Seng-Ts’an
Ghandi Quotes…
An error does not become truth by reason of multiplied propagation, nor does truth become error because nobody sees it.
—
An ounce of practice is worth more than tons of preaching.
—
An unjust law is itself a species of violence. Arrest for its breach is more so.
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Just a Niblet until later. I have been called away to a job that I thought would start tomorrow, so today’s entries will come in the driblet manner.
Trying hard to snow here, kinda in that comical Portland way.
Talk more later, out the door!
Blessings,
G
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Hsin Hsin Ming
(Inscribed on the Believing Mind)
– Seng-Ts’an
Third Zen Patriarch [d. 606 A.D.]
There is nothing difficult about the Great Way,
But, avoid choosing!
Only when you neither love nor hate,
Does it appear in all clarity.
A hair’s breadth of deviation from it,
And deep gulf is set between heaven and earth.
If you want to get hold of what it looks like,
Do not be anti- or pro- anything.
The conflict of longing and loathing, –
This is the disease of the mind.
Not knowing the profound meaning of things,
We disturb our peace of mind to no purpose.
Perfect like a Great Space,
The Way has nothing lacking, nothing in excess.
Truly, because of our accepting and rejecting,
We have not the suchness of things.
Neither follow after,
Nor dwell with the Doctrine of the Void.
If the mind is at peace,
Those wrong views disappear of themselves.
When activity is stopped and passivity obtains,
This passivity is again the state of activity.
Remaining in movement or quiescence, –
How shall we know the One?
Not thoroughly understanding the unity of the Way,
Both (activity and quiescence) are failures.
If you get rid of phenomena, all things are lost.
If you follow after the Void,
you turn your back on the selflessness of things.
The more talking and thinking,
The farther from truth.
Cutting off all speech, all thought,
There is nowhere that you cannot go.
Returning to the root, we get the essence;
Following after appearances, we loose the spirit.
If for only a moment we see within,
We have surpassed the emptiness of things.
Changes that go on in this emptiness
All arise because of our ignorance.
Do not seek for the Truth;
Religiously avoid following it.
If there is the slightest trace of this and that,
The Mind is lost in a maze of complexity.
Duality arises from Unity, –
But do not be attached to this Unity.
When the mind is one, and nothing happens,
Everything in the world is unblameable.
If things are unblamed, they cease to exist;
If nothing happens there is no mind.
When things cease to exist, the mind follows them;
When the mind vanishes, things also follow it.
Things are things because of the Mind;
The Mind is the Mind because of things.
If you wish to know what these two are,
They are originally one Emptiness.
In this Void both (Mind and things) are one,
All the myriad phenomena contained in both.
If you do not distinguish refined and coarse,
How can you be for this or against that?
The activity of the Great Way is vast;
It is neither easy nor difficult.
Small views are full of foxy fears;
The faster, the slower.
When we attach ourselves (to the idea of enlightenment) we lose our balance;
We infallibly enter the Crooked Way.
When we are not attached to anything, all things are as they are;
With Activity there is no going or staying.
Obeying our nature, we are in accord with the Way,
Wandering freely, without annoyance.
When our thinking is tied, it turns out from the truth;
It is dark, submerged, wrong.
It is foolish to irritate your mind;
Why shun this and be friend of that?
If you wish to travel in the True Vehicle,
Do not dislike the Six Dusts.
Indeed, not hating the Six Dusts
Is identical with Real Enlightenment.
The wise man does nothing;
The fool shackles himself.
The Truth has no distinctions;
These come from our foolish clinging to this and that
Seeking the Mind with the mind, –
Is not this the greatest of all mistakes?
Illusion produces rest and motion;
Illumination destroys liking and disliking.
All these pairs of opposites
Are created by our own folly.
Dreams, delusions, flowers of air, –
Why are we so anxious to have them in our grasp?
Profit and loss, right and wrong, –
Away with them once for all!
If the eye does not sleep,
All dreaming ceases naturally.
If the mind makes no discriminations,
All things are as they are.
In the deep mystery of this “Things as they are”,
We are released from our relations to them.
When all things are seen “with equal mind”,
They return to their nature.
No description by analogy is possible
Of this state where all relations have ceased.
When we stop movement, there is no-movement
When we stop resting, there is no-rest.
When both cease to be,
How can the Unity subsist?
Things are ultimately, in their finality,
Subject to no law.
For the accordant mind in its unity,
(Individual) activity ceases.
All doubts are cleared up,
True faith is confirmed.
Nothing remains behind;
There is not anything we must remember.
Empty, lucid, self-illuminated,
With no over-exertion of the power of the mind.
This is where thought is useless,
This is what knowledge cannot fathom.
In the World of Reality,
There is no self, no other-than-self.
Should you desire immediate correspondence (with this Reality)
All that can be said is “No Duality!”
When there is no duality, all things are one,
There is nothing that is not included.
The Enlightened of all times and places
Have entered into this Truth.
Truth cannot be increased or decreased;
An (instantaneous) thought lasts a myriad years.
There is no here, no there;
Infinity is before our eyes.
The infinitely small is as large as infinitely great;
For limits are non-existent things.
The infinitely large is as small as the infinitely minute;
No eye can see their boundaries.
What is, is not,
What is not, is.
Until you have grasped this fact,
Your position is simply untenable.
One thing is all things;
All things are one thing.
If this is so for you,
There is no need to worry about perfect knowledge.
The believing mind is not dual;
What is dual is not the believing mind.
Beyond all language,
For it there is no past, no present, no future.
Tuesday Mash-Up
As Good As It Gets: ‘Sell crazy someplace else, we’re all stocked up here’. -Jack Nicholson
(Gwyllm editing back in the DIY Press Days)
Well, I had a brand new entry to go last night, and the host went down.
Couldn’t contact them, so I awoke this morning well aware that I was tight on time, and that the best thing was to tap the library of what has gone before, which ends up with the Tuesday Mash-Up.
I did specifically start off looking for various entries, but soon found that with the element of time crunch, I would have to rely on the gift of what random brings, and folks, I am very happy with that. We have a link from the present, but the rest wells up from the unconscious of the Turfing entity.
I will have new photos soon of Mr. Eildon, and notes on his progress. Funny how a wee baby brings life into focus. He is a darling, and he came at the exact right time.
More Later,
Gwyllm
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On The Menu:
The Link O’ The Day: Texas Rabbits Rool!
2 Poems by Rimbaud
The Psychotherapeutic Employment Of Sacred Plants – by Silvia Polivoy
Consulting the Oracle – Poems by Seng-ts’an & Gwyllm Llwydd
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Link O’ The Day!
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My Bohemian Life (Fantasy)…. Arthur Rimbaud…
I went off with my hands in my torn coat pockets ;
My overcoat too was becoming ideal ;
I travelled beneath the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal ;
Oh dear me! what marvellous loves I dreamed of !
My only pair of breeches had a big whole in them.
Stargazing Tom Thumb, I sowed rhymes along my way.
My tavern was at the Sign of the Great Bear.
My stars in the sky rustled softly.
And I listened to them, sitting on the road-sides
On those pleasant September evenings while I felt drops
Of dew on my forehead like vigorous wine ;
And while, rhyming among the fantastical shadows,
I plucked like the strings of a lyre the elastics
Of my tattered boots, one foot close to my heart !
————
Faun’s Head
Arthur Rimbaud…
Among the foliage, green casket flecked with gold,
In the uncertain foliage that blossoms
With gorgeous flowers where sleeps the kiss,
Vivid and bursting through the sumptuous tapestry,
A startled faun shows his two eyes
And bites the crimson flowers with his white teeth.
Stained and ensanguined like mellow wine
His mouth bursts out in laughter beneath the branches.
And when he has fled – like a squirrel –
His laughter still vibrates on every leaf
And you can see, startled by a bullfinch
The Golden Kiss of the Wood, gathering itself together again
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The Psychotherapeutic Employment Of Sacred Plants
by Silvia Polivoy
The human being shows a remarkable disposition to seek spiritual transcendence.
Since the irrational cannot be erased from the human mind, the harder we try to deny it, the greater the power it will exert upon us. The spiritual experiences are associated to the occurrence of altered states of consciousness (ASC).
The society we live in considers (as opposed to shamanic knowledge) modified states of consciousness to be onanistic and vicious. Shamans argue that to satisfy our religious drive we have to experience the divine, and in order to achieve that, they use sacred plants. That is why the sacred plants are called entheogens, because they help experience the divine.
Abraham Maslow called these experiences “peak experiences”, but they are not limited to the altered states achieved through drugs or sacred plants. They can take place during meditation, hyperventilation, the practice of yoga, hypnosis, fast, physical suffering (such as the self-inflicted pain some saints underwent or the postures certain yoguis kept for months, etc). In short, it is a state that can be reached in many ways and, once there, we can explore aspects of reality which are different from those perceived in an ordinary state of consciousness. These different aspects of reality are well studied.
The orthodox branch of science considers these altered states subjective, therefore worthless. Then, these feelings of ecstasy, these other “dimensions” of reality, these occurrences of mystical reunion, of beauty, this crossing of the space-time barrier, can be catalogued as pathological. Traditional Psychiatry does not separate mysticism from psychosis. That is why Transpersonal Psychology blends science with the study of the spiritual capabilities of man using methods to alter the state of consciousness, because the spiritual phenomena seem to be incomprehensible in an ordinary state of consciousness.
Modified states of consciousness may have a dangerous side because, since they affect the defense mechanisms of the individual, they may pave the way for unacceptable, repressed material from the individual´s past to the conscious mind and cause restlessness, which could rise to terrifying levels if the individual is unable to cope with his anxiety (this is what is usually known as a “bad trip”). That is why previous psychological counseling is advised, for the individual to be able to tell what comes from the outside from what comes from the inside. It is recommended, also, to experience such modified states of consciousness in the context of psychotherapy, under the supervision of qualified, well trained proffesionals.
But, in spite of the risks, the spiritual experiences, the unconscious material, and the altered amplified of consciousness related to them, are too valuable to be ignored. Thus psychotherapy takes advantage of the information, available when the repression mechanism is weak, to modify unwanted patterns of behaviour.
Most psychoactive substances resemble (and sometimes are identical to) substances normally produced by the human body. Therefore, the individual has a built-in capacity to experiment psychedelic states, which are inherent to certain aspects of the human mind inaccessible during wakefulness. So, under the appropriate circumstances, these substances allow the individual (for a limited period of time) to gain access to deeper parts of his psyche.
Through dreams we get in touch with those aspects of our personality which are hidden from the conscious mind. The entheogenic or psychointegrative plants help reach those states that we experience while dreaming or while in the middle of those rare, ecstatic epiphanies that can happen while we are awake. Unlike most drugs, entheogenic plants do not produce physical dependence. A quick, time-limited tolerance (that does not increase with the dose administered) is also characteristic.
Their main use is to spot the individuals conditionings and destroy them, to be unselfish by dissolving momentarily the limits of the ego, to expand the inner vision, to be more lucid, obtaining in that fashion very important insights. In short, to be able to recognize the forces, the impulses behind the individuals actions and emotions, to track thoughts back to their source and to be in control of one´s life. That´s why they help the individual to become one.
Due to all this the sacred plants are called psychointegrative, or entheogenic. The list includes Ayahuasca, Peyote, Psilocybin mushrooms, Salvia divinorum, San Pedro (a cactus), Epena, Cebil, Brugmansia, among others.
Abraham Maslow in his book called “The psychology of Science” has shown how science might be the best neurotic defense mechanism invented by man, because the selective rejection wielded by human knowledge acts as a defense and therefore constitutes a neurotic maneuver which, out of fear, disqualifies transpersonal experiences as objects of study.
We´d all benefit if science became an open sistem oriented to personal growth.
Modern physics teaches us about the Universe´s unity, in which consciousness plays a role much closer to the one described by the great mystics.
When we transcend the ego for however brief, it is the beginning of an awakening to our true Self.
©Copyright Silvia Polivoy, 2003. All rights reserved.
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“If we don’t believe in freedom of expression for
people we despise, we don’t believe in it at all.”
-Noam Chomsky
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Consulting the Oracle
Two come about because of One,
but don’t cling to the One either!
So long as the mind does not stir,
the ten thousand things stay blameless;
no blame, no phenomena,
no stirring, no mind.
The viewer disappears along with the scene,
the scene follows the viewer into oblivion,
for scene becomes scene only through the viewer,
viewer becomes viewer because of the scene.
– Seng-ts’an (Hsin-Hsin-Ming: Inscription on Trust in the Mind)
—-
I Consulted the Oracle.
I saw a tailed star fly overhead
There are Mountains to the West.
We are filled with Light
We are filled with Dark…
Matter seeps out of the whole
There is more space in an atom
than the waves of light which compose it.
The Light is awfully bright.
First Memory.
-Gwyllm Llwydd
2 Poems on Monday…
Never give children a chance of imagining that anything exists in isolation. Make it plain from the very beginning that all living is relationship. Show them relationships in the woods, in the fields, in the ponds and streams, in the village and in the country around it. Rub it in.Aldous Huxley, Island
Art: John William Waterhouse
2 Koans/2 Poems
off to work!
Blessings,
G
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Koan: Inch Time Foot Gem
A lord asked Takuan, a Zen Teacher, to suggest how he might pass the time. He felt his days very long attending his office and sitting stiffly to receive the homage of others.
Takuan wrote eight Chinese characters and gave them to the man:
Not twice this day
Inch time foot gem.
This day will not come again.
Each minute is worth a priceless gem.
—
Sleeping in the Daytime
The master Soyen Shaku passed from this world when he was sixty-one years of age. Fulfilling his life’s work, he left a great teaching, far richer than that of most Zen masters. His pupils used to sleep in the daytime during midsummer, and while he overlooked this he himself never wasted a minute.
When he was but twelve years old he was already studying Tendai philosophical speculation. One summer day the air had been so sultry that little Soyen stretched his legs and went to sleep while his teacher was away.
Three hours passed when, suddenly waking, he heard his master enter, but it was too late. There he lay, sprawled across the doorway.
“I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon,” his teacher whispered, stepping carefully over Soyen’s body as if it were that of some distinguished guest. After this, Soyen never slept again in the afternoon.
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2 Poems:
A Poem for the Shekinah on the Feast of the Sabbath
Isaac Luria (Aramaic, 1534-72)
I have sung
an old measure
would open
gates to
her field of apples
(each one a power)
set a new table
to feed her
beautifully
candelabrum
drops its
light on us
Between right & left
the Bride
draws near in
holy jewels
clothes of the sabbath
whose lover
embraces her
down to foundation
gives pleasure
squeezes his strength out
in surcease of
sorrow
& makes new faces
be hers
& new souls
new breath
gives her joy
double measure
of lights & of
streams for her blessing
o Friends of the Bride
go forth
all’s sealed
within her
shines out from
Ancient of Days
Toward the south
I placed
candelabrum
(o mystical)
room in
the north
for table
for bread
for pitchers of wine
for sweet myrtle
gives power to
lovers
new potencies
garlands
give her many
sweet foods to taste
many kinds of
fish
for fertility
birth
of new souls
new spirits
will follow the 32 paths
& 3 branches
the bride with
70 crowns
with her king who
hovers above her
crown above crown in
Holy of Holies
this lady all worlds are
formed in
of words for her
70 crowns
50 gates
the Shekinah
ringd by
6 loaves
of the sabbath
& bound
all sides to
Heavenly refuge
the hostile
powers
have left us
demons you feared
sleep in chains
—-
From The Wishing Bone Cycle
by Jacob Nibenegenesabe, tr. Howard Norman
Swampy Cree
One time I wanted two moons
in the sky.
But I needed someone to look up and see
those two moons
because I wanted to hear him
try and convince the others in the village
of what he saw.
I knew it would be funny.
So, I did it.
I wished another moon up!
There it was, across the sky from the old moon.
Along came a man.
Of course I wished him down that open path.
He looked up in the sky.
He had to see that other moon!
One moon for each of his eyes!
He stood looking
up in the sky
a long time.
Then he suspected me, I think.
He looked into the trees
where he thought I might be.
But he could not see me
since I was disguised as the whole night itself!
Sometimes
I wish myself into looking like the whole day
but this time
I was dressed like the whole night.
Then he said.
“there is something strange
in the sky tonight.”
He said it out loud.
I heard it clearly.
Then he hurried home
and I followed him.
He told the others, “You will not believe this,
but there are ONLY two moons
in the sky tonight.”
He had a funny look on his face.
Then, all the others began looking into the woods.
Looking for me, no doubt!
“Only two moons, ha! Who can believe you?
We wont fall for that!” they all said to him.
They were trying to send the trick back at me!
This was clear to me!
So, I quickly wished a third moon up there
in the sky.
They looked up and saw three moons.
They had to see them!
Then one man
said out loud, “Ah, there, look up!
up there!
There is only one moon!
Well, lets go sleep on this
and in the morning we will try and figure it out.”
They all agreed, and went in their houses
to sleep.
I was left standing there
with three moons shining on me.
There were three I was sure of it.
[2]
One time
all the noises met.
All the noises in the world
met in one place
and I was there
because they met in my house.
My wife said, “Who sent them?”
I said, “Fox or Rabbit,
yes one of those two.
Theyre both out for tricking me back today.
Both of them
are mad at me.
Rabbit is mad because I pulled
his brothers ear
and I held him up that way.
Then I ate him.
And Fox is mad because he wanted
to do those things first.”
“Yes, then it had to be one of them,”
my wife said.
So, all the noises
were there.
These things happen.
Falling-tree noise was there.
Falling-rock noise was there.
Otter-mud-sliding noise was there.
All those noises, and more,
in my house.
“How long do you expect to stay?”
my wife asked them. “We need some sleep!”
They all answered at once!
Thats why now my wife and I
sometimes cant hear well.
I should have wished them all away
first thing.
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commentary
1. Trickster stories go far back in Cree culture (as elsewhere), but the figure here is the invention, specifically, of Jacob Nibenegenesabe, “who lived for some ninety-four years northeast of Lake Winnipeg, Canada.” Nibenegenesabe was also a teller (= achimoo) of older trickster narratives, the continuity between old & new never being in question. But the move in the Wishing Bone series is toward a rapidity of plot development & changes, plus a switch into first-person narration as a form of enactment. In the frame for those stories, the trickster figure “has found the wishbone of a snow goose who has wandered into the Swampy Cree region and been killed by a lynx. This person now has a wand of metamorphosis allowing him to wish anything into existence; himself into any situation.” Howard Normans method of translation, in turn, involves “first listening to the narratives over and over in the source language, then re-creating them in the same context, story, etc., if notable, ultimately to get a translation word for word.”
2. Writes Norman, further: “The Swampy Cree have a conceptual term which Ive heard used to describe the thinking of a porcupine as he backs into a rock crevice: usá puyew usu wapiw (he goes back ward, looks forward). The porcupine consciously goes backward in order to speculate safely on the future, allowing him to look out at his enemy or just the new day. To the Cree, its an instructive act of self-preservation. Nibenegenesabes opening formula for the wishing bone poems (and other tales) consisted of an invitation to listen, followed by the phrase: I go backward, look forward, as the porcupine does.”
The act of telling, then, is one in which traditional ways (as process) do not imprison but free the mind to new beginnings & speculations. This is the basis in fact of the “oral” as a liberating possibility: an interplay that preserves the minds capacity for transformation as important in an ecological sense as that other preservation (of earth & living forms, etc.) that we now recognize not as nostalgia but a necessary tool for our common survival.
Reprinted from Jerome Rothenberg, Shaking the Pumpkin and Howard Norman, The Wishing Bone Cycle.
The Soul Cages…
On The Music Box…
A wonderful remix of The Fab Four… done for Cirque de Soliel, at the behest of George Harrison before he past..
Masterfully remixed by George Martin’s son, Giles Martin, this is a voyage for Trippers of all ages.
I find it a bit of sheer wizardry, well worth your pennies or your pence. Get it kids, you’ll be floating along…
Sunday in Portland…. Just brought Eildon and his Mum Catherine over to the house, and I cooked Catherine, Mary and I a big lunch. Eildon sleeps like the little blessed one that he is.
I will be posting more later, with new pics.
Great Stuff Today!
The Links
The Soul Cages – A tale from Ireland
19th century Irish Poetry…
Art: John William Waterhouse
Cheers,
Gwyllm
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The Links:
Bright green light across sky surprises many in Singapore
Written in Stone, the Secret of Coumesourde
Georgia man kills 11-hundred-pound hog
Punxsutawney PA: The creature from Mahoning Creek
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The Soul Cages – T. Crofton Croker
Jack Dogherty lived on the coast of the county Clare. Jack was a fisherman, as his father and grandfather before him had been. Like them, too, he lived all alone (but for the wife), and just in the same spot. People used to wonder why the Dogherty family were so fond of that wild situation, so far away from all human kind, and in the midst of huge shattered rocks, with nothing but the wide ocean to look upon. But they had their own good reasons for it.
The place was just the only spot on that part of the coast where anybody could well live. There was a neat little creek, where a boat might lie as snug as a puffin in her nest, and out from this creek a ledge of sunken rocks ran into the sea. Now when the Atlantic, according to custom, was raging with a storm, and a good westerly wind was blowing strong on the coast, many a richly-laden ship went to pieces on these rocks; and then the fine bales of cotton and tobacco, and such like things, and the pipes of wine and the puncheons of rum, and the casks of brandy, and the kegs of Hollands that used to come ashore! Dunbeg Bay was just like a little estate to the Doghertys.
Not but they were kind and humane to a distressed sailor, if ever one had the good luck to get to land; and many a time indeed did Jack put out in his little corragh (which, though not quite equal to honest Andrew Hennessy’s canvas life-boat would breast the billows like any gannet), to lend a hand towards bringing off the crew from a wreck. But when the ship had gone to pieces, and the crew were all lost, who would blame Jack for picking up all he could find?
“And who is the worse of it?” said he. “For as to the king, God bless him! everybody knows he’s rich enough already without getting what’s floating in the sea.”
Jack, though such a hermit, was a good-natured, jolly fellow. No other, sure, could ever have coaxed Biddy Mahony to quit her father’s snug and warm house in the middle of the town of Ennis, and to go so many miles off to live among the rocks, with the seals and sea-gulls for next-door neighbours. But Biddy knew that Jack was the man for a woman who wished to be comfortable and happy; for to say nothing of the fish, Jack had the supplying of half the gentlemen’s houses of the country with the Godsends that came into the bay. And she was right in her choice; for no woman ate, drank, or slept better, or made a prouder appearance at chapel on Sundays, than Mrs. Dogherty.
Many a strange sight, it may well be supposed, did Jack see, and many a strange sound did he hear, but nothing daunted him. So far was he from being afraid of Merrows, or such beings, that the very first wish of his heart was to fairly meet with one. Jack had heard that they were mighty like Christians, and that luck had always come out of an acquaintance with them. Never, therefore, did he dimly discern the Merrows moving along the face of the waters in their robes of mist, but he made direct for them; and many a scolding did Biddy, in her own quiet way, bestow upon Jack for spending his whole day out at sea, and bringing home no fish. Little did poor Biddy know the fish Jack was after!
It was rather annoying to Jack that, though living in a place where the Merrows were as plenty as lobsters, he never could get a right view of one. What vexed him more was that both his father and grandfather had often and often seen them; and he even remembered hearing, when a child, how his grandfather, who was the first of the family that had settled down at the creek, had been so intimate with a Merrow that, only for fear of vexing the priest, he would have had him stand for one of his children. This, however, Jack did not well know how to believe.
Fortune at length began to think that it was only right that Jack should know as much as his father and grandfather did. Accordingly, one day when he had strolled a little farther than usual along the coast to the northward, just as he turned a point, he saw something, like to nothing he had ever seen before, perched upon a rock at a little distance out to sea. It looked green in the body, as well as he could discern at that distance, and he would have sworn, only the thing was impossible, that it had a cocked hat in its hand. Jack stood for a good half-hour straining his eyes, and wondering at it, and all the time the thing did not stir hand or foot. At last Jack’s patience was quite worn out, and he gave a loud whistle and a hail, when the Merrow (for such it was) started up, put the cocked hat on its head, and dived down, head foremost, from the rock.
Jack’s curiosity was now excited, and he constantly directed his steps towards the point; still he could never get a glimpse of the sea-gentleman with the cocked hat; and with thinking and thinking about the matter, he began at last to fancy he had been only dreaming. One very rough day, however, when the sea was running mountains high, Jack Dogherty determined to give a look at the Merrow’s rock (for he had always chosen a fine day before), and then he saw the strange thing cutting capers upon the top of the rock, and then diving down, and then coming up, and then diving down again.
Jack had now only to choose his time (that is, a good blowing day), and he might see the man of the sea as often as he pleased. All this. however, did not satisfy him–”much will have more”; he wished now to get acquainted with the Merrow, and even in this he succeeded. One tremendous blustering day, before he got to the point whence he had a view of the Merrow’s rock, the storm came on so furiously that Jack was obliged to take shelter in one of the caves which are so numerous along the coast; and there, to his astonishment, he saw sitting before him a thing with green hair, long green teeth, a red nose, and pig’s eyes. It had a fish’s tail, legs with scales on them, and short arms like fins. It wore no clothes, but had the cocked hat under its arm, and seemed engaged thinking very seriously about something.
Jack, with all his courage, was a little daunted; but now or never, thought he; so up he went boldly to the cogitating fishman, took off his hat, and made his best bow.
“Your servant, sir,” said Jack.
“Your servant, kindly, Jack Dogherty,” answered the Merrow.
“To be sure, then, how well your honour knows my name!” said Jack.
“Is it I not know your name, Jack Dogherty? Why man, I knew your grandfather long before he was married to Judy Regan, your grandmother! Ah, Jack, Jack, I was fond of that grandfather of yours; he was a mighty worthy man in his time: I never met his match above or below, before or since, for sucking in a shellful of brandy. I hope, my boy,” said the old fellow, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, “I hope you’re his own grandson!”
‘Never fear me for that,” said Jack; “if my mother had only reared me on brandy, ’tis myself that would be a sucking infant to this hour!”
“Well, I like to hear you talk so manly; you and I must be better acquainted, if it were only for your grandfather’s sake. But, Jack, that father of yours was not the thing! he had no head at all.”
“I’m sure, said Jack, “since your honour lives down under the water, you must be obliged to drink a power to keep any beat in you in such a cruel, damp, could place. Well, I’ve often heard of Christians drinking like fishes; and might I be so bold as ask where you get the spirits?”
“Where do you get them yourself, Jack?” said the Merrow, twitching his red nose between his forefinger and thumb.
“Hubbubboo,” cries Jack “now I see how it is; but I suppose, sir, your honour has got a fine dry cellar below to keep them in.”
“Let me alone for the cellar,” said the Merrow, with a knowing wink of his left eye.
‘I’m sure,” continued Jack, “it must be mighty well worth the looking at.”
“You may say that, Jack,” said the Merrow; “and if you meet me here next Monday, just at this time of the day, we will have a little more talk with one another about the matter.”
Jack and the Merrow parted the best friends in the world. On Monday they met, and Jack was not a little surprised to see that the Merrow had two cocked hats with him, one under each arm.
“Might I take the liberty to ask, sir,” said Jack, “why your honour has brought the two hats with you today? You would not, sure, be going to give me one of them, to keep for the curiosity of the thing?”
“No, no, Jack,” said he, “I don’t get my hats so easily, to part with them that way; but I want you to come down and dine with me, and I brought you that hat to dive with.”
“Lord bless and preserve us!” cried Jack, in amazement, would you want me to go down to the bottom of the salt sea ocean? Sure, I’d be smothered and choked up with the water, to say nothing of being drowned! And what would poor Biddy do for me, and what would she say?”
“And what matter what she says, you pinkeen? Who cares for Biddy’s squalling? It’s long before your grandfather would have talked in that way. Many’s the time he stuck that same hat on his head, and dived down boldly after me; and many’s the snug bit of dinner and good shellful of brandy he and I have had together below, under the water.”
“Is it really, sir, and no joke?” said Jack; “why, then, sorrow from me for ever and a day after, if I’ll be a bit worse man nor my grandfather was! Here goes–but play me fair now. Here’s neck or nothing!” cried Jack.
“That’s your grandfather all over,” said the old fellow; “so come along, then, and do as I do.”
They both left the cave, walked into the sea, and then swam a piece until they got to the rock, The Merrow climbed to the top of it, and Jack followed him. On the far side it was as straight as the wall of a house, and the sea beneath looked so deep that Jack was almost cowed.
“Now, do you see, Jack,” said the Merrow: “just put this hat on your head, and mind to keep your eyes wide open. Take hold of my tail, and follow after me, and you’ll see what you’ll see.”
In he dashed, and in dashed Jack after him boldly. They went and they went, and Jack thought they’d never stop going. Many a time did he wish himself sitting at home by the fireside with Biddy. Yet where was the use of wishing now, when he was so many miles, as he thought, below the waves of the Atlantic? Still he held hard by the Merrow’s tail, slippery as it was; and, at last, to Jack’s great surprise, they got out of the water, and he actually found himself on dry land at the bottom of the sea. They landed just in front of a nice house that was slated very neatly with oyster shells! and the Merrow, turning about to Jack, welcomed him down.
Jack could hardly speak, what with wonder, and what with being out of breath with travelling so fast through the water. He looked about him and could see no living things, barring crabs and lobsters, of which there were plenty walking leisurely about on the sand. Overhead was the sea like a sky, and the fishes like birds swimming about in it.
“Why don’t you speak, man?” said the Merrow: “I dare say you had no notion that I had such a snug little concern here as this? Are you smothered, or choked, or drowned, or are you fretting after Biddy, eh?”
“Oh! not myself indeed,” said Jack, showing his teeth with a good-humoured grin; “but who in the world would ever have thought of seeing such a thing?”
‘Yell, come along, and let’s see what they’ve got for us to eat?”
Jack really was hungry, and it gave him no small pleasure to perceive a fine column of smoke rising from the chimney, announcing what was going on within. Into the house he followed the Merrow, and there he saw a good kitchen, right well provided with everything. There was a noble dresser, and plenty of pots and pans, with two young Merrows cooking. His host then led him into the room, which was furnished shabbily enough. Not a table or a chair was there in it; nothing but planks and logs of wood to sit on, and eat off. There was, however, a good fire blazing upon the hearth–a comfortable sight to Jack.
“Come now, and I’ll show you where I keep–you know what,” said the Merrow, with a sly look; and opening a little door, he led Jack into a fine cellar, well filled with pipes, and kegs, and hogsheads, and barrels.
“What do you say to that, Jack Dogherty? Eh! may be a body can’t live snug under the water?”
“Never the doubt of that,” said Jack, with a convincing smack of his upper lip, that he really thought what he said.
They went back to the room, and found dinner laid. There was no tablecloth, to be sure–but what matter? It was not always Jack had one at home. The dinner would have been no discredit to the first house of the country on a fast day. The choicest of fish, and no wonder, was there. Turbots, and sturgeons, and soles, and lobsters, and oysters, and twenty other kinds, were on the planks at once, and plenty of the best of foreign spirits. The wines, the old fellow said, were too cold for his stomach.
Jack ate and drank till he could eat no more: then taking up a shell of brandy, “Here’s to your honour’s good health, sir,” said he; “though, begging you pardon, it’s mighty odd that as long as we’ve been acquainted I don’t know your name yet.”
“That’s true, Jack,” replied he; “I never thought of it before, but better late than never. My name’s Coomara.”
“And a mighty decent name it is,” cried Jack, taking another shellfull: “here’s to your good health, Coomara, and may ye live these fifty years to come!”
“Fifty years!” repeated Coomara; “I’m obliged to you, indeed! If you had said five hundred, it would have been something worth the wishing.”
“By the laws, sir,” cries Jack, “youz live to a powerful age here under the water! You knew my grandfather, and he’s dead and gone better than these sixty years. I’m sure it must be a healthy place to live in.”
“No doubt of it; but come, Jack, keep the liquor stirring.”
Shell after shell did they empty, and to Jack’s exceeding surprise, he found the drink never got into his head, owing, I suppose, to the sea being over them, which kept their noddles cool.
Old Coomara got exceedingly comfortable, and sung several songs; but Jack, if his life had depended on it, never could remember more than
“Rum fum boodle boo,
Ripple dipple nitty dob;
Dumdoo doodle coo,
Raffle taffle chittiboo!”
[paragraph continues] It was the chorus to one of them; and, to say the truth, nobody that I know has ever been able to pick any particular meaning out of it; but that, to be sure, is the case with many a song nowadays.
At length said he to Jack, “Now, my dear boy, if you follow me, I’ll show you my curiosities!” He opened a little door, and led Jack into a large room, where Jack saw a great many odds and ends that Coomara had picked up at one time or another. What chiefly took his attention, however, were things like lobsterpots ranged on the ground along the wall.
“Well, Jack, how do you like my curiosities?” said old Coo.
“Upon my sowkins, 1 sir,” said Jack, “they’re mighty well worth the looking at; but might I make so bold as to ask what these things like lobster-pots are?”
“Oh! the Soul Cages, is it?”
“The what? sir!”
“These things here that I keep the souls in.”
“Arrah! what souls, sir?” said Jack, in amazement; “sure the fish have no souls in them?”
“Oh! no,” replied Coo, quite coolly, “that they have not; but these are the souls of drowned sailors.”
“The Lord preserve us from all harm!” muttered lack, “how in the world did you get them?”
“Easily enough: I’ve only, when I see a good storm coming on, to set a couple of dozen of these, and then, when the sailors are drowned and the souls get out of them under the water, the poor things are almost perished to death, not being used to the cold; so they make into my pots for shelter, and then I have them snug, and fetch them home, and is it not well for them, poor souls, to get into such good quarters?”
Jack was so thunderstruck he did not know what to say, so he said nothing. They went back into the dining-room, and had a little more brandy, which was excellent, and then, as Jack knew that it must be getting late, and as Biddy might be uneasy, he stood up, and said he thought it was time for him to be on the road.
“Just as you like, Jack,” said Coo, “but take a duc an durrus 1 before you go; you’ve a cold journey before you.”
Jack knew better manners than to refuse the parting glass.
“I wonder,” said he, “will I be able to make out my way home?”
“What should ail you,” said Coo, “when I’ll show you the way?”
Out they went before the house, and Coomara took one of the cocked hats, and put it upon Jack’s head the wrong way, and then lifted him up on his shoulder that he might launch him up into the water.
“Now,” says he, giving him a heave, “you’ll come up just in the same spot you came down in; and, Jack, mind and throw me back the hat.”
He canted Jack off his shoulder, and up he shot like a bubble–whirr, whiff, whiz–away he went up through the water, till he came to the very rock he had jumped off where he found a landing-place, and then in he threw the hat, which sunk like a stone.
The sun was just going down in the beautiful sky of a calm summer’s evening. Feascor was seen dimly twinkling in the cloudless heaven, a solitary star, and the waves of the Atlantic flashed in a golden flood of light. So Jack, perceiving it was late, set off home; but when he got there, not a word did he say to Biddy of where he had spent his day.
The state of the poor souls cooped up in the lobster-pots gave Jack a great deal of trouble, and how to release them cost him a great deal of thought. He at first had a mind to speak to the priest about the matter. But what could the priest do, and what did Coo care for the priest? Besides, Coo was a good sort of an old fellow, and did not think he was doing any harm. Jack had a regard for him, too, and it also might not be much to his own credit if it were known that he used to go dine with Merrows. On the whole, he thought his best plan would be to ask Coo to dinner, and to make him drunk, if he was able, and then to take the hat and go down and turn up the pots. It was, first of all, necessary, however, to get Biddy out of the way; for Jack was prudent enough, as she was a woman, to wish to keep the thing secret from her.
Accordingly, Jack grew mighty pious all of a sudden, and said to Biddy that he thought it would be for the good of both their souls if she was to go and take her rounds at Saint John’s Well, near Ennis. Biddy thought so too, and accordingly off she set one fine morning at day-dawn, giving Jack a strict charge to have an eye to the place. The coast being clear, away went Jack to the rock to give the appointed signal to Coomara, which was throwing a big stone into the water. Jack threw, and up sprang Coo!
“Good morning, Jack,” said he; “what do you want with me?”
“Just nothing at all to speak about, sir,” returned Jack, “only to come and take a bit of dinner with me, if I might make so free as to ask you, and sure I’m now after doing so.”
“It’s quite agreeable, Jack, I assure you; what’s your hour?”‘
“Any time that’s most convenient to you, sir–say one o’clock, that you may go home, if you wish, with the daylight.”
“I’ll be with you,” said Coo, “never fear me.”
Jack went home, and dressed a noble fish dinner, and got out plenty of his best foreign spirits, enough, for that matter, to make twenty men drunk. Just to the minute came Coo, with his cocked hat under his arm. Dinner was ready, they sat down, and ate and drank away manfully. Jack, thinking of the poor souls below in the pots, plied old Coo well with brandy, and encouraged him to sing, hoping to put him under the table, but poor Jack forgot that he had not the sea over his head to keep it cool. The brandy got into it, and did his business for him, and Coo reeled off home, leaving his entertainer as dumb as a haddock on a Good Friday.
Jack never woke till the next morning, and then he was in a sad way. “‘Tis to no use for me thinking to make that old Rapparee drunk,” said Jack, “and how in this world can I help the poor souls out of the lobster-pots?” After ruminating nearly the whole day, a thought struck him. “I have it,” says he, slapping his knee; “I’ll be sworn that Coo never saw a drop of poteen, as old as he is, and that’s the thing to settle him! Oh! then, is not it well that Biddy will not be home these two days yet; I can have another twist at him.”
Jack asked Coo again, and Coo laughed at him for having no better head, telling him he’d never come up to his grandfather.
“Well, but try me again,” said Jack, “and I’ll be bail to drink you drunk and sober, and drunk again.”
“Anything in my power,” said Coo, “to oblige you.”
At this dinner Jack took care to have his own liquor well watered, and to give the strongest brandy he had to Coo. At last says he, “Pray, sir, did you ever drink any poteen?–any real mountain dew?”
“No,” says Coo; “what’s that, and where does it come from?”
“Oh, that’s a secret,” said Jack, “but it’s the right stuff–never believe me again, if ’tis not fifty times as good as brandy or rum either. Biddy’s brother just sent me a present of a little drop, in exchange for some brandy, and as you’re an old friend of the family, I kept it to treat you with.”
“Well, let’s see what sort of thing it is,” said Coomara.
The poteen was the right sort. It was first-rate, and had the real smack upon it. Coo was delighted: he drank and he sung Rum bum boodle boo over and over again; and he laughed and he danced, till he fell on the floor fast asleep. Then Jack, who had taken good care to keep himself sober, snapt up the cocked hat–ran off to the rock–leaped, and soon arrived at Coo’s habitation.
All was as still as a churchyard at midnight–not a Merrow, old or young, was there. In he went and turned up the pots, but nothing did he see, only he heard a sort of a little whistle or chirp as he raised each of them. At this he was surprised, till he recollected what the priests had often said, that nobody living could see the soul, no more than they could see the wind or the air. Having now done all that he could for them, he set the pots as they were before, and sent a blessing after the poor souls to speed them on their journey wherever they were going. Jack now began to think of returning; he put the hat on, as was right, the wrong way; but when he got out he found the water so high over his head that he had no hopes of ever getting up into it, now that he had not old Coomara to give him a lift. He walked about looking for a ladder, but not one could he find, and not a rock was there in sight. At last he saw a spot where the sea hung rather lower than anywhere else, so he resolved to try there. Just as he came to it, a big cod happened to put down his tail. Jack made a jump and caught hold of it, and the cod, all in amazement, gave a bounce and pulled Jack up. The minute the hat touched the water away Jack was whisked, and up he shot like a cork, dragging the poor cod, that he forgot to let go, up with him tail foremost. He got to the rock in no time and without a moment’s delay hurried home, rejoicing in the good deed he had done.
But, meanwhile, there was fine work at home; for our friend Jack had hardly left the house on his soul-freeing expedition, when back came Biddy from her soul-saving one to the well. When she entered the house and saw the things lying thrie-na-helah 1 on the table before her–”Here’s a pretty job!” said she; “that blackguard of mine–what ill-luck I had ever to marry him! He has picked up some vagabond or other, while I was praying for the good of his soul, and they’ve been drinking all the poteen that my own brother gave him, and all the spirits, to be sure, that he was to have sold to his honour.” Then hearing an outlandish kind of grunt, she looked down, and saw Coomara lying under the table. “The Blessed Virgin help me,” shouted she, “if he has not made a real beast of himself! Well, well, I’ve often heard of a man making a beast of himself with drink! Oh hone, oh hone!–Jack, honey, what will I do with you, or what will I do without you? How can any decent woman ever think of living with a beast?”
With such like lamentations Biddy rushed out of the house, and was going she knew not where, when she heard the well-known voice of Jack singing a merry tune. Glad enough was Biddy to find him safe and sound, and not turned into a thing that was like neither fish nor flesh. Jack was obliged to tell her all, and Biddy, though she had half a mind to be angry with him for not telling her before, owned that he had done a great service to the poor souls. Back they both went most lovingly to the house, and Jack wakened up Coomara; and, perceiving the old fellow to be rather dull, he bid him not to be cast down, for ’twas many a good man’s case; said it all came of his not being used to the poteen, and recommended him, by way of cure, to swallow a hair of the dog that bit him. Coo, however, seemed to think he had had quite enough. He got up, quite out of sorts, and without having the manners to say one word in the way of civility, he sneaked off to cool himself by a jaunt through the salt water.
Coomara, never missed the souls. He and Jack continued the best friends in the world, and no one, perhaps, ever equalled Jack for freeing souls from purgatory; for he contrived fifty excuses for getting into the house below the sea, unknown to the old fellow, and then turning up the pots and letting out the souls. It vexed him, to be sure, that he could never see them; but as he knew the thing to be impossible, he was obliged to be satisfied.
Their intercourse continued for several years. However, one morning, on Jack’s throwing in a stone as usual, he got no answer. He flung another, and another, still there was no reply. He went away, and returned the following morning, but it was to no purpose. As he was without the hat, he could not go down to see what had become of old Coo, but his belief was, that the old man, or the old fish, or whatever he was, had either died, or had removed from that part of the country.
_____________
Footnotes
69:1 Sowkins, diminutive of soul.
70:1 Recte, deoch án dorrus–door-drink or stirrup-cup.
74:1 Tri-na-cheile, literally through other–i.e., higgledy-piggledy.
___________________
Poetry: 19th Century Irish Poetry…
The Faery Thorn – An Ulster Ballad
Sir Sameul Ferguson
“GET up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning-wheel;
For your father’s on the hill, and your mother is asleep;
Come up above the crags, and we’ll dance a highland-reel
Around the fairy thorn on the steep.”
At Anna Grace’s door ’twas thus the maidens cried,
Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green;
And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside,
The fairest of the four, I ween.
They’re glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve,
Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare;
The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave,
And the crags in the ghostly air:
And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go,
The maids along the hill-side have ta’en their fearless way,
Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty grow
Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey.
The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim,
Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee;
The rowan berries cluster o’er her low head grey and dim
In ruddy kisses sweet to see.
The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row,
Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem,
And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go,
Oh, never caroll’d bird like them!
But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze
That drinks away their voices in echoless repose,
And dreamily the evening has still’d the haunted braes,
And dreamier the gloaming grows.
And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky
When the falcon’s shadow saileth across the open shaw,
Are hush’d the maiden’s voices, as cowering down they he
In the flutter of their sudden awe.
For, from the air above, the grassy ground beneath,
And from the mountain-ashes and the old Whitethorn between,
A Power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe,
And they sink down together on the green.
They sink together silent, and stealing side by side,
They fling their lovely arms o’er their drooping necks so fair,
Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,
For their shrinking necks again are bare.
Thus clasp’d and prostrate all, with their heads together bow’d,
Soft o’er their bosom’s beating–the only human sound–
They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd,
Like a river in the air, gliding round.
No scream can any raise, no prayer can any say,
But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless three–
For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away,
By whom they dare not look to see.
They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold
And the curls elastic falling as her head withdraws;
They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold,
But they may not look to see the cause:
For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies
Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze;
And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes,
Or their limbs from the cold ground raise,
Till out of night the earth has roll’d her dewy side,
With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below;
When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide,
The maidens’ trance dissolveth go.
Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may,
And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain–
They pined away and died within the year and day,
And ne’er was Anna Grace seen again.
—
A Dream
William Allingham
I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;
I went to the window to see the sight;
All the Dead that ever I knew
Going one by one and two by two.
On they pass’d, and on they pass’d;
Townsfellows all, from first to last;
Born in the moonlight of the lane,
Quench’d in the heavy shadow again.
Schoolmates, marching as when we play’d
At soldiers once–but now more staid;
Those were the strangest sight to me
Who were drown’d, I knew, in the awful sea.
Straight and handsome folk; bent and weak, too;
Some that I loved, and gasp’d to speak to;
Some but a day in their churchyard bed;
Some that I had not known were dead.
A long, long crowd–where each seem’d lonely,
Yet of them all there was one, one only,
Raised a head or look’d my way.
She linger’d a moment,–she might not stay.
How long since I saw that fair pale face!
Ah! Mother dear! might I only place
My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,
While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest!
On, on, a moving bridge they made
Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,
Young and old, women and men;
Many long-forgot, but remember’d then.
And first there came a bitter laughter;
A sound of tears the moment after;
And then a music so lofty and gay,
That every morning, day by day,
I strive to recall it if I may.
—-
Song Of The Ghost
Alfred Percival Graves
When all were dreaming
But Pastheen Power,
A light came streaming
Beneath her bower
A heavy foot
At her door delayed,
A heavy hand
On the latch was laid.
“Now who dare venture,
At this dark hour,
Unbid to enter
My maiden bower?”
“Dear Pastheen, open
The door to me,
And your true lover
You’ll surely see.”
“My own true lover,
So tall and brave,
Lives exiled over
The angry wave.”
“Your true love’s body
Lies on the bier,
His faithful spirit
Is with you here.”
“His look was cheerful,
His voice was gay;
Your speech is fearful,
Your face is grey;
And sad and sunken
Your eye of blue,
But Patrick, Patrick,
Alas! ’tis you!”
Ere dawn was breaking
She heard below
The two cocks shaking
Their wings to crow.
“Oh, hush you, hush you,
Both red and grey,
Or will you hurry
My love away.
“Oh, hush your crowing,
Both grey and red,
Or he’ll be going
To join the dead;
Or, cease from calling
His ghost to the mould,
And I’ll come crowning
Your combs with gold.”
When all were dreaming
But Pastheen Power,
A light went streaming
From out her bower,
And on the morrow,
When they awoke,
They knew that sorrow
Her heart had broke.
Trailing Clouds Of Glory….
The Arrival of Eildon Gabriel Wilkinson
Eildon & Andrew
‘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 forget fulness,
And not in utter nakedness
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God who is our home’.
My Nephew Andrew and his Girlfriend Catherine welcomed Eildon Gabriel into the green and tumbling world this morning at 12:37 at Providence Hospital in Portland.
It was a difficult birth, but Mom and Eildon seem to be doing well. Eildon is 21 inches long, and weighed in at 8lbs 10.6oz! Catherine stands only 4’11″ so I guess you can do the math on why the delivery was a bit difficult.
All and all it was an eventful, wonderful evening. We will be off to visit them soon, so I am going to tie this up for today.
(We could not visit with Catherine as she was having a series of procedures done, and frankly, I would not of put her through having her picture taken right after birth!)
—
Auntie & Gran awaiting Eildon’s’ arrival…
Rain and her boyfriend Erik sleeping – waiting for Eildon…
(Rain is Andrews’ friend from school)
I had heard about Rain for years, but it never came to pass that we met.
Nice circumstances to meet someone though!
Carlie and Eathan
Eathan and Andrew… Twin brothers.
Carlie is Eathans’ sweety, and is a very lovely, wise and patient person. We had a great time together waiting for the arrival.
Carlie came up from Eugene for the weekend, to see Eathan, and to meet Eildon!
Andrew is lucky having a twin like Eathan, who seems eager to help out with the young’un!
Miss Monica from Andrew’s work…
Monica took the day off to be their for support. A really sweet and very intelligent person.
When it got around 12:25, Monica sprang up and headed to Catherines’ room. Mary and I felt the same urge. We got their and we heard Catherine struggling with it. The 3 of us meditated together, and started breathing in harmony… Shortly after, Eildon came into the world.
We danced around the corridor, hugging with joy. Shortly afterwards, the Doctor came out, obviously exhausted. He was very pleasant, but had been through the wringer.
—
Andrew finally brought Eildon out and was greeted by family and friends…
Monica headed home, exhausted but blissed out. She had also finished up her High School Diploma as well on Thursday, at the local community college.
We got to spend a bit of time with Andrew… and then headed home.
We will be back to visit, and get more Baby pics, and maybe some of Catherine as well if she is up to it…
Blessings,
Gwyllm
Dad and Lad, just before they went back into the birthing room
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD
-William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
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.
The Sons of Mil…
This would of been out earlier, but have been on the run since early on. My nephew Andrew has stepped up to the plate and is participating in the birth of his girl friend Catherines’ baby as the father. . So we have been out, getting a mattress for the crib (a big thank you to Rebecca & Steve Zaglen) A 5 gallon bucket for diapers, and stopping by the store for clothes etc. They are great kids and I think they are beginning to get a small inkling of the world of changes heading their way in about 6-16 hours. I may post some baby pics tomorrow. I talked to Andrew at the hospital, she is a 3 cm and working kinda hard. Good Luck to the 3 of ya!
Continuing with the Irish Theme, some interesting historical stuff about the views of land, and the transitions of peoples in the poetry.
Working on the last bits of the Magazine, so be aware of that if you like.
Hope life is sweet for ya all. Wonders abound, and a little wonder is on the way….
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On The Menu:
The Links
A bit of Scottish Humour
Power and Landscape in Ireland
Poetry: The Matter Of Ireland Pt 2
Art Jim Fitzgerald
Pax,
G
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The Links:
W pushes envelope on U.S. spying
12th century BC carving may hold the secret of Karnak Temple
But It’s Thomas Jefferson’s Koran!
Wacky Weather In The Heartland…
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A Wee Bit Of Scottish Humour
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Power and Landscape in Ireland
Copyright © 1985, 1986, 1988, 1994 Cainteanna na Luise
INTRODUCTION
In Irish druidism “power” in the landscape is conceived by rather different ontological parameters than in Hermetic Magic or in systems using “leys”.
There are, first, two types of “power” (there are, in fact, three, but the first is simply that by which a thing exists at all – X has it, and exists, or X does not have it (is functionally self-contradictory, etc.) and doesn’t exist. There is no “amount” to this and so it cannot be “patterned”). The two types (which can be patterned) are:
Brí – intrinsic, inherent power. This may be “developed” or “atrophied” but can not, substantially, be changed in potential amount.
Bua – power that is gained or lost, depending upon actions.
Landscape has, as does everything else, both types. Skipping, for the moment, that these may be “keyed” to certain affinities, in summary a place’s brí is linked to it’s basic nature. Isolated hills, sea cliffs, etc., have higher intrinsic brí. A place’s bua is determined (and changed) by what occurs there (a major battle, etc.). In fact, it is more complicated because humans deliberately pick high-brí places for their religious and, less often, political centers, thus layering bua over the already existing brí. While usually this occurs so that the bua develops the brí, the opposite can occur. The Mallacht Dhealúis, great curse of bareness, laid upon Teamhair by a coven of 13 Irish saints is an example. In this case, the saints’ own brí-empowered bua was used to drain and ward-restrict the bua of “Tara” and hinder its bua. The site once had a great deal of both, but it now has fairly low bua, while retaining brí in a form difficult, but not impossible, to access.
Brí may be “keyed” by its basic nature, but bua is far more likely to be keyed because it is gained or lost by specific actions. Personally keying may involve not only one’s own bua being compatible but season, time of day, and so forth, since such bua is highly contextual.
Brí, and far more often bua, may become “keyed”, that is it may gain affinity or malevolence toward other types of brí/bua (some people may, for example feel “at home” in a place that others will feel uncomfortable in). In a few cases, a place will have general malevolence (the term frithbhuachán is used for either a place or thing that drains bua and assaults brí. (see also the note on Drombeg below.)
Taking brí and bua together, no man-made-like grid patterns these powers. The “map” of a country’s power does not resemble a geometric human network, but a naturally occurring one, resembling maps showing rainfall or physical elevation. That is, there may be sharp demarcations, or gradual ones. Entire areas may be low in both bua and brí (except in small limited areas, a high bua level is unlikely to occur without at least moderately high brí, although the reverse is not true: indeed the feeling of “awe” experienced at some natural “wilderness” sites results from them having quite high brí, although they may have only minimal bua.
IRELAND IN GENERAL
Again, taking brí and bua together, the “power-map” of Ireland shows great contrasts. (The reader is here warned that the author has spent a good deal of time throughout much of Ireland but there exist substantial areas he has not visited; a “reading of the literature” can only supply indications, and he will use “seems” for those areas he has not verified personally.) Overall, the west is higher in power. Major concentrations (i.e. fairly large areas with high levels of power) exist in the Inishowen peninsula and the area north of Sligo to fairly far south of it. This seems to also be the case for western Co.Mayo. The area around Cong, the Aran Islands, and the peninsulas of Kerry and western Cork have quite to very high power. Eastern Ireland seems to have far less areas of high brí/bua. The author has not visited most of Antrim, but none of the seanchais or ancient tales indicate this are as having a high degree of power and this would seem to be the case for most of northeastern Ireland. There are patchy areas of high power near Armagh and the Mournes (including Sliabh Guillion). Cos. Meath and West Meath contain the largest areas in the east, with additional patchy areas in a band south of there, from the Sliabh Blooms through Kildare and Wicklow. The entire southeast seems to have little power at all (the author has not visited this area much, but it is not mentioned at all in the seanchais as having any power and it is traditionally the area at which Ireland has always been invaded by foreign cultures and was the first to lose both the traditional and the Irish language so these historic facts are substantial evidence that it indeed is “power poor”.
SPECIFIC EXAMPLES
The following, better known sites, may serve as examples. Cainteanna na Luise No.11 (Samhain 1986) contains additional information on the author’s personal experiences at various sites; the below is deliberately slanted toward the general, and to exemplify a variety of types of sites.
Teamhair: there is still a great deal of keyed brí here. Both the author and others have worked here to specific activate the brí, and support the remaining bua while adding to it. These activities have caused changes, including, it appears, counter-reaction, perhaps deliberately but more likely as a result of the Mallacht Dhealúis reacting to being opposed (the outward manifestations include the statue of Patrick which a co-worker of the author magically cracked being soon taken down, but the Irish government having begun to newly limit access).
Tlachtga: the hill of the Brune Samhna or Samhain fire ritual contains mangled bua and brí.
Newgrange: traditionally a cómhla bhreac or gate to the Otherworld, it has brí and bua, but has had so much “alternate” bua attempted to be imposed on it, that these are reduced (by the last is meant that many people have directed buanna (bua-plural) of radically conflicting types at Newgrange – imagine a Christian shrine for peace being the scene of a battle between Moslems and Hindus at which immediately afterward a group of atheists put on a comedy show – or a commercial for cigarettes during a documentary on the dangers of smoking!). Newgrange, like Teotihuacan, has had tens of thousands of people actively directing their totally incompatible (with it, but as importantly with each other!) energies at it and the original balance is quite, literally, stewed.
Maynoth: no brí to speak of, but high bua specifically keyed to the dominance of the Christian church. (if you are pagan and go, one of the few places you need wards.)
Aran Islands: Dún Aoghusa has high natural brí, more than its bua, but the latter is also quite high. Dún Dubh Cathair has both high, but less bua (in total and as ratio to brí) than Dún Aohghusa. On Inish Maen, Dún Conor exhibits more bua than brí. Other areas, here unnamed because of on-going workings, on the Islands contain at least as high, probably higher levels of brí.
Sligo Area: the entire area around Sligo has fairly to very high brí, and moderate to high bua. Knocknarae, Carrowmore, Kesh, Ben Bulben, Magh Tuiread (no.2), Carrowkeel, Deerpark, Kreevykeel, etc., all have good levels of both brí and bua.
Donegal: Sliabh Liag is fairly high brí with a little bua, of a rather hard to define type, mixed in. “Malin Head” (or Fíorcheann na hÉireann, the True Top of Ireland, to give it its proper name) has little bua, but massive brí. Indeed the highest brí is separated from the mainland by a violent gash in the earth which always appears to be a deliberate separating-itself from tampering. The Grianán of Aileach has muted brí and moderate bua.
Belteny: high bua and brí, with the bua, if you can key to it, somewhat higher.
Kerry: the Kenmare River estuary, Inbher Scéine has moderately low brí, but can exhibit superb bua if properly keyed (in this case, all the seanchais and the author’s own experience are explicit: this is where Amhairghin first arrived in Ireland). Dunmore Head, the most westerly point of Ireland has strong brí. The author is unable to comment on the general bua due to personally imposed keying.
West Cork: the only time the author visited the “most photographed stone circle in Ireland”, Drombeg, he could hardly rate the brí for the extremely negative iarrairdeall (one of several druidic methods of “sensing” different types of “vibes”, beyond the scope of this article). This was not bua in the general sense, but a reaction of the site to its bua having been (recently, but not by him!) assaulted. This did not appear frithbhuachán in the usual sense, i.e. not a “keying”. Such an occurrence is rare but makes accurate readings difficult.
Dublin: the Garden of Remembrance, comparatively meager in brí, has a very high level of bua, surprisingly for a modern monument with some Christian elements, keyed specifically to pagan druidism. (The most Christian element is the cross-shaped pool, almost all of the rest, including the golden dedication and the magnificent “Children of Lir” is thoroughly – that it is in downtown Dublin, awesomely – pagan. It is, in effect, a “war memorial”, but one like none other in the world, and it honors ALL of those “who died for Irish freedom”, by the intent of its designers or by the gods having a hand, in its motifs honoring the Tuatha Dé Danann and Amhairghin’s Men of Míl more than it does those of the Easter Uprising.
THE OTHERWORLD
The general public notions of the “Otherworld” being located at the bottom of lakes, on distant islands, in hills, etc., is totally contradicted by the seanchais. It exists everywhere. The druidic conception of it is far closer to the “parallel universes” described in science fiction novels than to the way it is depicted in medieval (largely Christian influenced) folktales. The islands, caves, and other motifs are the result of a simplistic reading of sloppy translations. What is being exemplified is idircheo (literally “between fogs”) or the idea that “you can’t get there from here”. Unless the direct intervention of the Sídhe is involved as a “leading-by-the-hand” guide, mortals cannot enter an Saol Eile (the Irish term for the Otherworld and not the same as Tír na Marbh, or the Land of the Dead) directly, but must first traverse a “null zone” . The dark passage of a cave, a fog at sea, etc., are simply examples of this idircheo. Places “associated with” the Otherworld are more likely to simply be ones where idircheo are more stable than in others, although a few more-or-less permanent cómhlaí breac (“speckled gates”, i.e. accesses) exist.
DINNSEANCHAIS
There exists a large body of seanchais termed “Dinnseanchas” which purport to explain why points of landscape bear specific names. The tradition itself is quite valid, and is somewhat similar (and not at all identical) to the attitude toward the land held by native Australians. However, the dinnseanchais are the most “monk-eyed”/monkeyed-with of all “ancient” Irish literature. The majority of them are worthless. Their compilers sought to include as many places as possible, and as with all such “quantity over quality” attempts, the result is a farce. Many of the “explanations” given are early medieval or Norse, others are the result of the local people in one township bearing a grudge against those living in the neighboring township and so concocting folklore to support “it really happened here!”, and a large number are pure invention by the compilers themselves, taking the actual name and inventing stories (often directly contradicted in valid seanchais) to explain the name. (“Let’s see – ‘Washing Ton’ – there was a giant with a lot of laundry and…”). Unless one is well versed in all of the ancient literature, and able to read it in the original (for the names are often based on just such “alternate readings” as “Washing Ton”), one best avoids the dinnseanchas completely.
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Poetry: The Matter Of Ireland Pt 2
(The Tuatha Dé Danann victorious over the Fomor, Lugh proclaims the peace. The lines on milking refers to the terms of the peace including that the Fomor supply their knowledge of dairy science.)
The Convocation of the Establishment
It is established steadfast bright and accurate
(this) aftermath (of the battle).
O people of the world,
it has come that all has been made manifest
to our flowering ones.
Understanding of milkings will come.
Made great are those (who were) reduced
by my judgement/esteem
(by) my singing chants of oaks*
to (those of) youthful feats of riding
in quick (soon over) weeping.
Vanish sorrow!
Joy/welcome is bound on the men below me.
The sun* gives home to (these) arrangements
to those cherished ones who are free.
Go forth O men to the banquet-halls.
I establish the frame-work of this home
(this) binding establishment
concerning (our) mutual angers in (the) heart.
The Fomors of the bright sea do vanish.
O turn great path/way!
Life to Ireland!
Destruction to foreign petitions/chants
and long-life to men,
bright games-playing be prosperous,
from today forever
be there peace between Fomor and Ireland!
—
(After the battle the Morrigu relates two alternate prophecies. the text of the second about the worlds degradation (not is destruction) is incomplete, but the first, of prosperity, runs:)
Morrigus Prophecy
Peace to (as high as) the sky
sky to the earth
earth beneath sky
strength in everyone
a cup very full
a fullness of honey
honour enough
summer in winter
spear supported by shield
shields supported by forts
forts fierce eager for battle
sod (fleece) from sheep
woods grown with antler-tips (full of stags*)
forever destructions have departed
mast (nuts) on trees
a branch drooping-down
drooping from growth
wealth for a son
a son very learned
neck of bull (in yoke)
a bull from a song
knots in woods (i.e. scrap-wood)
wood for a fire
fire as wanted
palisades new and bright
salmon* their victory
the Boyne (i.e. Newgrange) their hostel
hostel with an excellence of length (size)
blue (new) growth after spring
(in) autumn horses increase
the land held secure
land recounted with excellence of word
Be might to the eternal much excellent woods
peace to (as high as the) sky
be (this) nine times eternal
—
The Crane Prayer
On The Menu:
The Links
The Fairy Nurse
Poetry: The Matter of Ireland Pt 1
Art: Jim Fitzgerald
One of those all Irish, all the time kinda days. We will be travelling through Ireland in legend, story and poetry for at least a couple of days. A quick view of the changing of the Gods, the coming of new peoples, others departing for the Land of Faery, or the Western Isles, maybe a bit of romance from days past, and hopefully we will work up into the present at some time.
I hope you enjoy….
Gwyllm
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The Links:
From our friend Colleen: Trying to Clear Absinthes Reputation
FAA blames UFO report on weird weather
60 Years of Dead Sea Scrolls Controversy
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The Fairy Nurse
There was once a little farmer and his wife living near Coolgarrow. They had three children, and my story happened while the youngest was a baby. The wife was a good wife enough, but her mind was all on her family and her farm, and she hardly ever went to her knees without falling asleep, and she thought the time spent in the chapel was twice as long as it need be. So, friends, she let her man and her two children go before her one day to Mass, while she called to consult a fairy man about a disorder one of her cows had. She was late at the chapel, and was sorry all the day after, for her husband was in grief about it, and she was very fond of him.
Late that night he was wakened up by the cries of his children calling out ‘Mother! Mother!’ When he sat up and rubbed his eyes, there was no wife by his side, and when he asked the little ones what was become of their mother, they said they saw the room full of nice little men and women, dressed in white and red and green, and their mother in the middle of them, going out by the door as if she was walking in her sleep. Out he ran, and searched everywhere round the house but, neither tale nor tidings did he get of her for many a day.
Well, the poor man was miserable enough, for he was as fond of his woman as she was of him. It used to bring the salt tears down his cheeks to see his poor children neglected and dirty, as they often were, and they’d be bad enough only for a kind neighbour that used to look in whenever she could spare time. The infant was away with a nurse.
About six weeks after–just as he was going out to his work one morning–a neighbour, that used to mind women when they were ill, came up to him, and kept step by step with him to the field, and this is what she told him.
‘Just as I was falling asleep last night, I heard a horse’s tramp on the grass and a knock at the door, and there, when I came out, was a fine-looking dark man, mounted on a black horse, and he told me to get ready in all haste, for a lady was in great want of me. As soon as I put on my cloak and things, he took me by the hand, and I was sitting behind him before I felt myself stirring. “Where are we going, sir?” says I. “You’ll soon know,” says he; and he drew his fingers across my eyes, and not a ray could I see. I kept a tight grip of him, and I little knew whether he was going backwards or forwards, or how long we were about it, till my hand was taken again, and I felt the ground under me. The fingers went the other way across my eyes, and there we were before a castle door, and in we went through a big hall and great rooms all painted in fine green colours, with red and gold bands and ornaments, and the finest carpets and chairs and tables and window curtains, and grand ladies and gentlemen walking about. At last we came to a bedroom, with a beautiful lady in bed, with a fine bouncing boy beside her. The lady clapped her hands, and in came the Dark Man and kissed her and the baby, and praised me, and gave me a bottle of green ointment to rub the child all over.
‘Well, the child I rubbed, sure enough; but my right eye began to smart, and I put up my finger and gave it a rub, and then stared, for never in all my life was I so frightened. The beautiful room was a big, rough cave, with water oozing over the edges of the stones and through the clay; and the lady, and the lord, and the child weazened, poverty-bitten creatures–nothing but skin and bone–and the rich dresses were old rags. I didn’t let on that I found any difference, and after a bit says the Dark Man, “Go before me to the hall door, and I will be with you in a few moments, and see you safe home.” Well, just as I turned into the outside cave, who should I see watching near the door but poor Molly. She looked round all terrified, and says she to me in a whisper, “I’m brought here to nurse the child of the king and queen of the fairies; but there is one chance of saving me. All the court will pass the cross near Templeshambo next Friday night, on a visit to the fairies of Old Ross. If John can catch me by the hand or cloak when I ride by, and has courage not to let go his grip, I’ll be safe. Here’s the king. Don’t open your mouth to answer. I saw what happened with the ointment.”
‘The Dark Man didn’t once cast his eye towards Molly, and he seemed to have no suspicion of me. When we came out I looked about me, and where do you think we were but in the dyke of the Rath of Cromogue. I was on the horse again, which was nothing but a big rag-weed, and I was in dread every minute I’d fall off; but nothing happened till I found myself in my own cabin. The king slipped five guineas into my hand as soon as I was on the ground, and thanked me, and bade me good night. I hope I’ll never see his face again. I got into bed, and couldn’t sleep for a long time; and when I examined my five guineas this morning, that I left in the table drawer the last thing, I found five withered leaves of oak–bad luck to the giver!’
Well, you may all think the fright, and the joy, and the grief the poor man was in when the woman finished her story. They talked and they talked, but we needn’t mind what they said till Friday night came, when both were standing where the mountain road crosses the one going to Ross.
There they stood, looking towards the bridge of Thuar, in the dead of the night, with a little moonlight shining from over Kilachdiarmid. At last she gave a start, and “By this and by that,” says she, “here they come, bridles jingling and feathers tossing!” He looked, but could see nothing; and she stood trembling and her eyes wide open, looking down the way to the ford of Ballinacoola. “I see your wife,” says she, “riding on the outside just so as to rub against us. We’ll walk on quietly, as if we suspected nothing, and when we are passing I’ll give you a shove. If you don’t do YOUR duty then, woe be with you!”
Well, they walked on easy, and the poor hearts beating in both their breasts; and though he could see nothing, he heard a faint jingle and trampling and rustling, and at last he got the push that she promised. He spread out his arms, and there was his wife’s waist within them, and he could see her plain; but such a hullabulloo rose as if there was an earthquake, and he found himself surrounded by horrible-looking things, roaring at him and striving to pull his wife away. But he made the sign of the cross and bid them begone in God’s name, and held his wife as if it was iron his arms were made of. Bedad, in one moment everything was as silent as the grave, and the poor woman lying in a faint in the arms of her husband and her good neighbour. Well, all in good time she was minding her family and her business again; and I’ll go bail, after the fright she got, she spent more time on her knees, and avoided fairy men all the days of the week, and particularly on Sunday.
It is hard to have anything to do with the good people without getting a mark from them. My brave nurse didn’t escape no more than another. She was one Thursday at the market of Enniscorthy, when what did she see walking among the tubs of butter but the Dark Man, very hungry-looking, and taking a scoop out of one tub and out of another. ‘Oh, sir,’ says she, very foolish, ‘I hope your lady is well, and the baby.’ ‘Pretty well, thank you,’ says he, rather frightened like. ‘How do I look in this new suit?’ says he, getting to one side of her. ‘I can’t see you plain at all, sir,’ says she. ‘Well, now?’ says he, getting round her back to the other side. ‘Musha, indeed, sir, your coat looks no better than a withered dock-leaf.’ ‘Maybe, then,’ says he, ‘it will be different now,’ and he struck the eye next to him with a switch. Friends, she never saw a glimmer after with that one till the day of her death.
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Poetry: The Matter of Ireland, Pt 1
1. Fáistine Teachta dTúath Dé Danann
(In the First Battle of Moy Tuireadh, the Firbolg druids interpret a dream of their king to prophesize the arrival of the Tuatha Dé Danann.)
The Arrival of the Tuatha Dé Danann
A tale for you,
youths across ocean,
a thousand heros will fill (web) the sea,
speckled* (magic) ships will moor here,
all death declared.
A folk each of magic incantations,
a bad doom will strike false science,
good portents will ebb peaceful bindings,
all contention will be routed.
—
(At the beginning of The Second Battle of Moy Tuireadh, a traveling poet, Cairbre, visits the court of Bress, king of the gods, and is denied due hospitality. The next morning Cairbre rises and topples Bress from his throne with this poem. The tale is thus not only the primary myth of the duty of hospitality, but the basic myth of the power of poets.)
Cairbres Satire on king Bress
Without food quick on a platter
without fresh milk for a calf to grow on
without lodging for a man when night prevails
without sweetness for men of art – such is (the like) of Bress
No longer is prosperity Bresss.
—
(The Tuatha Dé Danann Figol prophecizes the battle and its result)
Figols Prophecy
Battle will be verified and portended
of flame through(out) its contest of valour.
An ash-tree* grey sea has come to (us),
a poison not alive,
a millstone (crowd) of foreigners.
Surety (certainty) will break (over-turn).
Lugh of the Long-Arm will burn (rage).
Terrible blows of Ogma golden very red will break
for that demanding (the) life of kings.
tribute-taxes will be turned (transformed),
(the story of) lives will be celebrated,
the ploughman(ship) of grain will (be made to) come.
the milk of the tribe will be declared.
Be freemen each in his sovereignty.
Declare (it) without a goal of plunder.
Hither (an advantage)!
Be there life from it.
Be (they) freemen each of them not a slaves of (other) persons,
O Nuada, (you) will thrust them away by a spear-tip of battle,
and battle will be verified and portended.
—
Lugh circles his own hosts. on one leg, with one eye closed, one hand behind his back (a form of ritual known as corrguíneacht or crane- prayer) and chants this rosc. (Corrguíneacht is usually associated with cursing, but in this case Lugh uses it instead as a blessing for his own troops victory).
Lughs Crane Magic
Havoc its strain of battles shared death there.
In this a battle after foreigners broke (our) shared settlement
by destruction of it. They will be defeated by hosts.
O Fairy-hosts, land of men on guard,
birds of prey rain down (on them), men without choice.
Be hindered (the) foreigners. Another (the other) company fears,
another company listens, they are very terribly in torment,
dark (sad) men (are they). Roaring brightly ninefold* are we!
Hurrah and Woe! Leftward*! O you my beautiful ones!
Sacred will be the sustenance after cloud and flowers
through its powerful skills of wizards.
My battle will not dwindle until (its) end.
Not cowardly my request with (their) encountering me
with a land of rushes laid waste by fire
deaths form established, death on us given birth.
Before (the presence of) the Sídhe with each of them,
before Ogma I satisfy,
before the sky and the earth and the sea*,
before the sun and the moon and the stars*.
O Band of warriors my band here to you
My hosts here of great hosts sea-full
(of) mighty sea-spray (boiling) smelted golden powerful,
conceived, may it be sought upon the field of battle.
Joint death its strain. Havoc its strain.
The Song of the Hermit Thrush
“There is no reason for amazement: surely one always knew that cultures decay,
and life’s end is death” (The Purse-Seine, 1937)-Robinson Jeffers
New Years done, time rolls on. We start it off with a revisit to Robinson Jeffers, getting acquainted with some new music and some excellent tales from the Iroquois.
Started reading Dale Pendell’s new book “Inspired Madness” (The Gifts of Burning Man). I have to say it set my head on fire last night. The whole night I dreamed I was at Black Rock City. If you get a chance to read this fine book, do. I am almost done with it, then I am passing it on to Rowan and Mary, hopefully I can convince them to come with me this year…
Hope the New Year is going well,
Gwyllm
On The Menu
The Links
Loreena McKennitt – Caravanserai (Live @ Alhambra 2006)
Tales of the Iroquois
Guezos – “Manoliño”
Poetry: Robinson Jeffers
Loreena McKennitt – The Bonny Swans
Enjoy!
_________
The Links:
Science told: hands off gay sheep
Reductionist Fodder? : Ghost in the Machine
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Loreena McKennitt – Caravanserai (Live @ Alhambra 2006)
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Tales of the Iroquois:
The Hermit Thrush
Long ago the birds had no song. Only man could sing. Each day man greeted the rising sun with a song. The birds, as they flew by, listened to the beautiful song and they wished they too could sing. One day the Creator visited the earth.
The Creator walked around on the earth looking at all the things he had created. He noticed, though, that there was a great silence. Something was missing.
As the Creator thought about this, the sun sank behind the western hills. Then he heard the distant sound of a drum followed by the chanting of the sunset song. The sounds pleased the Creator.
When the Creator looked around, he noticed that the birds were also listening to the singing. “That’s what’s missing!” said the Creator. “Birds should also have songs.”
The next day the Creator called all the birds to the great council. The birds came from far away.The sky filled with flying birds and the trees and bushes bent under the weight of so many birds.
The Creator sat on the council rock. The birds perched and became quiet. The Creator spoke.
“Would the birds like to have songs and be able to sing as the people sing?” With one voice, the birds replied, “Yes! Yes!”
The Creator spoke to them. “At tomorrow’s dawn, fly as high in the sky as you can. When you can fly no higher, it is there where you will find your song. The bird who flies the highest will find the most beautiful song.”
The next morning, all the Creator’s birds gathered upon the land. Excitement spread throughout the birds. One small brown thrush was not excited. He was perched next to a great eagle. He looked at the strength of the eagle and thought to himself, “What chance do I have of reaching the most beautiful song? This eagle is so great. I will never be able to compete with a bird such as he.”
The eagle, eager for daybreak, took no notice of the small brown thrush near him. The thrush had an idea. The thrush flew to the eagle’s head and quickly hid beneath his feathers. The eagle stretched his wings. “With my great wings, I will surely fly to the most beautiful song.”
At that moment, the first break of dawn appeared. With a great roar of wings, the birds took off. The morning sky remained dark as so many birds flew up higher and higher.
The first bird found his song. He had flown so hard you could hear a hum coming from his wings. The hummingbird song plainly calls, “Wait, wait for me.” Next the cowbird tires, and as he flies down to the earth, he sees other birds weaken and find their songs.
The sky began to darken once again. As the sun went down behind the horizon, only the Eagle, the Hawk, the Owl, the Buzzard, and the Loon flew higher.
As daybreak came the next day, only Eagle, the chief of all birds, was left. He flew steady and strong until the sun was halfway in the sky. He looked and saw he was the only bird left in the sky. He began triumphantly soaring to the earth. The thrush awoke from his sound sleep at the back of eagle’s head. He hopped off the eagle’s head and began flying upward. The eagle saw the thrush begin his journey, but was exhausted. The eagle could do nothing more than stare at him in anger.
The little thrush flew higher and higher. He soon came to a hole in the sky. Entering the hole, he heard a beautiful song coming from the Spirit World. He stayed and learned the song. When he had learned it perfectly, he took leave of that place and returned anxiously to earth. He could not wait to share this most beautiful song with the others.
As he came closer to earth, he could see council rock, and he could see the great eagle, Stagwia, waiting for him. All the other birds waited in silence for thrush’s arrival upon the earth.
The thrush, nearing the earth, no longer felt proud of his song. He began to feel ashamed that he cheated to find this song. He feared Stagwia, for he was the one thrush cheated out of the song. He flew in silence to the deep woods. He hid in shame under the branches of the largest tree. He could not proudly share his song.He was so ashamed that he wanted no one to see him.
There you will find him even today. The Hermit Thrush never comes out into the open because he is still ashamed that he cheated. Sometimes, he can’t help himself, though, and he must sing his beautiful song. When he does this, the other birds stop singing because they know the song of the Hermit Thrush is from the Spirit World. That is why the Hermit Thrush is so shy and that is why his song is the most beautiful song of all the birds.
—
Why There Are Mosquitoes
Many winters ago two giant mosquitoes appeared on either side of a river. These giant creatures were as tall as a good sized pine tree. As the Indian people paddled down the river in their canoes, these giant creatures would bend their heads and attack them with their beaks. The mosquitoes killed many people.
Knowing that these giant mosquitoes were waiting to attack any canoe that floated down the river, the people began to shun this particular stream. It was then that these giant creatures moved to other streams to seek their prey.
For a while, it was a reign of terror for the Iroquois who were great canoe travelers. They never knew just when these giant mosquitoes would pounce out and devour them.
Finally, one day a war party was organized to seek out these creatures and to destroy them. Twenty warriors in two great canoes floated down a river where they expected the mosquitoes to be. In their hands, ever ready, they held their bows and arrows. Fastened to their belts were their war clubs and hunting knives.
Suddenly, two shadows loomed over them and a giant beak pierced one of the canoes. Giving their war cry, the warriors filled the air with many arrows. The battle was terrific! The giant mosquitoes seemed to be everywhere at the same time. in a little while, half the warriors had been killed.
The remaining braves determined to die courageously. They hid behind trees and bushes. They surrounded the mosquitoes who were unable to get them because of the thick branches. The Iroquois buried many of their arrows in the bodies of the two mosquitoes. Finally, after most of the arrows had been shot and the supply had become low, the two mosquitoes fell to the earth. They were covered with many wounds. Immediately, the warriors fell upon them with their war clubs and, with powerful blows, they tore the bodies of the mosquitoes apart.
From the blood of the two giant mosquitoes there sprang many little mosquitoes and the air was soon filled with them> These little mosquitoes, like their grandfathers, are fond of the taste of human blood. They hate man for killing their grandfathers and are continually trying to get revenge upon man for this reason.
This is how mosquitoes came to be. The battle took place on the Seneca River in New York State.
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Guezos – “Manoliño”
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Poetry: Robinson Jeffers
Shine Perishing Republic
While this America settles in the mold of its vulgarity, heavily thickening to empire,
And protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out, and the mass hardens,
I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots to make earth.
Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances, ripeness and decadence; and home to the mother.
You making haste, haste on decay: not blameworthy; life is good, be it stubbornly long or suddenly
A mortal splendor: meteors are not needed less than mountains: shine, perishing republic.
But for my children, I would have them keep their distance from the thickening center; corruption
Never has been compulsory, when the cities lie at the monster’s feet there are left the mountains.
And boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man, a clever servant, insufferable master.
There is the trap that catches noblest spirits, that caught-they say-God, when he walked on earth.
(written in 1926!)
—
Summer Holiday
When the sun shouts and people abound
One thinks there were the ages of stone and the age of
bronze
And the iron age; iron the unstable metal;
Steel made of iron, unstable as his mother; the tow-
ered-up cities
Will be stains of rust on mounds of plaster.
Roots will not pierce the heaps for a time, kind rains
will cure them,
Then nothing will remain of the iron age
And all these people but a thigh-bone or so, a poem
Stuck in the world’s thought, splinters of glass
In the rubbish dumps, a concrete dam far off in the
mountain…
—
The Great Explosion
The universe expands and contracts like a great heart.
It is expanding, the farthest nebulae
Rush with the speed of light into empty space.
It will contract, the immense navies of stars and galaxies,
dust clouds and nebulae
Are recalled home, they crush against each other in one
harbor, they stick in one lump
And then explode it, nothing can hold them down; there is no
way to express that explosion; all that exists
Roars into flame, the tortured fragments rush away from each
other into all the sky, new universes
Jewel the black breast of night; and far off the outer nebulae
like charging spearmen again
Invade emptiness.
No wonder we are so fascinated with
fireworks
And our huge bombs: it is a kind of homesickness perhaps for
the howling fireblast that we were born from.
But the whole sum of the energies
That made and contain the giant atom survives. It will
gather again and pile up, the power and the glory–
And no doubt it will burst again; diastole and systole: the
whole universe beats like a heart.
Peace in our time was never one of God’s promises; but back
and forth, live and die, burn and be damned,
The great heart beating, pumping into our arteries His
terrible life.
He is beautiful beyond belief.
And we, God’s apes–or tragic children–share in the beauty.
We see it above our torment, that’s what life’s for.
He is no God of love, no justice of a little city like Dante’s
Florence, no anthropoid God
Making commandments,: this is the God who does not care
and will never cease. Look at the seas there
Flashing against this rock in the darkness–look at the
tide-stream stars–and the fall of nations–and dawn
Wandering with wet white feet down the Caramel Valley to
meet the sea. These are real and we see their beauty.
The great explosion is probably only a metaphor–I know not
–of faceless violence, the root of all things.
_______
Loreena McKennitt – The Bonny Swans
Happy Hogmanay! and All That
Manannan beg mac y Leirr, fer vannee yn Ellan
Bannee shin as nyn maatey, mie goll magh
As cheet stiagh ny share lesh bio as marroo ‘sy vaatey’.
Little Manannan, son of Lieirr, who blessed our land,
Bless us and our boat, well going out
And better coming in with living and dead in the boat.
____________
(‘Bear us swiftly, Boat of Mananan, to the Garden of the Hesperides’)
Ah, the last entry of a Year, and the first of the New Year. I am combining these two days for the portal of transformation that they are.
I want to give thanks for all the kind words, messages and thoughts I have recieved this year. It has been very heartening. Earthrites & Turfing grew at a fantastic this year, from some 1000 visitors a month to around 12,000! Quite a bit of growth, I would say.
We end and begin with a tip of the hat to heritage; An overview of music, story and poetry from the widespread Celts. From Brittany, The Isle of Man, Scotland, Ireland and ending with Galacia. I find it important at least to yours truly, to touch on these points in an ever blending world. Hang on to where you came, but embrace the future.
We have seen a year of changes, for my kith and kin it seemed to be a good one. We have health, happiness in our measure, and hope for the future. My son continues to develop in his unique way, and he is gathering his wings, fledgling no longer. He makes good choices in friends, and his writing and artwork are taking some interesting paths.
We have seen a possible change in the wind for the planet, the retaking of the 2 Houses by the Democrats; whilst I have no illusions about the Democrats, it does point to possibilities.
This was a year where almost daily notice was given about the changing climate. For a change, it seems that people are heeding the warnings, as islands disappear, and glaciers evaporate. Locally, more people are on bikes, and electric vehicles are becoming a common occurrence.
I want to thank all of my friends, across the world from Europe to Australia for their love and good wishes. I am blessed, truly blessed by the community that is unfolding across the globe. Thank the good Goddesses and Gods for that most interesting human invention; ‘The Internet’ which made this possible.
With that said, I hope you all have a wonderful new year. As it picks up steam, remember to be a part of the change that we all want to see.
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
On The Menu:
Our Beloved Bard From Brittany: Alan Stivell
The Links
Celtic Cosmogony
Loreena McKennitt- The Mummers Dance
Poetry For The Land And Sea…
From Galacia: Milladoiro – O bruxo da montaña/The wizard of the mountain
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(Our Beloved Bard From Brittany: Alan Stivell)
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The Links:
Science told: hands off gay sheep
Gateway to the Next Mexican Revolution? :A Year of Unprecedented Turmoil
The Other Mystery of Easter Island
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Celtic Cosmogony
IN the beginning was the boundless Lir, an infinite depth, an invisible divinity, neither dark nor light, in whom were all things past and to be. There at the close of a divine day, time being ended, and the Nuts of Knowledge harvested, the gods partake of the Feast of Age and drink from a secret fountain. Their being there is neither life nor death nor sleep nor dream, but all are wondrously wrought together. They lie in the bosom of Lir, cradled in the same peace, those who hereafter shall meet in love or war in hate. The Great Father and the Mother of the Gods mingle together and Heaven and Earth are lost, being one in the Infinite Lir.
Of Lir but little may be affirmed, and nothing can be revealed. In trance alone the seer might divine beyond his ultimate vision this being. It is a breath with many voices which cannot speak in one tone, but utters itself through multitudes. It is beyond the gods and if they were to reveal it, it could only be through their own departure and a return to the primeval silences. But in this is the root of existence from which springs the sacred Hazel whose branches are the gods: and as the mystic night trembles into dawn, its leaves and its blossoms and its starry fruit burgeon simultaneously and are shed over the waters of space. An image of futurity has arisen in the divine imagination: and Sinan, who is also Dana, the Great Mother and Spirit of Nature, grows thirsty to receive its imprint on her bosom, and to bear again her offspring of stars and starry beings. Then the first fountain is opened and seven streams issue like seven fiery whirlwinds, and Sinan is carried away and mingled with the torrent, and when the force of the torrent is broken, Sinan also meets death.
What other names Connla’s Well and the Sacred Hazel have in Celtic tradition may be discovered later, but here, without reference to names, which only bewilder until their significance is made known, it is better to explain with less of symbol this Celtic Cosmogenesis.
We have first of all Lir, an infinite being, neither spirit nor energy nor substance, but rather the spiritual form of these, in which all the divine powers, raised above themselves, exist in a mystic union or trance. This is the night of the gods from which Mananan first awakens, the most spiritual divinity known to the ancient Gael, being the Gaelic equivalent of that Spirit which breathed on the face of the waters. He is the root of existence from which springs the Sacred Hazel, the symbol of life ramifying everywhere: and the forms of this life are conceived first by Mananan, the divine imagination. It throws itself into seven forms or divinities, the branches of the Hazel; and these again break out endlessly into leaves and blossoms and fruit, into myriads of divine beings, the archetypes and ancestral begetters of those spirits who are the Children of Lir. All these are first in the Divine Darkness and are unrevealed, and Mananan is still the unuttered Word, and is in that state the Chaldaic oracle of Proclus saith of the Divine Mind: “It had not yet gone forth, but abode in the Paternal Depth, and in the adytum of god-nourished Silence.” But Mananan, while one in essence with the Paternal Lir, is yet, as the divine imagination, a separate being to whom, thus brooding, Lir seems apart, or covered over with a veil, and this aspect of Lir, a mirage which begins to cover over true being, is Dana, the Hibernian Mother of the Gods, or Sinan in the antique Dinnshenchus, deity first viewed externally, and therefore seeming to partake of the nature of substance, and, as the primal form of matter, the Spirit of Nature. Mananan alone of all the gods exists in the inner side of this spirit, and therefore it is called his mantle, which, flung over man or god, wraps them from the gaze of embodied beings. His mantle, the Faed Fia, has many equivalents in other mythologies. It is the Aether within which Zeus runs invisibly, and the Akasa through which Brahm sings his eternal utterance of joy. The mantle of Mananan, the Aether, the Akasa, were all associated with Sound as a creative power, for to the mystic imagination of the past the world was upsung into being; and what other thought inspired the apostle who wrote, “In the beginning was the Word”?
Out of the Divine Darkness Mananan has arisen, a brooding twilight before dawn, in which the cloud images of the gods are thronging. But there is still in Lir an immense deep of being, an emotional life too vast, too spiritual, too remote to speak of, for the words we use to-day cannot tell its story. It is the love yet unbreathed, and yet not love, but rather a hidden unutterable tenderness, or joy, or the potency of these, which awakens as the image of the divine imagination is reflected in the being of the Mother, and then it rushes forth to embrace it. The Fountain beneath the Hazel has broken. Creation is astir. The Many are proceeding from the One. An energy or love or eternal desire has gone forth which seeks through a myriad forms of illusion for the infinite being it has left. It is Angus the Young, an eternal joy becoming love, a love changing into desire, and leading on to earthly passion and forgetfulness of its own divinity. The eternal joy becomes love when it has first merged itself in form and images of a divine beauty dance before it and lure it afar. This is the first manifested world, the Tirnanoge or World of Immortal Youth. The love is changed into desire as it is drawn deeper into nature, and this desire builds up the Mid-world or World of the Waters. And, lastly, as it lays hold of the earthly symbol of its desire it becomes on Earth that passion which is spiritual death. In another sense Angus may be described as the passing into activity of a power latent in Lir, working through the divine imagination, impressing its ideations on nature in its spiritual state, and thereby causing its myriad transformations. It is the fountain in which every energy has its birth, from the power which lays the foundations of the world, down through love and every form of desire to chemical affinity, just as Mananan is the root of all conscious life, from the imperial being of the gods down to the consciousness in the ant or amba. So is Dana also the basis of every material form from the imperishable body of the immortals to the transitory husk of the gnat. As this divinity emerges from its primordial state of ecstatic tenderness or joy in Lir, its divided rays, incarnate in form, enter upon a threefold life of spiritual love, of desire, and the dark shadow of love; and these three states have for themselves three worlds into which they have transformed the primal nature of Dana: a World of Immortal Youth: a Mid-world where everything changes with desire: and which is called from its fluctuations the World of the Waters: and lastly, the Earth-world where matter has assumed that solid form when it appears inanimate or dead. The force of the fountain which whirled Sinan away has been spent and Sinan has met death.
The conception of Angus as an all-pervading divinity who first connects being with non-being seems removed by many aeons of thought from that beautiful golden-haired youth who plays on the tympan surrounded by singing birds. But the golden-haired Angus of the bards has a relation to the earlier Eros, for in the mysteries of the Druids all the gods sent bright witnesses of their boundless being, who sat enthroned in the palaces of the Sidhe, and pointed the way to the Land of Promise to the man who dared become more than man.
But what in reality is Angus and what is Dana, and how can they be made real to us? They will not be gained by much reading of the legendary tales, for they are already with us. A child sits on the grass and the sunlight falls about it. It is lulled by the soft colour. It grows dreamy, a dreaminess filled with a vague excitement. It feels a pleasure, a keen magnetic joy at the touch of earth: or it lays its head in a silent tenderness nigh a mother or sister, its mood impelling it to grow nearer to something it loves. That tenderness in the big dreamy heart of childhood is Angus, and the mother-love it divines is Dana; and the form which these all-pervading divinities take in the heart of the child and the mother, on the one side desire, on the other a profound tenderness or pity, are nearest of all the moods of earth to the first Love and the Mighty Mother, and through them the divine may be vaguely understood. If the desire remains pure, through innocence, or by reason of wisdom, it becomes in the grown being a constant preoccupation with spiritual things, or in words I have quoted before where it is better said, “The inexpressible yearning of the inner man to go out into the infinite.”
Of Dana, the Hibernian Mother of the gods, I have already said she is the first spiritual form of matter, and therefore Beauty. As every being emerges out of her womb clothed with form, she is the Mighty Mother, and as mother of all she is that divine compassion which exists beyond and is the final arbiter of the justice of the gods. Her heart will be in ours when ours forgive.
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(Loreena McKennitt- The Mummers Dance)
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Poetry For The Land And Sea…
Traditionary Ballad – Mannanan Beg Mac y Leirr
The following is a translation of the lines as they stand in the Manx song, without regard to any poetry in English
If you would listen to my story,
I will pronounce my chant
As best I can; I will, with my mouth,
Give you notice of the enchanted Island.
Who he was that had it first,
And then what happened to him;
And how St. Patrick brought in Christianity,
And how it came to Stanley.
Little Mannanan was son of Leirr,
He was the first that ever had it;
But as I can best conceive,
He himself was a heathen.
It was not with his sword he kept it,
Neither with arrows or bow,
But when he would see ships saving,
He would cover it round with a fog.
He would set a man, standing on a hill,
Appear as if he were a hundred ;
And thus did wild Mannanan protect
That Island with all its booty.
The rent each landholder paid to him was,
A bung e of coarse meadow grass yearly,
And that, as their yearly tax,
They paid to him each midsummer eve.
Some would carry the grass up,
To the great mountain up at Barrool;
Others would leave the grass below,
With Mannanan’s self, above Keamool.
Thus then did they live;
O l think their tribute very small,
Without care and without anxiety,
Or hard labour to cause weariness.
—
Land of Legends
by Stephen Lewis Ingham Pettit
Some say in the distant dawn the giant hand
of Finn MacCumhal (+) once hurled this land –
(a tiny clod of earth, to him)
and missed his Scottish foe;
so here it lies, an island given birth
by superhuman force, between old kingdoms.
But how grand, to us, this realm of mountain shapes
and sunset skies and racing shadows!
A place of faery pastures,
of golden gorse,
of cairns of olden tyme and tales of long ago.
Yet we who dwell here know
we set our feet where once immortals trod,
who left their magic here. Here –
is the sometime throne of the ocean god,
Mannanan,
by which his cloak of mists invisible became
a plaything of his starry will- Here,
every mountain rill
whispers enchantment still,
murmurs the old god’s name.
(+Pronounced MacCool)
—-
The First That Had Her
From Mylechairane,1859
“Manannan beg va Mac y Leirr,
Shen yn chied er ec row rieau ee.”(+1)
HAST thou not heard the feats of Man’nan (+2) sung,
Who o’er this Isle a silver mist-shroud flung,
To veil the treasure from Sea-rovers’ eyes,
Searching the waters for his fairy-prize ?
This Merchant Manxman of the solemn smile,
First legislator of our rock-throned Isle,
Dwelt in a fort (withdrawn from vulgar sight),
Cloud-capp’d BAROOLE (+3) upon thy lofty height.
From New-year-tide round to the ides of Yule,
Nature submitted to his wizard rule:
Her secret force he could, with charms, compel
To brew a storm or raging tempests quell;
Make one man seem like twenty in a fray,
And drive the Stranger (+4) over seas away.
But they who read our Island lore aright,
Know that this curious Myth the fact bedight,
How that one Manxman, erst, was worth a score
Of savage Warriors from rude Scotia’s (+5) shore.
–
+1 Translation Manannan the little was son of Leirr,
He was the first man that ever had her.” Meaning the Island. Island is feminine in Manx.
+2,The Manx believe Mannan Mac Lear, to have been their first legislator, and hold him in great reputation for his wisdom.” SACHEVEREL.
+3 ,On the highest point of South Baroole are the ruins of walls of most unusual magnitude. On the steepest and least accessible side the walls are of inferior strength, but on the northern side they are 27 feet in thickness.”- KERRUISH’S Guide, p. 186.
+4 ” Our most Gratious and excellent Lord, Sir John Stanley, King of Man and the Isles. In the Vigill of your Lady Set. Mary, Anno Domini 1422, att his Castle of Rushen, &C., &C., gave for Law, that ‘Alsoe that all Scotts avoid the Land with the next Vessell that goeth into Scotland, upon Paine of Forfeiture of their Goods, and their Bodys to Prison.’ “-Ordinances and Statutes of the Isle of Man previous to the Revestment (MILLS), p. 27.
+5 In the “good old times,” the Manx law permitted a native of the Isle to kill a Scotchman, provided he afterwards went over to Scotland and stole a white skin, meaning a white goat, and so giving the Scotch an opportunity of retaliating (by killing him) ; or he was to forfeit three white goats-plentiful in those days as sheep are in these.
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(From Galacia: Milladoiro – O bruxo da montaña/The wizard of the mountain)
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