The Powers…

“Instead of clearing his own heart the zealot tries to clear the world.” — Joseph Campbell

The Powers….
I was reading poetry the other night, a collection from a book that my friend Tomas Brawley gave me: “Earth Prayers” before I went to sleep, and I stumbled on a section regarding our four legged, winged, finned brothers and sisters… I went into a small trance state and found myself floating along with predators, herds, flocks in the sky, schools in the sea and river. I thought about the relationships in our lives that are non-human, yet so close. Rising the next day, I watched the birds and squirrels at the feeder, the crows disputing amongst themselves in the neighborhood tree, and Sophie and Buster in their loving interactions with the extended clan. It’s a wide community, and the hairless apes seem to be the only ones generally out of sorts about the getting along with the cousin thing.

So, I was thinking about the Animal Powers, Plant Powers & Mineral Powers (hence the title) and how they effect us on a constant basis with us generally being blind to what is happening. Sometimes in the dream state it becomes a coherent vision, otherwise, I am overran by my own filters. I will be sitting there completely distracted and Sophie or Buster will come up to me, and nuzzle me to bring me back to here and now. If I am half awake, I recognize what is happening. But, I am a sleeper. I know this. I am missing so much, and more so since when I drift off into machine and cyber land.

I think of the cave paintings, and especially these… Cave of Forgotton Dreams the paintings of within the Chauvet caves. Those connections… deep and ancient span the human and animal powers. How have we forgotten that we came out of the same womb as our fellow beings?

I puzzle over the loss that we have inflicted upon ourselves and our co-inhabitants…. How do we gain it back?

Blessings,
G

Kind of an eclectic gathering of info today… Hope you enjoy!
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On The Menu:
Visitors From Afar!
The Links
The Powers Of Love And Friendship…
Joseph Campbell Quotes
Exuma The Obeah Man
The Origin of Eternal Death (Wishram)
Poetry: In Celebration Of The Powers…
Exuma – Damn Fool – DJ Luis Mario “Flaco” Orellana
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Visitors From Afar!

Our friends Leslie and Robert came up from Nevada City on their way to Seattle for a gardening show. Leslie was taking a class in Encaustic Painting for a couple of days in Portland over the weekend. They arrived Friday evening, and headed up the road on Monday. They do some amazing work… from Leslie’s new passion for photography, to Robert’s fantasy buildings for the garden…. there is always something brewing up in those Sierra Foothills! Their Site: Hidden Springs Designs will give you just a small taste of the talent these two bring to the world.

We ran around Portland, hitting Powell’s (of course) and various galleries with Robert when Leslie was in class on Saturday and Sunday, to hanging out Saturday night over Mary’s wonderful Tamil Chicken Curry with home made Nan Bread… Our talks went deep into the evening, and it was a sheer delight to be in their company again. We got to explore some of the better beers from the local area, and checked out a couple of restaurants as well. They love Portland, but hates da weather! So… they drove away from Paradise, and headed north to the Emerald City…

Hurry Back!
Robert and Leslie hiding from me and my camera beside their Van just before heading to Seattle…

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The Links:
Do You Believe In Fairies…?
To Save The Land…
William Blake – Jim Morrison… What’s Not To Like?
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The Powers Of Love And Friendship…

I first met Henry when he was about to turn two years old or so. He was a most remarkable cat; I often felt that he was very conversant in his ways of interacting with the slower ones..(humans) It has been a few years since I saw him, but everytime I talked with Tom we’d discuss what Henry was up to, he was just that kind of cat. Everything is mortal, and cats are no exception… but I have noticed that their spirits linger about after they pass between worlds. Here is to Henry, a heck of cat. You’ll be missed by friends and family. Hope to make your acquaintance again someday…. G

I received this Tuesday from our friend Cheryl. I am toasting Henry later with a glass of absinthe and a burning candle. He will be missed… G

Today, with great sadness, Tom and I had to let Henry go Cat Heaven. His liver no longer functioned.

As you know, Henry was full of personality and life. He was an amazing companion and great lover of people.

Throughout his 18 years, he never tired of making us laugh, enjoying outdoor adventures, and traveling to see the scenery from our car. He drove with us from California to Oregon, from Oregon to Arizona, and three times–from Arizona to California, and finally—from Arizona to California. He saw the mountains, the desert, The Red Rocks, frolicked in the snow, danced in the rain, escaped with his life from a bobcat and raccoon, stood his ground when any neighborhood cats invaded his territory, and even survived an eathquake or two. He celebrated Tom’s 40th and 50th surprise parties, Christmas mornings, Thanksgiving dinners, and never missed one of the many gatherings we gave. On chilly nights, he (and Penelope) would lay in front of the fireplace or.look out the picture window with great contenment.

During the end of his life, he did what he enjoyed–watched the All Star Basketball Game with his best friend, Tom. He was a lover of music and television, got great pleasure to sleep and purr on top of Tom’s head–or steal Tom’s seat as soon as he vacated it!

Henry knew tricks. Yes, he was a smart and sensitive—-cat-dog. We trained him to sit on command, come when we whistled, stand on his hind leg and tap our hand for treats. He waited for us at the front door when we came home, followed us around the house, and when he wanted to go outside–stood on his hind legs and turned the door knob with his paw. We swore he was saying, “Out!” He knew how to pry open- unclosed drawers and doors, lick your hand when you were sad or to say, “I love you”, and comfort you when you were sick, by not leaving your side. His favorite hiding places were open boxes or open suitcases.

We found Henry at an organization in Los Angeles, called The Cat House, off Robertson near Culver City. A place where cats live out their lives (if not adopted). He joined us when he was not quite one years old as a companion for our other cat, Penelope (she died fiev years ago). Needless to say, within days he won her, us, and anyone who visited our home over with his charm. .

It’s hard to think that he won’t be with us, but we know his playing with Penelope and all the cats— in one great catnip house and yard—–where sickness and death just don’t exist.
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Joseph Campbell Quotes:

“Myths are public dreams, dreams are private myths.”

“We’re not on our journey to save the world but to save ourselves. But in doing that you save the world. The influence of a vital person vitalizes.”

“Half the people in the world think that the metaphors of their religious traditions, for example, are facts. And the other half contends that they are not facts at all. As a result we have people who consider themselves believers because they accept metaphors as facts, and we have others who classify themselves as atheists because they think religious metaphors are lies.”

“If the path before you is clear, you’re probably on someone else’s.”

“Regrets are illuminations come too late.”
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For My Friend, Dr. Con…

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The Origin of Eternal Death (Wishram)

(Edward S. Curtis, The North American Indian, Vol. 8 (1911).)

Coyote had a wife and two children, and so had Eagle. Both families lived together. Eagle’s wife and children died, and a few days later Coyote experienced the same misfortune. As the latter wept, his companion said: “Do not mourn: that will not bring your wife back. Make ready your moccasins, and we will go somewhere.” So the two prepared for a long journey, and set out westward.

After four days they were close to the ocean; on one side of a body of water they saw houses. Coyote called across, “Come with a boat!” “Never mind; stop calling,” bade Eagle. He produced an elderberry stalk, made a flute, put the end into the water, and whistled. Soon they saw two persons come out of a house, walk to the water’s edge, and enter a canoe. Said Eagle, “Do not look at those people when they land.” The boat drew near, but a few yards from the shore it stopped, and Eagle told his friend to close his eyes. He then took Coyote by the arm and leaped to the boat. The two persons paddled back, and when they stopped a short distance from the other side Eagle again cautioned Coyote to close his eyes, and then leaped ashore with him.

They went to the village, where there were many houses, but no people were in sight. Everything was still as death. There was a very large underground house, into which they went. In it was found an old woman sitting with her face to the wall, and lying on the floor on the other side of the room was the moon. They sat down near the wall.

“Coyote,” whispered Eagle, “watch that woman and see what she does when the sun goes down!” Just before the sun set they heard a voice outside calling: “Get up! Hurry! The sun is going down, and it will soon be night. Hurry, hurry!” Coyote and Eagle still sat in a corner of the chamber watching the old woman. People began to enter, many hundreds of them, men, women, and children. Coyote, as he watched, saw Eagle’s wife and two daughters among them, and soon afterward his own family. When the room was filled, Nikshiamchasht, the old woman, cried, “Are all in?” Then she turned about, and from a squatting posture she jumped forward, then again and again, five times in all, until she alighted in a small pit beside the moon. This she raised and swallowed, and at once it was pitch dark. The people wandered about, hither and thither, crowding and jostling, unable to see. About daylight a voice from outside cried, “Nikshiamshasht, all get through!” The old woman then disgorged the moon, and laid it back in its place on the floor; all the people filed out, and the woman, Eagle, and Coyote were once more alone.

“Now, Coyote,” said Eagle, “could you do that?” “Yes, I can do that,” he said. They went out, and Coyote at Eagle’s direction made a box of boards, as large as he could carry, and put into it leaves from every kind of tree and blades from every kind of grass. “Well,” said Eagle, “If you are sure you remember just how she did this, let us go in and kill her.” So they entered the house and killed her, and buried the body. Her dress they took off and put on Coyote, so that he looked just like her, and he sat down in her place. Eagle then told him to practice what he had seen, by turning around and jumping as the old woman had done. So Coyote tuned about and jumped five times, but the last leap was a little short, yet he managed to slide into the hole. He put the moon into his mouth, but, try as he would, a thin edge still showed, and he covered it with his hands. Then he laid it back in its place and resumed his seat by the wall, waiting for sunset and the voice of the chief outside.

The day passed, the voiced called, and the people entered. Coyote turned about and began to jump. Some thought there was something strange about the manner of jumping , but others aid it was really the old woman. When he came to the last jump and slipped into the pit, many cried out that this was not the old woman, but Coyote quickly lifted the moon and put it into his mouth, covering the edge with his hands. When it was completely dark, Eagle placed the box in the doorway. Throughout the long night Coyote retained the moon in his mouth, until he was almost choking, but at last the voice of the chief was heard from the outside, and the dead began to file out. Every one walked into the box, and Eagle quickly threw the cover over and tied it. The sound was like that of a great swarm of flies. “Now, my brother, we are through,” said Eagle. Coyote removed the dress and laid it down beside the moon, and Eagle threw the moon into the sky, where it remained. The two entered the canoe with the box, and paddled toward the east.

When they landed, Eagle carried the box. Near the end of the third night Coyote heard somebody talking; there seemed to be many voices. He awakened his companion, and said, “There are many people coming.” “Do not worry,” said Eagle; “it is all right.” The following night Coyote heard the talking again, and, looking about, he discovered that the voices came from the box which Eagle had been carrying. He placed his ear against it, and after a while distinguished the voice of his wife. He smiled, and broke into laughter, but he said nothing to Eagle. At the end of the fifth night and the beginning of their last day of traveling, he said to his friend, “I will carry the box now; you have carried it a long way.” “No,” replied Eagle, “I will take it; I am strong.” “Let me carry it,” insisted the other; “suppose we come to where people live, and they should see the chief carrying the load. How would that look?” Still Eagle retained his hold on the box, but as they went along Coyote kept begging, and about noon, wearying of the subject, Eagle gave him the box. So Coyote had the load, and every time he heard the voice of his wife he would laugh. After a while he contrived to fall behind, and when Eagle was out of sight around a hill he began to open the box, in order to release his wife. But no sooner was the cover lifted than it was thrown back violently, and the dead people rushed out into the air with such force that Coyote was thrown to the ground. They quickly disappeared in the west. Eagle saw the cloud of dead people rising in the air, and came hurrying back. He found one man left there, a cripple who had been unable to rise; he threw him into the air, and the dead man floated away swiftly.

“You see what you have done, with your curiosity and haste!” said Eagle. “If we had brought these dead all the way back, people would not die forever, but only for a season, like these plants, whose leaves we have brought. Hereafter trees and grasses will die only in the winter, but in the spring they will be green again. So it would have been with the people.” “Let us go back and catch them again,” proposed Coyote; but Eagle objected: “They will not go to the same place, and we would not know how to find them; they will be where the moon is, up in the sky.”
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Poetry: In Celebration Of The Powers…

Apprehend God in all things,
For God is in all things.
Every single creature
is full of God
And is a book about God
Every creature
is a word of God.
If I spent enough time with the
tiniest of creature—
Even a caterpillar—
I would never have to prepare
a sermon.
So full of God
Is every creature.

– Meister Eckhart

You are singing, little dove,
on the branches of the silk-cotton tree.
And there also is the cuckoo,
and many other little birds.
All are rejoicing,
the songbirds of our god, our Lord.
And our goddess
has her little birds,
the turtledove, the redbird,
the black and yellow songbirds, and the hummingbird.
These are the birds of the beautiful goddess, our Lady.
If there is such happiness
among the creatures,
why do our hearts not also rejoice?
At daybreak all is jubilant.
Let only joy, only songs,
enter our thoughts!

– Song Of Dzitbalche

Ah Power that swirls us together
Grant us Bliss
Grant us the great release
And to all Beings
Vanishing, wounded
In trouble on earth
We pass on this love
May their numbers increase.

– Gary Snyder

Unknown Bird

Out of the dry days
through the dusty leaves
far across the valley
those few notes never
heard here before

one fluted phrase
floating over its
wandering secret
all at once wells up
somewhere else

and is gone before it
goes on fallen into
its own echo leaving
a hollow through the air
that is dry as before

where is it from
hardly anyone
seems to have noticed it
so far but who now
would have been listening

it is not native here
that may be the one
thing we are sure of
it came from somewhere
else perhaps alone

so keeps on calling for
no one who is here
hoping to be heard
by another of its own
unlikely origin

trying once more the same few
notes that began the song
of an oriole last heard
years ago in another
existence there

it goes again tell
no one it is here
foreign as we are
who are filling the days
with a sound of our own

– W.S. Merwin
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For Dr. Con, again…. 80)

Rise


I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away”.

Ozymandias, by Percy Bysshe Shelley.
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This edition is dedicated to the people of Egypt, rising up and showing the world their great compassion, and yearnings. I have been profoundly moved, and shall continue to be so with what we are witnessing.

Yahia Lababidi has graciously lent his poems to us, including a live reading of his poem dedicated to his country and its struggle. It is an honor to have his work in this edition. We have a fairy tale from ancient Egypt as well, and much more.

I hope you enjoy “Rise”

Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
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On The Menu:
Tearing Up The Archives/Memorbilia
Kalabi: Found
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn Quotes
Yahia Lababidi _ Spoken Word “What Is To Give Light”
Poetry In The Streets… Video Interview with Yahia Lababidi
An Egyptian Fairy Tale: Tale of Two Brothers
The Poems of Yahia Lababidi
Kalabi – “Tommy Two Pints” (edit)
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Tearing Up The Archives/Memorbilia
(Notes on photos: Mary, 1978, late fall West Los Angeles/Gwyllm 1978 late spring Westwood retrieved from ancient proof sheets that Gwyllm developed back when…)


So I have spent the last two days sorting papers, letters etc… art work from the last 30 years. The recycling people will have a field day. I found art work that I had forgotten about, as well as advert stuff going back to Grey Pavilion days and earlier. I turned up a whole slew of photos from 1977 up through the mid 80′s including photos of The Kinks in performance from their 2nd to last tour if I am correct. I turned up flyers for “Bloc”, the band that Nels Cline, Steubig, Alex Cline and others worked in in the late 80′s, as well as papers from Thelemic groups, rituals etc. Art work from original art work for Grey Pavilion projects, DIY Press Proofs, the first test silk screen works, and collage work dating back forever.

I found a whole collection of Rowan art back to kindergarten as well… 80) Really, it was wonderful to find. I look at it, and try to sort out how he went from finger paints to filming. That is an odyssey all of its own. I decided to save it all, and to give it to him later..

I found notes from friends, birthday cards, death notices and memorabilia going back over the span of years. I found a genealogy listing from my mother, written up some 18 years ago, with notes… At the end of her life she was trying to get it down… I found an account book from the 1870′s of my Great Great Grandparents as well. Every item purchased, with the date and price, interspersed with prayers. Odd stuff really.

I turned up gads of art tending towards paganality… green men that I made for silkscreen t-shirts, eyes of Horus, Goddess figures, owls, and myriads of plants, mandalas and the like. I threw away pounds of photocopied illustrations (I have the majority on the computer) and I found lost treasures that I never completed.

The funniest things were the poetry and musings. I can certainly take myself waaaaayyy to seriously. Horribly so it seems at times. This awareness has curtailed me inflicting my poetic thoughts and musings on others as of late. 80) I realized how much dross I have to produce to find a bit of gold. Heaven loves a self-editor, and I was never that good at it until the last few years. Now I edit incessantly. Let’s say it is a gift to the future… 8o)

In turning up love letters, pictures and memorabilia that I’d let slip, I realized what a rich and wonderful time we have had together. This is not indulging in nostalgia, but viewing all of these bits ties stories together, moments that led us to where we are today. I have been blessed in my life, with the love, and the laughter and companionship of true beauty. We all have a rich tapestry woven through the driftings of time. Oh the sweetness, and joy, memories and thoughts, the meanders of the labyrinth that we dance, the years that have streamed by.
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Kalabi: Found

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Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn Quotes:

You can have power over people as long as you don’t take everything away from them. But when you’ve robbed a man of everything, he’s no longer in you power.
Any man who has once proclaimed violence as his method is inevitably forced to take the lie as his principle.
For a country to have a great writer is like having a second government. That is why no regime has ever loved great writers, only minor ones.
Hastiness and superficiality are the psychic diseases of the 20th century, and more than anywhere else this disease is reflected in the press.
Violence can only be concealed by a lie, and the lie can only be maintained by violence.
I have spent all my life under a Communist regime, and I will tell you that a society without any objective legal scale is a terrible one indeed. But a society with no other scale but the legal one is not quite worthy of man either.
If one is forever cautious, can one remain a human being?
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Poetry In The Streets…

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An Egyptian Fairy Tale: Tale of Two Brothers

(One of the most interesting tales that have come down to us in Egyptian dress is the tale commonly called the “Tale of the Two Brothers.” It is found written in the hieratic character upon a papyrus preserved in the British Museum (D’Orbiney, No. 10,183), and the form which the story has there is that which was current under the nineteenth dynasty, about 1300 B.C. The two principal male characters in the story, Anpu and Bata, were originally gods, but in the hands of the Egyptian story-teller they became men, and their deeds were treated in such a way as to form an interesting fairy story. It is beyond the scope of this little book to treat of the mythological ideas that underlie certain parts of the narrative, and we therefore proceed to give a rendering of this very curious and important “fairy tale.”)

It is said that there were two brothers, [the children] of one mother and of one father; the name of the elder was Anpu, and Bata was the name of the younger. Anpu had a house and a wife, and Bata lived with him like a younger brother. It was Bata who made the clothes; he tended and herded his cattle in the fields, he ploughed the land, he did the hard work during the time of harvest, and he kept the account of everything that related to the fields. And Bata was a most excellent farmer, and his like there was not in the whole country-side; and behold, the power of the God was in him. And very many days passed during which Anpu’s young brother tended his flocks and herds daily, and he returned to his house each evening loaded with field produce of every kind. And when he had returned from the [197]fields, he set [food] before his elder brother, who sat with his wife drinking and eating, and then Bata went out to the byre and [slept] with the cattle. On the following morning as soon as it was day, Bata took bread-cakes newly baked, and set them before Anpu, who gave him food to take with him to the fields. Then Bata drove out his cattle into the fields to feed, and [as] he walked behind them they said unto him, “The pasturage is good in such and such a place,” and he listened to their voices, and took them where they wished to go. Thus the cattle in Bata’s charge became exceedingly fine, and their calves doubled in number, and they multiplied exceedingly. And when it was the season for ploughing Anpu said unto Bata, “Come, let us get our teams ready for ploughing the fields, and our implements, for the ground hath appeared,[1] and it is in the proper condition for the plough. Go to the fields and take the seed-corn with thee to-day, and at daybreak to-morrow we will do the ploughing”; this is what he said to him. And Bata did everything which Anpu had told him to do. The next morning, as soon as it was daylight, the two brothers went into the fields with their teams and their ploughs, and they ploughed the land, and they were exceedingly happy as they ploughed, from the beginning of their work to the very end thereof.

[1] i.e. the waters of the Inundation had subsided, leaving the ground visible.

Now when the two brothers had been living in this way for a considerable time, they were in the fields one day [ploughing], and Anpu said to Bata, “Run back to the farm and fetch some [more] seed corn.” And Bata did so, and when he arrived there he found his brother’s wife seated dressing her hair. And he said to her, “Get up and give me some seed corn that I may hurry back to the fields, for Anpu ordered me not to loiter on the way.” Anpu’s wife said to him, “Go thyself to the grain shed, and open the bin, and take out from it as much corn as thou wishest; I could fetch it for thee myself, only I am afraid that my hair would fall down on the way.” Then the young man went to the bin, and filled a very large jar full of grain, for it was his desire [198]to carry off a large quantity of seed corn, and he lifted up on his shoulders the pot, which was filled full of wheat and barley, and came out of the shed with it. And Anpu’s wife said to him, “How much grain hast thou on thy shoulders?” And Bata said to her, “Three measures of barley and two measures of wheat, in all five measures of grain; that is what I have on my shoulders.” These were the words which he spake to her. And she said to him, “How strong thou art! I have been observing thy vigorousness day by day.” And her heart inclined to him, and she entreated him to stay with her, promising to give him beautiful apparel if he would do so. Then the young man became filled with fury like a panther of the south because of her words, and when she saw how angry he was she became terribly afraid. And he said to her, “Verily thou art to me as my mother, and thy husband is as my father, and being my elder brother he hath provided me with the means of living. Thou hast said unto me what ought not to have been said, and I pray thee not to repeat it. On my part I shall tell no man of it, and on thine thou must never declare the matter to man or woman.” Then Bata took up his load on his shoulders, and departed to the fields. And when he arrived at the place where his elder brother was they continued their ploughing and laboured diligently at their work.

And when the evening was come the elder brother returned to his house. And having loaded himself with the products of the fields, Bata drove his flocks and herds back to the farm and put them in their enclosures.

And behold, Anpu’s wife was smitten with fear, because of the words which she had spoken to Bata, and she took some grease and a piece of linen, and she made herself to appear like a woman who had been assaulted, and who had been violently beaten by her assailant, for she wished to say to her husband, “Thy young brother hath beaten me sorely.” And when Anpu returned in the evening according to his daily custom, and arrived at his house, he found his wife lying on the ground in the condition of one who had been assaulted with violence. She did not [appear to] pour water [199]over his hands according to custom, she did not light a light before him; his house was in darkness, and she was lying prostrate and sick. And her husband said unto her, “Who hath been talking to thee?” And she said unto him, “No one hath been talking to me except thy young brother. When he came to fetch the seed corn he found me sitting alone, and he spake words of love to me, and he told me to tie up my hair. But I would not listen to him, and I said to him, ‘Am I not like thy mother? Is not thy elder brother like thy father?’ Then he was greatly afraid, and he beat me to prevent me from telling thee about this matter. Now, if thou dost not kill him I shall kill myself, for since I have complained to thee about his words, when he cometh back in the evening what he will do [to me] is manifest.”

Then the elder brother became like a panther of the southern desert with wrath. And he seized his dagger, and sharpened it, and went and stood behind the stable door, so that he might slay Bata when he returned in the evening and came to the byre to bring in his cattle. And when the sun was about to set Bata loaded himself with products of the field of every kind, according to his custom, [and returned to the farm]. And as he was coming back the cow that led the herd said to Bata as she was entering the byre, “Verily thy elder brother is waiting with his dagger to slay thee; flee thou from before him”; and Bata hearkened to the words of the leading cow. And when the second cow as she was about to enter into the byre spake unto him even as did the first cow, Bata looked under the door of the byre, and saw the feet of his elder brother as he stood behind the door with his dagger in his hand. Then he set down his load upon the ground, and he ran away as fast as he could run, and Anpu followed him grasping his dagger. And Bata cried out to Rā-Harmakhis (the Sun-god) and said, “O my fair Lord, thou art he who judgeth between the wrong and the right.” And the god Rā hearkened unto all his words, and he caused a great stream to come into being, and to separate the two brothers, and the water was filled with crocodiles. Now Anpu was on one side of the stream and Bata on the other, [200]and Anpu wrung his hands together in bitter wrath because he could not kill his brother. Then Bata cried out to Anpu on the other bank, saying, “Stay where thou art until daylight, and until the Disk (i.e. the Sun-god) riseth. I will enter into judgment with thee in his presence, for it is he who setteth right what is wrong. I shall never more live with thee, and I shall never again dwell in the place where thou art. I am going to the Valley of the Acacia.”

And when the day dawned, and there was light on the earth, and Rā-Harmakhis was shining, the two brothers looked at each other. And Bata spake unto Anpu, saying, “Why hast thou pursued me in this treacherous way, wishing to slay me without first hearing what I had to say? I am thy brother, younger than thou art, and thou art as a father and thy wife is as a mother to me. Is it not so? When thou didst send me to fetch seed corn for our work, it was thy wife who said, ‘I pray thee to stay with me,’ but behold, the facts have been misrepresented to thee, and the reverse of what happened hath been put before thee.” Then Bata explained everything to Anpu, and made him to understand exactly what had taken place between him and his brother’s wife. And Bata swore an oath by Rā-Harmakhis, saying, “By Rā-Harmakhis, to lie in wait for me and to pursue me, with thy knife in thy hand ready to slay me, was a wicked and abominable thing to do.” And Bata took [from his side] the knife which he used in cutting reeds, and drove it into his body, and he sank down fainting upon the ground. Then Anpu cursed himself with bitter curses, and he lifted up his voice and wept; and he did not know how to cross over the stream to the bank where Bata was because of the crocodiles. And Bata cried out to him, saying, “Behold, thou art ready to remember against me one bad deed of mine, but thou dost not remember my good deeds, or even one of the many things that have been done for thee by me. Shame on thee! Get thee back to thy house and tend thine own cattle, for I will no longer stay with thee. I will depart to the Valley of the Acacia. But thou shalt come to minister to me, therefore take heed to what I say. Now know that certain things are [201]about to happen to me. I am going to cast a spell on my heart, so that I may be able to place it on a flower of the Acacia tree. When this Acacia is cut down my heart shall fall to the ground, and thou shalt come to seek for it. Thou shalt pass seven years in seeking for it, but let not thy heart be sick with disappointment, for thou shalt find it. When thou findest it, place it in a vessel of cold water, and verily my heart shall live again, and shall make answer to him that attacketh me. And thou shalt know what hath happened to me [by the following sign]. A vessel of beer shall be placed in thy hand, and it shall froth and run over; and another vessel with wine in it shall be placed [in thy hand], and it shall become sour. Then make no tarrying, for indeed these things shall happen to thee.” So the younger brother departed to the Valley of the Acacia, and the elder brother departed to his house. And Anpu’s hand was laid upon his head, and he cast dust upon himself [in grief for Bata], and when he arrived at his house he slew his wife, and threw her to the dogs, and he sat down and mourned for his young brother.

And when many days had passed, Bata was living alone in the Valley of the Acacia, and he spent his days in hunting the wild animals of the desert; and at night he slept under the Acacia, on the top of the flowers of which rested his heart. And after many days he built himself, with his own hand, a large house in the Valley of the Acacia, and it was filled with beautiful things of every kind, for he delighted in the possession of a house. And as he came forth [one day] from his house, he met the Company of the Gods, and they were on their way to work out their plans in their realm. And one of them said unto him, “Hail, Bata, thou Bull of the gods, hast thou not been living here alone since the time when thou didst forsake thy town through the wife of thy elder brother Anpu? Behold, his wife hath been slain [by him], and moreover thou hast made an adequate answer to the attack which he made upon thee”; and their hearts were very sore indeed for Bata. Then Rā-Harmakhis said unto Khnemu,[1] “Fashion a wife for Bata, so that thou, O Bata, [202]mayest not dwell alone.” And Khnemu made a wife to live with Bata, and her body was more beautiful than the body of any other woman in the whole country, and the essence of every god was in her; and the Seven Hathor Goddesses came to her, and they said, “She shall die by the sword.” And Bata loved her most dearly, and she lived in his house, and he passed all his days in hunting the wild animals of the desert so that he might bring them and lay them before her. And he said to her, “Go not out of the house lest the River carry thee off, for I know not how to deliver thee from it. My heart is set upon the flower of the Acacia, and if any man find it I must do battle with him for it”; and he told her everything that had happened concerning his heart.

[1] The god who fashioned the bodies of men.

And many days afterwards, when Bata had gone out hunting as usual, the young woman went out of the house and walked under the Acacia tree, which was close by, and the River saw her, and sent its waters rolling after her; and she fled before them and ran away into her house. And the River said, “I love her,” and the Acacia took to the River a lock of her hair, and the River carried it to Egypt, and cast it up on the bank at the place where the washermen washed the clothes of Pharaoh, life, strength, health [be to him]! And the odour of the lock of hair passed into the clothing of Pharaoh. Then the washermen of Pharaoh quarrelled among themselves, saying, “There is an odour [as of] perfumed oil in the clothes of Pharaoh.” And quarrels among them went on daily, and at length they did not know what they were doing. And the overseer of the washermen of Pharaoh walked to the river bank, being exceedingly angry because of the quarrels that came before him daily, and he stood still on the spot that was exactly opposite to the lock of hair as it lay in the water. Then he sent a certain man into the water to fetch it, and when he brought it back, the overseer, finding that it had an exceedingly sweet odour, took it to Pharaoh. And the scribes and the magicians were summoned into the presence of Pharaoh, and they said to him, “This lock of hair belongeth to a maiden of Rā-Harmakhis, and the essence of every god is in her. It cometh to thee from a [203]strange land as a salutation of praise to thee. We therefore pray thee send ambassadors into every land to seek her out. And as concerning the ambassador to the Valley of the Acacia, we beg thee to send a strong escort with him to fetch her.” And His Majesty said unto them, “What we have decided is very good,” and he despatched the ambassadors.

And when many days had passed by, the ambassadors who had been despatched to foreign lands returned to make a report to His Majesty, but those who had gone to the Valley of the Acacia did not come back, for Bata had slain them, with the exception of one who returned to tell the matter to His Majesty. Then His Majesty despatched foot-soldiers and horsemen and charioteers to bring back the young woman, and there was also with them a woman who had in her hands beautiful trinkets of all kinds, such as are suitable for maidens, to give to the young woman. And this woman returned to Egypt with the young woman, and everyone in all parts of the country rejoiced at her arrival. And His Majesty loved her exceedingly, and he paid her homage as the Great August One, the Chief Wife. And he spake to her and made her tell him what had become of her husband, and she said to His Majesty, “I pray thee to cut down the Acacia Tree and then to destroy it.” Then the King caused men and bowmen to set out with axes to cut down the Acacia, and when they arrived in the Valley of the Acacia, they cut down the flower on which was the heart of Bata, and he fell down dead at that very moment of evil.

And on the following morning when the light had come upon the earth, and the Acacia had been cut down, Anpu, Bata’s elder brother, went into his house and sat down, and he washed his hands; and one gave him a vessel of beer, and it frothed up, and the froth ran over, and one gave him another vessel containing wine, and it was sour. Then he grasped his staff, and [taking] his sandals, and his apparel, and his weapons which he used in fighting and hunting, he set out to march to the Valley of the Acacia. And when he arrived there he went into Bata’s house, and he found his young brother there lying dead on his bed; and when he [204]looked upon his young brother he wept on seeing that he was dead. Then he set out to seek for the heart of Bata, under the Acacia where he was wont to sleep at night, and he passed three years in seeking for it but found it not. And when the fourth year of his search had begun, his heart craved to return to Egypt, and he said, “I will depart thither to-morrow morning”; that was what he said to himself. And on the following day he walked about under the Acacia all day long looking for Bata’s heart, and as he was returning [to the house] in the evening, and was looking about him still searching for it, he found a seed, which he took back with him, and behold, it was Bata’s heart. Then he fetched a vessel of cold water, and having placed the seed in it, he sat down according to his custom. And when the night came, the heart had absorbed all the water; and Bata [on his bed] trembled in all his members, and he looked at Anpu, whilst his heart remained in the vessel of water. And Anpu took up the vessel wherein was his brother’s heart, which had absorbed the water. And Bata’s heart ascended its throne [in his body], and Bata became as he had been aforetime, and the two brothers embraced each other, and each spake to the other.

And Bata said to Anpu, “Behold, I am about to take the form of a great bull, with beautiful hair, and a disposition (?) which is unknown. When the sun riseth, do thou mount on my back, and we will go to the place where my wife is, and I will make answer [for myself]. Then shalt thou take me to the place where the King is, for he will bestow great favours upon thee, and he will heap gold and silver upon thee because thou wilt have brought me to him. For I am going to become a great and wonderful thing, and men and women shall rejoice because of me throughout the country.” And on the following day Bata changed himself into the form of which he had spoken to his brother. Then Anpu seated himself on his back early in the morning, and when he had come to the place where the King was, and His Majesty had been informed concerning him, he looked at him, and he had very great joy in him. And he made a great festival, saying, [205]“This is a very great wonder which hath happened”; and the people rejoiced everywhere throughout the whole country. And Pharaoh loaded Anpu with silver and gold, and he dwelt in his native town, and the King gave him large numbers of slaves, and very many possessions, for Pharaoh loved him very much, far more than any other person in the whole land.

And when many days had passed by the bull went into the house of purification, and he stood up in the place where the August Lady was, and said unto her, “Look upon me, I am alive in very truth.” And she said unto him, “Who art thou?” And he said unto her, “I am Bata. When thou didst cause the Acacia which held my heart to be destroyed by Pharaoh, well didst thou know that thou wouldst kill me. Nevertheless, I am alive indeed, in the form of a bull. Look at me!” And the August Lady was greatly afraid because of what she had said concerning her husband [to the King]; and the bull departed from the place of purification. And His Majesty went to tarry in her house and to rejoice with her, and she ate and drank with him; and the King was exceedingly happy. And the August Lady said to His Majesty, “Say these words: ‘Whatsoever she saith I will hearken unto for her sake,’ and swear an oath by God that thou wilt do them.” And the King hearkened unto everything which she spake, saying, “I beseech thee to give me the liver of this bull to eat, for he is wholly useless for any kind of work.” And the King cursed many, many times the request which she had uttered, and Pharaoh’s heart was exceedingly sore thereat.

On the following morning, when it was day, the King proclaimed a great feast, and he ordered the bull to be offered up as an offering, and one of the chief royal slaughterers of His Majesty was brought to slay the bull. And after the knife had been driven into him, and whilst he was still on the shoulders of the men, the bull shook his neck, and two drops of blood from it fell by the jambs of the doorway of His Majesty, one by one jamb of Pharaoh’s door, and the other by the other, and they became immediately two mighty acacia trees, and each was of the greatest magnificence. [206]Then one went and reported to His Majesty, saying, “Two mighty acacia trees, whereat His Majesty will marvel exceedingly, have sprung up during the night by the Great Door of His Majesty.” And men and women rejoiced in them everywhere in the country, and the King made offerings unto them. And many days after this His Majesty put on his tiara of lapis-lazuli, and hung a wreath of flowers of every kind about his neck, and he mounted his chariot of silver-gold, and went forth from the Palace to see the two acacia trees. And the August Lady came following after Pharaoh [in a chariot drawn by] horses, and His Majesty sat down under one acacia, and the August Lady sat under the other. And when she had seated herself the Acacia spake unto his wife, saying, “O woman, who art full of guile, I am Bata, and I am alive even though thou hast entreated me evilly. Well didst thou know when thou didst make Pharaoh to cut down the Acacia that held my heart that thou wouldst kill me, and when I transformed myself into a bull thou didst cause me to be slain.”

And several days after this the August Lady was eating and drinking at the table of His Majesty, and the King was enjoying her society greatly, and she said unto His Majesty, “Swear to me an oath by God, saying, I will hearken unto whatsoever the August Lady shall say unto me for her sake; let her say on.” And he hearkened unto everything which she said, and she said, “I entreat thee to cut down these two acacia trees, and to let them be made into great beams”; and the King hearkened unto everything which she said. And several days after this His Majesty made cunning wood-men to go and cut down the acacia trees of Pharaoh, and whilst the August Lady was standing and watching their being cut down, a splinter flew from one of them into her mouth, and she knew that she had conceived, and the King did for her everything which her heart desired. And many days after this happened she brought forth a man child, and one said to His Majesty, “A man child hath been born unto thee”; and a nurse was found for him and women to watch over him and tend him, and the people rejoiced throughout the [207]whole land. And the King sat down to enjoy a feast, and he began to call the child by his name, and he loved him very dearly, and at that same time the King gave him the title of “Royal son of Kash.”[1] Some time after this His Majesty appointed him “Erpā”[2] of the whole country. And when he had served the office of Erpā for many years, His Majesty flew up to heaven (i.e. he died). And the King (i.e. Bata) said, “Let all the chief princes be summoned before me, so that I may inform them about everything which hath happened unto me.” And they brought his wife, and he entered into judgment with her, and the sentence which he passed upon her was carried out. And Anpu, the brother of the King, was brought unto His Majesty, and the King made him Erpā of the whole country. When His Majesty had reigned over Egypt for twenty years, he departed to life (i.e. he died), and his brother Anpu took his place on the day in which he was buried.

Here endeth the book happily [in] peace.[3]

[1] i.e. Prince of Kash, or Viceroy of the Sūdān.

[2] i.e. hereditary chief, or heir.

[3] According to the colophon, the papyrus was written for an officer of Pharaoh’s treasury, called Qakabu, and the scribes Herua and Meremaptu by Annana, the scribe, the lord of books. The man who shall speak [against] this book shall have Thoth for a foe!

Under the heading of this chapter may well be included the Story of the Shipwrecked Traveller. The text of this remarkable story is written in the hieratic character upon a roll of papyrus, which is preserved in the Imperial Library at St. Petersburg. It is probable that a layer of facts underlies the story, but the form in which we have it justifies us in assigning to it a place among the fairy stories of Ancient Egypt. Prefixed to the narrative of the shipwrecked traveller is the following:

“A certain servant of wise understanding hath said, Let thy heart be of good cheer, O prince. Verily we have arrived at [our] homes. The mallet hath been grasped, and the anchor-post hath been driven into the ground, and the bow of the boat hath grounded on the bank. Thanksgivings have been offered up to God, and every man hath embraced [208]his neighbour. Our sailors have returned in peace and safety, and our fighting men have lost none of their comrades, even though we travelled to the uttermost parts of Uauat (Nubia), and through the country of Senmut (Northern Nubia). Verily we have arrived in peace, and we have reached our own land [again]. Hearken, O prince, unto me, even though I be a poor man. Wash thyself, and let water run over thy fingers. I would that thou shouldst be ready to return an answer to the man who addresseth thee, and to speak to the King [from] thy heart, and assuredly thou must give thine answer promptly and without hesitation. The mouth of a man delivereth him, and his words provide a covering for [his] face. Act thou according to the promptings of thine heart, and when thou hast spoken [thou wilt have made him] to be at rest.” The shipwrecked traveller then narrates his experiences in the following words: I will now speak and give thee a description of the things that [once] happened to me myself [when] I was journeying to the copper mines of the king. I went down into the sea[1] in a ship that was one hundred and fifty cubits (225 feet) in length, and forty cubits (60 feet) in breadth, and it was manned by one hundred and fifty sailors who were chosen from among the best sailors of Egypt. They had looked upon the sky, they had looked upon the land, and their hearts were more understanding than the hearts of lions. Now although they were able to say beforehand when a tempest was coming, and could tell when a squall was going to rise before it broke upon them, a storm actually overtook us when we were still on the sea. Before we could make the land the wind blew with redoubled violence, and it drove before it upon us a wave that was eight cubits (12 feet) [high]. A plank was driven towards me by it, and I seized it; and as for the ship, those who were therein perished, and not one of them escaped.

[1] The sea was the Red Sea, and the narrator must have been on his way to Wādī Maghārah or Sarābīt al-Khādim in the Peninsula of Sinai.

Then a wave of the sea bore me along and cast me up upon an island, and I passed three days there by myself, with none but mine own heart for a companion; I laid me down and [209]slept in a hollow in a thicket, and I hugged the shade. And I lifted up my legs (i.e. I walked about), so that I might find out what to put in my mouth, and I found there figs and grapes, and all kinds of fine large berries; and there were there gourds, and melons, and pumpkins as large as barrels (?), and there were also there fish and water-fowl. There was no [food] of any sort or kind that did not grow in this island. And when I had eaten all I could eat, I laid the remainder of the food upon the ground, for it was too much for me [to carry] in my arms. I then dug a hole in the ground and made a fire, and I prepared pieces of wood and a burnt-offering for the gods.

And I heard a sound [as of] thunder, which I thought to be [caused by] a wave of the sea, and the trees rocked and the earth quaked, and I covered my face. And I found [that the sound was caused by] a serpent that was coming towards me. It was thirty cubits (45 feet) in length, and its beard was more than two cubits in length, and its body was covered with [scales of] gold, and the two ridges over its eyes were of pure lapis-lazuli (i.e. they were blue); and it coiled its whole length up before me. And it opened its mouth to me, now I was lying flat on my stomach in front of it, and it said unto me, “Who hath brought thee hither? Who hath brought thee hither, O miserable one? Who hath brought thee hither? If thou dost not immediately declare unto me who hath brought thee to this island, I will make thee to know what it is to be burnt with fire, and thou wilt become a thing that is invisible. Thou speakest to me, but I cannot hear what thou sayest; I am before thee, dost thou not know me?” Then the serpent took me in its mouth, and carried me off to the place where it was wont to rest, and it set me down there, having done me no harm whatsoever; I was sound and whole, and it had not carried away any portion of my body. And it opened its mouth to me whilst I was lying flat on my stomach, and it said unto me, “Who hath brought thee thither? Who hath brought thee hither, O miserable one? Who hath brought thee to this island of the sea, the two sides of which are in the waves?”

Then I made answer to the serpent, my two hands being [210]folded humbly before it, and I said unto it, “I am one who was travelling to the mines on a mission of the king in a ship that was one hundred and fifty cubits long, and fifty cubits in breadth, and it was manned by a crew of one hundred and fifty men, who were chosen from among the best sailors of Egypt. They had looked upon the sky, they had looked upon the earth, and their hearts were more understanding than the hearts of lions. They were able to say beforehand when a tempest was coming, and to tell when a squall was about to rise before it broke. The heart of every man among them was wiser than that of his neighbour, and the arm of each was stronger than that of his neighbour; there was not one weak man among them. Nevertheless it blew a gale of wind whilst we were still on the sea and before we could make the land. A gale rose, which continued to increase in violence, and with it there came upon [us] a wave eight cubits [high]. A plank of wood was driven towards me by this wave, and I seized it; and as for the ship, those who were therein perished and not one of them escaped alive [except] myself. And now behold me by thy side! It was a wave of the sea that brought me to this island.”

And the serpent said unto me, “Have no fear, have no fear, O little one, and let not thy face be sad, now that thou hast arrived at the place where I am. Verily, God hath spared thy life, and thou hast been brought to this island where there is food. There is no kind of food that is not here, and it is filled with good things of every kind. Verily, thou shalt pass month after month on this island, until thou hast come to the end of four months, and then a ship shall come, and there shall be therein sailors who are acquaintances of thine, and thou shalt go with them to thy country, and thou shalt die in thy native town.” [And the serpent continued,] “What a joyful thing it is for the man who hath experienced evil fortunes, and hath passed safely through them, to declare them! I will now describe unto thee some of the things that have happened unto me on this island. I used to live here with my brethren, and with my children who dwelt among them; now my children and my brethren [211]together numbered seventy-five. I do not make mention of a little maiden who had been brought to me by fate. And a star fell [from heaven], and these (i.e. his children, and his brethren, and the maiden) came into the fire which fell with it. I myself was not with those who were burnt in the fire, and I was not in their midst, but I [well-nigh] died [of grief] for them. And I found a place wherein I buried them all together. Now, if thou art strong, and thy heart flourisheth, thou shalt fill both thy arms (i.e. embrace) with thy children, and thou shalt kiss thy wife, and thou shalt see thine own house, which is the most beautiful thing of all, and thou shalt reach thy country, and thou shalt live therein again together with thy brethren, and dwell therein.”

Then I cast myself down flat upon my stomach, and I pressed the ground before the serpent with my forehead, saying, “I will describe thy power to the King, and I will make him to understand thy greatness. I will cause to be brought unto thee the unguent and spices called aba, and hekenu, and inteneb, and khasait, and the incense that is offered up in the temples, whereby every god is propitiated. I will relate [unto him] the things that have happened unto me, and declare the things that have been seen by me through thy power, and praise and thanksgiving shall be made unto thee in my city in the presence of all the nobles of the country. I will slaughter bulls for thee, and will offer them up as burnt-offerings, and I will pluck feathered fowl in thine [honour]. And I will cause to come to thee boats laden with all the most costly products of the land of Egypt, even according to what is done for a god who is beloved by men and women in a land far away, whom they know not.” Then the serpent smiled at me, and the things which I had said to it were regarded by it in its heart as nonsense, for it said unto me, “Thou hast not a very great store of myrrh [in Egypt], and all that thou hast is incense. Behold, I am the Prince of Punt, and the myrrh which is therein belongeth to me. And as for the heken which thou hast said thou wilt cause to be brought to me, is it not one of the chief [products] of this island? And behold, it shall come to pass that when thou hast once [212]departed from this place, thou shalt never more see this island, for it shall disappear into the waves.”

And in due course, even as the serpent had predicted, a ship arrived, and I climbed up to the top of a high tree, and I recognised those who were in it. Then I went to announce the matter to the serpent, but I found that it had knowledge thereof already. And the serpent said unto me, “A safe [journey], a safe [journey], O little one, to thy house. Thou shalt see thy children [again]. I beseech thee that my name may be held in fair repute in thy city, for verily this is the thing which I desire of thee.” Then I threw myself flat upon my stomach, and my two hands were folded humbly before the serpent. And the serpent gave me a [ship-] load of things, namely, myrrh, heken, inteneb, khasait, thsheps and shaas spices, eye-paint (antimony), skins of panthers, great balls of incense, tusks of elephants, greyhounds, apes, monkeys, and beautiful and costly products of all sorts and kinds. And when I had loaded these things into the ship, and had thrown myself flat upon my stomach in order to give thanks unto it for the same, it spake unto me, saying, “Verily thou shalt travel to [thy] country in two months, and thou shalt fill both thy arms with thy children, and thou shalt renew thy youth in thy coffin.” Then I went down to the place on the sea-shore where the ship was, and I hailed the bowmen who were in the ship, and I spake words of thanksgiving to the lord of this island, and those who were in the ship did the same. Then we set sail, and we journeyed on and returned to the country of the King, and we arrived there at the end of two months, according to all that the serpent had said. And I entered into the presence of the King, and I took with me for him the offerings which I had brought out of the island. And the King praised me and thanked me in the presence of the nobles of all his country, and he appointed me to be one of his bodyguard, and I received my wages along with those who were his [regular] servants.

Cast thou thy glance then upon me [O Prince], now that I have set my feet on my native land once more, having seen and experienced what I have seen and experienced. Hearken [213]thou unto me, for verily it is a good thing to hearken unto men. And the Prince said unto me, “Make not thyself out to be perfect, my friend! Doth a man give water to a fowl at daybreak which he is going to kill during the day?”

Here endeth [The Story of the Shipwrecked Traveller], which hath been written from the beginning to the end thereof according to the text that hath been found written in an [ancient] book. It hath been written (i.e. copied) by Ameni-Amen-āa, a scribe with skilful fingers. Life, strength, and health be to him!

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The Poems of Yahia Lababidi

Fanciful creators

What fanciful creators we are:
bestowing shock absorbers on cars
sprinkling tenderizer on meats
and stitching wrinkle-resistant shirts

Such wishful thinking, this
gifting what we desire.

The Art of Storm-riding

I could not decipher the living riddle of my body
put it to sleep when it hungered, and overfed it
when time came to dream

I nearly choked on the forked tongue of my spirit
between the real and the ideal, rejecting the one
and rejected by the other

I still have not mastered that art of storm-riding
without ears to apprehend howling winds
or eyes for rolling waves

Always the weather catches me unawares, baffled
by maps, compass, stars and the entire apparatus
of bearings or warning signals

Clutching at driftwood, eyes screwed shut, I tremble
hoping the unhinged night will pass and I remember
how once I shielded my flame.

drylands

Tell me, have you found a sea
deep enough to swim in
deep enough to drown in

waters to engage you
distract you, keep you
from crossing to the other shore?

If

If there were more than one of me
I’d shave my head and grow my beard
I’d be a Doctor of Theology

In great coat of myth, impermeable to ridicule
I’d raise my voice and sing
hymns to the Unknown god

Another me would come undone voluptuously
submit to possessions, deliriously
mate with night in vicious delight

I would be, in a word, unspeakable
indulge an appetite artistically criminal
gloriously indifferent to utter: ruin!

Yet another me would take to stage
part animal, part angel in improbable outfit
strike ecstatic pose and fuse with masses

Or perhaps, at last, renounce words and self
occupy an eye, to better see
in silent awe, peripherally

But, there is only this ambitious pen, and playpen
fencing a mass of miscarriages
trembling from time in unquiet blood

And I, with reluctant fidelity, am guardian
looking over the restless, violent lot
for fear of fratricide.

Anatomy lesson

Like animals ritualistically gathered

helplessly mourning their dead,

museum-goers congregate to interrogate

flayed human cadavers

peeping toms and doubting thomases

peek behind a curtain at secrets

usually reserved for physicians

or God

a tense dance of tendons and nerves

immaculate architecture of musculature and bone

skins peeled to expose gruesome-majestic fruit:

creation’s inscrutable seed

transfixed, with car-wreck absorption

between life studies and momento mori

reverent, incredulous, implicated -we stand

mysteriously united.
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Kalabi – “Tommy Two Pints” (edit)

Turning of Seasons…

“Rich meanings of the prophet-Spring adorn,
Unseen, this colourless sky of folded showers,
And folded winds; no blossom in the bowers;
A poet’s face asleep in this grey morn.
Now in the midst of the old world forlorn
A mystic child is set in these still hours.
I keep this time, even before the flowers,
Sacred to all the young and the unborn.”

– Alice Meynell, In February
—–

Here we are, on the Eve of the first day of Spring in the old calendar, Imbolc also known as St. Brides Day (Brigit/Brighid)… We are lighting candles and incense tonight to greet the new season. Funnily enough, the weather is changing everywhere, and the seasons are turning in ways we never imagined. Reading a note from my sister Rebecca who lives in Indiana, that the power has gone, and it is quite nasty. From the satellite pics the snow is just blanketing down from one end of middle America to the other. My thoughts are with those in the chill tonight.

We had a brilliant weekend, Victor and Heather came to visit from The Dalles, and we all went to The Portland Art Museum to see the Monet exhibition together. It was beautiful, along with the Rodin’s, and the other pieces from the period. We checked out the Buddhist exhibition on the way out, truly wonderful. Later, Mary fixed a brilliant dinner, which everyone enjoyed. Our friend Cheryl joined us for that and for hanging out afterwards before Victor and Heather headed back out east. It was a great day and evening!

I hope that the changing of the season brings some relief, and hope to people across the globe. My thoughts are with those out in the streets across the Middle East. We live in a time of accelerating wonders! I hope it turns out well for Egypt and elsewhere in the area; there is a great change coming down the road…

This entry has some interesting elements in it, from the “The Coming of Angus and Bride” to Karen Armstrong’s acceptance speech at Ted(tm) on..”what we need”. We have some quotes from Teilhard De Chardin, and perhaps one of the most beautiful pieces of music:Samuel Barber’s “Agnus Dei” (Adagio for strings).

I hope you enjoy it as much as I did in assembling this entry.. 80)

Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

Teilhard De Chardin Quotes
Karen Armstrong – What We Need
The Coming of Angus and Bride
Samuel Barber: Agnus Dei (Adagio for strings)
Poesy For Imbolc
Artist: John Duncan
_______________________________
Teilhard De Chardin Quotes:

“The age of nations has passed, our task now, should we not perish, is to build the Earth.”
“You are not a human being in search of a spiritual experience. You are a spiritual being immersed in a human experience.”
“The world is round so that friendship may encircle it.”
“Love is the affinity which links and draws together the elements of the world… Love, in fact, is the agent of universal synthesis.”
“Love alone is capable of uniting living beings in such a way as to complete and fulfill them, for it alone takes them and joins them by what is deepest in themselves”
“We are one, after all, you and I, together we suffer, together exist and forever will recreate each other.”
_______________________________
Karen Armstrong – What We Need

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The Coming of Angus and Bride
(Wonder Tales Of Scotland – Donald Alexander Mackenzie)

All the long winter Beira kept captive a beautiful young princess named Bride. She was jealous of Bride’s beauty, and gave her ragged clothing to wear, and put her to work among the servants in the kitchen of her mountain castle, where the girl had to perform the meanest tasks. Beira scolded her continually, finding fault with everything she did, and Bride’s life was made very wretched.

One day Beira gave the princess a brown fleece and said: “You must wash this fleece in the running stream until it is pure white.”

Bride took the fleece and went outside the castle, and began to wash it in a pool below a waterfall. All day long she laboured at the work, but to no purpose. She found it impossible to wash the brown colour out of the wool.

When evening came on, Beira scolded the girl, and said: “You are a useless hussy. The fleece is as brown as when I gave it to you.”

Said Bride: “All day long have I washed it in the pool below the waterfall of the Red Rock.”

“To-morrow you shall wash it again,” Beira said; “and if you do not wash it white, you will go on washing on the next day, and on every day after that. Now, begone! and do as I bid you.”

It was a sorrowful time for Bride. Day after day she washed the fleece, and it seemed to her that if she went on washing until the world came to an end, the brown wool would never become white.

One morning as she went on with her washing a grey-bearded old man came near. He took pity on the princess, who wept bitter tears over her work, and spoke to her, saying: “Who are you, and why do you sorrow?”

Said the princess: “My name is Bride. I am the captive of Queen Beira, and she has ordered me to wash this brown fleece until it is white. Alas! it cannot be done.”

“I am sorry for you,” the old man said.

“Who are you, and whence come you?” asked Bride.

“My name is Father Winter,” the old man told her. “Give me the fleece, and I shall make it white for you.”

Bride gave Father Winter the brown fleece, and when he had shaken it three times it turned white as snow. The heart of Bride was immediately filled with joy, and she exclaimed: “Dear Father Winter, you are very kind. You have saved me much labour and taken away my sorrow.”

Father Winter handed back the fleece to Princess Bride with one hand, and she took it. Then he said: “Take also what I hold in my other hand.” As he spoke he gave her a bunch of pure white snowdrops. The eyes of Bride sparkled with joy to behold them.

Said Father Winter: “If Beira scolds you, give her these flowers, and if she asks where you found them, tell her that they came from the green rustling fir-woods. Tell her also that the cress is springing up on the banks of streams, and that the new grass has begun to shoot up in the fields.”

Having spoken thus, Father Winter bade the princess farewell and turned away.

Bride returned to the mountain castle and laid the white fleece at Beira’s feet. But the old queen scarcely looked at it. Her craze was fixed on the snowdrops that Bride carried.

“Where did you find these flowers?” Beira asked with sudden anger.

Said Bride: “The snowdrops are now growing in the green rustling fir-woods, the cress is springing up on the banks of streams, and the new grass is beginning to shoot up in the fields.”

“Evil are the tidings you bring me!” Beira cried. “Begone from my sight!”

Bride turned away, but not in sorrow. A new joy had entered her heart, for she knew that the wild winter season was going past, and that the reign of Queen Beira would soon come to an end.

Meanwhile Beira summoned her eight hag servants, and spoke to them, saying: “Ride to the north and ride to the south, ride to the east and ride to the west, and I will ride forth also. Smite the world with frost and tempest, so that no flower may bloom and no grass blade survive. I am waging war against all growth.”

When she had spoken thus, the eight hags mounted on the backs of shaggy goats and rode forth to do her bidding. Beira went forth also, grasping in her right hand her black magic hammer. On the night of that very day a great tempest lashed the ocean to fury and brought terror to every corner of the land.

Now the reason why Beira kept Bride a prisoner was because her fairest and dearest son, whose name was Angus-the-Ever-Young, had fallen in love with her. He was called “the Ever Young” because age never came near him, and all winter long he lived on the Green Isle of the West, which is also called the “Land of Youth.”

Angus first beheld Bride in a dream, and when he awoke he spoke to the King of the Green Isle, saying: “Last night I dreamed a dream and saw a beautiful princess whom I love. Tears fell from her eyes, and I spoke to an old man who stood near her, and said: ‘Why does the maiden weep?’ Said the old man: ‘She weeps because she is kept captive by Beira, who treats her with great cruelty.’ I looked again at the princess and said: ‘Fain would I set her free.’ Then I awoke. Tell me, O king, who is this princess, and where shall I find her?”

The King of the Green Isle answered Angus, saying: “The fair princess whom you saw is Bride, and in the days when you will be King of Summer she will be your queen. Of this your mother, Queen Beira, has full knowledge, and it is her wish to keep you away from Bride, so that her own reign may be prolonged. Tarry here, O Angus, until the flowers been to bloom and the grass begins to grow, and then you shall set free the beautiful Princess Bride.”

Said Angus: “Fain would I go forth at once to search for her.”

“The wolf-month (February) has now come,” the king said. “Uncertain is the temper of the wolf.”

Said Angus: “I shall cast a spell on the sea and a spell on the land, and borrow for February three days from August.”

He did as he said he would do. He borrowed three days from August, and the ocean slumbered peacefully while the sun shone brightly over mountain and glen. Then Angus mounted his white steed and rode eastward to Scotland over the isles and over the Minch, and he reached the Grampians when dawn was breaking. He was clad in raiment of shining gold, and from his shoulders hung his royal robe of crimson which the wind uplifted and spread out in gleaming splendour athwart the sky.

An aged bard looked eastward, and when he beheld the fair Angus he lifted up his harp and sang a song of welcome, and the birds of the forest sang with him. And this is how he sang:–

Angus hath come–the young, the fair,
The blue-eyed god with golden hair–
The god who to the world doth bring
This morn the promise of the spring;
Who moves the birds to song ere yet
He bath awaked the violet,
Or the soft primrose on the steep,
While buds are laid in lidded sleep,
And white snows wrap the hills serene,
Ere glows the larch’s 1 vivid green
Through the brown woods and bare. All hail!
Angus, and may thy will prevail. . . .
He comes . . . he goes. . . . And far and wide
He searches for the Princess Bride.

Up and down the land went Angus, but he could not find Bride anywhere. The fair princess beheld him in a dream, however, and knew that he longed to set her free. When she awoke she shed tears of joy, and on the place where her tears fell there sprang up violets, and they were blue as her beautiful eyes.

Beira was angry when she came to know that Angus was searching for Bride, and on the third evening of his visit she raised a great tempest which drove him back to Green Isle. But he returned again and again, and at length he discovered the castle in which the princess was kept a prisoner.

Then came a day when Angus met Bride in a forest near the castle. The violets were blooming and soft yellow primroses opened their eyes of wonder to gaze on the prince and the princess. When they spoke one to another the birds raised their sweet voices in song and the sun shone fair and bright.

Said Angus: “Beautiful princess, I beheld you in a dream weeping tears of sorrow.”

Bride said: “Mighty prince, I beheld you in a dream riding over bens and through glens in beauty and power.”

Said Angus: “I have come to rescue you from Queen Beira, who has kept you all winter long in captivity.”

Bride said: “To me this is a day of great joy.”

Said Angus: “It will be a day of great joy to all mankind ever after this.”

That is why the first day of spring–the day on which Angus found the princess–is called “Bride’s Day”. (1)

Through the forest came a fair company of fairy ladies, who hailed Bride as queen and bade welcome to Angus. Then the Fairy Queen waved her wand, and Bride was transformed. As swiftly as the bright sun springs out from behind a dark cloud, shedding beauty all round, so swiftly did Bride appear in new splendour. Instead of ragged clothing, she then wore a white robe adorned with spangles of shining silver. Over her heart gleamed a star-like crystal, pure as her thoughts and bright as the joy that Angus brought her. This gem is called “the guiding star of Bride “. Her golden-brown hair, which hung down to her waist in gleaming curls, was decked with fair spring flowers–snowdrops and daisies and primroses and violets. Blue were her eyes, and her face had the redness and whiteness of the wild rose of peerless beauty and tender grace. In her right hand she carried a white wand entwined with golden corn-stalks, and in her left a golden horn which is called the “Horn of Plenty”.

The linnet was the first forest bird that hailed Bride in her beauty, and the Fairy Queen said: “Ever after this you shall be called the ‘Bird of Bride’.” On the seashore the first bird that chirped with joy was the oyster-catcher, and the Fairy Queen said: “Ever after this you shall be called the ‘Page of Bride’.”

Then the Fairy Queen led Angus and Bride to her green-roofed underground palace in the midst of the forest. As they went forward they came to a river which was covered with ice. Bride put her fingers on the ice, and the Ice Hag shrieked and fled.

A great feast was held in the palace of the Fairy Queen, and it was the marriage feast of Bride, for Angus and she were wed. The fairies danced and sang with joy, and all the world was moved to dance and sing with them. This was how the first “Festival of Bride” came to be.

“Spring has come!” the shepherds cried; and they drove their flocks on to the moors, where they were counted and blessed.

“Spring has come!” chattered the raven, and flew off to find moss for her nest. The rook heard and followed after, and the wild duck rose from amidst the reeds, crying: “Spring has come!”

Bride came forth from the fairy palace with Angus and waved her hand, while Angus repeated magic spells. Then greater growth was given to the grass, and all the world hailed Angus and Bride as king and queen. Although they were not beheld by mankind, yet their presence was everywhere felt throughout Scotland.

Beira was wroth when she came to know that Angus had found Bride. She seized her magic hammer and smote the ground unceasingly until it was frozen hard as iron again–so hard that no herb or blade of grass could continue to live upon its surface. Terrible was her wrath when she beheld the grass growing. She knew well that when the grass flourished and Angus and Bride were married, her authority would pass away. It was her desire to keep her throne as long as possible.

“Bride is married, hail to Bride!” sang the birds.

“Angus is married, hail to Angus!” they sang also.

Beira heard the songs of the birds, and called to her hag servants: “Ride north and ride south, ride east and ride west, and wage war against Angus. I shall ride forth also.”

Her servants mounted their shaggy goats and rode forth to do her bidding. Beira mounted a black steed and set out in pursuit of Angus. She rode fast and she rode hard. Black clouds swept over the sky as she rode on, until at length she came to the forest in which the Fairy Queen had her dwelling. All the fairies fled in terror into their green mound and the doors were shut. Angus looked up and beheld Beira drawing nigh. He leapt on the back of his white steed, and lifted his young bride into the saddle in front of him and fled away with her.

Angus rode westward over the hills and over the valleys and over the sea, and Beira pursued him.

There is a rocky ravine on the island of Tiree, and Beira’s black steed jumped across it while pursuing the white steed of Angus. The hoofs of the black steed made a gash on the rocks. To this day the ravine is called “The Horse’s Leap”.

Angus escaped to the Green Isle of the West, and there he passed happy days with Bride. But he longed to return to Scotland and reign as King of Summer. Again and again he crossed the sea; and each time he reached the land of glens and bens, the sun broke forth in brightness and the birds sang merrily to welcome him.

Beira raised storm after storm to drive him away. First she called on the wind named “The Whistle”, which blew high and shrill, and brought down rapid showers of cold hailstones. It lasted for three days, and there was much sorrow and bitterness throughout the length and breadth of Scotland. Sheep and lambs were killed on the moors, and horses and cows perished also.

Angus fled, but he returned soon again. The next wind that Beira raised to prolong her winter reign was the “Sharp Billed Wind” which is called “Gobag”. lasted for nine days, and all the land was pierced by it, for it pecked and bit in every nook and cranny like a sharp-billed bird.

Angus returned, and the Beira raised the eddy wind which is called “The Sweeper”. Its whirling gusts tore branches from the budding trees and bright flowers from their stalks. All the time it blew, Beira kept beating the ground with her magic hammer so as to keep the grass from growing. But her efforts were in vain. Spring smiled in beauty all around, and each time she turned away, wearied by her efforts, the sun sprang forth in splendour. The small modest primroses opened their petals in the sunshine, looking forth from cosy nooks that the wind, called “Sweeper”, was unable to reach. Angus fled, but he soon returned again.

Beira was not yet, however, entirely without hope. Her efforts had brought disaster to mankind, and the “Weeks of Leanness” came on. Food became scarce. The fishermen were unable to venture to sea on account of Beira’s tempests, and could get no fish. In the night-time Beira and her hags entered the dwellings of mankind, and stole away their stores of food. It was, indeed, a sorrowful time.

Angus was moved with pity for mankind, and tried to fight the hags of Beira. But the fierce queen raised the “Gales of Complaint” to keep him away, and they raged in fury until the first week of March. Horses and cattle died for want of food, because the fierce winds blew down stacks of fodder and scattered them over the lochs and the ocean.

Angus, however, waged a fierce struggle against the hag servants, and at length he drove them away to the north, where they fumed and fretted furiously.

Beira was greatly alarmed, and she made her last great effort to subdue the Powers of Spring. She waved her magic hammer, and smote the clouds with it. Northward she rode on her black steed, and gathered her servants together, and called to them, saying: “Ride southward with me, all of you, and scatter our enemies before us.”

Out of the bleak dark north they rode in a single pack. With them came the Big Black Tempest. It seemed then as if winter had returned in full strength and would abide for ever. But even Beira and her hags had to take rest. On a dusky evening they crouched down together on the side of a bare mountain, and, when they did so, a sudden calm fell upon the land and the sea.

“Ha! ha!” laughed the wild duck who hated the hag. “Ha! ha! I am still alive, and so are my six ducklings.”

“Have patience! idle chatterer,” answered the Hag. “I am not yet done.”

That night she borrowed three days from Winter which had not been used, for Angus had previously borrowed for Winter three days from August. The three spirits of the borrowed days were tempest spirits, and came towards Beira mounted on black hogs. She spoke to them, saying: “Long have you been bound! Now I set you at liberty.”

One after another, on each of the three days that followed, the spirits went forth riding the black hogs. They brought snow and hail and fierce blasts of wind. Snow whitened the moors and filled the furrows of ploughed land, rivers rose in flood, and great trees were shattered and uprooted. The duck was killed, and so were her six ducklings; sheep and cattle perished, and many human beings were killed on land and drowned at sea. The days on which these things happened are called the “Three Hog Days”.

Beira’s reign was now drawing to a close. She found herself unable to combat any longer against the power of the new life that was rising in every vein of the land. The weakness of extreme old age crept upon her, and she longed once again to drink of the waters of the Well of Youth. When, on a bright March morning, she beheld Angus riding over the hills on his white steed, scattering her fierce hag servants before him, she fled away in despair. Ere she went she threw her magic hammer beneath a holly tree, and that is the reason why no grass grows under the holly trees.

Beira’s black steed went northward with her in flight. As it leapt over Loch Etive it left the marks of its hoofs on the side of a rocky mountain, and the spot is named to this day “Horse-shoes”. She did not rein up her steed until she reached the island of Skye, where she found rest on the summit of the “Old Wife’s Ben” (Ben-e-Caillich) at Broadford. There she sat, gazing steadfastly across the sea, waiting until the day and night would be of equal length. All that equal day she wept tears of sorrow for her lost power, and when night came on she went westward over the sea to Green Island. At the dawn of the day that followed she drank the magic waters of the Well of Youth.

On that day which is of equal length with the night, Angus came to Scotland with Bride, and they were hailed as king and queen of the unseen beings. They rode from south to north in the morning and forenoon, and from north to south in the afternoon and evening. A gentle wind went with them, blowing towards the north from dawn till midday, and towards the south from midday till sunset. It was on that day that Bride dipped her fair white hands in the high rivers and lochs which still retained ice. When she did so, the Ice Hag fell into a deep sleep from which she could not awake until summer and autumn were over and past.

The grass grew quickly after Angus began to reign as king. Seeds were sown, and the people called on Bride to grant them a good harvest. Ere long the whole land was made beautiful with spring flowers of every hue.

Angus had a harp of gold with silver strings, and when he played on it youths and maidens followed the sound of the music through the woods. Bards sang his praises and told that he kissed lovers, and that when they parted one from another to return to their homes, the kisses became invisible birds that hovered round their heads and sang sweet songs of love, and whispered memories dear. It was thus that one bard sang of him:–

When softly blew the south wind o’er the sea,
Lisping of springtime hope and summer pride,
And the rough reign of Beira ceased to be,
Angus the Ever-Young,
The beauteous god of love, the golden-haired,
The blue mysterious-eyed,
Shone like the star of morning high among
The stars that shrank afraid
When dawn proclaimed the triumph that he shared
With Bride the peerless maid.
Then winds of violet sweetness rose and sighed,
No conquest is compared
To Love’s transcendent joys that never fade.

In the old days, when there was no Calendar in Scotland, the people named the various periods of winter and spring, storm and calm, as they are given above. The story of the struggle between Angus and Beira is the story of the struggle between spring and winter, growth and decay, light and darkness, and warmth and cold.
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Footnotes

The larch is the first tree in Scotland which turns a bright green in springtime.
February 1st old style, February 13th new style.
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Samuel Barber: Agnus Dei (Adagio for strings)

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Poesy For Imbolc

“From December to March, there are for many of
us three gardens:
the garden outdoors,
the garden of pots and bowls in the house,
and the garden of the mind’s eye.”
– Katherine S. White

“He knows no winter, he who loves the soil,
For, stormy days, when he is free from toil,
He plans his summer crops, selects his seeds
From bright-paged catalogues for garden needs.
When looking out upon frost-silvered fields,
He visualizes autumn’s golden yields;
He sees in snow and sleet and icy rain
Precious moisture for his early grain;
He hears spring-heralds in the storm’s ‘ turmoil­
He knows no winter, he who loves the soil.”
– Sudie Stuart Hager, He Knows No Winter

“Winter is nature’s way of saying, “Up yours.””
– Robert Byrne

“Let us love winter, for it is the spring of genius.”
– Pietro Aretino

“Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow
Appear to lift up from the lake;
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,
Allowing me to let your picture form and wake
Astonished that you have returned to go
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
A frame of glided twilight—I
Again awaken from your being gone to find
Your gloved hands covering your lips’ good-bye
So you can watch me watch uplifted snow
As if your absence now concluded long ago.”
– Robert Pack, Snow Rise

“Was it the smile of early spring
That made my bosom glow?
‘Twas sweet, but neither sun nor wind
Could raise my spirit so.

Was it some feeling of delight,
All vague and undefined?
No, ’twas a rapture deep and strong,
Expanding in the mind!”
– Anne Bronte, In Memory of A Happy Day in February

“Winter is the time of promise because there is so little to do – or because you can now and then permit
yourself the luxury of thinking so.”
– Stanley Crawford

“See the falling snowflakes
drifting by the pane,
Winging glasslike angels
falling just like rain.
The air is crisp and stirring,
the freshly fallen snow.
And the warmth I’m feeling inside,
sets my eyes aglow.
This winter’s day has come before
and will come again.
It finds it’s way to Earth
every now and then.”
– Linda A. Copp, A Winter’s Day

“Be off!” say Winter’s snows;
“Now it’s my turn to sing!”
So, startled, quivering,
Not daring to oppose

(Our fortitude grows dim in
The face of a Quos ego),
Away, my songs, must we go
Before those virile women!

Rain. We are forced to fly,
Everywhere, utterly.
End of the comedy.
Come, swallows, it’s good-bye.

Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
Writhing their stunted limbs,
And off the white smoke swims
Across the heavens’ gray.

A pallid yellow lingers
Over the chilly dale.
My keyhole blows a gale
Onto my frozen fingers.”
– Victor Hugo, Be Off Winter Snow
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Into The Zone… Part II

Diligence is the mother of good fortune, and idleness, its opposite, never brought a man to the goal of any of his best wishes. -Miguel de Cervantes

Hey, its a beautiful Tuesday night here in P-Town. This is just a quick note to let you know that it goes on, and continues. It turns out that some of the illustrations for the magazine are not up to snuff, awaiting new ones. Found a new publisher, and they are pretty sharp and all. I can smell the finish line for this issue, oh it has been a bit to long in the making for yours truly…

Hope this finds you and yours well. Today is my friend Tom’s Birthday. We have known each other some 43 years this summer. He is just as good looking and full of good humour as when I met him. If anything, Tom has improved with age… 80) Now the trick is get him to come back to Portland!

Bright Blessings, and I hope you enjoy this edition!

Gwyllm
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On The Menu:
Into The Zone Part II
Quotes On Life
Errico Malatesta Extraction..
Steve Hillage – Four Ever Rainbow
Cosmic Consciousness: William Blake
Poem: Syrinx
Poetry: Intimations Of Immortality …. William Wordsworth
Steve Hillage & Evan Marc – Hypnopomp
Art: Edmund Dulac
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Into The Zone Part II:
In order to attain the impossible, one must attempt the absurd. – Miguel de Cervantes

Pray look better, Sir… those things yonder are no giants, but windmills. – Miguel de Cervantes

So, perhaps I have a Cervantes turn to my make up. I have been tilting at windmills trying to figure out the way for the day when we walk over the threshold together into another vision of how life could be, you know… that Utopian thing.

Mary of course being more pragmatic reminds me that Utopias don’t exist. Well, maybe not, but the possibility has always been there. When I was a young man, I became infected with the meme, and I thought it was about to burst out! It seemed utterly possible, and would occur most certainly within the next year, then the next decade, or at least in my lifetime…. As the years have lengthened since then, I have come to realize that it is not perhaps the existence, but perhaps the striving for which is the important bit to the puzzle. Every act, for a better world carries a momentum with it. Every piece of art, every commune that is formed, every cooperative is a part of a beautiful beast. In my thinking , every party, every act of love hastens the day. Where there are visions, there are possibilities. We need the visions, we all do.

Each new day has a tinge of promise in my POV… I mean, what a glorious start with the sun rising and all. It gets me right up on that metaphysical treadmill running for that event horizon with UTOPIA! blazing in neon. By noon if things go a bit odd, meh. Then onto the final of the day! That Sunset to get lost in, contemplating the beauty of it all… followed by sleep and those Technicolor Dreams ™ that whisper away. I awake, refreshed, and I am back into the fray. It is a routine yes, but its mine…. 80)

So everyday, I am still looking at the entrails, throwing the bones, holding my finger up trying to suss out which way the utopian wind blows. Sometimes I’ll hear a hint in a song, see it in a poem, a beautiful child, a random smile on the street. Just behind the scenery, she lurks, waiting to burst forth. I see her in my friends eyes, when we take the time to be fully with each other, and I see it in the young with their aspirations.

I still see utopias emerging in the new social movements, and every year I am gifted with the rumours from Black Rock City. Even in these supposedly random and disparate series of events, if I pay close attention to the stream of happenings around me, I perceive that the change is moving and with its own purpose. Surely we know that the ground has shifted and we are heading off willy-nilly to All Of Tomorrow’s Parties.

In all that we do, we carry the seeds of this divine contagion. It may not break out when or how we have expected it to, but it will come forth in its own way, that is what I would call the promise of possibility.

So to hurry this along, this is where we call forth the fools, the clowns, the lovers, and let’s not forget the poets and visionaries. They are always the first into the fray known as celebration… but which we really know is change. 80)

Too much sanity may be madness and the maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be. – Miguel de Cervantes
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Quotes On Life:

“He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.” ~ Friedrich Nietzsche
“God pours life into death and death into life without a drop being spilled.” ~ Author Unknown
“Life is what we make it, always has been, always will be.” ~Grandma Moses
“I think everybody should get rich and famous and do everything they ever dreamed of so they can see that it’s not the answer.” ~ Jim Carrey
“The great business of life is to be, to do, to do without, and to depart.” ~ John, Viscount Morley, Address on Aphorisms
“Who will tell whether one happy moment of love or the joy of breathing or walking on a bright morning and smelling the fresh air, is not worth all the suffering and effort which life implies.” ~ Erich Fromm

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Thanks To Stephanie For This!

There is a disease of the human mind, called the metaphysical tendency, that causes man, after he has by a logical process abstracted the quality from an object, to be subject to a kind of hallucination that makes him take the abstraction for the real thing. This metaphysical tendency, in spite of the blows of positive science, has still strong root in the minds of the majority of our contemporary fellowmen. It has such influence that many consider government an actual entity, with certain given attributes of reason, justice, equity, independent of the people who compose the government.

For those who think in this way, government, or the State, is the abstract social power, and it represents, always in the abstract, the general interest. It is the expression of the rights of all and is considered as limited by the rights of each. This way of understanding government is supported by those interested, to whom it is an urgent necessity that the principle of authority should be maintained and should always survive the faults and errors of the persons who exercise power.
— Errico Malatesta
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Steve Hillage – Four Ever Rainbow

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Extract: Cosmic Consciousness, by Richard Maurice Bucke, [1901]

William Blake Born 1757; died 1827.


If Blake had Cosmic Consciousness the words written above as to the vastly greater scope and variety of this than of self consciousness will receive from his case illustration. The few short extracts from his writings, below quoted, almost prove that he had the Cosmic Sense, which he called “Imaginative Vision” [95: 166], and he must have attained to it within a very few years after reaching the thirtieth of his age. There do not appear to be any details extant of his entrance into it, but his writings may fairly be allowed to prove the fact of possession.

I.

W. M. Rossetti, in the “Prefatory Memoir” to “The Poetical Works of William Blake” [52], gives an admirable sketch of Blake’s actual life and apparently a fair estimate of his abilities and defects. The following extracts therefrom will materially assist us in the inquiry now before us; that is: Had Blake Cosmic Consciousness?

* The difficulty of Blake’s biographers, subsequent to 1863, the date of Mr. Gilchrist’s book, is of a different kind altogether. It is the difficulty of stating sufficiently high the extraordinary claims of Blake to admiration and reverence, without slurring over those other considerations which need to be plainly and fully set forth if we would obtain any real idea of the man as he was—of his total unlikeness to his contemporaries, of his amazing genius and noble performances in two arts, of the height by which he transcended other men, and the incapacity which he always evinced for performing at all what others accomplish easily. He could do vastly more than they, but he could seldom do the like. By some unknown process he had soared to the top of a cloud-capped Alp, while they were crouching in the valley: But to reach a middle station on the mountain was what they could readily manage step by step, while Blake found that ordinary achievement impracticable. He could not and he would not do it; the want of will, or rather the utter alienation of will, the resolve to soar (which was natural to him), and not to walk (which was unnatural and repulsive), constituted or counted instead of an actual want of power [139:9].
Rapt in a passionate yearning, he realized, even on this earth and in his mortal body, a species of Nirvâna:* his whole faculty, his whole personality, the very essence of his mind and mould, attained to absorption into his ideal ultimate, into that which Dante’s profound phrase designates “il Ben dell’ intelletto” [139: 11].

* William Blake’s education was of the scantiest, being confined to reading p. 193 and writing; arithmetic may also be guessed at, but is not recorded, and very probably his capacity for acquiring or retaining that item of knowledge was far below the average [139:14].

* In the fact that Blake soared beyond, and far beyond, men of self consciousness merely, but could not see or do many things that these saw clearly and could do easily, we see a relationship between him and the great illuminati. For surely the very same thing could be said of all these. In worldly matters they are all, or nearly all, as little children, while in spiritual things they are as gods. Note Balzac contracting enormous debts for want of ordinary business common sense and laboring vainly for years to pay them while in the full exercise of enough genius to equip a regiment of Rothschilds. Bacon showered upon the human race intellectual and spiritual riches beyond all computation, but with every apparent advantage (position at court, hereditary prestige, influential friends) he labors in vain for years for position in the self conscious sphere, and after getting it cannot hold it. Buddha, Jesus, Paul, Las Casas, Yepes, Behmen and Whitman were wise: They saw that the things of the Cosmic Sense were enough, and they simply put by the things of self consciousness, but had they tried for these the chances are they would have failed to obtain them.
* Blake, too, found the world of the Cosmic Sense enough, and wisely did not waste time and energy seeking for the so-called goods and riches of the self-conscious life.

* These men are independent of education, and most of them—like Blake himself—p. 193 think it useless or worse. Blake says of it: “There is no use in education: I hold it to be wrong. It is the great sin; it is eating of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. This was the fault of Plato. He knew of nothing but the virtues and vices, and good and evil. There is nothing in all that. Everything is good in God’s eyes” [139: 80]. This reminds us of what Hawley said of Bacon: “He had not his knowledge from books, but from some grounds within himself” [141: 47], and of Whitman’s “You shall no longer feed on the spectres in books” [193: 30].

* In the preface to “The Jerusalem” Blake speaks of that composition as paving been “dictated” to him, and other expressions of his prove that he regarded it rather as a revelation of which he was the scribe than as the product of his own inventing and fashioning brain. Blake considered it “the grandest poem that this world contains;” adding, “I may praise it, since I dare not pretend to be any other than the secretary—the authors are in eternity.” In an earlier letter (April 25th, 1803) he had said: “I have written this poem from immediate dictation, twelve or sometimes twenty or thirty lines at a time, without premeditation, and even against my will” [139:41].
* Blake had a mental intuition, inspiration, or revelation—call it what we will; it was as real to his spiritual eye as a material object could be to his bodily eye; and no doubt his bodily eye, the eye of a designer or painter with a great gift of invention and composition, was far more than normally ready at following the dictate of the spiritual eye, and seeing, with an almost instantaneously creative and fashioning act, the visual semblance of a visionary essence [139:62].

* His unworldliness, extreme as it was, did not degenerate into ineptitude. He apprehended the requirements of practical life, was prepared to meet them in a resolute and diligent spirit from day to day, and could on occasions display a full share of sagacity. He was of lofty and independent spirit, not caring to refute any odd stories that were current regarding his conduct or demeanor, neither parading nor concealing his poverty, and seldom accepting any sort of aid for which he could not and did not supply a full equivalent [139:69].

* This is the declaration of each possessor of the Cosmic Sense. It is not I, the visible man who speaks, but (as Jesus says) “As the Father hath said unto me so I speak” [14: 12: 50]; or as Paul writes: “I will not dare to speak of any things save those which Christ wrought through me” [16: 15:18]. “Loose the stop from your throat” [193: 32] says Whitman to the Cosmic Sense. And so universally.
* “O I am sure,” says Whitman, “they really came from Thee—the urge, the ardor, the potent, felt, interior, command, a message from the heavens” [193: 324]. “The noble truths,” Gautama said, ”were not among the doctrines banded down, but there arose within him the eye to perceive them” [159: 150].

* Each word of this passage is strictly true of Whitman, and allowing for difference of manners and customs in other times and countries, the paragraph could be read into the life of any one of the men discussed in this book. He knows that what he does is not inferior to the grandest antiques. Superior it cannot be, for human power cannot go beyond either what he does or what they have done. It is the gift of God, it is inspiration and vision [139:72].*
It must be allowed that in many instances Blake spoke of himself with measureless and rather provoking self-applause. This is in truth one conspicuous outcome of that very simplicity of character of which I have just spoken; egotism it is, but not worldly, self-seeking [139: 71].*

That he was on the whole and in the best sense happy is*, considering all his trials and crosses, one of the very highest evidences in his praise. “If asked,” writes Mr. Palmer, “whether I ever knew among the intellectual a happy man, Blake would be the only one who would immediately occur to me.” Visionary and ideal aspirations of the intensest kind; the imaginative life wholly predominating over the corporeal and mundane life, and almost swallowing it up; and a child-like simplicity of personal character, free from self-interest, and ignorant or careless of any policy of self-control, though habitually guided and regulated by noble emotions and a resolute loyalty to duty—these are the main lines which we trace throughout the entire career of Blake, in his life and death, in his writings and his art. This it is which makes him so peculiarly lovable and admirable as a man, and invests his works, especially his poems, with so delightful a charm. We feel that he is truly “of the kingdom of heaven”: above the firmament, his soul holds converse with archangels; on the earth, he is as the little child whom Jesus “sat in the midst of them” [139:70].

* The essence of Blake’s faculty, the power by which he achieved his work, was intuition: this holds good of his artistic productions, and still more so of his poems. Intuition reigns supreme in them; and even the reader has to apprehend them intuitively, or else to leave them aside altogether [139:74].

Ample evidence exists to satisfy us that Blake had real conceptions In the metaphysical or supersensual regions of thought—conceptions which might have been termed speculations in other people, but in him rather intuitions; and that the “Prophetic Books” embody these in some sort of way cannot be disputed [139: 120].

* “Divine am I,” says Whitman, “inside and out” [193: 49].
* “I conned old times,” says Whitman; “I sat studying at the feet of the great masters, now if eligible O that the great masters might return and study me” [193: 20].

* Happiness is one of the marks of the Cosmic Sense.

* It is too bad that these “Prophetic Books” are not published. It seems almost certain that they embody (behind thick veils, doubtless) revelations of extraordinary value—news from “the kingdom of heaven”—from the better world—the world of the Cosmic Sense. As to his religious belief,* it should be understood that Blake was a Christian in a certain way, and a truly fervent Christian; but it was a way of his own, exceedingly different from that of any of the churches. For the last forty years of his life he never entered a place of worship [139:76].
He believed—with a great profundity and ardor of faith—in God; but he believed also that men are gods, or that collective man is God. He believed in Christ; but exactly what he believed him to be is a separate question. “Jesus Christ,” he said, conversing with Mr. Robinson, “is the only God, and so am I, and so are you” [139:77].

In immortality Blake seems to have believed implicitly,* and (in some main essentials) without much deviation from other people’s credence. When he heard of Flaxman’s death (December 7th, 1826), he observes, “I cannot think of death as more than the going out of one room into another.” In one of his writings he says: “The world of imagination is the world of eternity. It is the divine bosom into which we shall all go after the death of the vegetated body” [139:79].

Blake had in all probability read in his youth some of the mystical or cabalistic writers*—Paracelsus, Jacob Böhme, Cornelius Agrippa; and there is a good deal in his speculations, in substance and tone, and sometimes in detail, which can be traced back to authors of this class [139: 80].

* Blake’s religion—his attitude toward the Church—toward God—toward immortality—is the characteristic attitude of the man who has attained to Cosmic Consciousness—as shown in each life and in all the writings of these men.
*His attitude toward death is that of all the illuminati. He does not believe in “another life.” He does not think he will be immortal. He has eternal life.

*So writes George Frederic Parsons about Balzac [6: 11]. Thoreau makes a similar suggestion as to Whitman [38: 143], and generally it is constantly being hinted or intimated that some of these men have been reading others of them. This may of course sometimes happen, but, speaking generally, it does not, for many of them are quite illiterate, and the studies of others, as, for instance, Bacon, do not lie in that direction. Blake, Balzac, Yepes, Behmen, Whitman, Carpenter and the rest has each seen for himself that other world of which he tells us. No one can tell of it at second hand, for no one who has not seen something of it can conceive it.

Blake’s death was as noble and characteristic as his life. Gilchrist [94: 360–1] gives us the following simple and touching account of it:

“His illness was not violent, but a gradual and gentle failure of physical powers which nowise affected the mind. The speedy end was not foreseen by his friends. It came on a Sunday, August 12, 1827, nearly three months before completion of his seventieth year. ‘On the day of his death,’ writes Smith, who had his account from the widow, ‘he composed and uttered songs to his Maker so sweetly to the ear of his Catharine that when she stood to hear him he, looking upon her most affectionately, said: “My beloved, they are not mine—no, they are not mine!” He told her they would not be parted; he should always be about her to take care of her. To the pious songs followed, about six in the summer evening, a calm and painless withdrawal of breath; the exact moment almost unperceived by his wife, who sat by his side. A humble female neighbor, her only other companion, said afterwards: “I have been at the death, not of a man, but of a blessed angel.”‘”

II.

It remains to quote certain declarations emanating from Blake and which seem to bear upon the point under consideration—viz., upon the question, Was Blake a case of Cosmic Consciousness?

The world of imagination is the world of eternity.* It is the divine bosom into which we shall all go after the death of the vegetated body. This world of imagination is infinite and eternal, whereas the world of generation, of vegetation, is finite and temporal. There exist in that eternal world the permanent realities of everything which we see reflected in this vegetable glass of nature [95: 163].
We are in a world of generation and death,* and this world we must cast off if we would be artists such as Raphael, Michael Angelo and the ancient sculptors. If we do not cast off this world we shall be only Venetian painters, who will be cast off and lost from art [95:172].

The player is a liar when he says: Angels are happier than men because they are better!* Angels are happier than men and devils because they are not always prying after good and evil in one another and eating the tree of knowledge for Satan’s gratification [95:176].

* Blake’s name for Cosmic Consciousness. With this paragraph compare Whitman’s “I swear I think now that everything without exception has an eternal soul! The trees have rooted in the ground! The weeds of the sea have! The animals” [193: 337].
* The world of self consciousness. Balzac says: (Self conscious) “man judges all things by his abstractions—good, evil, virtue, crime. His formulas of right are his scales, and his justice is blind; the justice of God [i.e., of the Cosmic Sense] sees—in that is everything” [5: 142].

* “Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age. Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent” [193: 31].

The last judgment is an overwhelming of bad art and science [95: 176].*
Some people flatter themselves that there will be no last judgment. . . .* I will not flatter them. Error is created; truth is eternal. Error or creation will be burned up, and then, and not till then, truth or eternity will appear. It [error] is burned up the moment men cease to behold it. I assert for myself that I do not behold outward creation, and that to me it is hindrance and not action. “What!” it will be questioned, “when the sun rises do you not see a round disc of fire somewhat like a guinea?” “Oh, no, no! I see an innumerable company of the heavenly host crying: ‘Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty!’” I question not my corporeal eye* any more than I would question a window concerning a sight. I look through it and not with it [95: 176].

Beneath the figures of Adam and Eve (descending the generative stream from there) is the seat of the harlot, named mystery [self conscious life], in the Revelations. She (mystery) is seized by two beings (life and death), each with three heads; they represent vegetative existence. As it is written in Revelations, they strip her naked and burn her with fire [i.e., death strips her naked, and the passions of the self conscious life burn it as with fire]. It represents the eternal consumption of vegetable life and death [the life and death of the merely self conscious] with its lusts. The wreathed torches in their hands [in the hands of life and death] represent eternal fire, which is the fire of generation or vegetation; it is an eternal consummation. Those who are blessed with imaginative vision [Cosmic Consciousness]* see this eternal female [mystery—the self conscious life] and tremble at what others fear not; while they despise and laugh* at what others fear [95:166].

*I am not ashamed, afraid or averse to tell you what ought to be told—that I am under the direction of messengers from heaven, daily and nightly. But p. 198 the nature of such things is not, as some suppose, without trouble or care [95: 185].*

* I.e., it is the advent of universal Cosmic Consciousness. “Specialism [the Cosmic Sense] opens to man,” says Balzac, “his true career; the infinite dawns upon him” [5: 144]. “The audit of nature, though delayed, must be answered, and her quietus is to render thee” [Cosmic Consciousness] [176: 126].
* Blake says his self conscious faculties are a hindrance to him, not a help. So Balzac: “Baneful, it [self consciousness] exempts man from entering the path of specialism [Cosmic Consciousness], which leads to the infinite” [5: 142]. So the Hindoo experts teach and have always taught, that suppression and effacement of many of the self conscious faculties are necessary conditions to illumination [56: 166 et seq.].

* So Carpenter asks (knowing well the answer): ”Does there not exist in truth . . an inner illumination . . . by which we can ultimately see things as they are, beholding all creation . . . in its true being and order [57:98].

* “Their worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched” [12: 9: 48], said by Jesus of the self conscious life, which (also) is the hell of Dante.

* So Whitman: “I laugh at what you call dissolution.”

* “He [my other self], nor that affable, familiar ghost [the Cosmic Sense] which nightly gulls him with intelligence” [176: 86].

p. 198 * “A message from the Heavens whispering to me even in sleep” [193: 324].

III.

SUMMARY.

a. Blake seems to have entered into Cosmic Consciousness when a little more than thirty years of age.

b. The present editor does not know anything of the occurrence of subjective light in his case.

c. The fact of great intellectual illumination seems clear.

d. His moral elevation was very marked.

e. He seems to have had the sense of immortality that belongs to Cosmic Consciousness.

f. Specific details of proof are in this case, as they must inevitably often be, largely wanting, but a study of Blake’s life, writings (he is not in a position nor is he competent to judge Blake from his drawings) and death convinces the writer that he was a genuine and even probably a great case.
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Syrinx

Pan’s Syrinx was a girl indeed,
Though now she’s turned into a reed;
From that dear reed Pan’s pipe does come,
A pipe that strikes Apollo dumb;
Nor flute, nor lute, nor gittern can
So chant it as the pipe of Pan:
Cross-gartered swains and dairy girls,
With faces smug and round as pearls,
When Pan’s shrill pipe begins to play,
With dancing wear out night and day;
The bagpipe’s drone his hum lays by,
When Pan sounds up his minstrelsy;
His minstrelsy! O base! this quill,
Which at my mouth with wind I fill,
Puts me in mind, though her I miss,
That still my Syrinx’ lips I kiss.

John Lyly (1553-1606)
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Poetry: Intimations Of Immortality From Recollections Of Early Childhood
– William Wordsworth

I

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;–
Turn wheresoe’er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

II

The Rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where’er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

III

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every Beast keep holiday;–
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
Shepherd-boy!

IV

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel–I feel it all.
Oh evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,
And the Children are culling
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother’s arm:–
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
–But there’s a Tree, of many, one,
A single Field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The Pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

V

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature’s Priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

VI

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a Mother’s mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely Nurse doth all she can
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.

VII

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years’ Darling of a pigmy size!
See, where ‘mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses,
With light upon him from his father’s eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little Actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his “humorous stage”
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.

VIII

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy Soul’s immensity;
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,–
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a Master o’er a Slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

IX

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest–
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:–
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realised,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence in a season of calm weather
Though inland far we be,
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the Children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

X

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young Lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound!
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

XI

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
1803-6
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Steve Hillage & Evan Marc – Hypnopomp

Gung Ho

Love other human beings as you would love yourself. -Ho Chi Minh

Oh my gosh… I have so many half done entries. The world is accelerating at such a rate that my well thought out post are overwhelmed by the happenings in the world before I can post them. Days of thought and writing erased by madmen with guns, loose lips, and crazed political commentary…. you know what I mean.

So, I catch my breath. I discover a song I have never heard before by a beloved artist, and return to muse on the concepts of Revolutionary Love. It takes many forms, and it has been wrongly slandered by some… but I am not talking about picking up arms, but changing consciousness and performing correct action.

I am talking about the love which motivates people to get up off their duff, and devote themselves to a cause that they will never see completed, to a task that offers no immediate award, to the task that may imperil you, but benefit unknown others. Revolutionary Love is found in dishwashers, labourers, poets, mothers, fathers – Lovers. I am talking about the act of putting your shoulders to the wheel and help move the unmovable for those not yet born, that we’ll never know.

We are in that precious now, and life is ours to share. Not only with those with us know, but those to come. Not just human, but all of life. Revolutionary Love for shaping the world to come, for everyone and everything.

We have been given the gift to live in interesting times. Shall we shiver in fear? Shall we hesitate? I say no, we shall proceed together hand in hand in Love with each other and the bright and shining world…. we can be that difference that finally shifts the wheel of the juggernaut.

Much Love,
Gwyllm

On The Menu:
Emma Goldman Quotes
Patti Smith – Gung Ho
Ho Chi Minh- Poems From Prison
Patti Smith – Glitter In Their Eyes
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Emma Goldman Quotes:

All claims of education notwithstanding, the pupil will accept only that which his mind craves.

Anarchism is the great liberator of man from the phantoms that have held him captive; it is the arbiter and pacifier of the two forces for individual and social harmony.

Before we can forgive one another, we have to understand one another.

Crime is naught but misdirected energy.

Direct action is the logical, consistent method of Anarchism.

Every daring attempt to make a great change in existing conditions, every lofty vision of new possibilities for the human race, has been labeled Utopian.

Free love? as if love is anything but free. Man has bought brains, but all the millions in the world have failed to buy love.

Heaven must be an awfully dull place if the poor in spirit live there.

I’d rather have roses on my table than diamonds on my neck.

Idealists are foolish enough to throw caution to the winds. They have advanced mankind and have enriched the world.
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Patti Smith – Gung Ho

On a field of red one gold star
Raised above his head
Raised above his head
He was not like any other
He was just like any other
And the song they bled
Was a hymn to him

Awake my little one
The seed of revolution
Sewn in the sleeve
Of cloth humbly worn
Where others are adorned

Above the northern plain
The great birds fly
With great wings
Over the paddy fields
And the people kneel
And the men they toil
Yet not for their own
And the children are hungry
And the wheel groans

There before a grass hut
A young boy stood
His mother lay dead
His sisters cried for bread
And within his young heart
The seed of revolution sewn
In cloth humbly worn
While others are adorned

And he grew into a man
Not like any other
Just like any other
One small man
A beard the color of rice
A face the color of tea
Who shared the misery
Of other men in chains
With shackles on his feet
Escaped the guillotine

Who fought against
Colonialism imperialism
Who remained awake
While others slept
Who penned like Jefferson
Let independence ring
And the cart of justice turns
Slow and bitterly
And the people were crying
Plant that seed that seed
And they crawled on their bellies
Beneath the giant beast
And filled the carts with bodies
Where once had been their crops

And the great birds swarm
Spread their wings overhead
And his mother dead
And the typhoons and the rain
The jungles in flames
And the orange sun
None could be more beautiful
Than Vietnam
Nothing was more beautiful
Than Vietnam

And his heart stopped beating
And the wheel kept turning
And the words he bled
Were a hymn to them
I have served the whole people
I have served my whole country
And as I leave this world
May you suffer union
And my great affection
Limitless as sky
Filled with golden stars

The question is raised
Raised above his head
Was he of his word
Was he a good man
For his image fills the southern heart
With none but bitterness

And the people keep crying
And the men keep dying
And it’s so beautiful
So beautiful
Give me one more turn
Give me one more turn
One more turn of the wheel

One more revolution
One more turn of the wheel
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Ho Chi Minh- Poems From Prison
– Translated by Kenneth Rexroth

A COMRADES PAPER BLANKET
New books, old books,
the leaves all piled together.

A paper blanket
is better than no blanket.

You who sleep like princes,
sheltered from the cold,

Do you know how many men in prison
cannot sleep all night?

AUTUMN NIGHT
Before the gate, a guard
with a rifle on his shoulder.

In the sky, the moon flees
through clouds.

Swarming bed bugs,
like black army tanks in the night.

Squadrons of mosquitoes,
like waves of attacking planes.

I think of my homeland.
I dream I can fly far away.

I dream I wander trapped
in webs of sorrow.

A year has come to an end here.
What crime did I commit?

In tears I write
another prison poem.

CLEAR MORNING
The morning sun
shines over the prison wall,

And drives away the shadows
and miasma of hopelessness.

A life-giving breeze
blows across the earth.

A hundred imprisoned faces
smile once more.

COLD NIGHT
Autumn night.
No mattress. No covers.

No sleep. Body and legs
huddle up and cramp.

The moon shines
on the frost-covered banana leaves.

Beyond my bars
the Great Bear swings on the Pole.

GOOD DAYS COMING

Everything changes, the wheel
of the law turns without pause.

After the rain, good weather.

In the wink of an eye

The universe throws off
its muddy cloths.

For ten thousand miles
the landscape

Spreads out like
a beautiful brocade.

Gentle sunshine.
Light breezes. Smiling flowers,

Hang in the trees, amongst the
sparkling leaves,

All the birds sing at once.

Men and animals rise up reborn.

What could be more natural?

After sorrow comes happiness.

And one after being released from prison.

FREE, I WALK ON THE MOUNTAIN
AND ENJOY THE VIEW
Mountains. Clouds.
More mountains. More clouds.

Far below a river gleams,
bright and unspotted.

Alone, with beating heart,
I walk on the Western Range,

And gaze far off towards the South
and think of my comrades.
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“If I can’t dance – I don’t want to be part of your revolution” – Emma Goldman

Patti Smith – Glitter In Their Eyes

On The Edge Of Paradise

“The name, given to the month of ‘January’, is derived from the ancient Roman name ‘Janus’ who presided over the gate to the new year. He was revered as the ‘God of Gateways’, ‘of Doorways’ and ‘of the Journey.’ Janus protected the ‘Gate of Heaven’, known as the ‘Lord of Beginnings’, is associated with the ‘Goddess Juno-Janus’, and often symbolized by an image of a face that looks forwards and backwards at the same time. This symbolism can easily be associated with the month known by many as the start of a new year which brings new opportunities. We cast out the old and welcome in the new. It is the time when many reflect on events of the previous year and often resolve to redress or improve some aspect of daily life or personal philosophy.”


Thursday Night…

I was working for the last week on another entry, and weirdly enough the events of the past weekend stepped up and smacked it down as the subject matter was congruent. Luckily, I always have a couple of entries tucked away…. 80) I often have something on reserve due to a poet/poem I discovered, or a song (like this entry) and I build the entry up over time via layering.

So I was working on a book cover tonight, wrapping it up around 10:00… and I was able to work a bit on Turfing. It is always a return to a comfort zone for me to be right here, right now constructing something from disparate elements, and melding them into a whole…

Friday Night…
Just got in, popped a Ninkasi, called client etc. It has been a great week here, and life rolls on. Perhaps there will be a greater unity in the country after all the tragedy and turmoil. Here is to wishing.

I hope you enjoy this edition, and I hope the new year is bright for you.

Blessings,
Gwyllm

On The Menu:
The Lonely Link
Solomon Ibn Gabirol Quotes
Words of Ouspensky – Well Worth Considering
Poetry Of Hafiz
Massive Attack – Paradise Circus
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The Lonely Link…
Lil’ Mind Readers!
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Solomon Ibn Gabirol Quotes

A wise man’s question contains half the answer.

All men have one entrance into life, and the like going out.

And when I was born, I drew in the common air, and fell upon the earth, which is of like nature; and the first voice which I uttered was crying, as all others do.

As long as a word remains unspoken, you are its master; once you utter it, you are its slave.

I am better able to retract what I did not say than what I did.

If you want to keep something concealed from your enemy, don’t disclose it to your friend.

Jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire.

My friend is he who will tell me my faults in private.

One is punished by the very things by which he sins.

Plan for this world as if you expect to live forever; but plan for the hereafter as if you expect to die tomorrow.

The beginning of wisdom is to desire it.

The test of good manners is to be patient with the bad ones.

Thou hast created me not from necessity but from grace.
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Words of Ouspensky – Well Worth Considering

Let us take some event in the life of humanity. For instance, war. There is a war going on at the present moment. What does it signify? It signifies that several millions of sleeping people are trying to destroy several millions of other sleeping people. They would not do this, of course, if they were to wake up. Everything that takes place is owing to this sleep.

Both states of consciousness, sleep and the waking state, are equally subjective. Only by beginning to remember himself does a man really awaken. And then all surrounding life acquires for him a different aspect and a different meaning. He sees that it is the life of sleeping people, a life in sleep. All that men say, all that they do, they say and do in sleep. All this can have no value whatever. Only awakening and what leads to awakening has a value in reality.

How many times have I been asked here whether wars can be stopped? Certainly they can. For this it is only necessary that people should awaken. It seems a small thing. It is, however, the most difficult thing there can be because this sleep is induced and maintained by the whole of surrounding life, by all surrounding conditions.

How can one awaken? How can one escape this sleep? These questions are the most important, the most vital that can ever confront a man. But before this it is necessary to be convinced of the very fact of sleep. But it is possible to be convinced of this only by trying to awaken. When a man understands that he does not remember himself and that to remember himself means to awaken to some extent, and when at the same time he sees by experience how difficult it is to remember himself, he will understand that he cannot awaken simply by having the desire to do so. It can be said still more precisely that a man cannot awaken by himself.

But if, let us say, twenty people make an agreement that whoever of them awakens first shall wake the rest, they already have some chance. Even this, however, is insufficient because all the twenty can go to sleep at the same time and dream that they are waking up. Therefore more still is necessary. They must be looked after by a man who is not asleep or who does not fall asleep as easily as they do, or who goes to sleep consciously when this is possible, when it will do no harm either to himself or to others. They must find such a man and hire him to wake them and not allow them to fall asleep again. Without this it is impossible to awaken. This is what must be understood.

It is possible to think for a thousand years; it is possible to write whole libraries of books, to create theories by the million, and all this in sleep, without any possibility of awakening. On the contrary, these books and these theories, written and created in sleep, will merely send other people to sleep, and so on.

There is nothing new in the idea of sleep. People have been told almost since the creation of the world that they are asleep and that they must awaken. How many times is this said in the Gospels, for instance? ‘Awake,’ ‘watch,’ ‘sleep not.’ Christ’s disciples even slept when he was praying in the Garden of Gethsemane for the last time. It is all there. But do men understand it? Men take it simply as a form of speech, as an expression, as a metaphor. They completely fail to understand that it must be taken literally. And again it is easy to understand why. In order to understand this literally it is necessary to awaken a little, or at least to try to awaken.

I tell you seriously that I have been asked several times why nothing is said about sleep in the Gospels. Although it is there spoken of almost on every page. This simply shows that people read the Gospels in sleep. So long as a man sleeps profoundly and is wholly immersed in dreams he cannot even think about the fact that he is asleep. If he were to think that he was asleep, he would wake up. So everything goes on. And men have not the slightest idea what they are losing because of this sleep.

As I have already said, as he is organized, that is, being such as nature has created him, man can be a self conscious being. Such he is created and such he is born. But he is born among sleeping people, and, of course, he falls asleep among them just at the very time when he should have begun to be conscious of himself.

Everything has a hand in this: the involuntary imitation of older people on the part of the child, voluntary and involuntary suggestion, and what is called ‘education.’ Every attempt to awaken on the child’s part is instantly stopped. This is inevitable. And a great many efforts and a great deal of help are necessary in order to awaken later when thousands of sleep compelling habits have been accumulated. And this very seldom happens. In most cases, a man when still a child already loses the possibility of awakening; he lives in sleep all his life and he dies in sleep. Furthermore, many people die long before their physical death. But of such cases we will speak later on.

(from Ouspensky’s book “In Search of Miraculous” – Ouspensky narrates Gurdjieff’s views in his own words.)
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Poetry Of Hafiz


Now is the Time

Now is the time to know
That all that you do is sacred.

Now, why not consider
A lasting truce with yourself and God.

Now is the time to understand
That all your ideas of right and wrong
Were just a child’s training wheels
To be laid aside
When you finally live
With veracity
And love.

Hafiz is a divine envoy
Whom the Beloved
Has written a holy message upon.

My dear, please tell me,
Why do you still
Throw sticks at your heart
And God?

What is it in that sweet voice inside
That incites you to fear?

Now is the time for the world to know
That every thought and action is sacred.

This is the time for you to compute the impossibility
That there is anything
But Grace.

Now is the season to know
That everything you do
Is sacred.

The Happy Virus

I caught the happy virus last night
When I was out singing beneath the stars.
It is remarkably contagious –
So kiss me.

It Felt Love

How
Did the rose
Ever open its heart

And give to this world
All its
Beauty?

It felt the encouragement of light
Against its
Being,

Otherwise,
We all remain
Too
Frightened.

The Subject Tonight is Love

The subject tonight is Love
And for tomorrow night as well,
As a matter of fact
I know of no better topic
For us to discuss
Until we all
Die!

A Brimming Cup of Wine

A FLOWER-TINTED cheek, the flowery close
Of the fair earth, these are enough for me
Enough that in the meadow wanes and grows
The shadow of a graceful cypress-tree.
I am no lover of hypocrisy;
Of all the treasures that the earth can boast,
A brimming cup of wine I prize the most–
This is enough for me!

To them that here renowned for virtue live,
A heavenly palace is the meet reward;
To me, the drunkard and the beggar, give
The temple of the grape with red wine stored!
Beside a river seat thee on the sward;
It floweth past-so flows thy life away,
So sweetly, swiftly, fleets our little day–
Swift, but enough for me!

Look upon all the gold in the world’s mart,
On all the tears the world hath shed in vain
Shall they not satisfy thy craving heart?
I have enough of loss, enough of gain;
I have my Love, what more can I obtain?
Mine is the joy of her companionship
Whose healing lip is laid upon my lip–
This is enough for me!

I pray thee send not forth my naked soul
From its poor house to seek for Paradise
Though heaven and earth before me God unroll,
Back to thy village still my spirit flies.
And, Hafiz, at the door of Kismet lies
No just complaint-a mind like water clear,
A song that swells and dies upon the ear,
These are enough for thee!
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Massive Attack – Paradise Circus

Hopping Into It

“If you look closely you can see that they are all interconnected, symbolic of a never-ending circle in which it is simply impossible for the dog to catch the rabbit.” – Kit Williams

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01/02/11
Well, here is our first entry of the year. As this is the year of the Rabbit in the Chinese Calendar, then I am right in step for once. I have had a fascination with Hares, and Rabbits since I was quite young. If anything, I am even more attached to them now. With that said, we have a few items in this entry that reflect that. We also are featuring a performance group that I am just becoming familiar with: Beats Antique, and we are dipping back into the fount of Celtic Poets.

Here is to the New Year, with all the possibilities that it offers. May you find what you need in the coming seasons.

I hope you enjoy this entry, as much as I did in putting it together!
Gwyllm

On The Menu:
Parallel Dreams
Rabbit Quotes
Beats Antique – Sweet Demure
Cherokee Tales: How The Rabbit Stole The Otter’s Coat
Celtic Poets – From The Four Remaining Lands
Beats Antique -Live Bass Nectar Tour ’08
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01/01/11
Parallel Dreams
I awoke this morning rather abruptly (oh that alarm after a late night!) from a dream about a life I was having with Mary in a parallel universe, another place. In this dream, I hadn’t met her in London but in some town in Mid-America, a university town. We were younger than we were when we met here, and we grew together from our late teens. The dream was focused around a band that we became involved with, and the club they played at. Eventually everything in our life revolved around the band, and the music (oddly how this runs along our earlier days with our involvement in music…) In the dream, the band and club was a stable part of the community. It was a good and deep dream. The reality in it was as clear as sitting in front of this computer, only seemingly more so. People flowed in and out of the scene around us, and our love grew over the years. The band got better as well. Solid rhythm section section… 80)

I would imagine that we live in many parallel dreams/universes with different versions going on simultaneously. I have found this crossing between realities a couple of times in so called waking hours, but more so in the world of dreams at night. Sometimes we can dip into them for a brief moment, and taste our various lives. The emotions tied to this experience can be quite deep. (The alarm awoke me just at a crucial moment, when we were beginning a family.)

Funnily enough the emotional state was not unfamiliar, even if it were a different reality. I remember the love we shared with each other, and all who were around us. It seems a parable about the state of the universe, and what the major constituent is, or at least in my POV.
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Rabbit Quotes:
“The other day when I was walking through the woods, I saw a rabbit standing in front of a candle making shadows of people on a tree.” – Stephen Wright
“A sly rabbit will have three openings to its den” – Chinese Proverb
“When Rabbit said, `Honey or condensed milk with your bread?’ he was so excited that he said, `Both,’ and then, so as not to seem greedy, he added, `But don’t bother about the bread, please.” – A. A. Milne
“Make me, oh God, the prey of the Lion, ere you make the rabbit my prey” – Kahlil Gibran
“The dog and the rabbit are telling us not to chase unattainable material goals.” – Kit Williams
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Beats Antique – Sweet Demure

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Cherokee Tales: How The Rabbit Stole The Otter’s Coat

The animals were of different sizes and wore coats of various colors and patterns. Some wore long fur and others wore short. Some had rings on their tails, and some had no tails at all. Some had coats of brown, others of black or yellow. They were always disputing about their good looks, so at last they agreed to hold a council to decide who had the finest coat.
They had heard a great deal about the Otter, who lived so far up the creek that he seldom came down to visit the other animals. It was said that he had the finest coat of all, but no one knew just what it was like, because it was a long time since anyone had seen him. They did not even know exactly where he lived, only the general direction, but they knew he would come to the council when the word got out.

Now the Rabbit wanted the verdict for himself, so when it began to look as if it might go to the Otter he studied up a plan to cheat him out of it. He asked a few sly questions until he learned what trail the Otter would take to get to the council place. Then, without saying anything, he went on ahead and after four days’ travel he met the Otter and knew him at once by his beautiful coat of soft dark brown fur. The Otter was glad to see him and asked him where he was going. “Oh,” said the Rabbit, “the animals sent me to bring you to the council, because you live so far away they were afraid you might not know the road.” The Otter thanked him, and they were on together.

They traveled all day toward the council ground, and at night the Rabbit selected the camping place, because the Otter was a stranger in that part of the country, and cut down bushes for beds and fixed everything in good shape. The next morning they started on again. In the afternoon the Rabbit began to pick up wood and bark as they went along and to load it on his back. When the Otter asked what this was for the Rabbit said it was that they might be warm and comfortable at night. After a while, when it was near sunset, they stopped and made their camp.

When supper was over the Rabbit got a stick and shaved it down to a paddle. The Otter wondered and asked again what that was for. “I have good dreams when I sleep with a paddle under my head,” said the Rabbit.

When the paddle was finished the Rabbit began to cut away the bushes so as to make a clean trail down to the river. The Otter wondered more and more and wanted to know what this meant.

Said the Rabbit, “This place is called Di’tatlaski’yi (The Place Where it Rains Fire). Sometimes it rains fire here, and the sky looks a little that way tonight. You go to sleep and I’ll sit up and watch, and if the fire does come, as soon as you hear me shout, you run and jump into the river. Better hang your coat on a limb over there, so it wont get burnt.”

The Otter did as he was told, and they both doubled up to go to sleep, but the Rabbit kept awake. After a while the fire burned down to red coals. The Rabbit called, but the Otter was fast asleep and made no answer. In a little while he called again, but the Otter never stirred. Then the Rabbit filled the paddle with hot coals and threw them up into the air and shouted, “It’s raining fire! It’s rain- king fire!”

The hot coals fell all around the Otter and he jumped up. “To the water!” cried the Rabbit, and the Otter ran and jumped into the river, and he has lived in the water ever since.

The Rabbit took the Otter’s coat and put it on, leaving his own instead, and went on to the council. All the animals were there, every one looking out for the Otter. At last they saw him in the distance, and they said one to the other, “The Otter is coming!” and sent one of the small animals to show him the best seat. They were all glad to see him and went up in turn to welcome him, but the Otter kept his head down, with one paw over his face. They wondered that he was so bashful, until the Bear came up and pulled the paw away, and there was the Rabbit with his split nose. He sprang up and started to run, when the Bear struck at him and pulled his tail off, but the Rabbit was too quick for them and got away.
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I haven’t dipped back into the native pool for awhile, but one does get a hunger. These poems are drawn from over 1500 or so years of the tradition, which of course is far older.

Celtic Poets – From The Four Remaining Lands

“Castle Varrich on a promontory high above the Kyle of Tongue” photo Harry Willis

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]

The Oath

I love, wild and passionate work,
A noble girl, Esyllt’s niece,
A wild white little painter with golden hair,
She is full of love, a goldfinch,
Of the same colour as Fflur and shining gossamer,
A very elegant branch of fierce white.

Some say to me, strong bound love,
‘The best girl is taking a husband
This year, a second Eluned,
Joy of a treasure, it’s a sad man who trusts her’.
I don’t dare, a weak mind,
(Woe to the poet who is a faithful fool!)
Twice the colour of summer, to take the girl
By force, of the colour of thorn flower.
Her proud family, the hawks of Gwynedd,
The best of our country, the host of its feasts,
Would kill me for preventing her
From marrying the man, a hateful battle!

Unless I may have, gentle one with golden word,
Her for myself, the colour of the beautiful appearance of Mary,
There is not, my hidden life,
At all in my serious and sad mind,
By the image of Cadfan – is it infallible? –
And the living cross, a wish for a wife ever.
– Dafydd Ap Gwilym

Love Song

In the white cabin at the foot of the mountain,
Is my sweet, my love:

Is my love, is my desire,
And all my happiness.

Before the night must I see her
Or my little heart will break.

My little heart will not break,
For my lovely dear I have seen.

Fifty nights I have been
At the threshold of her door; she did not know it.

The rain and the wind whipped me,
Until my garments dripped.

Nothing came to console me
Except the sound of breathing from her bed.

Except the sound of breathing from her bed,
Which came through the little hole of the key.

Three pairs of shoes I have worn out,
Her thought I do not know.

The fourth pair I have begun to wear,
Her thought I do not know.

Five pairs, alas, in good count,
Her thought I do not know.

–If it is my thought you wish to know,
It is not I who will make a mystery of it.

There are three roads on each side of my house,
Choose one among them.

Choose whichever you like among them,
Provided it will take you far from here.

–More is worth love, since it pleases me,
Than wealth with which I do not know what to do.

Wealth comes, and wealth it goes away,
Wealth serves for nothing.

Wealth passes like the yellow pears:
Love endures for ever.

More is worth a handful of love
Than an oven full of gold and silver.
– HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON

The Sorrow of Delight.

Till death be filled with darkness
And life be filled with light,
The sorrow of ancient sorrows
Shall be the Sorrow of Night:
But then the sorrow of sorrows
Shall be the Sorrow of Delight.

Heart’s-joy must fade with sorrow,
For both are sprung from clay:
But the joy that is one with Sorrow,
Treads an immortal way:
Each hath in fee To-morrow,
And their soul is Yesterday.

Joy that is clothed with shadow
Is the joy that is not dead:
For the joy that is clothed with the rainbow
Shall with the bow be sped:
Where the Sun spends his fires is she,
And where the Stars are led.
-FIONA MACLEOD

Boxing Hares, Islay – photo Robert Rutherford

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Beats Antique -Live Bass Nectar Tour ’08
Beats Antique

Endings and Beginnings

“There is, so I believe, in the essence of everything, something that we cannot call learning. There is, my friend, only a knowledge – that is everywhere.” -Hermann Hesse

Last Entry…
For this year. Although I celebrate the New Year as I celebrate the Solstice, I move along with the conventions for convenience sake. This being the last entry for 2010, it is also the 920th entry of Turfing! I am very excited about this coming year, and thankful for what has occurred over the last. (more of this below) This entry, “Endings and Beginnings” focuses around Hermann Hesse. Hesse has not come up before on Turfing, although his was an early influence on my thinking. He is right up there with Alan Watts, and why I haven’t covered him before is a bit of a mystery to me. Just the same, a bit of attention on his works at this point seems right.

I hope you enjoy it! Have a Happy and a Safe New Year!
Blessings,
Gwyllm

On the Menu:
Endings and Beginnings…
Hogmanay
Herman Hesse Quotes
Othmar Schoeck – Summernight Op.58 for string orchestra 1/2
The Poet – by Hermann Hesse
Othmar Schoeck – Summernight Op.58 for string orchestra 2/2
Poetry – Hermann Hesse
Othmar Schoeck – Elegie op. 36 (Schluss/End/Fin)
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Endings and Beginnings…

I sit here awaiting the coffee to finish brewing on this last day of the Gregorian calendar for 2010. The sky is sunny, some clouds, and we are just about at freezing temperature wise. I was outside early after an up and down night, and it is a beautiful day here in the Northwest. Perfect in so many ways.

I have been looking at comments from around the web and email this morning, and it seems most people are ready to let the past year go. As we stumble towards Hogmanay, I have to say, it was the worse of years, and the best of years IMPOV. I will not go into great details as it was a personal journey but the year started out poorly, and has ended up fairly well for us. I have regained much of what I lost psychically and health wise, and there is satisfaction in that.

I have watched the struggles of many of my friends and family and have felt despair with what they are feeling. You cannot discount what people are going through, and it seems to be a heap of misery for many with the way things are going. I want to say that people should not take on too much personal blame, as this is a shared condition, with many causes, and with the tired litany of social lies, er memes, bouncing around ones grey matter, it takes a bit to parse out. What we are seeing is a transformation, that has been swaying across political fields, religious and spiritual aspirations, and collapsing economic models.

One of the trends that I saw across many spectrum’s was a heady dose of Nolstalgia for what apparently we “had” before. The changes that are raining down are not in themselves bad, good or otherwise. They just are. Change is the constant, and it is picking up steam. We have an acceleration going on, and we need to loosen up a bit and let go of the illusion of control if we can. This does not mean breaking off engagement, but the opposite. For too long people have sat back and let the tides of commerce and government decide for them, abandoning the human community to the hierarchal manipulations.

We are seeing new shapes emerging out of the mist, and because they are new, for some this will give them pause. I urge though that we step together, and to start engaging with the future instead of gazing over our shoulders at what has been. Yes, nostalgia has its moments, but now is so much more important.

We are emerging into an open field of possibilities. Yes, bring what is good from the past, but let the old slip away if it no longer serves. Turn off the TV, calm the babble of the talking heads down, and engage with your friends, family and community. Here is what is real. Use social media but don’t drown in it. We need our attentions on the task and Joys that are beckoning to us if we but recognize what they are.

We have been given the gift of Chaos in these times. This is something not to refuse, because chaos churns the universe and throws up infinite possibilities in its effervescent dance. We are between the sun and the atom on a pivotal needle point with multitudes of beings dancing the greatest of dances, so much hinges on these moments. Between Tiamat’s and Abzû’s divine mating we find new Gods emerging, new points of reference and an infinite host of possibilities.

Shouldn’t we let something new and wonderful emerge from the threshing floor? Shouldn’t we take part willingly in this dance?

Bright Blessings on these Endings and Beginnings…
Gwyllm
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Hogmanay:
The roots of Hogmanay perhaps reach back to the celebration of the winter solstice among the Norse, as well as incorporating customs from the Gaelic New Year’s celebration of Samhain. In Rome, winter solstice evolved into the ancient celebration of Saturnalia, a great winter festival, where people celebrated completely free of restraint and inhibition. The Vikings celebrated Yule, which later contributed to the Twelve Days of Christmas, or the “Daft Days” as they were sometimes called in Scotland. The winter festival went underground with the Protestant Reformation and ensuing years, but re-emerged near the end of the 17th century.
Traditions:

The Burning Of The Long Ship At The Edinburgh Hogmanay Festival…

An old custom in the Highlands, which has survived to a small extent and seen some degree of revival, is to celebrate Hogmanay with the saining (Scots for ‘protecting, blessing’) of the household and livestock. This blessing is done early on New Year’s morning with copious clouds of smoke from burning juniper branches, and by drinking and then sprinkling ‘magic water’ from ‘a dead and living ford’ around the house (‘a dead and living ford’ refers to a river ford which is routinely crossed by both the living and the dead). After the sprinkling of the water in every room, on the beds and all the inhabitants, the house is sealed up tight and the burning juniper carried through the house and byre. The smoke is allowed to thoroughly fumigate the buildings until it causes sneezing and coughing among the inhabitants. Then all the doors and windows are flung open to let in the cold, fresh air of the new year. The woman of the house then administers ‘a restorative’ from the whisky bottle, and the household sits down to its New Year breakfast.

An example of a local Hogmanay custom is the fireball swinging that takes place in Stonehaven, Aberdeenshire in north-east Scotland. This involves local people making up ‘balls’ of chicken wire filled with old newspaper, sticks, rags, and other dry flammable material up to a diameter of 60 cm, each attached to about 1 m of wire, chain or nonflammable rope. As the Old Town House bell sounds to mark the new year, the balls are set alight and the swingers set off up the High Street from the Mercat Cross to the Cannon and back, swinging their burning ball around their head as they go. At the end of the ceremony, any fireballs that are still burning are cast into the harbour. Many people enjoy this display, and large crowds flock to see it.

Haste ye back, we loue you dearly,
Call again you’re welcome here.
May your days be free from sorrow,
And your friends be ever near.
May the paths o’er which you wander,
Be to you a joy each day.
Haste ye back we loue you dearly,
Haste ye back on friendship’s way.

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Herman Hesse Quotes:
The call of death is a call of love. Death can be sweet if we answer it in the affirmative, if we accept it as one of the great eternal forms of life and transformation.

The truth is lived, not taught.

You are only afraid if you are not in harmony with yourself. People are afraid because they have never owned up to themselves.

There’s no reality except the one contained within us. That’s why so many people live an unreal life. They take images outside them for reality and never allow the world within them to assert itself.

Those who cannot think or take responsibility for themselves need, and clamor for, a leader.

To be able to throw one’s self away for the sake of a moment, to be able to sacrifice years for a woman’s smile – that is happiness.
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Othmar Schoeck – Summernight Op.58 for string orchestra 1/2

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The Poet
by Hermann Hesse (1914), translated by Denver Lindley


There is a story told that the Chinese poet, Han Fook, while yet a young man had a strange and compelling wish to learn all there was to learn about the art of poetry, and to strive for perfection in the writing of it. In those days, he was still living in his home on the Yellow River, and with the help of his family who loved him dearly, he had just become engaged to a young lady of good family. The marriage was to be set for a day which promised good fortune. Han Fook was then twenty years old, a handsome youth, modest, well mannered, schooled in the sciences, and despite his youth, was already recognized among men of letters of his homeland for some excellent verse. Without being exactly rich, he had the prospect of an adequate fortune which would be augmented by the dowry of his bride. Since this bride was, moreover, very beautiful and virtuous, nothing seemed lacking for the young man’s happiness. Nevertheless, he was not satisfied, for his heart was filled with the ambition to become a perfect poet.

One evening, as a festival of lanterns was being celebrated on the river, it so happened that Han Fook was wandering alone on the far bank of the river. He leaned against the trunk of a tree which grew over the water, and saw reflected in the river thousands of lights swimming and shimmering. He saw men and women and young girls greeting each other on the boats and floats, all glowing like beautiful flowers in their festive dress. He heard the soft murmur of the shining water, the songs of the girls, the humming of the zithers, the sweet tones of the flutes, and over the whole scene the blue night hovered like the vaulting of a temple. His heart beat faster as he gave in to the mood rising within him. He was the only witness to all this beauty! Even though he longed to cross the river and to enjoy the festival in the company of his bride and his friends, he wanted even more ardently to remain an observer, to drink in his own impressions of the scene, and then to transform them into a perfect poem. The poem would reflect the deep blue of the night, the play of light on the water, the joy of the festival guests, and also the yearning of the silent onlooker who leans on the trunk of the tree over the river. He sensed that if even he were to experience all the festivals and all the pleasures of the earth, they would not make him completely happy, for he knew that he would remain an onlooker, a stranger, as it were, isolated in the midst of life. He sensed the unique quality of his soul, which at once compelled him to feel deeply the beauty of the earth, and also to know the secret longings of an outsider. The thought made him sad, but as he pursued it further, he realized that true happiness and satisfaction could only be his if he could once succeed in creating with his poetry a perfect mirror image of the world. In this way he would possess the world itself, refined and immortalized in reflected images.

Han Fook scarcely knew whether he was still awake or had fallen asleep when he heard a slight sound and saw a stranger standing next to the tree trunk. It was an old man with a venerable air, clad in violet-colored robes. Han Fook rose and spoke to the stranger with the usual words of greeting for old men and eminent people. The stranger, however, smiled, and spoke a few lines of poetry. The young man’s heart stood still in wonder, for in these lines was all the beauty and perfection which he had just experienced, expressed according to all the rules of the great poets. “Oh, who are you,” he asked, bowing deeply, “you who can see into my soul and who speak more beautiful verses than I have ever heard from my teachers?”

The stranger smiled the smile of one who has attained perfection, and said, “If you wish to become a poet, then come with me. You will find my hut by the source of the great river in the northwest mountains. I am called the Master of the Perfect Word.”

With that the old man stepped into the narrow shadow cast by the tree and disappeared immediately. Han Fook, after searching for him in vain and finding not even a trace, now firmly believed that everything had been a dream brought on by fatigue. He hurried over to the boats across the river and took part in the festival, but between conversations and the sound of the flutes, he continued to hear the voice of the stranger. Han Fook’s very soul seemed to have gone away with the man, for he sat apart with dreaming eyes among the merrymakers who teased him for his love-sickness.

A few days later, Han Fook’s father wanted to call his friends and relatives together in order to set the day of the wedding. But the bridegroom opposed his father, saying: “Forgive me if I seem to violate the obedience which a son owes his father. But you know how great is my longing to distinguish myself in the art of poetry. Even though a few of my friends praise my poems, I well know that I am still a beginner and still have a long way to go. Therefore I ask you to let me go for a while into isolation in order to pursue my studies of poetry, because once I have a wife and a house to take care of, I will be held back from those things. Now, while I am still young and free from other duties, I would like to live for some time for my poetry alone—and my poetry will, I hope, bring me joy and fame.”

The father was amazed at this speech, and he said, “You must love this art above everything else, since you even want to postpone your wedding because of it. Or, if something has come between you and your bride, then tell me so that I can help you bring about a reconciliation or provide you with another bride.”

But the son swore that he loved his bride no less than before, and that not even the shadow of a disagreement had fallen between them. At the same time he told his father that a great master had revealed himself to him in a dream on the day of the lantern festival, and that it was his greatest wish in the world to become the pupil of this master.

“Well and good,” said the father, “then I will give you a year. In this time you may pursue this dream of yours which may have been sent to you by a god.”
“It may be two years,” said Han Fook hesitantly, “who can tell?”

The father let him go and was grieved. The young man wrote a letter to his bride, took leave of his family, and went his way.
When he had traveled for a very long time, he reached the source of the river and found a bamboo hut standing by itself in the wilderness. On a braided mat in front of the hut sat the old man whom Han Fook had seen on the bank by the tree trunk. The old man sat and played his lute, and when he saw the guest approach respectfully, he did not get up, nor did he greet him. He only smiled and let his sensitive fingers play over the strings. A magic music flowed like a silver cloud through the valley, so that the young man stood in wondering astonishment and forgot everything else until the Master of the Perfect Word put aside his small lute and stepped into his hut. So Han Fook followed him with awe and remained with him as his servant and pupil.

A month passed, and Han Fook had learned to despise all poems which he had written before. He erased them from his memory. And after a few more months he erased even those poems from his memory which he had learned from his teachers at home. The Master spoke hardly a word with him. Silently, he taught Han Fook the art of lute playing until the very being of the pupil was filled with music. Once Han Fook composed a small poem, in which he described the flight of two birds across the autumnal sky, a poem which pleased him quite well. He didn’t dare show it to the Master, but one evening he sang it near the hut. The Master heard it well but said not a word. He only played softly on his lute. Immediately the air became cool and the darkness increased; a sharp wind arose even though it was the middle of summer. Across the sky, which had now become gray, flew two lines of birds in their mighty yearning for new lands. All of this was so much more beautiful and perfect than the verses of the pupil, that Han Fook became sad and silent, and felt himself worthless. The old man made this come to pass each time. When a year had gone by, Han Fook had learned lute playing almost to perfection, but the art of poetry appeared ever more difficult and more sublime.

When two years had gone by, the young man became overwhelmingly homesick for his family, for his homeland, and for his bride. So he asked the Master to let him travel.

The Master smiled and nodded. “You are free,” he said, “and may go wherever you want. You may come again, you may stay away, just as you like.”

So the pupil started on his journey and traveled without stopping until one morning in the dawn he stood on his native shore and looked over the vaulted bridge to his home town. He crept furtively into his father’s garden, and heard through the bedroom window the breathing of his father who was still asleep. Stealing among the trees next to the house of his bride, he climbed to the top of a pear tree and saw his bride standing in her room, combing her hair. When he compared the sight before his eyes with the vision that he had painted of it in his homesick imaginings, it became clear to him that he was indeed destined to be a poet: that in the dreams of poets there is a beauty and grace which one searches for in vain in everyday reality. So he climbed down from the tree, fled from the garden, fled over the bridge out of his native town, and returned to the high valley in the mountains. There as before sat the Master in front of his hut on his simple mat, plucking the lute with his fingers. Instead of a greeting, he spoke two verses about the blessings of art. Upon hearing these deep and harmonious sounds, Han Fook’s eyes became filled with tears.

Again Han Fook remained with the Master of the Perfect Word, who now gave him lessons on the zither since he had mastered the lute. The months vanished like snow in the west wind. Twice more it happened that homesickness overcame him. The first time he ran away secretly into the night, but before he had reached the last curve in the valley, the night wind blew over the zither which hung in the door of the hut and the sounds flowed after Han Fook and called him to return in such a way that he could not resist. The other time, however, he dreamed that he was planting a young tree in his garden and that his wife was standing by him and that his children were sprinkling the tree with wine and milk. When he awoke, the moon shone into his room. He got up, bewildered, and saw the Master lying asleep next to him, his gray beard trembling gently. Suddenly a feeling of bitter hatred towards this man came over him—this person who, it seemed to him, had destroyed his life and deceived him about his future. He wanted to fall upon him and murder him, when the old man opened his eyes and began immediately to smile with a fine, sad gentleness which disarmed the pupil. “Remember, Han Fook,” said the old man quietly, “you are free to do whatever you wish. You may go into your home country and plant trees, you may hate me, or strike me dead—it is of little importance.”

“Oh, how could I hate you?” cried the poet, deeply moved. “That would be like hating heaven itself.”

So he remained, and learned to play the zither, and after that the flute. Later he began to write poems under the Master’s direction. Slowly he learned the mysterious art of saying only that which is simple and straight-forward, but in such a way as to stir up the listener’s soul as the wind stirs up the surface of the water. He described the coming of the sun as it hesitates on the edge of the mountains, and the soundless slipping away of fish when they flee like shadows under the water, and the gentle rocking of a young willow in the spring winds. To hear it was not just to hear about the sun, the play of the fish, or the murmuring of the willow; rather it seemed that heaven and earth harmonized each time for a moment of perfect music. Each listener thought with joy or sorrow on whatever he loved or hated: a boy’s thoughts would turn to games, a young man’s to his beloved, and the old man’s to death.

Han Fook no longer knew how many years he spent with the Master at the source of the great river. Often it seemed to him that he had entered the valley only yesterday and been welcomed by the old man’s string music. Often he felt as if all the ages of Man and Time itself had fallen away and become insubstantial.

One morning he awoke alone in the hut and though he looked and called everywhere, the Master had disappeared. Overnight fall seemed to have come. A raw wind shook the old hut and large flocks of migrating birds flew over the ridge of the mountain range, although it was not yet time for them to do so.

Then Han Fook took his little lute and descended into his native country. Wherever he encountered people, they greeted him with the sign of greeting which is due old men and eminent people. When he came to his native town, his father, his bride, and his relatives had died. Other people lived in their houses. That evening, a lantern festival was celebrated on the river. The poet Han Fook stood on the far side of the river, on the darker side of the river, leaning against the trunk of an old tree. When he began to play his little lute, then the women sighed and glanced, delighted and disturbed, into the night. The young men called to the lute player, but they could not find him. They called loudly, because not one of them had ever heard such sounds from a lute before. But Han Fook smiled. He looked into the river, where the reflected images of a thousand lanterns were swimming. Just as he no longer knew how to distinguish the reflected images from the real ones, so he found no difference in his soul between this festival and the first one, when he had stood here as a young man and heard the words of the strange Master.
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Othmar Schoeck – Summernight Op.58 for string orchestra 2/2

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Hermann Hesse Poems

At Night On The High Sea

At night, when the sea cradles me
And the pale star gleam
Lies down on its broad waves,
Then I free myself wholly
From all activity and all the love
And stand silent and breathe purely,
Alone, alone cradled by the sea
That lies there, cold and silent, with a thousand lights.
Then I have to think of my friends
And my gaze sinks into their gazes
And I ask each one, silent, alone:
“Are you still mine”
Is my sorrow a sorrow to you, my death a death?
Do you feel from my love, my grief,
Just a breath, just an echo?”
And the sea peacefully gazes back, silent,
And smiles: no.
And no greeting and now answer comes from anywhere.

On A Journey

Don’t be downcast, soon the night will come,
When we can see the cool moon laughing in secret
Over the faint countryside,
And we rest, hand in hand.

Don’t be downcast, the time will soon come
When we can have rest. Our small crosses will stand
On the bright edge of the road together,
And rain fall, and snow fall,
And the winds come and go.

Lying In Grass

Is this everything now, the quick delusions of flowers,
And the down colors of the bright summer meadow,
The soft blue spread of heaven, the bees’ song,
Is this everything only a god’s
Groaning dream,
The cry of unconscious powers for deliverance?
The distant line of the mountain,
That beautifully and courageously rests in the blue,
Is this too only a convulsion,
Only the wild strain of fermenting nature,
Only grief, only agony, only meaningless fumbling,
Never resting, never a blessed movement?
No! Leave me alone, you impure dream
Of the world in suffering!
The dance of tiny insects cradles you in an evening radiance,
The bird’s cry cradles you,
A breath of wind cools my forehead
With consolation.
Leave me alone, you unendurably old human grief!
Let it all be pain.
Let it all be suffering, let it be wretched-
But not this one sweet hour in the summer,
And not the fragrance of the red clover,
And not the deep tender pleasure
In my soul.

The Poet

Only on me, the lonely one,
The unending stars of the night shine,
The stone fountain whispers its magic song,
To me alone, to me the lonely one
The colorful shadows of the wandering clouds
Move like dreams over the open countryside.
Neither house nor farmland,
Neither forest nor hunting privilege is given to me,
What is mine belongs to no one,
The plunging brook behind the veil of the woods,
The frightening sea,
The bird whir of children at play,
The weeping and singing, lonely in the evening, of a man secretly in love.
The temples of the gods are mine also, and mine
the aristocratic groves of the past.
And no less, the luminous
Vault of heaven in the future is my home:
Often in full flight of longing my soul storms upward,
To gaze on the future of blessed men,
Love, overcoming the law, love from people to people.
I find them all again, nobly transformed:
Farmer, king, tradesman, busy sailors,
Shepherd and gardener, all of them
Gratefully celebrate the festival of the future world.
Only the poet is missing,
The lonely one who looks on,
The bearer of human longing, the pale image
Of whom the future, the fulfillment of the world
Has no further need. Many garlands
Wilt on his grave,
But no one remembers him.
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Othmar Schoeck – Elegie op. 36 (Schluss/End/Fin)

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The Oort Cloud of Consciousness


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It’s really about the Oort Cloud. A churning mass of possibilities from which great surprises emerge. Discreet patterns etched into the waves of chaos…
As the year winds down, I sit here wondering at it all. As I was digging around my own Oort, I came up with some primeval influences, which I’ve shared with you in this entry.

This edition is dedicated to the memory of Alistair Hulett, who passed nearly a year ago. For all of you everywhere, in Solidarity.

I hope you enjoy,
Gwyllm
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On The Menu:
The Links
Hans Richter – Ghosts Before Breakfast
The Internationale
Louis Aragon Poetry
Hans Richter – Everything Turns Everyting Resolves

The Links:
Oort Clouds…
2010 The Year In Crazy, Part 1
How Billy Graham Brought Us the Tea Party
Animals Busted!
“To Dream of Falling Upwards”
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Hans Richter – Ghosts Before Breakfast

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The Internationale

Arise, wretched of the earth
Arise, convicts of hunger
Reason thunders in its volcano
This is the eruption of the end
Of the past let us wipe the slate clean
Masses, slaves, arise, arise
The world is about to change its foundation
We are nothing, let us be all

This is the final struggle
Let us gather together, and tomorrow
The Internationale
Will be the human race

There are no supreme saviours
Neither God, nor Caesar, nor tribune.
Producers, let us save ourselves
Decree the common welfare
That the thief return his plunder,
That the spirit be pulled from its prison
Let us fan the forge ourselves
Strike the iron while it is hot
|: This is the final struggle
Let us stand together, and tomorrow
The Internationale
Will be the human race

The state represses and the law cheats
The tax bleeds the unfortunate
No duty is imposed on the rich
‘Rights of the poor’ is a hollow phrase
Enough languishing in custody
Equality wants other laws:
No rights without obligations, it says,
And as well, no obligations without rights

This is the final struggle
Let us stand together, and tomorrow
The Internationale
Will be the human race

Hideous in their self-glorification
Kings of the mine and rail
Have they ever done anything other
Than steal work?
Into the coffers of that lot,
What work creates has melted
In demanding that they give it back
The people wants only its due.

This is the final struggle
Let us stand together, and tomorrow
The Internationale
Will be the human race

The kings make us drunk with their fumes,
Peace among ourselves, war to the tyrants!
Let the armies go on strike,
Guns in the air, and break ranks
If these cannibals insist
On making heroes of us,
Soon they will know our bullets
Are for our own generals

This is the final struggle
Let us stand together, and tomorrow
The Internationale
Will be the human race

Labourers, peasants, we are
The great party of workers
The earth belongs only to men
The idle will go reside elsewhere
How much of our flesh they feed on,
But if the ravens and vultures
Disappear one of these days
The sun will still shine

This is the final struggle
Let us stand together, and tomorrow
The Internationale
Will be the human race
– Eugène Pottier

Alistair Hulett and Jimmy Gregory Perform The Internationale

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Louis Aragon Poetry

I’ll Reinvent The Rose For You

I’ll reinvent the rose for you
For you are that rose which cannot be described
These few words at least in the order proper to her ritual
That rose which only words distant from roses can describe
The way it is with the ecstatic cry and the terrible sadness which it translates
From the stars of pleaure above love’s deep abyss
I will reinvent for youth rose of adoring fingers
Which create a nave as they interlace but whose petals then suddenly fall away
I will reinvent for you the rose beneath the balconies
Of lovers whose only beds are their arms

The rose at the heart of sculpted stone figures dead without benefit of confession
The rose of a peasant blown to bits by a landmine in his field
The scarlet scent of a letter that has been “discovered”
In which nothing’s addressed to me neither the insult nor the compliment

Some rendezvous to which no one has come

An entire army in flight on a very windy day

A maternal footstep before prison-gates

A man’s song at siesta-time beneath the olive trees

A cock-fight in a mist-enshrouded countryside
The rose of a soldier cut off from his own home country

I’ll reinvent for you my rose as many roses
As there are diamonds in the waters of the seas
As there are past centuries adrift in the dust of the earth’s atmosphere
As there are dreams in just one childish head

As there can be reflections in one tear

Hymn

They restored man to the earth
They said you will eat
And you will eat

They cast the heavens to the earth
They said The gods will perish
And the gods will perish

They made a building site of the earth
They said The weather will be beautiful
And the weather will be beautiful

They opened a hole on the earth
They said The flame will burst forth
And the flame will burst forth

Speaking to the masters of the earth
They said You will give way
And you will give way

They took in their hands the earth
They said The black shall be white
And the black shall be white

Glory on the lands and the earth
To the sun of Bolshevik days
And Glory to the Bolsheviks

Stanzas in Remembrance

You asked for neither glory nor tears,
Not the sound of the organ or the prayer for the dying;
Eleven years already, how quickly they pass, eleven years;
You did naught but use your weapons:
Death doesn’t dazzle the eyes of partisan.

Your portraits were on the walls of our cities,
The black of beards and night, wild-haired, threatening;
The poster seemed like a stain of blood, and
Because your names were so hard to pronounce
It sought to strike fear in those who passed.

No one looked on you as French by preference,
The whole day people passed without a glance;
But at the hour of curfew
Wandering fingers wrote under your photos:
DIED FOR FRANCE,
And the dismals mornings were no more the same.

All had the uniform color of frost
At the end of February, at your last moments;
And then it was that one of you calmly said:
I wish happiness for all, Happiness for those who will survive
I die without hatred for the German people.

Adieu pain, adieu pleasure, adieu roses
Adieu life, adieu light and wind;
Marry, be happy and think of me often,
You who will remain among the beauty of things
When things are over later in Erevan.

A great winter sun illuminates the hill
How beautiful is nature, and how my heart breaks;
Justice will follow upon our triumphant steps
My Melinée, oh my love, my orphan girl,
I tell you to live and to have a child.

They were twenty-three when the gun barrels blossomed,
Twenty three who gave their hearts before their time,
Twenty three foreigners and yet our brothers,
Twenty three who loved life to death;
Twenty three who cried out “La France” as they were struck down.

Aragon wrote this poem in honor of the resistance fighters of the Manouchian Group on the occasion of the naming of a street in Paris in their honor
Translations: Mitchell Abidor
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Hans Richter – Everything Turns Everyting Resolves

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Blessings On The Yule…


“The birth of the Persian hero and sun-god Mithra was celebrated on December 25th. The myth tells that he sprang up full-grown from a rock, armed with a knife and carrying a torch. Shepherds watched his miraculous appearance and hurried to greet him with their first fruits and their flocks and their harvests. His cult spread throughout Roman lands during the 2nd century. In 274, the Emperor Aurelian declared December 25th the Birthday of Sol Invictus (the Unconquerable Sun) in Rome.”
– Christmas Even and Day
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I hope this finds you with friends and family, warm and happy on this winter’s night. It has been a fun season for us, as we stumble now through to Hogmanay. I have a higher percentage of people smiling on the street, and in stores. I don’t think I have seen so much happiness in the general public for a long time. This gives me hope for the coming year, and for the turning of the wheel. Remember, smiles are infectious, and simple laughter can bring empires down.

I have put a small offering up, with poetry, a bit of history and music. Enjoy it as you can!

Bright Blessings on this Yule!

Gwyllm
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On The Menu:
The Winter Solstice Boar
Annie Lennox – God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
Poetry For The Heart Of Winter
Jethro Tull The Whistler
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The Winter Solstice Boar
Pictures of boars feature on many of the ancient Pictish stone carvings and it is therefore not surprising that it was important in the arts and myths of the Picts and the celtic peoples. The boar was known for its cunning and ferocious nature. A famous legendary boar was Orc Triath, which the goddess Brigit owned. In the Arthurian tales of the Mabinogion the boar Twrch Trwyth was a terrible foe to Arthur. The White Boar of Marvan sent inspiration to its master to write music and poetry.

It used to be customary for the ancient Druids to kill a boar at the winter solstice and offered its head in sacrifice to Freya, the goddess of peace and plenty, who was supposed to ride upon a boar with golden bristles. Hence it was not unusual even in Christian times
to gild the head. The very lemon placed in the boar’s mouth was a Norse
symbol of plenty. An orange or an apple was sometimes substituted. The common practice in England of eating sucking pig at Christmas has the
same origin.

Even in medieval Christian England it was customary to commence all great Christmas
feasts by the solemn ceremony of bringing in the boar’s head as the initial dish. The master-cook, preceded by trumpeters and other musicians, and followed by huntsmen with boar-spears and drawn falchionsand pages carrying mustard, bore the smoking head aloft on a silverplatter, which he deposited at the head of the table. The head was garnished and garlanded with rosemary and laurel and a lemon was placed between its grinning chops.

Queen Victoria has retained the old custom. Her Christmas dinner at Osborne House or Windsor has for over fifty years consisted of a baron of beef and woodcock pie, -historic dishes, – while the bringing in of the boar’s head is performed with all the ancient ceremony.
Bringing in the Boar’s Head

The bore’s head in hande bring I,
With garlandes gay and rosemary,
I pray you all synge merely,
Qui estis in convivio.

The bore’s head I understande,
Is the chefe servyce in this lande
Loke wherer it be fande
Servite cum cantico.

Be gladde, lords, both more and lasse,
For this hath ordayned our stewarde
To cheer you all this Christmasse,
The bore’s head with mustarde.

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“Yule, is when the dark half of the year relinquishes to the light half. Starting the next morning at sunrise, the sun climbs just a little higher and stays a little longer in the sky each day. Known as Solstice Night, or the longest night of the year, much celebration was to be had as the ancestors awaited the rebirth of the Oak King, the Sun King, the Giver of Life that warmed the frozen Earth and made her to bear forth from seeds protected through the fall and winter in her womb. Bonfires were lit in the fields, and crops and trees were “wassailed” with toasts of spiced cider.”
– Yule Lore
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Annie Lennox – God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

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Poetry For The Heart Of Winter

“The snow is lying very deep.
My house is sheltered from the blast.
I hear each muffled step outside,
I hear each voice go past.
But I’ll not venture in the drift
Out of this bright security,
Till enough footsteps come and go
To make a path for me.”
– Agnes Lee

“The leaves drift toward the earth like ships to land,
A voyage launched from timbers’ great lofty berths,
Toward harbors safe, concealed from raider bands,
Of icy galleons coursing wintry dearth.
Squirrels don thick coats against Wind’s numbing dare,
Mount last determined searches ‘long the ground.
Brown grass conceals the season’s paltry fare,
As hopeful birds scratch for what may be found.
Through frosted windows glow the hearth’s warm light,
As fading day casts shadows ‘cross the lawn,
And grey meets grey as winter gathers might,
Undaunted as the chimney starts to yawn.
Farewell brave day as twilight draweth nigh.
Perchance on morrow sun will gather high.”
– Dan Young, The End of a Winter Day

“How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December’s bareness every where!
And yet this time remov’d was summer’s time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow’d wombs after their lords’ decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem’d to me
But hope of orphans and unfather’d fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute:
Or, if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.”
– William Shakespeare, How Like a Winter Hath my Absence Been (Sonnet 97)

Before going to bed
After a fall of snow
I look out on the field
Shining there in the moonlight
So calm, untouched and white
Snow silence fills my head
After I leave the window.

Hours later near dawn
When I look down again
The whole landscape has changed
The perfect surface gone
Criss-crossed and written on
where the wild creatures ranged
while the moon rose and shone.

why did my dog not bark?
Why did I hear no sound
There on the snow-locked ground
In the tumultuous dark?

How much can come, how much can go
When the December moon is bright,
What worlds of play we’ll never know
Sleeping away the cold white night
After a fall of snow.”
– May Sarton, December Moon

“Love awoke one winter’s night
And wander’d through the snowbound land,
And calling to beasts and birds
Bid them his message understand.

And from the forest all wild things
That crept or flew obeyed love’s call,
And learned from him the golden words
Of brotherhood for one and all.”
– Author Unknown
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Jethro Tull The Whistler