Yuletide Wonders!

When my Beloved appears,
With what eye do I see Him?

With His eye, not with mine,
For none sees Him except Himself
– Ibn Arabi

Blessings On This Winter Night!
Family and friends gathering, a cup of mulled wine, beauty, sheer beauty.
Here is something to relieve you from the silly season. Poetry, art, myth and a showing of my son’s film, Amour Sincere.

Gwyllm
~~
On The Menu:
Amour Sincere
The Links
Legendary Pink Dots – Disturbance
Beira, Queen of Winter
W.H. Auden Poems
The Legendary Pink Dots – Golden Dawn
Art: LucienLevy-Dhurmer
~~~~~~
Rowan’s “Amour Sincere”
This is available for viewing for a short time only… G

Amour Sincere

Starring:
Meredith Adelaide
Grant Law
Directed by Rowan Spiers-Floyd
Dance Choreography: Ally Yancy
Director of Photography: Jacob Rosen

This is the “Directors Cut”. Using the music that inspired the choreography. An original score for the film is in the works, which will be used for actual release.

For Updates and More: Trifecta!

~~~~~~
The Links:
Cabin Porn
The Accidental Universe
The Education Of An Amphibian
~~~~~~

Legendary Pink Dots – Disturbance

~~~~~~


Wonder
Wonder,
A garden among the flames!

My heart can take on any form:
A meadow for gazelles,
A cloister for monks,
For the idols, sacred ground,
Ka’ba for the circling pilgrim,
The tables of the Torah,
The scrolls of the Quran.

My creed is Love;
Wherever its caravan turns along the way,
That is my belief,
My faith.

– Ibn Arabi
~~~~~~

Beira, Queen of Winter

Dark Beira was the mother of all the gods and goddesses in Scotland. She was of great height and very old, and everyone feared her. When roused to anger she was as fierce as the biting north wind and harsh as the tempest-stricken sea. Each winter she reigned as Queen of the Four Red Divisions of the world, and none disputed her sway. But when the sweet spring season drew nigh, her subjects began to rebel against her and to long for the coming of the Summer King, Angus of the White Steed, and Bride, his beautiful queen, who were loved by all, for they were the bringers of plenty and of bright and happy days. It enraged Beira greatly to find her power passing away, and she tried her utmost to prolong the winter season by raising spring storms and sending blighting frost to kill early flowers and keep the grass from growing.

Beira lived for hundreds and hundreds of years. The reason she did not die of old age was because, at the beginning of every spring, she drank the magic waters of the Well of Youth which bubbles up in the Green Island of the West. This was a floating island where summer was the only season, and the trees were always bright with blossom and laden with fruit. It drifted about on the silver tides of the blue Atlantic, and sometimes appeared off the western coasts of Ireland and sometimes close to the Hebrides. Many bold mariners have steered their galleys up and down the ocean, searching for Green Island in vain. On a calm morning they might sail past its shores and yet never know it was near at hand, for oft-times it lay hidden in a twinkling mist. Men have caught glimpses of it from the shore, but while they gazed on its beauties with eyes of wonder, it vanished suddenly from sight by sinking beneath the waves like the setting sun. Beira, however, always knew where to find Green Island when the time came for her to visit it.

The waters of the Well of Youth are most potent when the days begin to grow longer, and most potent of all on the first of the lengthening days of spring. Beira always visited the island on the night before the first lengthening day–that is, on the last night of her reign as Queen of Winter. All alone in the darkness she sat beside the Well of Youth, waiting for the dawn. When the first faint beam of light appeared in the eastern sky, she drank the water as it bubbled fresh from a crevice in the rock. It was necessary that she should drink of this magic water before any bird visited the well and before any dog barked. If a bird drank first, or a dog barked ere she began to drink, dark old Beira would crumble into dust.

As soon as Beira tasted the magic water, in silence and alone, she began to grow young again. She left the island and, returning to Scotland, fell into a magic sleep. When, at length, she awoke, in bright sunshine, she rose up as a beautiful girl with long hair yellow as buds of broom, cheeks red as rowan berries, and blue eyes that sparkled like the summer sea in sunshine. Then she went to and fro through Scotland, clad in a robe of green and crowned with a chaplet of bright flowers of many hues. No fairer goddess was to be found in all the land, save Bride, the peerless Queen of Summer.

As each month went past, however, Beira aged quickly. She reached full womanhood in midsummer, and when autumn came on her brows wrinkled and her beauty began to fade. When the season of winter returned once again, she became an old and withered hag, and began to reign as the fierce Queen Beira.

Often on stormy nights in early winter she wandered about, singing this sorrowful song:–
~~~~~~

W.H. Auden Poems

As I Walked Out One Evening

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
“Love has no ending.

“I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,

“I’ll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

“The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.”

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
“O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

“In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

“In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

“Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver’s brilliant bow.

“O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you’ve missed.

“The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

“Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.

“O look, look in the mirror?
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

“O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.”

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
~~

The More Loving One

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
~~

Voltaire At Ferney

Almost happy now, he looked at his estate.
An exile making watches glanced up as he passed,
And went on working; where a hospital was rising fast
A joiner touched his cap; an agent came to tell
Some of the trees he’d planted were progressing well.
The white alps glittered. It was summer. He was very great.

Far off in Paris, where his enemies
Whsipered that he was wicked, in an upright chair
A blind old woman longed for death and letters. He would write
“Nothing is better than life.” But was it? Yes, the fight
Against the false and the unfair
Was always worth it. So was gardening. Civilise.

Cajoling, scolding, screaming, cleverest of them all,
He’d had the other children in a holy war
Against the infamous grown-ups, and, like a child, been sly
And humble, when there was occassion for
The two-faced answer or the plain protective lie,
But, patient like a peasant, waited for their fall.

And never doubted, like D’Alembert, he would win:
Only Pascal was a great enemy, the rest
Were rats already poisoned; there was much, though, to be done,
And only himself to count upon.
Dear Diderot was dull but did his best;
Rousseau, he’d always known, would blubber and give in.

So, like a sentinel, he could not sleep. The night was full of wrong,
Earthquakes and executions. Soon he would be dead,
And still all over Europe stood the horrible nurses
Itching to boil their children. Only his verses
Perhaps could stop them: He must go on working: Overhead
The uncomplaining stars composed their lucid song.
~~

In Memory Of W.B. Yeats

I

He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
The snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

II

You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.

III

Earth, receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.

In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.

Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice.

With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress.

In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountains start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
~~~~~~

The Legendary Pink Dots – Golden Dawn

~~~~~~
While the sun’s eye rules my sight,
love sits as sultan in my soul.
His army has made camp in my heart –
passion and yearning, affliction and grief.
When his camp took possession of me
I cried out as the flame of desire
burned in my entrails.
Love stole my sleep, love has bewildered me,
love kills me unjustly, and I am helpless,
love has burdened me with more than I can bear
so that I bequeath him a soul and no body.
– Ibn Arabi

The Longest Night

Perhaps the shortest post for the shortest day of the year. I hope this finds you with loved ones on our Solstice Night. Soon, the sun shall indeed return.

Much Love,
Gwyllm

On The Menu:
Azam Ali’s NAMI NAMI
To Juan at the Winter Solstice
Conjure One & Azam Ali – Nargis
~~~~
Azam Ali’s NAMI NAMI

~~~~

To Juan at the Winter Solstice

There is one story and one story only
That will prove worth your telling,
Whether are learned bard or gifted child;
To it all lines or lesser gauds belong
That startle with their shining
Such common stories as they stray into.

Is it of trees you tell, their months and virtues,
Or strange beasts that beset you,
Of birds that croak at you the Triple will?
Or of the Zodiac and how slow it turns
Below the Boreal Crown,
Prison of all true kings that ever reigned?

Water to water, ark again to ark,
From woman back to woman:
So each new victim treads unfalteringly
The never altered circuit of his fate,
Bringing twelve peers as witness
Both to his starry rise and starry fall.

Or is it of the Virgin’s silver beauty,
All fish below the thighs?
She in her left hand bears a leafy quince;
When, with her right she crooks a finger smiling,
How may the King hold back?
Royally then he barters life for love.

Or of the undying snake from chaos hatched,
Whose coils contain the ocean,
Into whose chops with naked sword he springs,
Then in black water, tangled by the reeds,
Battles three days and nights,
To be spewed up beside her scalloped shore?

Much snow is falling, winds roar hollowly,
The owl hoots from the elder,
Fear in your heart cries to the loving-cup:
Sorrow to sorrow as the sparks fly upward.
The log groans and confesses
There is one story and one story only.

Dwell on her graciousness, dwell on her smiling,
Do not forget what flowers
The great boar trampled down in ivy time.
Her brow was creamy as the crested wave,
Her sea-blue eyes were wild
But nothing promised that is not performed.

Robert Graves

~~~~
Conjure One & Azam Ali – Nargis

~~~~

The End Of Darkness

It Is Shining… It Is Shining…

990th:
This is my 990th entry for Turfing. I was going to speed it up over the last month and get it to click at a 1000 on the Solstice, but I fell behind. I need inspiration to do these, and the assembly time sometimes is quite large. I have 7 entries sitting in the docking bay waiting to go if I so choose, but they all need polishing.

I hope this finds you and your friends, and family well in this season of emerging light.

Blessings,
Gwyllm
~~

On The Menu:
The Links
Mike Maki
Trobar de Morte – Los duendes del reloj
The Fire-Festivals of Europe: The Midwinter Fires
Stéphane Mallarmé Poems
Trobar de Morte – Yule: The End of The Darkness

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Links:

The earth mother of all neolithic discoveries
Heavy Rainfall Can Cause Huge Earthquakes
This Is So Cool! U.S. Will Not Finance New Research on Chimps
The top ancient mysteries of 2011
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mike Maki
Mike Maki, a friend of ours, and of other members of our close and extended family recently was arrested by the DEA up in Olympia for psilocybin mushroom distribution. Please visit his blog, read his story and if so moved, distribute this information and try to help him and others who are caught by these draconian laws.

Mike is well loved in several communities, he does good work, and has helped many people over the years. He is indeed a keeper, and we want to keep him free, and in our community.

Mike, we Love You.

G

Mushrooms, The Law, and A Friend
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Trobar de Morte – Los duendes del reloj

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Fire-Festivals of Europe: The Midwinter Fires


IF THE HEATHEN of ancient Europe celebrated, as we have good reason to believe, the season of Midsummer with a great festival of fire, of which the traces have survived in many places down to our own time, it is natural to suppose that they should have observed with similar rites the corresponding season of Midwinter; for Midsummer and Midwinter, or, in more technical language, the summer solstice and the winter solstice, are the two great turningpoints in the sun’s apparent course through the sky, and from the standpoint of primitive man nothing might seem more appropriate than to kindle fires on earth at the two moments when the fire and heat of the great luminary in heaven begin to wane or to wax.

In modern Christendom the ancient fire-festival of the winter solstice appears to survive, or to have survived down to recent years, in the old custom of the Yule log, clog, or block, as it was variously called in England. The custom was widespread in Europe, but seems to have flourished especially in England, France, and among the South Slavs; at least the fullest accounts of the custom come from these quarters. That the Yule log was only the winter counterpart of the midsummer bonfire, kindled within doors instead of in the open air on account of the cold and inclement weather of the season, was pointed out long ago by our English antiquary John Brand; and the view is supported by the many quaint superstitions attaching to the Yule log, superstitions which have no apparent connexion with Christianity but carry their heathen origin plainly stamped upon them. But while the two solstitial celebrations were both festivals of fire, the necessity or desirability of holding the winter celebration within doors lent it the character of a private or domestic festivity, which contrasts strongly with the publicity of the summer celebration, at which the people gathered on some open space or conspicuous height, kindled a huge bonfire in common, and danced and made merry round it together.

Down to about the middle of the nineteenth century the old rite of the Yule log was kept up in some parts of Central Germany. Thus in the valleys of the Sieg and Lahn the Yule log, a heavy block of oak, was fitted into the floor of the hearth, where, though it glowed under the fire, it was hardly reduced to ashes within a year. When the new log was laid next year, the remains of the old one were ground to powder and strewed over the fields during the Twelve Nights, which was supposed to promote the growth of the crops. In some villages of Westphalia, the practice was to withdraw the Yule log (Christbrand) from the fire so soon as it was slightly charred; it was then kept carefully to be replaced on the fire whenever a thunderstorm broke, because the people believed that lightning would not strike a house in which the Yule log was smouldering. In other villages of Westphalia the old custom was to tie up the Yule log in the last sheaf cut at harvest.

In several provinces of France, and particularly in Provence, the custom of the Yule log or tréfoir, as it was called in many places, was long observed. A French writer of the seventeenth century denounces as superstitious “the belief that a log called the tréfoir or Christmas brand, which you put on the fire for the first time on Christmas Eve and continue to put on the fire for a little while every day till Twelfth Night, can, if kept under the bed, protect the house for a whole year from fire and thunder; that it can prevent the inmates from having chilblains on their heels in winter; that it can cure the cattle of many maladies; that if a piece of it be steeped in the water which cows drink it helps them to calve; and lastly that if the ashes of the log be strewn on the fields it can save the wheat from mildew.”

In some parts of Flanders and France the remains of the Yule log were regularly kept in the house under a bed as a protection against thunder and lightning; in Berry, when thunder was heard, a member of the family used to take a piece of the log and throw it on the fire, which was believed to avert the lightning. Again, in Perigord, the charcoal and ashes are carefully collected and kept for healing swollen glands; the part of the trunk which has not been burnt in the fire is used by ploughmen to make the wedge for their plough, because they allege that it causes the seeds to thrive better; and the women keep pieces of it till Twelfth Night for the sake of their chickens. Some people imagine that they will have as many chickens as there are sparks that fly out of the brands of the log when they shake them; and others place the extinct brands under the bed to drive away vermin. In various parts of France the charred log is thought to guard the house against sorcery as well as against lightning.

In England the customs and beliefs concerning the Yule log used to be similar. On the night of Christmas Eve, says the antiquary John Brand, “our ancestors were wont to light up candles of an uncommon size, called Christmas Candles, and lay a log of wood upon the fire, called a Yule-clog or Christmas-block, to illuminate the house, and, as it were, to turn night into day.” The old custom was to light the Yule log with a fragment of its predecessor, which had been kept throughout the year for the purpose; where it was so kept, the fiend could do no mischief. The remains of the log were also supposed to guard the house against fire and lightning.

To this day the ritual of bringing in the Yule log is observed with much solemnity among the Southern Slavs, especially the Serbians. The log is usually a block of oak, but sometimes of olive or beech. They seem to think that they will have as many calves, lambs, pigs, and kids as they strike sparks out of the burning log. Some people carry a piece of the log out to the fields to protect them against hail. In Albania down to recent years it was a common custom to burn a Yule log at Christmas, and the ashes of the fire were scattered on the fields to make them fertile. The Huzuls, a Slavonic people of the Carpathians, kindle fire by the friction of wood on Christmas Eve (Old Style, the fifth of January) and keep it burning till Twelfth Night.

It is remarkable how common the belief appears to have been that the remains of the Yule log, if kept throughout the year, had power to protect the house against fire and especially against lightning. As the Yule log was frequently of oak, it seems possible that this belief may be a relic of the old Aryan creed which associated the oak-tree with the god of thunder. Whether the curative and fertilising virtues ascribed to the ashes of the Yule log, which are supposed to heal cattle as well as men, to enable cows to calve, and to promote the fruitfulness of the earth, may not be derived from the same ancient source, is a question which deserves to be considered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stéphane Mallarmé Poems:

 

The Clown Chastised

Eyes, lakes of my simple passion to be reborn
Other than as the actor who gestures with his hand
As with a pen, and evokes the foul soot of the lamps,
Here’s a window in the walls of cloth I’ve torn.

With legs and arms a limpid treacherous swimmer
With endless leaps, disowning the sickness
Hamlet! It’s as if I began to build in the ocean depths
A thousand tombs: to vanish still virgin there.

Mirthful gold of a cymbal beaten with fists,
The sun all at once strikes the pure nakedness
That breathed itself out of my coolness of nacre,

Rancid night of the skin, when you swept over me,
Not knowing, ungrateful one, that it was, this make-up,
My whole anointing, drowned in ice-water perfidy.

The Poem’s Gift

I bring you the child of an Idumean night!
Black, with pale naked bleeding wings, Light
Through the glass, burnished with gold and spice,
Through panes, still dismal, alas, and cold as ice,
Hurled itself, daybreak, against the angelic lamp.
Palm-leaves! And when it showed this relic, damp,
To that father attempting an inimical smile,
The solitude shuddered, azure, sterile.
O lullaby, with your daughter, and the innocence
Of your cold feet, greet a terrible new being:
A voice where harpsichords and viols linger,
Will you press that breast, with your withered finger,
From which Woman flows in Sibylline whiteness to
Those lips starved by the air’s virgin blue?

L’Apres-midi d’un Faune

Eclogue

The Faun

These nymphs, I would perpetuate them.
So bright
Their crimson flesh that hovers there, light
In the air drowsy with dense slumbers.
Did I love a dream?
My doubt, mass of ancient night, ends extreme
In many a subtle branch, that remaining the true
Woods themselves, proves, alas, that I too
Offered myself, alone, as triumph, the false ideal of roses.

Let’s see….
or if those women you note
Reflect your fabulous senses’ desire!
Faun, illusion escapes from the blue eye,
Cold, like a fount of tears, of the most chaste:
But the other, she, all sighs, contrasts you say
Like a breeze of day warm on your fleece?
No! Through the swoon, heavy and motionless
Stifling with heat the cool morning’s struggles
No water, but that which my flute pours, murmurs
To the grove sprinkled with melodies: and the sole breeze
Out of the twin pipes, quick to breathe
Before it scatters the sound in an arid rain,
Is unstirred by any wrinkle of the horizon,
The visible breath, artificial and serene,
Of inspiration returning to heights unseen.

O Sicilian shores of a marshy calm
My vanity plunders vying with the sun,
Silent beneath scintillating flowers, RELATE
‘That I was cutting hollow reeds here tamed
By talent: when, on the green gold of distant
Verdure offering its vine to the fountains,
An animal whiteness undulates to rest:
And as a slow prelude in which the pipes exist
This flight of swans, no, of Naiads cower
Or plunge…’
Inert, all things burn in the tawny hour
Not seeing by what art there fled away together
Too much of hymen desired by one who seeks there
The natural A: then I’ll wake to the primal fever
Erect, alone, beneath the ancient flood, light’s power,
Lily! And the one among you all for artlessness.

Other than this sweet nothing shown by their lip, the kiss
That softly gives assurance of treachery,
My breast, virgin of proof, reveals the mystery
Of the bite from some illustrious tooth planted;
Let that go! Such the arcane chose for confidant,
The great twin reed we play under the azure ceiling,
That turning towards itself the cheek’s quivering,
Dreams, in a long solo, so we might amuse
The beauties round about by false notes that confuse
Between itself and our credulous singing;
And create as far as love can, modulating,
The vanishing, from the common dream of pure flank
Or back followed by my shuttered glances,
Of a sonorous, empty and monotonous line.

Try then, instrument of flights, O malign
Syrinx by the lake where you await me, to flower again!
I, proud of my murmur, intend to speak at length
Of goddesses: and with idolatrous paintings
Remove again from shadow their waists’ bindings:
So that when I’ve sucked the grapes’ brightness
To banish a regret done away with by my pretence,
Laughing, I raise the emptied stem to the summer’s sky
And breathing into those luminous skins, then I,
Desiring drunkenness, gaze through them till evening.

O nymphs, let’s rise again with many memories.
‘My eye, piercing the reeds, speared each immortal
Neck that drowns its burning in the water
With a cry of rage towards the forest sky;
And the splendid bath of hair slipped by
In brightness and shuddering, O jewels!
I rush there: when, at my feet, entwine (bruised
By the languor tasted in their being-two’s evil)
Girls sleeping in each other’s arms’ sole peril:
I seize them without untangling them and run
To this bank of roses wasting in the sun
All perfume, hated by the frivolous shade
Where our frolic should be like a vanished day.’

I adore you, wrath of virgins, O shy
Delight of the nude sacred burden that glides
Away to flee my fiery lip, drinking
The secret terrors of the flesh like quivering
Lightning: from the feet of the heartless one
To the heart of the timid, in a moment abandoned
By innocence wet with wild tears or less sad vapours.
‘Happy at conquering these treacherous fears
My crime’s to have parted the dishevelled tangle
Of kisses that the gods kept so well mingled:
For I’d scarcely begun to hide an ardent laugh
In one girl’s happy depths (holding back
With only a finger, so that her feathery candour
Might be tinted by the passion of her burning sister,
The little one, naïve and not even blushing)
Than from my arms, undone by vague dying,
This prey, forever ungrateful, frees itself and is gone,
Not pitying the sob with which I was still drunk.’

No matter! Others will lead me towards happiness
By the horns on my brow knotted with many a tress:
You know, my passion, how ripe and purple already
Every pomegranate bursts, murmuring with the bees:
And our blood, enamoured of what will seize it,
Flows for all the eternal swarm of desire yet.
At the hour when this wood with gold and ashes heaves
A feast’s excited among the extinguished leaves:
Etna! It’s on your slopes, visited by Venus
Setting in your lava her heels so artless,
When a sad slumber thunders where the flame burns low.

I hold the queen!

O certain punishment…
No, but the soul
Void of words, and this heavy body,
Succumb to noon’s proud silence slowly:
With no more ado, forgetting blasphemy, I
Must sleep, lying on the thirsty sand, and as I
Love, open my mouth to wine’s true constellation!

Farewell to you, both: I go to see the shadow you have become.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TROBAR DE MORTE – Yule : The End of The Darkness

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Into The Red Night…

(Cities Of The Red Night – Ba’dan – Gwyllm)

So… this started out political and kinda jumped away from that.

It really started with a listening to Bombino’s excellent work.(thank you Morgan!) Bombino, who’ll be performing in Portland Saturday Nite at Dante’s! Alas, I shall not see him, but for you my friends I have included 3 songs. He is in my estimation one of the best of the emerging singers and guitarist from the Tuareg peoples.. As I listened to him, I swore that the spirit that inhabits this young man is an ancient and wise one. Just listen to the way his playing and vocals work together. Beautiful.

We have in this editon a brief visit with Meher Baba for quotes, someone who is largely neglected now days. A great sage, and one that people should be aware of. There are stories from Lord Dunsany who is a great favourite of mine, and Poetry from the great Arthur Symon as well.

The art is part of my “Red Cities Of The Night”. a nod to William Burroughs and his Trilogy. These and some of the others may appear in The Invisible College. You saw them here first!

So here is to trying to keep the Acadian Stream flowing, and pushing on intoa long Mid Winter’s Night

I hope this finds you well, and full of light.

Blessings,
Gwyllm

On The Menu:
Meher Baba Quotes
All You Need Is
Bombino, “Tar Hani” Live
Lord Dunsany: Two Tales
Bombino Concert, Agadez
Arthur Symon – Poet
Bombino (Omar Moctar) – Yamidinine
Art: Gwyllm
~~~~~~~
Meher Baba Quotes:

“Don’t Worry Be Happy”

“No amount of prayer or meditation can do what helping others can do.”

“I love everybody. Each one plays the role they have to play…”

“There are very few things in the mind which eat up as much energy as worry. It is one of the most difficult things not to worry about anything. Worry is experienced when things go wrong, but in relation to past happenings it is idle merely to wish that they might have been otherwise. The frozen past is what it is, and no amount of worrying is going to make it other than what it has been. But the limited ego-mind identifies itself with its past, gets entangled with it and keeps alive the pangs of frustrated desires. Thus worry continues to grow into the mental life of man until the ego-mind is burdened by the past. Worry is also experienced in relation to the future when this future is expected to be disagreeable in some way. In this case it seeks to justify itself as a necessary part of the attempt to prepare for coping with the anticipated situations. But, things can never be helped merely by worrying. Besides, many of the things which are anticipated never turn up, or if they do occur, they turn out to be much more acceptable than they were expected to be. Worry is the product of feverish imagination working under the stimulus of desires. It is a living through of sufferings which are mostly our own creation. Worry has never done anyone any good, and it is very much worse than mere dissipation of psychic energy, for it substantially curtails the joy and fullness of life.”
― Discourses

“The book that I shall make people read
is the book of the heart,
which holds the key
to the mystery of life”

“Love God and find him within – the only treasure worth finding.”

“…What will the present chaos lead to? How will it all end? It can only end in one way. Mankind will be sick of it all….”

“Mastery in Servitude”
~~~~~~~
All You Need Is:
There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done.
Nothing you can sing that can’t be sung.
Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game
It’s easy. (“All You Need Is”)

~~~~~~
Bombino, “Tar Hani” Live

~~~~~

The Giant Poppy
Author: Lord Dunsany

I dreamt that I went back to the hills I knew, whence on a clear day you can see the walls of Ilion and the plains of Roncesvalles. There used to be woods along the tops of those hills with clearings in them where the moonlight fell, and there when no one watched the fairies danced.

But there were no woods when I went back, no fairies nor distant glimpse of Ilion or plains of Roncesvalles, only one giant poppy waved in the wind, and as it waved it hummed “Remember not.” And by its oak-like stem a poet sat, dressed like a shepherd and playing an ancient tune softly upon a pipe. I asked him if the fairies had passed that way or anything olden.

He said: “The poppy has grown apace and is killing gods and fairies. Its fumes are suffocating the world, and its roots drain it of its beautiful strength.” And I asked him why he sat on the hills I knew, playing an olden tune.

And he answered: “Because the tune is bad for the poppy, which would otherwise grow more swiftly; and because if the brotherhood of which I am one were to cease to pipe on the hills men would stray over the world and be lost or come to terrible ends. We think we have saved Agamemnon.”

Then he fell to piping again that olden tune, while the wind among the poppy’s sleepy petals murmured “Remember not. Remember not.”

~~
The Secret Of The Gods

Zyni Moe, the small snake, saw the cool river gleaming before him afar off and set out over the burning sand to reach it.

Uldoon, the prophet, came out of the desert and followed up the bank of the river towards his old home. Thirty years since Uldoon had left the city, where he was born, to live his life in a silent place where he might search for the secret of the gods. The name of his home was the City by the River, and in that city many prophets taught concerning many gods, and men made many secrets for themselves, but all the while none knew the Secret of the gods. Nor might any seek to find it, for if any sought men said of him:

“This man sins, for he giveth no worship to the gods that speak to our prophets by starlight when none heareth.”

And Uldoon perceived that the mind of a man is as a garden, and that his thoughts are as the flowers, and the prophets of a man’s city are as many gardeners who weed and trim, and who have made in the garden paths both smooth and straight, and only along these paths is a man’s soul permitted to go lest the gardeners say, “This soul transgresseth.” And from the paths the gardeners weed out every flower that grows, and in the garden they cut off all flowers that grow tall, saying:

“It is customary,” and “it is written,” and “this hath ever been,” or “that hath not been before.”

Therefore Uldoon saw that not in that city might he discover the Secret of the gods. And Uldoon said to the people:

“When the worlds began, the Secret of the gods lay written clear over the whole earth, but the feet of many prophets have trampled it out. Your prophets are all true men, but I go into the desert to find a truth which is truer than your prophets.” Therefore Uldoon went into the desert and in storm and still he sought for many years. When the thunder roared over the mountains that limited the desert he sought the Secret in the thunder, but the gods spake not by the thunder. When the voices of the beasts disturbed the stillness under the stars he sought the secret there, but the gods spake not by the beasts.

Uldoon grew old and all the voices of the desert had spoken to Uldoon, but not the gods, when one night he heard Them whispering beyond the hills. And the gods whispered one to another, and turning Their faces earthward They all wept. And Uldoon though he saw not the gods yet saw Their shadows turn as They went back to a great hollow in the hills; and there, all standing in the valley’s mouth, They said:

“Oh, Morning Zai, oh, oldest of the gods, the faith of thee is gone, and yesterday for the last time thy name was spoken upon earth.” And turning earthward they all wept again. And the gods tore white clouds out of the sky and draped them about the body of Morning Zai and bore him forth from his valley behind the hills, and muffled the mountain peaks with snow, and beat upon their summits with drum sticks carved of ebony, playing the dirge of the gods. And the echoes rolled about the passes and the winds howled, because the faith of the olden days was gone, and with it had sped the soul of Morning Zai. So through the mountain passes the gods came at night bearing Their dead father. And Uldoon followed. And the gods came to a great sepulchre of onyx that stood upon four fluted pillars of white marble, each carved out of four mountains, and therein the gods laid Morning Zai because the old faith was fallen. And there at the tomb of Their father the gods spake and Uldoon heard the Secret of the gods, and it became to him a simple thing such as a man might well guess–yet hath not. Then the soul of the desert arose and cast over the tomb its wreath of forgetfulness devised of drifting sand, and the gods strode home across the mountains to Their hollow land. But Uldoon left the desert and travelled many days, and so came to the river where it passes beyond the city to seek the sea, and following its bank came near to his old home. And the people of the City by the River, seeing him far off, cried out:

“Hast thou found the Secret of the gods?”

And he answered:

“I have found it, and the Secret of the gods is this”–:

Zyni Moe, the small snake, seeing the figure and the shadow of a man between him and the cool river, raised his head and struck once. And the gods are pleased with Zyni Moe, and have called him the protector of the Secret of the gods.

~~~~~
Bombino Concert, Agadez

~~~~~
Arthur Symon – Poet

The Poem Of Hasish

Behind the door, beyond the light,
Who is it waits there in the night?
When he has entered he will stand,
Imposing with his silent hand
Some silent thing upon the night.

Behold the image of my fear.
O rise not, move not, come not near!
That moment, when you turned your face,
A demon seemed to leap through space;
His gesture strangled me with fear.

And yet I am the lord of all,
And this brave world magnifical,
Veiled in so variable a mist
It may be rose or amethyst,
Demands me for the lord of all!

Who said the world is but a mood
In the eternal thought of God?
I know it, real though it seem,
The phantom of a haschisch dream
In that insomnia which is God

The Loom Of Dreams

I broider the world upon a loom,
I broider with dreams my tapestry;
Here in a little lonely room
I am master of earth and sea,
And the planets come to me.

I broider my life into the frame,
I broider my love, thread upon thread;
The world goes by with its glory and shame,
Crowns are bartered and blood is shed;
I sit and broider my dreams instead.

And the only world is the world of my dreams,
And my weaving the only happiness;
For what is the world but what it seems?
And who knows but that God, beyond our guess,
Sits weaving worlds out of loneliness?

The Opium-Smoker

I am engulfed, and drown deliciously.
Soft music like a perfume, and sweet light
Golden with audible odours exquisite,
Swathe me with cerements for eternity.
Time is no more. I pause and yet I flee.
A million ages wrap me round with night.
I drain a million ages of delight.
I hold the future in my memory.

Also I have this garret which I rent,
This bed of straw, and this that was a chair,
This worn-out body like a tattered tent,
This crust, of which the rats have eaten part,
This pipe of opium; rage, remorse, despair;
This soul at pawn and this delirious heart.

Love And Sleep

I have laid sorrow to sleep;
Love sleeps.
She who oft made me weep
Now weeps.

I loved, and have forgot,
And yet
Love tells me she will not
Forget.

She it was bid me go;
Love goes
By what strange ways, ah! no
One knows.

Because I cease to weep,
She weeps.
Here by the sea in sleep,
Love sleeps

~~~~~
Bombino (Omar Moctar) – Yamidinine

~~~~~
(Cities Of The Red Night – Ghadis – Gwyllm)

Infinite Horizons

Thursday Night. So much going on in the world, trying to make sense of it all, to parse it and to form a vision. A vision is all I have, and love.
I dedicate this to all who are trying to make a change in the world, and all who feel the urgency.
I have waited for decades for this moment, and I am happy to be here to share it with you.

Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
__

On The Menu:
The Links
Gertrude Stein Quotes
The Vote Heard Round the World — The Video
The next 10 years will be very unlike the last 10 years
To a Tea Partier From an Occupier
Rahman Baba Poems
Jwaydan – standing our ground (Song for the Egyptian revolution)

~~~~~~~~~
The Links:
Occupy Wall Street Independent Media Team
March On Blair Mountain
Awakening the Giant
Earth First! Journal Too Popular for Facebook
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gertrude Stein Quotes:
A real failure does not need an excuse. It is an end in itself.

A vegetable garden in the beginning looks so promising and then after all little by little it grows nothing but vegetables, nothing, nothing but vegetables.

A writer should write with his eyes and a painter paint with his ears.

Action and reaction are equal and opposite.

America is my country and Paris is my hometown.

Americans are very friendly and very suspicious, that is what Americans are and that is what always upsets the foreigner, who deals with them, they are so friendly how can they be so suspicious they are so suspicious how can they be so friendly but they just are.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seeing this today gave me such hope!
The Vote Heard Round the World — The Video

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thanks to Christelle Behrens for this!
The next 10 years will be very unlike the last 10 years

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To a Tea Partier From an Occupier

Dale Pendell

Hey neighbor! I like that tri-cornered hat. And I like having you for a neighbor. Also, I like the Tea Party — the Boston Tea Party — that was an anti-corporate action. The citizens of Boston tossed 90,000 pounds of tea into Boston Harbor. All that tea belonged to the East India Company — about a third of their total annual import.

The real issue wasn’t the tea tax — the tea would have cost less than people in England were paying — the issue was that the East India Company wanted to set up what today is called “vertical marketing.” That is, they wanted control of the distribution and sales of tea — all tea — a monopoly. All the Colonists had to do to get cheap foreign goods was to accept global corporatism. They didn’t, and we could say that this country was born in an anti-corporate action. So why aren’t you standing with us Occupiers?

(More At This Link: To a Tea Partier From an Occupier
~~~~~~~~~~

Rahman Baba Poems


Awal Din, 65, stands amid the rubble of the Sufi poet Rahman Baba’s mausoleum after it was bombed by the Taliban.

Antics of the Age

Contemplate the frantic
Efforts of the age
Countless are its antics
Boundless is its rage

Grieve in silence, brother!
Lest you keep your poise
Good men will be bothered
Evil men rejoice

Patience is a virtue
With the sweetest taste
When impatience hurts you,
Know, that haste is waste

Take on trust your fate if
You desire repose,
You would soon regret if
Something else you chose

Freedom cannot flourish
In your daily job
If a dream you nourish
Give your labour up

Falter shall the bustling
World, as I have said,
Should Rahman but trust in
What has got to fade?
~~

Sow Flowers

Sow flowers to make a garden bloom around you,
The thorns you sow will prick your own feet.

Arrows shot at others
Will return to hit you as they fall.

You yourself will come to teeter on the lip
Of a well dug to undermine another.

Though you look at others with contempt,
It’s you whose body will be reduced to dust.

Humanity is all one body;
To torture another is simply to wound yourself.

When you don’t look for faults in others,
They will conceal your weaknesses in return.

Make your path straight now, by the bright light of day;
For pitch darkness will come without warning.

Consider no wickedness insignificant, however slight;
For the little deeds of darkness soon pile up.

If another does you harm, return them good;
Or evil will devour you too.

The heart that is safe in the storm
Is the one which carries
Others’ burdens
Like a
Boat.
~~

The One

If for a soul-mate you dream,
See past the alluring fashion of her dress.

The vision of such flowing hair
Entwines around the heart, but
Constricts and squeezes out the one it treasures most.

Instead, follow the creator of this world;
Who fashioned each soul from love,
And made passion the highest goal.

The time to start the quest is now.
There is no second chance
To embrace the joy, the pain,
Of the one
Who longs
For you.
~~~~~

Jwaydan – standing our ground (Song for the Egyptian revolution)

Infinite Mercy

The migrating bird
leaves no trace behind
and does not need a guide.
– Dogen

So this is like, Turfing 3.0. New design, and now you can view it on your mobile devices! Thanks to Morgan for suggesting the wp software. I am playing with backgrounds etc. until I get the feel of it.

Perhaps the most important item on Turfing today is the Trifecta link. Check it out, please!

If you have any feedback on design, looks, or the feel of the new Turfing, let me know, or just drop a comment, they are always appreciated!

Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
__
On The Menu:
Trifecta
The Links
Red Sparowes – We Stood Transfixed…
The Prince And The Beggars
Two Poems, Three Poets
Grimes – Heartbeats (LAUREL HALO Remix)
Art: Thomas Cooper Gotch
____________________

Trifecta

So, I wanted to hip you to a new film project: Trifecta. that Rowan is involved with his friends Adam and Robert. They are putting together 3 different film projects, (each directing one) and working in collaboration on each others projects! Check out the video, and help out if ya can!
_________________

Links
Why I Don’t Dig Buddhism
Raise Taxes on Rich to Reward True Job Creators
Top Five Regrets For The Dying
_________________

Red Sparowes – We Stood Transfixed…

_________________

The Prince And The Beggars

Here are some stories about a Muslim whose name was Ibrahim ibn Adham. Like the man who became the Buddha, he was a prince in a small Kingdom in Persia. Ibrahim was very pious and spent many hours a day at prayer. He said his prayers in a beautiful gem-studded chapel of his palace. One day while praying he heard a terrible noise above him on the roof. It sounded like the clattering of horses’ hooves! Rushing out, he looked up to the roof and, sure enough, there was his palace guard — twenty men on horseback. (In such countries the roofs usually are flat.)

“What in the world are you doing up there?” Ibrahim shouted.

“Your Majesty,” yelled the captain of the guard, “we are searching for our camels that have wandered away.”

“But why, O fools, are you searching camels on the palace roof?” asked the prince. “We are only following the example of Your Majesty, who seeks for God while living in all the luxuries and power of a royal palace,” came the reply.

The prince also had a charitable nature. He arranged a place where wandering beggars and holy men could come and receive free food and drink, on one of the porches of the palace. This facility closed, however, at nightfall and no one was allowed inside the palace after dark.

One day a tall strong man of radiant appearance arrived just at sunset and asked for food. When he had eaten his fill he told the guard that as he had nowhere else to stay he wished to spend the night in the screened porch. The guard told him it was against the rule and asked him to leave at once.

“I demand to see the master of this rest-house and I will not leave until I do,” said the stranger.

“This is not a rest-house, and His Majesty is saying his prayers,” the guard replied. So the argument went on until finally the servant went to the door of his master’s chapel and knocked.

“There is a beggar on the porch, sire, who calls the palace a rest-house and refuses to leave. He insists on speaking to Your Majesty.”

The prince was astonished. “Let me just go and hear this madman,” said he, and went out to the end of the porch.

They met, the prince and the beggar. “You have heard the rule of this place,” said the former, “why have you not left as others do?”

“This is a rest-house,” the wanderer replied. “The night is chill, and I wish to spend it here under Your Majesty’s protection.”

“What do you mean, a ‘rest-house’,” said Ibrahim. “Do you not see that it is a palace?”

“Did you build the palace?”

“Certainly not. I have inherited it.”

“Did your father build it, then?”

“Not even he. His father’s father built it, long ago.”

“And each of these has come and gone, passed through this palace and out of it again?”

“Of course,” said the prince, impatiently.

“And you too will do the same. Yet you say it is not a rest-house!”

The eyes of Ibrahim’s understanding were opened. He brought the wise man into the palace and the two talked long into the night.

When Prince Ibrahim one day looked from his palace window he saw near the brook a beggar dressed in rags, weary and hungry, pulling from his knapsack a chunk of stale bread. The man dipped this in the water, sprinkled some salt on it, and hungrily devoured it. Then he lay down on the hard ground and fell asleep. After some time Ibrahim sent a messenger to ask the man to come and meet him at the palace gate. The beggar, in wonder, stumbled to the gate. The prince asked him if he had eaten to his satisfaction. “Praise Allah, sir, I did.” Then he was asked if he had slept peacefully on the ground. “Indeed, I did, sir, for I have no worries, thanks be to God.”

It is said that Ibrahim, comparing the wanderer’s life with his own, so full of anxiety, thought deeply about his own unhappiness with life. That very night he changed his royal robes for castoff rags and leaving his family and palace, went out to a life of poverty and wandering.
_________________

Two Poems, Three Poets

Hakuin:

Past, present, future: unattainable

Past, present, future: unattainable,
Yet clear as the moteless sky.
Late at night the stool’s cold as iron,
But the moonlit window smells of plum.

You no sooner attain the great void

You no sooner attain the great void
Than body and mind are lost together.
Heaven and Hell — a straw.
The Buddha-realm, Pandemonium — shambles.
Listen: a nightingale strains her voice, serenading the snow.
Look: a tortoise wearing a sword climbs the lampstand.
Should you desire the great tranquility,
Prepare to sweat white beads.
____

Meng Hao-jan:

A Night on the River

Moored in island mist,
as the sun sets, a traveler’s grief arises.

Beyond the great plain, the sky closes on trees.
On this gentle river, the moon arrives.

Master I’s Chamber in the Ta-yu Temple

I-Kung’s place to practice Ch’an:
a hut in an empty grove.

Outside the door, a single pretty peak.
Before the stair, deep valleys.

Sunset confused in footprints of the rain.
Blue of the void in the shade of the court.

Look, and see the lotus blossom’s purity:
know then that nothing taints this heart.
____

Dogen:

Like Tangled Hair

Like tangled hair,
The circular delusion
Of beginning and end,
When straightened out,
A dream no longer.

True person manifest throughout the ten quarters of the world

The true person is
Not anyone in particular;
But, like the deep blue color
Of the limitless sky,
It is everyone, everywhere in the world.

_________________

Grimes – Heartbeats (LAUREL HALO Remix)

_________________

Because the flowers blooming
In our original home
Are everlasting,
Though springtimes may come and go
Their colors do not fade.
– Dogen

The Difference Engine

I built my hut within where others live,
But there is no noise of carriages and horses.
You ask how this is possible:
When the heart is distant, solitude comes.
I pluck chrysanthemums by the eastern fence
And see the distant southern mountains.
The mountain air is fresh at dusk.
Flying birds return in flocks.
In these things there lies a great truth,
But when I try to express it, I cannot find the words.
– T’ao Ch’ien

Aladár Kacziány – Composition symbolique

The Last Evening Of November…

Quiet, the dog wanders the house.
Shared cider with friends, Morgan’s Birthday, it seems.
Sickle Moon on the Western Horizon, clear air, the stars dance.
I ask nothing and receive everything, I desire and obtain not a thing.

Blessings,
Gwyllm
________
The Menu:
The Links
Lamb – Angelica
Daoist Parables
Daoist Poets
Lamb – Gorecki
________
The Links:
Babbage…
Assume Value
Poo Power!
________

Lamb – Angelica

________

Daoist Parables:
A monk and his novice were walking through the forest. They come to a stream. On the bank there was a beautifully dressed woman, crying. The monks asked her what was the matter. “I am on my way to a wedding. I have to cross the stream to get there, but the bridge has been washed away. I was searching for a place to cross where I wouldn’t ruin the dress, but I can’t find one and if I don’t make it across soon, I will be late.”

Without a word, the elder monk scooped her into his arms, waded across the stream, and deposited her on the other side. Ignoring her thanks, he waded back and the two monks resume their walk. They continued on their journey, but the younger monk was agitated and obviously had something on his mind. The elder monk stopped and asked him what was the matter.

“Elder, I am confused. Our vows prohibit us from fleshly contact with women, yet you embraced that woman in your arms. How can this be?” The elder monk eyed his novice with kindly concern. “Novice,” he asked, “I left her on the bank of the stream. Why do you still carry her?”
__

There was once a monk who would carry a mirror where ever he went. A priest noticed this one day and thought to himself “This monk must be so preoccupied with the way he looks that he has to carry that mirror all the time. He should not worry about the way he looks on the outside, it’s what’s inside that counts.” So the priest went up to the monk and asked “Why do you always carry that mirror?” thinking for sure this would prove his guilt.

The monk pulled the mirror from his bag and pointed it at the priest. Then he said “I use it in times of trouble. I look into it and it shows me the source of my problems as well as the solution to my problems.”
__

Once there was a horse tied up on the side of the street. Whenever someone tried to pass, the horse would kick them. Soon a crowd gathered around the horse until a wise man was seen coming close. The people said “This horse will surely kill anyone who tries to pass. What are we going to do?” The wise man looked at the horse, turned and walked down another street.

________
Aladár Kacziány – Rêve

________

Daoist Poets

Yuan Mei

Climbing the Mountain

I burned incense, swept the earth, and waited
for a poem to come…

Then I laughed, and climbed the mountain,
leaning on my staff.

How I’d love to be a master
of the blue sky’s art:

see how many sprigs of snow-white cloud
he’s brushed in so far today.

Just Done

A month alone behind closed doors
forgotten books, remembered, clear again.
Poems come, like water to the pool
Welling,
up and out,
from perfect silence
__

Lu Tung Pin

People may sit till the cushion is worn through

People may sit till the cushion is worn through,
But never quite know the real Truth:
Let me tell about the ultimate Tao:
It is here, enshrined within us.
_

What is Tao?

What is Tao?
It is just this.
It cannot be rendered into speech.
If you insist on an explanation,
This means exactly this.
__

Feng-kan (Big Stick)

Actually there isn’t a thing
much less any dust to wipe away
who can master this
doesn’t need to sit there stiff
_

Sinking like a rock in the sea
drifting through the Three Worlds
poor ethereal creature
ever immersed in scenes
until a flash of lightning shows
life and death are dust in space
__

T’ao Ch’ien

Around my door and yard no dust or noise

Around my door and yard no dust or noise.
In my bare rooms, no busyness.
After so long a prisoner in a cage
I have returned to things as they are

In youth I could not do what everyone else did

In youth I could not do what everyone else did;
It was my nature to love the mountains and hills.
By mistake I got caught in the dusty snare,
I went away and stayed for thirteen years.
________

Lamb – Gorecki

________

Success and failure? No known address.
This or that goes on, depending on the other.
And who can say if Milord Shao was happier
ruling a city, or sacked, his excellent melon patch?
Hot, cold, summer, winter: don’t they alternate?
Mayn’t a man’s way wander on just so?
Yes, those who “get there” know their opportunities…
have learned to untie the knots of knowledge.
But was it the notable or the notorious that our Sage spoke of?
The latter he called opportunists. Those who get there, doubtless,
know doubt nor care no more. Yet, doubt you not, nor do dead generals,
who plotted carefully at what seemed opportune,
and knew naught, right or wrong.
If, of a sudden, you’re offered fine wine,
let the sun sink. Enjoy it.
– T’ao Ch’ien

Aladár Kacziány – Musique