Ring Of Bone…

We don’t care how crazy that man is, we want exact transmission of that crazed Mind. We are crazed ourselves. It would help to know we are not alone. We are delighted by the calmness of this other one. We are sent to the woods to see, really see, what we’d so often looked at and never noticed at all, by that other Mind. We need to know exactly what it must be like to be an ambassador, a killer, a hulking fool. – Lew Welch

Crazy Days, crazy nights. Lots of insomnia, and tossing about. I have lots to say, but I will hold off on the conversation at this bit and toss this entry to the wind. I have been on a tear of late, and Lew has been the perfect companion. Most of the poetry in this and other entries are from the Poetry Post out front of Caer Llwydd. It seems it is getting quite a following. It is nice to know….

Bright Love,



On The Menu:

The Linkage…


Komuso Zen Priest Playing Shakuhachi

Lew Welch Quotes

From The Poetry Post: Excerpts From The Dao Te Ching (what’s been posted lately)

The Poems Of Lew Welch

Tsuru no Sugomori – Antonio Olías


The Linkage:

On Lew Welch: The Song The Poet Sang

The Attack Of The Killer Rabbits!

Starchild: Alien-Human Hybrid?

Bob Arnold’s Poetry Blog… Thanks Laura~!



Those who can’t find anything to live for,

always invent something to die for.

Then they want the rest of us to

die for it, too. – Lew Welch


Komuso Zen Priest Playing Shakuhachi


Lew Welch Quotes:

“Step out onto the Planet. Draw a circle a hundred feet round. Inside the circle are 300 things nobody understands, and , maybe, nobody’s ever really seen. How many can you find?”

“Looking for enlightenment is like looking for a flashlight when all you need the flashlight for is to find the flashlight.”

“You can’t fix it. You can’t make it go away. I don’t know what you’re going to do about it, but I know what I’m going to do about it. I’m just going to walk away from it. Maybe a small part of it will die if I’m not around feeding it anymore.”

“trails go nowhere. they end exactly where you stop.”

“The True Rebel never advertises it. He prefers his joy to Missionary Work”.

“Since the business of living has so many barbs in it, and since so many of our friends are liars or fools or inarticulate or emotionally blunt or are sucking on us for what they imagine we can give though we can’t, it is pure joy to read the poems of the truth-sayers, the simple singers, the masters of prayer and devotion, and the crazed, wise, babblers of Ecstasy, the High-Mind Singers to no end.”


Excerpts From The Dao Te Ching…

6. Experience

Experience is a riverbed,

Its source hidden, forever flowing:

Its entrance, the root of the world,

The Way moves within it:

Draw upon it; it will not run dry.

8. Water

The best of man is like water,

Which benefits all things, and does not contend with them,

Which flows in places that others disdain,

Where it is in harmony with the Way.

So the sage:

Lives within nature,

Thinks within the deep,

Gives within impartiality,

Speaks within trust,

Governs within order,

Crafts within ability,

Acts within opportunity.

He does not contend, and none contend against him.

10. Harmony

Embracing the Way, you become embraced;

Breathing gently, you become newborn;

Clearing your mind, you become clear;

Nurturing your children, you become impartial;

Opening your heart, you become accepted;

Accepting the world, you embrace the Way.

Bearing and nurturing,

Creating but not owning,

Giving without demanding,

This is harmony.

– Lao Tse –


The Poems Of Lew Welch


This is the last place.

There is nowhere else to go.

Human movements,

but for a few,

are Westerly.

Man follows the sun.

This is the last place.

There is nowhere else to go.

Or follows what he thinks to be the

movement of the Sun.

It is hard to feel it, as a rider,

on a spinning ball.

This is the last place.

There is nowhere else to go.

Centuries and hordes of us,

from every quarter of the earth,

now piling up,

and each wave going back

to get some more.

This is the last place.

There is nowhere else to go.

“My face is the map of the Steppes,”

she said, on this mountain, looking West.

My blood set singing by it,

to the old tunes,

Irish, still,

among these Oaks.

This is the last place.

There is nowhere else to go.

This is why

once again we celebrate

the great Spring Tides

Beaches are strewn again with Jaspar,

Agate, and Jade.

The Mussel-rock stands clear.

This is the last place.

There is nowhere else to go.

This is why

once again we celebrate the

Headland’s huge, cairn-studded, fall

into the Sea.

This is the last place.

There is nowhere else to go.

For we have walked the jeweled beaches

at the feet of thr final cliffs

of all Man’s wanderings.

This is the last place.

There is nowhere else we need to go.


He Thanks His Woodpile

The wood of the madrone burns with a flame at once

lavender and mossy green, a color you sometimes see in a sari.

Oak burns with a peppery smell.

For a really hot fire, use bark.

You can crack your stove with bark.

All winter long I make wood stews:

Poem to stove to woodpile to stove to

typewriter. woodpile. stove.

and can’t stop peeking at it!

can’t stop opening up the door!

can’t stop giggling at it

“Shack Simple”

crazy as Han Shan as

Wittgenstein in his German hut, as

all the others ever were and are

Ancient Order of the Fire Gigglers

who walked away from it, finally,

kicked the habit, finally, of Self, of

man-hooked Man

(which is not, at last, estrangement)


Not yet 40, my beard is already white. by Lew Welch

Not yet 40, my beard is already white.

Not yet awake, my eyes are puffy and red,

like a child who has cried too much.

What is more disagreeable

than last night’s wine?

I’ll shave.

I’ll stick my head in the cold spring and

look around at the pebbles.

Maybe I can eat a can of peaches.

Then I can finish the rest of the wine,

write poems ’til I’m drunk again,

and when the afternoon breeze comes up

I’ll sleep until I see the moon

and the dark trees

and the nibbling deer

and hear

the quarreling coons


The image, as in a Hexagram:

The image, as in a Hexagram:

The hermit locks his door against the blizzard.

He keeps the cabin warm.

All winter long he sorts out all he has.

What was well started shall be finished.

What was not, should be thrown away.

In spring he emerges with one garment

and a single book.

The cabin is very clean.

Except for that, you’d never guess

anyone lived there.


I Saw Myself

I saw myself

a ring of bone

in the clear stream

of all of it

and vowed

always to be open to it

that all of it

might flow through

and then heard

“ring of bone” where

ring is what a

bell does


Tsuru no Sugomori – Antonio Olías

Gayle Nybakken

This is the miracle that happens every time to those who really love; the more they give, the more they possess.

– Rainer Maria Rilke

I first met Gayle the year she moved to Portland, back I think in 2004. She had a most amazing laugh, and presence. She passed recently, and we went to her memorial service. She was a character; a working class heroine who was in the pioneering edge of modern feminism. She was a bundle of love, and very, very opinionated. 80) She never minced words, and you could always count on getting a direct answer. She had a most interesting life. I didn’t know the half of it until she died. I wish I’d known earlier.

Gayle, lots miss ya. A brilliant journey for you I hope.

(The picture above is the container that Gayle asked her ashes to be put in!)

The following poem: “To Be Of Use”, was used in the program at her memorial. I find it incredibly moving.

Take Care,



To Be Of Use

The people I love the best

jump into work head first

without dallying in the shallows

and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.

They seem to become natives of that element,

the black sleek heads of seals

bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,

who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,

who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,

who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge

in the task, who go into the fields to harvest

and work in a row and pass the bags along,

who are not parlor generals and field deserters

but move in a common rhythm

when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.

Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.

But the thing worth doing well done

has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.

Greek amphoras for wine or oil,

Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums

but you know they were made to be used.

The pitcher cries for water to carry

and a person for work that is real.

Marge Piercy

A picture of Gayle from the early 60′s.


Sarah Vaughn – What Lola Wants…

Street Sweeper Social Club

A great bit of music…. I hope you enjoy! My friend Morgan turned me on to them. Fits my mood to a tee…..

More Turfing on the way…


Street Sweeper Social Club – 100 Little Curses

Wo ohohoh

Wo ohohoh

Wo ohohoh oh

100 little curses

Now you tumble and fall

Down your grand marble stairway

May the caviar, pate you were eating

Block your airway

May your manservant deliver

The Heimlich, with honor

May this make you vomit on your Dolce Gabbana

May your wife’s worried face show her horrific expression

May you realize she’s not worried, that’s just Botox injections

May all the commotion cause to crash the chandelier

(?) Shock diamonds from DeBeers

May your Ferrari break down

May your chauffeur get high

And smash up your stretch Rolls

Up Rodeo Drive

Off the breaking backs of others

Where you got all your bucks

Till we make the revolution I just hope your life sucks

All my people in the place put your fist in the air

All my damn mother get up out of your chairs

All my real damn peoples we got love for here

Except for that mother right there

Get him

Wo ohohoh

Wo ohohoh

Wo ohohoh oh

100 little curses

May your champagne not bubble

May your pinot be sour

May that white stuff you snort be 96% flour

May the famous rapper you bring

To your daughter’s sweet sixteen

Get some pride and walk out, as if born with a spleen

May the death squads you hire be bad with instructions,

And by mistake be at your mansion with the street sweepers bustin

May this make your parties get ? and white Russians

Dive behind the chimney all cryin and cussin

May your chef be all pissin in the bisque in the kitchen

May I assume your autobiography is filed under fiction

Cuz on the breakin backs of others is where you got all your cash

Till we make the revolution I hope your life sucks ass

All my people in the place put your fist in the air

All my damn mother fuckers get up out of your chairs

All my real damn peoples we got love for here

Except for that mother right there

Get him

Wo ohohoh

Wo ohohoh

Wo ohohoh oh

100 little curses

Street Sweeper Social Scene bring the heavy funk

For Jim Carroll…

“Conscience is no more than the dead speaking to us” – Jim Carroll

“I’ll Die For Your Sins If You Live For mine.”

A wee bit of homage for Jim Carroll. I never knew him, I read his poetry on occasion, and I certainly enjoyed his musical adventures…

Don’t try to look up his poetry on the web at this point, there seems to be a tonne of attack sites advertising it with some nasty malware attached… I think Jim would of found that funny or sad.

He was a poet who developed his style through his pain, the monkey on his back and the life he pursued. He was an original, and I think his voice has been stilled way to early. I was interested on how he would develop as he got older. Now of course, we won’t get that chance.

From what I understand, he was sitting at his desk, working at poetry when he died. What poet wouldn’t like that?

Here is to you Jim. May your poems be spray painted on walls and sidewalks. May your books of poems be handed out freely in the streets.

I hope it was a quick journey across the river, and I pray the Muse greeted you on the other shore..

Bright Blessings,


On The Menu:

Some Jim C. Linkage

Jim C. Quotes

I Am Alone


8 Fragments For Kurt Cobain

Catholic Boy w/lyrics


Some Jim C. Linkage:

Jim Carroll

A beautiful rememberance…

Jim’s website… Catholicboy.com


Jim Carroll Quotes:

“I love this mansion, though it is too many windows

…to open halfway each morning

…to close halfway each night.”

“Our team is good at getting dressed real quick, because we’re the type of team that wears their uniforms all day.”

“Violence is so terribly fast . . . the most perverse thing about the movies is the way they portray it in slow motion, allowing it to be something sensuous . . . the viewer’s lips slightly wet as the scene plays out. Violence is nothing like that. It is lightning fast, chaotic, and totally intangible. “

— Jim Carroll (Forced Entries: The Downtown Diaries: 1971-1973)

“all right

buddah gets a backstage pass

but all his friends have to pay”

— Jim Carroll (Void of Course)

“That, I realized, is the great beauty of dreams: the devil may inevitably find a way to jerk you off, but you can always wake up before he makes you cum.”

— Jim Carroll (Forced Entries: The Downtown Diaries: 1971-1973)


Jim Carroll – I Am Alone


Jim Carroll (1949 – 2009)

Jim Carroll (born August 1, 1949 in New York City died September 11, 2009) was an author, poet, autobiographer, and punk musician. Carroll is best known for his 1978 novel The Basketball Diaries, which was made into a movie in 1995 starring Leonardo DiCaprio.

Raised in New York City, Carroll attended several Catholic Grammar Schools from 1955 to 1963. In fall 1963, he entered public school, but was soon rewarded a scholarship to the elite Trinity High School (a private school). He entered Trinity High School in 1964.

Apart from being interested in writing, Carroll was a passionate basketball player throughout his grade school and middle school career. He entered the “Biddy League” at age 13 and participated in the National High School All Star Game in 1966, hence the title of his most famous book.

As a teenager, Carroll was a heroin addict who sometimes prostituted himself to afford his habit. The novel The Basketball Diaires concerns his life in New York City’s hard drug culture and his struggle to rid himself of his addiction.

Carroll published his first book, Organic Trains, at age 17. Several of his poems have been published in such magazines as Paris Review and Poetry. In 1970, his second collection of poems, 4 Ups and 1 Down was published. That same year, Carroll started working for Andy Warhol. At first, he was writing film dialogue and inventing character names; later on, Carroll worked as the co-manager of Warhol’s Theater. Carroll’s first above-ground publication, the collection Living At The Movies was published in 1973.

He formed the Jim Carroll Band, a New Wave/punk rock group, in 1980. Their biggest commercial success was the single “People Who Died,” from their debut album, Catholic Boy. He has also collaborated with many influential punk and hard rock musicians, including Lou Reed, Blue Öyster Cult, Boz Scaggs and Rancid.


8 Fragments For Kurt Cobain by Jim Carroll


Genius is not a generous thing

In return it charges more interest than any amount of royalties can cover

And it resents fame

With bitter vengeance

Pills and powdres only placate it awhile

Then it puts you in a place where the planet’s poles reverse

Where the currents of electricity shift

Your Body becomes a magnet and pulls to it despair and rotten teeth,

Cheese whiz and guns

Whose triggers are shaped tenderly into a false lust

In timeless illusion


The guitar claws kept tightening, I guess on your heart stem.

The loops of feedback and distortion, threaded right thru

Lucifer’s wisdom teeth, and never stopped their reverbrating

In your mind

And from the stage

All the faces out front seemed so hungry

With an unbearably wholesome misunderstanding

From where they sat, you seemed so far up there

High and live and diving

And instead you were swamp crawling

Down, deeper

Until you tasted the Earth’s own blood

And chatted with the Buzzing-eyed insects that heroin breeds


You should have talked more with the monkey

He’s always willing to negotiate

I’m still paying him off…

The greater the money and fame

The slower the Pendulum of fortune swings

Your will could have sped it up…

But you left that in a plane

Because it wouldn’t pass customs and immigration


Here’s synchronicity for you:

Your music’s tape was inside my walkman

When my best friend from summer camp

Called with the news about you

I listened them…

It was all there!

Your music kept cutting deeper and deeper valleys of sound

Less and less light

Until you hit solid rock

The drill bit broke

and the valley became

A thin crevice, impassible in time,

As time itself stopped.

And the walls became cages of brilliant notes

Pressing in…


That’s how diamonds are made

And that’s WHERE it sometimes all collapses

Down in on you


Then I translated your muttered lyrics

And the phrases were curious:

Like “incognito libido”

And “Chalk Skin Bending”

The words kept getting smaller and smaller


Separated from their music

Each letter spilled out into a cartridge

Which fit only in the barrel of a gun


And you shoved the barrel in as far as possible

Because that’s where the pain came from

That’s where the demons were digging

The world outside was blank

Its every cause was just a continuation

Of another unsolved effect


But Kurt…

Didn’t the thought that you would never write another song

Another feverish line or riff

Make you think twice?

That’s what I don’t understand

Because it’s kept me alive, above any wounds


If only you hadn’t swallowed yourself into a coma in Roma…

You could have gone to Florence

And looked into the eyes of Bellinni or Rafael’s Portraits

Perhaps inside them

You could have found a threshold back to beauty’s arms

Where it all began…

No matter that you felt betrayed by her

That is always the cost

As Frank said,

Of a young artist’s remorseless passion

Which starts out as a kiss

And follows like a curse


Jim Carroll – Catholic Boy

I was born in a pool, they made my mother stand

And I spat on that surgeon and his trembling hand

When I felt the light I was worse than bored

I stole the doctor’s scalpel and I slit the cord

I was a Catholic boy,

Redeemed through pain,

Not through joy

I was two months early they put me under glass

I screamed and cursed their children when the nurses passed

Was convicted of theft when I slipped from the womb

They led me straight from my mother to a cell in the Tombs

They starved me for weeks, they thought they’d teach me fear

I fed on cellmates’ dreams, it gave me fine ideas

When they cut me loose, the time had served me well

I made allies in heaven, I made comrades in Hell

I was a Catholic child

The blood ran red

The blood ran wild

I make angels dance and drop to their knees

When I enter a church the feet of statues bleed

I understand the fate of all my enemies

Just like Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane

I watched the sweetest psalm stolen by the choir

I dreamed of martyrs’ bones hanging from a wire

I make a contribution, I get absolution

I make a resolution to purify my soul

They can’t touch me now

I got every sacrament behind me:

I got baptism,

I got communion,

I got penance,

I got extreme unction

I’ve got confirmation

‘Cause I’m a Catholic child

The blood ran red

The blood ran wild!

Now I’m a Catholic man

I put my tongue to the rail whenever I can.


Just Because….

Just because I like these poems, just because they exist and have survived….

Bright Blessings,


Wave after wave, each mightier than the last,

Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep

And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged

Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame….

– Tennyson, “The Ninth Wave”


Just Because – Ancient Irish Poems…

How Curious The Light Behaves

How curious the light behaves

Reflecting off the dancing waves.

Oh how my very being craves

A view from down below.

Suspended in my watery lair,

I would not need to gasp for air,

For I’m no longer human there

Beneath the icy flow.

It’s peaceful there, but I have found

I still can hear the distant sound

Of voices of the souls who drowned

And left loved ones to mourn.

The lonely wails transmit the pain

Of those who just could not remain

So journeyed to the unknown plane

Of dead souls and unborn.

But in this world there still exist

Survivors who will always miss

The passion of their lovers’ kiss

That warmed them night and day.

Though here above the vast, cold sea,

My heart is without tragedy,

For I have someone dear to me

Who hasn’t passed away.

Never let that be untrue,

For I could not bear thoughts of you

Trapped underneath the ocean blue

Deprived of your last breath.

No harm to you would I condone,

For I’d be left here on my own

To face this tragic world alone,

A fate far worse than death.

– Pre-Christian Irish Poem –


The Harp of Cnoc I’Chosgair

Harp of Cnoc I’Chosgair, you who bring sleep

to eyes long sleepless;

sweet subtle, plangent, glad, cooling grave.

Excellent instrument with smooth gentle curve,

trilling under red fingers,

musician that has charmed us,

red, lion-like of full melody.

You who lure the bird from the flock,

you who refresh the mind,

brown spotted one of sweet words,

ardent, wondrous, passionate.

You who heal every wounded warrior,

joy and allurement to women,

familiar guide over the dark blue water,

mystic sweet sounding music.

You who silence every instrument of music,

yourself a sweet plaintive instrument,

dweller among the Race of Conn,

instrument yellow-brown and firm.

The one darling of sages,

restless, smooth, sweet of tune,

crimson star above the Fairy Hills,

breast jewel of High Kings.

Sweet tender flowers, brown harp of Diarmaid,

shape not unloved by hosts, voice of cuckoos in May!

I have not heard music ever such as your frame makes

since the time of the Fairy People,

fair brown many coloured bough,

gentle, powerful, glorious.

Sound of the calm wave on the beach,

pure shadowing tree of pure music,

carousals are drunk in your company,

voice of the swan over shining streams.

Cry of the Fairy Women from the Fairy Hill of Ler,

no melody can match you,

every house is sweet stringed through your guidance,

you the pinnacle of harp music.

– Gofraidh Fion O Dalaigh. 1385]

Little Bird

Little bird! O little bird!

I wonder at what thou doest,

Thou singing merry far from me,

I in sadness all alone!

Little bird! O little bird!

I wonder at how thou art

Thou high on the tips of branching boughs,

I on the ground a-creeping!

Little bird! O little bird!

Thou art music far away,

Like the tender croon of the mother loved

In the kindly sleep of death.


Have a wonderful weekend!

The Middle Path

“We cling to our own point of view, as though everything depended on it. Yet our opinions have no permanence; like autumn and winter, they gradually pass away.” -Chuang Tzu

Chuang Tzu And The Butterfly

Chuang Tzu in dream became a butterfly,

And the butterfly became Chuang Tzu at waking.

Which was the real—the butterfly or the man ?

Who can tell the end of the endless changes of things?

The water that flows into the depth of the distant sea

Returns anon to the shallows of a transparent stream.

The man, raising melons outside the green gate of the city,

Was once the Prince of the East Hill.

So must rank and riches vanish.

You know it, still you toil and toil,—what for?

-Li Po


Late Night… listening to the sounds of the house quieting down towards midnight. Warm, a burst of summer struggles up for a few days, tomorrow in the 90′s they say. Visited with my friend Terry today, drifted home, had a couple of drinks and vegged with some videos. I am awaiting the equinox at this point… Harvesting apples off of our tree, leaving one for the squirrels Mary did today. Everyone gets a share in her world. I watch her talk with the cat, the dog and the creatures and plants. Ever noticed that magick is near by if you just look a little wider?

I hope this finds you in happiness. Here, I will share some of mine if you like.

Bright Blessings,



On The Menu:

The Mystery Telegram

Chuang-Tsze Quote

Radiohead – Jigsaw falling into place

A Tale of London

Radiohead – House of Cards

Chuang Tzu Poetry…

Radiohead – In Rainbows – Reckoner


The Mystery Telegram

Oh… I have my suspicions, this Telegram popped up earlier this week at Caer Llwydd. I am on your trail and I shall identify you, Mystery Telegram Sender…!


Chuang-Tze Quotes

“You will always find an answer in the sound of water.”

“I dreamed I was a butterfly, flitting around in the sky; then I awoke. Now I wonder: Am I a man who dreamt of being a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man?”

“Happiness is the absence of the striving for happiness.”

“Flow with whatever may happen and let your mind be free. Stay centered by accepting whatever you are doing. This is the ultimate.”

“If water derives lucidity from stillness, how much more the faculties of the mind! The mind of the sage, being in repose, becomes the mirror of the universe, the speculum of all creation.”


Radiohead – Jigsaw falling into place


A Tale of London

– Lord Dunsany

“Come,” said the Sultan to his hasheesh-eater in the very furthest lands that know Bagdad, “dream to me now of London.”

And the hasheesh-eater made a low obeisance and seated himself cross-legged upon a purple cushion broidered with golden poppies, on the floor, beside an ivory bowl where the hasheesh was, and having eaten liberally of the hasheesh blinked seven times and spoke thus:

“O Friend of God, know then that London is the desiderate town even of all Earth’s cities. Its houses are of ebony and cedar which they roof with thin copper plates that the hand of Time turns green. They have golden balconies in which amethysts are where they sit and watch the sunset. Musicians in the gloaming steal softly along the ways; unheard their feet fall on the white sea-sand with which those ways are strewn, and in the darkness suddenly they play on dulcimers and instruments with strings. Then are there murmurs in the balconies praising their skill, then are there bracelets cast down to them for reward and golden necklaces and even pearls.

“Indeed but the city is fair; there is by the sandy ways a paving all alabaster, and the lanterns along it are of chrysoprase, all night long they shine green, but of amethyst are the lanterns of the balconies.

“As the musicians go along the ways dancers gather about them and dance upon the alabaster pavings, for joy and not for hire. Sometimes a window opens far up in an ebony palace and a wreath is cast down to a dancer or orchids showered upon them.

“Indeed of many cities have I dreamt but of none fairer, through many marble metropolitan gates hasheesh has led me, but London is its secret, the last gate of all; the ivory bowl has nothing more to show. And indeed even now the imps that crawl behind me and that will not let me be are plucking me by the elbow and bidding my spirit return, for well they know that I have seen too much. ‘No, not London,’ they say; and therefore I will speak of some other city, a city of some less mysterious land, and anger not the imps with forbidden things. I will speak of Persepolis or famous Thebes.”

A shade of annoyance crossed the Sultan’s face, a look of thunder that you had scarcely seen, but in those lands they watched his visage well, and though his spirit was wandering far away and his eyes were bleared with hasheesh yet that storyteller there and then perceived the look that was death, and sent his spirit back at once to London as a man runs into his house when the thunder comes.

“And therefore,” he continued, “in the desiderate city, in London, all their camels are pure white. Remarkable is the swiftness of their horses, that draw their chariots that are of ivory along those sandy ways and that are of surpassing lightness, they have little bells of silver upon their horses’ heads. O Friend of God, if you perceived their merchants! The glory of their dresses in the noonday! They are no less gorgeous than those butterflies that float about their streets. They have overcloaks of green and vestments of azure, huge purple flowers blaze on their overcloaks, the work of cunning needles, the centres of the flowers are of gold and the petals of purple. All their hats are black—” (“No, no,” said the Sultan)—”but irises are set about the brims, and green plumes float above the crowns of them.

“They have a river that is named the Thames, on it their ships go up with violet sails bringing incense for the braziers that perfume the streets, new songs exchanged for gold with alien tribes, raw silver for the statues of their heroes, gold to make balconies where the women sit, great sapphires to reward their poets with, the secrets of old cities and strange lands, the earning of the dwellers in far isles, emeralds, diamonds, and the hoards of the sea. And whenever a ship comes into port and furls its violet sails and the news spreads through London that she has come, then all the merchants go down to the river to barter, and all day long the chariots whirl through the streets, and the sound of their going is a mighty roar all day until evening, their roar is even like—”

“Not so,” said the Sultan.

“Truth is not hidden from the Friend of God,” replied the hasheesh-eater, “I have erred being drunken with the hasheesh, for in the desiderate city, even in London, so thick upon the ways is the white sea-sand with which the city glimmers that no sound comes from the path of the charioteers, but they go softly like a light sea-wind.” (“It is well,” said the Sultan.) “They go softly down to the port where the vessels are, and the merchandise in from the sea, amongst the wonders that the sailors show, on land by the high ships, and softly they go though swiftly at evening back to their homes.

“O would that the Munificent, the Illustrious, the Friend of God, had even seen these things, had seen the jewellers with their empty baskets, bargaining there by the ships, when the barrels of emeralds came up from the hold. Or would that he had seen the fountains there in silver basins in the midst of the ways. I have seen small spires upon their ebony houses and the spires were all of gold, birds strutted there upon the copper roofs from golden spire to spire that have no equal for splendour in all the woods of the world. And over London the desiderate city the sky is so deep a blue that by this alone the traveller may know where he has come, and may end his fortunate journey. Nor yet for any colour of the sky is there too great heat in London, for along its ways a wind blows always from the South gently and cools the city.

“Such, O Friend of God, is indeed the city of London, lying very far off on the yonder side of Bagdad, without a peer for beauty or excellence of its ways among the towns of the earth or cities of song; and even so, as I have told, its fortunate citizens dwell, with their hearts ever devising beautiful things and from the beauty of their own fair work that is more abundant around them every year, receiving new inspirations to work things more beautiful yet.”

“And is their government good?” the Sultan said.

“It is most good,” said the hasheesh-eater, and fell backwards upon the floor.

He lay thus and was silent. And when the Sultan perceived he would speak no more that night he smiled and lightly applauded.

And there was envy in that palace, in lands beyond Bagdad, of all that dwell in London.


Radiohead – House of Cards (shown on Turfing before, but hey… it’s sweet.)


Chuang Tzu Poetry…

Distinguishing Ego from Self

All that is limited by form, semblance, sound, color is called object.

Among them all, man alone is more than an object.

Though, like objects, he has form and semblance,

He is not limited to form.

He is more.

He can attain to formlessness.

When he is beyond form and semblance, beyond “this” and “that,”

where is the comparison with another object?

Where is the conflict?

What can stand in his way?

He will rest in his eternal place which is no-place.

He will be hidden in his own unfathomable secret.

His nature sinks to its root in the One.

His vitality, his power hide in secret Tao.

Goods and Possessions

Goods and possessions are no gain in his eyes.

He stays far from wealth and honor.

Long life is no ground for joy, nor early death for sorrow.

Success is not for him to be pround of, failure is no shame.

Had he all the world’s power he would not hold it as his own.

If he conquered everything he would not take it to himself.

His glory is in knowing that all things come together in One and life and death are equal.


If you persist in trying to attain what is never attained (It is Tao’s gift),

If you persist in making effort to obtain what effort cannot get,

If you persist in reasoning about what cannot be understood,

You will be destroyed by the very thing you seek.

To know when to stop,

To know when you can get no further by your own action,

This is the right beginning!

Action and Non-Action

by Chuang Tzu

The non-action of the wise man is not inaction.

It is not studied. It is not shaken by anything.

The sage is quiet because he is not moved,

Not because he wills to be quiet.

Still water is like glass.

You can look in it and see the bristles on your chin.

It is a perfect level;

A carpenter could use it.

If water is so clear, so level,

How much more the spirit of man?

The heart of the wise man is tranquil.

It is the mirror of heaven and earth

The glass of everything.

Emptiness, stillness, tranquillity, tastelessness,

Silence, non-action: this is the level of heaven and earth.

This is perfect Tao. Wise men find here

Their resting place.

Resting, they are empty.

From emptiness comes the unconditioned.

From this, the conditioned, the individual things.

So from the sage’s emptiness, stillness arises:

From stillness, action. From action, attainment.

From their stillness comes their non-action, which is also action

And is, therefore, their attainment.

For stillness is joy. Joy is free from care

Fruitful in long years.

Joy does all things without concern:

For emptiness, stillness, tranquillity, tastelessness,

Silence, and non-action

Are the root of all things.

Cutting Up An Ox

Prince Wen Hui’s cook

Was cutting up an ox.

Out went a hand,

Down went a shoulder,

He planted a foot,

He pressed a knee,

The ox fell apart

With a whisper,

The bright cleaver murmured

Like a gentle wind.

Rhythm! Timing!

Like a sacred dance,

Like “The Mulberry Grove,”

Like ancient harmonies!

“Good work!” the Prince exclaimed,

“Your method is flawless!”

“Method?” said the cook

Laying aside his cleaver,

“What I follow is Tao

Beyond all methods!”

“When I first began

To cut up oxen

I would see before me

The whole ox

All in one mass.

After three years

I no longer saw this mass.

I saw distinctions.

“But now, I see nothing

With the eye. My whole being


My senses are idle. The spirit

Free to work without plan

Follows its own instinct

Guided by natural line,

By the secret opening, the hidden space,

My cleaver finds its own way.

I cut through no joint, chop no bone.

“A good cook needs a new chopper

Once a year–he cuts.

A poor cook needs a new one

Every month–he hacks!

I have used this same cleaver

Nineteen years.

It has cut up

A thousand oxen.

The edge is as keen

As if newly sharpened.

“There are spaces in the joints;

The blade is thin and keen:

When this thinness

Finds that space

There is all the room you need!

It goes like a breeze!

Hence I have this cleaver nineteen years

As if newly sharpened!

“True, there are sometimes

Tough joints. I feel them coming,

I slow down, I watch closely,

Hold back, barely moving the blade,

And whump! the part falls away

Landing like a clod of earth.

“Then I withdraw the blade,

I stand still

And let the joy of the work

Sink in.

I clean the blade

And put it away.”

Prince Wen Hui said,

“This is it! My cook has shown me

How I ought to live

My own life!”

– Chuang Tzu –


Radiohead – In Rainbows – Reckoner


Three Poets, Monday Late…

“I am free, my mind is free,

I am neither a sick person nor a physician

Neither a believer nor an infidel

Nor a mullah or syed

In the fourteen spheres I walk in freedom

I can be imprisoned nowhere”.- Bulleh Shah

Two poets of verse, one of the voice divine. Odd little day here in Portland. Rain/Sun/Rain. Not any great details to relate, so here we are with the entry for this evening… Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Phil Whalen & Robinson Jeffers. If that isn’t a melange, then I don’t know what is.




On The Menu:

Nusrat Fatah Ali Khan

Philip Whalen

Robinson Jeffers

Quotes: Bulleh Shah

Art: Roberto Venosa


Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan – Must Nazron Se Allah Bachaye


– Phillip Whalen –


Tying up my plastic shoes

I realize I’m outside, this is the park & I am free

From whatever pack of nonsense & old tape loops

Play with the Ayer’s dogs, Barney & Daphne

They don’t ask me why I shave my head

“Cut the word lines,” Burroughs recommends

Daphne & Barney fatter than ever & only I am dieting

(Crease along the dotted lines)

Loops of tacky thinking fall unloosed. The sun

Getting hotter than my flannel shirt requires


Won’t read it now… too blind to see it

Almost too blind to write this, in my room no flowers

The service station wants four bits for compresssed air

At only 16 pounds per square inch

I can see the farthest mountain.


“The person of whom you speak is dead.”

Where is the second crystal?

One came in last night & took it; this one

Held the papers on the table

Now I want topaz.

In the middle of the night—

The glass doors locked, nothing else missing

Worthless Quartz eccentrically shaped gone

As Emperor Nicholas Romanov

As “Bebe” Rebozo

Say that you love me say

That you will bring me

A delicious cup of coffee

A topaze cup! From Silesia—

Property of Hapsburg Emperors

The better crystal is upstairs.


-Robinson Jeffers-


An eagle’s nest on the head of an old redwood on one of the

precipice-footed ridges

Above Ventana Creek, that jagged country which nothing but a

fallen meteor will ever plow; no horseman

Will ever ride there, no hunter cross this ridge but the winged

ones, no one will steal the eggs from this fortress.

The she-eagle is old, her mate was shot long ago, she is now

mated with a son of hers.

When lightening blasted her nest she built it again on the same tree,

in the splinters of the thunderbolt.

The she-eagle is older than I; she was here when the fires

of eighty-five raged on these ridges,

She was lately fledged and dared no hunt ahead of them but ate

scorched meat. The world has changed in her time;

Humanity has multiplied, but not here; men’s hopes and thoughts

and customs have changed, their powers are enlarged,

Their powers and follies have become fantastic,

The unstable animal never has been changed so rapidly. The motor

and plane and the great war have gone over him,

And Lenin lived and Jehovah died: while the mother-eagle

Hunts her same hills, crying the same beautiful and lonely cry

and is never tired; dreams the same dreams,

And hears at night the rock-slides rattle and thunder in the throats

of these living mountains.

It is good for man

To try all changes, progress and corruption, powers, peace

and anguish, not to go down the dinosaur’s way

Until all his capacities have been explored: and it is good for him

To know that his needs and nature have no more changed in fact

in ten thousand years than the beaks of eagles



When I considered it too closely, when I wore it like an element

and smelt it like water,

Life is become less lovely, the net nearer than the skin, a

little troublesome, a little terrible.

I pledged myself awhile ago not to seek refuge, neither in death

nor in a walled garden,

In lies nor gated loyalties, nor in the gates of contempt, that

easily lock the world out of doors.

Here on the rock it is great and beautiful, here on the foam-wet

granite sea-fang it is easy to praise

Life and water and the shining stones: but whose cattle are the

herds of the people that one should love them?

If they were yours, then you might take a cattle-breeder’s

delight in the herds of the future. Not yours.

Where the power ends let love, before it sours to jealousy.

Leave the joys of government to Caesar.

Who is born when the world wanes, when the brave soul of the

world falls on decay in the flesh increasing

Comes one with a great level mind, sufficient vision, sufficient

blindness, and clemency for love.

This is the breath of rottenness I smelt; from the world

waiting, stalled between storms, decaying a little,

Bitterly afraid to be hurt, but knowing it cannot draw the

savior Caesar but out of the blood-bath.

The apes of Christ lift up their hands to praise love: but

wisdom without love is the present savior,

Power without hatred, mind like a many-bladed machine subduing

the world with deep indifference.

The apes of Christ itch for a sickness they have never known;

words and the little envies will hardly

Measure against that blinding fire behind the tragic eyes they

have never dared to confront.


Point Lobos lies over the hollowed water like a humped whale

swimming to shoal; Point Lobos

Was wounded with that fire; the hills at Point Sur endured it;

the palace at Thebes; the hill Calvary.

Out of incestuous love power and then ruin. A man forcing the

imaginations of men,

Possessing with love and power the people: a man defiling his

own household with impious desire.

King Oedipus reeling blinded from the palace doorway, red tears

pouring from the torn pits

Under the forehead; and the young Jew writhing on the domed hill

in the earthquake, against the eclipse

Frightfully uplifted for having turned inward to love the

people: -that root was so sweet O dreadful agonist? –

I saw the same pierced feet, that walked in the same crime to

its expiation; I heard the same cry.

A bad mountain to build your world on. Am I another keeper of

the people, that on my own shore,

On the gray rock, by the grooved mass of the ocean, the

sicknesses I left behind me concern me?

Here where the surf has come incredible ways out of the splendid

west, over the deeps

Light nor life sounds forever; here where enormous sundowns

flower and burn through color to quietness;

Then the ecstasy of the stars is present? As for the people, I

have found my rock, let them find theirs.

Let them lie down at Caesar’s feet and be saved; and he in his

time reap their daggers of gratitude.


Yet I am the one made pledges against the refuge contempt, that

easily locks the world out of doors.

This people as much as the sea-granite is part of the God from

whom I desire not to be fugitive.

I see them: they are always crying. The shored Pacific makes

perpetual music, and the stone mountains

Their music of silence, the stars blow long pipings of light:

the people are always crying in their hearts.

One need not pity; certainly one must not love. But who has seen

peace, if he should tell them where peace

Lives in the world…they would be powerless to understand; and

he is not willing to be reinvolved.


How should one caught in the stone of his own person dare tell

the people anything but relative to that?

But if a man could hold in his mind all the conditions at once,

of man and woman, of civilized

And barbarous, of sick and well, of happy and under torture, of

living and dead, of human and not

Human, and dimly all the human future: -what should persuade him

to speak? And what could his words change?

The mountain ahead of the world is not forming but fixed. But

the man’s words would be fixed also,

Part of that mountain, under equal compulsion; under the same

present compulsion in the iron consistency.

And nobody sees good or evil but out of a brain a hundred

centuries quieted, some desert

Prophet’s, a man humped like a camel, gone mad between the mud-

walled village and the mountain sepulchres.


Broad wagons before sunrise bring food into the city from the

open farms, and the people are fed.

They import and they consume reality. Before sunrise a hawk in

the desert made them their thoughts.


Here is an anxious people, rank with suppressed

bloodthirstiness. Among the mild and unwarlike

Gautama needed but live greatly and be heard, Confucius needed

but live greatly and be heard:

This people has not outgrown blood-sacrifice, one must writhe on

the high cross to catch at their memories;

The price is known. I have quieted love; for love of the people

I would not do it. For power I would do it.

–But that stands against reason: what is power to a dead man,

dead under torture? –What is power to a man

Living, after the flesh is content? Reason is never a root,

neither of act nor desire.

For power living I would never do it; they’are not delightful to

touch, one wants to be separate. For power

After the nerves are put away underground, to lighten the

abstract unborn children toward peace…

A man might have paid anguish indeed. Except he had found the

standing sea-rock that even this last

Temptation breaks on; quieter than death but lovelier; peace

that quiets the desire even of praising it.


Yet look: are they not pitiable? No: if they lived forever they

would be pitiable:

But a huge gift reserved quite overwhelms them at the end; they

are able then to be still and not cry.

And having touched a little of the beauty and seen a little of

the beauty of things, magically grow

Across the funeral fire or the hidden stench of burial

themselves into the beauty they admired,

Themselves into the God, themselves into the sacred steep

unconsciousness they used to mimic

Asleep between lamp’s death and dawn, while the last drunkard

stumbled homeward down the dark street.

They are not to be pitied but very fortunate; they need no

savior, salvation comes and takes them by force,

It gathers them into the great kingdoms of dust and stone, the

blown storms, the stream’s-end ocean.

With this advantage over their granite grave-marks, of having

realized the petulant human consciousness

Before, and then the greatness, the peace: drunk from both

pitchers: these to be pitied? These not fortunate

But while he lives let each man make his health in his mind, to

love the coast opposite humanity

And so be freed of love, laying it like bread on the waters; it

is worst turned inward, it is best shot farthest.

Love, the mad wine of good and evil, the saint’s and murderer’s,

the mote in the eye that makes its object

Shine the sun black; the trap in which it is better to catch the

inhuman God than the hunter’s own image.


Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan & Yadaan Vichhre Sajan Diyan Aiyan

Live at Digbeth Civic Hall, Birmingham. 1985….


I know not who I am

I am neither a believer going to the mosque

Nor given to non-believing ways

Neither clean, nor unclean

Neither Moses not Pharaoh

I know not who I am

I am neither among sinners nor among saints

Neither happy, nor unhappy

I belong neither to water not to earth

I am neither fire, not air

I know not who I am – Bulleh Shah

Rainy Sundays…

– From The Tao Te Ching –


Act without doing;

work without effort.

Think of the small as large

and the few as many.

Confront the difficult

while it is still easy;

accomplish the great task

by a series of small acts.

The Master never reaches for the great;

thus she achieves greatness.

When she runs into a difficulty,

she stops and gives herself to it.

She doesn’t cling to her own comfort;

thus problems are no problem for her.


Here is an entry for Sunday… Raining like crazy here, the fall has fallen indeedy do. Friends coming by, I am doing the meat on the barby routine. This edition features that triple threat: Tim Buckley/Lord Dunsany/William Shakespeare… Kind of a power trio of sorts. Tim Buckley is a long time musical fave. I got to see him several times at the Troubadour in L.A. An amazing singer. He influenced everyone from the Cocteau Twins, to Brendan Perry. Lord Dunsany is an icon, little known in the US, but quite influential in many occult/metaphysical circles. William Shakespeare needs no introduction, except that he is one of the patron deities of Caer Llwydd, statuette and all.

Hope this finds you well, and surrounded by Love. More tomorrow, or the next day.

Bright Blessings,



On The Menu:

Excerpts From The Tao Te Ching (interspersed through this entry)

Tim Buckley – Sing A Song For You

When The Gods Slept – Lord Dunsany

William Shakespeare – Sonnets For An Early Fall

Tim Buckley – Morning Glory

Art: mostly Poussin….


Tim Buckley – Sing A Song For You


– From The Tao Te Ching –


Those who know don’t talk.

Those who talk don’t know.

Close your mouth,

block off your senses,

blunt your sharpness,

untie your knots,

soften your glare,

settle your dust.

This is the primal identity.

Be like the Tao.

It can’t be approached or withdrawn from,

benefited or harmed,

honored or brought into disgrace.

It gives itself up continually.

That is why it endures.


When The Gods Slept

from Time And The Gods, by Lord Dunsany

All the gods were sitting in Pegana, and Their slave, Time, lay idle at Pegana’s gate with nothing to destroy, when They thought of worlds, worlds large and round and gleaming, and little silver moons. Then (who knoweth when?), as the gods raised Their hands making the sign of the gods, the thoughts of the gods became worlds and silver moons. And the worlds swam by Pegana’s gate to take their places in the sky, to ride at anchor for ever, each where the gods had bidden. And because they were round and big and gleamed all over the sky, the gods laughed and shouted and all clapped Their hands. Then upon earth the gods played out the game of the gods, the game of life and death, and on the other worlds They did a secret thing, playing a game that is hidden.

At last They mocked no more at life and laughed at death no more, and cried aloud in Pegana: “Will no new thing be? Must those four march for ever round the world till our eyes are wearied with the treading of the feet of the Seasons that will not cease, while Night and Day and Life and Death drearily rise and fall?”

And as a child stares at the bare walls of a narrow hut, so the gods looked all listlessly upon the worlds, saying:

“Will no new thing be?”

And in Their weariness the gods said: “Ah! to be young again. Ah! to be fresh once more from the brain of Mana-Yood-Sushai.”

And They turned away Their eyes in weariness from all the gleaming worlds and laid Them down upon Pegana’s floor, for They said:

“It may be that the worlds shall pass and we would fain forget them.”

Then the gods slept. Then did the comet break loose from his moorings and the eclipse roamed about the sky, and down on the earth did Death’s three children—Famine, Pestilence, and Drought—come out to feed. The eyes of the Famine were green, and the eyes of the Drought were red, but the Pestilence was blind and smote about all round him with his claws among the cities.

But as the gods slept, there came from beyond the Rim, out of the dark and unknown, three Yozis, spirits of ill, that sailed up the river of Silence in galleons with silver sails. Far away they had seen Yum and Gothum, the stars that stand sentinel over Pegana’s gate, blinking and falling asleep, and as they neared Pegana they found a hush wherein the gods slept heavily. Ya, Ha, and Snyrg were these three Yozis, the lords of evil, madness, and of spite. When they crept from their galleons and stole over Pegana’s silent threshold it boded ill for the gods. There in Pegana lay the gods asleep, and in a corner lay the Power of the gods alone upon the floor, a thing wrought of black rock and four words graven upon it, whereof I might not give thee any clue, if even I should find it—four words of which none knoweth. Some say they tell of the opening of a flower towards dawn, and others say they concern earthquakes among hills, and others that they tell of the death of fishes, and others that the words be these: Power, Knowledge, Forgetting, and another word that not the gods themselves may ever guess. These words the Yozis read, and sped away in dread lest the gods should wake, and going aboard their galleons, bade the rowers haste. Thus the Yozis became gods, having the power of gods, and they sailed away to the earth, and came to a mountainous island in the sea. There they sat upon the rocks, sitting as the gods sit, with their right hands uplifted, and having the power of gods, only none came to worship. Thither came no ships nigh them, nor ever at evening came the prayers of men, nor smell of incense, nor screams from the sacrifice. Then said the Yozis:

“Of what avails it that we be gods if no one worship us nor give us sacrifice?”

And Ya, Ha, and Snyrg set sail in their silver galleons, and went looming down the sea to come to the shores of men. And first they came to an island where were fisher folk; and the folk of the island, running down to the shore cried out to them:

“Who be ye?”

And the Yozis answered:

“We be three gods, and we would have your worship.”

But the fisher folk answered:

“Here we worship Rahm, the Thunder, and have no worship nor sacrifice for other gods.”

Then the Yozis snarled with anger and sailed away, and sailed till they came to another shore, sandy and low and forsaken. And at last they found an old man upon the shore, and they cried out to him:

“Old man upon the shore! We be three gods that it were well to worship, gods of great power and apt in the granting of prayer.”

The old man answered:

“We worship Pegana’s gods, who have a fondness for our incense and the sound of our sacrifice when it squeals upon the altar.”

Then answered Snyrg:

“Asleep are Pegana’s gods, nor will They wake for the humming of thy prayers which lie in the dust upon Pegana’s floor, and over Them Sniracte, the spider of the worlds, hath woven a web of mist. And the squealing of the sacrifice maketh no music in ears that are closed in sleep.”

The old man answered, standing upon the shore:

“Though all the gods of old shall answer our prayers no longer, yet still to the gods of old shall all men pray here in Syrinais.”

But the Yozis turned their ships about and angrily sailed away, all cursing Syrinais and Syrinais’s gods, but most especially the old man that stood upon the shore.

Still the three Yozis lusted for the worship of men, and came, on the third night of their sailing, to a city’s lights; and nearing the shore they found it a city of song wherein all folks rejoiced. Then sat each Yozi on his galleon’s prow, and leered with his eyes upon the city, so that the music stopped and the dancing ceased, and all looked out to sea at the strange shapes of the Yozis beneath their silver sails. Then Snyrg demanded their worship, promising increase of joys, and swearing by the light of his eyes that he would send little flames to leap over the grass, to pursue the enemies of that city and to chase them about the world.

But the people answered that in that city men worshipped Agrodaun, the mountain standing alone, and might not worship other gods even though they came in galleons with silver sails, sailing from over the sea. But Snyrg answered:

“Certainly Agrodaun is only a mountain, and in no manner a god.”

But the priests of Agrodaun sang answer from the shore:

“If the sacrifice of men make not Agrodaun a god, nor blood still young on his rocks, nor the little fluttering prayers of ten thousand hearts, nor two thousands years of worship and all the hopes of the people and the whole strength of our race, then are there no gods and ye be common sailors, sailing from over the sea.”

Then said the Yozis:

“Hath Agrodaun answered prayer?” And the people heard the words that the Yozis said.

Then went the priests of Agrodaun away from the shore and up the steep streets of the city, the people following, and over the moor beyond it to the foot of Agrodaun, and then said:

“Agrodaun, if thou art not our god, go back and herd with yonder common hills, and put a cap of snow upon thy head and crouch far off as they do beneath the sky; but if we have given thee divinity in two thousand years, if our hopes are all about thee like a cloak, then stand and look upon thy worshippers from over our city for ever.” And the smoke that ascended from his feet stood still and there fell a hush over great Agrodaun; and the priests went back to the sea and said to the three Yozis:

“New gods shall have our worship when Agrodaun grows weary of being our god, or when in some night-time he shall stride away, leaving us nought to gaze at that is higher than our city.”

And the Yozis sailed away and cursed towards Agrodaun, but could not hurt him, for he was but a mountain.

And the Yozis sailed along the coast till they came to a river running to the sea, and they sailed up the river till they came to a people at work, who furrowed the soil and sowed, and strove against the forest. Then the Yozis called to the people as they worked in the fields:

“Give us your worship and ye shall have many joys.”

But the people answered:

“We may not worship you.”

Then answered Snyrg:

“Ye also, have ye a god?”

And the people answered:

“We worship the years to come, and we set the world in order for their coming, as one layeth raiment on the road before the advent of a King. And when those years shall come, they shall accept the worship of a race they knew not, and their people shall make their sacrifice to the years that follow them, who, in their turn, shall minister to the End.”

Then answered Snyrg:

“Gods that shall recompense you not. Rather give us your prayers and have our pleasures, the pleasures that we shall give you, and when your gods shall come, let them be wroth—they cannot punish you.”

But the people continued to sacrifice their labour to their gods, the years to come, making the world a place for gods to dwell in, and the Yozis cursed those gods and sailed away. And Ya, the Lord of malice, swore that when those years should come, they should see whether it were well for them to have snatched away the worship from three Yozis.

And still the Yozis sailed, for they said:

“It were better to be birds and have no air to fly in, than to be gods having neither prayers nor worship.”

But where sky met with ocean, the Yozis saw land again, and thither sailed; and there the Yozis saw men in strange old garments performing ancient rites in a land of many temples. And the Yozis called to the men as they performed their ancient rites and said:

“We be three gods well versed in the needs of men, to worship whom were to obtain instant joy.”

But the men said:

“We have already gods.”

And Snyrg replied:

“Ye, too?”

The men answered:

“For we worship the things that have been and all the years that were. Divinely have they helped us, therefore we give them worship that is their due.”

And the Yozis answered the people:

“We be gods of the present and return good things for worship.”

But the people answered, saying from the shore:

“Our gods have given us already the good things, and we return Them the worship that is Their due.”

And the Yozis set their faces to landward, and cursed all things that had been and all the years that were, and sailed in their galleons away.

A rocky shore in an inhuman land stood up against the sea. Thither the Yozis came and found no man, but out of the dark from inland towards evening came a herd of great baboons and chattered greatly when they saw the ships.

Then spake Snyrg to them:

“Have ye, too, a god?”

And the baboons spat.

Then said the Yozis:

“We be seductive gods, having a particular remembrance for little prayers.”

But the baboons leered fiercely at the Yozis and would have none of them for gods.

One said that prayers hindered the eating of nuts. But Snyrg leaned forward and whispered, and the baboons went down upon their knees and clasped their hands as men clasp, and chattered prayer and said to one another that these were the gods of old, and gave the Yozis their worship—for Snyrg had whispered in their ears that, if they would worship the Yozis, he would make them men. And the baboons arose from worshipping, smoother about the face and a little shorter in the arms, and went away and hid their bodies in clothing, and afterwards galloped away from the rocky shore and went and herded with men. And men could not discern what they were, for their bodies were bodies of men, though their souls were still the souls of beasts and their worship went to the Yozis, spirits of ill.

And the lords of malice, hatred and madness sailed back to their island in the sea and sat upon the shore as gods sit, with right hand uplifted; and at evening foul prayers from the baboons gathered about them and infested the rocks.

But in Pegana the gods awoke with a start.


– William Shakespeare –

Sonnets For An Early Fall

Sonnet 01 From fairest creatures we desire increase

From fairest creatures we desire increase,

That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,

But as the riper should by time decease,

His tender heir might bear his memory:

But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,

Feed’st thy light’st flame with self-substantial fuel,

Making a famine where abundance lies,

Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament

And only herald to the gaudy spring,

Within thine own bud buriest thy content

And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.

Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.

Sonnet 08 Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly?

Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly?

Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.

Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,

Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?

If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,

By unions married, do offend thine ear,

They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds

In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.

Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,

Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,

Resembling sire and child and happy mother

Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:

Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,

Sings this to thee: ‘thou single wilt prove none.’

Sonnet 116 Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Sonnet 73 That time of year thou mayst in me behold

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou seest the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed whereon it must expire

Consumed with that which it was nourish’d by.

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.


Tim Buckley – Morning Glory


– From The Tao Te Ching –


Colors blind the eye.

Sounds deafen the ear.

Flavors numb the taste.

Thoughts weaken the mind.

Desires wither the heart.

The Master observes the world

but trusts his inner vision.

He allows things to come and go.

His heart is open as the sky.


Rimbaud In The Fall…

-The Star Has Wept Rose-Colour-

The star has wept rose-colour in the heart of your ears,

The infinite rolled white from your nape to the small of your back

The sea has broken russet at your vermilion nipples,

And Man bled black at your royal side.

-Arthur Rimbaud

On the contents of this entry of Turfing, September 3rd, 2009…

I am featuring Brendan Perry, and Arthur Rimbaud today on this little outing. Brendan Perry as you may or may not remember was 1/2 of Dead Can Dance, along with Liza Gerrard. Liza is usually the one that is recognized by most people, as her vocalizations (one couldn’t really call it singing as there were no lyrics usually on her part.) Brendan, on the hand was, and is a most fascinating singer. His choice of materials make it all the better IMPOV. Brendan is soon to release his first album in ten years, “Ark”. I am beyond excited! You’ll find his new song “Utopia” at the end of this entry. Enjoy!

What can be said about Arthur Rimbaud that hasn’t been said? I have been coming back to his works for some 35 years, and I swear that I have read everything, and maybe it is the passing of time, much of it seems new and oh so fresh. I used to read him in the flat in L.A. off of Westwood Blvd, above the dance studio (where Toni Basil rehearsed – no big deal, she was less than nice) and next to the daycare where all the wild parrots from West L.A. would congregate in the evening. Amazing light, golden, suffused, sitting on the top of the steps, reading Rimbaud, in the original French and the English translation(s) as well. Rimbaud’s poetry later helped propel me to Europe. His work was so immediate, and full. For awhile, it seemed I couldn’t go anywhere without friends bringing him up in conversations. Rimbaud was what first drew me to Patti Smith’s work funny enough. I was reading an interview and she started raving about him. Well, if anyone could rave about a French 19th century Bohemian poet in a Rock & Roll fluff piece, they were okay with me. In the end though, I thank my friend Michael Conners for turning me on to Rimbaud. Where ever, and who ever you are now Michael, thanks.

A few more words, and I will let you explore this entry….

Tomorrow, the 4th is a signifier for me. It marks another revolution around Sol for yours truly. I am happy to say after all the wackiness earlier in the year that the next will be more creative and outreaching. I feel it oh, I do. September the 4th is also my Father & Stepmother’s 45th wedding anniversary as well. I wish them all the best, and I thank them for all the love and caring they have shown over the years. They are pretty marvelous people.

This last note is about the two links immediately below… “Teeming With Gods”, and “The Story Told 39, Errrr… 43 Years Ago”. These are links to the adventure that led to my first LSD experience so many years ago. I have decided to honour this occasion every year that I remember to do so…. I am now taking on the task of writing up my second trip, and some other adventures. Hold me to it, please. 80)

Teeming With Gods…

The Story Told 39, Errrr… 43 Years Ago

(Young Gwyllm a month or so before heading to the Bay Area in summer 1966)

Have a wonderful weekend, and there will be a couple more post in the next few days.

Bright Blessings,



On The Menu:

Brendan Perry – Can You Feel It?

Patrick Kavanagh Quotes

The Story of Oisín

Rimbaud In The Fall…Poetry

Brendan Perry – Utopia

Rimbaud Quotes…

Artist: Daniel Gabriel Rossetti


Brendan Perry – Can You Feel It?


Patrick Kavanagh Quotes:

“A man is original when he speaks the truth that has always been known to all good men.”

“Malice is only another name for mediocrity.”

“What appears in newspapers is often new but seldom true.”

“It is impossible to read the daily press without being diverted from reality. You are full of enthusiasm for the eternal verities — life is worth living, and then out of sinful curiosity you open a newspaper. You are disillusioned and wrecked.”

“To know fully even one field or one land is a lifetime’s experience. In the world of poetic experience it is depth that counts, not width. A gap in a hedge, a smooth rock surfacing a narrow lane, a view of a woody meadow, the stream at the junction of four small fields – these are as much as a man can fully experience.”


I prefer the poem, but at this point it is a wee long for an entry… Still this is the tale in a nutshell.

(Oisin & Niamh – Bojana Dimitrovski)

The Story of Oisín

By Skip Ellison © 2000

Cest: Question – Who was Oisín? Ni Ansa: Not Hard!

Oisín was the son of Finn mac Cumhaill, leader of the Fianna. Now Oisín had experienced many adventures in his life and so there are many stories told of him. I start my story today with the birth of Oisín.

Finn mac Cumhaill was out hunting one day. His hounds, a large pack that ALWAYS ran down their prey, ran down a doe that was strange in many ways. First of all, only two of the dogs, Bran and Sceolang, caught the doe, then the dogs refused to harm her! They just held her until Finn arrived. Second while they were chasing the doe, neither Finn nor his men could catch up with them. And when they finally caught the doe, they were on the ‘Hill of Allen.’ A very magical place. As Finn approach, as none of the rest of his men could, a strange and magical thing happened!

The doe spoke to him! She said, “I am Sadb, a woman of your tribe enchanted by the Druid Fer Doirich. Finn immediately gave her his protection and tells all his men, waiting at the bottom of the hill, to leave. As soon as they are gone, another wondrous thing happens! The doe turns back into a woman. Finn and Sadb spend the night together and as usually happen with these tales, the next morning she is a woman, not a doe. They have fallen in love during the night and soon marry. Soon, Sadb is with child and Finn goes back to traveling with the Fianna! As soon as that happens, Sadb turns back into a doe!

In a little while, nine moons or so, Sadb knew that she is about to give birth. While still in the form of a doe, she goes back to Finn and ANOTHER amazing thing happens! She gives birth to a human baby boy, which she leaves for Finn to find under a rowan tree. His name is Oisín, which means ‘Little deer’ in Irish. Finn finds him and knows that Oisín is his son and raises him until he is seven years old.

He then sent Oisín, out to foster parents. When Oisín is in his very early teens, he returns to the Fianna and asks to join them. He undergoes the challenges, running through a forest without disturbing the hair on his head, plucking a thorn out of his foot while running and running under a branch no taller that his knees while the rest of the Fianna are chasing him, as well as being buried in sand up to his waist and avoiding all the spears thrown at him by the rest of the band.

Soon Oisín was the leader of one of the bands of the Fianna. His fame grew as he led his band through the land. Answering the needs of the people by doing good deeds, his fame soon grew as his band lived off he land. He was content in what he did and couldn’t imagine any other way of life!

And then magic happened! As Oisín was sitting by the shore of the sea one day, a queen from the Fairyland, Niamh Chinn Óir, Niamh of the golden Hair, looked across the seas and saw Oisín sitting by the shore. She thought that he was the most beautiful and wondrous man that she had ever seen. She knew right then that she wanted him to be her lover.

She rode across the waves on her magical white horse and stopped before Oisín as he sat by the sea. She said to him “You are the most wondrous man I have ever seen. Come with me to my home across the sea and be my lover. My land is the most delightful land of all that there are under the sun; the trees are stooping down with fruit and with leaves and with blossom. Honey and wine are plentiful there; no wasting will come upon you with the wasting away of time; you will never see death or lessening. You will get feasts, playing and drinking; you will get sweet music on the strings; you will get silver and gold and many jewels. You will get everything I have said … and many gifts beyond ken which I have no leave to tell.”

Oisín sat there in wonder for a minute and though about what she had told him. If he went with her, what would happen to his people? What would happen to the world that he knew? Could he give up ALL that had made he happy so far for HER? He told her “I need time to think. This is an answer that will change my whole life. I beg of you, for the sake of my heart, give me until the morning to decide.” And she did. She rode away over the waves to her land, only to return in the morning.

All night long, Oisín thought about his land and people. Who can know the thoughts running through his mind? He thought about traveling the countryside with the Fianna. He thought about the people we would NEVER see again. What a night it must have been for him! What was he willing to give up for Niamh? Did he sit by the seashore and think of all the things he would never see? Did he only look forward to the pleasures he would find in Tir na n’Og, the Land of the Young? Who can know the thoughts running through his mind?

In the morning, Niamh came back and asked him once again, “Will you travel with me to my land? Will you join with me as my lover?” Oisín answered, “I will. I have thought long through this night, about that which I must give up and about that which I will gain, but in truth, the answer came from within. Seeing you I knew that we would have to be together! There was no other answer! Take me with you to your land and let me be with you forever, my love!”

They mounted upon Niamh’s horse and rode off over the waves. It seemed like only a short time they rode, but to mortals on this world, it was a very long time. When they came to Tir na n’Og, it was everything that Niamh had promised. Oisín would fight every day, feast every night and each night, he and Niamh would become one! And they next day it would happen all over again! Perfect bliss did he know! He bore two sons and a daughter to Niamh.

As we know, time passes differently in the land of Faerie than it does in the land of men. After 300 mortal years, but only a few months in Faerie, Oisín found that he missed traveling with the Fianna. He missed his old friends. He found that more than anything else in the world; he wanted to be with them.

One day, he told Niamh, “I miss my companions in the Fianna. Can I go back to see them for just a few days?” She said, “Time passes differently here than it does in Eire. What has seemed like months to you has been centuries there. All your friends have been gone for a long time. Please stay with me and don’t go back!”

And Oisín replied “But it will only be for a day! I need to see for myself that what you say is true.” Niamh relented, what else could she do? But she said ” you can only go on one condition, no matter WHAT happens, you MUST stay on the horse’s back at all times. If you don’t, you will NEVER come back to me! Will you agree to this?” And Oisín agreed.

He mounted on the magical white horse and rode off across the waves. He lands on the shore of Eire near the Hill of Allen. The hill has changed though. It is now abandoned and overgrown. The wide forests that he knew were gone! All that he saw was open pasture land. At first, he though he was in the wrong place, then seeing familiar landmarks, he knew!

He rode until he came to Glenasmole, in modern Co. Wicklow. There he saw a group of men, almost the size of boys to him, trying to rise up a stone. To them, the stone was larger than they could lift together. To him, it was a small stone he could raise with one hand! As he rode up to them, he called out, “Do you know where I can find Finn and the Fianna?” Laughingly they responded, “Finn? He’s just a legend that our grandfathers used to tell us about. There’s no truth to that legend!”

Hurt, he still knew that as a Fianna, he must help them. He called out to them “Do you want a hand!” And again laughingly they responded “Aye, if you think you can help.”

He reached down with one large hand and grabbed the stone and slowly it started to move. It was almost fully raised when the unthinkable happened! The girth on the saddle broke and he fell to the ground! All the years that he had been in fairyland caught up to him in the wink of an eye! His skin wrinkled, his hair turned grey, and all his teeth fell out. The horse immediately ran out towards the sea and disappeared.

The men looked at him in wonder and asked what had happened. He cried out, “All is lost! What have I done! Why would I give up all that I had for one last look at my homeland?” He sat there and wept as the men tried to figure out what had happened.

The story of the man, who had appeared on a magical horse and then miraculously turned old, spread through the land. It finally reached the ears of St. Patrick who knew that he had to talk to this man and try to convert him to Christ.

Within a day, St. Patrick reached him and talked to him. He asked the man to tell him his story. As Oisín told Patrick about Finn and the Fianna, Patrick had his monks write down everything Oisín told him. And a good thing too, for this is where most of the modern knowledge of Finn and the Fianna comes from!

After Oisín had told Patrick the story, Patrick told him that he needed to be baptized in Christ to be saved. Oisín thought for a few moments and then asked Patrick, “What had happened to Finn and the Fianna? Had they been baptized in Christ?” Patrick replied, “No, they were pagan sinners who had died uprepented and had gone to Hell!”

To that, Oisín replied, “Well, if heaven isn’t good enough for Finn and the Fianna, then there is no way that it’s good enough for me!” And with that, he died and joined Finn and the rest of the Fianna in Tir na n’Og, the Land of the Young!

And so ends my tale today of Oisín, the son of Finn mac Cumhaill.


Rimbaud In The Fall…Poetry

– Sensation –

On the blue summer evenings, I shall go down the paths,

Getting pricked by the corn, crushing the short grass:

In a dream I shall feel its coolness on my feet.

I shall let the wind bathe my bare head.

I shall not speak, I shall think about nothing:

But endless love will mount in my soul;

And I shall travel far, very far, like a gipsy,

Through the countryside – as happy as if I were with a woman.

– My Bohemian Life –

I went off with my hands in my torn coat pockets;

My overcoat too was becoming ideal;

I travelled beneath the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal;

Oh dear me! what marvelous loves I dreamed of!

My only pair of breeches had a big hole in them.

– Stargazing Tom Thumb, I sowed rhymes along my way.

My tavern was at the Sign of the Great Bear.

– My stars in the sky rustled softly.

And I listened to them, sitting on the road-sides

On those pleasant September evenings while I felt drops

Of dew on my forehead like vigorous wine;

And while, rhyming among the fantastical shadows,

I plucked like the strings of a lyre the elastics

Of my tattered boots, one foot close to my heart!

-The Drunken Boat-

As I was floating down unconcerned Rivers

I no longer felt myself steered by the haulers:

Gaudy Redskins had taken them for targets

Nailing them naked to coloured stakes.

I cared nothing for all my crews,

Carrying Flemish wheat or English cottons.

When, along with my haulers those uproars were done with

The Rivers let me sail downstream where I pleased.

Into the ferocious tide-rips

Last winter, more absorbed than the minds of children,

I ran! And the unmoored Peninsulas

Never endured more triumphant clamourings

The storm made bliss of my sea-borne awakenings.

Lighter than a cork, I danced on the waves

Which men call eternal rollers of victims,

For ten nights, without once missing the foolish eye of the harbor lights!

Sweeter than the flesh of sour apples to children,

The green water penetrated my pinewood hull

And washed me clean of the bluish wine-stains and the splashes of vomit,

Carring away both rudder and anchor.

And from that time on I bathed in the Poem

Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk,

Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam,

A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down;

Where, suddenly dyeing the bluenesses, deliriums

And slow rhythms under the gleams of the daylight,

Stronger than alcohol, vaster than music

Ferment the bitter rednesses of love!

I have come to know the skies splitting with lightnings, and the waterspouts

And the breakers and currents; I know the evening,

And Dawn rising up like a flock of doves,

And sometimes I have seen what men have imagined they saw!

I have seen the low-hanging sun speckled with mystic horrors.

Lighting up long violet coagulations,

Like the performers in very-antique dramas

Waves rolling back into the distances their shiverings of venetian blinds!

I have dreamed of the green night of the dazzled snows

The kiss rising slowly to the eyes of the seas,

The circulation of undreamed-of saps,

And the yellow-blue awakenings of singing phosphorus!

I have followed, for whole months on end, the swells

Battering the reefs like hysterical herds of cows,

Never dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys

Could force back the muzzles of snorting Oceans!

I have struck, do you realize, incredible Floridas

Where mingle with flowers the eyes of panthers

In human skins! Rainbows stretched like bridles

Under the seas’ horizon, to glaucous herds!

I have seen the enormous swamps seething, traps

Where a whole leviathan rots in the reeds!

Downfalls of waters in the midst of the calm

And distances cataracting down into abysses!

Glaciers, suns of silver, waves of pearl, skies of red-hot coals!

Hideous wrecks at the bottom of brown gulfs

Where the giant snakes devoured by vermin

Fall from the twisted trees with black odours!

I should have liked to show to children those dolphins

Of the blue wave, those golden, those singing fishes.

– Foam of flowers rocked my driftings

And at times ineffable winds would lend me wings.

Sometimes, a martyr weary of poles and zones,

The sea whose sobs sweetened my rollings

Lifted its shadow-flowers with their yellow sucking disks toward me

And I hung there like a kneeling woman…

Almost an island, tossing on my beaches the brawls

And droppings of pale-eyed, clamouring birds,

And I was scudding along when across my frayed cordage

Drowned men sank backwards into sleep!

But now I, a boat lost under the hair of coves,

Hurled by the hurricane into the birdless ether,

I, whose wreck, dead-drunk and sodden with water,

neither Monitor nor Hanse ships would have fished up;

Free, smoking, risen from violet fogs,

I who bored through the wall of the reddening sky

Which bears a sweetmeat good poets find delicious,

Lichens of sunlight [mixed] with azure snot,

Who ran, speckled with lunula of electricity,

A crazy plank, with black sea-horses for escort,

When Julys were crushing with cudgel blows

Skies of ultramarine into burning funnels;

I who trembled, to feel at fifty leagues’ distance

The groans of Behemoth’s rutting, and of the dense Maelstroms

Eternal spinner of blue immobilities

I long for Europe with it’s aged old parapets!

I have seen archipelagos of stars! and islands

Whose delirious skies are open to sailor:

– Do you sleep, are you exiled in those bottomless nights,

Million golden birds, O Life Force of the future? –

But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking.

Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter:

Sharp love has swollen me up with heady langours.

O let my keel split! O let me sink to the bottom!

If there is one water in Europe I want, it is the

Black cold pool where into the scented twilight

A child squatting full of sadness, launches

A boat as fragile as a butterfly in May.

I can no more, bathed in your langours, O waves,

Sail in the wake of the carriers of cottons,

Nor undergo the pride of the flags and pennants,

Nor pull past the horrible eyes of the hulks.

– Faun’s Head –

Among the foliage, green casket flecked with gold,

In the uncertain foliage that blossoms

With gorgeous flowers where sleeps the kiss,

Vivid and bursting through the sumptuous tapestry,

A startled faun shows his two eyes

And bites the crimson flowers with his white teeth.

Stained and ensanguined like mellow wine

His mouth bursts out in laughter beneath the branches.

And when he has fled – like a squirrel –

His laughter still vibrates on every leaf

And you can see, startled by a bullfinch

The Golden Kiss of the Wood, gathering itself together again.


From Brendan’s new album, due soon from what I understand: “Ark”, his first in 10 years. I can’t state how excited I am that he has made this move. I always felt that he was the deeper side of DCD, and I would assure you, this is the case. I am usually not a fan of mashups between well known films and music, but this seemingly works…

Brendan Perry – Utopia


Arthur RImbaud Quotes:

“The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.”

“one single true word: it is, COME BACK. I want to be with you, I love you. If you listen to this you will prove your courage and sincerity. Otherwise, I am sorry for you. But I love you. I kiss you and we’ll see each other again…”

“Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.”

“Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!”


The Inner Garden…

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.- Nietzsche

Mary’s Aubergines….

One Instant

One Instant is eternity;

eternity is the now.

When you see through this one instant,

you see through the one who sees.

– Wu Men


Well, I have managed to mangle this entry a few times, losing the intro along the way. Enough, she stands as she does. There are some delightful (to my senses) parts to this entry. I dedicate it to my friend Mike Crowley, for his grandmother’s and great aunties stories inspired me to find the article on Flying Serpents. Wales harbours some interesting tales, and they are not exhausted yet … 80) Of interest as well (for those who like gardens) I have our annual tour through the back yard. I should have some more pics in the next day or so as well. Poetry by Rilke. I love his work. Straight forward honest. It is enough to make me take up German again just to read it in the original. Some unusual music from one of my favourite German electronic artist, Holger Flinsch. It may not be everyones cuppa music, but I like it.

Oh yeah, the poetry you see here on Turfing is from the poetry I post on the Poetry Pole outfront….

Well, that is all for now, more soon!



On The Menu:

Early Fall in the Caer Llwydd Garden

Flinsch ´n´ Nielson – Korea Tabs (Harry Axt Remix)

Random Quotes

The Last Days Of Aliester Crowley

Sky Serpents

Rainer Maria Rilke – Poetry, Beauty & All That

Holger Flinsch & Robin Jacobs – Wanderheim (Original Mix)


Early Fall in the Caer Llwydd Garden

Here are some photos’ of what has been going on in the Caer Llwydd Garden. It has been a banner year, and continues to be so. With the late spring we were a bit worried and all. I have many pics, but I thought these were some of the best.

Fall Day

Lord, it is time. This was a very big summer.

Lay your shadows over the sundial,

and let the winds loose on the fields.

Command the last fruits to be full;

give them two more sunny days,

urge them on to fulfillment and throw

the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Who has no house now, will never build one.

Whoever is alone now, will long remain so,

Will watch, read, write long letters

and will wander in the streets, here and there

restlessly, when the leaves blow.

-Rainer Maria Rilke

Click On The Pictures…

The bees are going mad in this pic, tho they may be a bit hard to see and all…

Mary’s ingenious design using fencing. Cucumbers above, lettuce below!

The apple tree went nuts this year, 17 apples! Still a young tree, 5 or so years old…

A Datura Volunteer! More have started to bloom since.

The Salvia patch. A banner year this year!

Some of our clients gave us these chairs. They had been un-used for years, grungy, dirty, rust marks from the screws. I prepped em, sanding, filling etc. and Mary painted them. Love the colour!

The Bee house, awaiting its hive to arrive. Our Greenman birdhouse above on the ancient Cherry Tree.

The back of the house from across the yard….

Sophie with her nose in the dust. She likes to take dust baths in the late summer early autumn. Then, she likes to run through the house scattering it everywhere of course…. argh.

Buster has had a pretty good summer, except for the fleas. I guess cats immune systems get dicey like ours when they get older. He haunts the top of the table, seeking relief….

This has been a great year for sunflowers here!

I hoped you enjoyed the small tour!



Flinsch ´n´ Nielson – Korea Tabs (Harry Axt Remix)


Random Quotes:

Mickey Mantle – “If I knew I was going to live this long, I’d have taken better care of myself.”

Thomas Berger – “Why do writers write? Because it isn’t there.”

Mark Twain |- “Truth is more of a stranger than fiction.”

Bruce Barton – “When you’re through changing, you’re through.”

Russell Baker – “People seem to enjoy things more when they know a lot of other people have been left out of the pleasure.”

Isaac Newton – “If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.”

George Burns – “I look to the future because that’s where I’m going to spend the rest of my life.”

A. Whitney Brown – “I’m not a vegetarian because I love animals. I’m a vegetarian because I hate plants.”

Sir Richard Francis Burton – “The more I study religions the more I am convinced that man never worshipped anything but himself.”

William Safire – “Is sloppiness in speech caused by ignorance or apathy? I don’t know and I don’t care.”


The Last Days Of Aliester Crowley


Sky Serpents

The flying snakes that terrorised America!

Text: Jerome Clark / Images: Alex Tomlinson

One day in early 1833, a native chief approached two Western missionaries working on the Indonesian island of Sumatra to relate a bizarre experience. The chief, Tam Basar by name, swore that he and a companion had seen a snake flying through the air. Fearing that it was danger­ous, they killed it when it landed near them. When the missionaries expressed incredulity, the chief insisted that he was telling the truth. He added that the snake, 4ft (1.2m) long, had no wings, which to the listeners only made the story more far-fetched.

A year later, in January 1834, one of those missionaries, NM Ward, happened to be walking through a forest near the Pedang-Bessie River, a mile or so (1.6km) from the location where the flying snake had allegedly appeared. He and a companion stopped to study a particularly tall tree. Looking up, they were stunned to see a flying snake, exactly as described by the native informant. Four feet long and wingless, it was moving rapidly through the air from the tree they were standing under to another about 240ft (73m) away.

“Thus,” Ward wrote in the Missionary Herald of March 1841, “was I convinced of the existence of flying serpents; and, on inquiry, I found some of the natives, accustomed to the forest, aware of the fact.”

Ward went on to write that Dutch natur­alists working in the area didn’t believe him, any more than he had believed Tam Basar. The sceptics, however, were wrong. There are five species of “flying” snakes in South and Southeastern Asia; flying is in quotes because the creat­ures are actually gliding or parachuting. Herpetologists do not dispute their existence, and many photographs, films, and videos exist, as do collected specimens. What Ward saw, in other words, was nothing otherworldly.

But what about this?

In June 1873, a farmer identified as Mr Hardin, who lived a few miles east of Bonham, Texas, observed, along with workers in nearby fields, an “enormous serpent… as large and long as a telegraph pole… of a yellow striped colour”, in the words of the Bonham Enterprise. That would have been remarkable enough, except that this was floating in a cloud heading in an easterly direction. The witnesses “could see it coil itself up, turn over, and thrust forward its huge head as if striking at something, displaying the manœuvres of a genuine snake”.

At Fort Scott, Kansas, not long afterwards, at mid-morning on the 26th of the same month, two persons, unnamed but described as “reliable parties” willing to swear to it by affidavit, reported seeing a “huge serpent, apparently perfect in form” encircle the Sun. It was clearly visible for a short time, then vanished from sight.

The New York Times took note of the two stories in successive editions on 6 and 7 July. It called the Bonham sighting “the very worst case of delirium tremens on record”. In the following edition, noting the Kansas report in the wake of the equally implausible one from Texas, an editorial writer sputtered: “It will soon be time for a national prohibitory liquor law, if this sort of thing is to continue.”

Or this:

In late July or early August 1887, near Bedford, some kind of flying creature appeared in the Iowa sky. Only one of the supposed witnesses – Lee Corder – is mentioned by name. When Corder noticed it, he first took it to be a buzzard, but as it descended, he grew less confident in the identification, and in due course he became certain that it was nothing he had ever seen before. When it finally got close enough that he could study the details, the contours of a great writhing serpent, as much as 1ft (30cm) wide, with glistening scales and a forked tongue filled his vision. When it landed with a thud in a cornfield, nobody was inclined to take a closer look. Apparently, it slithered off via a more conventional mode of locomotion, since the Bedford Times-Independent account mentions nothing about the snake’s ascension.

Or this:

The late historian Mari Sandoz wrote in her Love Song to the Plains (1966): “Back in the hard times of 1857–58 there were stories of a flying serpent that hovered over a Miss­ouri River steamboat slowing for a landing. It was like a great undulating serpent, in and out of the lowering clouds, breathing fire, it seemed, with lighted streaks around the sides.” She quotes a period ballad:

“’Twas a dark night in Sixty-six

When we was layin’ steel

We seen a flyin’ engine come

Without no wing or wheel.

“It came a-roarin’ in the sky,

With lights along the side…

And scales like a serpent’s hide.”

A word of caution: Over the years, I have sought independent verification for these claims, both the flying-serpent sightings and the folk song they are said to have inspired. I have had no success. Even the deeply informed Nebraska historian and folklorist Roger Welsch has never heard of either. I am willing to believe that Sandoz, who was a respected writer in her time (best known for Cheyenne Autumn, on which John Ford’s 1964 film of the same name was based), did not make this up, but unhelpfully, she provides no source citations. Perhaps they will show up one day in the fragile, yell­owed pages of a mid-19th-century frontier newspaper.


There’s no question that sky serpents, if not as ubiquitous as sea serpents, were present – in print anyway – in the America of the 1800s, and not just in America. In earlier centuries, these things were called dragons, the subject of a body of international folklore, mythology, and even (sometimes) sighting reports. Another surviving remnant of the dragon tradition can be found in a long-forgotten genre once called the “snake story”. “Snake stories” were a kind of shorthand for “preposterous tall tales from a rural district”.

To understand how improbable snake stories were, consider that the largest documented snakes are reticulated pythons, which make their home in Southeast Asian jungles. The longest measure 30ft (9m). Poss­ibly, very rare and undocumented spec­imens may grow a little longer than that, but probably not by much. And if so, they live in places human beings rarely enter.

Any account of an American snake alleged to be more than 6–7ft (1.8–2.1m) long is suspect. Yet old newspapers are crowded with accounts that strain belief. Some random examples:

+ A serpent estimated by some to be 100ft (30m) in length frightened people in the Upper Sandusky, Ohio, from the 1850s into the 1890s.

+ A 28ft (8.5m) snake made appearances through the 1870s into the early 1880s near Milk Creek, Maryland.

+The trail of an immense, unseen serpent, discovered by fishermen in Maine’s Chain of Lakes in 1882, indicated that the creature was 90ft (27m) long and weighed 30 tons.

+ A snake 40ft (12m) long was observed near Muncie, Indiana, as it crashed through fence rails one day in August 1895.

Another modern dragon was the water monster (reports continue, of course, but in significantly reduced numbers and places). One celebrated variety was the sea serpent, reports of which thrilled and intrigued newspaper readers and sparked furious debates among scientists. If you were to credit the papers of the time, you’d have to accept that a significant percentage of North America’s lakes and rivers housed giant serpent-like reptiles. It is curious, however, that lake monster stories were so recurrent that, far from always being treated as sensational news, they were just as often mentioned with disarming casualness, sometimes merely as a passing sentence or two in a local-items column. Some of the tales, on the other hand, are so outlandish that it’s doubtful they were ever meant to be believed.


But let us return to the more or less classic dragons of 19th-century America: the ones that flew, with or without wings. In honour of their marine counterparts, we’ll call them sky serpents, though not all of them were serpents. Consider this tale, credited to lumberjacks Thomas Camp and Joseph Howard. The two were cutting wood five miles (8km) northeast of Hurleton, California, at 4 pm on 10 March 1882, when events took a decidedly odd turn. The Gridley Herald quotes their testimony from a letter they wrote to the newspaper:

“We were startled by the sound of many wings flapping in the air. Looking up, we perceived passing over our head, not more than 40ft [12m] above the tree tops, a creature that looked something like a crocodile. It was, to the best of our judgment, not less than 18ft [5.5m] in length, and would measure 2ft [61cm] across the body from the head to the tail, a distance of probably 12ft [3.6m]. The tail was about 4ft [1.2m] long, and tapered from the body to a point probably 8in [20cm] wide. The head was in the neighbourhood of 2ft in length and the jaws (for its mouth was open) could not have been less than 16in [41cm] long. On each side of the body, between the head and the tail were six wings, each projecting between 18in [46cm] or 2ft [61cm] from the body. As near as we could see, these wings were about 15in [38cm] broad and appeared

to be formed similar to a duck’s foot. On the other part of the body we counted 12 feet, six on a side.”

When Howard fired a shotgun round, the pellets rattled as if they had struck sheet iron. The creature itself uttered a “cry similar to that of a calf and bear combined but gave no sign of being inconvenienced or injured”. A “number of Chinamen” also allegedly saw the thing. The Herald concluded the account with a statement affirming that Campbell and Howard were “reliable men” who should be taken at their word.

Another story from 1882 California, however, reduces the flying crocodile to no more than a modestly curious diversion from the usual. In early February, the Los Angeles Times related “one of the most startling snake stories… told in these parts for some time”, crediting it to “the engineer and fireman who came in last night on the Southern Pacific express”. Their testimony was “corroborated by the passengers”. That testimony recounts something like a scene from a 1950s monster movie.

As the train passed Dos Palms (now a nature preserve in the Mojave Desert in extreme south-central California), the driver’s gaze turned to the east. There, what appeared to be a column of sand blowing in the wind was heading slowly westward, not far from the railroad track. It was clear that it and the train would soon cross paths. As they got closer to each other, the cause proved to be nothing as prosaic as a dust devil. It was a huge serpent, positioned vertically with its tail dragging the ground. “Propelled by two large wings near the head,” the Times said, the creature “seemed to be about 30ft [9m] long and 12in [30cm] in diameter.”

Somehow, the train accidentally clipped off part of the tail. Angered, the serpent rapidly turned and gave chase. It dived down and smashed several windows, roaring all the while and frightening the pass­engers. The pistol-packing among them fired repeatedly, but if any of the bullets found their target, there was no evidence of it. The creature flew off and was lost to view.

“This is vouched for by everyone who was on the train,” according to the Times, “and is given for what it is worth.” There was no follow-up, nor was there a single named witness. Good story, though.

It’s uncertain whether the improbably monikered Jefferson Rawbone, “a well-to-do farmer living near St. Louis”, really did claim (in April 1890) to have seen a host of “white snakes with pink eyes and yellow wings”, or whether this was some correspondent’s idea of a joke about the effects of excessive alcohol consumption. The newspaper account is short and devoted as much to ridicule as to specifics.

Three years earlier, the Pittsburgh Chronicle gave straightforward treatment to a sighting said to have been made by workers at a pipe mill in Etna, an industrial settlement across the river from that Pennsylvania city, in mid-September 1887. As a number of men loitered outside the factory, welder William Stewart happened to glance up into the sky, where a strange sight at (so he estimated) 2,000ft (610m) altitude caught his attention. It looked like a snake – perhaps, he guessed, 5ft (1.5m) long. Understandably, he had a hard time crediting his senses, so he said nothing. But when it came closer, he alerted his companions to its presence. At this point, it was only about 500ft (150m) away, and at this distance it proved to be at least 25ft (7.6m) in length. According to the Chronicle:

“It was jet black and in thickness looked like an ordinary keg. The ponderous jaws of the reptile were frequently seen to open, from which emerged a large tongue. It sailed in a regular course, but when the jaws opened it then took a downward course and seemed as though it would fall to the ground below. On the descent the mouth remained open, and after a fall of about 100ft [30m], the jaws would close and the snake would raise its head and slowly wend it way up to its former height.

“The course of the monster air snake was in a northwesterly direction. During its stay of about an hour it seemed to long for a visit to every part of Etna. From the mill it moved like a snake on land westward about a mile [1.6km] to a point on the Allegheny river, from where it took a back course to the place where it was first seen by the naked eye. From there it took an upward direction and it was watched until it disappeared behind the mill, sailing somewhat toward the southeast.”


Several reports appear in newspapers in the Carolinas over a span of two and a half decades, from 1880 to 1904. The first I have found, if relevant only in a broad way, appears in a North Carolina account, published in the 3 December 1880 issue of the Statesville Landmark under the bland heading “Meteoritic Displays”. Though it is merely unusual, not anomalous, it seems curiously prescient, given the odd phenomena that would in time make themselves known in Statesville and environs:

“A meteor of surpassing brilliance was seen about midnight [on 1 December]… almost eight miles [13km] east of Statesville. It made everything very light about the presence of the observer. It had the shape of a huge spotted serpent, 75 yards [70m] long, as large as a pine tree, with eyes very distinct and mouth open toward the north pole. About 10ft [3m] back from the head it seemed to rest on the sky and the head part to be elevated, then a little further back it was raised in a kind of loop, and the tail reached down toward the tops of the trees. It was seen by the man and his family about a half hour, and then it gradually passed away. The observer thought that it portended some terrible calamity, and was very much frightened”.

It was, however, the New York Times on which we must depend for the first published account – at least the first one so far unearthed – of a Carolinas-based sky serpent in the classic sense (though the story was widely reprinted in newspapers throughout the country in the following days.) A short article from 27 May 1888 tells the story of three Darlington County, South Carolina, sisters who, while walking in the woods, spotted a hissing 15ft (4.6m) serpent sailing above the treetops. The creature was moving at the speed of a hawk or buzzard. The Times noted that other residents of the area had reported the same phenomenon earlier in the day, though it provided no details.

In isolation, this story doesn’t mean much, though it should be stated that even in those days the Times was a more sober and reliable newspaper than many of its contemporaries. In other words, it did not knowingly print outright fiction masquerading as fact. Not that – however you look at it – sky serpents make much sense from any point of view.

In any event, such phenomena continued to be seen, or at least reported. Continued digging through newspaper archives will eventually recover the other accounts that undoubtedly exist. In July 1897, the Charleston News and Courier mentioned the most recent sighting of “the flying snake” – not, note, “a flying snake”. It was sighted twice on 11 July near Newman Swamp, 10 miles (16km) south of Hartsville, at six and seven o’clock, though the newspaper writer neglects to inform us if that’s supposed to be am or pm.

The second witness, identified as Henry Polson, is quoted: “The monster was low down, just above the tree tops, had its head thrown back in a position to strike and was just floating through the atmosphere lengthwise.” It could have been anywhere from 25 to 40ft (7.6–12m) in length. Allegedly, the creature was also observed, in the News and Courier’s words, “near Chesterfield court house and also in several towns in North Carolina”.

The skies of mid-1897 America were crowded with still-unexplained mystery airships, but apparently there was also room for a sky serpent or two. One was recalled 64 years letter in a letter composed by lifelong Detroit resident John B Rosa (eight at the time of the sighting) and published in the Detroit News for 15 July 1961:

“Going down Grand River for my papers, about 4 in the morning… the policeman I was with and I saw an object that looked to be about 3ft [90cm] in diameter. It was about 1,000ft [300m] in the air and was heading east. It was a silvery colour and had a tail about three blocks long. It travelled like those big sea serpents you read about skipping over the top of the water. It made a low hissing noise that we could just hear. My dad, who was leaving our home for work, also saw it as it seemed to pass right over our house…”

In any event, the next Carolina sighting is only briefly detailed, sadly, since it sounds even more interesting than most. On the afternoon of 16 September 1904, in the countryside near Troutman, North Carolina, Mrs John B Lippard and her child­ren saw “30 or more large snakes sailing through the air” over their farm. Each was about 5ft (1.5m) long and 4–5in (10–13cm) wide. “They watched the snakes sail around and alight in a piece of thickety pine woods… Most assuredly these people saw something.” (Statesville Landmark,

20 Sept)

Presumably the good, sober Mormon folk did not invite a serpent into Eden, Utah, but on 20 July 1894, one flew over their town. It was around sundown when an immense flying object – some 60ft (18m) from head to tail, 18in (46cm) in diameter – sailed from the mountains to the north over the town. It did not wriggle but floated tranquilly through the sky, at a speed estim­ated to be around 40mph (64km/h).

After descending to 20–30ft (6–9m) above ground near a store on the edge of a park, it swerved left and “disappeared up over the mountains in the direction of Middle Fork canyon. The movement of the monster was like a snake in water and it seemed to acquire speed without any effort whatever. Its skin seemed to be formed of scales like an alligator,” as the Ogden Standard related in its 23 July edition. It went on to assert that the account was “vouched for by a number of Eden’s reliable men who saw the grim specimen. It was seen by half the inhabitants and created great excitement.”


For some reason, the wildest sky-serpent tales come out of California. In 1895, the St Louis Republic opened a long dispatch with these alarming words:

“A number of persons living in the vicinity of Reedley, Fresno County, Cal., all reputable citizens, too, swear that they have seen and hunted two dragons with wings 15ft [4.6m] long, bodies without covering of hair or feathers, head broad, bills long and wide, eyes not less than 4in [10cm] in diameter, and with feet like those of an alligator somewhat, though more circular in form. They have five toes on each foot, with a strong claw on each, and its tracks are 11in [28cm] wide and 10in [25cm] long.”

At least the writer doesn’t feel the need to employ euphemisms. He calls them what they were: good old-fashioned dragons. In any event, so goes the story (involving monsters slightly reminiscent of the one in the 1882 California tall tale already recited), the creatures were spotted first southeast of Selma early on the evening of 11 July. Their “peculiar cries and the rushing of their mammoth wings” continued to be heard even after they were no longer visible.

On 13 July, the creatures feasted on farmer AX Simmons’s chickens. Well, maybe, maybe not. The account is vague on whether they were actually seen doing so; possibly more to the point, the account says that on examination the teeth marks on the victims “resemble those made by a very large dog”; the logical inference being that they were made by a very large dog. Anyway, on the evening of the 19th, picnickers in a buggy saw the dragons pass overhead, vis­ible in the moonlight and generating serious unease with their eerie wails and snapping jaws. Two hog farmers near Selma saw the creatures under a bridge. The dragons rose out of the water and flew so low over the men (said to be Major Henry Haight and Harvey Lemon) that they keenly felt the backwash from the wings.

Soon a six-man party commenced a night-long vigil, hoping to capture or kill the monsters, but the hours passed uneventfully. Then in the morning one Emanuel Jacobs came into town to report his discovery of dead ducks, apparently slaughtered by the dragons, at High Valley, in the mountains four miles (6.4km) away. Two of the party, JD Daniels and a Mr Templeton, returned and hid themselves in holes they’d dug near a pond where the ducks had been killed. What happened next is attributed to Daniels:

“About 11 o’clock the cries were heard in the direction of King’s River, seeming two or three miles [3.2–4.8km] away. The ominous yells drew nearer, and in a few moments we heard the rush and roar of wings, so hideous that our hair almost stood on end. The two dragons came swooping down and circled round and round the pond in rapid whirls, screaming hideously all the while. We had a good view of them while [they were] flying.

“They passed within a few yards of us and their eyes were plainly visible. We could also see that instead of bills like birds, they had snouts resembling that of the alligator, and their teeth could be seen as they snapped their jaws while passing… They were probably examining [the pond to determine] if any food was to be had, such as ducks, mud hens and fish. At length they came down with a fearful plunge into the pond, and the mud and water flew as though a tree had fallen into it. They dived around in the water, and as nearly as we could judge at the distance of 30 yards [27m], they were something over 6ft [1.8m] long, and while wading through the water they looked not unlike gigantic frogs. Their wings were folded and appeared like large knobs on their backs. Their eyes were the most visible parts and seemed all the time wide open and staring. They were very active and darted out among the tulles and rushes catching mud hens…

“As soon as we saw a good opportunity, we levelled our guns at the one nearest us and fired. One rose in the air, yelled and flew away. Every stroke of the wing showed great strength. The other floundered about in the water until it reached the end of the pond, when it crawled out, dragging along its wounded wing after it, and started across the plain. We loaded our guns and gave chase. We soon lost sight of it, for it went much faster than we could. However, we were able to follow by its dismal cries in the distance. We followed it half a mile [800m], when it passed out of our hearing. The next day a company went in pursuit and trailed it by the blood in the grass. It was followed three miles [4.8km] to Jumper slough, which was entered, and all trace of it was lost. When it passed down the bank it left several well-formed tracks in the mud. One of the best was cut out with a spade, and after drying was taken to Selma, where it is in the possession of Mr Snodgrass.”

Ah, yes – Mr Snodgrass, who hereafter vanishes into the mists of history. Old newspapers are full of Mr Snodgrass and his kind, last seen in possession of Earth-shattering revelations and secrets…


As remarked at the outset of this excursion into the deeply improbable, sky serpents neither began nor (entirely) ended in 19th-century America. Even then, reports wriggled or slithered or floated in from elsewhere – Australia and India, for example – and others, I have no doubt, wait to be uncovered from yet more locations foreign and domestic.

Some things resist explanation, even theory. Some of the stories are flat-out fabrications, clearly, while others… well, who knows? There are no serpents in the sky, of course, in any herpetological sense – fortunately for us confirmed herpetophobes – any more than there are other impossible creatures which nonetheless apparently sane, honest souls perversely insist on reporting.

About such things perhaps all we can say is that – in some paradoxical fashion – the certainty of their nonexistence can provide us with no assurance that they cannot be experienced. Those of us who quail at an encounter with a harmless garter snake may not want to dwell on that prospect.


– Rainer Maria Rilke –

Poetry, Beauty & All That

Along the Sun-Drenched Roadside

Along the sun-drenched roadside, from the great

hollow half-treetrunk, which for generations

has been a trough, renewing in itself

an inch or two of rain, I satisfy

my thirst: taking the water’s pristine coolness

into my whole body through my wrists.

Drinking would be too powerful, too clear;

but this unhurried gesture of restraint

fills my whole consciousness with shining water.

Thus, if you came, I could be satisfied

to let my hand rest lightly, for a moment,

lightly, upon your shoulder or your breast.

A Walk

My eyes already touch the sunny hill.

going far ahead of the road I have begun.

So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;

it has inner light, even from a distance-

and charges us, even if we do not reach it,

into something else, which, hardly sensing it,

we already are; a gesture waves us on

answering our own wave…

but what we feel is the wind in our faces

Before Summer Rain

Suddenly, from all the green around you,

something-you don’t know what-has disappeared;

you feel it creeping closer to the window,

in total silence. From the nearby wood

you hear the urgent whistling of a plover,

reminding you of someone’s Saint Jerome:

so much solitude and passion come

from that one voice, whose fierce request the downpour

will grant. The walls, with their ancient portraits, glide

away from us, cautiously, as though

they weren’t supposed to hear what we are saying.

And reflected on the faded tapestries now;

the chill, uncertain sunlight of those long

childhood hours when you were so afraid.

Falling Stars

Do you remember still the falling stars

that like swift horses through the heavens raced

and suddenly leaped across the hurdles

of our wishes–do you recall? And we

did make so many! For there were countless numbers

of stars: each time we looked above we were

astounded by the swiftness of their daring play,

while in our hearts we felt safe and secure

watching these brilliant bodies disintegrate,

knowing somehow we had survived their fall.


Holger Flinsch & Robin Jacobs – Wanderheim (Original Mix)