“You will learn by reading, but you will understand with love.” ― Shams Tabrizi
It has been a month here at Caer Llwydd. I have been dealing with putting the Invisible College #11 to bed, working on the Substacks, and a new Gwyllm Art Calendar for 2022. There has been a frenzy of programming on Radio EarthRites, especially on the Spoken Word side of things. More on the way, as usual.
The Invisible College #11 “Alchemy” Should be out this week. I will post here, and elsewhere when that occurs.
Weather certainly has taken a turn, almost to normal, but for how long? Lots of rain in Oregon, which is the norm, perhaps the drought will be lessened with all of the downpours.
I pray this finds you well, and happy.
Thanks all for their support of the projects,
Much Love,
G
____________________________________________
On The Menu:
Gwyllm Substack “Mantis Tale”
The Links
Art Calendar 2022!
Michael McClure & Ray Manzarek: The Cup We Drink From
William Butler Yeats: In The Seven Woods
Michael McClure & Ray Manzarek: Antechamber of the Night
____________________________________________
Gwyllm Substack “Mantis Tale”
A tale from the High Frontier of the late 1990’s, encounters of the bizarre kind. The Substack has been a bit slow, as I have been editing several at once. A bit scattered, but not unusual for my style of dealing with things. I hope you can visit it, and subscribe. More is on the way in the days/weeks to come. The Substack is the bare bones of a future book. Stay tuned!
____________________________________________
The Links:
AI Spookiness…
Psychiatry Re-Embracing Psychedelics… Can anyone say “Gold Rush?”
“At the End of the Day, Climate Is a Working-Class Issue”
Australia’s Largest University Stole $8.6 Million From Workers’ Wages
Homo imaginatus-Imagination isn’t just a spillover from our problem-solving prowess. It might be the core of what human brains evolved to do
_______________________________________
The 2022 Gwyllm Art Calendar!
Here is a gallery of images from the new Art Calendar. Not in order, but close!
_____________________________________
Michael McClure & Ray Manzarek: The Cup We Drink From
_____________________________________
William Butler Yeats: In The Seven Woods
IN THE SEVEN WOODS.
I have heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods
Make their faint thunder, and the garden bees
Hum in the lime tree flowers; and put away
The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness
That empty the heart. I have forgot awhile
Tara uprooted, and new commonness
Upon the throne and crying about the streets
And hanging its paper flowers from post to post,
Because it is alone of all things happy.
I am contented for I know that Quiet
Wanders laughing and eating her wild heart
Among pigeons and bees, while that Great Archer,
Who but awaits His hour to shoot, still hangs
A cloudy quiver over Parc-na-Lee.
THE WITHERING OF THE BOUGHS.
I cried when the moon was murmuring to the birds,
‘Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will,
I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words,
For the roads are unending and there is no place to my mind.’
The honey-pale Moon lay low on the sleepy hill
And I fell asleep upon lonely Echtge of streams;
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind,
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.
I know of the leafy paths that the witches take,
Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool,
And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake;
And of apple islands where the Danaan kind
Wind and unwind their dances when the light grows cool
On the island lawns, their feet where the pale foam gleams;
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind,
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.
I know of the sleepy country, where swans fly round
Coupled with golden chains and sing as they fly,
A king and a queen are wandering there, and the sound
Has made them so happy and hopeless, so deaf and so blind
With wisdom, they wander till all the years have gone by;
I know, and the curlew and peewit on Echtge of streams;
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind,
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.
UNDER THE MOON.
I have no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde;
Nor Avalon the grass green hollow, nor Joyous Isle,
Where one found Lancelot crazed and hid him for a while,
Nor Ulad when Naoise had thrown a sail upon the wind,
Nor lands that seem too dim to be burdens on the heart,
Land-under-Wave, where out of the moon’s light and the sun’s
Seven old sisters wind the threads of the long lived ones,
Land-of-the-Tower, where Aengus has thrown the gates apart, p. 28
And Wood-of-Wonders, where one kills an ox at dawn
To find it when night falls laid on a golden bier:
Therein are many queens like Branwen, and Guinivere;
And Niam, and Laban, and Fand, who could change to an otter or fawn
And the wood-woman whose love was changed to a blue-eyed hawk;
And whether I go in my dreams by woodland, or dun, or shore,
Or on the unpeopled waves with kings to pull at the oar,
I hear the harp string praise them or hear their mournful talk.
Because of a story I heard under the thin horn
Of the third moon, that hung between the night and the day,
To dream of women whose beauty was folded in dismay,
Even in an old story, is a burden not to be borne.
THE RIDER FROM THE NORTH.
From the play of The Country of the Young.
There’s many a strong farmer
Whose heart would break in two
If he could see the townland
That we are riding to;
Boughs have their fruit and blossom,
At all times of the year,
Rivers are running over
With red beer and brown beer.
An old man plays the bagpipes
In a golden and silver wood,
Queens, their eyes blue like the ice,
Are dancing in a crowd.
The little fox he murmured,
‘O what is the world’s bane?’
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rein;
But the little red fox murmured,
‘O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world’s bane.’
When their hearts are so high,
That they would come to blows,
They unhook their heavy swords
From golden and silver boughs;
But all that are killed in battle
Awaken to life again;
It is lucky that their story
Is not known among men.
For O the strong farmers
That would let the spade lie,
For their hearts would be like a cup
That somebody had drunk dry.
The little fox he: murmured,
‘O what is the world’s bane?’
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rein;
But the little red fox murmured,
‘O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world’s bane.’
Michael will unhook his trumpet
From a bough overhead,
And blow a little noise
When the supper has been spread.
Gabriel will come from the water
With a fish tail, and talk
Of wonders that have happened
On wet roads where men walk,
And lift up an old horn
Of hammered silver, and drink
Till he has fallen asleep
Upon the starry brink
The little fox he murmured,
‘O what is the world’s bane?
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rein;
But the little red fox murmured,
‘O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland,
That is the world’s bane.’
_________________________________
Michael McClure & Ray Manzarek: Antechamber of the Night
_________________________________
“It is pointless trying to know where the way leads. Think only about your first step, the rest will come.” ― Shams Tabrizi
