory, the evidence “suggests that this cattle-raiding myth served as a charter which both helped to define the role of the warrior in Indo-European society (the proper activity of the warrior was cattle raiding), and sanctioned Aryan cattle raiding against foreigners.” It seems clear that the Kurgans and other Indo-Europeans typically indulged in cattle stealing as a way of augmenting their herds and wealth, and that this activity became so central to them, that religious myths grew up to justify and rationalize it.12

In the Semitic world, the Biblical story of Cain and Abel can also be read as a reflection and justification of the pastoralist take-over and expulsion of the indigenous farmers. Biblical commentators tend to gloss over God’s unexplained unfairness toward Cain: Yahweh favors the offerings of Abel the sheepherder, and rejects the offerings of Cain the farmer. The high moral drama of fratricide, guilt and divine punishment obscures the underlying message. The farmer is cast in the role of villain, and the “keeper of sheep” is the innocent victim — a neat reversal of the historical facts, since it was the Hebrew herders who invaded and conquered the Canaanite farmers. God curses Cain and punishes him by driving him out of his lands: “a fugitive and a wanderer shall you be on the earth.” (Gen. 4: 11-12) The invading herders expropriate the land, driving off the indigenous farmers and then tell a story that God ordained this fate as punishment for the farmers.

In the Bible, this is actually Yahweh’s second curse against humans and the earth. After Adam and Eve’s transgression, which consisted of eating a forbidden fruit, Yahweh, in a fit of vituperation curses the serpent, the woman, the man and the earth. He curses the serpent “above all cattle and beasts of the field”, by condemning it to crawl on the ground. He curses the woman by “greatly multiplying the pain” of pregnancy and birth, and making her dependent on and subordinate to the man. He punishes Adam for listening to his wife; and he curses the earth: “Cursed is the ground for your sake; in sorrow shall you eat the fruits of it all the days of your life; thorns and thistles shall it bring forth, and you shall eat the herb of the field; in the sweat of your face shall you eat bread, until you return to the ground; out of it you were taken; for dust you are, and to dust shall you return.”(Gen. 3, 14-19)

Perhaps these maledictions expresses the envious resentment that the desert nomads must have felt toward the lifestyle of comparative ease and pleasure they found in the Fertile Crescent. The text condemns and denigrates farming and a fruit-vegetable diet. But the implied message goes further: natural, biological processes — the serpent’s closeness to the ground, the human woman’s labor of childbirth — are categorized as divine punishment. In a larger sense, the curse of Yahweh sets a fateful tone for the direction of Western civilization. From the beginnings of the patriarchal, Judaeo-Christian monotheistic take-over, man’s (Adam’s) relationship to the Earth does seem to have suffered from a curse of scarcity and antagonistism. In the 20th century we still seem to be suffering from the consequences of this antagonistic attitude, in the form of massive pollution and ecological destruction. Are we not still living with the consequences of Yahweh’s curse — a traumatic disconnection from the nourishing and regenerative energies of the Earth?

Several scholars, including Merlin Stone, Gerda Lerner, Elinor Gadon, John A. Phillips, Carol Ochs and others, have analyzed in depth how the Biblical myths justify the subordination of women in Judaism.13 Uniquely in the world’s creation mythologies, Yahweh creates the world and all its creatures out of his own head, by proclamation, without even the hint of any female participation. Eve, or Havah, whose name means “Mother of All Living”, clearly a form of the ancient Creator Earth Goddess, is reduced to mortal status. Turning the natural order upside down, the woman is brought out of the body of the man, and is blamed for the expulsion from the garden of abundance. The Levite priests and prophets cited in the Bible savagely attack the cult of the Canaanite Earth Goddess known as Astarte, Ashtoreth or Asherah, and encourage their followers to destroy Her shrines and groves. The ancient initiation ritual of the Goddess, in which eating the fruit of the tree and communing with the serpent provided divinatory insight, is also turned on its head: rewritten it becomes a story that prohibits participation in the old Goddess cult, justifies the inferior status of women, and places severe strictures and guilt on the female’s autonomy and expression of her sexuality.

Quite similar attacks on the character of the feminine, both human and divine, and on the old Earth Goddess religion, occurred in other Near Eastern cultures during the millenia of the patriarchal take-over. In the Sumero-Babylonian Gilgamesh myth, as already mentioned, the interweaving strands expressing conflicting ideologies can be clearly discerned. The goddess Ishtar is protrayed as fickle, petulant and vengeful. The warrior-hero Gilgamesh rejects the amorous proposition she makes to him and in a bitter tirade, accuses her of betraying, abandoning and even killing those who were her lovers before, including the lamented Tammuz. Ishtar, stung by the rejection, brings down the “Bull of Heaven”, a flooding tempest of destruction. These passages probably represent a the male hero’s complaint against the authority of the Goddess and her priestesses in the ancient cults, in which a king was first the chosen bridegroom and then replaced or sacrificed. Psychologically, it is analogous to the petulant projections of an adolescent male reacting to the uncertain affections of an autonomous female. The character of the Goddess is ridiculed and denigrated as promiscuous and faithless, thus providing apparent justification for the warrior-kings’ attacks and subjugation of the matricentric Goddess religion.

In Greek mythology, the story of the Athenian hero Theseus defeating the monstrous Minotaur, which was kept in a maze in Crete, can be read as a justifying myth for the Athenian (Dorian) invasion of Crete. The Greek historian Plutarch describes a raid on Knossos followed by a peace treaty, with the Greek king marrying the Cretan princess. According to the myth, the Minotaur was a bull-headed monster, who demanded periodic sacrifices of Athenian youths and maidens. Theseus entered the maze, slew the Minotaur, and found his way back out by means of a golden thread, given to him by the king’s daughter Ariadne, whom he married but did not take back to Athens. Minoan Crete revered the bull as an animal sacred to the Goddess, staged fertility dances in a maze and acrobatic games in which youths and maidens danced and leaped over bulls. So the myth portrays the Minoan religious ceremonies as perverted and monstrous, in the eyes of the Athenians, in order to justify the invasion and take-over.

In Nordic-Germanic mythology, as already mentioned, there is extensive treatment of the conflict between rival factions of deities, the Vanir and Aesir, representing the Old European and Indo-European cultures. The question naturally arises, who was seen as causing or originating this war? The story of the origins of this war is referred to in only a few tantalizingly brief and obscure passages, in an Edda poem called Völuspa, the “Visions of the Seeress”. The verses refer to a sorceress-goddess called Gullveig, one of the Vanir, whose appearance among the Aesir provokes them into trying to kill her — three times, unsuccessfully. The Vanir then fight back, and “this is how war came into the world,” we are told. Gullveig’s provocation is unexplained in this ancient song of the Edda. The story of the assault of the Indo-European warrior aristocracy against the Old European matricentric cultures is told with minimal justification.14

Myths of Resistance and Retaliation

We can surmise that there must have been a great deal of resistance to the Kurgan incursions into the cultures of Old Europe, as well as to the patriarchal take-over in the Near Eastern city-states. The cultural transformation took centuries, in some areas millenia, and it would be strange indeed it if there were no evidence in the mythological traditions of resistance and revenge. Indeed, the story of Gullveig and the war between Vanir and Aesir, referred to above, is a prime example. The ability of the Vanir gods to hold their own against the invading Aesir is also attested to by the continued presence (particularly in Sweden) of shrines to the Vanir, with figures and runic inscriptions, well into the era in which the Aesir cult was dominant.

There are two myths of peace-making attempts between the rival clans of deities, one that fails, and one that succeeds. At the first peace treaty, there is an exchange of emissaries between the two groups. The Aesir send the unknown god Hoenir and the giant Mimir to the Vanir as ambassadors. Mimir (whose name is related to Latin memor) is the guardian of the Well of Remembrance at the foot of the Tree of Worlds, the holder of ancestral and evolutionary memory. But the Vanir do not consider these two individuals a worthy exchange. To indicate their displeasure they decapitate Mimir, and send his head back to Odin. This tale has many intriguing aspects. It clearly shows the Vanir earth-religion holding its own against the Aesir sky-religion. The decapitation of Mimir, the memory holder, could be seen as a metaphor for the forgetting of evolutionary wisdom, consequent upon disrespect for the old nature divinities.15

In Greek mythology, the most dramatic and powerful story expressing the theme of the revenge of the Goddess is the story of Gaia the earth goddess and Uranus the sky god. It was Gaia whose voice originally spoke through the oracle at Delphi, before it was expropriated by the Olympian Apollo. Uranus, whose name parallels the Vedic pastoral god Varuna, was first Gaia’s son, and then her consort, fathering the one-eyed Cyclopes and Titans with her. In the historical reading of this myth we recognize Uranus as the skygod of the invading Aryans, consolidating their take-over by claiming the earth goddess as wife and the nature spirits (Cyclopes and Titans) of the indigenous people as offspring.16

According to the myth, Uranus banished the Cyclopes to Tartarus, the lower depths. Presumably this reflects a demolition of the old nature-cults by the Achaeans. In outrage, Earth Mother Gaia induced the Titans, led by Cronus, to castrate and kill their father with a flint sickle provided by her. Cronus then becomes the world ruler, until he in turn is deposed by his son Zeus. This myth has echoes in several ancient Near Eastern myths, such as that of Cybele and Attis, in which the son-consort of the Goddess is castrated or killed; and in which ritual self-sacrifice or self-castration was practised by the demented priests of that cult.

The Gaia and Uranus myth tells the historical story of the assault on the earth goddess religion by the followers of Indo-European sky god cults, and the subsequent retaliation against the oppressor cult. The emasculation of Uranus can be read as a metaphor for the loss of generative power, which follows upon the denial and suppression of the feminine and the spiritual energies of the natural world. In modern psychological terms, we get the imbalanced, uncreative, authoritarian men (and many women) typical of patriarchal societies. The earth goddess gives birth and health, but also disease and death to the human, natural body. When this power is not respected, the painful consequences are unavoidable. The loss of generative and regenerative power, as seen for example in the spread of degenerative diseases, is the price paid by us all for the patriarchal suppression of the Goddess.

I had a dream which illustrated this theme: I was in Africa with a group of North American AIDS sufferers. We were studying the ancient African goddess religion. I was told that AIDS was a consequence of turning away from and ignoring the power of the Black Goddess, and healing it required reconnecting with Her. The Black Goddess is the goddess of the fertile, black earth and of female, procreative sexuality. Being cut off from the regenerative and procreative power of the Earth had led to the collapse of the protective immune system, in many thousands of men and women. I told this dream to an acquaintance AIDS victim, who felt it expressed a meaningful truth about their condition.

In the mythology of Celtic Ireland, which also chronicles and reflects the often tumultuous transition from matricentric to patriarchal society, the story of the Curse of the Goddess Macha symbolizes the revenge of the Goddess in a most poignant and awesome manner. Macha was a form of the ancient Irish horse and sun goddess, who could outrun any horse. When her human husband boasted of her prowess at the annual horse championship races in Ulster (now known as Northern Ireland), the king angrily demanded that she appear to race against his prized horses. Being pregnant, Macha was reluctant to go and consented only when the king threatened to kill her husband if she did not come. At the race, she appealed to the assembled warriors and king for a delay, since she was about to deliver — “for a mother bore each one of you”. The king refused, she ran the race, won easily and immediately gave birth to twins. At the moment of her victory, she pronounced a curse upon the men of Ulster, that “when a time of oppression falls upon you, each one of you in this province will be overcome with weakness, as the weakness of a woman in child-birth.” This curse became known as the “Pangs of the Men of Ulster”.17

In commenting on this story, Irish theologian Mary Condren has written that the cry of Macha “has resounded in Ireland down through the ages”, up until the late 20th century. A curse, particularly the curse of a deity, was no trivial matter, as we might think of it today. Is it not strange that Northern Ireland is still wracked by seemingly intractable hatred and violence? “The Goddess Macha cursed the patriarchal age that had dawned..Her cry was possibly the last symbolic attempt to appeal to true motherhood as the basis for public social ethics. That her people ignored her meant that the values of relationship and affiliation were effete; violence, death, and the threat of death became the dominant grammar of political relationships.”7

Myths of Compromise and Reconciliation

The myth of Demeter and Persephone, which provided the central story of the Eleusisinian Mysteries, for 2000 years the core religious ceremony of the Greek world, was an acknowledgement of the clash between the Olympian religion of sky and mountain gods and the earlier earth goddess cults. Demeter is the Cretan Grain Goddess (known to the Romans as Ceres, from which we get the word “cereal”), who taught humankind the cultivation of the grain, and was revered for her frutifulness and abundance. Her daughter Persephone was abducted by Hades, brother of Zeus and ruler of the underworld, who had displaced Hecate, the earlier underworld goddess. In the myth Demeter searches the world in profound grief and despair. When she discovers that her daughter’s abduction had taken place with the complicity of Zeus, grief turns to rage and she unleashes drought and desolation upon the earth, threatening the survival of all life. Demeter’s rage is against the Aryan sky-gods and their aggressive disrespect for the religion of the Earth. The revenge of the Goddess involves the loss of fertility, barrenness and death.

When the gods realize the enormity of their transgression against the goddess of all earthly life, Zeus works out a compromise: Persephone stays underground for half the year and above ground the other half. Here this myth blends with earlier myths of the seasonal death and renewal of vegetative life. Demeter then agrees to release the blight she has sent upon the land; and teaches again the secrets of agriculture and regeneration. The Eleusinian Mysteries celebrated this whole story of assault, revenge, reconciliation and renewal in a ritual involving poetry, song, dramatic presentation and prayer. Albert Hofmann, Gordon Wasson and Carl Ruck, in their book The Road to Eleusis, have argued that the ceremony could have included ingestion of a hallucinogenic potion derived from the ergot fungus which grows on rye, and contains LSD-like alkaloids. In this case the entire ritual would have been amplified to the ecstatic intensity of mystical experience. Whether amplified by hallucinogens or not, the Eleusinian Mysteries brought thousands of ancient Greeks to a reconciliation with their pre-Hellenic, ancestral religion and with a reverential attitude to the nourishing Mother Goddess.18

In Irish mythology too there are hints of reconciliation rituals between the invading patriarchal Celts and the indigenous matricentric cultures, who worshipped the Goddess of the land and build great stone circles and passage graves in her honor. These myths often refer to the ritual marriage of the warrior-king to the local goddess of the land, who offered sacred kingship in exchange for having the land named after her. Éire, the ancient name for Ireland, was derived in this way from the goddess Ériu; and the town of Armagh was named after the goddess Macha. As in many Near Eastern ancient societies, the annual ritual mating of the king with the goddess of the land or her priestess ensured the fertility of the land for its people. As Mary Condren wrote, “In a famous story of one of the Celtic invasions, Ériu makes it clear that anyone wishing to enter Ireland would have to revere the goddesses if they wished to prosper and be fruitful.” 19

Nordic-Germanic mythology also has a story of reconciliation, in the long drawn-out conflict between Aesir and Vanir gods. When, after their first failed attempt at peacemaking, the rival families of gods finally decide to cease fighting, they meet, according to the myth, in a council circle around a gigantic cauldron. Each deity spits saliva into the cauldron and out of their mingled juices an incredibly wise being, named Kvasir is born. This Kvasir is then killed by two dwarves, who mix his blood with honey and thereby create a drink that inspires both humans and gods with poetic creativity, the mead of inspiration. The name Kvasir relates to a Slavic word for fermented beverage, and the riual of mingling saliva reflects archaic practices of inducing fermentation. We have here, as with Eleusis, a mythic ritual of reconciliation, probably referring to the kind of reconciliation and accomodation that must eventually have taken place between the Kurgan invaders and the Old Europeans.20

Metaphorically, this is a story about the wisdom and creativity that arises out of the reconciliation of previously antagonistic opposites, what Jung called the coincidentia oppositorum. This is the wisdom that comes from loving instead of fighting, from cooperating instead of competing, from partnership instead of domination, and from honoring and celebrating differences instead of fearing them and using them to create scapegoats for our guilt. When we can dissolve the barriers of separation and conflict between nations, races, religions, and the other traditional but artificial divisions of humankind, we would unleash an unparalleled explosion of the arts and creativity in all areas of life — this would appear to be the message of these myths of compromise and reconciliation.

*

The hybrid mythologies telling of domination, retaliation and reconciliation are found throughout Europe, the Mediterranean, the Near East, Iran and India, wherever a patriarchal ideology with cults of male sky and warrior gods was superimposed on matricentric egalitarian societies that worshipped the Great Goddess, with countless manifestations in all the forms of plant and animal life, including especially the human female. The basic pattern is everywhere the same, whether we are talking about the bands of Kurgan pastoralists who invaded Old Europe, the Celtic warriors who invaded Britain and Ireland, the Hebrew pastoralists who invaded Canaan, the Aryan Hellenes who invaded Crete and Greece, or the Mesopotamian city-states, who may have evolved a patriarchal dominator ideology without foreign invasion. There is much we don’t know about pre-history, and we may never know the full story about the origins of the patriarchy.

We do know that with the establishment of the patriarchal dominator pattern, there was a partial loss and submergence of the gynocentric Earth spirituality which was the human heritage from the most ancient times of paleolithic gatherers and hunters. Certain aspects of this archaic worldview were preserved in the animistic and shamanistic traditions of Northern Europe and the polytheistic religions of classical antiquity. With the expansion of Christianity, the suppression of the old pagan nature religions and the oppression of women took a sharp upswing, culminating in the Inquisition, in which, according to some estimates, as many as 6 to 9 million witches were exterminated, the majority of them pagan women. This sustained misogynistic assault on women and paganism must be seen in the context of thousands of years of antagonism toward the ancient Earth Goddess, the “Mother of All the Living”.

It has been about 6000 years since the first waves of Kurgan pastoralists migrated westwards and established their sky-god religion and patriarchal social order in the peaceful farming communities of Old Europe. Perhaps the worldwide environmental and women’s movement, and the questioning of Eurocentric ideology that is now going on are signals that the patriarchal dominator system is beginning to be dismantled. The need for rituals of compromise and reconciliation has never been greater and is being increasingly recognized. The wisdom and creativity expressed in the myths of our ancestors can be drawn on to help us find the connection back to a more respectful, harmonious and joyous relationship with the natural world and all its creatures.

I like to imagine that we are in the civilizational transition that William Blake referred to when he wrote in his visionary prophecy The Marriage of Heaven and Hell :

The ancient tradition that the world will be consumed in fire at the end of six thousand years is true, as I have heard from Hell. For the cherub with his flaming sword is hereby commanded to leave his appear infinite and holy, whereas now it appears finite and corrupt. This will come to pass by an improvement in sensory enjoyment.

The cherub guarding access to the tree of life is the patriarchal myth that our alienation is God’s punishment (the so-called “Fall”). The cherub’s departure means we can return to the sacred Tree of Life, to the regenerative nature-reverencing animism and joyous sensitivity of our pre-patriarchal ancestors.

Notes and References

1. This essay was originally written in conjunction with The Well of Remembrance. Under the title “Clashing Cultures and Hybrid Mythologies”, it is published in From the Realm of the Ancestors – Essays in Honor of Marija Gimbutas, ed. Joan Marler.

2. Marija Gimbutas, The Civilization of the Goddess (HarperCollins, 1991). p. 401.

3. Robert Graves, Greek Myths (Penguin Books, 1955) writes: “A study of Greek mythology should begin with a consideration of what political and religious systems existed in Europe before the arrival of the Aryan invaders from the distant North and East. The whole of Neolithic Europe, to judge from surviving artifacts and myths, had a remarkably homogeneous system of religious ideas, based on workshop of the many-titled Mother-goddess (p. 13).. All early myths about the gods’ seduction of nymphs refer apparently to marriages between Hellenic chieftains and local Moon-priestesses; bitterly opposed by Hera, which means by conservative religious feeling (p. 18).. The familiar Olympian system was then agreed upon as a compromise between Hellenic and pre-Hellenic views: a divine family of six gods and goddesses, headed by the co-sovereigns Zeus and Hera and forming a Council of Gods in Babylonian style (p.19). See also: Merlin Stone, When God was a Woman (Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1976); Charlene Spretnak, Lost Goddesses of Early Greece (Beacon Press, 1978); and Elinor Gadon, The Once and Future Goddess (Harper & Row, 1989).

4. Arthur Evans, The God of Ecstasy – Sex Roles and the Madness of Dionysos (St. Martin’s Press, 1988)

5. William Anderson The Green Man – Archetype of Our Oneness with the Earth. (HarperCollins, 1990).

6. Meyer, M.W. (editor) The Ancient Mysteries (Harper & Row, 1987).

7. Alain Daniélou, Shiva and Dionysus (London: East-West Publications, 1982).

8. I have made an audio tape of the Gilgamesh story along these lines: The Hero, the Wildman and the Goddess (available from the Institute of Noetic Sciences).

9. For a detailed rexamination and interpretation of the Nordic-Germanic myths, including the conflicts between the Aesir and Vanir deities, in the light of Marija Gimbutas’s concept of hybrid mythologies, see my The Well of Remembrance – Rediscovering the Earth Wisdom Mythology of Northern Europe (Shambhala, 1994).

10. Snorri Sturluson, the Icelandic author who in the 13th century compiled the Prose Edda (also called Younger Edda), one of our main sources for Germanic myth, himself stated in his introduction, that the Aesir were the (human) leaders of warrior bands who came from Asia. The etymological connection he made between “Aesir” and “Asia” is however regarded as spurious by contemporary scholars. See Rudolf Simek, Lexikon der Germanischen Mythologie, (Stuttgart: Alfred Kröner Verlag, 1984), pp 460-461. See also The Well of Remembrance, op. cit. pp. 165 – 172.

11. Mircea Eliade, A History of Religious Ideas Vol. 2 (University of Chicago Press, 1982), p. 159.

12. J.P. Malory, In Search of the Indo-Europeans (Thames & Hudson, 1989), p. 137-138.

13. Merlin Stone, When God Was A Woman (Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1976). “The image of Eve as the sexually tempting but God-defying seductress was surely intended as a warning to all Hebrew men to stay away from the sacred women of the temples, for if they succumbed to the temptations of these women, they simultaneously accepted the female deity — Her fruit, Her sexuality and, perhaps most important, the resulting matrilineal identity for any children who might be conceived in this manner. .. The Hebrew creation myth, which blamed the female of the species for initial sexual consciousness in order to suppress the worship of the Queen of Heaven, Her sacred women and matrilineal customs, from that time on assigned women the role of sexual temptress.” (pp 221-222) See also: Gerda Lerner, The Creation of the Patriarchy (Oxford University Press, 1986); Elinor Gadon, The Once and Future Goddess (Harper & Row, 1989); Carol Ochs, Behind the Sex of God (Beacon Press, 1977); and John A. Phillips, Eve – The History of an Idea (Harper & Row, 1984).

14. See Ralph Metzner, The Well of Remembrance, op. cit., pp. 165-172, for further elaboration on this fascinating myth.

15. Well of Remembrance, op. cit., pp. 219-228.

16. It is interesting that according to James Lovelock’s “Gaia theory” — that the Earth is one vast unitary living organism — the atmosphere is in fact produced (out-gassed) by the living matter of the Earth. So both ancient myth and 20th century science tells us that the air-sky is produced by, or born from , the living Earth.

17. Mary Condren, The Serpent and the Goddess – Women, Religion and Power in Celtic Ireland. (HarperCollins, 1989)

The Hunter and the Bird

A hunter once caught a small bird. ‘Master,’ said the bird, ‘you have eaten many animals bigger than I without assuaging your appetite. How can the flesh of my tiny body satisfy you? If you let me go, I will give you three counsels: one while I am still in your hand, the second when I am on your roof, and the third from the top of a tree. When you have heard all three, you will consider yourself the most fortunate of men. The first counsel is this: “Do not believe the foolish pronouncements of others.” ’

The bird flew on to the roof, from where it gave the second counsel, ‘ “Have no regrets for what is past.” Concealed in my body is a precious pearl weighing five ounces. It was yours by right, and now it is gone.’ Hearing this the man began to bewail his misfortune. ‘Why are you so upset?’ asked the bird. ‘Did I not say, “Have no regrets for what is past”? Are you deaf, or did you not understand what I told you? I also said, “Do not believe the foolish pronouncements of others.” I weigh less than two ounces, so how could I possibly conceal a pearl weighing five?’

Coming to his senses, the hunter asked for the third counsel. ‘Seeing how much you heeded the first two, why should I waste the third?’ replied the bird.

Rumi…

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Three Poems of Hazret-i Uftade

If you desire the Beloved, my heart,

Do not cease to pour out lamentations.

Observing His existence, reach annihilation!

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Let tears of blood pour from your eyes

May they emerge hot from the furnace

Say not that he is one of you or one of us

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Let love come that you may have a friend

Your distresses are a torrent

Sweeping you along the way to the Friend

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Take yourself up to the heavens

Meet the angels

And fulfill your desires

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Pass beyond the universe, this [unfurled] carpet

Beyond the pedestal and beyond the throne

That the bringers of good tidings may greet you

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Remove your you from you

Leave behind body and soul

That theophanies may appear

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Pass on, without looking aside

Without your heart pouring forth to another

That you may drink the pure waters

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

If you desire union with the Beloved

Oh Uftade! Find your soul

That the Beloved may appear before you

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Saying Hu

Hu is a dervish’s rapture

Hu is a dervish’s grandeur

Hu is a dervish’s wealth

Uttering Hu is a dervish’s litany

With Hu, one ascends every degree

Saying Hu is a dervish’s guide

The gates of the way to the Friend appear

Then light surrounds the dervish

When he is liberated from seeing other than Him

The eye of the dervish’s heart is opened

Then he will be able to see the beautiful face of the Friend

And the dervish’s secret consciousness will be opened up

Üftade, if you desire the remedy for pain

Serve the dervishes by saying Hu.

Oh He and You who is He

If you desire the Beloved, my heart,

Do not cease to pour out lamentations.

Observing His existence, reach annihilation!

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Let tears of blood pour from your eyes

May they emerge hot from the furnace

Say not that he is one of you or one of us

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Let love come that you may have a friend

Your distresses are a torrent

Sweeping you along the way to the Friend

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Take yourself up to the heavens

Meet the angels

And fulfil your desires

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Pass beyond the universe, this [unfurled] carpet

Beyond the pedestal and beyond the throne

That the bringers of good tidings may greet you

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Remove your you from you

Leave behind body and soul

That theophanies may appear

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Pass on, without looking aside

Without your heart pouring forth to another

That you may drink the pure waters

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

If you desire union with the Beloved

Oh Üftade! Find your soul

That the Beloved may appear before you

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

(1490-1580 A.D.) Mehmed Muhyiddin Üftade was the founder of the Jelveti order of Sufis.

Hazret-i Pir-i Üftade was one of the great masters of Ottoman Sufism at the height of that Empire, and founder of the Celvetiyye order. His primary focus was not on writing (this collection of poems is one of the few pieces of his writing that still survives), and most of what we know of him is courtesy of his favourite disciple, ‘Aziz Mahmud Hüdayi, who kept a near-daily journal of the spiritual education that he received from his master.

Üftade was not, strictly speaking, a mystical poet like Yunus Emre or Niyazi Misri, and these poems reflect, above all, his interior state and the advice he imparted to his disciples. Üftade is not connected to the line of Persian mystical poetry, and his simple poems belong in the category of religious songs that accompany ceremonies of collective invocation.

_____

Two Poems from Rumi

A Community of the Spirit

There is a community of the spirit.

Join it, and feel the delight

of walking in the noisy street

and being the noise.

Drink all your passion,

and be a disgrace.

Close both eyes

to see with the other eye.

Open your hands,

if you want to be held.

Sit down in the circle.

Quit acting like a wolf, and feel

the shepherd’s love filling you.

At night, your beloved wanders.

Don’t accept consolations.

Close your mouth against food.

Taste the lover’s mouth in yours.

You moan, “She left me.” “He left me.”

Twenty more will come.

Be empty of worrying.

Think of who created thought!

Why do you stay in prison

when the door is so wide open?

Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking.

Live in silence.

Flow down and down in always

widening rings of being.

‘Where Everything Is Music’

Don’t worry about saving these songs!

And if one of our instruments breaks,

it doesn’t matter.

We have fallen into the place

where everything is music.

The strumming and the flute notes

rise into the atmosphere,

and even if the whole world’s harp

should burn up, there will still be

hidden instruments playing.

So the candle flickers and goes out.

We have a piece of flint, and a spark.

This singing art is sea foam.

The graceful movements come from a pearl

somewhere on the ocean floor.

Poems reach up like spindrift and the edge

of driftwood along the beach, wanting!

They derive

from a slow and powerful root

that we can’t see.

Stop the words now.

Open the window in the centre of your chest,

and let the spirits fly in and out.

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