Homage To Sätty

There is a time in the span of civilizations when creative energy and the human spirit are wholly, if briefly focused. When this occurs culture in all its manifestations reaches its zenith. The moment passes; civilizations decline, only to be replaced by others. This process of life appears cyclic. Communities become tribes, turn into nations and become empires which, like suns, radiate their energy to the limits of their power, then decay and finally vanish, leaving behind only traces. This cycle, which may continue until our sun–or our planet–fails us..

[from back of Time Zone/by Sätty]

Happy Friday! A large entry for today, featuring the art of Sätty, the poetry of Wang Wei, and the wisdom of Soren Kierkegaard..
Please check out the radio as well, as it is humming along quite nicely!


What Is On The Menu:

The Linkage

Massive Attack – Butterfly Caught

The Silent Temple

The Gates of Paradise

Soren Kierkegaard Quotes

On The Mountain: Wang Wei’s Poetry

Art: Sätty
I first became aware of Satty in late 1966 (I believe). I found a poster of his that I admired greatly in a head shop. I saved my money up, and eventually bought it. It was of a Moire Pattern with a boat of collaged men and women from various ages spiraling down into eternity… A lost craft, a ship of possible fools, embarking on the infinite journey. It was there on the wall for many of my early inner-journeys, I wish I still had that poster, it sticks to this day in my head.
Sätty was the first collage/montage artist that moved me. He still does. The artwork for this edition comes from the only, ONLY site on the web that has any amount of his work. It boggles my mind how his work could be lost like this. You have probably seen his work… in various publications including Terence McKenna’s books (Terence was a true fan!). It seems fantastic that his work goes unmentioned and un-noted.
Satty was, and is an original. He certainly helped shape my art impulses, and I still get excited when I find his works. I certainly cherish the bits I have, but these were a struggle to find…
He died in 1982, falling off a ladder while being drunk/high. He was on the edge of publishing some vital new works, and sadly this never came to fruition.
The collage work that I have included aren’t my favourites, but what is available at the present. Still, I am grateful that they are still there to be seen, but for how long? Please check out Wilfred Sätty at Zpub.com. If you like his work, let them know. Maybe a homage to Sätty will help bring his art back to the light of day…

The Linkage:

Temporary Temples

Incan bones found in Østfold

Rise of man theory ‘out by 400,000 years’

Buried ‘aliens’ are really tree trunks

okay, I have read my fair share of books written by P.D. James over the years, but I had no idea about this one until I just saw the film that was made from it.
The film really an amazing bit of work; dark, very dark but with a message that is so timely. It makes you think about borders, artificial limits, and what passes for democracy, and human rights. There seems to be a dearth of those last two components, and it seems that everything around them is driven at this point by fear.
The film was riveting but the real joy for me was the commentary and interviews afterwards. Truly, if you get a chance please see this. Yes, the film rubs your face in it. But what is shown on the film is going on in the world. There is much hope and humanity in this film. I recommend it, and be aware it is a rough ride.
– Gwyllm

Massive Attack – Butterfly Caught



The Silent Temple
Shoichi was a one-eyed teacher of Zen, sparkling with enlightenment. He taught his disciples in Tofuku temple.
Day and night the whole temple stood in silence. There was no sound at all.
Even the reciting of sutras was abolished by the teacher. His pupils had nothing to do but meditate.
When the master passed away, an old neighbor heard the ringing of bells and the recitation of sutras. Then she knew Shoichi had gone.

The Gates of Paradise
A soldier named Nobushige came to Hakuin, and asked: “Is there really a paradise and a hell?”
“Who are you?” inquired Hakuin.
“I am a samurai,” the warrior replied.
“You, a soldier!” exclaimed Hakuin. “What kind of ruler would have you as his guard? Your face looks like that of a beggar.”
Nobushige became so angry that he began to draw his sword, but Hakuin continued: “So you have a sword! Your weapon is probably much too dull to cut off my head.”
As Nobushige drew his sword Hakuin remarked: “Here open the gates of hell!”
At these words the samurai, perceiving the master’s discipline, sheathed his sword and bowed.
“Here open the gates of paradise,” said Hakuin.


Soren Kierkegaard Quotes:
A man who as a physical being is always turned toward the outside, thinking that his happiness lies outside him, finally turns inward and discovers that the source is within him.
Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.
At the bottom of enmity between strangers lies indifference.
Be that self which one truly is.
Because of its tremendous solemnity death is the light in which great passions, both good and bad, become transparent, no longer limited by outward appearances.
Boredom is the root of all evil – the despairing refusal to be oneself.
Concepts, like individuals, have their histories and are just as incapable of withstanding the ravages of time as are individuals. But in and through all this they retain a kind of homesickness for the scenes of their childhood.
Don’t forget to love yourself.
During the first period of a man’s life the greatest danger is not to take the risk.

On The Mountain: Wang Wei’s Poetry

Mount Zhongnan
The Tai Yi peak

is near the capital of Heaven.

Its range stretches

all the way to the coast.

As I look back,

the white clouds are close in.

As I look close up,

the blue mists suddenly disappear.

The middle ridge divides into

two ever-changing sceneries.

On dark or clear days

each valley has a different view.

Wanting to put up

at some one’s place for the night,

I ask a woodcutter

on the other side of the stream.

Thanking Associate Prefect Zhang
I prefer to live a quiet life

in my later years.

Indifferent I am to

all mundane affairs.

A long-range plan

is not in my thought.

Returning to my old woods

was the only thing I sought.
The pine wind

blows loose my sash;

The mountain moon

shines on my lute.

You ask about

the ultimate truth of life.

The fishermen’s song

drifts deep above the shore.

Birds Calling in the Ravine
I’m idle, as osmanthus flowers fall,

This quiet night in spring, the hill is empty.

The moon comes out and startles the birds on the hill,

They don’t stop calling in the spring ravine.

Returning to Songshan Mountain
The limpid river runs between the bushes,

The horse and cart are moving idly on.

The water flows as if with a mind of its own,

At dusk, the birds return to perch together.

The desolate town is faced by an ancient ferry,

The setting sun now fills the autumn hills.

And far below high Songshan’s tumbling ridges,

Returning home, I close the door for now..

Summer Lightnings…

Today I feel like pleasing you more than before

Today I know what I want to do but I don’t know what for

To be living for you is all I want to do

To be loving you it’ll all be there when my dreams come true

Today you’ll make me say that I somehow have changed

Today you’ll look into my eyes, I’m just not the same

To be anymore than all I am would be a lie

I’m so full of love I could burst apart and start to cry

Today everything you want, I swear it all will come true

Today I realize how much I’m in love with you

With you standing here I could tell the world what it means to love

To go on from here I can’t use words, they don’t say enough

Please, please listen to me

It’s taken so long to come true

And it’s all for you

all for you….

-Marty Balin

I listened to ‘Today’ this morning driving Nephew Andrew, his lady Catherine, and young Eildon to the Salvation Army to buy a new rocker for Catherine and Eildon… Andrew also picked up a Conch Shell, which once outside, I blew upon…. I said to Andrew that Gary Snyder had used a similar one at the Human Be-In… Which I think he appreciated – or not.
Eildon has now discovered Humus, and the joys of the Sippy Cup! He is looking ever so sweet!
Anyway, a nice morning here in the NW. Sunny, bright and the bees are buzzing with pure delight in the garden.
Lots on this entry,
I hope You enjoy!

On The Menu:

The Linkage

Peter’s Picks: NEUNENEU featuring Marlui Miranda

The Changeling and his Bagpipes

Seamus Heaney: Poems for Mid-Summer

Art: William Morris

The Linkage:
Historic Tale Construction Kit…
A possible impact crater for the 1908 Tunguska Event


Peter’s Picks: NEUNENEU featuring Marlui Miranda



The Changeling and his Bagpipes
A certain youth whom we shall here distinguish by the name of Rickard the Rake, amply earned his title by the time he lost in fair-tents, in dance-houses, in following hunts, and other unprofitable occupations, leaving his brothers and his aged father to attend to the concerns of the farm, or neglect them as they pleased. It is indispensable to the solemnities of a night dance in the country, to take the barn door off its hinges, and lay it on the floor to test the skill of the best dancers in the room in a single performance. In this was Rickard eminent, and many an evening did he hold the eyes of the assembly intent on his flourishes, lofty springs and kicks, and the other fashionable variations taught by the departed race of dancing-masters.
One evening while earning the applause of the admiring crowd, he uttered a cry of pain, and fell on his side on the hard door. A wonderful scene of confusion ensued,–the groans of the dancer, the pitying exclamations of the crowd, and their endeavours to stifle the sufferer in their eagerness to comfort him. We must suppose him carried home and confined to his bed for weeks, the complaint being a stiffness in one of his hip joints, occasioned by a fairy-dart. Fairy-doctors, male and female, tried their herbs and charms on him in vain; and more than one on leaving the house said to one of his family, “God send it’s not one of the sheeoges yous are nursing, instead of poor wild Rickard!”
And indeed there seemed to be some reason in the observation. The jovial, reckless, good-humoured buck was now a meagre, disagreeable, exacting creature, with pinched features, and harsh voice, and craving appetite; and for several weeks he continued to plague and distress his unfortunate family. By the advice of a fairyman a pair of bagpipes was accidentally left near his bed, and ears were soon on the stretch to catch the dulcet notes of the instrument from the room. It was well known that he was not at all skilled in the musical art; so if a well-played tune were heard from under his fingers, the course to be adopted by this family was clear.
But the invalid was as crafty as they were cunning; groans of pain and complaints of neglect formed the only body of sound that issued from the sick chamber. At last, during a hot harvest afternoon when every one should be in the field, and a dead silence reigned through the house, and yard, and out-offices, some one that was watching from an unsuspected press saw an anxious, foxy face peep out from the gently opened door of the room, and draw itself back after a careful survey of the great parlour into which it opened, and which had the large kitchen on the other side. Soon after, the introductory squeal of the instrument was heard, but of a sweeter quality than the same pipes ever uttered before or after that day. Then followed a strain of such wild and sweet melody as held in silent rapture about a dozen of the people of the house and some neighbours who had been apprised of the experiment, and who, till the first enchanting sound breathed through the house, had kept themselves quiet in the room above the kitchen, consequently the farthest from the changeling’s station.
While they stood or sat entranced as air succeeded to air, and the last still the sweetest, they began to distinguish whispers, and the nearly inaudible rustle of soft and gauzy dresses seemingly brushing against each other, and such subdued sounds as a cat’s feet might cause, swiftly pacing along a floor. They were unable to stir, or even move their lips, so powerful was the charm of the fairy’s music on their wills and their senses, till at last the fairy-man spoke–the only person who had the will or the capacity to hold conference with him being the fairy-woman from the next townland.
He.–Come, come! this must be put a stop to.
The words were not all uttered when a low whistling noise was heard from the next room, and the moment after there was profound stillness.
She.–Yes, indeed; and what would you advise us to do first with the anointed sheeoge?
He.–We’ll begin easy. We’ll take him neck and crop and hold his head under the water in the turnhole till we’ll dhrive the divel out of him.
She.–That ‘ud be a great deal too easy a punishment for the thief. We’ll hate the shovel red-hot, put it under his currabingo, and land him out in the dung-lough.
He.–Ah, now; can’t you thry easier punishments on him? I’ll put the tongs in the fire till the claws are as hot as the dive!, and won’t I hould his nasty crass nose between them till he’ll know the difference between a fiery faces and a latchycock.
She.–No, no! Say nothing, and I’ll go and bring my liquor, drawn from the leaves of the lussmore; and if he was a sheeoge forty times, it will put the inside of him, into such a state that he’d give the world he could die. Some parts of him will be as if he had red-hot saws rasping him asunder, and others as if needles of ice were crossing and crossing each other in his bowels; and when he’s dead, we’ll give him no better grave nor the bog-hole, or the outside of the churchyard.
He.–Very well; let’s begin. I’ll bring my red-hot tongs from the kitchen fire, and you your little bottle of lussmore water. Don’t any of yez go in, neighbours, till we have them ingradients ready.
There was a pause in the outer room while the fairyman passed into the kitchen and back. Then there was a rush at the door, and a bursting into the room; but there was no sign of the changeling on the bed, nor under the bed, nor in any part of the room. At last one of the women shouted out in terror, for the face of the fiend was seen at the window, looking in, with such scorn and hate on the fearful features as struck terror into the boldest. However, the fairy-man dashed at him with his burning tongs in hand; but just as it was on the point of gripping his nose, a something between a laugh and a scream, that made the blood in their veins run cold, came from him. Face and all vanished, and that was the last that was seen of him. Next morning, Rickard, now a reformed rake, was found in his own bed. Great was the joy at his recovery, and great it continued, for he laid aside his tobacco-pipe, and pint and quart measures. He forsook the tent and the sheebeen house, and took kindly to his reaping-hook, his spade, his plough, and his prayer-book, and blessed the night he was fairy-struck on the dance floor.
The mutual proceedings of the intruding fairies and the intruded-on mortals, are not always of the hostile character hitherto described. It is with some pleasure that we record an instance where the desirable re-exchange was effected without those disagreeable agencies resorted to in the case of “Rickard the Rake.”


Seamus Heaney: Poems for Mid-Summer

Mossbawn: Two Poems in Dedication
For Mary Heaney

I. Sunlight
There was a sunlit absence.

The helmeted pump in the yard

heated its iron,

water honeyed
in the slung bucket

and the sun stood

like a griddle cooling

against the wall
of each long afternoon.

So, her hands scuffled

over the bakeboard,

the reddening stove
sent its plaque of heat

against her where she stood

in a floury apron

by the window.
Now she dusts the board

with a goose’s wing,

now sits, broad-lapped,

with whitened nails
and measling shins:

here is a space

again, the scone rising

to the tick of two clocks.
And here is love

like a tinsmith’s scoop

sunk past its gleam

in the meal-bin.

The Haw Lantern
The wintry haw is burning out of season,

crab of the thorn, a small light for small people,

wanting no more from them but that they keep

the wick of self-respect from dying out,

not having to blind them with illumination.
But sometimes when your breath plumes in the frost

it takes the roaming shape of Diogenes

with his lantern, seeking one just man;

so you end up scrutinized from behind the haw

he holds up at eye-level on its twig,

and you flinch before its bonded pith and stone,

its blood-prick that you wish would test and clear you,

its pecked-at ripeness that scans you, then moves on.

Lightenings viii
The annals say: when the monks of Clonmacnoise

Were all at prayers inside the oratory

A ship appeared above them in the air.
The anchor dragged along behind so deep

It hooked itself into the altar rails

And then, as the big hull rocked to a standstill,
A crewman shinned and grappled down the rope

And struggled to release it. But in vain.

‘This man can’t bear our life here and will drown,’
The abbot said, ‘unless we help him.’ So

They did, the freed ship sailed, and the man climbed back

Out of the marvellous as he had known it.

Requiem for the Croppies

The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley…

No kitchens on the run, no striking camp…

We moved quick and sudden in our own country.

The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp.

A people hardly marching… on the hike…

We found new tactics happening each day:

We’d cut through reins and rider with the pike

And stampede cattle into infantry,

Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.

Until… on Vinegar Hill… the final conclave.

Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.

The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.

They buried us without shroud or coffin

And in August… the barley grew up out of our grave.


The Monday Buzzzzz…

Monday again, buzzing into the new week. We have some nice stuff to start things off with..
On The Table

The Links

Steve Tibbets – Marc Anderson – Choying Drolma

Additional Linkage

The Fate of the Children of Lir

All Things Will Die: Alfred Lord Tennyson

Art: John Duncan

The Links:

Medical Marijuana Measure Falls With Connecticut Governor’s Veto

Into the Mystic

Judge Criticizes Warrantless Wiretaps

Pagans Demonstrate Outside Of The Whitehouse July 4th!


Steve Tibbets – Marc Anderson – Choying Drolma


Additional Linkage Thanks To Padrice & Miss Amanita:

Steve Tibbetts, Marc Anderson and Choying Drolma


The Fate of the Children of Lir
IT happened that the five Kings of Ireland met to determine who should have the head kingship over them, and King Lir of the Hill of the White Field expected surely he would be elected. When the nobles went into council together they chose for head king, Dearg, son of Daghda, because his father had been so great a Druid and he was the eldest of his father’s sons. But Lir left the Assembly of the Kings and went home to the Hill of the White Field. The other kings would have followed after Lir to give him wounds of spear and wounds of sword for not yielding obedience to the man to whom they had given the over-lordship. But Dearg the king would not hear of it and said: “Rather let us bind him to us by the bonds of kinship, so that peace may dwell in the land. Send over to him for wife the choice of the three maidens of the fairest form and best repute in Erin, the three daughters of Oilell of Aran, my own three bosom-nurslings.”
So the messengers brought word to Lir that Dearg the king would give him a foster-child of his foster-children. Lir thought well of it, and set out next day with fifty chariots from the Hill of the White Field. And he came to the Lake of the Red Eye near Killaloe. And when Lir saw the three daughters of Oilell, Dearg the king said to him:
“Take thy choice of the maidens, Lir.” ” I know not,” said Lir, “which is the choicest of them all ; but the eldest of them is the noblest, it is she I had best take.” ” If so,” said Dearg the king, “Ove is the eldest, and she shall be given to thee, if thou willest.” So Lir and Ove were married and went back to the Hill of the White Field.
And after this there came to them twins, a son and a daughter, and they gave them for names Fingula and Aod. And two more sons came to them, Fiachra and Conn. When they came Ove died, and Lir mourned bitterly for her, and but for his great love for his children he would have died of his grief. And Dearg the king grieved for Lir and sent to him and said: “We grieve for Ove for thy sake; but, that our friendship may not be rent asunder, I will give unto thee her sister, Oifa, for a wife.” So Lir agreed, and they were united, and he took her with him to his own house. And at first Oifa felt affection and honour for the children of Lir and her sister, and indeed every one who saw the four children could not help giving them the love of his soul. Lir doted upon the children, and they always slept in beds in front of their father, who used to rise at early dawn every morning and lie down among his children. But thereupon the dart of jealousy passed into Oifa on account of this and she came to regard the children with hatred and enmity. One day her chariot was yoked for her and she took with her the four children of Lir in it. Fingula was not willing to go with her on the journey, for she had dreamed a dream in the night warning her against Oifa : but she was not to avoid her fate. And when the chariot came to the Lake of the Oaks, Oifa said to the people : “Kill the four children of Lir and I will give you your own reward of every kind in the world.” But they refused and told her it was an evil thought she had. Then she would have raised a sword herself to kill and destroy the children, but her own womanhood and her weakness prevented her; so she drove the children of Lir into the lake to bathe, and they did as Oifa told them. As soon as they were upon the lake she struck them with a Druid’s wand of spells and wizardry and put them into the forms of four beautiful, perfectly white swans, and she sang this song over them:
“Out with you upon the wild waves, children of the king!

Henceforth your cries shall be with the flocks of birds.”
And Fingula answered:
“Thou witch ! we know thee by thy right name !

Thou mayest drive us from wave to wave,

But sometimes we shall rest on the headlands

We shall receive relief, but thou punishment.

Though our bodies may be upon the lake,

Our minds at least shall fly homewards.”
And again she spoke : “Assign an end for the ruin and woe which thou hast brought upon us.”
Oifa laughed and said ” Never shall ye be free until the woman from the south be united to the man from the north, until Lairgnen of Connaught wed Deoch of Munster; nor shall any have power to bring you out of these forms.
Nine hundred years shall you wander over the lakes and streams of Erin. This only I will grant unto you: that you retain your own speech, and there shall be no music in the world equal to yours, the plaintive music you shall sing.” This she said because repentance seized her for the evil she had done.
And then she spake this lay
“Away from me, ye children of Lir,

Henceforth the sport of the wild winds

Until Lairgnen and Deoch come together,

Until ye are on the north-west of Red Erin.
“A sword of treachery is through the heart of Lir,

Of Lir the mighty champion,

Yet though I have driven a sword.

My victory cuts me to the heart.”
Then she turned her steeds and went on to the Hall of Dearg the king. The nobles of the court asked her where were the children of Lir, and Oifa said : ” Lir will not trust them to Dearg the king.” But Dearg thought in his own mind that the woman had played some treachery upon them, and he accordingly sent messengers to the Hall of the White Field.
Lir asked the messengers “Wherefore are ye come? “
“To fetch thy children, Lir,” said they.
“Have they not reached you with Oifa ?” said Lir.
They have not,” said the messengers; “and Oifa said it was you would not let the children go with her.”
Then was Lir melancholy and sad at heart, hearing these things, for he knew that Oifa had done wrong upon his children, and he set out towards the Lake of the Red Eye. And when the children of Lir saw him coming Fingula sang the lay :
“Welcome the cavalcade of steeds

Approaching ‘the Lake of the Red Eye,

A company dread and magical

Surely seek after us.
“Let us move to the shore, O Aod,

Fiachra and comely Conn,

No host under heaven can those horsemen be

But King Lir with his mighty household.”
Now as she said this King Lir had come to the shores of the lake and heard the swans speaking with human voices. And he spake to the swans and asked them who they were. Fingula answered and said : “We are thy own children, ruined by thy wife, sister of our own mother, through her ill mind and her jealousy.” “For how long is the spell to be upon you?” said Lir. “None can relieve us till the woman from the south and the man from the north come together, till Lairgnen of Connaught wed Deoch of Munster.”
Then Lir and his people raised their shouts of grief, crying, and lamentation, and they stayed by the shore of the lake listening to the wild music of the swans until the swans flew away, and King Lir went on to the Hall of Dearg the king. He told Dearg the king what Oifa had done to his children. And Dearg put his power upon Oifa and bade her say what shape on earth she would think the worst of all. She said it would be in the form of an air-demon. “It is into that form I shall put you,” said Dearg the king, and he struck her with a Druid’s wand of spells and wizardry and put her into the form of an air-demon. And she flew away at once, and she is still an air-demon, and shall be so for ever.
But the children of Lir continued to delight the Milesian clans with the very sweet fairy music of their songs, so that no delight was ever heard in Erin to compare with their music until the time came appointed for the leaving the Lake of the Red Eye.
Then Fingula sang this parting lay
“Farewell to thee, Dearg the king,

Master of all Druids lore

Farewell to thee, our father dear,

Lir of the Hill of the White Field
“We go to pass the appointed time

Away and apart from the haunts of men

In the current of the Moyle,

Our garb shall be bitter and briny,
“Until Deoch come to Lairgnen.

So come, ye brothers of once ruddy cheeks

Let us depart from this Lake of the Red Eye,

Let us separate in sorrow from the tribe that has loved us.”
And after they took to flight, flying highly, lightly, aerially till they reached the Moyle, between Erin and Albain.
The men of Erin were grieved at their leaving, and it was proclaimed throughout Erin that henceforth no swan should be killed. Then they stayed all solitary, all alone, filled with cold and grief and regret, until a thick tempest came upon them and Fingula said: “Brothers, let us appoint a place to meet again if the power of the winds separate us.” And they said : ” Let us appoint to meet, O sister, at the Rock of the Seals.” Then the waves rose up and the thunder roared, the lightning’s flashed, the sweeping tempest passed over the sea, so that the children of Lir were scattered from each other over the great sea. There came, however, a placid calm after the great tempest and Fingula found herself alone, and she said this lay:
“Woe upon me that I am alive

My wings are frozen to my sides.

O beloved three, O beloved three,

Who hid under the shelter of my feathers,

Until the dead come back to the living

I and the three shall never meet again ! “
And she flew to the Lake of the Seals and soon saw Conn coming towards her with heavy step and drenched feathers, and Fiachra also, cold and wet and faint, and no word could they tell, so cold and faint were they: but she nestled them under her wings and said: “If Aod could come to us now our happiness would be complete” But soon they saw Aod coming towards them with dry head and preened feathers : Fingula put him under the feathers of her breast, and Fiachra under her right wing, and Conn under her left: and they made this lay:
“Bad was our stepmother with us,

She played her magic on us,

Sending us north on the sea

In the shapes of magical swans.
“Our bath upon the shore’s ridge

Is the foam of the brine-crested tide,

Our share of the ale feast

Is the brine of the blue-crested sea.”
One day they saw a splendid cavalcade of pure white steeds coming towards them, and when they came near they were the two sons of Dearg the king who had been seeking for them to give them news of Dearg the king and Lir their father. “They are well,” they said, “and live together happy in all except that ye are not with them, and for not knowing where ye have gone since the day ye left the Lake of the Red Eye.” “Happy are not we,” said Fingula, and she sang this song:
“Happy this night the household of Lir,

Abundant their meat and their wine.

But the children of Lir – what is their lot?

For bed-clothes we have our feathers,

And as for our food and our wine –

The white sand and the bitter brine,

Fiachra’s bed and Conn’s place

Under the cover of my wings on the Moyle,

Aod has the shelter of my breast,

And so side by side we rest.”
So the sons of Dearg the king came to the Hall of Lir and told the king the condition of his children.
Then the time came for the children of Lir to fulfil their lot, and they flew in the current of the Moyle to the Bay of Erris, and remained there till the time of their fate, and then they flew to the Hill of the White Field and found all desolate and empty, with nothing but unroofed green raths and forests of nettles-no house, no fire, no dwelling-place. The four came close together, and they raised three shouts of lamentation aloud, and Fingula sang this lay:
Uchone ! it is bitterness to my heart

To see my father’s place forlorn –

No hounds, no packs of dogs,

No women, and no valiant kings
“No drinking-horns, no cups of wood,

No drinking in its lightsome halls.

Uchone ! I see the state of this house

That its lord our father lives no more.
“Much have we suffered in our wandering years,

By winds buffeted, by cold frozen;

Now has come the greatest of our pain –

There lives no man who knoweth us in the house where we were born.”
So the children of Lir flew away to the Glory Isle of Brandan the saint, and they settled upon the Lake of the Birds until the holy Patrick came to Erin and the holy Mac Howg came to Glory Isle.
And the first night he came to the island the children of Lir heard the voice of his bell ringing for matins, so that they started and leaped about in terror at hearing it; and her brothers left Fingula alone. “What is it, beloved brothers?” said she. “We know not what faint, fearful voice it is we have heard.” Then Fingula recited this lay:
Listen to the Cleric’s bell,

Poise your wings and raise

Thanks to God for his coming,

Be grateful that you hear him,
“He shall free you from pain,

And bring you from the rocks and stones.

Ye comely children of Lir

Listen to the bell of the Cleric.”
And Mac Howg came down to the brink of the shore and said to them “Are ye the children of Lir?” “We are indeed,” said they. “Thanks be to God!” said the saint; “it is for your sakes I have come to this Isle beyond every other island in Erin. Come ye to land now and put your trust in me.” So they came to land, and he made for them chains of bright white silver, and put a chain between Aod and Fingula and a chain between Conn and Fiachra.
It happened at this time that Lairgnen was prince of Connaught and he was to wed Deoch the daughter of the king of Munster. She had heard the account of the birds and she became filled with love and affection for them, and she said she would not wed till she had the wondrous birds of Glory Isle. Lairgnen sent for them to the Saint Mac Howg. But the Saint would not give them, and both Lairguen and Deoch went to Glory Isle. And Lairgnen went to seize the birds from the altar: but as soon as he had laid hands on them their feathery coats fell off, and the three sons of Lir became three withered bony old men, and Fingula, a lean withered old woman without blood or flesh. Lairguen started at this and left the place hastily, but Fingula chanted this lay:
Come and baptise us, O Cleric,

Clear away our stains

This day I see our grave –

Fiachra and Conn on each side,

And in my lap, between my two arms,

Place Aod, my beauteous brother.”
After this lay, the children of Lir were baptised. And they died, and were buried as Fingula had said, Fiachra and Conn on either side, and Aod before her face. A cairn was raised for them, and on it their names were written in runes. And that is the fate of the children of Lir.


All Things Will Die: Alfred Lord Tennyson

All Things Will Die

Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing

Under my eye; Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing

Over the sky. One after another the white clouds are fleeting;

Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating

Full merrily;

Yet all things must die.

The stream will cease to flow;

The wind will cease to blow;

The clouds will cease to fleet;

The heart will cease to beat;

For all things must die.

All things must die.

Spring will come never more.

O, vanity!

Death waits at the door.

See! our friends are all forsaking

The wine and the merrymaking.

We are call’d–we must go.

Laid low, very low,

In the dark we must lie.

The merry glees are still;

The voice of the bird

Shall no more be heard,

Nor the wind on the hill.

O, misery!

Hark! death is calling

While I speak to ye,

The jaw is falling,

The red cheek paling,

The strong limbs failing;

Ice with the warm blood mixing;

The eyeballs fixing.

Nine times goes the passing bell:

Ye merry souls, farewell.

The old earth

Had a birth,

As all men know,

Long ago.

And the old earth must die.

So let the warm winds range,

And the blue wave beat the shore;

For even and morn

Ye will never see

Thro’ eternity.

All things were born.

Ye will come never more,

For all things must die.

The Ballad of Oriana

My heart is wasted with my woe,


There is no rest for me below,


When the long dun wolds are ribb’d with snow,

And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow,


Alone I wander to and fro,

Ere the light on dark was growing,


At midnight the cock was crowing,


Winds were blowing, waters flowing,

We heard the steeds to battle going,


Aloud the hollow bugle blowing,

In the yew-wood black as night,


Ere I rode into the fight,


While blissful tears blinded my sight

By star-shine and by moonlight,


I to thee my troth did plight,

She stood upon the castle wall,


She watch’d my crest among them all,


She saw me fight, she heard me call,

When forth there stept a foeman tall,


Atween me and the castle wall,

The bitter arrow went aside,


The false, false arrow went aside,


The damned arrow glanced aside,

And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride,


Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride,

O, narrow, narrow was the space,


Loud, loud rung out the bugle’s brays,


O, deathful stabs were dealt apace,

The battle deepen’d in its place,


But I was down upon my face,

They should have stabb’d me where I lay,


How could I rise and come away,


How could I look upon the day?

They should have stabb’d me where I lay,


They should have trod me into clay,

O breaking heart that will not break,


O pale, pale face so sweet and meek,


Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak,

And then the tears run down my cheek,


What wantest thou? whom dost thou seek,

I cry aloud; none hear my cries,


Thou comest atween me and the skies,


I feel the tears of blood arise

Up from my heart unto my eyes,


Within thy heart my arrow lies,

O cursed hand! O cursed blow!


O happy thou that liest low,


All night the silence seems to flow

Beside me in my utter woe,


A weary, weary way I go,

When Norland winds pipe down the sea,


I walk, I dare not think of thee,


Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree,

I dare not die and come to thee,


I hear the roaring of the sea,


Demeter and Persephone

Faint as a climate-changing bird that flies

All night across the darkness, and at dawn

Falls on the threshold of her native land,

And can no more, thou camest, O my child,

Led upward by the God of ghosts and dreams,

Who laid thee at Eleusis, dazed and dumb

With passing thro’ at once from state to state,

Until I brought thee hither, that the day,

When here thy hands let fall the gather’d flower,

Might break thro’ clouded memories once again

On thy lost self. A sudden nightingale

Saw thee, and flash’d into a frolic of song

And welcome; and a gleam as of the moon,

When first she peers along the tremulous deep,

Fled wavering o’er thy face, and chased away

That shadow of a likeness to the king

Of shadows, thy dark mate. Persephone!

Queen of the dead no more–my child! Thine eyes

Again were human-godlike, and the Sun

Burst from a swimming fleece of winter gray,

And robed thee in his day from head to feet–

‘Mother!’ and I was folded in thine arms.

Child, those imperial, disimpassion’d eyes

Awed even me at first, thy mother–eyes

That oft had seen the serpent-wanded power

Draw downward into Hades with his drift

Of flickering spectres, lighted from below

By the red race of fiery Phlegethon;

But when before have Gods or men beheld

The Life that had descended re-arise,

And lighted from above him by the Sun?

So mighty was the mother’s childless cry,

A cry that rang thro’ Hades, Earth, and Heaven!

So in this pleasant vale we stand again,

The field of Enna, now once more ablaze

With flowers that brighten as thy footstep falls,

All flowers–but for one black blur of earth

Left by that closing chasm, thro’ which the car

Of dark Aïdoneus rising rapt thee hence.

And here, my child, tho’ folded in thine arms,

I feel the deathless heart of motherhood

Within me shudder, lest the naked glebe

Should yawn once more into the gulf, and thence

The shrilly whinnyings of the team of Hell,

Ascending, pierce the glad and songful air,

And all at once their arch’d necks, midnight-maned,

Jet upward thro’ the mid-day blossom. No!

For, see, thy foot has touch’d it; all the space

Of blank earth-baldness clothes itself afresh,

And breaks into the crocus-purple hour

That saw thee vanish.

Child, when thou wert gone, I envied human wives, and nested birds,

Yea, the cubb’d lioness; went in search of thee

Thro’ many a palace, many a cot, and gave

Thy breast to ailing infants in the night,

And set the mother waking in amaze

To find her sick one whole; and forth again

Among the wail of midnight winds, and cried,

‘Where is my loved one? Wherefore do ye wail?’

And out from all the night an answer shrill’d,

‘We know not, and we know not why we wail.’

I climb’d on all the cliffs of all the seas,

And ask’d the waves that moan about the world

‘Where? do ye make your moaning for my child?’

And round from all the world the voices came

‘We know not, and we know not why we moan.’

‘Where’? and I stared from every eagle-peak,

I thridded the black heart of all the woods,

I peer’d thro’ tomb and cave, and in the storms

Of Autumn swept across the city, and heard

The murmur of their temples chanting me,

Me, me, the desolate Mother! ‘Where’?–and turn’d,

And fled by many a waste, forlorn of man,

And grieved for man thro’ all my grief for thee,–

The jungle rooted in his shatter’d hearth,

The serpent coil’d about his broken shaft,

The scorpion crawling over naked skulls;–

I saw the tiger in the ruin’d fane

Spring from his fallen God, but trace of thee

I saw not; and far on, and, following out

A league of labyrinthine darkness, came

On three gray heads beneath a gleaming rift.

‘Where’? and I heard one voice from all the three

‘We know not, for we spin the lives of men,

And not of Gods, and know not why we spin!

There is a Fate beyond us.’ Nothing knew.

Last as the likeness of a dying man,

Without his knowledge, from him flits to warn

A far-off friendship that he comes no more,

So he, the God of dreams, who heard my cry,

Drew from thyself the likeness of thyself

Without thy knowledge, and thy shadow past

Before me, crying ‘The Bright one in the highest

Is brother of the Dark one in the lowest,

And Bright and Dark have sworn that I, the child

Of thee, the great Earth-Mother, thee, the Power

That lifts her buried life from gloom to bloom,

Should be for ever and for evermore

The Bride of Darkness.’

So the Shadow wail’d. Then I, Earth-Goddess, cursed the Gods of Heaven.

I would not mingle with their feasts; to me

Their nectar smack’d of hemlock on the lips,

Their rich ambrosia tasted aconite.

The man, that only lives and loves an hour,

Seem’d nobler than their hard Eternities.

My quick tears kill’d the flower, my ravings hush’d

The bird, and lost in utter grief I fail’d

To send my life thro’ olive-yard and vine

And golden grain, my gift to helpless man.

Rain-rotten died the wheat, the barley-spears

Were hollow-husk’d, the leaf fell, and the sun,

Pale at my grief, drew down before his time

Sickening, and Ætna kept her winter snow.

Then He, the brother of this Darkness, He

Who still is highest, glancing from his height

On earth a fruitless fallow, when he miss’d

The wonted steam of sacrifice, the praise

And prayer of men, decreed that thou should’st dwell

For nine white moons of each whole year with me,

Three dark ones in the shadow with thy King.

Once more the reaper in the gleam of dawn

Will see me by the landmark far away,

Blessing his field, or seated in the dusk

Of even, by the lonely threshing-floor,

Rejoicing in the harvest and the grange.

Yet I, Earth-Goddess, am but ill-content

With them, who still are highest. Those gray heads,

What meant they by their ‘Fate beyond the Fates’

But younger kindlier Gods to bear us down,

As we bore down the Gods before us? Gods,

To quench, not hurl the thunderbolt, to stay,

Not spread the plague, the famine; Gods indeed,

To send the noon into the night and break

The sunless halls of Hades into Heaven?

Till thy dark lord accept and love the Sun,

And all the Shadow die into the Light,

When thou shalt dwell the whole bright year with me,

And souls of men, who grew beyond their race,

And made themselves as Gods against the fear

Of Death and Hell; and thou that hast from men,

As Queen of Death, that worship which is Fear,

Henceforth, as having risen from out the dead,

Shalt ever send thy life along with mine

From buried grain thro’ springing blade, and bless

Their garner’d Autumn also, reap with me,

Earth-mother, in the harvest hymns of Earth

The worship which is Love, and see no more

The Stone, the Wheel, the dimly-glimmering lawns

Of that Elysium, all the hateful fires

Of torment, and the shadowy warrior glide

Along the silent field of Asphodel.

The Solstice Swarm…

The bee is enclosed, and shines preserved, in a tear of the sisters of Phaeton, so that it seems enshrined in its own nectar. It has obtained a worthy reward for its great toils; we may suppose that the bee itself would have desired such a death.

– Martial (Marcus Valerius Martialis

Return of the Goddess
Under your Milky Way

And slow-revolving Bear

Frogs from the alder thicket pray

In terror of your judgement day,

Loud with repentance there.
The log they crowned as king

Grew sodden, lurched and sank;

An owl floats by on silent wing

Dark water bubbles from the spring;

They invoke you from each bank.
At dawn you shall appear,

A gaunt red-legged crane,

You whom they know too well for fear,

Lunging your beak down like a spear

To fetch them home again.




-Robert Graves

Happy Friday, and Solstice Greetings a Day Late.
I have had a wonderful day… with a bit of natural mystery, a nice afterglow from the previous evening thrown in, and the pleasures of a summers day as well.
I hope this finds you with friends and loved ones!
Bright Blessings,

On The Menu:
Summer Solstice In Portland…

From Morgan: Bat For Lashes – Whats a Girl To Do

The Swarm

Poetry That Hums

Bat for Lashes – Moon and Moon

Summer Solstice In Portland…
We had a quiet evening with Trish and Kyle, recently transplanted up to Portland from the Bay Area. They were married last fall, and moved up here shortly afterwards.
Mary fixed a nice meal of Cous-Cous, and the evening flowed nicely. Kyle and Trish are involved with a nice scene Dance and Art Culture. .. Kyle does some wonderful photography which will be featured in the next Invisible College. Trish is starting up a small business in the fall…
We ate, talked and drank into the late evening. It was a bit of magick
We had a very nice time, and the Solstice was celebrated by candlelight, not Bonfire this year.
Rowan was off for a celebration with friends, first Summer Solstice he has been elsewhere… wings seem to spread every day….

From Morgan: Bat For Lashes – Whats a Girl To Do



The Swarm
His labor is a chant,

His idleness a tune;

Oh, for a bee’s experience

Of clovers and of noon!

– Emily Dickinson
Our morning hosted an interesting phenomena…
I was doing dishes… and Mary called me to the back door… To the south of our house and just overhead was a huge swarm of bees. It must of been a hiving occurring!
The air was dense with flying bee bodies, and a most wonderful hum filled the air. I went out and stood quietly underneath it, trying to catch the direction that they might be choosing.
When I looked up, you could see the pattern of the seeking dance, a mandala made manifest, undulating beneath the sky…
At first, it seemed like they would settle into our neighbors tree, then I thought they were heading into a hole in the side of the house; but after an hour our so, they had practically vanished except for scout bees flying to and fro.
A most wonderful morning….

Poetry That Hums…

The little bee returns with evening’s gloom,

To join her comrades in the braided hive,

Where, housed beside their might honey-comb,

They dream their polity shall long survive.

– Charles Tennyson Turner,

A Summer Night in the Bee Hive

So work the honey-bees;

Creatures, by a rule in nature teach

The art of order to a peopled kingdom.

They have a king and officers of sorts;

Where some, like magistrates, correct at home;

Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad;

Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings,

Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds;

Which pillage they, with merry march, bring home,

To the tent royal of their emperor;

Who, busied in his majesty, surveys

The singing masons building roofs of gold;

The civil citizens kneading up the honey;

The poor mechanic porters crowding in

Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate;

The sad-ey’d justice, with his surly hum,

Delivering o’er to executors pale

The lazy yawning drone.
Therefore doth heaven divide

The state of man in divers functions,

Setting endeavor in continual motion;

To which is fixed as an aim or butt

Obedience; for so work the honeybees,

Creatures that by a rule in nature teach

The act of order to a peopled kingdom.

They have a king, and officers of sorts,

Where some like magistrates correct at home,

Others like merchants venture trade abroad,

Others like soldiers armed in their stings

Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds,

Which pillage they with merry march bring home

To the tent-royal of their emperor,

Who, busied in his majesties, surveys

The singing masons building roofs of gold,

The civil citizens kneading up the honey,

The poor mechanic porters crowding in

Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate,

The sad-eyed justice with his surly hum

Delivering o’er to executors pale

The lazy yawning drone.

– William Shakespeare

The wild Bee reels from bough to bough

With his furry coat and his gauzy wing,

Now in a lily cup, and now

Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,

In his wandering.

– Oscar Wilde (Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde),

Her Voice

“O bees, sweet bees!” I said; “that nearest field

Is shining white with fragrant immortelles

Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells.”

– Helen Hunt Jackson (Helen Hunt), My Bees
Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.

– John Keats
Listen! O, listen!

Here come the hum the golden bees

Underneath full blossomed trees,

At once with glowing fruit and flowers crowned.

– James Russell Lowell, The Sirens

And a parting gift….
Bat for Lashes – Moon and Moon


A Summer Of Love… Part 1

So… here we are, it is 2007, and it is a Summer Of Love. Not in San Francisco this time, but here in Portland. Surrounded by friends, family and our communities, physical and virtual. It all is the same thing isn’t it?
Love is the lubricant that keeps the world turning, the universe changing, and life renewing. Love is the secret ingredient to every mystery, joy, and moment.
Bright Blessings,
On The Menu:

Young Eildon Visits Caer Llwydd/ & a bit of Wordsworth

Rowan & Syzygy

Keats Poetry…

Young Eildon
I am in love with my Adopted-Grandson, Eildon. He is the light of many an eye! He is the son of Catherine, my Nephew Andrew’s partner. Andrew stepped up to the plate, and became Eildon’s Adopted Dad. He is a Love our Andrew is…
Here is a nice shot of Catherine and Eildon, on their visit to us last weekend…

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

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

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar:

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home:

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

Shades of the prison-house begin to close

Upon the growing Boy,

But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,

He sees it in his joy;

The Youth, who daily farther from the east

Must travel, still is Nature’s Priest,

And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended;

At length the Man perceives it die away,

And fade into the light of common day.


Eildon and Gwyllm. Looked into a babies eyes lately? I recommend it. Stars, Space, Clouds of Glory…

Another one!

And another! Eildon suspects that mustaches are actually caterpillars…

Our son Rowan and Syzygy…

Rowan and Syzygy have been together for a month.

They are new at the whole relationship thing, but they seem to be a very good match.
She is very much into Science, and well Rowan is a poet by nature…
See? Love is Blooming Everywhere! 8o)


A Bit Of Keats….

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.

To Hope
When by my solitary hearth I sit,

And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;

When no fair dreams before my “mind’s eye” flit,

And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;

Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,

And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head!
Whene’er I wander, at the fall of night,

Where woven boughs shut out the moon’s bright ray,

Should sad Despondency my musings fright,

And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,

Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof,

And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof!
Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,

Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;

When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,

Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:

Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,

And fright him as the morning frightens night!
Whene’er the fate of those I hold most dear

Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,

O bright-eyed Hope, my morbidfancy cheer;

Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow:

Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed,

And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head!
Should e’er unhappy love my bosom pain,

From cruel parents, or relentless fair;

O let me think it is not quite in vain

To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!

Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,

And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head!
In the long vista of the years to roll,

Let me not see our country’s honour fade:

O let me see our land retain her soul,

Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom’s shade.

From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed

Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!
Let me not see the patriot’s high bequest,

Great Liberty! how great in plain attire!

With the base purple of a court oppress’d,

Bowing her head, and ready to expire:

But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings

That fill the skies with silver glitterings!
And as, in sparkling majesty, a star

Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;

Brightening the half veil’d face of heaven afar:

So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,

Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,

Waving thy silver pinions o’er my head!

On The Grasshopper And Cricket
The poetry of earth is never dead:

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;

That is the Grasshopper’s–he takes the lead

In summer luxury,–he has never done

With his delights; for when tired out with fun

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

The poetry of earth is ceasing never:

On a lone winter evening, when the frost

Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills

The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,

And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,

The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.

The Catch Up and All That….

On the Menu:

Two Recent Events

Two Zen Parables

The Poetry of W.H. Auden

Art: Jessie M. King…
A few articles for catch up and all that… be sure to tune into the radio, 18 hours of new sounds!
Bright Blessings,

Two Recent Events:

The Dragon Boat Races!
Rowans’ Dragon Boat, ‘Dragon Funk’ taking 1st place in its 1st heat of The Portland Dragon Races during Rose Week, the weekend before the last…. (The Rose Parade was going full bore at this point as well). There are several levels of competition, Rowan’s Team was competing in the High School Division/Level. They took 4th overall, out of some 24 teams…!

Rowan at the end of that race! The energy was very dynamic, and the Team was practically floating off their feet when they came up off of the deck…..! The event spanned the whole weekend… Mary and I stayed pretty much through the whole event. Rain, Shine, Rain Shine. Portland in June. Ya gotta love it, and look at all the different shades of grey!

Visiting with Will & Ed
Towards the end of last week, we were blessed by a visit from our friend Will Penna and his long time friend Ed. The were just finishing up a 10 day tour of the North West from their homes in the Bay Area. Ed lives in San Francisco, and Will lives up in Sonoma County.
They went up all the way into Canada, and then back down…
Will and I have been crossing paths since 1966… We have known the same people, and been at the same events, but only got to meet back in 1998 or 1999, you know, last century. *0) It was nice seeing them both, and having a chat in the morning sun.
Cymon came over as well to meet Will, but wasn’t quite ready for the early morning camera. It was a very wide ranging conversation, with the birds overhead, Sofie the dog running around the rabbit hutch, and all the plants coming into bloom.
Anyway, we had a nice couple of hours, and it was great meeting Ed after all these years. He plans to come back north with his daughter in the fall, hopefully we will arrange some time out to the beach and all…
Will said he is planning to come north again as well. Hopefully we get more time together soon!
Do you know of the endless conversation? We always seem to pick up where we left off!

Two Zen Parables….

Taming the Mind
After winning several archery contests, the young and rather boastful champion challenged a Zen master who was renowned for his skill as an archer. The young man demonstrated remarkable technical proficiency when he hit a distant bull’s eye on his first try, and then split that arrow with his second shot.
“There,” he said to the old man, “see if you can match that!”
Undisturbed, the master did not draw his bow, but rather motioned for the young archer to follow him up the mountain.
Curious about the old fellow’s intentions, the champion followed him high into the mountain until they reached a deep chasm spanned by a rather flimsy and shaky log. Calmly stepping out onto the middle of the unsteady and certainly perilous bridge, the old master picked a far away tree as a target, drew his bow, and fired a clean, direct hit.
“Now it is your turn,” he said as he gracefully stepped back onto the safe ground.
Staring with terror into the seemingly bottomless and beckoning abyss, the young man could not force himself to step out onto the log, no less shoot at a target.
“You have much skill with your bow,” the master said, sensing his challenger’s predicament, “but you have little skill with the mind that lets loose the shot.”


The Prime Minister of the Tang Dynasty was a national hero for his success as both a statesman and military leader. But despite his fame, power, and wealth, he considered himself a humble and devout Buddhist. Often he visited his favorite Zen master to study under him, and they seemed to get along very well. The fact that he was prime minister apparently had no effect on their relationship, which seemed to be simply one of a revered master and respectful student.
One day, during his usual visit, the Prime Minister asked the master, “Your Reverence, what is egotism according to Buddhism?” The master’s face turned red, and in a very condescending and insulting tone of voice, he shot back, “What kind of stupid question is that!?”
This unexpected response so shocked the Prime Minister that he became sullen and angry. The Zen master then smiled and said, “THIS, Your Excellency, is egotism.”

The Poetry of W. H. Auden

After Reading a Child’s Guide to Modern Physics
As the son of a physicist, Auden had an enduring interest in science and the moral issues surrounding it.
If all a top physicist knows

About the Truth be true,

Then, for all the so-and-so’s,

Futility and grime,

Our common world contains,

We have a better time

Than the Greater Nebulae do,

Or the atoms in our brains.
Marriage is rarely bliss

But, surely it would be worse

As particles to pelt

At thousands of miles per sec

About a universe

Wherein a lover’s kiss

Would either not be felt

Or break the loved one’s neck.
Though the face at which I stare

While shaving it be cruel

For, year after year, it repels

An ageing suitor, it has,

Thank God, sufficient mass

To be altogether there,

Not an indeterminate gruel

Which is partly somewhere else.
Our eyes prefer to suppose

That a habitable place

Has a geocentric view,

That architects enclose

A quiet Euclidian space:

Exploded myths – but who

Could feel at home astraddle

An ever expanding saddle?
This passion of our kind

For the process of finding out

Is a fact one can hardly doubt,

But I would rejoice in it more

If I knew more clearly what

We wanted the knowledge for,

Felt certain still that the mind

Is free to know or not.
It has chosen once, it seems,

And whether our concern

For magnitude’s extremes

Really become a creature

Who comes in a median size,

Or politicizing Nature

Be altogether wise,

Is something we shall learn.

Voltaire At Ferney
Almost happy now, he looked at his estate.

An exile making watches glanced up as he passed,

And went on working; where a hospital was rising fast

A joiner touched his cap; an agent came to tell

Some of the trees he’d planted were progressing well.

The white alps glittered. It was summer. He was very great.
Far off in Paris, where his enemies

Whsipered that he was wicked, in an upright chair

A blind old woman longed for death and letters. He would write

“Nothing is better than life.” But was it? Yes, the fight

Against the false and the unfair

Was always worth it. So was gardening. Civilise.
Cajoling, scolding, screaming, cleverest of them all,

He’d had the other children in a holy war

Against the infamous grown-ups, and, like a child, been sly

And humble, when there was occassion for

The two-faced answer or the plain protective lie,

But, patient like a peasant, waited for their fall.
And never doubted, like D’Alembert, he would win:

Only Pascal was a great enemy, the rest

Were rats already poisoned; there was much, though, to be done,

And only himself to count upon.

Dear Diderot was dull but did his best;

Rousseau, he’d always known, would blubber and give in.
So, like a sentinel, he could not sleep. The night was full of wrong,

Earthquakes and executions. Soon he would be dead,

And still all over Europe stood the horrible nurses

Itching to boil their children. Only his verses

Perhaps could stop them: He must go on working: Overhead

The uncomplaining stars composed their lucid song.

Lay Your Sleeping Head, My Love
Lay your sleeping head, my love,

Human on my faithless arm;

Time and fevers burn away

Individual beauty from

Thoughtful children, and the grave

Proves the child ephermeral:

But in my arms till break of day

Let the living creature lie,

Mortal, guilty, but to me

The entirely beautiful.
Soul and body have no bounds:

To lovers as they lie upon

Her tolerant enchanted slope

In their ordinary swoon,

Grave the vision Venus sends

Of supernatural sympathy,

Universal love and hope;

While an abstract insight wakes

Among the glaciers and the rocks

The hermit’s sensual ecstasy.
Certainty, fidelity

On the stroke of midnight pass

Like vibrations of a bell,

And fashionable madmen raise

Their pedantic boring cry:

Every farthing of the cost,

All the dreadful cards foretell,

Shall be paid, but not from this night

Not a whisper, not a thought,

Not a kiss nor look be lost.
Beauty, midnight, vision dies:

Let the winds of dawn that blow

Softly round your dreaming head

Such a day of sweetness show

Eye and knocking heart may bless.

Find the mortal world enough;

Noons of dryness see you fed

By the involuntary powers,

Nights of insult let you pass

Watched by every human love.

The Poets Eye…

Something for your Weekend…
The Linkage

The Poet’s Eye

The Lyrics of Roy Harper

Art: Bouguereau
Still dealing with some visual problems…


Start Your Own Cult…!

(Over his impressive career, he has started several cults, and seen at least two through completion and Removal to other Planes of Existence.)

Cooking with Viagra®.

The world’s most delicious recipes featuring Viagra, Cialis, Levitra, and other popular erectile dysfunction drugs.

Molecules with Silly or Unusual Names

The title sez it all…

’80 Mbytes of storage for under $12K!’

The past seen dimly through the eyes of advertisement!


The Poet’s Eye – Brian Inglis
Drugs did not simply satisfy expectation; on occasion, they could nourish it. In the 1790s Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who had been prescribed laudanum—opium in an alcohol solution—for the relief of pain, found that it altered his perception; it could give him optical illusions—about distances, say:
The poet’s eye in his tipsy hour

Has a magnifying power

Or rather, the soul emancipates the eyes

Of the accidents of size
Laudanum could also start reveries in which his imagination appeared to carry him away, as if in a dream, but leaving him with sufficient consciousness to be able to direct, to some extent, the course they were taking. In one of them, he composed Kubla Khan.
Laudanum and laughing gas

Why comparable experiences had not been familiar before, remains a mystery. Opium had been used in Europe since medieval times; chiefly as a sedative, but doctors had come to realise that its effects could vary greatly. ‘It causes sleeping, and watching’—Dr. John Jones wrote, in a treatise published at the beginning of the eighteenth century—’stupidity and promptitude in business, cloudiness and serenity of mind. It excites the spirits, and yet quiets them; it relaxes, and weakens, yet it enables us to undergo labours, journeys, etc.; it causes a furious madness, yet composes the spirits above all things.’ But its vision-inducing potential was not grasped until Coleridge’s experience, and not generally known until the publication in 1822 of Thomas de Quincey’s Confessions of an English Opium Eater, with his description of what happened when he first took laudanum—tincture of opium in alcohol— for rheumatic pains in the head:
in an hour, O heavens! What a revulsion! what a resurrection, from its lowest depths of the inner spirit ! What an apocalypse of the world within me! That my pains had vanished was now a trifle in my eyes; this negative effect was swallowed up in the immensity of those positive effects which had opened up before me, in the abyss of divine enjoyment thus suddenly revealed. Here was a panacea … here was the secret of happiness, about which philosophers had disputed for so many ages, at once discovered; happiness might now be bought for a penny, and carried in the waistcoat pocket; portable ecstasies might be had corked up in a pint bottle; and peace of mind could be sent down by the mail.
Agony of mind was soon to follow—as Jones had warned; ‘great and even intolerable distresses, anxieties and depression of spirits’. So intolerable were the withdrawal symptoms that many respected citizens who had begun to take opium as Coleridge and de Quincey had done, for the relief of pain, were unable to break the habit. Some, laudanum destroyed; others, like William Wilberforce and Wilkie Collins, managed to come to terms with it, taking large but not increasing doses. But laudanum did not provide them with visions. It merely kept the distresses, anxieties and depressions at bay.
Might there not be other drugs, though, which could expand an artist’s horizon, without enslaving him? Shortly before the turn of the century Humphry Davy, the discoverer of nitrous oxide, found that ‘sniffing’ gave him a feeling of ecstasy; ‘nothing exists but thought’ he told himself as he awoke; ‘The universe is composed of impressions, ideas, pleasures and pains!’. Soon, ‘the laughing gas’ and ether were being dispensed at ‘frolics’, which became a popular pastime. In parts of Ulster, ether became so popular that its consumption took on the proportions of an epidemic, whose consequences were entertainingly described by K. H. Connell in his Irish Peasant Society, from contemporary accounts. The atmosphere of some towns ‘was “loaded” with ether. Hundreds of yards outside Draperstown, a visiting surgeon detected the familiar smell; market days smelt “not of pigs, tobacco smoke or of unwashed human beings”; even the bank “stove” of ether, and its reek on the Derry Central Railway was “disgusting and abominable”.’
The Ulstermen appear to have been using ether as a cheap alternative to alcohol; a tablespoonful—enough on which to get pleasantly, though briefly, inebriated—cost one penny. But some people used it as a vision-inducer. ‘You always heard music, and you’d be cocking your ears at it’, as an ether-taker put it; or you would ‘see men climbing up the walls and going through the roof, or coming in through the roof and down the walls, nice and easy’. What a man experienced after taking it was limited, apparently, by his capacity for experience. As De Quincey put it, if a man took opium whose talk was of oxen, he would dream about oxen—’if he were not too dull to dream’. For a few individuals, though, ether or laughing gas provided sensations which they would treasure throughout their lives. In his Varieties of Religious Experience, William James was to recall how they could ‘stimulate the mystical consciousness to an extraordinary degree’, and though the truths might fade, ‘the sense of a profound meaning having been there persists’.
The Forbidden Game

The gases, however, could be dangerous in inexperienced hands; and many experimenters could get little but hilarity out of them. An alternative possibility as vision-inducer was Indian hemp, introduced into France by the men of Napoleon’s army of the Nile, and taken up for experimental purposes in the 1840s by Jacques Moreau, a Parisian doctor who thought it might help in the treatment of patients suffering from mental illness. Trying it out on himself, he found it put him into paroxysms of uncontrollable laughter, and then gave him visions of an entirely pleasurable kind. ‘It is really happiness which is produced’, he wrote,
“and by this I mean an enjoyment entirely moral, and by no means sensual, as might be supposed—a very curious circumstance, from which some remarkable inferences might be drawn… for the hashish eater is happy, not like the gourmand or the famished man when satisfying his appetite, or the voluptuary in the gratification of his amative desires—but like him who hears tidings which fill him with joy, or like the miser counting his treasures, the gambler who is successful at play, or the ambitious man who is intoxicated with success. “

Dr. Moreau shared the delights of his discovery with the members of the Club des Hachichins, founded in 1844, Dumas, Gautier and Baudelaire being among its members. Gautier described his reactions to the drug two years later in the Revue de deux mondes: ‘frenetic, irresistible, implacable laughter’ succeeded by grotesque hallucinations, fantasies of droll dreams confusedly danced about; hybrid creations, formless mixtures of men, beasts and utensils; monks with wheels for feet and cauldrons for bellies: warriors, in armours of dishes, brandishing wooden swords in birds’ claws; statesmen moved by turnspit gears; kings plunged to the waist in salt-cellar turrets …
Baudelaire’s account was more clinical. People trying hashish for the first time, he observed, would complain that it had little effect, which might be attributed to their resistance. But it would suddenly hit them with ‘a sort of irrelevant and irresistible hilarity… as painful as a tickle’. Occasionally this led on to weakness and stupor, but for some people, ‘a new subtlety or acuity manifests itself in all the senses’, and this was when hallucinations set in. ‘External objects acquire, gradually and one after another, strange new appearances; they become distorted or transformed. Next occur mistakes in the identity of objects, and transposals of ideas. Sounds clothe themselves in colours; and colours contain music.’
Such experiences could be very satisfying; ‘the universality of all existence arrays itself before you in a new and hitherto unguessed at glory’. But in the end, for Baudelaire, they were regressive in their effects. The hashish-eater, he decided, ‘completely confounds dream with action, his imagination kindling more and more at the spectacle of his own nature corrected and idealised, he substitutes this fascinating image of himself for his real individuality—so poor in strength of will, and so rich in vanity’. And, the morrow! the terrible morrow! All the body’s organs lax and weary, nerves unstrung, itching desires to weep, the impossibility of applying oneself steadily to any task—all these cruelly teach you that you have played a forbidden game… The especial victim is the will, that most precious of the faculties. It is said, and it is almost true, that hashish has no evil physical effects; or, at worst, no serious ones. But can it be said that a man incapable of action, good only for dreaming, is truly well, even though all his members may be in their normal condition?
Other experimenters with hashish were to reach a similar conclusion; among them the American Fitzhugh Ludlow—though he stressed that it was not the drug, but man’s reliance on it, that caused the problems: ‘the soul withers and shrinks from its growth towards the true end of its being beneath the dominance of any sensual indulgence’, so that though the bondage might continue to be golden, there was all the while erosion of strength.
Not all the devotees of hashish experienced Baudelaire’s ‘terrible morrow’. A few were able to smoke it and examine its effects as dispassionately as they might have examined the effects of tobacco; among them the young Charles Richet, later to be a Professor of Physiology in Paris, and a Nobel prizewinner. Richet observed, as others had done, that for anybody under the influence of hashish, time could appear to stand still—or at least to pass more gradually; and in 1877 he presented a plausible explanation. Man’s mind, he pointed out, is full of indetermined and incomplete ideas, intertwined. Disentangling them took time; and ‘as time is only measured by the remembrance of ideas, it appears prodigiously long’. What hashish did was speed up the process:
“in the space of a minute we have fifty different thoughts; since in general it requires several minutes to have fifty different thoughts, it will appear to us that several minutes are passed, and it is only by going to the inflexible clock, which marks for us the regular passage of time, that we perceive our error. With hashish the notion of time is completely overthrown, the moments are years, and the minutes are centuries; but I feel the insufficiency of language to express this illusion, and I believe, that one can only understand it by feeling it for himself.”
But such detachment was rare among the members of the Club des Hachichins and their successors; and they had given hashish a reputation as a vision-inducer which experience, for the majority of people who tried it, failed to justify. It had been the atmosphere of the Club des Hachichins, and the personalities of its members, which had lent Indian hemp its potency, rather than any quality in the drug.

The Lyrics of Roy Harper….

On Summer Day
thought I saw a swallow land

Upon my hand on summer day

I thought I saw my true love standing

In the sand

One old may day

I thought I hear the dolphins sing

‘You gotta bring her back

On summer day’
See her run along the tide line

Where the trade winds blow

Feel the breath of summer

In her hair, oh!

Underneath the shooting stars

I’ve wished and would you know

I thought I saw a swallow land

Upon my hand

On summer day
I thought I saw a swallow land

Upon my hand on summer day

But here in cold midwinter’s night

Another light has come to play

Steals across the misty sky

And bye and bye

She’ll maybe stay
Can there ever be again again

Another spring

Will the birds forever hold us

On the wing

Light the fire in our home of hearts

And hear me sing

I thought I saw a swallow land

Upon my hand on summer day

The Plough
The demons catch me

On the stair

And I don’t know where, I am

I don’t know how I got there

Where was I going?

What was I doing?

Before that same thought

Reached down and caught

Hooked me in the gut

Cursed me from every angle

As I was pulled out

Of the water again

And began to suffocate in pain

Desperately grappling

To untie the knot

That I can’t even get hold of

That I can’t see but only feel

What am I doing?

How the hell did I lose her?

How could i?

Why did I say things I didn’t mean?

Where have I just been?

The house creaks

In the silent parting

Of the day after day

Of no one

Not a sound

Why was she so mean?

Was it because she felt she could be

Because she felt she was right?

O what a prick I am

What a shite

And what am I holding?

O… Yes, it’s a plug

Why can’t she understand?

Because she’s never been left

She’s my drug

And now cold turkey

Where was I going?

To put it on the lamp

That’s right

I wonder whether she’s looked up

And seen the plough tonight

Evening Star
There’s a lady who knows you know

All the to’s and the fro’s they go

When they’re changing their minds

As the passion unwinds

But she knows as she watches

Over the evening star

That they’ll all be together

No matter where they all are
There’s a prince on a mountain top

And the mystery fills his cup

With the call of the wind

And a beautiful child

And she knows as she watches

Over the evening star

That they’ll all be together

No matter where thay all are
And she knows as she watches

Over the evening star

That we’ll all be together

No matter where thay all are

I am a child
I am a child

I am a sanctuary

Wild at my mother’s knee

Freedom has a piece of me

Every night I run away

Loose the nooses and drift astray

Chasing dreams into outer space

Trying to face

The day
Living life

Against the law

Forcing us all to endure

Sneaking home to close the door

Every night we run away

Loose the nooses and drift astray

Chasing dreams into outer space

Trying to face

The day
Every night we do our best to lose it

Skinning up and chasing better days

Getting up and moving to the music

O dance my darling lady fair

My darling mayflower

Show me just how much you dare

Forget our daytime labour
We’re in the wind

You feel us in the breeze

Teaching leaves

To grow the trees


Daytime memories

And every night we run away

Loose the nooses and drift astray

Chasing dreams into outer space

Trying to face

The day

Welcome To The Pleasure Dome….

18 hours of New Music On:
Radio Free EarthRites: Music For The Heart Of The World

Turn On Cut n Paste Into – Your Internet Radio Player!

-o-o-0-0-O Radio Free Earthrites! O-0-0-o-o-

On The Menu:

Lucy In The Sky…

The Links

2 Koans 4 U

Poetry: Herman Hesse

Free As A Bird

Art: The Divine Mr. Watts….
Yep, we are back and almost at full steam (some image crap-ola still going on) O, I am feeling just a bit rusty, and feel like I have been pulled through a hedge backwards…
But, we are up, and I have to thank our friend Doug Fraser for all his efforts, patience, and kindness in bringing the site and Turfing back on its feet.
When I get the new picture function working (it is not accepting new illustrations), we will have photos from the last week. Lots has been going on.
We shall tell all in good time O’ Gentle Reader, in good time.
Bright Blessings,
Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds…


The Links:

Heliocentrism is an Atheist Doctrine

Leviticus Fashion Tips…

Pagans are the Rodney Dangerfields of religion

2 Koans’ 4 U
A Philosopher Asks Buddha
A philosopher asked Buddha: `Without words, without the wordless, will you you tell me truth?’
The Buddha kept silence.
The philosopher bowed and thanked the Buddha, saying: `With your loving kindness I have cleared away my delusions and entered the true path.’
After the philosopher had gone, Ananda asked the Buddha what he had attained.
The Buddha replied, `A good horse runs even at the shadow of the whip.’

Hyakujo’s Fox
Once when Hyakujo delivered some Zen lectures an old man attended them, unseen by the monks. At the end of each talk when the monks left so did he. But one day he remained after the had gone, and Hyakujo asked him: `Who are you?’
The old man replied: `I am not a human being, but I was a human being when the Kashapa Buddha preached in this world. I was a Zen master and lived on this mountain. At that time one of my students asked me whether the enlightened man is subject to the law of causation. I answered him: “The enlightened man is not subject to the law of causation.” For this answer evidencing a clinging to absoluteness I became a fox for five hundred rebirths, and I am still a fox. Will you save me from this condition with your Zen words and let me get out of a fox’s body? Now may I ask you: Is the enlightened man subject to the law of causation?’
Hyakujo said: `The enlightened man is one with the law of causation.’
At the words of Hyakujo the old man was enlightened. `I am emancipated,’ he said, paying homage with a deep bow. `I am no more a fox, but I have to leave my body in my dwelling place behind this mountain. Please perform my funeral as a monk.’ The he disappeared.
The next day Hyakujo gave an order through the chief monk to prepare to attend the funeral of a monk. `No one was sick in the infirmary,’ wondered the monks. `What does our teacher mean?’
After dinner Hyakujo led the monks out and around the mountain. In a cave, with his staff he poked out the corpse of an old fox and then performed the ceremony of cremation.
That evening Hyakujo gave a talk to the monks and told this story about the law of causation.
Obaku, upon hearing this story, asked Hyakujo: `I understand that a long time ago because a certain person gave a wrong Zen answer he became a fox for five hundred rebirths. Now I was to ask: If some modern master is asked many questions, and he always gives the right answer, what will become of him?’
Hyakujo said: `You come here near me and I will tell you.’
Obaku went near Hyakujo and slapped the teacher’s face with this hand, for he knew this was the answer his teacher intended to give him.
Hyakujo clapped his hands and laughed at the discernment. `I thought a Persian had a red beard,’ he said, `and now I know a Persian who has a red beard.’


The Poetry of Herman Hesse…
Guest at a monastery in the hills,

I stepped, when all the monks had gone to pray,

Into a book-lined room. Along the walls,

Glittering in the light of fading day,

I saw a multitude of vellum spines

With marvelous inscriptions. Eagerly,

Impelled by rapturous curiosity,

I picked the nearest book, and read the lines:

The squaring of the circle-Final Stage.

I thought: I’ll take this and read every page!

A quarto volume, leather tooled in gold,

Gave promise of a story still untold:

How Adam also ate of the other tree…

The other tree? Which one? The tree of life?

Is Adam then immortal? Now I could see

No chance had brought me here to this library.

I spied the back and edges of a folio

Aglow with all the colors of the rainbow,

Its hand-painted title stating a decree:

The interrelationships of hues and sound:

Proof that for every color may be found

In music a proper corresponding key.

Choirs of colors sparkled before my eyes

And now I was beginning to surmise:

Here was the library of Paradise.

To all the questions that had driven me

All the answers could be given me.

Here I could quench my thirst to understand,

For here all knowledge stood at my command.

There was provision here for every need:

A title fill of promise on each book

Responded to my every rapid look.

Here there was fruit to satisfy the greed

Of any student’s timid aspirations,

Here was the inner meaning, here the key,

To poetry, to wisdom, and to science.

Magic and erudition in alliance

Opened the door to every mystery.

Those books provided pledges of all power

To him who came here at this magic hour.
A lectern stood near by; with hands that shook

I placed upon it one enticing book,

Deciphered at a glance the picture writing,

As in a dream we find ourselves reciting

A poem or lesson we have never learned.

At once I soared aloft to starry spaces

Of the soul, and with the zodiac turned,

Where all the revelations of all races,

Whatever intuition has divined,

Millennial experience of all nations,

Harmoniously met in new relations,

Old insights with new symbols recombined,

So that in minutes or in hours as I read

I traced once more the whole path of mankind,

And all that men have ever done and said

Disclosed its inner meaning to my mind.

I read, and saw those hieroglyphic forms

Couple and part, and coalesce in swarms,

Dance for a while together, separate,

Once more in newer patterns integrate,

A kaleidoscope of endless metaphors-

And each some vaster, fresher sense explores.
Bedazzled by these sights, O looked away

From the book to give my eyes a moment’s rest,

And saw that I was not the only guest.

An old man stood before that grand array

Of tomes. Perhaps he was the archivist.

I saw that he was earnestly intent

Upon some task, and i could not resist

A strange conviction that I had to know

The manner of his work, and what it meant.

I watched the old man, with frail hand and slow,

Remove a volume and inspect what stood

Written upon its back, then saw him blow

With pallid lips upon the title-could

A title possibly be more alluring

Or offer greater promise of enduring

Delight? But now his finger wiped across

The spine. I saw it silently erase

The name, and watched with fearful sense of loss

As he inscribed another in its place

And then moved on to smilingly efface

One more, but only a newer title to emboss.

For a long while while I looked at him bemused,

The turned, since reason totally refused

To understand the meaning of his actions,

Back to my book-I’d seen but a few lines-

And found I could no longer read the signs

Or even see the rows of images.

The world of symbols I had barely entered

That had stirred me to such transports of bliss,

In which a universe of meaning centered,

Seemed to dissolve and rush away, careen

And reel and shake in feverish contractions,

And fade out, leaving nothing to be seen

But empty parchment with a hoary sheen.

I felt a hand upon me, felt it slide

Over my shoulder. The old man stood beside

My lectern, and I shuddered while

He took my book and with a subtle smile

Brushed his finger lightly to elide

The former title, then began to write

New promises and problems, novel inquiries,

New formulas for ancient mysteries.

Without a word, he plied his magic style.

Then, with my book, he disappeared from sight.

I Know, You Walk–
I walk so often, late, along the streets,

Lower my gaze, and hurry, full of dread,

Suddenly, silently, you still might rise

And I would have to gaze on all your grief

With my own eyes,

While you demand your happiness, that’s dead.
I know, you walk beyond me, every night,

With a coy footfall, in a wretched dress

And walk for money, looking miserable!

Your shoes gather God knows what ugly mess,

The wind plays in your hair with lewd delight—

You walk, and walk, and find no home at all.

How Heavy The Days

How heavy the days are.

There’s not a fire that can warm me,

Not a sun to laugh with me,

Everything bare,

Everything cold and merciless,

And even the beloved, clear

Stars look desolately down,

Since I learned in my heart that

Love can die.

A Swarm Of Gnats

Many thousand glittering motes

Crowd forward greedily together

In trembling circles.

Extravagantly carousing away

For a whole hour rapidly vanishing,

They rave, delirious, a shrill whir,

Shivering with joy against death.

While kingdoms, sunk into ruin,

Whose thrones, heavy with gold, instantly scattered

Into night and legend, without leaving a trace,

Have never known so fierce a dancing.

Without You

My Pillow gazes upon me at night

Empty as a gravestone;

I never thought it would be so bitter

To be alone,

Not to lie down asleep in your hair.
I lie alone in a silent house,

The hanging lamp darkened,

And gently stretch out my hands

To gather in yours,

And softly press my warm mouth

Toward you, and kiss myself, exhausted and weak-

Then suddenly I’m awake

And all around me the cold night grows still.

The star in the window shines clearly-

Where is your blond hair,

Where your sweet mouth?
Now I drink pain in every delight

And poison in every wine;

I never knew it would be so bitter

To be alone,

Alone, without you.

Free As A Bird



Steel Cathedrals…

It is all about Love in the end. No matter what you gained, spent. Who are You? What hearts did you touch?


It has been asked,

“How should those who enter

The path apply their minds?”

All things are originally uncreated

And presently undying.

Just let your mind be free;

You don’t have to restrain it.

See directly and hear directly;

Come directly and go directly.

When you must go, then go;

When you must stay, then stay.

This is the true path.

A scripture says,

“Conditional existence is the site

of enlightenment, insofar as you

know it as it really is.”

– Niu-t’ou Hui-chung (683-769)

A Small Entry:

Steel Cathederals – David Sylvian

Seijo’s Two Souls

Poems of Ikkyu


We are here because we came to do something. We came to take care of this place and make sure the ones that come after are greeted with Love. It boils down to this: What did we do to change it for the better?
More Love,

David Sylvian – Steel Cathedrals (Part 1)



David Sylvian – Steel Cathedrals (Part 2)


Seijo’s Two Souls
Chokan had a very beautiful daughter named Seijo. He also had a handsome young cousin named Ochu. Joking, he would often comment that they would make a fine married couple. Actually, he planned to give his daughter in marriage to another man. But young Seijo and Ochu took him seriously; they fell in love and thought themselves engaged. One day Chokan announced Seijo’s betrothal to the other man. In rage and despair, Ochu left by boat. After several days journey, much to his astonishment and joy he discovered that Seijo was on the boat with him!
They went to a nearby city where they lived for several years and had two children. But Seijo could not forget her father; so Ochu decided to go back with her and ask the father’s forgiveness and blessing. When they arrived, he left Seijo on the boat and went to the father’s house. he humbly apologized to the father for taking his daughter away and asked forgiveness for them both.
“What is the meaning of all this madness?” the father exclaimed. Then he related that after Ochu had left, many years ago, his daughter Seijo had fallen ill and had lain comatose in bed since. Ochu assured him that he was mistaken, and, in proof, he brought Seijo from the boat. When she entered, the Seijo lying ill in bed rose to meet her, and the two became one.
Zen Master Goso, referrring to the legend, observed, “Seijo had two souls, one always sick at home and the other in the city, a married woman with two children. Which was the true soul?”

Bells and Robes
Zen Master Unmon said: “The world is vast and wide. Why do you put on your robes at the sound of a bell?”


Poems of Ikkyu

I Hate Incense
A master’s handiwork cannot be measured

But still priests wag their tongues explaining the “Way” and babbling about “Zen.”

This old monk has never cared for false piety

And my nose wrinkles at the dark smell of incense before the Buddha.
A Fisherman
Studying texts and stiff meditation can make you lose your Original Mind.

A solitary tune by a fisherman, though, can be an invaluable treasure.

Dusk rain on the river, the moon peeking in and out of the clouds;

Elegant beyond words, he chants his songs night after night.
My Hovel
The world before my eyes is wan and wasted, just like me.

The earth is decrepit, the sky stormy, all the grass withered.

No spring breeze even at this late date,

Just winter clouds swallowing up my tiny reed hut.
A Meal of Fresh Octopus
Lots of arms, just like Kannon the Goddess;

Sacrificed for me, garnished with citron, I revere it so!

The taste of the sea, just divine!

Sorry, Buddha, this is another precept I just cannot keep.
Exhausted with gay pleasures, I embrace my wife.

The narrow path of asceticism is not for me:

My mind runs in the opposite direction.

It is easy to be glib about Zen — I’ll just keep my mouth shut

And rely on love play all the day long.
It is nice to get a glimpse of a lady bathing –

You scrubbed your flower face and cleansed your lovely body

While this old monk sat in the hot water,

Feeling more blessed than even the emperor of China!
To Lady Mori with Deepest Gratitude and Thanks
The tree was barren of leaves but you brought a new spring.

Long green sprouts, verdant flowers, fresh promise.

Mori, if I ever forget my profound gratitude to you,

Let me burn in hell forever.
(Mori was a blind minstrel, and Ikkyu’s young mistress)


Brilliant Trees…

Unblocking boarded up windows, of what was probably once a grow house before we lived here… light pours into the basement, and I rediscovered David Sylvian today and met Amber Asylum in my wanderings as well.
Light pours into the basement, revealing half completed paintings, forgotten art

Light pours into the basement, spilling over photographs – a mythical past

Light pours into the basement, earth smells and silence

Light pours into the basement, stillness follows….
For Your Pleasure…

David Sylvian lyrics, music, images.

Pollen Path
Welcome me father

On the north shores of Lapland

Welcome me father

Who knows no name

Welcome me mother

The earth here is yawning

My body is shaking

For want of a flame
Down here

Got to laugh

The kick back is lightening


Got to laugh

This whole thing is frightening
I follow the pollen path

The pollen path
Welcome me father

The lava is rising

Welcome me mother

And give me your name
We’ve drunk from this wellspring

Too long, too long

Dividing the hours

To measure the time
We’ve lived with this heartache

Too long, too long


What’s yours, what’s mine
We’ve harboured this sadness

So long

Nursing a voice

To sing us our songs
Raising a voice

To sing our songs

David Sylvian – Orpheus


Darkest Dreaming
Stay tonight

We’ll watch the full moon rising

Hold on tight

The sky is breaking
I don’t ever want to be alone

With all my darkest dreaming

Hold me close

The sky is breaking
I don’t ever want to be alone

With all my darkest dreaming

Hold me close

The sky is breaking

God Man
Welcome to Sun State

The language of light

The energies impulse

The loud, dark, iron

The purpose of history

In Eurasian Steppes

From threshold to threshold

You’ve misunderstood the place where you stand

God Man
You’ve misunderstood the place where you stand

God Man
From different maps

Dead bees on a cake

You’re sweeping the forest

Man, it’s getting late

The milkweed is growing

Through cotton grass

You borrowed the car

But you didn’t ask
You’ve misunderstood the place where you stand

God Man
You’ve misunderstood the place where you stand

God Man
You’ve misunderstood the place where you stand

God Man
And everything’s dark

Then you’re wrapped up

Born into brightness
You’ve misunderstood the place where you stand

You’ve misunderstood the place where you stand

You’ve misunderstood the place where you stand

Brilliant Trees
When you come to me

I’ll question myself again

Is this grip on life still my own ?

When every step I take

Leads me so far away

Every thought should bring me closer home
And there you stand

Making my life possible

Raise my hands up to heaven

But only you could know
My whole world stands in front of me

By the look in your eyes

By the look in your eyes

My whole life stretches in front of me

Reaching up like a flower

Leading my life back to the soil
Every plan I’ve made ’s

Lost in the scheme of things

Within each lesson lies the price to learn

A reason to believe

Divorces itself from me

Every hope I hold lies in my arms
And there you stand

Making my life possible

Raise my hands up to heaven

But only you could know
My whole world stands in front of me

By the look in your eyes

By the look in your eyes

My whole life stretches in front of me

Reaching up like a flower

Leading my life back to the soil