A Late One….

Just got home, took a shower, tried to talk to a friend in Ireland via Skype, had problems… try again soon.
I put this together for the fun of it, pulling this and that from hither and yon.
I hope you enjoy it, and by the way, give Radio Free EarthRites a listen to, lots of new music!
Links O’ The Day

Water Boys Touring The New Album

From Iceland: The Cottager and his Cat

Keats For A Summer Afternoon…

Art: Gustave Dore (The Poe Series…)

Links O’ The Day:

why settle for the lesser evil? ’08

Another Example Of Capitalism Run-Amok…

REG HENRY: Adam, Eve and a fig leaf to cover science

Water Boys Touring The New Album



From Iceland: The Cottager and his Cat
Once upon a time there lived an old man and his wife in a dirty, tumble-down cottage, not very far from the splendid palace where the king and queen dwelt. In spite of the wretched state of the hut, which many people declared was too bad even for a pig to live in, the old man was very rich, for he was a great miser, and lucky besides, and would often go without food all day sooner than change one of his beloved gold pieces.
But after a while he found that he had starved himself once too often. He fell ill, and had no strength to get well again, and in a few days he died, leaving his wife and one son behind him.
The night following his death, the son dreamed that an unknown man appeared to him and said: ‘Listen to me; your father is dead and your mother will soon die, and all their riches will belong to you. Half of his wealth is ill-gotten, and this you must give back to the poor from whom he squeezed it. The other half you must throw into the sea. Watch, however, as the money sinks into the water, and if anything should swim, catch it and keep it, even if it is nothing more than a bit of paper.’
Then the man vanished, and the youth awoke.
The remembrance of his dream troubled him greatly. He did not want to part with the riches that his father had left him, for he had known all his life what it was to be cold and hungry, and now he had hoped for a little comfort and pleasure. Still, he was honest and good-hearted, and if his father had come wrongfully by his wealth he felt he could never enjoy it, and at last he made up his mind to do as he had been bidden. He found out who were the people who were poorest in the village, and spent half of his money in helping them, and the other half he put in his pocket. From a rock that jutted right out into the sea he flung it in. In a moment it was out of sight, and no man could have told the spot where it had sunk, except for a tiny scrap of paper floating on the water. He stretched down carefully and managed to reach it, and on opening it found six shillings wrapped inside. This was now all the money he had in the world.
The young man stood and looked at it thoughtfully. ‘Well, I can’t do much with this,’ he said to himself; but, after all, six shillings were better than nothing, and he wrapped them up again and slipped them into his coat.
He worked in his garden for the next few weeks, and he and his mother contrived to live on the fruit and vegetables he got out of it, and then she too died suddenly. The poor fellow felt very sad when he had laid her in her grave, and with a heavy heart he wandered into the forest, not knowing where he was going. By-and-by he began to get hungry, and seeing a small hut in front of him, he knocked at the door and asked if they could give him some milk. The old woman who opened it begged him to come in, adding kindly, that if he wanted a night’s lodging he might have it without its costing him anything.
Two women and three men were at supper when he entered, and silently made room for him to sit down by them. When he had eaten he began to look about him, and was surprised to see an animal sitting by the fire different from anything he had ever noticed before. It was grey in colour, and not very big; but its eyes were large and very bright, and it seemed to be singing in an odd way, quite unlike any animal in the forest. ‘What is the name of that strange little creature?’ asked he. And they answered, ‘We call it a cat.’
‘I should like to buy it–if it is not too dear,’ said the young man; ‘it would be company for me.’ And they told him that he might have it for six shillings, if he cared to give so much. The young man took out his precious bit of paper, handed them the six shillings, and the next morning bade them farewell, with the cat lying snugly in his cloak.
For the whole day they wandered through meadows and forests, till in the evening they reached a house. The young fellow knocked at the door and asked the old man who opened it if he could rest there that night, adding that he had no money to pay for it. ‘Then I must give it to you,’ answered the man, and led him into a room where two women and two men were sitting at supper. One of the women was the old man’s wife, the other his daughter. He placed the cat on the mantel shelf, and they all crowded round to examine this strange beast, and the cat rubbed itself against them, and held out its paw, and sang to them; and the women were delighted, and gave it everything that a cat could eat, and a great deal more besides.
After hearing the youth’s story, and how he had nothing in the world left him except his cat, the old man advised him to go to the palace, which was only a few miles distant, and take counsel of the king, who was kind to everyone, and would certainly be his friend. The young man thanked him, and said he would gladly take his advice; and early next morning he set out for the royal palace.
He sent a message to the king to beg for an audience, and received a reply that he was to go into the great hall, where he would find his Majesty.
The king was at dinner with his court when the young man entered, and he signed to him to come near. The youth bowed low, and then gazed in surprise at the crowd of little black creatures who were running about the floor, and even on the table itself. Indeed, they were so bold that they snatched pieces of food from the King’s own plate, and if he drove them away, tried to bite his hands, so that he could not eat his food, and his courtiers fared no better.
‘What sort of animals are these?’ asked the youth of one of the ladies sitting near him.
‘They are called rats,’ answered the king, who had overheard the question, ‘and for years we have tried some way of putting an end to them, but it is impossible. They come into our very beds.’
At this moment something was seen flying through the air. The cat was on the table, and with two or three shakes a number of rats were lying dead round him. Then a great scuffling of feet was heard, and in a few minutes the hall was clear.
For some minutes the King and his courtiers only looked at each other in astonishment. ‘What kind of animal is that which can work magic of this sort?’ asked he. And the young man told him that it was called a cat, and that he had bought it for six shillings.
And the King answered: ‘Because of the luck you have brought me, in freeing my palace from the plague which has tormented me for many years, I will give you the choice of two things. Either you shall be my Prime Minister, or else you shall marry my daughter and reign after me. Say, which shall it be?’
‘The princess and the kingdom,’ said the young man.
And so it was.

Keats For A Summer Afternoon…

Ode on a Grecian Urn
Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape

Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

And, happy melodist, unwearied,

For ever piping songs for ever new;

More happy love! more happy, happy love!

For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,

For ever panting, and for ever young;

All breathing human passion far above,

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,

A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,

Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

What little town by river or sea shore,

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

Is emptied of it’s folk, this pious morn?

And, little town, thy streets for evermore

Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede

Of marble men and maidens overwrought,

With forest branches and the trodden weed;

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought

As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,–that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”

Original version of La Belle Dame Sans Merci, 1819
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel’s granary is full,

And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever-dew,

And on thy cheeks a fading rose

Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful – a faery’s child,

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She looked at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long,

For sidelong would she bend, and sing

A faery’s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna-dew,

And sure in language strange she said –

‘I love thee true’.
She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept and sighed full sore,

And there I shut her wild wild eyes

With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep

And there I dreamed – Ah! woe betide! –

The latest dream I ever dreamt

On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

They cried – ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci

Hath thee in thrall!’
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

With horrid warning gaped wide,

And I awoke and found me here,

On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why I sojourn here

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

The Human Seasons
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;

There are four seasons in the mind of man:

He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear

Takes in all beauty with an easy span:

He has his Summer, when luxuriously

Spring’s honied cud of youthful thought he loves

To ruminate, and by such dreaming high

Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings

He furleth close; contented so to look

On mists in idleness–to let fair things

Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,

Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

The Soul Shrine

Dhe tabhair aithne da t’ ainghle beannaichte,

Caim a chumail air an staing-sa nochd,

Comachadh crabhaidh, tabhaidh, teannachaidh,

Chumas a choich anama-sa bho lochd.
Teasruig a Dhe an t-ardrach seo a nochd,

Iad fein ’s an cuid ’s an cliu,

Tar iad o eug, o ghabhadh, o lochd,

’S o thoradh na farmaid ’s na mi-ruin.
Tabhair duinn, a Dhe na fois,

Taingealachd an cois ar call,

Bhi coimhlionadh do lagh a bhos,

’S to fein a mhealtuinn thall.

God, give charge to Thy blessed angels,

To keep guard around this stead to-night,

A band sacred, strong, and steadfast,

That will shield this soul-shrine from harm.
Safeguard Thou, God, this household to-night,

Themselves and their means and their fame,

Deliver them from death, from distress, from harm,

From the fruits of envy and of enmity.
Give Thou to us, O God of peace,

Thankfulness despite our loss,

To obey Thy statutes here below,

And to enjoy Thyself above.
The Soul Shrine is sung by the people (From The Hebrides) as they retire to rest. They say that the angels of heaven guard them in sleep and shield them from harm. Should any untoward event occur to themselves or to their flocks, they avow that the cause was the deadness of their hearts, the coldness of their faith, and the fewness of their prayers.

We are moving soon, so download your copy in the next copy of days!

A late day entry… This and that, stuff of dreams, ancestors, and the welling up of the waves of time. Summer has descended upon the Upper Left Coast, and it is all pretty nice.
Sat outside last night watching the wind buffet the crows’ nests up in the oaks at the front of our neighbors house. You could hear the young complain as they were tossed back and forth. Nothing like sea-sick crows… for complaining.
The Hummingbirds are back, as are all the other little ones. You can see them, and especially hear them flit about the yard. It is all rather nice!

Tasty Bits:

Celtic Woman – The Voice

The Hags of the Long Teeth

English Pronunciation!?!

Peatbog Faeries – Crusty Mary

Celtic Woman – The Voice


The Hags of the Long Teeth

Long ago, in the old time, there came a party of gentlemen from Dublin to Loch Glynn a-hunting and a-fishing. They put up in the priest’s house, as there was no inn in the little village.
The first day they went a-hunting, they went into the Wood of Driminuch, and it was not long till they routed a hare. They fired many a ball after him, but they could not bring him down. They followed him till they saw him going into a little house in the wood.
When they came to the door, they saw a great black dog, and he would not let them in.
“Put a ball through the beggar,” said a main of them. He let fly a ball, but the dog caught it in his mouth, chewed it, and flung it on the ground. They fired another ball, and another, but the dog did the same thing with them. Then he began barking as loud as he could, and it was not long till there came out a hag, and every tooth in her head as long as the tongs. “What are you doing to my pup?” says the hag.
“A hare went into your house, and this dog won’t let us in after him,” says a man of the hunters.
“Lie down, pup,” said the hag. Then she said: “Ye can come in if ye wish.” The hunters were afraid to go in, but a man of them asked: “Is there any person in the house with you?”
“There are six sisters,” said the old woman. “We should like to see them,” said the hunters. No sooner had he said the word than the six old women came out, and each of them with teeth as long as the other. Such a sight the hunters had never seen before.
They went through the wood then, and they saw seven vultures on one tree, and they screeching. The hunters began cracking balls after them, but if they were in it ever since they would never bring down one of them.
There came a gray old man to them and said: “Those are the hags of the long tooth that are living in the little house over there. Do ye not know that they are under enchantment? They are there these hundreds of years, and they have a dog that never lets in anyone to the little house. They have a castle under the lake, and it is often the people saw them making seven swans of themselves, and going into the lake.”
When the hunters came home that evening they told everything they heard and saw to the priest, but he did not believe the story.
On the day on the morrow, the priest went with the hunters, and when they came near the little house they saw the big black dog at the door. The priest put his conveniences for blessing under his neck, and drew out a book and began reading prayers. The big dog began barking loudly. The hags came out, and when they saw the priest they let a screech out of them that was heard in every part of Ireland. When the priest was a while reading, the hags made vultures of themselves and flew up into a big tree that was over the house.
The priest began pressing in on the dog until he was within a couple of feet of him.
The dog gave a leap up, struck the priest with its four feet, and put him head over heels.
When the hunters took him up he was deaf and dumb, and the dog did not move from the door.
They brought the priest home and sent for the bishop. When he came and heard the story there was great grief on him, The people gathered together and asked of him to banish the hags of enchantment out of the wood, There was fright and shame on him, and he did not know what he would do, but he said to them: “I have no means of banishing them till I go home, but I will come at the end of a month and banish them.”
The priest was too badly hurt to say anything. The big black dog was father of the hags, and his name was Dermod O’Muloony. His own son killed him, because he found him with his wife the day after their marriage, and killed the sisters for fear they should tell on him.
One night the bishop was in his chamber asleep, when one of the hags of the long tooth opened the door and came in. When the bishop wakened up he saw the hag standing by the side of his bed. He was so much afraid he was not able to speak a word until the hag spoke and said to him: “Let there be no fear on you; I did not come to do you harm, but to give you advice. You promised the people of Loch Glynn that you would come to banish the hags of the long tooth out of the wood of Driminuch. If you come you will never go back alive.”
His talk came to the bishop, and he said: “I cannot break my word.”
“We have only a year and a day to be in the wood,” said the hag, “and you can put off the people until then.”
“Why are ye in the woods as ye are?” says the bishop.
“Our brother killed us,” said the hag, “and when we went before the arch-judge, there was judgment passed on us, we to be as we are two hundred years. We have a castle under the lake, and be in it every night. We are suffering for the crime our father did.” Then she told him the crime the father did.
“Hard is your case,” said the bishop, “but we must put up with the will of the arch-judge, and I shall not trouble ye.”
“You will get an account, when we are gone from the wood,” said the hag. Then she went from him.
In the morning, the day on the morrow, the bishop came to Loch Glynn. He sent out notice and gathered the people. Then he said to them: “It is the will of the arch-king that the power of enchantment be not banished for another year and a day, and ye must keep out of the wood until then. It is a great wonder to me that ye never saw the hags of enchantment till the hunters came from Dublin.–It’s a pity they did not remain at home.”
About a week after that the priest was one day by himself in his chamber alone. The day was very fine and the window was open. The robin of the red breast came in and a little herb in its mouth. The priest stretched out his hand, and she laid the herb down on it. “Perhaps it was God sent me this herb,” said the priest to himself, and he ate it. He had not eaten it one moment till he was as well as ever he was, and he said:
“A thousand thanks to Him who has power stronger than the power of enchantment.”
Then said the robin: “Do you remember the robin of the broken foot you had, two years this last winter.”
I remember her, indeed,” said the priest, “but she went from me when the summer came.”
“I am the same robin, and but for the good you did me I would not be alive now, and you would be deaf and dumb throughout your life. Take my advice now, and do not go near the hags of the long tooth any more, and do not tell to any person living that I gave you the herb.” Then she flew from him.
When the house-keeper came she wondered to find that he had both his talk and his hearing. He sent word to the bishop and he came to Loch Glynn. He asked the priest how it was that he got better so suddenly. “It is a secret,” said the priest, “but a certain friend gave me a little herb and it cured me.”
Nothing else happened worth telling, till the year was gone. One night after that the bishop was in his chamber when the door opened, and the hag of the long tooth walked in, and said: “I come to give you notice that we will be leaving the wood a week from to-day. I have one thing to ask of you if you will do it for me.”
“If it is in my power, and it not to be against the faith,” said the bishop.
“A week from to-day,” said the hag, “there will be seven vultures dead at the door of our house in the wood. Give orders to bury them in the quarry that is between the wood and Ballyglas; that is all I am asking of you.”
“I shall do that if I am alive,” said the bishop. Then she left him, and he was not sorry
she to go from him.
A week after that day, the bishop came to Loch Glynn, and the day after he took men with him and went to the hags’ house in the wood of Driminuch.
The big black dog was at the door, and when he saw the bishop he began running and never stopped until he went into the lake.
He saw the seven vultures dead at the door, and he said to the men: “Take them with you and follow me.”
They took up the vultures and followed him to the brink of the quarry. Then he said to them: “Throw them into the quarry: There is an end to the hags of the enchantment.”
As soon as the men threw them down to the bottom of the quarry, there rose from it seven swans as white as snow, and flew out of their sight. It was the opinion of the bishop and of every person who heard the story that it was up to heaven they flew, and that the big black dog went to the castle under the lake.
At any rate, nobody saw the hags of the long tooth or the big black dog from that out, any more.

English Pronunciation!?!
If you can pronounce correctly every word in this poem, you will be speaking English better than 90% of the native English speakers in the world. After trying the verses, a Frenchman said he’d prefer six months of hard labour to reading six lines aloud. Try them yourself.

Dearest creature in creation,

Study English pronunciation.

I will teach you in my verse

Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse.

I will keep you, Suzy, busy,

Make your head with heat grow dizzy.

Tear in eye, your dress will tear.

So shall I! Oh hear my prayer.

Just compare heart, beard, and heard,

Dies and diet, lord and word,

Sword and sward, retain and Britain.

(Mind the latter, how it’s written.)

Now I surely will not plague you

With such words as plaque and ague.

But be careful how you speak:

Say break and steak, but bleak and streak;

Cloven, oven, how and low,

Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe.

Hear me say, devoid of trickery,

Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore,

Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles,

Exiles, similes, and reviles;

Scholar, vicar, and cigar,

Solar, mica, war and far;

One, anemone, Balmoral,

Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel;

Gertrude, German, wind and mind,

Scene, Melpomene, mankind.

Billet does not rhyme with ballet,

Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.

Blood and flood are not like food,

Nor is mould like should and would.

Viscous, viscount, load and broad,

Toward, to forward, to reward.

And your pronunciation’s OK

When you correctly say croquet,

Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,

Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour

And enamour rhyme with hammer.

River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb,

Doll and roll and some and home.

Stranger does not rhyme with anger,

Neither does devour with clangour.

Souls but foul, haunt but aunt,

Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant,

Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger,

And then singer, ginger, linger,

Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge,

Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age.

Query does not rhyme with very,

Nor does fury sound like bury.

Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth.

Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath.

Though the differences seem little,

We say actual but victual.

Refer does not rhyme with deafer.

Foeffer does, and zephyr, heifer.

Mint, pint, senate and sedate;

Dull, bull, and George ate late.

Scenic, Arabic, Pacific,

Science, conscience, scientific.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven,

Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven.

We say hallowed, but allowed,

People, leopard, towed, but vowed.

Mark the differences, moreover,

Between mover, cover, clover;

Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,

Chalice, but police and lice;

Camel, constable, unstable,

Principle, disciple, label.

Petal, panel, and canal,

Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal.

Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,

Senator, spectator, mayor.

Tour, but our and succour, four.

Gas, alas, and Arkansas.

Sea, idea, Korea, area,

Psalm, Maria, but malaria.

Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean.

Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian,

Dandelion and battalion.

Sally with ally, yea, ye,

Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key.

Say aver, but ever, fever,

Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver.

Heron, granary, canary.

Crevice and device and aerie.

Face, but preface, not efface.

Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.

Large, but target, gin, give, verging,

Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging.

Ear, but earn and wear and tear

Do not rhyme with here but ere.

Seven is right, but so is even,

Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen,

Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk,

Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work.

Pronunciation (think of Psyche!)

Is a paling stout and spikey?

Won’t it make you lose your wits,

Writing groats and saying grits?

It’s a dark abyss or tunnel:

Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale,

Islington and Isle of Wight,

Housewife, verdict and indict.

Finally, which rhymes with enough,

Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough?

Hiccough has the sound of cup.

My advice is to give up!!!


Peatbog Faeries – Crusty Mary


Touching The Heart

On The Music Box: Radio Free EarthRites!

Monday Apparently….
What effect do we have on those we never meet? How do we touch those that find themselves alone even in a crowd? What do we do to help the changing of the world?
I was touched today by reading about Cindy Sheehan throwing in the towel regarding the peace movement. Regardless of what people thought of her, and much of it was unkind, she did her bit to make the world a better place. Those that spoke badly of her, I wonder what they have given of themselves?


What is up for today:

The Links

Koans: If You Love, Love Openly & My Heart Burns Like Fire

A Remembrance: Rev. Master Jiyu-Kennett

Rilke…. 3 Poems

The Links:

Missing “13-year-old” apparently diminutive 34-year-old woman

Obviously these Scientist guys haven’t been very observant: ‘Living plugs’ smooth ant journey

Missing German doctor reappears after 22 years

Oldest Indian celebrates his 138th

What’s up… pussycat?


If You Love, Love Openly
Twenty monks and one nun, who was named Eshun, were practicing meditation with a certain Zen master.
Eshun was very pretty even though her head was shaved and her dress plain. Several monks secretly fell in love with her. One of them wrote her a love letter, insisting upon a private meeting.
Eshun did not reply. The following day the master gave a lecture to the group, and when it was over, Eshun arose. Addressing the one who had written to her, she said: “If you really love me so much, come and embrace me now.”

My Heart Burns Like Fire
Soyen Shaku, the first Zen teacher to come to America, said: “My heart burns like fire but my eyes are as cold as dead ashes.” He made the following rules which he practiced every day of his life.

In the morning before dressing, light incense and meditate.
Retire at a regular hour. Partake of food at regular intervals. Eat with moderation and never to the point of satisfaction.
Receive a guest with the same attitude you have when alone. When alone, maintain the same attitude you have in receiving guests.
Watch what you say, and whatever you say, practice it.
When an opportunity comes do not let it pass by, yet always think twice before acting.
Do not regret the past. Look to the future.
Have the fearless attitude of a hero and the loving heart of a child.
Upon retiring, sleep as if you had entered your last sleep. Upon awakening, leave your bed behind you instantly as if you had cast away a pair of old shoes.
A Remembrance: Rev. Master Jiyu-Kennett
It has been 11 and 1/2 years since Rev. Master Jiyu-Kennett left this world… but I still remember the time I was privileged to spend with her on her initial journey to Mt. Shasta.
She had a most engaging laugh, a quick wit and a boundless heart. Her Abbey is doing well I hear, and next time down, I will visit it, and leave flowers for her memory. She touched so many people, and gave so much of her self.
Sitting in Helen Ruths’ living room, talking to Jiyu was quite the mind opener for an 18 year old. She was adroit, and to the point in everything discussed.
So she touches people still, and in ways she probably never imagined. Taking her time with a young man interested in Zen, patiently explaining points, and being encouraging… touched my heart, and still does.


Rilke…. 3 Poems

And you wait, keep waiting for that one thing

which would infinitely enrich your life:

the powerful, uniquely uncommon,

the awakening of dormant stones,

depths that would reveal you to yourself.
In the dusk you notice the book shelves

with their volumes in gold and in brown;

and you think of far lands you journeyed,

of pictures and of shimmering gowns

worn by women you conquered and lost.
And it comes to you all of a sudden:

That was it! And you arise, for you are

aware of a year in your distant past

with its fears and events and prayers.

What birds plunge through is not the intimate space
What birds plunge through is not the intimate space

in which you see all forms intensified.

(Out in the Open, you would be denied

your self, would disappear into that vastness.)
Space reaches from us and construes the world:

to know a tree, in its true element,

throw inner space around it, from that pure

abundance in you. Surround it with restraint.

It has no limits. Not till it is held

in your renouncing is it truly there.

You, you only, exist.
You, you only, exist.

We pass away, till at last,

our passing is so immense

that you arise: beautiful moment,

in all you suddenness,

arising in love, or enchanted

in the contraction of work.
To you I belong, however time may

wear me away. From you to you

I go commanded. In between

the garland is hanging in chance; but if you

take it up and up and up: look:

all becomes a festival!

Evolution In The Air….

Monday on the far left shore… Bad incense, mixed in with a Samba from New York bouncing around the house…
Nephew Ethan visited last night, showing his sketch book and the art he is working on. Mary cooked a fabulous curry, and a good time was had by all.
Working on illustrations for the magazine today, and a bit of yard work as well.
Feels like summer, such beauty here in the North West!
Bright Blessings,
Our Link Of The Day

Rodrigo Y Gabriela

Meher Baba on Love

The War on Drugs is a War on Consciousness

Three Poems From The Golden Dawn (O.T.O.)

Art: Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema

Our Link Of The Day: The West Cork Writers Group Here is a site well worth visiting. Full of Re/Evolutionary writers, with something to say, including our friend Tim Daly. Take some time, and visit. Sign the guest book to show ‘em you have been by, and let your friends know. Good stuff coming from Ireland, and well worth letting others know….

Rodrigo Y Gabriela: ‘For Diablo Rojo’


Meher Baba on Love:

Love is essentially self-communicative: those who do not have it catch it from those who have it…. No amount of rites, rituals, ceremonies, worship, meditation, penance and remembrance can produce love in themselves. None of these is necessarily a sign of love. On the contrary, those who sigh loudly and weep and wail have yet to experience love. Love sets on fire the one who finds it. At the same time it seals his lips so that no smoke comes out.
There is nothing that love cannot achieve,

and there is nothing that love cannot sacrifice.
Love can attain what the intellect cannot fathom.

The War on Drugs is a War on Consciousness

by Carol Moore

I believe that a prime motivation of those waging the current “war on drugs” is to discredit and destroy any “counterculture” before it becomes the dominant culture. Religious fundamentalists have not forgotten the religious upheavals of the 1960s when millions of young people, often after using marijuana and other psychedelics, reading Timothy Leary or Alan Watts, or listening to “psychedelic” music by the Beatles or the Jefferson Airplane, rejected Christianity and Judaism. Even ministers, priests, nuns and rabbis abandoned their callings! Consciousness, altered consciousness, and higher consciousness rather than obedience, duty, and sacrifice became the prime concern of the new spirituality.
The response of Catholic, conservative and fundamentalist religious groups was to feverishly expand their efforts to enforce more fundamentalist views among their members and to gain greater political influence. While fundamentalists have lost many battles over abortion, prayer and pornography, they have found the government a willing ally in the “war on drugs”. For just as drugs, the counterculture and “consciousness” undermine faith in hierarchical religious authority, so do they undermine faith in political authority.
John Lennon’s “Imagine”, an anthem of the counter culture, asks us to imagine “no religion” and “no countries”. Lennon, a drug use advocate, was murdered by a fundamentalist Christian, a former fan, who knew how subversive and powerful this message is. In 1990, on Lennon’s 50th birthday radio stations worldwide played “Imagine” simultaneously to a billion people. All heard Yoko Ono say, “The dream we dream alone is just a dream, but the dream we dream together is reality.” The message is that we are not subjects of an authoritarian god or even natural law, but that we consciously co-create reality. Implied is the possibility of a diversity of realities.
However, as the horrors of the drug war mount and the injustices spread to all of us, the uneasy feeling that there is some hidden agenda behind the “war on drugs” grows among more aware and conscious individuals. Some of these agendas are scapegoating drug users for larger ills, excuses for racial repression and expanding government power, an outlet for militarism, and the desire of tobacco and liquor producers to squash potential competition.
However, a prime hidden agenda remains the suppression of an alternate religious view—that consciousness is the nature and purpose of reality, that humans freely create their realities. Because psychoactive drugs are a means of quickly and effectively initiating individuals into this view they must be suppressed—even if it means punishment, incarceration and death for hundreds of thousands of people. But such is the nature of all religious wars.
Excerpts from Intoxication The “Fourth Drive” by Dr. Ronald K. Siegel. Article in the September/October 1990 Humanist magazine. (Later made into a book.)
History shows that we have always used drugs. In every age, in every part of this planet, people have pursued intoxication with plant drugs, alcohol, and other mind-altering substances…Almost every species of animal has engaged in the natural pursuit of intoxicants. This behavior has so much force and persistence that it functions like a drive, just like our drives of hunger, thirst and sex. This “fourth drive” is a natural part of biology, creating the irrepressible demand for drugs. In a sense, the war on drugs is a war against ourselves, a denial of our very nature…
Legalization is a risky proposal that would cut the drug crime connection and reduce many social ills, yet it would invite more use and abuse…Making some dangerous drugs illegal while keeping others (like alcohol and cigarettes) legal is not the solution. Out-lawing drugs in order to solve drug problems is much like outlawing sex in order to win the war against AIDS.
In order to solve the drug problem, we must recognize that intoxicants are medicines, treatments for the human condition. Then we must make them as safe and risk-free and, yes, as healthy as possible.
Dream with me for a moment. What would be wrong if we had perfectly safe drugs? It mean drugs that delivered the same effects as our most popular ones but never caused dependency, disease, dysfunction, or death?… Such intoxicants are available right now that are far safer than the ones we currently use…We must begin by recognizing that there is a legitimate place in our society for intoxication.
Excerpts from The Natural Mind—An Investigation of Drugs and the Higher Consciousness by Dr. Andrew Weil, 1985.
Human beings are born with a drive to experiment with ways of changing consciousness…The desire to alter consciousness periodically is an innate, normal drive analogous to hunger or the sexual drive…
The root of the drug problem is the failure of our culture to provide for a basic human need. Once we recognize the importance and value of other states of consciousness, we can begin to teach people, particularly the young, how to satisfy their needs without drugs. The chief advantage of drugs is that they are quick and effective, producing desired results without requiring effort. Their chief disadvantage is that they fail us over time; used regularly and frequently, they do not maintain the experiences sought and, instead, limit our options and freedom…
Altered states of consciousness…appear to be the ways to more effective and fuller use of the nervous system, to development of creative and intellectual faculties, and to attainment of certain kinds of thought that have been deemed exalted by all who have experienced them…(They) may even be a key factor in the present evolution of the human nervous system…To try to thwart (their) expression in individuals and society might be psychologically crippling for people and evolutionarily suicidal for the species.
Excerpt from book Food of the Gods by Terence McKenna, 1992.
The suppression of the natural human fascination with altered states of consciousness and the present perilous situation of all life on earth are intimately and causally connected. When we suppress access to shamanic ecstasy, we close off the refreshing waters of emotion that flow from having a deeply bonded, almost symbiotic relationship to the earth. As a consequence, the maladaptive social styles that encourage overpopulation, resource mismanagement, and environmental toxification develop and maintain themselves.
Copyright 1998 by Carol Moore. Permission to reprint freely granted, provided the article is reprinted in full and that any reprint is accompanied by this copyright statement and the URL http://www.carolmoore.net.

Three Poems From The Golden Dawn (O.T.O.)

A Call of the Sidhe

– A.E.
Tarry thou yet, late lingerer in the twilight’s glory:

Gay are the hills with song: earth’s faery children leave

More dim abodes to roam the primrose-hearted eve,

Opening their glimmering lips to breathe some wondrous story.

Hush, not a whisper! Let your heart alone go dreaming.

Dream unto dream may pass: deep in the heart alone

Murmurs the Mighty One his solemn undertone.

Canst thou not see adown the silver cloudland streaming

Rivers of faery light, dewdrop on dewdrop falling,

Star-fire of silver flames, lighting the dark beneath?

And what enraptured hosts burn on the dusky heath!

Come thou away with them for Heaven to Earth is calling.

These are Earth’s voice—her answer—spirits thronging.

Come to the Land of Youth: the trees grown heavy there

Drop on the purple wave the starry fruit they bear.

Drink: the immortal waters quench the spirit’s longing.

Art thou not now, bright one, all sorrow past, in elation,

Made young with joy, grown brother-hearted with the vast,

Whither thy spirit wending flits the dim stars past

Unto the Light of Lights in burning adoration.


– Aleister Crowley
We two, crag-perched, have watched the moon revive

The drowsy glaciers, and strike sharp upon

Black precipice of ice, and columned stone,

And seen the sun’s first arrows glance, and drive

The stars from their pavillion, like a hive

Stirred by the lightning. The resistless sun

Shatters the crags; and every bastian,

With splintered rock and icicle alive,

Seems to delight in mourning. This we saw,

Alone, together, on the mountain’s edge.

And now, though shadows on Arolla sink,

And old Mont Collom’s icy cliffs withdraw,

Clear memory pencils out the little ledge,

And bends of friendship forge a fresher link.


– W.B. Yeats
The jester walked in the garden:

The garden had fallen still;

He bade his soul rise upward

And stand on her window-sill.
It rose in a straight blue garment,

When owls began to call:

It had grown wise-tongued by thinking

Of a quiet and light footfall;
But the young queen would not listen;

She rose in her pale night-gown;

She drew in the heavy casement

And pushed the latches down.
He bade his heart go to her,

When the owls called out no more;

In a red and quivering garment

It sang to her through the door.
It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming

Of a flutter of flower-like hair;

But she took up her fan from the table

And waved it off on the air.
‘I have cap and bells,’ he pondered,

‘I will send them to her and die’;

And when the morning whitened

He left them where she went by.
She laid them upon her bosom,

Under a cloud of her hair,

And her red lips sang them a love-song

Till stars grew out of the air.
She opened her door and her window,

And the heart and the soul came through,

To her right hand came the red one,

To her left hand came the blue.
They set up a noise like crickets,

A chattering wise and sweet,

And her hair was a folded flower

And the quiet of love in her feet.

Ifantokosmos (woven world)

We may disappear for a few days early next week as we transfer to our new provider; forewarned you have been. The site will start a new evolution then, hopefully with a bit more interactiveness.

Friday Faire:

Arresting the Stone Buddha

Kristi Stassinopoulou “We are flying”

The Lyrics of Kristi Stassinopoulou

Art: Illustrations by Harry Clarke (Thanks Mike!)
Have A Happy Weekend!




Arresting the Stone Buddha
A merchant bearing fifty rolls of cotton goods on his shoulders stopped to rest from the heat of the day beneath a shelter where a large stone Buddha was standing. There he fell asleep, and when he awoke his goods had disappeared. He immediately reported the matter to the police.
A judge named O-oka opened court to investigate. “That stone Buddha must have stolen the goods,” concluded the judge. “He is supposed to care for the welfare of the people, but he has failed to perform his holy duty. Arrest him.”
The police arrested the stone Buddha and carried it into the court. A noisy croud followed the statue, curious to learn what kind of a sentence the judge was about to impose.
When O-oka appeared on the bench he rebuked the boisterous audience. “What right have you people to appear before the court laughing and joking in this manner? You are in contempt of court and subject to a fine and imprisonment.”
The people hastened to apologize. “I shall have to impose a fine on you,” said the judge, “but I will remit it provided each one of you brings one roll of cotton goods to the court within three days. Anyone failing to do this will be arrested.”
One of the rolls of cloth which the people brought was quickly recognized by the merchant as his own, and thus the thief was easily discovered. The merchant recovered his goods, and the cotton rolls were returned to the people.


Kristi Stassinopoulou “We are flying”



The Lyrics of Kristi Stassinopoulou

Ifantokosmos (woven world)
If you enter the woven world

you’ ll see many marvels

and like Alice in Wonderland

you’ ll wander in magic

If you enter the woven world

you won’t easily find a way out

and without Ariadne’s clue

you’ ll be trapped forever in the labyrinth

The days go by
the days go by by the waves

like an ancient ceremony

writing poems and playing

with the spiders and the lizards

making coffee for the visitors

on the beach
the days go by by the waves

in a sweet lazy immobility

watching the seagulls fishing

and the cormorans sunbathing on the rocks

talking with the sand, the read,

and the almirikia trees
day by day the sea embraces me gently

sinking me in a sweet, careless


loosing myself in time

and my mind rests calmly
beyond the cape the world

the world still exists

beyond the cape the world

still exists without me
with the latest

perfume ads,

poor and meaningless

compared to nature’s scents…

with the straight,

white walls and the arches

of the “rooms to let”…

with the clothes that spoil

the body’s beauty…
and I, here

naked fairy

under the stalagmite tree

the days go by by the waves
like an ancient ceremony

the days go by

go by by the waves

Sol Invictus
Born in the heart of winter

Revived in the fires of June

I come and go on earth

Drawing the sun on his chariot

In a glorious ceremony

I dance to cherish his miracle

In the heart of the fire my picture

every sparkle of sweat my drop

I have many faces

All nations cherished me with fire

I have one homeland left on earth

One ceremony that survived time

Masquerades in sheepskin, light for me the fire

Rolling burning garlands down the slopes

I get carried away by the frenzied dance

Of the people jumping over the fires

Fragment Of Poems…. Archilochos

On The Music Box: Oxycanta

I have wanted to cover Archilochos’s poetry for quite awhile… He is practically unknown now, but at one time, he was indeed the Bees Knees for classical works, right after Homer… Sadly, most of his work is in fragments at this point. Maybe one day a cache of his writings will be discovered…. All the comments are extracted from various writers… sorry, no listings of who were available.
Thursday Afternoon – Left Coast of Turtle Island.

The Fragments of Archilochos’s poetry give us a personal, intimate view of this 7th century B.C. poet’s world. This poet-soldier’s poetry and life reflect his era-a time of Greek colonization (not always peaceful), political, social, and economic unrest. Archilochos was the younger son of an aristocratic father and a slave mother. He participated in attempts by his native island of Paros colonize the island of Thasos. Archilochos’s poetry reveals him as a sensitive, superb poet who used his poetry to articulate strong opinions about war, love, religion, sex, poetry, politics, and the human condition. He was a survivor: one poem brags about fleeing the battlefield and living to fight another day-a radical departure from the ‘Homeric code’ of values which prized a warrior’s honor. ‘Our earliest extant example of lyric poetry, Archilochos’s poetry represents a dramatic departure from the Iliad and Odyssey’s ‘epic’ style.
Be bold! That’s one way

of getting through life.

So I turn upon her

and point out that,

faced with the wickedness

of things, she does not shiver.

I prefer to have, after all,

only what pleases me.

Are you so deep in misery

that you think me fallen?

You say I’m lazy, I’m not,

nor any of my kin-people.

I know how to love those

who love me, how to hate.

My enemies I overwhelm

with abuse. The ant bites!
The oracle said to me:

“Return to the city, reconquer.

It is almost in ruins.

With your spear give it glory.

Reign with absolute power,

the admiration of men.

After this long voyage,

return to us from Gortyne.”

Pasture, fish, nor vulture

were you, and 1, returned,

seek an honest woman

ready to be a good wife.

I would hold your hand,

would be near you, would have run

all the way to your house.

I cannot. The ship went down,

and all my wealth with it.

The salvagers have no hope.

You whom the soldiers beat,

you who are all but dead,

how the gods love you!

And I, alone in the dark,

I was promised the light.


Fragment of a Poem by Archilochus

Back away from that, [she said]

And steady on [ ]
Wayward and wildly pounding heart,

There is a girl who lives among us

Who watches you with foolish eyes,
A slender, lovely, graceful girl,

Just budding into supple line,

And you scare her and make her shy.
O daughter of the highborn Amphimedo,

I replied, of the widely remembered

Amphimedo now in the rich earth dead,
There are, do you know, so many pleasures

For young men to choose from

Among the skills of the delicious goddess
It’s green to think the holy one’s the only.

When the shadows go black and quiet,

Let us, you and I alone, and the gods,
Sort these matters out. Fear nothing:

I shall be tame, I shall behave

And reach, if I reach, with a civil hand.
I shall climb the wall and come to the gate.

You’ll not say no, Sweetheart, to this?

I shall come no farther than the garden grass.
Neobulé I have forgotten, believe me, do.

Any man who wants her may have her.

Aiai! She’s past her day, ripening rotten.
The petals of her flower are all brown.

The grace that first she had is shot.

Don’t you agree that she looks like a boy?
A woman like that would drive a man crazy.

She should get herself a job as a scarecrow.

I’d as soon hump her as [kiss a goat’s butt].
A source of joy I’d be to the neighbors

With such a woman as her for a wife!

How could I ever prefer her to you?
You, O innocent, true heart and bold.

Each of her faces is as sharp as the other,

Which way she’s turning you never can guess.
She’d whelp like the proverb’s luckless bitch

Were I to foster get upon her, throwing

Them blind, and all on the wrongest day.
I said no more, but took her hand,

Laid her down in a thousand flowers,

And put my soft wool cloak around her.
I slid my arm under her neck

To still the fear in her eyes,

For she was trembling like a fawn,
Touched her hot breasts with light fingers,

Straddled her neatly and pressed

Against her fine, hard, bared crotch.
I caressed the beauty of all her body

And came in a sudden white spurt

While I was stroking her hair.”

This poem only survives in fragments. It was written by Archilochus, a famous Greek lyric poet of the seventh century. Later Greeks thought he was the greatest poet after Homer, and placed him as an equal beside Pindar and Sophocles. He was especially famous as a writer of invectives, but wrote with a boisterous lust for the joys of life. He was born on Paros, in the Cyclades, but joined a colony on Thasos. He apparently traveled from place to place, driven by economic necessity and wanderlust, until he finally returned to Paros, where he was killed in a fight. His great genius stemmed from his ability to manipulate a number of meters, and he is credited with perfecting iambic metrical forms.
His tumultuous life and a deep sense of anger permeate his poems, which were brutally abusive to his enemies and only slightly less so to his friends. He was particularly incensed with Lycambes, who promised him his daughter Neoboule and then unjustly broke the engagement. The story goes that Archilochus produced such a vicious, torrential outpouring of invective that Lycambes and his family hanged themselves from the shame.
This poem seems to fit within this series of poems, as the poetic persona, presumably Archilochus, seduces a virgin of Neoboule’s house, perhaps a younger sister. Despite its fragmentary nature, it is fairly clear what is going on. The seducer promises the young girl that he will spare her virginity, and not go “all the way”. The “divine thing” is a euphemism for sexual intercourse, and the gate and garden imagery are also common sexual metaphors for women’s bodies. Some scholars argue based on the fragmentary last lines that he does not keep his promise. I, however, interpret them to describe the culmination of intercrural sex, and therefore the girl’s maidenhead is intact, even though deflowering her might fit within the context of insulting the family. The historical context of the poem is too uncertain for it to be allowed to influence its interpretation, and based on what survives, I think the lover does do as promised.
The interest of this poem for this exhibit, besides its beauty as a piece of erotic writing, is in its frank description of a realistic sexual encounter with a sympathy for the female participant. The young virgin is presented in a way that was probably as familiar to the men of Archilochus’ time as it is today. She is shy, reluctant, but curious; it is hard to say what moral stigma, if any, might have been attached to a man who seduced an inexperienced and vulnerable girl. She is worried for her chastity and reputation, but her would-be lover assures her that he will stop short of deflowering her, merely initiating her into the joys of love.
Although the lover’s final goal may be to insult the virgin’s family by attacking her chastity, the actual description of the act is tender and erotic. He is gentle with her, laying her down on a cloak in the soft grass (grass is a potent sexual metaphor for the female pubis, and the image of blooming flowers is a clear connection to the girl’s fresh readiness and virginity) and caressing her breasts and body. Although the girl is described as “still with fear like a fawn”, further connecting her with nature, her lover seems to try to ease her fear with his caress, not heighten it, and we do not find tones of domination or taming in the surviving portion, as we see so often in the Attic records.
Although this poem was composed fully two hundred years before the popularity of Athena Parthenos in Athens, it still demonstrates the same Greek ideal of feminine beauty. Archilochus says that he prefers he freshness and innocence to the “over-ripe” maturity of Neoboule, who, we may interpret, has been around the block a few times. While he is undoubtedly trying to flatter her so that she will give in to his seduction, his sincere description of her loveliness seems to show that a young, naïve, inexperienced girl was something to be coveted. The attraction of a proper citizen girl was in her potential, her ripeness, and her lack of experience; she was fresh and new for only one man. The kylix, with its explicit scenes and grotesque humor, was perhaps the least titillating piece in the exhibit. Contrast it with the young, if not virginal, girl of the tondo—she fits in to a poem like this far better than her unfortunate colleagues. As we have seen in the other pieces of the exhibit, in the ancient Greek world, the promise and potential for sex was often as titillating and erotic as pornographic depictions of the actual act.

John Cooper Clarke…

We were blessed by a visit by Mike Crowley, and his long time friend, John Archdeacon over the last week/end…

Here we are after coming back from a party on Saturday night. We got to have several evenings of in-depth conversation, in between their times at the Ruby on Rails Conference that they were in Portland for.
What I find amazing is the inter-connectiveness of our various lives throughout the years in the UK, and in the US. We knew or had met the same people, were involved in similar activities etc. 1 degree of separation in most cases…
Mike came north with a bit of a cold (actually quite a whopper!) Here he is doing the medicine…

Anyway, a couple of pics, and some good memories!
Todays’ entry features John Cooper Clarke, a British Poet who emerged into the scene during the mid-70′s. I used to collect his albums with quite a fervor, and I thought I would share some of his works with you…. John Archdeacon and I were having a giggle about Cooper Clarke on Saturday night. So, I hope you will enjoy.

The Fabulous Linkage:

Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is: Changing The World One Business At A Time…

Drugs and Poisons

13th century text hides words of Archimedes

“The colonization of each other’s minds is the price we pay for thought.”

Harsh Birth Control Steps Fuel Violence in China

So Last Week: The Teletubbies React to Falwell’s Death



Suggested by my friend Tommy C….


Ralph H. Abraham

The rise of fractal geometry as a new branch of mathematics is intertwined with paradigm shifts in the sciences. First, the physical sciences were impacted, then the biological, and now, the social sciences. What are we to think of the diffusion of fractals into cultural studies? Here, in response to Marilyn Strathern’s important contribution to this volume, One-legged gender, we review the fractalization of anthropology since Donna Haraway’s Cyborgs of 1985.

The fractal wave.
Although the mathematical ingredients of fractal geometry have been evolving for a century or so, we owe the development of this important new branch of mathematics to the genius and courage of one person, Benoit Mandelbrot. In a series of books and papers beginning with Les Objets Fractals: Forme, Hasard et Dimension in 1975, he has not only given the subject its definitive mathematical form, but also pioneered many of its most important applications [1]. Because of its novelty, its codependence with computers, or for some other reason, many respected mathematicians have viciously attacked fractal geometry, and Mandelbrot personally, and this has contributed to a public discomfort associated with the words fractal, geometry, and even mathematics. In my view, however, fractal geometry is an exciting and important new chapter in the history of mathematics [2].
Another confusing factor in this context is the mistaken identification of fractal geometry with chaos theory, another exciting and important new chapter in the history of mathematics. Although fractal objects do sometimes display an aspect of spatial chaos, this is very secondary to their fractal nature. The coast of Britain is fractal, but not spatially chaotic. On the other hand, the main objects of chaos theory (attractors, separatrices, and bifurcations) are fractal, but this is secondary to their chaotic nature. The irrational torus is chaotic, but not at all fractal [3].
What then is a fractal object? In a phrase of Freeman Dyson quoted by Mandelbrot himself,
Fractal is a word invented by Mandelbrot to bring together under one heading a large class of objects that have [played] . . . an historical role . . . in the development of pure mathematics. . . . structures that did not fit the patterns of Euclid and Newton. These new structures were regarded . . . as pathological, . . . kin to the cubist paintings and atonal music that were upsetting established standards of taste in the arts at about the same time. . . . The same pathological structures . . . turn out to be inherent in familiar objects all around us.
By definition, fractal objects have fractal dimension. According to Mandelbrot, they are broken, irregular, fragmented, grainy, ramified, strange, tangled, wrinkled. These wrinkled structures may extend over space, over time, or over both: fractal space-time patterns [4]. For our purposes, a single example will suffice to characterize a fractal: the sandy beach.
The sandy beach
In Mandelbrot’s classic text, the second chapter is titled: How long is the coast of Britain? I will describe the sandy beach in the two-dimensional context of a map. Thus, the ocean and the land are mostly two- dimensional. Before fractal geometry, the map showed the boundary between the ocean and the land as a smooth curve: a one-dimensional coast. But now, thanks to Mandelbrot, we may zoom in on the coast, and see that it has very small islands, even pebbles, in a densely packed structure. Zooming in again, we see grains of sand on the beach, and in the ocean close to the beach. All this is the coast: it has a fractal dimension. Land penetrates into the ocean in a frothy structure of sand, ocean penetrates into the land in a frothy structure of water in the wet sand. Not only is the coast a fractal, with a dimension more than one but less than two, but it is a fractal region: the coastal zone. The ocean and land are not divided by the coast in a binary fashion: they interpenetrate in a fractal geometry. The fractals of chaos theory (attractors, separatrices, and bifurcations) are all of the sandy beach variety.
Math and society
At the dawn of modern anthropology in 1871, Edward Burnett Tylor speculated, in Primitive Culture, that speech may have originated among mankind in the savage state. He then went on to conclude:
From the examination of the Art of Counting a far more definite consequence is shown. It may be confidently asserted, that not only is this important art found in a rudimentary state among savage tribes, but that satisfactory evidence proves numeration to have been developed by rational invention from this low state to that in which we ourselves possess it.

And since 1871, rational invention has provides us with transfinite arithmetic, the incompleteness of formal mathematics, topology, the classification of finite groups, chaos theory, fractal geometry, and numerous other fabulous mathematical discoveries. Does the evolution of mathematics from primitive counting to computer graphics follow, lead, or accompany, the evolution of cultural history?
Flinders Petrie found, in excavating ancient Egypt, that mathematics held a commanding lead in the sequence of shifts comprising a canonical revolution of culture [5]. This possibility has dominated my own directions, in the pursuit of mathematical research and application, over the past decade or two. My early experience in the successful revolution of physics by chaos theory in the 1960s and early 1970s gave me a powerful optimism: I had seen the power of new mathematics for change. In the 1970s and early 1980s, I worked toward a similar transformation in the biological sciences. This came more slowly, due in part to a math anxiety and avoidance reflex which unfortunately has poisoned our society, yet we are now experiencing the chaos revolution of biology. The future of the social sciences, however, is hard to foresee. For example, in May of 1992 I was invited to UCLA to give a workshop on chaos theory in the Economics Department. During the first lecture, riots began in the streets outside. The lectures were postponed for a week or so. After resuming, I asked the audience — a large group of professional economists, professors, and graduate students from several continents — if they thought the new mathematics they were learning and applying in their theoretical models could be useful in mitigating the economic problems underlying the riots. Unanimously, they shouted “No! Our work is only theoretical. It is a kind of game. It cannot be applied.” Well, I disagree. I believe that the diffusion of chaos theory and fractal geometry into the social sciences is essential to our future evolution, just as the Art of Counting was essential to the Origins of Culture. It is significant that chaos theory has already entered the field of literature [6].
Fractal people
Now I will briefly describe some fractal concepts in the context of cultural studies, in temporal order. These include all the examples I have seen, but there must be many others.
Donna J. Haraway, A cyborg manifesto: science, technology, and socialist-feminism in the late twentieth century, 1985.
In this long essay, the author (an historian of science) analyzes the cyborg, an integral being who is part human, part machine. Without explicit reference to fractal geometry, her vision is essentially fractal [7]. In fact, she writes: Cyborg `sex’ restores some of the lovely replicative baroque of ferns and invertebrates . . . thus connecting implicitly with fractal geometry. She describes three crucial boundary breakdowns: human/animal, animal- human/machine, and physical/non-physical. She extends these examples to a long list of fractured identities — self/other, mind/body, culture/nature, male/female, etc — of political significance. This pathfinding analysis leads the way to a fractal method (the sandy beach) for the deconstruction of all binaries, and the reconstruction of self-images (and scientific categories) as fractal identities.
Ron Eglash and Peter Broadwell, Fractal geometry in traditional African architecture, 1989. In this provocative seven page research report, the authors (scholars of the history of consciousness and computational mathematics) study the fractal structure of traditional architecture and city plan, in a tribal village in Mali. The fractal nature of the arabesque style is also noted [8]. This is the first explicit application, to my knowledge, of fractal concepts to social theory.
Will McWhinney, Fractals cast no shadows, 1990. In this highly original twelve-page essay, the author describes the border between good and evil as a fractal boundary. This model is applied to the problem of the management of evil, in two paradigms: holism and arabesque [9]. This is the first explicit application, to my knowledge, of fractal concepts to the human psyche. The fractal concept applied is that of the sandy beach.
Marilyn Strathern, The mediation of emotion, 1990. Borrowing from Haraway, the author (an anthropologist) introduces the concept of a person who is neither singular nor plural. Again, the fractal concept was not explicitly applied [10]. A significant development here is the application of the fractal concept of self-similarity across scales. This is applied to the field of information faced by the ethnographer: data of individuals, societies, histories and myths, etc. The view of a culture (or an individual mind) from the perspective of fractal geometry is new and important: the field of information within which we live is a sandy beach.
Roy Wagner, The fractal person, 1991. Here, in an essay of fifteen pages, the concept of a fractal boundary in the psyche (as in McWhinney, 1990) is explicitly applied to the works of Haraway (1985) and Strathern (1990). Inspired particularly by an early draft of Strathern (1992), Wagner develops these ideas further, applying them to the boundary between big-men and great-men systems [11]. He sees the fractal identity of the individual within a relational network as an aspect of Melanesian society.
Marilyn Strathern, Partial Connections, 1992. In this recent book, the fractal concept of self-similarity across scales is extensively applied to the complexity and quantity of anthropological materials: cultural data, ethnographic recordings, etc., as in Strathern (1990).
Marilyn Strathern, One-legged gender, 1992. The last few pages of this paper, published in this volume, return to these fractal concepts, in a further evolution from Haraway (1985), Strathern (1990), Wagner (1991), and Strathern (1992). As in her earlier works and in Wagner, the fractal concept of self-similarity across spatial scales is applied and developed. Beyond this extension of her earlier work, the sandy beach aspect of fractal geometry is applied to gender. This carries further the work of Haraway (1985) on the fractal deconstruction of binaries.
The fractalization of the gender binary — so fundamental to social structures throughout the animal kingdom — is radical and difficult. Strathern carries it off successfully in this piece, completing a new milestone in the sequence begun in Haraway (1985). We now have a model application of the new mathematics of fractals to anthropology, which may be profitably be repeated and extended in future works, enriching both anthropology and mathematics and advancing the paradigm shift now underway in the social sciences.
5. What next?
To many pure mathematicians, especially those to whom fractal geometry itself is not mathematics but heresy, these applications of new mathematical ideas to anthropology will seem anathema, vulgarization, fractal evil itself. In my perspective, however, they are the first steps of a major paradigm shift, a critical renewal arriving in timely fashion, of an entire area of cultural studies. Let us encourage this trend, which could be advanced spectacularly by a new generation of students well-trained in mathematics as well as in a social or human science. If so, a long lost partnership between mathematics and cultural history and evolution may be restored, jump-starting a social transformation to a sustainable civilization of peace, diversity, and understanding, such as the Garden of Eden of the Goddess envisioned by Marija Gimbutas in the prehistoric partnership society of Old Europe. And in this jump-start, the fractal view of the human mind and the social field of information, pioneered by Donna Haraway and Marilyn Strathern, is a critical step off the sandy beach of Pythagoras, Plato, and Euclid, and into the post-Pythagorean sea of Mandelbrot. For the future of cultural studies, this is a great leap into space.
It is a pleasure to
acknowledge the encouragement of Sarah Williams, and the generosity of Ron Eglash and Will McWhinney in sharing their ideas.
[1] For the most recent comprehensive treatment, see (Mandelbrot, 1982).

[2] For Mandelbrot’s view, see his Foreword: fractals and the rebirth of experimental mathematics, in (Peitgen, 1992).

[3] For a visual introduction to these ideas, see (Abraham, 1992).

[4] For the fractals of music and speech, see (Voss, 1988) , and (Eglash, 1991).

[5] See (Petrie, 1912).

[6] See (Hayles, 1990).

[7] See (Haraway, 1985) , also reprinted as Ch. 8 in (Haraway, 1990).

[8] See (Eglash, 1989).

[9] See (McWhinney, 1990), as well as the Epilogue of (McWhinney, 1992).

[10] See (Strathern, 1990) , and also (Strathern, 1992).

[11] See (Wagner, 1991).
Abraham, 1992. Ralph H. Abraham and Christopher D. Shaw, Dynamics, the Geometry of Behavior, Second Edition, Addison-Wesley, Reading, MA (1992).
Eglash, 1989. Ron Eglash and Peter Broadwell, “Fractal geometry in traditional African architecture,” The Dynamics Newsletter Vol. 3:4 pp. 3-9 (July, 1989).
Eglash, 1991. Ron Eglash, The cybernetics of chaos, Ph.D. thesis, University of California, Santa Cruz, CA (1991).
Haraway, . Donna Haraway, “Manifesto for cyborgs: science, technology, and socialist feminism in the 1980s,” Socialist Review Vol. 80 pp. 65-108 (1985 ).
Haraway, . Donna Haraway, Simians, Cyborgs, and Women, Routledge, New York (1990 ).
Hayles, 1990. N. Katherine Hayles, Chaos Bound: Orderly Disorder in Contemporary Literature and Science, Cornell University Press, Ithaca NY (1990).
Mandelbrot, . Benoit Mandelbrot, The Fractal Geometry of Nature, Freeman, San Francisco (1982 ).
McWhinney, 1990. Will McWhinney, “Fractals cast no shadows,” IS Journal Vol. 5:1 pp. 9-12 (Spring, 1990).
McWhinney, 1992. Will McWhinney, Paths of Change, Sage (1992).
Peitgen, . Heinz-Otto Peitgen, Hartmut Jurgens, and Dietmar Saupe, Fractals for the Classroom: Part One, Introduction to Fractals and Chaos, Springer-Verlag, Berlin (1992 ).
Petrie, 1911. William M. Flinders Petrie, The Revolutions of Civilizations, I, C (1911).
Strathern, . Marilyn Strathern, “The mediation of emotion,” Melanesian Manuscript Series Vol. 0113:1(1990 ).
Strathern, . Marilyn Strathern, Partial Connections, Rowman & Littlefield, London (1992 ).
Voss, 1988. Richard F. Voss, “Fractals in nature,” in The Science of Fractal Images, ed. H.-O. Peitgen and D. Saupe,Springer-Verlag, New York (1988).
Wagner, . Roy Wagner, “The fractal person,” pp. 159-173 in Big Men and Great Men: the Personifications of Power, ed. M. Godelier and M. Strathern,Cambridge University Press, Cambridge (1991 ).

The Charmed John Cooper Clarke

I Wanna Be Yours
let me be your vacuum cleaner

breathing in your dust

let me be your ford cortina

i will never rust

if you like your coffee hot

let me be your coffee pot

you call the shots

i wanna be yours
let me be your raincoat

for those frequent rainy days

let me be your dreamboat

when you wanna sail away

let me be your teddy bear

take me with you anywhere

i don’t care

i wanna be yours
let me be your electric meter

i will not run out

let me be the electric heater

you get cold without

let me be your setting lotion

hold your hair with deep devotion

deep as the deep atlantic ocean

that’s how deep is my emotion

deep deep deep deep de deep deep

i don’t wanna be hers

i wanna be yours

Each drop of blood a rose shall be

all sorrow shall be dust

blown by breezes to the sea

whose fingers thrust

into the corners of restless night

where creatures of the deep

avoid the flashing harbour lights

in search of endless sleep

there were executions

somebody had to pay

apart from the revolution

it’s another working day
a million angels sing

peasants eating cake

wedding bells are ringing

the room begins to shake

the children free from measles all

have healthy teeth and gums

they live in the cathedrals

and worship in the slums

poverty and pollution

have all swept away

apart from the revolution

it’s another working day

Beasley Street


A Distant Relation
A family affair.

We get the picture,

We’re in it somewhere.

Permanent fixtures.

People who care.

Stranger beware,

This is a family affair
All of our yesterday’s.

Familiar rings,

I have to get away,

Its breaking my heart strings.

We have a drink,

On special occasions,

It makes me think,

About distant relations,
A family affair.

Always a mixture.

Of people in chairs,

Permanent fixtures,

With pressure to bear.

People who care.

This is a family affair.
Holiday snapshots.

Of you and myself.

Acting the crackpot,

Like everyone else.
The Bermuda shorts,

and the summer creations,

Bringing thoughts,

of those distant relations.
A family affair.
We brake ornaments, and get them repaired,

We bring up past events that hang in the air.
This is a family affair.
All our yesterdays.

Familiar rings.

I have to get away, from some sourroundings.

Weddings and funerals, special occasions,

And all the usual distant relations.
A family affair.
Look at this picture.

We’re in there, look there.

Permanent fixtures.

People who care,

Whisper who dares,

This is a family affair.

no falling chimes, no call to arms,

no siren whines, no false alarms,

down the telephone lines

at the side of the farms

arm in arm, down hemlock row

where the flowers of evil… never grow

under one heartbeat, heavy but slow

walking together in the purple snow charming breezes, bring the rain

it’s gonna run like rats down the gutters and the drains

it’s gonna run like a river

down the window panes

down a web of cracks, like twisted veins

a stranger… calls my name between the rollerama and the junk yard

where the panorama looks like Mars

and the belladonna looks like stars

behind the Panamanian bars

in the dying gardens… down below

walking together in the purple snow.


part one…
this disc concerns those those pouting prima-donnas

found within the swelling j. arthur ranks of the sexational psycle sluts

those nubile nihilists of the north circular

the lean leonine leatherette lovelies of the leeds intersection

luftwaffe angels locked in a pagan paradise
no cash

a passion for trash

the tough madonna whose cro-magnon face and crab nebular curves haunt the highways of the UK, whose harsh credo captures the collective libido like lariats

their lips pushed in a neon-arc of dodgems

delightfully disciplined, dumb but deluxe

deliciously deliciously deranged
twin-wheeled existentialists steeped in the sterile excrements of a doomed democracy, whose post-nietzschean sensibilities reject the bovine gregariousness of a senile oligarchy

whose god is below zero, whose hero is a dead boy

condemned to drift like forgotten sputniks in the fool’s orbit bound for a victim’s future

in the pleasure dromes and ersatz bodega bars of the free world the mechanics of love grind like organs of iron to a standstill
hands behind your backs

in a noxious gas of cheek to cheek totalitarianism

hail the psycle sluts
go go the gland gringos

for the gonad a-go-go age of compulsory cunnilingusa

part two…
the dirty thirty

the naughty forty

the shifty fifty

the filthy five

zips, clips, whips and chains

wait for you to arrive

hell’s angels by the busload

stoned stupid, how they strut

smoked woodbines till they’re banjoed

and smirk at the swedish smut
life on the straight and narrow path

drives you off your nut

by day you are psycopath

by night you’re a psycle slut
on a bsa with two bald tires

you drove a million miles

you cut your hair with rusty pliers

and you suffer with the pillion piles

you got built in obsolescence

oh you got guts

but you don’t reach adolescence

slow down psycle sluts
motor cycle michael

wants to buy a tank

only twenty-nine years old

and he’s learning how to wank

yesterday he was in the groove

today he’s in a rut

my how the moments move

brut fun psycle sluts
he cacks on your originals

he peepees on his boots

he makes love like a footballer

he dribbles before he shoots

the goings on at the gang-bang ball

made the citizen’s tut-tut-tut

but, what do you care, piss all

you tell ‘em psycle sluts
now your boyfriend burned his jacket

ticket expired

tyres are knackered

knackers are tired
you can tell your tale to the gutter press

get paid to peddle smut

now you’ve ridden the road of excess

that leads to the psycle sluts
or you can dine and whine on stuff that’s bound to give you boils

hot dogs direct from cruft’s

done in diesel oil

or the burger joint around the bend

where the meals thank christ are skimpy

for you that’s how the world could end

not with a bang but a wimpy.

Seven Hundred Years…

On The Music Box: Mercan Dede

Sunday was Rumi’s 700th Birthday, so with a bit of prompting from Mike Crowley, I put this together to celebrate…

Hope You enjoy!
The Poetry of Rumi – Coleman Barks & Robert Bly perform


Never be without remembrance of Him,

for His remembrance

gives strength and wings

to the bird of the Spirit.

If that objective of yours

is fully realized, that is

“Light upon Light”…
…But at the very least, by

practicing God’s remembrance

your inner being

will be illuminated

little by little and

you will achieve

some measure of detachment

from the world.

“One went to the door of the Beloved and

knocked. A voice asked, ‘Who is there?’

He answered, ‘It is I.’
The voice said, ‘There is no room for Me and Thee.’

The door was shut.
After a year of solitude and deprivation he returned and knocked.

A voice from within asked, ‘Who is there?’

The man said, ‘It is Thee.’

The door was opened for him.”

Thou and I
Joyful the moment when we sat in the bower, Thou and I;

In two forms and with two faces – with one soul, Thou and I.
The colour of the garden and the song of the birds give the elixir of immortality

The instant we come into the orchard, Thou and I.
The stars of Heaven come out to look upon us –

We shall show the moon herself to them, Thou and I.
Thou and I, with no ‘Thou’ or ‘I’, shall become one through our tasting;

Happy, safe from idle talking, Thou and I.
The spirited parrots of heaven will envy us –

Wen we shall laugh in such a way, Thou and I.
This is stranger, that Thou and I, in this corner here…

Are both in one breath here and there – Thou and I.

The garden of


is green without


and yields many


other than sorrow

and joy.

Love is beyond either


without spring,

without autumn,

it is always fresh.

Spring Giddiness
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty

and frightened. Don’t open the door to the study

and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.

Let the beauty we love be what we do.

There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.

Don’t go back to sleep.

You must ask for what you really want.

Don’t go back to sleep.

People are going back and forth across the doorsill

where the two worlds touch.

The door is round and open.

Don’t go back to sleep.
I would love to kiss you.

The price of kissing is your life.

Now my loving is running toward my life shouting,

What a bargain, let’s buy it.
Daylight, full of small dancing particles

and the one great turning, our souls

are dancing with you, without feet, they dance.

Can you see them when I whisper in your ear?
All day and night, music,

a quiet, bright

reedsong. If it

fades, we fade.

Art as Flirtation and Surrender
In your light I learn how to love.

In your beauty, how to make poems.

You dance inside my chest,

where no one sees you,

but sometimes I do,

and that sight becomes this art.

Love Dogs


Viewing the Distant Shore….

Featuring the art of Jesse M. King… who I have had a long love for, and her work has appeared here before of course…

This entry is all over the place, so dig in.
Our friend Mike Crowley is visiting as he is at a seminar in town for programmers. Nice evenings, long talks… hilarity!
Hope your weekend is a sweet one.
Download that magazine!

Listen to the radio!
Link Of The Day:Seymour Busts it open!

CNN:Busted-Bush Admin Funding Al Qaeda w/Iraq $$ Thru Lebanon Govt.

The Wisdom Of Jerry Falwell
– “If you’re not a born-again Christian, you’re a failure as a human being.”
– “I hope I live to see the day when, as in the early days of our country, we won’t have any public schools. The churches will have taken them over again and Christians will be running them. What a happy day that will be!”
– “Grown men should not be having sex with prostitutes unless they are married to them.”
– “There is no separation of church and state. Modern US Supreme Courts have raped the Constitution and raped the Christian faith and raped the churches by misinterpreting what the Founders had in mind in the First Amendment to the Constitution.”
– “AIDS is the wrath of a just God against homosexuals. To oppose it would be like an Israelite jumping in the Red Sea to save one of Pharaoh’s charioteers.”
– “Textbooks are Soviet propaganda.”
– “The whole (global warming) thing is created to destroy America’s free enterprise system and our economic stability.”
– “(9/11 is the result of) throwing God out of the public square, out of the schools, the abortionists have got to bear some burden for this because God will not be mocked and when we destroy 40 million little innocent babies, we make God mad…I really believe that the pagans and the abortionists and the feminists and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People for the American Way, all of them who try to secularize America…I point the thing in their face and say you helped this happen.”

Gold-Tree and Silver-Tree

Once upon a time there was a king who had a wife, whose name was Silver-tree, and a daughter, whose name was Gold-tree. On a certain day of the days, Gold-tree and Silver-tree went to a glen, where there was a well, and in it there was a trout.
Said Silver-tree, “Troutie, bonny little fellow, am not I the most beautiful queen in the world?”
“Oh indeed you are not.”
“Who then?”
“Why, Gold-tree, your daughter.”
Silver-tree went home, blind with rage. She lay down on the bed, and vowed she would never be well until she could get the heart and the liver of Gold-tree, her daughter, to eat.
At nightfall the king came home, and it was told him that Silver-tree, his wife, was very ill. He went where she was, and asked her what was wrong with her.
“Oh! only a thing which you may heal if you like.”
“Oh! indeed there is nothing at all which I could do for you that I would not do.”
“If I get the heart and the liver of Gold-tree, my daughter, to eat, I shall be well.”
Now it happened about this time that the son of a great king had come from abroad to ask Gold-tree for marrying. The King now agreed to this, and they went abroad.
The king then went and sent his lads to the hunting-hill for a he-goat, and he gave its heart and its liver to his wife to eat; and she rose well and healthy.
A year after this Silver-tree went to the glen, where there was the well in which there was the trout.
“Troutie, bonny little fellow,” said she, ” am not I the most beautiful queen in the world?”
“Oh! indeed you are not.”
“Who then?”
“Why, Gold-tree, your daughter.”
“Oh! well, it is long since she was living. It is a year since I ate her heart and liver.”
“Oh! indeed she is not dead. She is married to a great prince abroad.”
Silver-tree went home, and begged the king to put the long-ship in order, and said, “I am going to see my dear Gold-tree, for it is so long since I saw her.” The long-ship was put in order, and they went away.
It was Silver-tree herself that was at the helm, and she steered the ship so well that they were not long at all hefore they arrived.
The prince was out hunting on the hills. Gold-tree knew the long-ship of her father coming.
“Oh!” said she to the servants, “my mother is coming, and she will kill me.”
“She shall not kill you at all; we will lock you in a room where she cannot get near you.”
This is how it was done; and when Silver-tree came ashore, she began to cry out: “Come to meet your own mother, when she comes to see you,” Gold-tree said that she could not, that she was locked in the room, and that she could not get out of it.
“Will you not put out,” said Silver-tree, “your little finger through the keyhole, so that your own mother may give a kiss to it?”
She put out her little finger, and Silver-tree went and put a poisoned stab in it, and Gold-tree fell dead.
When the prince came home, and found Gold-tree dead, he was in great sorrow, and when he saw how beautiful she was, he did not bury her at all, but he locked her in a room where nobody would get near her. In the course of time he married again, and the whole house was under the hand of this wife but one room, and he himself always kept the key of that room. On a certain day of the days he forgot to take the key with him, and the second wife got into the room. What did she see there but the most beautiful woman that she ever saw.
She began to turn and try to wake her, and she noticed the poisoned stab in her finger. She took the stab out, and Gold-tree rose alive, as beautiful as she was ever.
At the fall of night the prince came home from the hunting-hill, looking very downcast.
“What gift,” said his wife, “would you give me that I could make you laugh?”
“Oh! indeed, nothing could make me laugh, except Gold-tree were to come alive again.”
“Well, you’ll find her alive down there in the room.”
When the prince saw Gold-tree alive he made great rejoicings, and he began to kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her. Said the second wife, “Since she is the first one you had it is better for you to stick to her, and I will go away.”
“Oh! indeed you shall not go away, but I shall have both of you.”
At the end of the year, Silver-tree went to the glen, where there was the well, in which there was the trout.
“Troutie, bonny little fellow,” said she, “am not I the most beautiful queen in the world?”
“Oh! indeed you are not.”
“Who then?”
“Why, Gold-tree, your daughter.”
“Oh! well, she is not alive. It is a year since I put the poisoned stab into her finger.”

“Oh! indeed she is not dead at all, at all.”
Silver-tree went home, and begged the king to put the long-ship in order, for that she was going to see her dear Gold-tree, as it was so long since she saw her. The long-ship was put in order, and they went away. It was Silver-tree herself that was at the helm, and she steered the ship so well that they were not long at all before they arrived.
The prince was out hunting on the hills. Gold-tree knew her father’s ship coming.
“Oh!” said she, “my mother is coming, and she will kill me.”
“Not at all,” said the second wife; “we will go down to meet her.”
Silver-tree came ashore. “Come down, Gold-tree, love,” said she, “for your own mother has come to you with a precious drink.”
“It is a custom in this country,” said the second wife, “that the person who offers a drink takes a draught out of it first.”
Silver-tree put her mouth to it, and the second wife went and struck it so that some of it went down her throat, and she fell dead. They had only to carry her home a dead corpse and bury her.
The prince and his two wives were long alive after this, pleased and peaceful.
I left them there.


Three 19th Century Irish Poems…

A Lamentation: For the Death of Sir Maurice Fitzgerald, Knight, of Kerry, who was killed in Flanders, 1642.

-From The Irish, Clarence Mangan
There was lifted up one voice of woe,

One lament of more than mortal grief,

Through the wide South to and fro,

For a fallen Chief.

In the dead of night that cry thrilled through me,

I looked out upon the midnight air?

My own soul was all as gloomy,

As I knelt in prayer.
O’er Loch Gur, that night, once–twice-yea, thrice–

Passed a wail of anguish for the Brave

That half curled into ice

Its moon-mirroring wave.

Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in

Choral swell from Ogra’s dark ravine,

And Mogeely’s Phantom Women

Mourned the Geraldine!
Far on Carah Mona’s emerald plains

Shrieks and sighs were blended many hours,

And Fermoy in fitful strains

Answered from her towers.

Youghal, Keenalmeaky, Eemokilly,

Mourned in concert, and their piercing keen

Woke wondering life the stilly

Glens of Inchiqueen.
From Loughmoe to yellow Dunanore

There was fear; the traders of Tralee

Gathered up their golden store,

And prepared to flee;

For, in ship and hall from night till morning,

Showed the first faint beamings of the sun,

All the foreigners heard the warning

Of the Dreaded One!
“This,” they spake, “portendeth death to us,

If we fly not swiftly from our fate!

Self-conceited idiots! thus

Ravingly to prate!

Not for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters

Ring laments like those by shore and sea!

Not for churls with souls like hucksters

Waileth our Banshee!
For the high Milesian race alone

Ever flows the music of her woe!

For slain heir to bygone throne,

And for Chief laid low!

Hark! … Again, methinks, I hear her weeping

Yonder! is she near me now, as then?

Or was but the night-wind sweeping

Down the hollow glen?

A Dream

– William Allingham

I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;

I went to the window to see the sight;

All the Dead that ever I knew

Going one by one and two by two.
On they pass’d, and on they pass’d;

Townsfellows all, from first to last;

Born in the moonlight of the lane,

Quench’d in the heavy shadow again.
Schoolmates, marching as when we play’d

At soldiers once–but now more staid;

Those were the strangest sight to me

Who were drown’d, I knew, in the awful sea.
Straight and handsome folk; bent and weak, too;

Some that I loved, and gasp’d to speak to;

Some but a day in their churchyard bed;

Some that I had not known were dead.
A long, long crowd–where each seem’d lonely,

Yet of them all there was one, one only,

Raised a head or look’d my way.

She linger’d a moment,–she might not stay.
How long since I saw that fair pale face!

Ah! Mother dear! might I only place

My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,

While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest!
On, on, a moving bridge they made

Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,

Young and old, women and men;

Many long-forgot, but remember’d then.
And first there came a bitter laughter;

A sound of tears the moment after;

And then a music so lofty and gay,

That every morning, day by day,

I strive to recall it if I may.

Song Of the Ghost

-Alfred Percival Graves
When all were dreaming

But Pastheen Power,

A light came streaming

Beneath her bower:

A heavy foot

At her door delayed,

A heavy hand

On the latch was laid.
“Now who dare venture,

At this dark hour,

Unbid to enter

My maiden bower?”

“Dear Pastheen, open

The door to me,

And your true lover

You’ll surely see.”
“My own true lover,

So tall and brave,

Lives exiled over

The angry wave.”

“Your true love’s body

Lies on the bier,

His faithful spirit

Is with you here.”
“His look was cheerful,

His voice was gay;

Your speech is fearful,

Your face is grey;

And sad and sunken

Your eye of blue,

But Patrick, Patrick,

Alas! ’tis you!”
Ere dawn was breaking

She heard below

The two cocks shaking

Their wings to crow. p. 136

“Oh, hush you, hush you,

Both red and grey,

Or will you hurry

My love away.
“Oh, hush your crowing,

Both grey and red,

Or he’ll be going

To join the dead;

Or, cease from calling

His ghost to the mould,

And I’ll come crowning

Your combs with gold.”
When all were dreaming

But Pastheen Power,

A light went streaming

From out her bower,

And on the morrow,

When they awoke,

They knew that sorrow

Her heart had broke.


Hey There….
A little something to hold you over until things change again around here…
Bright Blessings,
The Links:

The Death of Peacekeeping and the Battle for Canada’s Soul

I- Doser….

“Cocaine” makers spin new “Censored” name

Where do visits from the dead fall under city codes?



[This is a very old story: the Danes who used to fight with the English in King Alfred’s time knew this story. They have carved on the rocks pictures of some of the things that happen in the tale, and those carvings may still be seen. Because it is so old and so beautiful the story is told here again, but it has a sad ending–indeed it is all sad, and all about fighting and killing, as might be expected from the Danes.]
Onceupon a time there was a King in the North who had won many wars, but now he was old. Yet he took a new wife, and then another Prince, who wanted to have married her, came up against him with a great army. The old King went out and fought bravely, but at last his sword broke, and he was wounded and his men fled. But in the night, when the battle was over, his young wife came out and searched for him among the slain, and at last she found him, and asked whether he might be healed. But he said `No,’ his luck was gone, his sword was broken, and he must die. And he told her that she would have a son, and that son would be a great warrior, and would avenge him on the other King, his enemy. And he bade her keep the broken pieces of the sword, to make a new sword for his son, and that blade should be called Gram.
Then he died. And his wife called her maid to her and said, `Let us change clothes, and you shall be called by my name, and I by yours, lest the enemy finds us.’
So this was done, and they hid in a wood, but there some strangers met them and carried them off in a ship to Denmark. And when they were brought before the King, he thought the maid looked like a Queen, and the Queen like a maid. So he asked the Queen, `How do you know in the dark of night whether the hours are wearing to the morning?’
And she said:
`I know because, when I was younger, I used to have to rise and light the fires, and still I waken at the same time.’
`A strange Queen to light the fires,’ thought the King.
Then he asked the Queen, who was dressed like a maid, `How do you know in the dark of night whether the hours are wearing near the dawn?’
`My father gave me a gold ring,’ said she, `and always, ere the dawning, it grows cold on my finger.’
`A rich house where the maids wore gold,’ said the King. `Truly you are no maid, but a King’s daughter.’
So he treated her royally, and as time went on she had a son called Sigurd, a beautiful boy and very strong. He had a tutor to be with him, and once the tutor bade him go to the King and ask for a horse.
`Choose a horse for yourself,’ said the King; and Sigurd went to the wood, and there he met an old man with a white beard, and said, `Come! help me in horse-choosing.’
Then the old man said, `Drive all the horses into the river, and choose the one that swims across.’
So Sigurd drove them, and only one swam across. Sigurd chose him: his name was Grani, and he came of Sleipnir’s breed, and was the best horse in the world. For Sleipnir was the horse of Odin, the God of the North, and was as swift as the wind.
But a day or two later his tutor said to Sigurd, `There is a great treasure of gold hidden not far from here, and it would become you to win it.’
But Sigurd answered, `I have heard stories of that treasure, and I know that the dragon Fafnir guards it, and he is so huge and wicked that no man dares to go near him.’
`He is no bigger than other dragons,’ said the tutor, `and if you were as brave as your father you would not fear him.’
`I am no coward,’ says Sigurd; `why do you want me to fight with this dragon?’
Then his tutor, whose name was Regin, told him that all this great hoard of red gold had once belonged to his own father. And his father had three sons–the first was Fafnir, the Dragon; the next was Otter, who could put on the shape of an otter when he liked; and the next was himself, Regin, and he was a great smith and maker of swords.
Now there was at that time a dwarf called Andvari, who lived in a pool beneath a waterfall, and there he had hidden a great hoard of gold. And one day Otter had been fishing there, and had killed a salmon and eaten it, and was sleeping, like an otter, on a stone. Then someone came by, and threw a stone at the otter and killed it, and flayed off the skin, and took it to the house of Otter’s father. Then he knew his son was dead, and to punish the person who had killed him he said he must have the Otter’s skin filled with gold, and covered all over with red gold, or it should go worse with him. Then the person who had killed Otter went down and caught the Dwarf who owned all the treasure and took it from him.
Only one ring was left, which the Dwarf wore, and even that was taken from him.
Then the poor Dwarf was very angry, and he prayed that the gold might never bring any but bad luck to all the men who might own it, for ever.
Then the otter skin was filled with gold and covered with gold, all but one hair, and that was covered with the poor Dwarf’s last ring.
But it brought good luck to nobody. First Fafnir, the Dragon, killed his own father, and then he went and wallowed on the gold, and would let his brother have none, and no man dared go near it.
When Sigurd heard the story he said to Regin:
`Make me a good sword that I may kill this Dragon.’
So Regin made a sword, and Sigurd tried it with a blow on a lump of iron, and the sword broke.
Another sword he made, and Sigurd broke that too.
Then Sigurd went to his mother, and asked for the broken pieces of his father’s blade, and gave them to Regin. And he hammered and wrought them into a new sword, so sharp that fire seemed to burn along its edges.
Sigurd tried this blade on the lump of iron, and it did not break, but split the iron in two. Then he threw a lock of wool into the river, and when it floated down against the sword it was cut into two pieces. So Sigurd said that sword would do. But before he went against the Dragon he led an army to fight the men who had killed his father, and he slew their King, and took all his wealth, and went home.
When he had been at home a few days, he rode out with Regin one morning to the heath where the Dragon used to lie. Then he saw the track which the Dragon made when he went to a cliff to drink, and the track was as if a great river had rolled along and left a deep valley.
Then Sigurd went down into that deep place, and dug many pits in it, and in one of the pits he lay hidden with his sword drawn. There he waited, and presently the earth began to shake with the weight of the Dragon as he crawled to the water. And a cloud of venom flew before him as he snorted and roared, so that it would have been death to stand before him.
But Sigurd waited till half of him had crawled over the pit, and then he thrust the sword Gram right into his very heart.
Then the Dragon lashed with his tail till stones broke and trees crashed about him.
Then he spoke, as he died, and said:
`Whoever thou art that hast slain me this gold shall be thy ruin, and the ruin of all who own it.’
Sigurd said:
`I would touch none of it if by losing it I should never die. But all men die, and no brave man lets death frighten him from his desire. Die thou, Fafnir,’ and then Fafnir died.
And after that Sigurd was called Fafnir’s Bane, and Dragonslayer.
Then Sigurd rode back, and met Regin, and Regin asked him to roast Fafnir’s heart and let him taste of it.
So Sigurd put the heart of Fafnir on a stake, and roasted it. But it chanced that he touched it with his finger, and it burned him. Then he put his finger in his mouth, and so tasted the heart of Fafnir.
Then immediately he understood the language of birds, and he heard the Woodpeckers say:
`There is Sigurd roasting Fafnir’s heart for another, when he should taste of it himself and learn all wisdom.’
The next bird said:
`There lies Regin, ready to bet
ray Sigurd, who trusts him.’
The third bird said:
`Let him cut off Regin’s head, and keep all the gold to himself.’
The fourth bird said:
`That let him do, and then ride over Hindfell, to the place where Brynhild sleeps.’
When Sigurd heard all this, and how Regin was plotting to betray him, he cut off Regin’s head with one blow of the sword Gram.
Then all ‘he birds broke out singing:
`We know a fair maid, A fair maiden sleeping; Sigurd, be not afraid, Sigurd, win thou the maid Fortune is keeping.
`High over Hindfell Red fire is flaming, There doth the maiden dwell She that should love thee well, Meet for thy taming.
`There must she sleep till thou Comest for her waking Rise up and ride, for now Sure she will swear the vow Fearless of breaking.’
Then Sigurd remembered how the story went that somewhere, far away, there was a beautiful lady enchanted. She was under a spell, so that she must always sleep in a castle surrounded by flaming fire; there she must sleep for ever till there came a knight who would ride through the fire and waken her. There he determined to go, but first he rode right down the horrible trail of Fafnir. And Fafnir had lived in a cave with iron doors, a cave dug deep down in the earth, and full of gold bracelets, and crowns, and rings; and there, too, Sigurd found the Helm of Dread, a golden helmet, and whoever wears it is invisible. All these he piled on the back of the good horse Grani, and then he rode south to Hindfell.
Now it was night, and on the crest of the hill Sigurd saw a red fire blazing up into the sky, and within the flame a castle, and a banner on the topmost tower. Then he set the horse Grani at the fire, and he leaped through it lightly, as if it had been through the heather. So Sigurd went within the castle door, and there he saw someone sleeping, clad all in armour. Then he took the helmet off the head of the sleeper, and behold, she was a most beautiful lady. And she wakened and said, `Ah! is it Sigurd, Sigmund’s son, who has broken the curse, and comes here to waken me at last?’
This curse came upon her when the thorn of the tree of sleep ran into her hand long ago as a punishment because she had displeased Odin the God. Long ago, too, she had vowed never to marry a man who knew fear, and dared not ride through the fence of flaming fire. For she was a warrior maid herself, and went armed into the battle like a man. But now she and Sigurd loved each other, and promised to be true to each other, and he gave her a ring, and it was the last ring taken from the dwarf Andvari. Then Sigurd rode away, and he came to the house of a King who had a fair daughter. Her name was Gudrun, and her mother was a witch. Now Gudrun fell in love with Sigurd, but he was always talking of Brynhild, how beautiful she was and how dear. So one day Gudrun’s witch mother put poppy and forgetful drugs in a magical cup, and bade Sigurd drink to her health, and he drank, and instantly he forgot poor Brynhild and he loved Gudrun, and they were married with great rejoicings.
Now the witch, the mother of Gudrun, wanted her son Gunnar to marry Brynhild, and she bade him ride out with Sigurd and go and woo her. So forth they rode to her father’s house, for Brynhild had quite gone out of Sigurd’s mind by reason of the witch’s wine, but she remembered him and loved him still. Then Brynhild’s father told Gunnar that she would marry none but him who could ride the flame in front of her enchanted tower, and thither they rode, and Gunnar set his horse at the flame, but he would not face it. Then Gunnar tried Sigurd’s horse Grani, but he would not move with Gunnar on his back. Then Gunnar remembered witchcraft that his mother had taught him, and by his magic he made Sigurd look exactly like himself, and he looked exactly like Gunnar. Then Sigurd, in the shape of Gunnar and in his mail, mounted on Grani, and Grani leaped the fence of fire, and Sigurd went in and found Brynhild, but he did not remember her yet, because of the forgetful medicine in the cup of the witch’s wine.
Now Brynhild had no help but to promise she would be his wife, the wife of Gunnar as she supposed, for Sigurd wore Gunnar’s shape, and she had sworn to wed whoever should ride the flames. And he gave her a ring, and she gave him back the ring he had given her before in his own shape as Sigurd, and it was the last ring of that poor dwarf Andvari. Then he rode out again, and he and Gunnar changed shapes, and each was himself again, and they went home to the witch Queen’s, and Sigurd gave the dwarf’s ring to his wife, Gudrun. And Brynhild went to her father, and said that a King had come called Gunnar, and had ridden the fire, and she must marry him. `Yet I thought,’ she said, `that no man could have done this deed but Sigurd, Fafnir’s bane, who was my true love. But he has forgotten me, and my promise I must keep.’
So Gunnar and Brynhild were married, though it was not Gunnar but Sigurd in Gunnar’s shape, that had ridden the fire.
And when the wedding was over and all the feast, then the magic of the witch’s wine went out of Sigurd’s brain, and he remembered all. He remembered how he had freed Brynhild from the spell, and how she was his own true love, and how he had forgotten and had married another woman, and won Brynhild to be the wife of another man.
But he was brave, and he spoke not a word of it to the others to make them unhappy. Still he could not keep away the curse which was to come on every one who owned the treasure of the dwarf Andvari, and his fatal golden ring.
And the curse soon came upon all of them. For one day, when Brynhild and Gudrun were bathing, Brynhild waded farthest out into the river, and said she did that to show she was Guirun’s superior. For her husband, she said, had ridden through the flame when no other man dared face it.
Then Gudrun was very angry, and said that it was Sigurd, not Gunnar, who had ridden the flame, and had received from Brynhild that fatal ring, the ring of the dwarf Andvari.
Then Brynhild saw the ring which Sigard had given to Gudrun, and she knew it and knew all, and she turned as pale as a dead woman, and went home. All that evening she never spoke. Next day she told Gunnar, her husband, that he was a coward and a liar, for he had never ridden the flame, but had sent Sigurd to do it for him, and pretended that he had done it himself. And she said he would never see her glad in his hall, never drinking wine, never playing chess, never embroidering with the golden thread, never speaking words of kindness. Then she rent all her needlework asunder and wept aloud, so that everyone in the house heard her. For her heart was broken, and her pride was broken in the same hour. She had lost her true love, Sigurd, the slayer of Fafnir, and she was married to a man who was a liar.
Then Sigurd came and tried to comfort her, but she would not listen, and said she wished the sword stood fast in his heart.
`Not long to wait,’ he said, `till the bitter sword stands fast in my heart, and thou will not live long when I am dead. But, dear Brynhild, live and be comforted, and love Gunnar thy husband, and I will give thee all the gold, the treasure of the dragon Fafnir.’
Brynhild said:
`It is too late.’
Then Sigurd was so grieved and his heart so swelled in his breast that it burst the steel rings of his shirt of mail.
Sigurd went out and Brynhild determined to slay him. She mixed serpent’s venom and wolf’s flesh, and gave them in one dish to her husband’s younger brother, and when he had tasted them he was mad, and he went into Sigurd’s chamber while he slept and pinned him to the bed with a sword. But Sigurd woke, and caught the sword Gram into his hand, and threw it at the man as he fled, and the sword cut him in twain. Thus died Sigurd, Fafnir’s bane, whom no ten men could have slain in fair fight. Then Gudrun
wakened and saw him dead, and she moaned aloud, and Brynhild heard her and laughed; but the kind horse Grani lay down and died of very grief. And then Brynhild fell a-weeping till her heart broke. So they attired Sigurd in all his golden armour, and built a great pile of wood on board his ship, and at night laid on it the dead Sigurd and the dead Brynhild, and the good horse, Grani, and set fire to it, and launched the ship. And the wind bore it blazing out to sea, flaming into the dark. So there were Sigurd and Brynhild burned together, and the curse of the dwarf Andvari was fulfilled.


The Poetic Edda

(The Lays Of The Gods)

1. Hearing I ask | from the holy races,

From Heimdall’s sons, | both high and low;

Thou wilt, Valfather, | that well I relate

Old tales I remember | of men long ago.
2. I remember yet | the giants of yore,

Who gave me bread | in the days gone by;

Nine worlds I knew, | the nine in the tree

With mighty roots | beneath the mold.
3. Of old was the age | when Ymir lived;

Sea nor cool waves | nor sand there were;

Earth had not been, | nor heaven above,

But a yawning gap, | and grass nowhere.
4. Then Bur’s sons lifted | the level land,

Mithgarth the mighty | there they made;

The sun from the south | warmed the stones of earth,

And green was the ground | with growing leeks.
5. The sun, the sister | of the moon, from the south

Her right hand cast | over heaven’s rim;

No knowledge she had | where her home should be,

The moon knew not | what might was his,

The stars knew not | where their stations were.
6. Then sought the gods | their assembly-seats,

The holy ones, | and council held;

Names then gave they | to noon and twilight,

Morning they named, | and the waning moon,

Night and evening, | the years to number.
7. At Ithavoll met | the mighty gods,

Shrines and temples | they timbered high;

Forges they set, and | they smithied ore,

Tongs they wrought, | and tools they fashioned.
8. In their dwellings at peace | they played at tables,

Of gold no lack | did the gods then know,–

Till thither came | up giant-maids three,

Huge of might, | out of Jotunheim.
9. Then sought the gods | their assembly-seats,

The holy ones, | and council held,

To find who should raise | the race of dwarfs

Out of Brimir’s blood | and the legs of Blain.
10. There was Motsognir | the mightiest made

Of all the dwarfs, | and Durin next;

Many a likeness | of men they made,

The dwarfs in the earth, | as Durin said.
11. Nyi and Nithi, | Northri and Suthri,

Austri and Vestri, | Althjof, Dvalin,

Nar and Nain, | Niping, Dain,

Bifur, Bofur, | Bombur, Nori,

An and Onar, | Ai, Mjothvitnir.
12. Vigg and Gandalf) | Vindalf, Thrain,

Thekk and Thorin, | Thror, Vit and Lit,

Nyr and Nyrath,– | now have I told–

Regin and Rathsvith– | the list aright.
13. Fili, Kili, | Fundin, Nali,

Heptifili, | Hannar, Sviur,

Frar, Hornbori, | Fræg and Loni,

Aurvang, Jari, | Eikinskjaldi.
14. The race of the dwarfs | in Dvalin’s throng

Down to Lofar | the list must I tell;

The rocks they left, | and through wet lands

They sought a home | in the fields of sand.
15. There were Draupnir | and Dolgthrasir,

Hor, Haugspori, | Hlevang, Gloin,
Dori, Ori, | Duf, Andvari,

Skirfir, Virfir, | Skafith, Ai.
16. Alf and Yngvi, | Eikinskjaldi,

Fjalar and Frosti, | Fith and Ginnar;

So for all time | shall the tale be known,

The list of all | the forbears of Lofar.
17. Then from the throng | did three come forth,

From the home of the gods, | the mighty and gracious;

Two without fate | on the land they found,

Ask and Embla, | empty of might.
18. Soul they had not, | sense they had not,

Heat nor motion, | nor goodly hue;

Soul gave Othin, | sense gave Hönir,

Heat gave Lothur | and goodly hue.
19. An ash I know, | Yggdrasil its name,

With water white | is the great tree wet;

Thence come the dews | that fall in the dales,

Green by Urth’s well | does it ever grow.
20. Thence come the maidens | mighty in wisdom,

Three from the dwelling | down ‘neath the tree;

Urth is one named, | Verthandi the next,–

On the wood they scored,– | and Skuld the third.

Laws they made there, and life allotted

To the sons of men, and set their fates.
21. The war I remember, | the first in the world,

When the gods with spears | had smitten Gollveig,

And in the hall | of Hor had burned her,

Three times burned, | and three times born,

Oft and again, | yet ever she lives.
22. Heith they named her | who sought their home,

The wide-seeing witch, | in magic wise;

Minds she bewitched | that were moved by her magic,

To evil women | a joy she was.
23. On the host his spear | did Othin hurl,

Then in the world | did war first come;

The wall that girdled | the gods was broken,

And the field by the warlike | Wanes was trodden.
24. Then sought the gods | their assembly-seats,

The holy ones, | and council held,

Whether the gods | should tribute give,

Or to all alike | should worship belong.
25. Then sought the gods | their assembly-seats,

The holy ones, | and council held,

To find who with venom | the air had filled,

Or had given Oth’s bride | to the giants’ brood.
26. In swelling rage | then rose up Thor,–

Seldom he sits | when he such things hears,–

And the oaths were broken, | the words and bonds,

The mighty pledges | between them made.
27. I know of the horn | of Heimdall, hidden

Under the high-reaching | holy tree;

On it there pours | from Valfather’s pledge

A mighty stream: | would you know yet more?
28. Alone I sat | when the Old One sought me,

The terror of gods, | and gazed in mine eyes:

“What hast thou to ask? | why comest thou hither?

Othin, I know | where thine eye is hidden.”
29. I know where Othin’s | eye is hidden,

Deep in the wide-famed | well of Mimir;

Mead from the pledge | of Othin each mom

Does Mimir drink: | would you know yet more?
30. Necklaces had I | and rings from Heerfather,

Wise was my speech | and my magic wisdom;

Widely I saw | over all the worlds.
31. On all sides saw I | Valkyries assemble,

Ready to ride | to the ranks of the gods;

Skuld bore the shield, | and Skogul rode next,

Guth, Hild, Gondul, | and Geirskogul.

Of Herjan’s maidens | the list have ye heard,

Valkyries ready | to ride o’er the earth.
32. I saw for Baldr, | the bleeding god,

The son of Othin, | his destiny set:
Famous and fair | in the lofty fields,

Full grown in strength | the mistletoe stood.
33. From the branch which seemed | so slender and fair

Came a harmful shaft | that Hoth should hurl;

But the brother of Baldr | was born ere long,

And one night old | fought Othin’s son.

34. His hands he washed not, | his hair he combed not,

Till he bore to the bale-blaze | Baldr’s foe.

But in Fensalir | did Frigg weep sore

For Valhall’s need: | would you know yet more?
35. One did I see | in the wet woods bound,

A lover of ill, | and to Loki like;
By his side does Sigyn | sit, nor is glad

To see her mate: | would you know yet more?
36. From the east there pours | through poisoned vales

With swords and daggers | the river Slith.

. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . .
37. Northward a hall | in Nithavellir

Of gold there rose | for Sindri’s race;

And in Okolnir | another stood,

Where the giant Brimir | his beer-hall had.
38. A hall I saw, | far from the sun,

On Nastrond it stands, | and the doors face north,

Venom drops | through the smoke-vent down,

For around the walls | do serpents wind.
39. I saw there wading | through rivers wild

Treacherous men | and murderers too,

And workers of ill | with the wives of men;

There Nithhogg sucked | the blood of the slain,

And the wolf tore men; | would you know yet more?
40. The giantess old | in Ironwood sat,

In the east, and bore | the brood of Fenrir;

Among these one | in monster’s guise

Was soon to steal | the sun from the sky.
41. There feeds he full | on the flesh of the dead,

And the home of the gods | he reddens with gore;

Dark grows the sun, | and in summer soon

Come mighty storms: | would you know yet more?
42. On a hill there sat, | and smote on his harp,

Eggther the joyous, | the giants’ warder;

Above him the cock | in the bird-wood crowed,

Fair and red | did Fjalar stand.
43. Then to the gods | crowed Gollinkambi,

He wakes the heroes | in Othin’s hall;

And beneath the earth | does another crow,

The rust-red bird | at the bars of Hel.
44. Now Garm howls loud | before Gnipahellir,

The fetters will burst, | and the wolf run free;

Much do I know, | and more can see

Of the fate of the gods, | the mighty in fight.
45. Brothers shall fight | and fell each other,

And sisters’ sons | shall kinship stain;
Hard is it on earth, | with mighty whoredom;

Axe-time, sword-time, | shields are sundered,

Wind-time, wolf-time, | ere the world falls;

Nor ever shall men | each other spare.
46. Fast move the sons | of Mim, and fate

Is heard in the note | of the Gjallarhorn;

Loud blows Heimdall, | the horn is aloft,

In fear quake all | who on Hel-roads are.
47. Yggdrasil shakes, | and shiver on high

The ancient limbs, | and the giant is loose;

To the head of Mim | does Othin give heed,

But the kinsman of Surt | shall slay him soon.
48. How fare the gods? | how fare the elves?

All Jotunheim groans, | the gods are at council;

Loud roar the dwarfs | by the doors of stone,

The masters of the rocks: | would you know yet more?
49. Now Garm howls loud | before Gnipahellir,

The fetters will burst, | and the wolf run free

Much do I know, | and more can see

Of the fate of the gods, | the mighty in fight.
50. From the east comes Hrym | with shield held high;

In giant-wrath | does the serpent writhe;

O’er the waves he twists, | and the tawny eagle

Gnaws corpses screaming; | Naglfar is loose.
51. O’er the sea from the north | there sails a ship

With the people of Hel, | at the helm stands Loki;

After the wolf | do wild men follow,

And with them the brother | of Byleist goes.
52. Surt fares from the south | with the scourge of branches,

The sun of the battle-gods | shone from his sword;

The crags are sundered, | the giant-women sink,

The dead throng Hel-way, | and heaven is cloven.
53. Now comes to Hlin | yet another hurt,

When Othin fares | to fight with the wolf,

And Beli’s fair slayer | seeks out Surt,

For there must fall | the joy of Frigg.
54. Then comes Sigfather’s | mighty son,

Vithar, to fight | with the foaming wolf;

In the giant’s son | does he thrust his sword

Full to the heart: | his father is avenged.
55. Hither there comes | the son of Hlothyn,

The bright snake gapes | to heaven above;

. . . . . . . . . .

Against the serpent | goes Othin’s son.
56. In anger smites | the warder of earth,–

Forth from their homes | must all men flee;-

Nine paces fares | the son of Fjorgyn,

And, slain by the serpent, | fearless he sinks.
57. The sun turns black, | earth sinks in the sea,

The hot stars down | from heaven are whirled;

Fierce grows the steam | and the life-feeding flame,

Till fire leaps high | about heaven itself.
58. Now Garm howls loud | before Gnipahellir,

The fetters will burst, | and the wolf run free;

Much do I know, | and more can see

Of the fate of the gods, | the mighty in fight.
59. Now do I see | the earth anew

Rise all green | from the waves again;

The cataracts fall, | and the eagle flies,

And fish he catches | beneath the cliffs.
60. The gods in Ithavoll | meet together,

Of the terrible girdler | of earth they talk,
And the mighty past | they call to mind,

And the ancient runes | of the Ruler of Gods.
61. In wondrous beauty | once again

Shall the golden tables | stand mid the grass,

Which the gods had owned | in the days of old,

. . . . . . . . . .
62. Then fields unsowed | bear ripened fruit,

All ills grow better, | and Baldr comes back;

Baldr and Hoth dwell | in Hropt’s battle-hall,

And the mighty gods: | would you know yet more?
63. Then Hönir wins | the prophetic wand,

. . . . . . . . . .

And the sons of the brothers | of Tveggi abide

In Vindheim now: | would you know yet more?
[61. The Hauksbok version of the first two lines runs:
“The gods shall find there, | wondrous fair,

The golden tables | amid the grass.”
64. More fair than the sun, | a hall I see,

Roofed with gold, | on Gimle it stands;

There shall the righteous | rulers dwell,

And happiness ever | there shall they have.
65. There comes on high, | all power to hold,

A mighty lord, | all lands he rules.

. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . .
66. From below the dragon | dark comes forth,

Nithhogg flying | from Nithafjoll;

The bodies of men on | his wings he bears,

The serpent bright: | but now must I sink.