Ella Young

Just a quick note… I have been assembling this for a couple of days, and have had remarkable ill luck finding images etc., so I have had to wing it a bit, and bring in one of my favourite Victorians: Albert Joseph Moore. I hope you like his work.
This edition revolves around Ella Young, friend of Maude Gonne, and William Butler Yeats, and later Ansel Adams and others of his colony. Ella was a true radical, Anglo-Irish who sided with the uprising, and went to jail for it. One of the great relayers/tellers of the Irish Myth Cycle, she is much beloved by those who know her work and poetry.
Hope you have a good Thanksgiving!
Bright Blessings,



On The Menu:

The Links

Palya Bea Quintett – 1

The Quotes

The Luck-Child – Ella Young

Ella Young Poetry

Ella Young Bio

Palya Bea – Transylvania

The Artwork – Albert Moore

Albert Joseph Moore (4 September 1841 – 25 September 1893) was an English painter, known for his depictions of langorous female figures set against the luxury and decadence of the classical world.
He was born in York in 1841, the youngest of the fourteen children of the artist William Moore of York who in the first half of the 19th century enjoyed a considerable reputation in the North of England as a painter of portraits and landscape.
In his childhood Albert Moore showed an extraordinary love of art, and as he was encouraged in his tastes by his father and brothers, two of whom afterwards became famous as artists — John Collingham Moore and Henry Moore, and he was able to begin the active exercise of his profession at an unusually early age.
His first exhibited works were two drawings which he sent to the Royal Academy in 1857. A year later he became a student in the Royal Academy schools; but after working in them for a few months only he decided that he would be more profitably occupied in independent practice. During the period that extended from 1858 to 1870, though he produced and exhibited many pictures and drawings, he gave up much of his time to decorative work of various kinds, and painted, in 1863, a series of wall decorations at Coombe Abbey, the seat of the Earl of Craven; in 1865 and 1866 some elaborate compositions: The Last Supper and The Feeding of the Five Thousand on the chancel walls of the church of St. Alban’s, Rochdale; and in 1868 A Greek Play, an important panel in tempera for the proscenium of the Queen’s Theatre in Long Acre.
His first large canvas, Elijah’s Sacrifice, was completed during a stay of some five months in Rome at the beginning of 1863, and appeared at the Academy in 1865. A still larger picture, The Shunamite relating the Glories of King Solomon to her Maidens, was exhibited in 1866, and with it two smaller works, Apricots and Pomegranates. In these Albert Moore asserted plainly the particular technical conviction that for the rest of his life governed the whole of his practice, and with them he first took his place definitely among the most original of British painters.

The Links:
Life Beyond…

Organ Donor Consciousness

Buddhas skull found in Nanjing

The World’s Unsung Hero?


Palya Bea Quintett – 1


The Quotes:

George Bernard Shaw | “Democracy is a device that ensures we shall be governed no better than we deserve.”

Laurence J. Peter | “Competence, like truth, beauty and contact lenses, is in the eye of the beholder.”

Jean-Luc Picard | “Things are only impossible until they’re not.”

Gertrude Stein | “In the United States there is more space where nobody is than where anybody is. That is what makes America what it is.”

Eric Hoffer | “The opposite of the religious fanatic is not the fanatical atheist but the gentle cynic who cares not whether there is a god or not.”

Jane Wagner | “Reality is the leading cause of stress amongst those in touch with it.”

Oscar Wilde | “Why was I born with such contemporaries?”

Evan Esar | “Character is what you have left when you’ve lost everything you can lose.”

Cullen Hightower | “Those who agree with us may not be right, but we admire their astuteness.”

Casey Stengel | “The key to being a good manager is keeping the people who hate me away from those who are still undecided.”

Oscar Levant | “There’s a fine line between genius and insanity. I have erased this line.”

The Luck-Child – Ella Young
Aidan, Osric, and Teigue, were the cow-herds of Eterscel, the High King of Ireland. Aidan was old and gentle, Osric was young and fierce, Teigue was an omadhaun–a fool–they watched the cattle of the king and chased the wild beasts from them. At night they slept in little wicker huts on the edge of the forest.
One day as Teigue was gathering dry sticks for his fire he saw a very young child lying wrapped in a mantle at the foot of a pine tree. He went over to the child and it smiled in his face. He left off gathering sticks and sat down beside it. Osric came to see what was keeping Teigue.
“A fool’s errand is long a-doing,” he said. “What are you loitering here for, when the meat is waiting for the fire and the fire is waiting for the sticks? “
“I have here,” said Teigue, “what is better than meat, a gift from the Hidden People.”
Osric looked at the child.
“We have little use for a nine-months’ infant,” he said.
The child smiled at him.
“Where could we keep it? ” he asked Teigue. ” I will make a house for it,” said Teigue, “a little house in the middle of the forest, that no one can find but myself.”
“‘Tis a pity the child should perish in the forest,” said Osric. ” Of a truth the house must be built.”
Aidan came. He lifted the child in his arms and looked at the mantle wrapped about it. The mantle was thickly embroidered with gold flowers.
“This is the child of some queen,” he said. “One day great folk will come seeking her.”
“I will not let the great folk take her away,” said Teigue. “She is my Luck-Child. She is Osric’s Luck-Child too, and we are going to make a house for her, and she will bring us good luck every day of our lives.”
“She is my Luck-Child too,” said Aidan. “We three will make a secret house in the forest, and there we will keep her from prying eyes.”
They sought out a place, a hidden green spot in the forest. They made a house, and there they nurtured the child in secret. Year by year she throve and grew with them. Teigue brought her berries and taught her to play on a little reed flute. When she made music on it the wild creatures of the woods came about her. She played with the spotted fawns, and the king of the wolves crouched before her and licked her hands. Osric made a bow for her, and taught her how to shoot with arrows, but she had no wish
to kill any beast, for all the forest-creatures were her friends. Aidan told her stories. He told her how the sun changed into a White Hound at night, and Lugh the Long-Handed put a silver chain on it and led it away to his Secret Palace, and it crouched at his feet till the morning, when he loosed it and let it run through the sky again. He told her how Brigit counted the stars so that no littlest one got lost, and how she hurried them away in the morning before Lugh’s great hound came out to frighten them. He said that Brigit came in the very early mornings to gather herbs of healing, for it was she who gave the secret of healing to wise physicians, and it was she gave power and virtue to every herb that grows. He said that once the High King’s Poet had seen Brigit and had made a song about her and called her ‘The Pure Perpetual Ashless Fire of the Gael.’
The Luck-Child loved to hear Aidan’s Stories. She loved them even when she had grown quite tall and wise and was no longer a child.
Teigue was sorry that she grew up so quickly. He sat down one day and began to lament and cry Ochone! about it.
“Why are you lamenting and crying Ochone?” said Osric.
“Because my Luck-Child has grown up and the Hidden People will see that she is no longer a child. They will take her and make her a queen amongst them, and she will never come back to us. Ochone! Ochone!”
“If the chiefs and warriors of King Eterscel do not see her,” said Osric, ” she is safe enough: and if they do come to take her I will not let her go without a fight.”
Aidan heard them talking.
“Do not speak of trouble or sorrow when you speak of the Luck-Child,” he said. “One day she will come to her own, and then she will give each of us his heart’s wish.”
“I will wish for a robe all embroidered with gold,” said Teigue. “What will you wish for, Osric?”
“For a shield and spear and the right to go into battle with warriors.”
“What will you wish for, Aidan?
“I will wish, O Teigue, to sit in the one dun with the Luck-Child, and hear the poets praising her.
“I will go and tell the Luck-Child our wishes,” said Teigue, “so that she may know when she comes to her own.”
He ran to the little hut in the forest, and the Luck-Child came out to meet him. She laughed to hear of the wishes, and said she would have a wish herself in the day of good fortune, and it would be to have Teigue, Osric, and Aidan, always with her. She took a little reed flute and began to play on it.
“Listen now,” she said to Teigue, “and I will play you music I heard last night when the wind swept down from the hills.”
Teigue sat under a pine tree and listened.
A great white hound came through the wood, and when it saw Teigue it stood and bayed. The hound had a gold collar set with three crystal stones.
“O my Luck-Child,” said Teigue, “a king will come after this hound. Go quickly where he can get no sight of you.”
She had the will to go, but the hound bayed about her feet and would not let her move. A clear voice called the hound, and through the trees came the High King of Ireland: there was no one with him but his foster-brother.
The king had the swiftness and slenderness of youth on him. ‘Tis he that was called the Candle of Beauty in Tara of the Kings–and nowhere on the yellow-crested ridge of the world could his equal be found for hardiness and high-heartedness and honey-sweet wisdom of speech.
His foster-brother had a thick twist of red gold in his hair, and he was the son of a proud northern king. The Luck-Child seemed to both of them a great wonder.
“What maiden is this? ” said the king, and stood looking at her.
“She is my Luck-Child, O King,” said Teigue. “She is no child of thine!” said the king’s foster-brother.
“She is a child of the Hidden People,” said Teigue, “and she has brought me luck every day since I found her.”
“Tell me,” said the king, “how you found her.”
“I found her under a pine tree, a nine-months’ child wrapped in a mantle all sewn over with little golden flowers. She is my Luck-Bringer since that day.”
“She is mine to-day!” said the king. “O Luck-Child,” he said, “will you come and live in my palace and bring me good fortune? It is you will be the High Queen of Ireland, and you will never have to ask a thing the second time.”
“Will you give Teigue a gold-embroidered robe and let him stay always with me?”
“I will do that,” said the king.
“Will you give Osric a sword and let him go into battle like a warrior? “
“Who is Osric?”
“It was Osric who built the house for me and taught me to shoot with arrows and speared salmon in the rivers for me. I will not go with you without Osric.”
“I will give Osric what you ask,” said the king, “let him come to me.”
“I will bring him,” said Teigue, and he ran to find Osric and Aidan.
“O Foster-Brother,” said the king, “it is well we lost our way in the woods, for now I have found the q
ueen the druids promised me. ‘Good luck,’ said they, ‘will come to King Eterscel when he weds a queen of unknown lineage.’ It is this maiden who will bring me luck.”
He took the Luck-Child by the hand, and they went through the wood with the hound following them.
Soon they met Teigue, Osric, and Aidan, coming together. The Luck-Child ran to them and brought them to the king.
“Here is Osric,” she said, “and Aidan who told me stories.”
“I will give Osric one of my own war-chariots and his choice of weapons,” said the king. “What am I to give to Aidan?”
“Is there a carved seat in your palace where lie can sit and listen to your poet who made the song about Brigit?”
“There are many carved seats in my palace, and he shall sit in one,” said Eterscel. “All the three shall sit in seats of honour, for they will be the Foster-Fathers of the High Queen of Ireland.”
He turned to the three cow-herds.
“On the day ye built the little hut in the forest for your nurseling ye built truth into the word of my druids, and now I will build honour into your fortune. Ye shall rank with chiefs and the sons of chiefs. Ye shall drink mead in feast-halls of your own, and while I live ye shall have my goodwill and protection.”
“May honour and glory be with you for ever, O King,” said Aidan. “In a good hour you have come to us.”
“We are all going to the palace,” said the Luck-Child. “Teigue, where is your flute?”
“It is in the little hut,” said Teigue. ” I will go back for it.”
“Nay,” said the king, “there are flutes enough in the palace! I will give you one of silver, set with jewels.”
The Luck-Child clapped her hands for joy.
“I love you,” she said to the king. “Come, let us go!”
She took Teigue by the one hand and the king by the other, and they all went to the palace. Every one wondered at the Luck-Child, for since the days of Queen Ethaun, who came out of Fairyland, no one so beautiful was seen in Ireland. The king called her Ethaun, and all the people said that in choosing her he had done well.
There was feasting and gladness on the day they swore troth to each other, and Teigue said the sun got up an hour earlier in the morning and stayed an hour later in the sky that night for gladness.


Ella Young Poetry:
The Red Sunrise
(Moraig’s Song*)

O, it’s dark the land is, and it’s dark my heart is,

But the red sun rises when the hour is come.

O, the red sun rises, and the dead rise; I can see them,

And my own boy and Conn, who won the battles,

And the lads who lost.

They have bright swords with them that clash the battle welcome.

A welcome to the red sun that rises with our luck.
*In Irish mythology Moraig (variously Morrigu / Morrigan) was a goddess of war.


Over the wave-patterned sea-floor,

Over the long sunburnt ridge of the world,

I bid the winds seek you.

I bid them cry to you

Night and morning

A name you loved once;

I bid them bring to you

Dreams, and strange imaginings, and sleep.


ONE night the beauty of the stars

Made magic for me white and still,

I climbed the road above the hill
The road no waking footstep mars.
I met my Lady in the wood
The black pine wood above the hill,

Dream-fair her beauty, white and still ;
I knelt as one before the Rood.
White Dream that makes my life a war

Of wild desires and baffled will

Once more my soul with beauty fill
Rise through the darkness, O my Star.

I BUILT for you a house of joy,
A dun close-walled and warm within ;
Strong-fossed without, lest foe destroy

Or creeping sorrow entrance win.
The wind that wails about the world
Came with you through the open door
My joy-dun into ruin hurled

Lay desolate for evermore.
I built for you a house of dream

Fair as the pearly light of morn ;
Its pillars caught an opal gleam
From skies where night was never born.
The wind that blows the stars to flame

Blew through my house and left it bare :
The beauty vanished when it came,

The columns melted into air.
The next house that I build for you
I’ll build with stars and moon-fire white :
Vaster than those the wind swept through,

Its halls, star-paved, shall front the night.
Mayhap you’ll come and wander there

When all the winds are laid to rest,

i o
And find its sun-bright beauty fair

Beyond the glow in East or West,
Mayhap its radiant fire must fade
Before the wind that wakes the dawn,
The light from Heaven’s heart out-rayed

When suns and moons are all withdrawn.
The wind that beats the stars to dust

May sweep my star-built courts away :
Let my dun fall if fall it must

Its glory lasted for a day.
I care not how I lose anew,
Or round the wreck what winds may wail-

Since God’s own dun was built for you,
You are not houseless, though I fail.

WHEN the dawn-radiance flushes pearly skies

With faintest rose, and the dawn-beauty fills

The earth with life, you come across the hills

Of gold and ivory where the dawn-wind dies.

O pale you are, and sweet, and in your eyes

The shadow of a dream that daylight kills,

Woven while you lingered by the crystal rills

Between the apple-trees of Paradise.

You gather as you pass with quiet hands

The dawn-white blossoms, ere their beauty
cease :
The frail, pale blossoms that we see unclose

One moment, when our hearts have drawn
the peace

Of twilight round them and the enchanted

Glimmer before us, amethyst and rose.

Ella Young Bio

Ella Young was born in County Antrim. She grew up in Dublin where she studied Law and Political Science at the Royal University. She joined the Theosophy Society and later the Hermetic Society which included W.B. Yeats and Æ [George Russell] among its members. After University Young went to live in the West of Ireland where she studied Irish. In 1906 she published her first volume of poetry entitled Poems and in 1909 her first volume of folk tales The Coming of Lugh which was followed by Celtic Wonder Tales (1910).
Young joined Sinn Féin in 1912 and in 1914, while sharing a flat with Maud Gonne, she became a founder member of Cumann na mBan. Young was active in Cumann na mBan during the Easter Rising and the War of Independence when she smuggled guns for the republicans. Young was opposed to the Anglo-Irish Treaty and fought on the republican side during the Irish Civil War. She was imprisoned by the Free State in Mountjoy Gaol and in the North Dublin Union Internment Camp. On her release Young emigrated to America where she became a lecturer in the University of California. In 1929 Young published a series of short stories based on the Fenian Cycle of Irish mythology entitled The Tangle-Coated Horse. Young published many volumes of short stories for children, the best remembered of which is The Unicorn with Silver Shoes (1932). Her memoirs Flowering Dusk were published in 1945. Young’s poem The Red Sunrise was first published in Red Hand Magazine Vol.1 No.1 September, 1920.

Palya Bea – Transylvania


The River

“Evening at the River” by Christoph Gerber (2002 and 2004)

“It was better, he thought, to fail in attempting exquisite things than to succeed in the department of the utterly contemptible.”

-Arthur Machen
No truer words… I have a life that can like many, be measured out by ones many failures, and on occasion, some success. I have never met a deadline that I haven’t had to race against and then some. Yet, these failures seem to push the art along. I fail towards the side of aesthetics, willing to sacrifice the whole for the detail, for the nuance and a bit more. The latest Invisible College is within this realm. It has been a fretful event. The publisher has raised the price for printing so I am looking for another on-line printer, or a way to change the whole model.
It gets to be a bit of a challenge; it is all on a shoestring, and there really isn’t any fiscal reward for the efforts. That though shouldn’t be the guide. (though it would be nice to see more people pick up the magazine/journal) This is a labour of love IMPOV, and the fruits that it has and will bear are not all discernible at this point, but they are there and will continue to emerge over time.
We are always on the look-out for articles, artist, and hints that you’d find interesting for the Invisible College…
I have been working on this Turf for a few days, and it is just about right… Today’s Turf covers the Poetry of Kathleen Raine, renowned British Poet and Mystic. Her poetry sings, and rises up in a most beautiful way. We also have some great Arthur Machen quotes, and article on Kathleen Raine, and 3 videos from Nitin Sawhney… I just recieved the new album, and it is a wonderful one (Thanks Peter!)
Hope you enjoy this edition,
Oh yeah give the Radio a listen!
On The Menu:

Arthur Machen Quotes

Nitin Sawhney – Koyal

In Memoriam: Kathleen Raine 1908-2003

Nitin Sawhney – Letting Go (with the wonderful Tina Grace)

Her Poetry: Kathleen Raine

Biography of Kathleen Raine

Nitin Sawhney – Sunset

Arthur Machen Quotes:
“Every branch of human knowledge if traced up to its source and final principles vanishes into mystery”
“For, usually and fitly, the presence of an introduction is held to imply that there is something of consequence and importance to be introduced.”
“Now, everybody, I suppose, is aware that in recent years the silly business of divination by dreams has ceased to be a joke and has become a very serious science.”
“I dream in fire but work in clay.”

Nitin Sawhney – Koyal

In Memoriam: Kathleen Raine 1908-2003

-Christopher Bamford
Kathleen Raine was one of Britain’s deepest and most spiritual poets. A scholar of Blake and Yeats, she was also the founder of the Temenos Academy and Journal which have done much to keep alive in the modern world the vital link between the imagination and the sacred. When she died recently, we lost a champion of the sacred tradition in Western literature. She left behind four volumes of memoir plus a unique legacy of poetry and scholarship.
Kathleen Jesse Raine was British a poet, scholar, critic, philosopher and tireless worker for the spirit, who died on July 7, 2003, at the ripe old age of 95. She was the author of more than twelve books of poetry, an autobiography in four volumes, and many works of scholarly and philosophical criticism whose central concern was always the reaffirmation of what she believed to be the perennial, true and spiritual ground of poetry and inspiration. In the service of this truth, she delivered her seminal Mellon Lectures on Blake and Tradition and, more recently, in the 1970′s gave her “Summa Blakeana”-her lectures on Blake’s Illustrations of the Book of Job.
In such projects, as in all her work, Kathleen Raine constantly strove to elucidate the sacramental wisdom of the imagination, that wisdom inherent in reality, immanent in nature and in mind, which the poet, when he or she is most truly “original,” only uncovers or remembers. This symbolic gnosis, “of form and beauty inviolate,” in which “inner and outer reality are at one, the world in harmony with the imagination,” is, Dr. Raine believes, humanity’s original and natural state. It is the Earthly Paradise or Eden, which each must recover or else perish, but which once restored becomes its own joy, true science, and true poetry:
Sleep at the tree’s root,

where the night is spun Into the stuff of worlds,

listen to the winds,

the tides, and the night’s harmonies,

and know All that you knew before you began to forget…
–Message from Home

She was convinced of the primacy of the imagination-that “mental things alone are real.” Her life and work were concerned with tracing, learning, and practicing the one journey of remembrance. This is the narrow track the soul must tread, from Eden to Eden, through all the hells until, end and beginning joined once more, hells transcended and illusion dropped away, the perfection of the original sphere—”the cell and seed of life”—is wrought again.
“Poetry,” she stated repeatedly, “is the language of the soul,” invoking by this distinction the traditional tripartite anthropology of body, soul and spirit (or intellect). For it is the soul, in Christianity and in Platonism, whose descent becomes a fall through self-love when, as an image enamoured of itself, it becomes entangled in the suffering that follows from thinking that it is substantial in itself, its own source. Thus for her it was the soul and its world, fallen and de-symbolized, which must be purified and educated. Once, raised up and reunited with its celestial double, its true original, the soul can then raise the world itself up, transforming its veil of illusion into the diaphanous and redemptive play of symbols:
Bright cloud,

Bringer of rain to far fields,

To me, who will not drink that water

–fall nor feel–
Wet mist on my face,

White gold and rose

Vision of light,

Meaning and beauty immeasurable.

That meaning is not rain, nor that

beauty mist.
—Bright Cloud

For her the drama of the soul, whose language is poetry, is that of life itself, of created things and of our earthly being, of the struggle to recall and, recalling, to unite with that higher principle which, following Plato and Yeats, she calls the Daimon. Kathleen Raine felt with Plato that if they do not recall and lead us back to Eden-if they do not partake of the “inner journey”-poetry and life are abused and have no true place in the ideal Republic. For her, as for all Platonists, life and art-social, ethical and aesthetic (as also biological physical) forms-have but one function, the perfection of being, which is the knowledge and remembrance of the Eternal Kingdom:

Their only task to recollect

Originals laid up in heaven…
—Ninfa Revisited

Her first guide in this was life itself, inscribed like a palimpsest with the century’s great themes of loss and anguish, rootlessness and passion, reductionism and materialism. She bore witness to these, overcame and transformed then by a continuous striving to be in all things true to herself, her vision and sacred calling. Next, her guides were Blake and Yeats (and to a lesser degree Keats, Shelley, Coleridge, Dante, Spenser and Milton). They led her to drink deeply at the “ancient springs” of Platonism, Hermeticism and Kabbalah, teaching her to attend closely to such perennial “singing masters of the soul” as Orpheus, Plato, Hermes, Plotinus, Porphyry, Iamblichus, Proclus, Paracelsus, Boehme, Swedenborg and Thomas Taylor. Long labor in this school confirmed that Blake and Yeats were not at all “original” in the modern sense, but were fully so in the ancient one. They were not innovators, except in the precise etymological sense of those who “renewed,” that is made new again for their time what was perennially and continuously new: the wisdom and process of creation itself.
Realizing this, Kathleen Raine worked to recover the possibility of such a “renewal” or gnosis-that remembering which Plato called a “not-forgetting”-both for herself and for her age. It was always this that spurred her on; and her study and her scholarship were always secondary to it -”always incidental to the needs of a poet for knowledge of a certain kind.” Therefore she never fitted easily into an academic role and worked mostly on her own, independently and for the sake of the greater good. “Like Thomas Taylor,” she writes, “I read the books of wisdom for the sake of that wisdom, seeing scholarship always as a means to an end, never as an end in itself”:
Stone into man must grow,

the human word carved by our whispers in the passing air is

the authentic utterance of cloud,

the speech of flowing water, blowing wind,

of silver moon and stunted juniper.
—Night in Martindale

Kathleen Raine was perhaps most precious to us because she was so much what she taught-which means that one cannot agree with her philosophy and remain untouched by her life, or admire her scholarship but deplore her philosophy. Her poetry, her life, her metaphysics, her aesthetics, her cosmology were all of one piece, a single seamless cloth. It was this wholeness that has allowed her to be one of those to perform for our time the same function that Pythagoras, Plato, Plotinus, Proclus, Eriugena, Ficino and Thomas Taylor performed for their times: the living transmission of Orphic Teaching. By this count the eighth in the succession, she may be said to mark the beginning of a new octave; and this, though fanciful, is at least metaphorically apt. For she became the prophet of that “new age” of the spirit in which the only true authority is the wisdom of the heart, Blake’s “True Man,” the Imagination.
Led to this “New Age” view by her life as by her study, she was also brought to confront its logical complement, the simultaneous reality of an ending, of what she calls “the leaf-fall of a civilization”-the natural end of European Christendom. From this stance on the cusp, she faced the end of the twentieth century with both hope for a new civilization and the fear of a terrible barbarism. She saw hope in “the seeds, the living among the dead, those who do not participate in the collective disintegration, but guard their secret of immortality, the essence of what has been and may be again.” But she feared the barbarism, the chaotic disintegration within which these seeds will germinate, lying among those who have no knowledge of “what has been and may be again,” and so have no past or ground, either ontological or historical:
To be a barbarian is to have no past;

For the past is the present of the

future, the human kingdom;

Some known to us, others unknown,

you, I, that still continuing few

To whose hearts the remembered and

forgotten dead are presences,

Ripening in memory the seed of cities

To scatter for what meagre crop this

poisoned stricken earth may bear,

Or harvest into that native land

we desire and remember,

Keep France, keep Christendom,

keep Athens in mind.
—Letter to Pierre Emmanuel

Here she deeds us another gift: her understanding of culture as that net of truths that a society must hold permanent so that others may be changed, as the society itself changes, endures change, and yet remains the same. These are the qualities that ensure continuity and order. They are the invisible bonds of shared value, humanly honed and perfected and passed on in innumerable ways, whose embodiment is both a practice and a gnosis. They are a living access to the knowledge sub specie aeternitatis that myth, ritual, history and literature transmit and evoke. Without such a cultural tradition, as the Russian poet Mandelstam realized when he underwent what Dr. Raine calls “the Marxist variant of our Western materialism,” history (and evolution) becomes “mere progress”—”the mechanical movement of a clock-hand, not the sacred succession of interlinked events.”
Most precious of all, there is her poetry in which for more half a century she has kept true to herself in language true to itself. She wrote poetry not dictated by the fashions of the moment but inwardly determined by what she experienced as the unifying links that bind the human soul to the larger cosmos whose she is and must strive to reveal. Her’s, in a sense, is sacred poetry, the paradox and promise of which is prophetically revealed in her first collected poem-which, as it should, resumes and stands as an introduction to the rest:

A bird sings on a matin tree

‘Once such a bird was 1.’
The sky’s gaze says

‘Remember your mother.’
Seas, trees and voices cry

‘Nature is your nature.’
I reply

‘I am what is not what I was.

Seas, trees, and bird, alas!

Sea, tree, and bird was I.’
Nitin Sawhney – Letting Go (with the wonderful Tina Grace)


Her Poetry: Kathleen Raine

Love Poem
Yours is the face that the earth turns to me,

Continuous beyond its human features lie

The mountain forms that rest against the sky.

With your eyes, the reflecting rainbow, the sun’s light

Sees me; forest and flower, bird and beast

Know and hold me forever in the world’s thought,

Creation’s deep untroubled retrospect.
When your hand touches mine it is the earth

That takes me–the green grass,

And rocks and rivers; the green graves,

And children still unborn, and ancestors,

In love passed down from hand to hand from God.

Your love comes from the creation of the world,

From those paternal fingers, streaming through the clouds

That break with light the surface of the sea.
Here, where I trace your body with my hand,

Love’s presence has no end;

For these, your arms that hold me, are the world’s.

In us, the continents, clouds and oceans meet

Our arbitrary selves, extensive with the night,

Lost, in the heart’s worship, and the body’s sleep.

The River
In my first sleep

I came to the river

And looked down

Through the clear water –

Only in dream

Water so pure,

Laced and undulant

Lines of flow

On its rocky bed

Water of life

Streaming for ever.
A house was there

Beside the river

And I, arrived,

An expected guest

About to explore

Old gardens and libraries –

But the car was waiting

To drive me away.
One last look

Into that bright stream –

Trout there were

And clear on the bottom

Monster form

Of the great crayfish

That crawls to the moon.

On its rocky bed

Living water

In whorls and ripples

Flowing unbended.
There was the car

To drive me away.

We crossed the river

Of living water –

I might not stay,

But must return

By the road too short

To the waiting day.
In my second dream

Pure I was and free

By the rapid stream,

My crystal house the sky,

The pure crystalline sky.
Into the stream I flung

A bottle of clear glass

That twirled and tossed and spun

In the water’s race

Flashing the morning sun.
Down that swift river

I saw it borne away,

My empty crystal form,

Exultant saw it caught

Into the current’s spin,

The flashing water’s run.

The Ancient Speech
A Gaelic bard they praise who in fourteen adjectives

Named the one indivisible soul of his glen;

For what are the bens and the glens but manifold qualities,

Immeasurable complexities of soul?

What are these isles but a song sung by island voices?

The herdsman sings ancestral memories

And the song makes the singer wise,

But only while he sings

Songs that were old when the old themselves were young,

Songs of these hills only, and of no isles but these.

For other hills and isles this language has no words.
The mountains are like manna, for one day given,

To each his own:

Strangers have crossed the sound, but not the sound of the dark oarsmen

Or the golden-haired sons of kings,

Strangers whose thought is not formed to the cadence of waves,

Rhythm of the sickle, oar and milking pail,

Whose words make loved things strange and small,

Emptied of all that made them heart-felt or bright.

Our words keep no faith with the soul of the world.

Transit of the Gods
Strange that the self’s continuum should outlast

The Virgin, Aphrodite, and the Mourning Mother,

All loves and griefs, successive deities

That hold their kingdom in the human breast.

Abandoned by the gods, woman with an ageing body

That half remembers the Annunciation

The passion and the travail and the grief

That wore the mask of my humanity,

I marvel at the soul’s indifference.

For in her theatre the play is done,

The tears are shed; the actors, the immortals

In their ceaseless manifestation, elsewhere gone,

And I who have been Virgin and Aphrodite,

The mourning Isis and the queen of corn

Wait for the last mummer, dread Persephone

To dance my dust at last into the tomb.


Biography of Kathleen Raine

Kathleen Raine Kathleen Raine was born in London in 1908, where she grew up; taking on a number of unsatisfactory jobs. Through one of her later jobs she met the nephew of the Indian mystic Rama Coomaraswamy Tambimuttu, who invited her to contribute to his new magazine, Poetry London, she did of course, and soon developed a lifelong passion for all things Indian. Raine began to seriously write toward her late twenties, and by 1943 she had published her first collection of poetry Stone and Flower, which was illustrated by Barbara Hepworth. Three years later the collection Living in Time was released, followed by The Pythoness in 1949.
Raine married twice, each time unhappily due to dissatisfaction with domesticity. She was even quoted as saying she felt “as if I were living in someone else’s dream.” This unhappiness led to an affair with a gay writer named Gavin Maxwell. This affair helped to inspire the works in The Year One 1952, which she released in 1952. Raine stayed frequently with Maxwell on the island of Sandaig in the Scottish Islands. The relationship

ended in 1956 when Raine lost his pet otter, Mijbil, who inspired Maxwell’s best-selling book Ring of Bright Water. She published a book of poems called Collected Poems that same year.
She began her autobiography 1973 and it was out in 1977. Four years later Raine had founded her own magazine, called Temenos, to help articulate her views. Raine went on to win several awards, including the Harriet Monroe Prize, Edna St. Vincent Millay Prize from the American Poetry Society, and the Queens Gold Medal for Poetry in 1992. In 2000, she was made a Commander of the British Empire. ..

Sweet Return… one more time

Nitin Sawhney – Sunset


Petôfi Sándor

I have been working on this for a few days, I was happy to discover the poetry of Petôfi Sándor, a poet of national standing in Hungary. I stumbled on him and saw some of his work… fascinating how a poet/person can have such an effect on their people/country. One poem, and the world changed for an empire. Well worth checking out…
It has been incredibly beautiful up here as of late. Heavy rains earlier this week, and now just sheer beauty; sunny skies, crisp air, falling leaves… (lots and lots)
Peter, Jake and Margo came down from Olympia on Monday, and Peter took us to dinner at the local Afghan Restaurant, Kabobi. Wonderful food, good times and it was sweet meeting Margo. Peter’s choice of musics grace this edition of of Turfing. Peter has great taste, I have yet to find a duff tune in any of his suggestions.
We said goodbye this week to Kyle and Trish as they move back to San Francisco, Oh… we shall miss them! Trish is 5 months pregnant, radiant and eager for that change that the little ones bring. Our loss, San Francisco’s gain. Tuesday was bittersweet with their departure.
The Land Cruiser is in the shop, what started as a tune up has turned into rear axle work (broken seal) and new brakes… ack! 400.USD more than I expected, a low blow indeed.
We have been doing the computer trade around the house… As I have now gotten the new Quad-Core up with the massive dosage of Ram, the old work-horse 2.6 has migrated to Rowan, and his Ram from his old system now resides in Mary’s machine. Rowan’s old computer is heading to his friend Ryan, who with college needs a system. Nothing wasted, a perfectly little circle of equipment recycling… The new system is now stable, and runs a charm. I take everything back that I ever said about Vista, oh I do.
Have a brilliant weekend…!

On The Menu:

The Quotes

Sebestyén Márta – Született világ megváltója

The Nine Pea-Hens and the Golden Apples

Petôfi Sándor Poetry…

Sebestyén Márta – Live

The Quotes:
Jules Renard | “Look for the ridiculous in everything and you will find it.”

Mark Twain | “When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.”
George F. Will | “The nice part about being a pessimist is that you are constantly being either proven right or pleasantly surprised. “
Sydney Smith | “You must not think me necessarily foolish because I am facetious, nor will I consider you necessarily wise because you are grave.”
Jean Kerr | “I’m tired of all this nonsense about beauty being only skin-deep. That’s deep enough. What do you want, an adorable pancreas?”
Hughes Mearns | “As I was walking up the stair / I met a man who wasn’t there. / He wasn’t there again today. / I wish, I wish he’d stay away.”
Oscar Wilde | “There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating: people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing.”
Bill Vaughan | “We learn something every day, and lots of times it’s that what we learned the day before was wrong.”
Lester B. Pearson | “Politics is the skilled use of blunt objects.”
Elbert Hubbard | “Genius may have its limitations, but stupidity is not thus handicapped.”


Both of the Sebestyén Márta tracks were suggested by Peter…

Sebestyén Márta – Született világ megváltója


A Hungarian Folk Tale….
The Nine Pea-Hens and the Golden Apples

Once upon a time there stood before the palace of an emperor a golden apple tree, which blossomed and bore fruit each night. But every morning the fruit was gone, and the boughs were bare of blossom, without anyone being able to discover who was the thief.
At last the emperor said to his eldest son, ‘If only I could prevent those robbers from stealing my fruit, how happy I should be!’
And his son replied, ‘I will sit up to-night and watch the tree, and I shall soon see who it is!’
So directly it grew dark the young man went and hid himself near the apple tree to begin his watch, but the apples had scarcely begun to ripen before he fell asleep, and when he awoke at sunrise the apples were gone. He felt very much ashamed of himself, and went with lagging feet to tell his father!
Of course, though the eldest son had failed, the second made sure that he would do better, and set out gaily at nightfall to watch the apple tree. But no sooner had he lain himself down than his eyes grew heavy, and when the sunbeams roused him from his slumbers there was not an apple left on the tree.
Next came the turn of the youngest son, who made himself a comfortable bed under the apple tree, and prepared himself to sleep. Towards midnight he awoke, and sat up to look at the tree. And behold! the apples were beginning to ripen, and lit up the whole palace with their brightness. At the same moment nine golden pea-hens flew swiftly through the air, and while eight alighted upon the boughs laden with fruit, the ninth fluttered to the ground where the prince lay, and instantly was changed into a beautiful maiden, more beautiful far than any lady in the emperor’s court. The prince at once fell in love with her, and they talked together for some time, till the maiden said her sisters had finished plucking the apples, and now they must all go home again. The prince, however, begged her so hard to leave him a little of the fruit that the maiden gave him two apples, one for himself and one for his father. Then she changed herself back into a pea-hen, and the whole nine flew away.
As soon as the sun rose the prince entered the palace, and held out the apple to his father, who was rejoiced to see it, and praised his youngest son heartily for his cleverness. That evening the prince returned to the apple tree, and everything passed as before, and so it happened for several nights. At length the other brothers grew angry at seeing that he never came back without bringing two golden apples with him, and they went to consult an old witch, who promised to spy after him, and discover how he managed to get the apples. So, when the evening came, the old woman hid herself under the tree and waited for the prince. Before long he arrived and laid down on his bed, and was soon fast asleep. Towards midnight there was a rush of wings, and the eight pea-hens settled on the tree, while the ninth became a maiden, and ran to greet the prince. Then the witch stretched out her hand, and cut off a lock of the maiden’s hair, and in an instant the girl sprang up, a pea-hen once more, spread her wings and flew away, while her sisters, who were busily stripping the boughs, flew after her.
When he had recovered from his surprise at the unexpected disappearance of the maiden, the prince exclaimed, ‘What can be the matter?’ and, looking about him, discovered the old witch hidden under the bed. He dragged her out, and in his fury called his guards, and ordered them to put her to death as fast as possible. But that did no good as far as the pea-hens went. They never came back any more, though the prince returned to the tree every night, and wept his heart out for his lost love. This went on for some time, till the prince could bear it no longer, and made up his mind he would search the world through for her. In vain his father tried to persuade him that his task was hopeless, and that other girls were to be found as beautiful as this one. The prince would listen to nothing, and, accompanied by only one servant, set out on his quest.
After travelling for many days, he arrived at length before a large gate, and through the bars he could see the streets of a town, and even the palace. The prince tried to pass in, but the way was barred by the keeper of the gate, who wanted to know who he was, why he was there, and how he had learnt the way, and he was not allowed to enter unless the empress herself came and gave him leave. A message was sent to her, and when she stood at the gate the prince thought he had lost his wits, for there was the maiden he had left his home to seek. And she hastened to him, and took his hand, and drew him into the palace. In a few days they were married, and the prince forgot his father and his brothers, and made up his mind that he would live and die in the castle.
One morning the empress told him that she was going to take a walk by herself, and that she would leave the keys of twelve cellars to his care. ‘If you wish to enter the first eleven cellars,’ said she, ‘you can; but beware of even unlocking the door of the twelfth, or it will be the worse for you.’
The prince, who was left alone in the castle, soon got tired of being by himself, and began to look about for something to amuse him.
‘What CAN there be in that twelfth cellar,’ he thought to himself, ‘which I must not see?’ And he went downstairs and unlocked the doors, one after the other. When he got to the twelfth he paused, but his curiosity was too much for him, and in another instant the key was turned and the cellar lay open before him. It was empty, save for a large cask, bound with iron hoops, and out of the cask a voice was saying entreatingly, ‘For goodness’ sake, brother, fetch me some water; I am dying of thirst!’
The prince, who was very tender-hearted, brought some water at once, and pushed it through a hole in the barrel; and as he did so one of the iron hoops burst.
He was turning away, when a voice cried the second time, ‘Brother, for pity’s sake fetch me some water; I’m dying of thirst!’
So the prince went back, and brought some more water, and again a hoop sprang.
And for the third time the voice still called for water; and when water was given it the last hoop was rent, the cask fell in pieces, and out flew a dragon, who snatched up the empress just as she was returning from her walk, and carried her off. Some servants who saw what had happened came rushing to the prince, and the poor young man went nearly mad when he heard the result of his own folly, and could only cry out that he would follow the dragon to the ends of the earth, until he got his wife again.
For months and months he wandered about, first in this direction and then in that, without finding any traces of the dragon or his captive. At last he came to a stream, and as he stopped for a moment to look at it he noticed a little fish lying on the bank, beating its tail convulsively, in a vain effort to get back into the water.
‘Oh, for pity’s sake, my brother,’ shrieked the little creature, ‘help me, and put me back into the river, and I will repay you some day. Take one of my scales, and when you are in danger twist it in your fingers, and I will come!’
The prince picked up the fish and threw it into the water; then he took off one of its scales, as he had been told, and put it in his pocket, carefully wrapped in a cloth. Then he went on his way till, some miles further down the road, he found a fox caught in a trap.
‘Oh! be a brother to me!’ called the fox, ‘and free me from this trap, and I will help you when you are in need. Pull out one of my hairs, and when you are in danger twist it in your fingers, and I will come.’
So the prince
unfastened the trap, pulled out one of the fox’s hairs, and continued his journey. And as he was going over the mountain he passed a wolf entangled in a snare, who begged to be set at liberty.
‘Only deliver me from death,’ he said, ‘and you will never be sorry for it. Take a lock of my fur, and when you need me twist it in your fingers.’ And the prince undid the snare and let the wolf go.
For a long time he walked on, without having any more adventures, till at length he met a man travelling on the same road.
‘Oh, brother!’ asked the prince, ‘tell me, if you can, where the dragon-emperor lives?’
The man told him where he would find the palace, and how long it would take him to get there, and the prince thanked him, and followed his directions, till that same evening he reached the town where the dragon-emperor lived. When he entered the palace, to his great joy he found his wife sitting alone in a vast hall, and they began hastily to invent plans for her escape.
There was no time to waste, as the dragon might return directly, so they took two horses out of the stable, and rode away at lightning speed. Hardly were they out of sight of the palace than the dragon came home and found that his prisoner had flown. He sent at once for his talking horse, and said to him:
‘Give me your advice; what shall I do–have my supper as usual, or set out in pursuit of them?’
‘Eat your supper with a free mind first,’ answered the horse, ‘and follow them afterwards.’
So the dragon ate till it was past mid-day, and when he could eat no more he mounted his horse and set out after the fugitives. In a short time he had come up with them, and as he snatched the empress out of her saddle he said to the prince:
‘This time I will forgive you, because you brought me the water when I was in the cask; but beware how you return here, or you will pay for it with your life.’
Half mad with grief, the prince rode sadly on a little further, hardly knowing what he was doing. Then he could bear it no longer and turned back to the palace, in spite of the dragon’s threats. Again the empress was sitting alone, and once more they began to think of a scheme by which they could escape the dragon’s power.
‘Ask the dragon when he comes home,’ said the prince, ‘where he got that wonderful horse from, and then you can tell me, and I will try to find another like it.’
Then, fearing to meet his enemy, he stole out of the castle.
Soon after the dragon came home, and the empress sat down near him, and began to coax and flatter him into a good humour, and at last she said:
‘But tell me about that wonderful horse you were riding yesterday. There cannot be another like it in the whole world. Where did you get it from?’
And he answered:
‘The way I got it is a way which no one else can take. On the top of a high mountain dwells an old woman, who has in her stables twelve horses, each one more beautiful than the other. And in one corner is a thin, wretched-looking animal whom no one would glance at a second time, but he is in reality the best of the lot. He is twin brother to my own horse, and can fly as high as the clouds themselves. But no one can ever get this horse without first serving the old woman for three whole days. And besides the horses she has a foal and its mother, and the man who serves her must look after them for three whole days, and if he does not let them run away he will in the end get the choice of any horse as a present from the old woman. But if he fails to keep the foal and its mother safe on any one of the three nights his head will pay.’
The next day the prince watched till the dragon left the house, and then he crept in to the empress, who told him all she had learnt from her gaoler. The prince at once determined to seek the old woman on the top of the mountain, and lost no time in setting out. It was a long and steep climb, but at last he found her, and with a low bow he began:
‘Good greeting to you, little mother!’
‘Good greeting to you, my son! What are you doing here?’
‘I wish to become your servant,’ answered he.
‘So you shall,’ said the old woman. ‘If you can take care of my mare for three days I will give you a horse for wages, but if you let her stray you will lose your head’; and as she spoke she led him into a courtyard surrounded with palings, and on every post a man’s head was stuck. One post only was empty, and as they passed it cried out:
‘Woman, give me the head I am waiting for!’
The old woman made no answer, but turned to the prince and said:
‘Look! all those men took service with me, on the same conditions as you, but not one was able to guard the mare!’
But the prince did not waver, and declared he would abide by his words.
When evening came he led the mare out of the stable and mounted her, and the colt ran behind. He managed to keep his seat for a long time, in spite of all her efforts to throw him, but at length he grew so weary that he fell fast asleep, and when he woke he found himself sitting on a log, with the halter in his hands. He jumped up in terror, but the mare was nowhere to be seen, and he started with a beating heart in search of her. He had gone some way without a single trace to guide him, when he came to a little river. The sight of the water brought back to his mind the fish whom he had saved from death, and he hastily drew the scale from his pocket. It had hardly touched his fingers when the fish appeared in the stream beside him.
‘What is it, my brother?’ asked the fish anxiously.
‘The old woman’s mare strayed last night, and I don’t know where to look for her.’
‘Oh, I can tell you that: she has changed herself into a big fish, and her foal into a little one. But strike the water with the halter and say, “Come here, O mare of the mountain witch!” and she will come.’
The prince did as he was bid, and the mare and her foal stood before him. Then he put the halter round her neck, and rode her home, the foal always trotting behind them. The old woman was at the door to receive them, and gave the prince some food while she led the mare back to the stable.
‘You should have gone among the fishes,’ cried the old woman, striking the animal with a stick.
‘I did go among the fishes,’ replied the mare; ‘but they are no friends of mine, for they betrayed me at once.’
‘Well, go among the foxes this time,’ said she, and returned to the house, not knowing that the prince had overheard her.
So when it began to grow dark the prince mounted the mare for the second time and rode into the meadows, and the foal trotted behind its mother. Again he managed to stick on till midnight: then a sleep overtook him that he could not battle against, and when he woke up he found himself, as before, sitting on the log, with the halter in his hands. He gave a shriek of dismay, and sprang up in search of the wanderers. As he went he suddenly remembered the words that the old woman had said to the mare, and he drew out the fox hair and twisted it in his fingers.
‘What is it, my brother?’ asked the fox, who instantly appeared before him.
‘The old witch’s mare has run away from me, and I do not know where to look for her.’
‘She is with us,’ replied the fox, ‘and has changed herself into a big fox, and her foal into a little one, but strike the ground with a halter and say, “Come here, O mare of the mountain witch!”‘
The prince did so, and in a moment the fox became a mare and stood before him, with the little foal at her heels. He mounted and rode back, and the old woman placed food on the table, and led the mare back to the stable.
‘You should
have gone to the foxes, as I told you,’ said she, striking the mare with a stick.
‘I did go to the foxes,’ replied the mare, ‘but they are no friends of mine and betrayed me.’
‘Well, this time you had better go to the wolves,’ said she, not knowing that the prince had heard all she had been saying.
The third night the prince mounted the mare and rode her out to the meadows, with the foal trotting after. He tried hard to keep awake, but it was of no use, and in the morning there he was again on the log, grasping the halter. He started to his feet, and then stopped, for he remembered what the old woman had said, and pulled out the wolf’s grey lock.
‘What is it, my brother?’ asked the wolf as it stood before him.
‘The old witch’s mare has run away from me,’ replied the prince, ‘and I don’t know where to find her.’
‘Oh, she is with us,’ answered the wolf, ‘and she has changed herself into a she-wolf, and the foal into a cub; but strike the earth here with the halter, and cry, “Come to me, O mare of the mountain witch.” ‘
The prince did as he was bid, and as the hair touched his fingers the wolf changed back into a mare, with the foal beside her. And when he had mounted and ridden her home the old woman was on the steps to receive them, and she set some food before the prince, but led the mare back to her stable.
‘You should have gone among the wolves,’ said she, striking her with a stick.
‘So I did,’ replied the mare, ‘but they are no friends of mine and betrayed me.’
The old woman made no answer, and left the stable, but the prince was at the door waiting for her.
‘I have served you well,’ said he, ‘and now for my reward.’
‘What I promised that will I perform,’ answered she. ‘Choose one of these twelve horses; you can have which you like.’
‘Give me, instead, that half-starved creature in the corner,’ asked the prince. ‘I prefer him to all those beautiful animals.’
‘You can’t really mean what you say?’ replied the woman.
‘Yes, I do,’ said the prince, and the old woman was forced to let him have his way. So he took leave of her, and put the halter round his horse’s neck and led him into the forest, where he rubbed him down till his skin was shining like gold. Then he mounted, and they flew straight through the air to the dragon’s palace. The empress had been looking for him night and day, and stole out to meet him, and he swung her on to his saddle, and the horse flew off again.
Not long after the dragon came home, and when he found the empress was missing he said to his horse, ‘What shall we do? Shall we eat and drink, or shall we follow the runaways?’ and the horse replied, ‘Whether you eat or don’t eat, drink or don’t drink, follow them or stay at home, matters nothing now, for you can never, never catch them.’
But the dragon made no reply to the horse’s words, but sprang on his back and set off in chase of the fugitives. And when they saw him coming they were frightened, and urged the prince’s horse faster and faster, till he said, ‘Fear nothing; no harm can happen to us,’ and their hearts grew calm, for they trusted his wisdom.
Soon the dragon’s horse was heard panting behind, and he cried out, ‘Oh, my brother, do not go so fast! I shall sink to the earth if I try to keep up with you.’
And the prince’s horse answered, ‘Why do you serve a monster like that? Kick him off, and let him break in pieces on the ground, and come and join us.’
And the dragon’s horse plunged and reared, and the dragon fell on a rock, which broke him in pieces. Then the empress mounted his horse, and rode back with her husband to her kingdom, over which they ruled for many years.
Hungarian Poet: Petôfi Sándor

I’ll be a tree
I’ll be a tree, if you are its flower,

Or a flower, if you are the dew –

I’ll be the dew, if you are the sunbeam,

Only to be united with you.
My lovely girl, if you are the Heaven,

I shall be a star above on high;

My darling, if you are hell-fire,

To unite us, damned I shall die.

[From The Clouds ]
Sorrow? a great ocean?


A little pearl in the ocean.Perhaps,

By the time I fish it up, I may break it.

The Farmer puts his field under the plow,

Then he harrows it even.

Time puts our features under the plow,

But won’t harrow them even.

How many drops has the ocean sea?

Can you count the stars?

In human heads how many hairs can there be?

And sins within human hearts?

The shepherd rides in donkey-back
The shepherd rides in donkey-back,

His feet are dangling wide,

The lad is big, but bigger still

His bitterness inside.
He played his flute, he grazed his flock

Upon a grassy hill

When he was told his sweetheart girl

Was desperately ill.
He rides his donkey in a flash

And races to her bed,

But by the time he reached the house

His precious one was dead.
The lad was bitter, hoped to die,

But what he did instead:

He took a stick and struck a blow

Upon the donkey’s head.

After reading this poem to a crowd of his countrymen, Hungary rose up in revolt against the Austro-Hungarian Empire for independence. (the revolution failed…) But such is the power of poetry that they can move us to greatness…. 80)
National Song
Rise up, Magyar, the country calls!

It’s ‘now or never’ what fate befalls…

Shall we live as slaves or free men?

That’s the question – choose your ‘Amen”!

God of Hungarians, we swear unto Thee,

We swear unto Thee – that slaves we shall no longer be!
For up till now we lived like slaves,

Damned lie our forefathers in their graves –

They who lived and died in freedom

Cannot rest in dusts of thraldom.

God of Hungarians, we swear unto Thee,

We swear unto Thee – that slaves we shall no longer be!
A coward and a lowly bastard

Is he, who dares not raise the standard –

He whose wretched life is dearer

Than the country’s sacred honor.

God of Hungarians, we swear unto Thee,

We swear unto Thee – that slaves we shall no longer be!
Sabers outshine chaine and fetters,

It’s the sword that one’s arm betters.

Yet we wear grim chains and shackles.

Swords, slash through damned manacles!

God of Hungarians, we swear unto Thee,

We swear unto Thee – that slaves we shall no longer be!
Magyar’s name will tell the story

Worthy of our erstwhile glory

we must wash off – fiercely cleansing

Centuries of shame and condensing.

God of Hungarians, we swear unto Thee,

We swear unto Thee – that slaves we shall no longer be!
Where our grave-mounds bulge and huddle

Our grandson will kneel and cuddle,

While in grateful prayer they mention

All our sainted names’ ascension.

God of Hungarians, we swear unto Thee,

We swear unto Thee – that slaves we shall no longer be!
(March 13. 1848)


Petofi Sandor: Hungarian lyric poet b. Jan. 1, 1823, enriched the artistry and extended the range of his nation’s poetry beyond any predecessor and created a new synthesis of poetic techniques and realistic subjects. His epics were powerful blends of folk topics, attitudes, and verse forms, and his lyric poems stood out as aesthetic xpressions of genuinely felt human experiences. They celebrated nature, the joys and sorrows of common folk, married love, family life, and patriotism.
His language, images, folklore, and characters were rooted in the Hungarian Great Plains. He participated in Hungary’s War of Independence (1848-49) and disappeared on July 31, 1849, in a battle against Russian forces. He was probably buried in amass grave.
A bigger bio…

Sebestyén Márta – Live


In Flanders Fields

In Flanders Fields

By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)

Canadian Army
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

The Story…

McCrae’s “In Flanders Fields” remains to this day one of the most memorable war poems ever written. It is a lasting legacy of the terrible battle in the Ypres salient in the spring of 1915. Here is the story of the making of that poem:
Although he had been a doctor for years and had served in the South African War, it was impossible to get used to the suffering, the screams, and the blood here, and Major John McCrae had seen and heard enough in his dressing station to last him a lifetime.
As a surgeon attached to the 1st Field Artillery Brigade, Major McCrae, who had joined the McGill faculty in 1900 after graduating from the University of Toronto, had spent seventeen days treating injured men — Canadians, British, Indians, French, and Germans — in the Ypres salient.
It had been an ordeal that he had hardly thought possible. McCrae later wrote of it:
“I wish I could embody on paper some of the varied sensations of that seventeen days… Seventeen days of Hades! At the end of the first day if anyone had told us we had to spend seventeen days there, we would have folded our hands and said it could not have been done.”
One death particularly affected McCrae. A young friend and former student, Lieut. Alexis Helmer of Ottawa, had been killed by a shell burst on 2 May 1915. Lieutenant Helmer was buried later that day in the little cemetery outside McCrae’s dressing station, and McCrae had performed the funeral ceremony in the absence of the chaplain.
The next day, sitting on the back of an ambulance parked near the dressing station beside the Canal de l’Yser, just a few hundred yards north of Ypres, McCrae vented his anguish by composing a poem. The major was no stranger to writing, having authored several medical texts besides dabbling in poetry.
In the nearby cemetery, McCrae could see the wild poppies that sprang up in the ditches in that part of Europe, and he spent twenty minutes of precious rest time scribbling fifteen lines of verse in a notebook.
A young soldier watched him write it. Cyril Allinson, a twenty-two year old sergeant-major, was delivering mail that day when he spotted McCrae. The major looked up as Allinson approached, then went on writing while the sergeant-major stood there quietly. “His face was very tired but calm as we wrote,” Allinson recalled. “He looked around from time to time, his eyes straying to Helmer’s grave.”
When McCrae finished five minutes later, he took his mail from Allinson and, without saying a word, handed his pad to the young NCO. Allinson was moved by what he read:
“The poem was exactly an exact description of the scene in front of us both. He used the word blow in that line because the poppies actually were being blown that morning by a gentle east wind. It never occurred to me at that time that it would ever be published. It seemed to me just an exact description of the scene.”
In fact, it was very nearly not published. Dissatisfied with it, McCrae tossed the poem away, but a fellow officer retrieved it and sent it to newspapers in England. The Spectator, in London, rejected it, but Punch published it on 8 December 1915.

Rememberance Day…

November 11 – Armistice Day
Click on the pic…

I had scads to write about it, about the differences I have seen it honoured in the US, and in Europe and it seems profoundly different. Instead of belabouring that point I had a good memory that ties into the day. When we lived in London there were the Chelsea Pensioners, at that time the majority were from WW1… they would sit along The Kings Road, and talk with people, sunning themselves in good weather, dissapearing when the rain clouds came. My favourite memory of them: Four or so old CP’s talking to a tribe of punk-rockers in the fall of 77′, all of the punks sitting around the old Vets, very attentive, and respectful. It was a thing of beauty. You could see a transmission of life, love, and respect going on. I often saw people buy the CP a pint at the local and bring it to them on the benches outside of the pub. They were honoured, and loved.
The great war, as WW1 was called was to be ‘The War To End All Wars’… which was a base lie, but you knew that already. It did produce some of the most touching poetry, and writing from all sides. It produced writers such as Robert Graves, Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owens, Ernest Hemingway, John Dos Passos, Andreas Latzko, T.E. Lawrence and others. Would they have been great poets/writers if the war hadn’t molded them? A fair question.
I have seen the results of war in my family,and in Mary’s as well. I pray that we as a species find another way of settling differences. The damage travels down the generations. It is the gift that keeps on giving, and its fruits are pain, sadness and more.
I have seen that the fields of Europe are haunted; you have but to walk in them to know it. There is no glory in war, there is only dying, and grief. Time for a change, time for a change.

On The Menu:

The Links

Bombay Dub Orchestra – Mumtaz

Robert Graves: Quotes

The Angels Of Mons – (The Bowmen) This has a long intro, but very, very worth reading – G

The Poetry of Siegried Sassoon

Bombay Dub Orchestra Compassion RMX 09
The Links:

Sea Snakes Seek Out Freshwater To Slake Thirst

Sounds like a Strad? Must be the mushrooms

Mysterious Dark Matter Might Actually Glow

The Fall

Bombay Dub Orchestra – Mumtaz

Robert Graves: Quotes
“If I were a girl, I’d despair. The supply of good women far exceeds that of the men who deserve them.”
“Kill if you must, but never hate: Man is but grass and hate is blight, The sun will scorch you soon or late, Die wholesome then, since you must fight”
“We forget cruelty and past betrayal, Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall”
“If there’s no money in poetry, neither is there poetry in money.”
“What we now call ”finance” is, I hold, an intellectual perversion of what began as warm human love.”
“War was return of earth to ugly earth, War was foundering of sublimities, Extinction of each happy art and faith By which the world had still kept head in air, Protesting logic or protesting love, Until the unendurable moment struck – The inward scream”
“When the days of rejoicing are over,/ When the flags are stowed safely away,/ They will dream of another wild ‘War to End Wars’/ And another wild Armistice day.”


The Angels Of Mons – (The Bowmen)

– Arthur Machen


I have been asked to write an introduction to the story of “The Bowmen”, on its publication in book form together with three other tales of similar fashion. And I hesitate. This affair of “The Bowmen” has been such an odd one from first to last, so many queer complications have entered into it, there have been so many and so divers currents and cross-currents of rumour and speculation concerning it, that I honestly do not know where to begin. I propose, then, to solve the difficulty by apologising for beginning at all.
For, usually and fitly, the presence of an introduction is held to imply that there is something of consequence and importance to be introduced. If, for example, a man has made an anthology of great poetry, he may well write an introduction justifying his principle of selection, pointing out here and there, as the spirit moves him, high beauties and supreme excellencies, discoursing of the magnates and lords and princes of literature, whom he is merely serving as groom of the chamber. Introductions, that is, belong to the masterpieces and classics of the world, to the great and ancient and accepted things; and I am here introducing a short, small story of my own which appeared in The Evening News about ten months ago.
I appreciate the absurdity, nay, the enormity of the position in all its grossness. And my excuse for these pages must be this: that though the story itself is nothing, it has yet had such odd and unforeseen consequences and adventures that the tale of them may possess some interest. And then, again, there are certain psychological morals to be drawn from the whole matter of the tale and its sequel of rumours and discussions that are not, I think, devoid of consequence; and so to begin at the beginning.
This was in last August, to be more precise, on the last Sunday of last August. There were terrible things to be read on that hot Sunday morning between meat and mass. It was in The Weekly Dispatch that I saw the awful account of the retreat from Mons. I no longer recollect the details; but I have not forgotten the impression that was then on my mind, I seemed to see a furnace of torment and death and agony and terror seven times heated, and in the midst of the burning was the British Army. In the midst of the flame, consumed by it and yet aureoled in it, scattered like ashes and yet triumphant, martyred and for ever glorious. So I saw our men with a shining about them, so I took these thoughts with me to church, and, I am sorry to say, was making up a story in my head while the deacon was singing the Gospel.
This was not the tale of “The Bowmen”. It was the first sketch, as it were, of “The Soldiers’ Rest”. I only wish I had been able to write it as I conceived it. The tale as it stands is, I think, a far better piece of craft than “The Bowmen”, but the tale that came to me as the blue incense floated above the Gospel Book on the desk between the tapers: that indeed was a noble story–like all the stories that never get written. I conceived the dead men coming up through the flames and in the flames, and being welcomed in the Eternal Tavern with songs and flowing cups and everlasting mirth. But every man is the child of his age, however much he may hate it; and our popular religion has long determined that jollity is wicked. As far as I can make out modern Protestantism believes that Heaven is something like Evensong in an English cathedral, the service by Stainer and the Dean preaching. For those opposed to dogma of any kind–even the mildest–I suppose it is held that a Course of Ethical Lectures will be arranged.
Well, I have long maintained that on the whole the average church, considered as a house of preaching, is a much more poisonous place than the average tavern; still, as I say, one’s age masters one, and clouds and bewilders the intelligence, and the real story of “The Soldiers’ Rest”, with its “sonus epulantium in aeterno convivio”, was ruined at the moment of its birth, and it was some time later that the actual story got written. And in the meantime the plot of “The Bowmen” occurred to me. Now it has been murmured and hinted and suggested and whispered in all sorts of quarters that before I wrote the tale I had heard something. The most decorative of these legends is also the most precise: “I know for a fact that the whole thing was given him in typescript by a lady-in-waiting.” This was not the case; and all vaguer reports to the effect that I had heard some rumours or hints of rumours are equally void of any trace of truth.
Again I apologise for entering so pompously into the minutiae of my bit of a story, as if it were the lost poems of Sappho; but it appears that the subject interests the public, and I comply with my instructions. I take it, then, that the origins of “The Bowmen” were composite. First of all, all ages and nations have cherished the thought that spiritual hosts may come to the help of earthly arms, that gods and heroes and saints have descended from their high immortal places to fight for their worshippers and clients. Then Kipling’s story of the ghostly Indian regiment got in my head and got mixed with the mediaevalism that is always there; and so “The Bowmen” was written. I was heartily disappointed with it, I remember, and thought it–as I still think it–an indifferent piece of work. However, I have tried to write for these thirty-five long years, and if I have not become practised in letters, I am at least a past master in the Lodge of Disappointment. Such as it was, “The Bowmen” appeared in The Evening News of September 29th, 1914.
Now the journalist does not, as a rule, dwell much on the prospect of fame; and if he be an evening journalist, his anticipations of immortality are bounded by twelve o’clock at night at the latest; and it may well be that those insects which begin to live in the morning and are dead by sunset deem themselves immortal. Having written my story, having groaned and growled over it and printed it, I certainly never thought to hear another word of it. My colleague “The Londoner” praised it warmly to my face, as his kindly fashion is; entering, very properly, a technical caveat as to the language of the battle-cries of the bowmen. “Why should English archers use French terms?” he said. I replied that the only reason was this–that a “Monseigneur” here and there struck me as picturesque; and I reminded him that, as a matter of cold historical fact, most of the archers of Agincourt were mercenaries from Gwent, my native country, who would appeal to Mihangel and to saints not known to the Saxons–Teilo, Iltyd, Dewi, Cadwaladyr Vendigeid. And I thought that that was the first and last discussion of “The Bowmen”. But in a few days from its publication the editor of The Occult Review wrote to me. He wanted to know whether the story had any foundation in fact. I told him that it had no foundation in fact of any kind or sort; I forget whether I added that it had no foundation in rumour but I should think not, since to the best of my belief there were no rumours of heavenly interposition in existence at that time. Certainly I had heard of none. Soon afterwards the editor of Light wrote asking a like question, and I made him a like reply. It seemed to me that I had stifled any “Bowmen” mythos in the hour of its birth.
A month or two later, I received several requests from editors of parish magazines to reprint the story. I–or, rather, my editor–readily gave permission; and then, after another month or two, the conductor of one of these magazines wrote to me, saying that the February issue containing the story had been sold out, while there was still a great demand for it. Would I allow them to reprint “The Bowmen” as a pamphlet, and would I write a short preface giving
the exact authorities for the story? I replied that they might reprint in pamphlet form with all my heart, but that I could not give my authorities, since I had none, the tale being pure invention. The priest wrote again, suggesting–to my amazement–that I must be mistaken, that the main “facts” of “The Bowmen” must be true, that my share in the matter must surely have been confined to the elaboration and decoration of a veridical history. It seemed that my light fiction had been accepted by the congregation of this particular church as the solidest of facts; and it was then that it began to dawn on me that if I had failed in the art of letters, I had succeeded, unwittingly, in the art of deceit. This happened, I should think, some time in April, and the snowball of rumour that was then set rolling has been rolling ever since, growing bigger and bigger, till it is now swollen to a monstrous size.
It was at about this period that variants of my tale began to be told as authentic histories. At first, these tales betrayed their relation to their original. In several of them the vegetarian restaurant appeared, and St. George was the chief character. In one case an officer–name and address missing–said that there was a portrait of St. George in a certain London restaurant, and that a figure, just like the portrait, appeared to him on the battlefield, and was invoked by him, with the happiest results. Another variant–this, I think, never got into print–told how dead Prussians had been found on the battlefield with arrow wounds in their bodies. This notion amused me, as I had imagined a scene, when I was thinking out the story, in which a German general was to appear before the Kaiser to explain his failure to annihilate the English.
“All-Highest,” the general was to say, “it is true, it is impossible to deny it. The men were killed by arrows; the shafts were found in their bodies by the burying parties.”
I rejected the idea as over-precipitous even for a mere fantasy. I was therefore entertained when I found that what I had refused as too fantastical for fantasy was accepted in certain occult circles as hard fact.
Other versions of the story appeared in which a cloud interposed between the attacking Germans and the defending British. In some examples the cloud served to conceal our men from the advancing enemy; in others, it disclosed shining shapes which frightened the horses of the pursuing German cavalry. St. George, it will he noted, has disappeared–he persisted some time longer in certain Roman Catholic variants–and there are no more bowmen, no more arrows. But so far angels are not mentioned; yet they are ready to appear, and I think that I have detected the machine which brought them into the story.
In “The Bowmen” my imagined soldier saw “a long line of shapes, with a shining about them.” And Mr. A.P. Sinnett, writing in the May issue of The Occult Review, reporting what he had heard, states that “those who could see said they saw ‘a row of shining beings’ between the two armies.” Now I conjecture that the word “shining” is the link between my tale and the derivative from it. In the popular view shining and benevolent supernatural beings are angels, and so, I believe, the Bowmen of my story have become “the Angels of Mons.” In this shape they have been received with respect and credence everywhere, or almost everywhere.
And here, I conjecture, we have the key to the large popularity of the delusion–as I think it. We have long ceased in England to take much interest in saints, and in the recent revival of the cultus of St. George, the saint is little more than a patriotic figurehead. And the appeal to the saints to succour us is certainly not a common English practice; it is held Popish by most of our countrymen. But angels, with certain reservations, have retained their popularity, and so, when it was settled that the English army in its dire peril was delivered by angelic aid, the way was clear for general belief, and for the enthusiasms of the religion of the man in the street. And so soon as the legend got the title “The Angels of Mons” it became impossible to avoid it. It permeated the Press: it would not be neglected; it appeared in the most unlikely quarters–in Truth and Town Topics, The New Church Weekly (Swedenborgian) and John Bull. The editor of The Church Times has exercised a wise reserve: he awaits that evidence which so far is lacking; but in one issue of the paper I noted that the story furnished a text for a sermon, the subject of a letter, and the matter for an article. People send me cuttings from provincial papers containing hot controversy as to the exact nature of the appearances; the “Office Window” of The Daily Chronicle suggests scientific explanations of the hallucination; the Pall Mall in a note about St. James says he is of the brotherhood of the Bowmen of Mons–this reversion to the bowmen from the angels being possibly due to the strong statements that I have made on the matter. The pulpits both of the Church and of Non-conformity have been busy: Bishop Welldon, Dean Hensley Henson (a disbeliever), Bishop Taylor Smith (the Chaplain-General), and many other clergy have occupied themselves with the matter. Dr. Horton preached about the “angels” at Manchester; Sir Joseph Compton Rickett (President of the National Federation of Free Church Councils) stated that the soldiers at the front had seen visions and dreamed dreams, and had given testimony of powers and principalities fighting for them or against them. Letters come from all the ends of the earth to the Editor of The Evening News with theories, beliefs, explanations, suggestions. It is all somewhat wonderful; one can say that the whole affair is a psychological phenomenon of considerable interest, fairly comparable with the great Russian delusion of last August and September.

Now it is possible that some persons, judging by the tone of these remarks of mine, may gather the impression that I am a profound disbeliever in the possibility of any intervention of the super-physical order in the affairs of the physical order. They will be mistaken if they make this inference; they will be mistaken if they suppose that I think miracles in Judaea credible but miracles in France or Flanders incredible. I hold no such absurdities. But I confess, very frankly, that I credit none of the “Angels of Mons” legends, partly because I see, or think I see, their derivation from my own idle fiction, but chiefly because I have, so far, not received one jot or tittle of evidence that should dispose me to belief. It is idle, indeed, and foolish enough for a man to say: “I am sure that story is a lie, because the supernatural element enters into it;” here, indeed, we have the maggot writhing in the midst of corrupted offal denying the existence of the sun. But if this fellow be a fool–as he is– equally foolish is he who says, “If the tale has anything of the supernatural it is true, and the less evidence the better;” and I am afraid this tends to be the attitude of many who call themselves occultists. I hope that I shall never get to that frame of mind. So I say, not that super-normal interventions are impossible, not that they have not happened during this war–I know nothing as to that point, one way or the other–but that there is not one atom of evidence (so far) to support the current stories of the angels of Mons. For, be it remarked, these stories are specific stories. They rest on the second, third, fourth, fifth hand stories told by “a soldier,” by “an officer,” by “a Catholic correspondent,” by “a nurse,” by any number of anonymous people. Indeed, names have been mentioned. A lady’s name has been drawn, most unwarrantably as it appears to me, into the discussion, and I have no doubt that this lady has been subject to a good deal of pestering and annoyance. She has written to the Editor of The Evening News denying all knowledge of the supposed miracle. The Psychical Research Society’s expert confesses that no real evidence has been proffered to her Society on the matter. And then, to my amazement, she accepts as fact the proposition that some men on the battlefield have been “hallucinated,” and proceeds to give the theory of sensory hallucination. She forgets that, by her own showing, there is no reason to suppose that anybody has been hallucinated at all. Someone (unknown) has met a nurse (unnamed) who has alked to a soldier (anonymous) who has seen angels. But that is not evidence; and not even Sam Weller at his gayest would have dared to offer it as such in the Court of Common Pleas. So far, then, nothing remotely approaching proof has been offered as to any supernatural intervention during the Retreat from Mons. Proof may come; if so, it will be interesting and more than interesting.
But, taking the affair as it stands at present, how is it that a nation plunged in materialism of the grossest kind has accepted idle rumours and gossip of the supernatural as certain truth? The answer is contained in the question: it is precisely because our whole atmosphere is materialist that we are ready to credit anything–save the truth. Separate a man from good drink, he will swallow methylated spirit with joy. Man is created to be inebriated; to be “nobly wild, not mad.” Suffer the Cocoa Prophets and their company to seduce him in body and spirit, and he will get himself stuff that will make him ignobly wild and mad indeed. It took hard, practical men of affairs, business men, advanced thinkers, Freethinkers, to believe in Madame Blavatsky and Mahatmas and the famous message from the Golden Shore: “Judge’s plan is right; follow him and stick.”
And the main responsibility for this dismal state of affairs undoubtedly lies on the shoulders of the majority of the clergy of the Church of England. Christianity, as Mr. W.L. Courtney has so admirably pointed out, is a great Mystery Religion; it is the Mystery Religion. Its priests are called to an awful and tremendous hierurgy; its pontiffs are to be the pathfinders, the bridge-makers between the world of sense and the world of spirit. And, in fact, they pass their time in preaching, not the eternal mysteries, but a twopenny morality, in changing the Wine of Angels and the Bread of Heaven into gingerbeer and mixed biscuits: a sorry transubstantiation, a sad alchemy, as it seems to me.

The Bowmen

It was during the Retreat of the Eighty Thousand, and the authority of the Censorship is sufficient excuse for not being more explicit. But it was on the most awful day of that awful time, on the day when ruin and disaster came so near that their shadow fell over London far away; and, without any certain news, the hearts of men failed within them and grew faint; as if the agony of the army in the battlefield had entered into their souls.
On this dreadful day, then, when three hundred thousand men in arms with all their artillery swelled like a flood against the little English company, there was one point above all other points in our battle line that was for a time in awful danger, not merely of defeat, but of utter annihilation. With the permission of the Censorship and of the military expert, this corner may, perhaps, be described as a salient, and if this angle were crushed and broken, then the English force as a whole would be shattered, the Allied left would be turned, and Sedan would inevitably follow.
All the morning the German guns had thundered and shrieked against this corner, and against the thousand or so of men who held it. The men joked at the shells, and found funny names for them, and had bets about them, and greeted them with scraps of music-hall songs. But the shells came on and burst, and tore good Englishmen limb from limb, and tore brother from brother, and as the heat of the day increased so did the fury of that terrific cannonade. There was no help, it seemed. The English artillery was good, but there was not nearly enough of it; it was being steadily battered into scrap iron.
There comes a moment in a storm at sea when people say to one another, “It is at its worst; it can blow no harder,” and then there is a blast ten times more fierce than any before it. So it was in these British trenches.
There were no stouter hearts in the whole world than the hearts of these men; but even they were appalled as this seven-times-heated hell of the German cannonade fell upon them and overwhelmed them and destroyed them. And at this very moment they saw from their trenches that a tremendous host was moving against their lines. Five hundred of the thousand remained, and as far as they could see the German infantry was pressing on against them, column upon column, a grey world of men, ten thousand of them, as it appeared afterwards. There was no hope at all. They shook hands, some of them. One man improvised a new version of the battlesong, “Good-bye, good-bye to Tipperary,” ending with “And we shan’t get there”. And they all went on firing steadily. The officers pointed out that such an opportunity for high-class, fancy shooting might never occur again; the Germans dropped line after line; the Tipperary humorist asked, “What price Sidney Street?” And the few machine guns did their best. But everybody knew it was of no use. The dead grey bodies lay in companies and battalions, as others came on and on and on, and they swarmed and stirred and advanced from beyond and beyond.
“World without end. Amen,” said one of the British soldiers with some irrelevance as he took aim and fired. And then he remembered-he says he cannot think why or wherefore–a queer vegetarian restaurant in London where he had once or twice eaten eccentric dishes of cutlets made of lentils and nuts that pretended to be steak. On all the plates in this restaurant there was printed a figure of St. George in blue, with the motto, Adsit Anglis Sanctus Geogius–May St. George be a present help to the English. This soldier happened to know Latin and other useless things, and now, as he fired at his man in the grey advancing mass–300 yards away–he uttered the pious vegetarian motto. He went on firing to the end, and at last Bill on his right had to clout him cheerfully over the head to make him stop, pointing out as he did so that the King’s ammunition cost money and was not lightly to be wasted in drilling funny patterns into dead Germans.
For as the Latin scholar uttered his invocation he felt something between a shudder and an electric shock pass through his body. The roar of the battle died down in his ears to a gentle murmur; instead of it, he says, he heard a great voice and a shout louder than a thunder-peal crying, “Array, array, array!”
His heart grew hot as a burning coal, it grew cold as ice within him, as it seemed to him that a tumult of voices answered to his summons. He heard, or seemed to hear, thousands shouting: “St. George! St. George!”
“Ha! messire; ha! sweet Saint, grant us good deliverance!”
“St. George for merry England!”
“Harow! Harow! Monseigneur St. George, succour us.”
“Ha! St. George! Ha! St. George! a long bow and a strong bow.”
“Heaven’s Knight, aid us!”
And as the soldier heard these voices he saw before him, beyond the trench, a long line of shapes, with a shining about them. They were like men who drew the bow, and with another shout their cloud of arrows flew singing and tingling through the air towards the German hosts.
The other men in the trench were firing all the while. They had no hope; but they aimed just as if they had been shooting at Bisley. Suddenly one of them lifted up his voice in the plainest English, “Gawd help us!” he bellowed to the man next to him, “but we’re blooming marvels! Look at those grey… gentlemen, look at them! D’ye see them? They’re not going down in dozens, nor in ‘undreds; it’s thousands, it is. Look! look! there’s a regiment gone while I’m talking to ye.”
“Shut it!” the other soldier bellowed, taking aim, “what are ye gassing about!”
But he gulped with astonishment even as he spoke, for, indeed, the grey men were falling by the thousands. The English could hear the guttural scream of the German officers, the crackle of their revolvers as they shot the reluctant; and still line after line crashed to the earth.
All the while the Latin-bred soldier heard the cry: “Harow! Harow! Monseigneur, dear saint, quick to our aid! St. George help us!”
“High Chevalier, defend us!”
The singing arrows fled so swift and thick that they darkened the air; the heathen horde melted from before them.
“More machine guns!” Bill yelled to Tom.
“Don’t hear them,” Tom yelled back. “But, thank God, anyway; they’ve got it in the neck.”
In fact, there were ten thousand dead German soldiers left before that salient of the English army, and consequently there was no Sedan. In Germany, a country ruled by scientific principles, the Great General Staff decided that the contemptible English must have employed shells containing an unknown gas of a poisonous nature, as no wounds were discernible on the bodies of the dead German soldiers. But the man who knew what nuts tasted like when they called themselves steak knew also that St. George had brought his Agincourt Bowmen to help the English.

One of the great war poets, friends with Robert Graves, Lawrence and Winifred Owens. His work has always touched me, but I think this is the first time I have put his works on Turfing. I hope you enjoy it, and give some thought to the veterans on Armistice/Veterans Day. A poppy for your thoughts…

The Poetry of Siegried Sassoon

Daybreak In a Garden

I heard the farm cocks crowing, loud, and faint, and thin,

When hooded night was going and one clear planet winked:

I heard shrill notes begin down the spired wood distinct,

When cloudy shoals were chinked and gilt with fires of day.

White-misted was the weald; the lawns were silver-grey;

The lark his lonely field for heaven had forsaken;

And the wind upon its way whispered the boughs of may,

And touched the nodding peony-flowers to bid them waken.


Dead Musicians
From you, Beethoven, Bach, Mozart,

The substance of my dreams took fire.

You built cathedrals in my heart,

And lit my pinnacled desire.

You were the ardour and the bright

Procession of my thoughts toward prayer.

You were the wrath of storm, the light

On distant citadels aflare.
Great names, I cannot find you now

In these loud years of youth that strives

Through doom toward peace: upon my brow

I wear a wreath of banished lives.

You have no part with lads who fought

And laughed and suffered at my side.

Your fugues and symphonies have brought

No memory of my friends who died.
For when my brain is on their track,

In slangy speech I call them back.

With fox-trot tunes their ghosts I charm.

‘Another little drink won’t do us any harm.’

I think of rag-time; a bit of rag-time;

And see their faces crowding round

To the sound of the syncopated beat.

They’ve got such jolly things to tell,

Home from hell with a Blighty wound so neat…

. . . .

And so the song breaks off; and I’m alone.

They’re dead … For God’s sake stop that gramophone.


When meadows are grey with the morn

In the dusk of the woods it is night:

The oak and the birch and the pine

War with the glimmer of light.
Dryads brown as the leaf

Move in the gloom of the glade;

When meadows are grey with the morn

Dim night in the wood has delayed.
The cocks that crow to the land

Are faint and hollow and shrill:

Dryads brown as the leaf

Whisper, and hide, and are still.


In the grey summer garden I shall find you

With day-break and the morning hills behind you.
There will be rain-wet roses; stir of wings;

And down the wood a thrush that wakes and sings.

Not from the past you’ll come, but from that deep

Where beauty murmurs to the soul asleep:

And I shall know the sense of life re-born

From dreams into the mystery of morn

Where gloom and brightness meet. And standing there

Till that calm song is done, at last we’ll share

The league-spread, quiring symphonies that are

Joy in the world, and peace, and dawn’s one star.


The Last Meeting

Because the night was falling warm and still

Upon a golden day at April’s end,

I thought; I will go up the hill once more

To find the face of him that I have lost,

And speak with him before his ghost has flown

Far from the earth that might not keep him long.
So down the road I went, pausing to see

How slow the dusk drew on, and how the folk

Loitered about their doorways, well-content

With the fine weather and the waxing year.

The miller’s house, that glimmered with grey walls,

Turned me aside; and for a while I leaned

Along the tottering rail beside the bridge

To watch the dripping mill-wheel green with damp.

The miller peered at me with shadowed eyes

And pallid face: I could not hear his voice

For sound of the weir’s plunging. He was old.

His days went round with the unhurrying wheel.
Moving along the street, each side I saw

The humble, kindly folk in lamp-lit rooms;

Children at table; simple, homely wives;

Strong, grizzled men; and soldiers back from war,

Scaring the gaping elders with loud talk.
Soon all the jumbled roofs were down the hill,

And I was turning up the grassy lane

That goes to the big, empty house that stands

Above the town, half-hid by towering trees.

I looked below and saw the glinting lights:

I heard the treble cries of bustling life,

And mirth, and scolding; and the grind of wheels.

An engine whistled, piercing-shrill, and called

High echoes from the sombre slopes afar;

Then a long line of trucks began to move.
It was quite still; the columned chestnuts stood

Dark in their noble canopies of leaves.

I thought: ‘A little longer I’ll delay,

And then he’ll be more glad to hear my feet,

And with low laughter ask me why I’m late.

The place will be too dim to show his eyes,

But he will loom above me like a tree,

With lifted arms and body tall and strong.’
There stood the empty house; a ghostly hulk

Becalmed and huge, massed in the mantling dark,

As builders left it when quick-shattering war

Leapt upon France and called her men to fight.

Lightly along the terraces I trod,

Crunching the rubble till I found the door
That gaped in twilight, framing inward gloom.

An owl flew out from under the high eaves

To vanish secretly among the firs,

Where lofty boughs netted the gleam of stars.

I stumbled in; the dusty floors were strewn

With cumbering piles of planks and props and beams;

Tall windows gapped the walls; the place was free

To every searching gust and jousting gale;

But now they slept; I was afraid to speak,

And heavily the shadows crowded in.
I called him, once; then listened: nothing moved:

Only my thumping heart beat out the time.

Whispering his name, I groped from room to room.
Quite empty was that house; it could not hold

His human ghost, remembered in the love

That strove in vain to be companioned still.
Blindly I sought the woods that I had known

So beautiful with morning when I came

Amazed with spring that wove the hazel twigs

With misty raiment of awakening green.

I found a holy dimness, and the peace

Of sanctuary, austerely built of trees,

And wonder stooping from the tranquil sky.
Ah! but there was no need to call his name.

He was beside me now, as swift as light.

I knew him crushed to earth in scentless flowers,

And lifted in the rapture of dark pines.

‘For now,’ he said, ‘my spirit has more eyes

Than heaven has stars; and they are lit by love.

My body is the magic of the world,

And dawn and sunset flame with my spilt blood.

My breath is the great wind, and I am filled

With molten power and surge of the bright waves

That chant my doom along the ocean’s edge.
‘Look in the faces of the flowers and find

The innocence that shrives me; stoop to the stream

That you may share the wisdom of my peace.

For talking water travels undismayed.

The luminous willows lean to it with tales

Of the young earth; and swallows dip their wings

Where showering hawthorn strews the lanes of light.
‘I can remember summer in one thought

Of wind-swept green, and deeps of melting blue,

And scent of limes in bloom; and I can hear

Distinct the early mower in the grass,

Whetting his blade along some morn of June.
‘For I was born to the round world’s delight,

And knowledge of enfolding motherhood,

Whose tenderness, that shines through constant toil,

Gathers the naked children to her knees.

In death I can remember how she came

To kiss me while I slept; still I can share

The glee of childhood; and the fleeting gloom

When all my flowers were washed with rain of tears.
‘I triumph in the choruses of birds,

Bursting like April buds in gyres of song.

My meditations are the blaze of noon

On silent woods, where glory burns the leaves.

I have shared breathless vigils; I have slaked

The thirst of my desires in bounteous rain

Pouring and splashing downward through the dark.

Loud storm has roused me with its winking glare,

And voice of doom that crackles overhead.

I have been tired and watchful, craving rest,

Till the slow-footed hours have touched my brows

And laid me on the breast of sundering sleep.’
I know that he is lost among the stars,

And may return no more but in their light.

Though his hushed voice may call me in the stir

Of whispering trees, I shall not understand.

Men may not speak with stillness; and the joy

Of brooks that leap and tumble down green hills

Is faster than their feet; and all their thoughts

Can win no meaning from the talk of birds.
My heart is fooled with fancies, being wise;

For fancy is the gleaming of wet flowers

When the hid sun looks forth with golden stare.

Thus, when I find new loveliness to praise,

And things long-known shine out in sudden grace,

Then will I think: ‘He moves before me now.’

So he will never come but in delight,

And, as it was in life, his name shall be

Wonder awaking in a summer dawn,

And youth, that dying, touched my lips to song.
-Flixécourt. May 1916

Bombay Dub Orchestra Compassion RMX 09


A Wind Of Change…

J.W. Turner -The Angel Standing in the Sun

Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.

Life is swept up in a bit of change, is it not? The winds have tacked to a different direction, and it looks like a bit of sun is there, coming up on the horizon. Maybe the flow of the tide has altered, I would like to think so. I have been out on the streets, and there are lots of smiles going on. Yes, yes, yes.
Click on the Pic

Here is a picture of Rowan casting his first vote on November 4th. He was pretty jazzed about it. His candidates largely took their place in Gov’t, and the Measures he voted for passed. This is in general far better than I ever did. I think as far as presidential candidates, this is my 3rd successful vote in 36 years. 80) Anyway, it looks like we have a sea change; this is not an ending, but a departure point. You can help out, we have had a request via Jim in the UK from Riane Eisler for putting compassionate women in the Obama cabinet. Here is the link: Got Something To Say For Change?
Best wishes on the cusp of things,

On The Menu:

The Links

Darwin Quotes

Yma Sumac – Ataypura (remix by kurtigghiu)

Novalis: Hymns to the Night

Novalis Biography

Yma Sumac Chuncho

Art: J.W. Turner

The Links:

Ginger Baker threatens to get his kit off in court

Is the Bible Sexist?

Kids Halloween Candy Code

The Ice Age Cometh!

Darwin Quotes:

1. “The mystery of the beginning of all things is insoluble by us; and I for one must be content to remain an Agnostic.” (Autobiography)
2. “It seems to me absurd to doubt that a man may be an ardent Theist & an evolutionist.” (Letter to John Fordyce, May 7 1879)
3. “I hardly see how religion & science can be kept as distinct as [Edward Pusey] desires… But I most wholly agree… that there is no reason why the disciples of either school should attack each other with bitterness.” (Letter to J. Brodie Innes, November 27 1878)
4. “In my most extreme fluctuations I have never been an atheist in the sense of denying the existence of a God.” (Letter to John Fordyce, May 7 1879)
5. “I think that generally (& more and more so as I grow older) but not always, that an agnostic would be the most correct description of my state of mind.” (Letter to John Fordyce, May 7 1879)
6. “I am sorry to have to inform you that I do not believe in the Bible as a divine revelation, & therefore not in Jesus Christ as the son of God.” (Letter to Frederick McDermott, November 24 1880)
7. [In conversation with the atheist Edward Aveling, 1881] “Why should you be so aggressive? Is anything gained by trying to force these new ideas upon the mass of mankind?” (Edward Aveling, The religious views of Charles Darwin, 1883)
8. “Would any one trust in the convictions of a monkey’s mind, if there are any convictions in such a mind?” (Letter to Graham William, July 3 1881)
9. “My theology is a simple muddle: I cannot look at the Universe as the result of blind chance, yet I can see no evidence of beneficent Design.” (Letter to Joseph Hooker, July 12 1870)
10. “I can never make up my mind how far an inward conviction that there must be some Creator or First Cause is really trustworthy evidence.” (Letter to Francis Abbot, September 6 1871)

Thanks to Peter for the Yma Sumac!

Yma passed away recently. She had some amazing pipes!
Yma Sumac – Ataypura (remix by kurtigghiu)

Novalis: Hymns to the Night

Before all the wondrous shows of the widespread space around him, what living, sentient thing loves not the all-joyous light — with its colors, its rays and undulations, its gentle omnipresence in the form of the wakening Day? The giant-world of the unresting constellations inhales it as the innermost soul of life, and floats dancing in its blue flood — the sparkling, ever-tranquil stone, the thoughtful, imbibing plant, and the wild, burning multiform beast inhales it — but more, the lordly stranger with the sense-filled eyes, the swaying walk, and the sweetly closed, melodious lips. Like a king over earthly nature, it rouses every force to countless transformations, binds and unbinds innumerable alliances, hangs its heavenly form around every earthly substance. — Its presence alone reveals the marvelous splendor of the kingdoms of the world.
Aside I turn to the holy, unspeakable, mysterious Night. Afar lies the world — sunk in a deep grave — waste and lonely is its place. In the chords of the bosom blows a deep sadness. I am ready to sink away in drops of dew, and mingle with the ashes. — The distances of memory, the wishes of youth, the dreams of childhood, the brief joys and vain hopes of a whole long life, arise in gray garments, like an evening vapor after the sunset. In other regions the light has pitched its joyous tents. What if it should never return to its children, who wait for it with the faith of innocence?
What springs up all at once so sweetly boding in my heart, and stills the soft air of sadness? Dost thou also take a pleasure in us, dark Night? What holdest thou under thy mantle, that with hidden power affects my soul? Precious balm drips from thy hand out of its bundle of poppies. Thou upliftest the heavy-laden wings of the soul. Darkly and inexpressibly are we moved — joy-startled, I see a grave face that, tender and worshipful, inclines toward me, and, amid manifold entangled locks, reveals the youthful loveliness of the Mother. How poor and childish a thing seems to me now the Light — how joyous and welcome the departure of the day — because the Night turns away from thee thy servants, you now strew in the gulfs of space those flashing globes, to proclaim thy omnipotence — thy return — in seasons of thy absence. More heavenly than those glittering stars we hold the eternal eyes which the Night hath opened within us. Farther they see than the palest of those countless hosts — needing no aid from the light, they penetrate the depths of a loving soul — that fills a loftier region with bliss ineffable. Glory to the queen of the world, to the great prophet of the holier worlds, to the guardian of blissful love — she sends thee to me — thou tenderly beloved — the gracious sun of the Night, — now am I awake — for now am I thine and mine — thou hast made me know the Night — made of me a man — consume with spirit-fire my body, that I, turned to finer air, may mingle more closely with thee, and then our bridal night endure forever.


Must the morning always return? Will the despotism of the earthly never cease? Unholy activity consumes the angel-visit of the Night. Will the time never come when Love’s hidden sacrifice shall burn eternally? To the Light a season was set; but everlasting and boundless is the dominion of the Night. — Endless is the duration of sleep. Holy Sleep — gladden not too seldom in this earthly day-labor, the devoted servant of the Night. Fools alone mistake thee, knowing nought of sleep but the shadow which, in the twilight of the real Night, thou pitifully castest over us. They feel thee not in the golden flood of the grapes — in the magic oil of the almond tree — and the brown juice of the poppy. They know not that it is thou who hauntest the bosom of the tender maiden, and makest a heaven of her lap — never suspect it is thou, opening the doors to Heaven, that steppest to meet them out of ancient stories, bearing the key to the dwellings of the blessed, silent messenger of secrets infinite.


Once when I was shedding bitter tears, when, dissolved in pain, my hope was melting away, and I stood alone by the barren mound which in its narrow dark bosom hid the vanished form of my life — lonely as never yet was lonely man, driven by anxiety unspeakable — powerless, and no longer anything but a conscious misery. — As there I looked about me for help, unable to go on or to turn back, and clung to the fleeting, extinguished life with an endless longing: — then, out of the blue distances — from the hills of my ancient bliss, came a shiver of twilight — and at once snapt the bond of birth — the chains of the Light. Away fled the glory of the world, and with it my mourning — the sadness flowed together into a new, unfathomable world — Thou, Night-inspiration, heavenly Slumber, didst come upon me — the region gently upheaved itself; over it hovered my unbound, newborn spirit. The mound became a cloud of dust — and through the cloud I saw the glorified face of my beloved. In her eyes eternity reposed — I laid hold of her hands, and the tears became a sparkling bond that could not be broken. Into the distance swept by, like a tempest, thousands of years. On her neck I welcomed the new life with ecstatic tears. It was the first, the only dream — and just since then I have held fast an eternal, unchangeable faith in the heaven of the Night, and its Light, the Beloved.


Now I know when will come the last morning — when the Light no more scares away Night and Love — when sleep shall be without waking, and but one continuous dream. I feel in me a celestial exhaustion. Long and weariful was my pilgrimage to the holy grave, and crushing was the cross. The crystal wave, which, imperceptible to the ordinary sense, springs in the dark bosom of the mound against whose foot breaks the flood of the world, he who has tasted it, he who has stood on the mountain frontier of the world, and looked across into the new land, into the abode of the Night — truly he turns not again into the tumult of the world, into the land where dwells the Light in ceaseless unrest.
On those heights he builds for himself tabernacles — tabernacles of peace, there longs and loves and gazes across, until the welcomest of all hours draws him down into the waters of the spring — afloat above remains what is earthly, and is swept back in storms, but what became holy by the touch of love, runs free through hidden ways to the region beyond, where, like fragrances, it mingles with love asleep.
Still wakest thou, cheerful Light, that weary man to his labor — and into me pourest joyous life — but thou wilest me not away from Memory’s moss-grown monument. Gladly will I stir busy hands, everywhere behold where thou hast need of me — praise the lustre of thy splendor — pursue unwearied the lovely harmonies of thy skilled handicraft — gladly contemplate the clever pace of thy mighty, luminous clock — explore the balance of the forces and the laws of the wondrous play of countless worlds and their seasons. But true to the Night remains my secret heart, and to creative Love, her daughter. Canst thou show me a heart eternally true? has thy sun friendly eyes that know me? do thy stars lay hold of my longing hand? and return me the tender pressure and the caressing word? was it thou did adorn them with colors and a flickering outline — or was it she who gave to thy jewels a higher, a dearer weight? What delight, what pleasure offers thy life, to outweigh the transports of Death? Wears not everything that inspires us the color of the Night? She sustains thee mother-like, and to her thou owest all thy glory. Thou wouldst vanish into thyself — in boundless space thou wouldst dissolve, if she did not hold thee fast, if she swaddled thee not, so that thou grewest warm, and flaming, begot the universe. Truly I was, before thou wast — the mother sent me with my brothers and sisters to inhabit thy world, to hallow it with love that it might be an ever-present memorial — to plant it with flowers unfading. As yet they have not ripened, these thoughts divine — as yet is there small trace of our coming revelation — One day thy clock will point to the end of time, and then thou shalt be as one of us, and shalt, full of ardent longing, be extinguished and die. I feel in me the close of thy activity — heavenly freedom, and blessed return. With wild pangs I recognize thy distance from our home, thy resistance against the ancient, glorious heaven. Thy rage and thy raving are in vain. Unscorchable stands the cross — victory-banner of our breed.
Over I journey

And for each pain

A pleasant sting only

Shall one day remain.

Yet in a few moments

Then free am I,

And intoxicated

In Love’s lap lie.

Life everlasting

Lifts, wave-like, at me,

I gaze from its summit

Down after thee.

Your lustre must vanish

Yon mound underneath –

A shadow will bring thee

Thy cooling wreath.

Oh draw at my heart, love,

Draw till I’m gone,

That, fallen asleep, I

Still may love on.

I feel the flow of

Death’s youth-giving flood

To balsam and ether

Transform my blood –

I live all the daytime

In faith and in might

And in holy fire

I die every night.


In ancient times, over the widespread families of men an iron Fate ruled with dumb force. A gloomy oppression swathed their heavy souls — the earth was boundless — the abode of the gods and their home. From eternal ages stood its mysterious structure. Beyond the red hills of the morning, in the sacred bosom of the sea, dwelt the sun, the all-enkindling, living Light. An aged giant upbore the blissful world. Fast beneath mountains lay the first-born sons of mother Earth. Helpless in their destroying fury against the new, glorious race of gods, and their kindred, glad-hearted men. The ocean’s dark green abyss was the lap of a goddess. In crystal grottos revelled a luxuriant folk. Rivers, trees, flowers, and beasts had human wits. Sweeter tasted the wine — poured out by Youth-abundance — a god in the grape-clusters — a loving, motherly goddess upgrew in the full golden sheaves — love’s sacred inebriation was a sweet worship of the fairest of the god-ladies — Life rustled through the centuries like one spring-time, an ever-variegated festival of heaven-children and earth-dwellers. All races childlike adored the ethereal, thousand-fold flame as the one sublimest thing in the world. There was but one notion, a horrible dream-shape –
That fearsome to the merry tables strode,

A wrapt the spirit there in wild fright.

The gods themselves no counsel knew nor showed

To fill the anxious hearts with comfort light.

Mysterious was the monster’s pathless road,

Whose rage no prayer nor tribute could requite;

‘Twas Death who broke the banquet up with fears,

With anguish, dire pain, and bitter tears.
Eternally from all things here disparted

That sway the heart with pleasure’s joyous flow,

Divided from the loved ones who’ve departed,

Tossed by longing vain, unceasing woe –

In a dull dream to struggle, faint and thwarted,

Seemed all was granted to the dead below.

Broke lay the merry wave of human bliss

On Death’s inevitable, rocky cliff.
With daring spirit and a passion deep,

Did man ameliorate the horrid blight,

A gentle youth puts out his torch, to sleep –

The end, just like a harp’s sigh, comes light.

Cool shadow-floods o’er melting memory creep,

So sang the song, into its sorry need.

Still undeciphered lay the endless Night –

The solemn symbol of a far-off might.
The old world began to decline. The pleasure-garden of the young race withered away — up into more open, desolate regions, forsaking his childhood, struggled the growing man. The gods vanished with their retinue — Nature stood alone and lifeless. Dry Number and rigid Measure bound it with iron chains. Into dust and air the priceless blossoms of life fell away in words obscure. Gone was wonder-working Faith, and its all-transforming, all-uniting angel-comrade, the Imagination. A cold north wind blew unkindly over the rigid plain, and the rigid wonderland first froze, then evaporated into ether. The far depths of heaven filled with glowing worlds. Into the deeper sanctuary, into the more exalted region of feeling, the soul of the world retired with all its earthly powers, there to rule until the dawn should break of universal Glory. No longer was the Light the abode of the gods, and the heavenly token of their presence — they drew over themselves the veil of the Night. The Night became the mighty womb of revelations — into it the gods went back — and fell asleep, to go abroad in new and more glorious shapes over the transfigured world. Among the people who too early were become of all the most scornful and insolently estranged from the blessed innocence of youth, appeared the New World with a face never seen before — in the poverty of a poetic shelter — a son of the first virgin and mother — the eternal fruit of mysterious embrace. The foreboding, rich-blossoming wisdom of the East at once recognized the beginning of the new age — A star showed the way to the humble cradle of the king. In the name of the distant future, they did him homage with lustre and fragrance, the highest wonders of Nature. In solitude the heavenly heart unfolded to a flower-chalice of almighty love — upturned toward the supreme face of the father, and resting on the bliss-foreboding bosom of the sweetly solemn mother. With deifying fervor the prophetic eye of the blooming child beheld the years to come, foresaw, untroubled over the earthly lot of his own days, the beloved offspring of his divine stem. Ere long the most childlike souls, by true love marvellously possessed, gathered about him. Like flowers sprang up a strange new life in his presence. Words inexhaustible and the most joyful tidings fell like sparks of a divine spirit from his friendly lips. From a far shore, born under the clear sky of Hellas, came a singer to Palestine, and gave up his whole heart to the wonder-child:
The youth thou art who ages long hast stood

Upon our graves, so deeply lost in thought;

A sign of comfort in the dusky gloom

For high humanity, a joyful start.

What dropped us all into abyssmal woe,

Pulls us forward with sweet yearning now.

In everlasting life death found its goal,

For thou art Death who at last makes us whole.
Filled with joy, the singer went on to Hindustan — his heart intoxicated with the sweetest love; and poured it out in fiery songs under the balmy sky, so that a thousand hearts bowed to him, and the good news sprang up with a thousand branches. Soon after the singer’s departure, his precious life was made a sacrifice for the deep fall of man — He died in his youth, torn away from his beloved world, from his weeping mother, and his trembling friends. His lovely mouth emptied the dark cup of unspeakable woes — in ghastly fear the birth of the new world drew near. Hard he wrestled with the terrors of old Death — Heavy lay the weight of the old world upon him. Yet once more he looked fondly at his mother — then came the releasing hand of eternal love, and he fell asleep. Only a few days hung a deep veil over the roaring sea, over the quaking land — countless tears wept his loved ones — the mystery was unsealed — heavenly spirits heaved the ancient stone from the gloomy grave. Angels sat by the Sleeper — delicately shaped from his dreams — awoken in new Godlike glory; he clomb the limits of the new-born world — buried with his own hand the old corpse in the abandoned hollow, and with a hand almighty laid upon it a stone which no power shall ever again upheave.
Yet weep thy loved ones tears of joy, tears of feeling and endless thanksgiving over your grave — joyously startled, they see thee rise again, and themselves with thee — behold thee weep with sweet fervor on the blessed bosom of thy mother, solemnly walking with thy friends, uttering words plucked as from the Tree of Life; see thee hasten, full of longing, into thy father’s arms, bearing with thee youthful humanity, and the inexhaustible cup of the golden future. Soon the mother hastened after thee — in heavenly triumph — she was the first with thee in the new home. Since then, long ages have flowed past, and in ever-increasing splendor have stirred your new creation — and thousands have, away from pangs and tortures, followed thee, filled with faith and longing and fidelity — walking about with thee and the heavenly virgin in the kingdom of love, serving in the temple of heavenly Death, and forever thine.
Uplifted is the stone –

And all mankind is risen –

We all remain thine own.

And vanished is our prison.

All troubles flee away

Thy golden bowl before,

For Earth and Life give way

At the last and final supper.
To the marriage Death doth call –

The virgins standeth back –

The lamps burn lustrous all –

Of oil there is no lack –

If the distance would only fill

With the sound of you walking alone

And that the stars would call

Us all with human tongues and tone.
Unto thee, O Mary

A thousand hearts aspire.

In this life of shadows

Thee only they desire.

In thee they hope for delivery

With visionary expectation –

If only thou, O holy being

Could clasp them to thy breast.
With bitter torment burning,

So many who are consumed

At last from this world turning

To thee have looked and fled,

Helpful thou hast appeared
To so many in pain.

Now to them we come,

To never go out again.
At no grave can weep

Any who love and pray.

The gift of Love they keep,

From none can it be taken away.

To soothe and quiet his longing,

Night comes and inspires –

Heaven’s children round him thronging

Watch and guard his heart.
Have courage, for life is striding

To endless life along;

Stretched by inner fire,

Our sense becomes transfigured.

One day the stars above

Shall flow in golden wine,

We will enjoy it all,

And as stars we will shine.
The love is given freely,

And Separation is no more.

The whole life heaves and surges

Like a sea without a shore.

Just one night of bliss –

One everlasting poem –

And the sun we all share

Is the face of God.


Longing for Death
Into the bosom of the earth,

Out of the Light’s dominion,

Death’s pains are but a bursting forth,

Sign of glad departure.

Swift in the narrow little boat,

Swift to the heavenly shore we float.
Blessed be the everlasting Night,

And blessed the endless slumber.

We are heated by the day too bright,

And withered up with care.

We’re weary of a life abroad,

And we now want our Father’s home.
What in this world should we all

Do with love and with faith?

That which is old is set aside,

And the new may perish also.

Alone he stands and sore downcast

Who loves with pious warmth the Past.
The Past where the light of the senses

In lofty flames did rise;

Where the Father’s face and hand

All men did recognize;

And, with high sense, in simplicity

Many still fit the original pattern.
The Past wherein, still rich in bloom,

Man’s strain did burgeon glorious,

And children, for the world to come,

Sought pain and death victorious,

And, through both life and pleasure spake,

Yet many a heart for love did break.
The Past, where to the flow of youth

God still showed himself,

And truly to an early death

Did commit his sweet life.

Fear and torture patiently he bore

So that he would be loved forever.
With anxious yearning now we see

That Past in darkness drenched,

With this world’s water never we

Shall find our hot thirst quenched.

To our old home we have to go

That blessed time again to know.
What yet doth hinder our return

To loved ones long reposed?

Their grave limits our lives.

We are all sad and afraid.

We can search for nothing more –

The heart is full, the world is void.
Infinite and mysterious,

Thrills through us a sweet trembling –

As if from far there echoed thus

A sigh, our grief resembling.

Our loved ones yearn as well as we,

And sent to us this longing breeze.
Down to the sweet bride, and away

To the beloved Jesus.

Have courage, evening shades grow gray

To those who love and grieve.

A dream will dash our chains apart,

And lay us in the Father’s lap.

Biography of Novalis
Georg Friedrich Philipp von Hardenburg (wrote under the pen name of Novalis) was born in Oberwiederstedt, Prussian Saxony, into a family of Protestant Lower Saxon nobility. His father was a director of a salt mine. At the age of tset of six prose and verse lyrics first published in 1800 in Athenaeum, a literary magazine edited by August Wilhelm Schlegel and his brother Friedrich Schlegel. Seven months after the publication of Hymns to the Night, Novalis died of tuberculosis, the same disease that had claimed his fiancé. .. en Novalis was sent to a religious school but he did not adjust to its strict discipline. For some time Novalis lived with his uncle, grandseigneur, who opened him doors to French rationalism and culture. He then went to Weissenfels, where his father moved, and entered the Eisleben gymnasium. In 1790-91 he studied law at the University of Jena, where he met Friedrich von Schiller and Friedrich Schlegel. Novalis completed his studies at Wittenberg in 1793. The ideas of the French Revolution spread through Germany and Novalis dreamt of time when the “walls of Jericho” tumble down. Goethe’s book Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship, which he read in 1795, influenced his deeply; he considered it the Bible for the “new age.” In 1795-96 he studied the works of Johann Gottlieb Fichte. At the age of 21 he moved to Tennstädt and took up job in civil sevice.
In 1798 Novalis published a series of philosophical fragments, FRAGMENTEN. Novalis’ only finished collection of poems, HYMNEN AN DIE NACHT (1800), was dedicated to his first great love Sophie von Kühn, who died in 1797. The death of his young fiancé, Sophie von Kühn, led him to write Hymnen an die Nacht (Hymns to the Night), a set

Yma Sumac Chuncho

J.W. Turner – Luxemborg City

The Future Is Now!

Tintern Abbey – Samuel Colman

Maybe I am just high on all of the recent events and what, but I have a sense of elation, and hope and that old fear running through the neural passages all at once. (or is he off his meds? 80} ) I feel like I am on the edge of something new in time….
There is so much beauty yet to uncover, and for the young ones coming up, a bright, bright beautiful psychedelic future, almost perfectly encapsulated by our featured musical artist today: MGMT
We cover some older tales, back to ancient Ireland, and then a couple of quick takes on some of the elders that helped get us here today….
May you who live in the US go out and VOTE, and may the best candidate for our futures win.
Bright Blessings,


On The Menu:

Allen Ginsberg Quotes

MGMT -Electric Feel

MGMT – Mental Mystics

Cuchulain of Muirthemne: Cruachan

And now a special poem from Allen Ginsberg..

Ken Kesey on Neal Cassady

MGMT “Kids” Video

Allen Ginsberg Quotes:
Poets are Damned… but See with the Eyes of Angels.
The fact to which we have got to cling, as to a lifebelt, is that it is possible to be a normal decent person and yet be fully alive.
The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That’s what poetry does.
The weight of the world is love. Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction.
Ultimately Warhol’s private moral reference was to the supreme kitsch of the Catholic church.
Whoever controls the media, the images, controls the culture.

MGMT -Electric Feel


MGMT – Mental Mystics…


Cuchulain of Muirthemne: Cruachan
Now as to Cruachan, the home of Ailell and of Maeve, it is on the plain of Magh Ai it was, in the province of Connaught.
And this is the way the plain came by its name. In the time long ago, there was a king whose name was Conn, that had the Druid power, so that when the Sidhe themselves came against him, he was able to defend himself with enchantments as good as their own. And one time he went out against them, and broke up their houses, and carried away their cattle, and then, to hinder them from following after him, he covered the whole province with a deep snow.
The Sidhe went then to consult with Dalach, the king’s brother, that had the Druid knowledge even better than himself; and it is what he told them to do, to kill three hundred white cows with red ears, and to spread out their livers on a certain plain. And when they had done this, he made spells on them, and the heat the livers gave out melted the snow over the whole plain and the whole province, and after that the plain was given the name of Magh Ai, the Plain of the Livers.
Ailell was son of Ross Ruadh, king of Leinster, and Maeve was daughter of Eochaid, king of Ireland, and her brothers were the Three Fair Twins that rose up against their father, and fought against him at Druim Criadh. And they were beaten in the fight, and went back over the Sionnan, and they were overtaken and their heads were cut off, and brought back to their father, and he fretted after them to the end of his life.
Seven sons Ailell and Maeve had, and the name of every one of them was Maine. There was Maine Mathremail, like his mother, and Maine Athremail, like his father, and Maine Mo Epert, the Talker, and Maine Milscothach, the Honey-Worded, and Maine Andoe the Quick, and Maine Mingor, the Gently Dutiful, and Maine Morgor, the Very Dutiful. Their own people they had, and their own place of living.
This now was the appearance of Cruachan, the Royal house of Ailell and of Maeve, that some called Cruachan of the poets; there were seven divisions in the house, with couches in them, from the hearth to the wall; a front of bronze to every division, and of red yew with carvings on it; and there were seven strips of bronze from the foundation to the roof of the house. The house was made of oak, and the roof was covered with oak shingles; sixteen windows with glass there were, and shutters of bronze on them, and a bar of bronze across every shutter. There was a raised place in the middle of the house for Ailell and Maeve, with silver fronts and strips of bronze around it, and four bronze pillars on it, and a silver rod beside it, the way Ailell and Maeve could strike the middle beam and check their people.
And outside the royal house was the dun, with the walls about it that were built by Brocc, son of Blar, and the great gate; and it is there the houses were for strangers to be lodged.
And besides this, there was at Cruachan the Hill of the Sidhe, or, as some called it, the Cave of Cruachan. It was there Midhir brought Etain one time, and it is there the people of the Sidhe lived; but it is seldom any living person had the power to see them.
It is out of that hill a flock of white birds came one time, and everything they touched in all Ireland withered up, until at last the men of Ulster killed them with their slings. And another time enchanted pigs came out of the hill, and in every place they trod, neither corn nor grass nor leaf would sprout before the end of seven years, and no sort of weapon would wound them. But if they were counted in any place, or if the people so much as tried to count them, they would not stop in that place, but they would go on to another. But however often the people of the country tried to count them, no two people could ever make out the one number, and one man would call out, “There are three pigs in it,” and another, “No, but there are seven,” and another that it was eleven were in it, or thirteen, and so the count would be lost. One time Maeve and Ailell themselves tried to count them on the plain, but while they were doing it, one of the pigs made a leap over Maeve’s chariot, and she in it. Every one called out, “A pig has gone over you, Maeve!” “It has not,” she said, and with that she caught hold of the pig by the shank, but if she did, its skin opened at the head, and it made its escape. And it is from that the place was called Magh-mucrimha, the Plain of Swine-counting.
Another time Fraech, son of Idath, of the men of Connaught, that was son of Boann’s sister, Befind, from the Sidhe, came to Cruachan. He was the most beautiful of the men of Ireland or of Alban, but his life was not long. It was to ask Findabair for his wife he came, and before he set out his people said: “Send a message to your mother’s people, the way they will send you clothing of the Sidhe.” So he went to Boann, that was at Magh Breagh, and he brought away fifty blue cloaks with four black ears on each cloak, and a brooch of red gold with each, and pale white shirts with looped beasts of gold around them; and fifty silver shields with edges, and a candle of a king’s house in the hand of each of the men, knobs of carbuncle under them, and their points of precious stones. They used to light up the night as if they were sun’s rays.
And he had with him seven trumpeters with gold and silver trumpets, with many coloured clothing, with golden, silken, heads of hair, with coloured cloaks; and three harpers with the appearance of a king on each of them, every harper having the white skin of a deer about him and a cloak of white linen, and a harp-bag of the skins of water-dogs.
The watchman saw them from the dun when they had come into the Plain of Cruachan. “I see a great crowd,” he said, “coming towards us. Since Ailell was king and Maeve was queen, there never came and there never will come a grander or more beautiful crowd than this one. It is like as if I had my head in a vat of wine, with the breeze that goes over them.”
Then Fraech’s people let out their hounds, and the hounds found seven deer and seven foxes and seven hares and seven wild boars, and hunted them to Rath Cruachan, and there they were killed on the lawn of the dun.
Then Ailell and Maeve gave them a welcome, and they were brought into the house, and while food was being made ready, Maeve sat down to play a game of chess with Fraech. It was a beautiful chess-board they had, all of white bronze, and the chessmen of gold and silver, and a candle of precious stones lighting them.
Then Ailell said: “Let your harpers play for us while the feast is being made ready.” “Let them play, indeed,” said Fraech.
So the harpers began to play, and it was much that the people of the house did not die with crying and with sadness. And the music they played was the Three Cries of Uaithne. It was Uaithne, the harp of the Dagda, that first played those cries the time Boann’s sons were born. The first was a song of sorrow for the hardness of her pains, and the second was a song of smiling and joy for the birth of her sons, and the third was a sleeping song after the birth.
And with the music of the harpers, and with the light that shone from the precious stones in the house, they did not know the night was on them, till at last Maeve started up, and she said: “We have done a great deed to keep these young men without food.” “It is more you think of chess-playing than of providing for them,” said Ailell; “and now, let them stop from the music,” he said, “till the food is given out.”
Then the food was divided. It was Lothar used to be sitting on the floor of the house, dividing the food with his cleaver, and he not eating himself, and from the time he began dividin
g, food never failed under his hand.
After that, Fraech was brought into the conversation-house, and they asked him what was it he wanted.
“A visit to yourselves,” he said, but he said nothing of Findabair. So they told him he was welcome, and he stopped with them for a while, and every day they went out hunting, and all the people of Connaught used to come and to be looking at them.
But all this time Fraech got no chance of speaking with Findabair, until one morning at daybreak, he went down to the river for washing, and Findabair and her young girls had gone there before him. And he took her hand, and he said: “Stay here and talk with me, for it is for your sake I am come, and would you go away with me secretly?” “I will not go secretly,” she said, “for I am the daughter of a king and of a queen.”
So she went from him then, but she left him a ring to remember her by. It was a ring her mother had given her.
Then Fraech went to the conversation-house to Ailell and to Maeve. “Will you give your daughter to me?” he said. “We will give her if you will give the marriage portion we ask,” said Ailell, “and that is, sixty black-grey horses with golden bits, and twelve milch cows, and a white red-eared calf with each of them; and you to come with us with all your strength and all your musicians at whatever time we go to war in Ulster.” “I swear by my shield and my sword, I would not give that for Maeve herself,” he said; and he went away out of the house.
But Ailell had taken notice of Findabair’s ring with Fraech, and he said to Maeve: “If he brings our daughter away with him, we will lose the help of many of the kings of Ireland. Let us go after him and make an end of him before he has time to harm us.” “That would be a pity,” said Maeve, “and it would be a reproach on us.” “It will be no reproach on us, the way I will manage it,” said he. And Maeve agreed to it, for there was vexation on her that it was Findabair that Fraech wanted, and not herself. So they went into the palace, and Ailell said: “Let us go and see the hounds hunting until mid-day.” So they did so, and at mid-day they were tired, and they all went to bathe in the river. And Fraech was swimming in the river, and Ailell said to him: “Do not come back till you bring me a branch of the rowan-tree there beyond, with the beautiful berries.” For he knew there was a prophecy that it was in a river Fraech would get his death.
So he went and broke a branch off the tree and brought it back over the water, and it is beautiful he looked over the black water, his body without fault, and his face so nice, and his eyes very grey, and the branch with the red berries between the throat and white face. And then he threw the branch to them out of the water. “It is ripe and beautiful the berries are,” said Ailell; “bring us more of them.”
So he went off again to the tree, and the water-worm guarded the tree caught a hold of him. “Let me have a sword,” called out, but there was not a man on the land would dare to give it to him, through fear of Ailell and of Maeve. But Findabair made a leap to go into the water with a gold knife she had in her hand but Ailell threw a sharp-pointed spear from above, through her plaited hair, that held her; but she threw the knife to Fraech, and he cut off the head of the monster, and brought it with him to land, but he himself had got a deep wound. Then Ailell and Maeve went back to the house. “It is a great deed we have done,” said Maeve. “It is a pity, indeed, what we have done to the man,” said Ailell “And let a healing-bath be made for him now,” he said, “of the marrow of pigs and of a heifer.” Fraech was put in the bath then, and pleasant music was played by the trumpeters, and a bed was made for him.
Then a sorrowful crying was heard on Cruachan, and they saw three times fifty women with purple gowns, with green head-dresses, and pins of silver on their wrists, and a messenger went and I asked them who was it they were crying for “For Fraech, son of Idath,” they said, “boy darling of the king of the Sidhe of Ireland”
Then Fraech heard their crying, and he said: “Lift me out of this, for that is the cry of my mother, and of the women of Boann.” So they lifted him out, and the women came round him and brought him away into the Hill of Cruachan.
And the next day he came out, and he whole and sound, and fifty women with him, and they with the appearance of women of the Sidhe. And at the door of the dun they left him, and they gave out their cry again, so that all the people that heard it could not but feel sorrowful. It is from this the musicians of Ireland learned the sorrowful cry of the women of the Sidhe.
And when he went into the house, the whole household rose up before him and bade him welcome, as if it was from another world he was come. And there was shame and repentance on Ailell and on Maeve for trying to harm him, and peace was made, and he went away to his own place.
And it was after that he came to help Ailell and Maeve, and that he got his death in a river as was foretold, at the beginning of the war for the Brown Bull of Cuailgne.
And one time the Hill was robbed by the men of Cruachan, and this is the way it happened.
One night at Samhain, Ailell and Maeve were in Cruachan with their whole household, and the food was being made ready.
Two prisoners had been hanged by them the day before, and Ailell said: “Whoever will put a gad round the foot of either of the two men on the gallows, will get a prize from me.”
It was a very dark night, and bad things would always appear on that night of Samhain, and every man that went out to try came back very quickly into the house. “I will go if I will get a prize,” said Nera, then. “I will give you this gold-hilted sword,” said Ailell.
So Nera went out and he put a gad round the foot of one of the men that had been hanged. Then the man spoke to him. “It is good courage you have,” he said, “and bring me with you where I can get a drink, for I was very thirsty when I was hanged.” So Nera brought him where he would get a drink, and then he put him on the gallows again, and went back to Cruachan.
But what he saw was the whole of the palace as if on fire before him, and the heads of the people of it lying on the ground, and then he thought he saw an army going into the Hill of Cruachan, and he followed after the army. “There is a man on our track,” the last man said. “The track is the heavier,” said the next to him, and each said that word to the other from the last to the first. Then they went into the Hill of Cruachan. And they said to their king: “What shall be done to the man that is come in?” “Let him come here till I speak with him,” said the king. So Nera came, and the king asked him who it was had brought him in. “I came in with your army,” said Nera. “Go to that house beyond,” said the king: “there is a woman there will make you welcome. Tell her it is I myself sent you to her. And come every day,” he said, “to this house with a load of firing.”
So Nera went where he was told, and the woman said: “A welcome before you, if it is the king sent you.” So he stopped there, and took the woman for his wife. And every day for three days he brought a load of firing to the king’s house, and on each day he saw a blind man, and a lame man on his back, coming out of the house before him. They would go on till they were at the brink of a well before the Hill. “Is it there?” the blind man would say. “It is, indeed,” the lame man would say. “Let us go away,” the lame man would say then.
And at the end of three days, as he t
hought, Nera asked the Woman about this. “Why do the blind man and the lame man go every day to the well?” he said. “They go to know is the crown safe that is in the well. It is there the king’s crown is kept.” “Why do these two go?” said Nera. “It is easy to tell that,” she said; “they are trusted by the king to visit the crown, and one of them was blinded by him, and the other was lamed. And another thing,” she said, “go now and give a warning to your people to mind themselves next Samhain night, unless they will come to attack the hill, for it is only at Samhain,” she said, “the army of the Sidhe can go out, for it is at that time all the hills of the Sidhe of Ireland are opened. But if they will come, I will promise them this, the crown of Briun to be carried off by Ailell and by Maeve.”
“How can I give them that message,” said Nera, “when I saw the whole dun of Cruachan burned and destroyed, and all the people destroyed with it?” “You did not see that, indeed,” she said “It was the host of the Sidhe came and put that appearance before your eyes. And go back to them now,” she said, “and you will find them sitting round the same great pot, and the meat has not yet been taken off the fire.”
“How will it be believed that I have gone into the Hill?” said Nera. “Bring flowers of summer with you,” said the woman. So he brought wild garlic with him, and primroses and golden fern.
So he went back to the palace, and he found his people round the same great pot, and he told them all that had happened him, and the sword was given to him, and he stopped with his people to the end of a year.
At the end of the year Ailell said to Nera: “We are going now against the Hill of the Sidhe, and let you go back,” he said, “if you have anything to bring out of it.” So he went back to see the woman, and she bade him welcome. “Go now,” she said, “and bring in a load of firing to the king, for I went in myself every day for the last year with the load on my back, and I said there was sickness on you.” So he did that.
Then the men of Connaught and the black host of the exiles of Ulster went into the Hill and robbed it and brought away the crown of Briun, son of Smetra, that was made by the smith of Angus, son of Umor, and that was kept in the well at Cruachan, to save it from the Morrigu. And Nera was left with his people in the hill, and he has not come out till now, and he will not come out till the end of life and time.
Now one time the Morrigu brought away a cow from the Hill of Cruachan to the Brown Bull of Cuailgne, and after she brought it back again its calf was born. And one day it went out of the Hill, and it bellowed three times. At that time Ailell and Fergus were playing draughts, for it was after Fergus had come as an exile from Ulster, because of the death of the sons of Usnach, and they heard the bellowing of the bull-calf in the plain. Then Fergus said: “I do not like the sound of the calf bellowing. There will be calves without cows,” he said, “when the king goes on his march.”
But now Ailell’s bull, Finbanach, the White-Horned, met the calf in the plain of Cruachan, and they fought together, and the calf was beaten and it bellowed. “What did the calf bellow?” Maeve asked her cow-herd Buaigle. “I know that, my master, Fergus,” said Bricriu. “It is the song that you were singing a while ago.” On that Fergus turned and struck with his fist at his head, so that the five men of the chessmen that were in his hand went into Bricriu’s head, and it was a lasting hurt to him. “Tell me now, Buaigle, what did the calf bellow?” said Maeve. “It said indeed,” said Buaigle, “that if its father the Brown Bull of Cuailgne would come to fight with the White-Horned, he would not be seen any more in Ai, he would be beaten through the whole plain of Ai on every side.” And it is what Maeve said: “I swear by the gods my people swear by, I will not lie down on feathers, or drink red or white ale, till I see those two bulls fighting before my face.”

And now a special poem from Allen Ginsberg…

A poem written as an aftermath of a cosmic voyage…

I stumbled upon this poem whilst reading ‘Albion Rising’(A popular history LSD in Britain) written by Andy Roberts… It was midnight, and I went into the living room and snagged the Allen Ginsberg collected off the shelf and made my way to bed. I think midnight is a magick moment anyway, and reading this poem absolutely transformed my consciousness. I find it incredibly evocative of that state of spiritual bliss…


Wales Visitation
White fog lifting &amp; falling on mountain-brow

Trees moving in rivers of wind

The clouds arise

as on a wave, gigantic eddy lifting mist

above teeming ferns exquisitely swayed

along a green crag

glimpsed thru mullioned glass in valley raine—
Bardic, O Self, Visitacione, tell naught

but what seen by one man in a vale in Albion,

of the folk, whose physical sciences end in Ecology,

the wisdom of earthly relations,

of mouths &amp; eyes interknit ten centuries visible

orchards of mind language manifest human,

of the satanic thistle that raises its horned symmetry

flowering above sister grass-daisies’ pink tiny

bloomlets angelic as lightbulbs—
Remember 160 miles from London’s symmetrical thorned tower

&amp; network of TV pictures flashing bearded your Self

the lambs on the tree-nooked hillside this day bleating

heard in Blake’s old ear, &amp; the silent thought of Wordsworth in eld Stillness

clouds passing through skeleton arches of Tintern Abbey—

Bard Nameless as the Vast, babble to Vastness!
All the Valley quivered, one extended motion, wind

undulating on mossy hills

a giant wash that sank white fog delicately down red runnels

on the mountainside

whose leaf-branch tendrils moved asway

in granitic undertow down—

and lifted the floating Nebulous upward, and lifted the arms of the trees

and lifted the grasses an instant in balance

and lifted the lambs to hold still

and lifted the green of the hill, in one solemn wave
A solid mass of Heaven, mist-infused, ebbs thru the vale,

a wavelet of Immensity, lapping gigantic through Llanthony Valley,

the length of all England, valley upon valley under Heaven’s ocean

tonned with cloud-hang,

—Heaven balanced on a grassblade.

Roar of the mountain wind slow, sigh of the body,

One Being on the mountainside stirring gently

Exquisite scales trembling everywhere in balance,

one motion thru the cloudy sky-floor shifting on the million feet of daisies,

one Majesty the motion that stirred wet grass quivering

to the farthest tendril of white fog poured down

through shivering flowers on the mountain’s head—
No imperfection in the budded mountain,

Valleys breathe, heaven and earth move together,

daisies push inches of yellow air, vegetables tremble,

grass shimmers green

sheep speckle the mountainside, revolving their jaws with empty eyes,

horses dance in the warm rain,

tree-lined canals network live farmland,

blueberries fringe stone walls on hawthorn’d hills,

pheasants croak on meadows haired with fern—
Out, out on the hillside, into the ocean sound, into delicate gusts of wet air,

Fall on the ground, O great Wetness, O Mother, No harm on your body!

Stare close, no imperfection in the grass,

each flower Buddha-eye, repeating the story,


Kneel before the foxglove raising green buds, mauve bells dropped

doubled down the stem trembling antennae,

&amp; look in the eyes of the branded lambs that stare

breathing stockstill under dripping hawthorn—

I lay down mixing my beard with the wet hair of the mountainside,

smelling the brown vagina-moist ground, harmless,

tasting the violet thistle-hair, sweetness—

One being so balanced, so vast, that its softest breath

moves every floweret in the stillness on the valley floor,

trembles lamb-hair hung gossamer rain-beaded in the grass,

lifts trees on their roots, birds in the great draught

hiding their strength in the rain, bearing same weight,
Groan thru breast and neck, a great Oh! to earth heart

Calling our Presence together

The great secret is no secret

Senses fit the winds,

Visible is visible,

rain-mist curtains wave through the bearded vale,

gray atoms wet the wind’s kabbala

Crosslegged on a rock in dusk rain,

rubber booted in soft grass, mind moveless,

breath trembles in white daisies by the roadside,

Heaven breath and my own symmetric

Airs wavering thru antlered green fern

drawn in my navel, same breath as breathes thru Capel-Y-Ffn,

Sounds of Aleph and Aum

through forests of gristle,

my skull and Lord Hereford’s Knob equal,

All Albion one.
What did I notice? Particulars! The

vision of the great One is myriad—

smoke curls upward from ashtray,

house fire burned low,

The night, still wet &amp; moody black heaven


upward in motion with wet wind.
July 29, 1967 (LSD)—August 3, 1967 (London)

Ken Kesey on Neal Cassady

MGMT “Kids” Video