Night Flight

(Gaston Bussiere – Jean De Arc)

Late Evening… Wednesday. my sister Suzanne just left after visiting, I haven’t seen her in quite awhile. She looks great, having lost weight, and being focused on her publishing business…
Mary and I were working up in north Portland today, and while I was in checking for food at New Seasons, I ran into Padrice. A very pleasant surprise! She is looking wonderful, and she is doing well. It has been 3 years at least since we talked face to face. Time passes way to quickly. Anyway, we talked about writing, poetry, the Muse and kids. Especially dealing with the Muse when you have kids… now that is something that needs to be written about. It was a very pleasant event in my day, and I am very pleased to have met up with Padrice again…
Todays’ entry has the promised new poetry, from Antonio Machado. I will write a bit more about him this week, and we will have some more of his fine work.
I rediscovered a favourite French Symbolist, Gaston Bussiere… 3 pics in this edition, hopefully more later in the week.
Anyway, enjoy!


On The Menu:

Mothra (1961) the “lost” Mothra song

‘Dust Hath Closed Helen’s Eye’

The Poetry of Antonio Machado

Rebirth of Mothra 1 & 2

Art: Gaston Bussiere

Mothra (1961) the “lost” Mothra song


‘Dust Hath Closed Helen’s Eye’

– William Butler Yeats….

I have been lately to a little group of houses, not many enough to be called a village, in the barony of Kiltartan in County Galway, whose name, Ballylee, is known through all the west of Ireland. There is the old square castle, Ballylee, inhabited by a farmer and his wife, and a cottage where their daughter and their son-in-law live, and a little mill with an old miller, and old ash-trees throwing green shadows upon a little river and great stepping-stones. I went there two or three times last year to talk to the miller about Biddy Early, a wise woman that lived in Clare some years ago, and about her saying, ‘There is a cure for all evil between the two mill-wheels of Ballylee,’ and to find out from him or another whether she meant the moss between the running waters or some other herb. I have been there this summer, and I shall be there again before it is autumn, because Mary Hynes, a beautiful woman whose name is still a wonder by turf fires, died there sixty years ago; for our feet would linger where beauty has lived its life of sorrow to make us understand that it is not of the world. An old man brought me a little way from the mill and the castle, and down a long, narrow boreen that was nearly lost in brambles and sloe bushes, and he said, ‘That is the little old foundation of the house, but the most of it is taken for building walls, and the goats have ate those bushes that are growing over it till they’ve got cranky, and they won’t grow any more. They say she was the handsomest girl in Ireland, her skin was like dribbled snow’–he meant driven snow, perhaps,–’and she had blushes in her cheeks. She had five handsome brothers, but all are gone now!’ I talked to him about a poem in Irish, Raftery, a famous poet, made about her, and how it said, ‘there is a strong cellar in Ballylee.’ He said the strong cellar was the great hole where the river sank underground, and he brought me to a deep pool, where an otter hurried away under a grey boulder, and told me that many fish came up out of the dark water at early morning ‘to taste the fresh water coming down from the hills.’
I first heard of the poem from an old woman who fives about two miles further up the river, and who remembers Raftery and Mary Hynes. She says, ‘I never saw anybody so handsome as she was, and I never will till I die,’ and that he was nearly blind, and had ‘no way of living but to go round and to mark some house to go to, and then all the neighbours would gather to hear. If you treated him well he’d praise you, but if you did not, he’d fault you in Irish. He was the greatest poet in Ireland, and he’d make a song about that bush if he chanced to stand under it. There was a bush he stood under from the rain, and he made verses praising it, and then when the water came through he made verses dispraising it.’ She sang the poem to a friend and to myself in Irish, and every word was audible and expressive, as the words in a song were always, as I think, before music grew too proud to be the garment of words, flowing and changing with the flowing and changing of their energies. The poem is not as natural as the best Irish poetry of the last century, for the thoughts are arranged in a too obviously traditional form, so the old poor half-blind man who made it has to speak as if he were a rich farmer offering the best of everything to the woman he loves, but it has naïve and tender phrases. The friend that was with me has made some of the translation, but some of it has been made by the country people themselves. I think it has more of the simplicity of the Irish verses than one finds in most translations.
Going to Mass by the will of God,

The day came wet and the wind rose;

I met Mary Hynes at the cross of Kiltartan,

And I fell in love with her then and there.
I spoke to her kind and mannerly,

As by report was her own way;

And she said, ‘Raftery, my mind is easy,

You may come to-day to Ballylee.’
When I heard her offer I did not linger,

When her talk went to my heart my heart rose.

We had only to go across the three fields,

We had daylight with us to Ballylee.
The table was laid with glasses and a quart measure,

She had fair hair, and she sitting beside me;

And she said, ‘Drink, Raftery, and a hundred welcomes,

There is a strong cellar in Ballylee.’
O star of light and O sun in harvest,

O amber hair, O my share of the world,

Will you come with me upon Sunday

Till we agree together before all the people?
I would not grudge you a song every Sunday evening,

Punch on the table, or wine if you would drink it,

But, O King of Glory, dry the roads before me,

Till I find the way to Ballylee.
There is sweet air on the side of the hill

When you are looking down upon Ballylee;

When you are walking in the valley picking nuts and blackberries,

There is music of the birds in it and music of the Sidhe.
What is the worth of greatness till you have the light

Of the flower of the branch that is by your side?

There is no god to deny it or to try and hide it,

She is the sun in the heavens who wounded my heart.
There was no part of Ireland I did not travel,

From the rivers to the tops of the mountains,

To the edge of Lough Greine whose mouth is hidden,

And I saw no beauty but was behind hers.
Her hair was shining, and her brows were shining too;

Her face was like herself, her mouth pleasant and sweet.

She is the pride, and I give her the branch,

She is the shining flower of Ballylee.
It is Mary Hynes, this calm and easy woman,

Has beauty in her mind and in her face.

If a hundred clerks were gathered together,

They could not write down a half of her ways.’
An old weaver, whose son is supposed to go away among the Sidhe (the faeries) at night, says, ‘Mary Hynes was the most beautiful thing ever made. My mother used to tell me about her, for she’d be at every hurling, and wherever she was she was dressed in white. As many as eleven men asked her in marriage in one day, but she wouldn’t have any of them. There was a lot of men up beyond Kilbecanty one night, sitting together drinking, and talking of her, and one of them got up and set out to go to Ballylee and see her; but Cloon Bog was open then, and when he came to it he fell into the water, and they found him dead there in the morning. She died of the fever that was before the famine.’ Another old man says he was only a child when he saw her, but he remembered that ‘the strongest man that was among us, one John Madden, got his death of the head of her, cold he got crossing rivers in the night-time to get to Ballylee.’ This is perhaps the man the other remembered, for tradition gives the one thing many shapes. There is an old woman who remembers her, at Derrybrien among the Echtge hills, a vast desolate place, which has changed little since the old poem said, ‘the stag upon the cold summit of Echtge hears the cry of the wolves,’ but still mindful of many poems and of the dignity of ancient speech. She says, ‘The sun and the moon never shone on anybody so handsome, and her skin was so white that it looked blue, and she had two little blushes on her cheeks.’ And an old wrinkled woman who lives close by Ballylee, and has told me many tales of the Sidhe, says, ‘I often saw Mary Hynes, she was handsome indeed. She had two bunches of curls beside her cheeks, and they were the colour of silver. I saw Mary Molloy that was drowned in the river beyond, and Mary Guthrie that was in Ardrahan, but she took the sway of them both, a very comely creature. I was at her wake too–she had seen too much of the world. She was a kind creature. One day I was coming home through that field beyond, and I was tired, and who should come out but the Poisin Glegeal (the shining flower), and she gave me a glass of new milk.’ This old woman meant no more than some beautiful bright colour by the colour of silver, for though I knew an old man–he is dead now–who thought she might know ‘the cure for all the evils in the world,’ that the Sidhe knew, she has seen too little gold to know its colour. But a man by the shore at Kinvara, who is too young to remember Mary Hynes, says, ‘Everybody says there is no one at all to be seen now so handsome; it is said she had beautiful hair, the colour of gold. She was poor, but her clothes every day were the same as Sunday, she had such neatness. And if she went to any kind of a meeting, they would all be killing one another for a sight of her, and there was a great many in love with her, but she died young. It is said that no one that has a song made about them will ever live long.’
Those who are much admired are, it is held, taken by the Sidhe, who can use ungoverned feeling for their own ends, so that a father, as an old herb doctor told me once, may give his child into their hands, or a husband his wife. The admired and desired are only safe if one says ‘God bless them’ when one’s eyes are upon them. The old woman that sang the song thinks, too, that Mary Hynes was ‘taken,’ as the phrase is, ‘for they have taken many that are not handsome, and why would they not take her? And people came from all parts to look at her, and maybe there were some that did not say “God bless her.”‘ An old man who lives by the sea at Duras has as little doubt that she was taken, ‘for there are some living yet can remember her coming to the pattern 1 there beyond, and she was said to be the handsomest girl in Ireland.’ She died young because the gods loved her, for the Sidhe are the gods, and it may be that the old saying, which we forget to understand literally, meant her manner of death in old times. These poor countrymen and countrywomen in their beliefs, and in their emotions, are many years nearer to that old Greek world, that set beauty beside the fountain of things, than are our men of learning. She ‘had seen too much of the world’; but these old men and women, when they tell of her, blame another and not her, and though they can be hard, they grow gentle as the old men of Troy grew gentle when Helen passed by on the walls.
The poet who helped her to so much fame has himself a great fame throughout the west of Ireland. Some think that Raftery was half blind, and say, ‘I saw Raftery, a dark man, but he had sight enough to see her,’ or the like, but some think he was wholly blind, as he may have been at the end of his life. Fable makes all things perfect in their kind, and her blind people must never look on the world and the sun. I asked a man I met one day, when I was looking for a pool na mna Sidhe where women of faery have been seen, how Raftery could have admired Mary Hynes so much if he had been altogether blind? He said, ‘I think Raftery was altogether blind, but those that are blind have a way of seeing things, and have the power to know more, and to feel more, and to do more, and to guess more than those that have their sight, and a certain wit and a certain wisdom is given to them.’ Everybody, indeed, will tell you that he was very wise, for was he not only blind but a poet? The weaver whose words about Mary Hynes I have already given, says, ‘His poetry was the gift of the Almighty, for there are three things that are the gift of the Almighty–poetry and dancing and principles. That is why in the old times an ignorant man coming down from the hillside would be better behaved and have better learning than a man with education you’d meet now, for they got it from God’; and a man at Coole says, ‘When he put his finger to one part of his head, everything would come to him as if it was written in a book’; and an old pensioner at Kiltartan says, ‘He was standing under a bush one time, and he talked to it, and it answered him back in Irish. Some say it was the bush that spoke, but it must have been an enchanted voice in it, and it gave him the knowledge of all the things of the world. The bush withered up afterwards, and it is to be seen on the roadside now between this and Rahasine.’ There is a poem of his about a bush, which I have never seen, and it may have come out of the cauldron of fable in this shape.
A friend of mine met a man once who had been with him when he died, but the people say that he died alone, and one Maurteen Gillane told Dr. Hyde that all night long a light was seen streaming up to heaven from the roof of the house where he lay, and ‘that was the angels who were with him’; and all night long there was a great light in the hovel, ‘and that was the angels who were waking him. They gave that honour to him because he was so good a poet, and sang such religious songs.’ It may be that in a few years Fable, who changes mortalities to immortalities in her cauldron, will have changed Mary Hynes and Raftery to perfect symbols of the sorrow of beauty and of the magnificence and penury of dreams.

When I was in a northern town awhile ago, I had a long talk with a man who had lived in a neighbouring country district when he was a boy. He told me that when a very beautiful girl was born in a family that had not been noted for good looks, her beauty was thought to have come from the Sidhe, and to bring misfortune with it. He went over the names of several beautiful girls that he had known, and said that beauty had never brought happiness to anybody. It was a thing, he said, to be proud of and afraid of. I wish I had written out his words at the time, for they were more picturesque than my memory of them.
(Gaston Bussiere – Salammbo)


The Poetry of Antonio Machado

Last night, as I was sleeping,
Last night, as I was sleeping,

I dreamt — marvelous error!—

that a spring was breaking

out in my heart.

I said: Along which secret aqueduct,

Oh water, are you coming to me,

water of a new life

that I have never drunk?
Last night, as I was sleeping,

I dreamt — marvelous error!—

that I had a beehive

here inside my heart.

And the golden bees

were making white combs

and sweet honey

from my old failures.
Last night, as I was sleeping,

I dreamt — marvelous error!—

that a fiery sun was giving

light inside my heart.

It was fiery because I felt

warmth as from a hearth,

and sun because it gave light

and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night, as I slept,

I dreamt — marvelous error!—

that it was God I had

here inside my heart.

I dreamt you took me
I dreamt you took me

up a white lane

through the heart of the green field

toward the blue of the high mountains,

toward the blue peaks,

one still morning.
I felt your hand in mine,

your perfect matching hand,

your girlish voice in my ear

like a new bell,

like the untouched bell

of a spring dawn.

It was your voice and your hand

in the dreams, so real, so true!…

Hope, live on — who knows

what the earth can swallow up!

The Waterwheel
Evening fell

sad and dusty.
The water was singing

its rustic verse

in the pockets

of the weary water wheel.
The mule was dreaming

– poor old mule! –

to the rhythm of shadows

drowsing in the water.
Evening fell

sad and dusty.
I don’t know which poet,

noble and divine,

joined to the sorrow

of the eternal wheel
the sweet music

of the sleepy water

and covered your eyes

– poor old mule!
It must have been a poet,

noble and divine,

a heart matured

by nighttime and knowledge.

Autumn Daybreak
A long roadway

between the gray crags of rock

and some humble meadow

where black bulls graze. Blackberries, weeds, field roses.
The earth is wet

with dewdrops

and the poplars turn golden,

along the riverbend.
Behind the broken blue peaks

the first whitening of dawn;

alert, a hunter strolls

between his hounds.

Rebirth of Mothra 1 & 2


(Gaston Bussiere – Salome)

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