Transmutation – Gold Into Fire

Don Brautigam

The Old Dust

The living is a passing traveler;
The dead, a man come home.
One brief journey betwixt heaven and earth,
Then, alas! we are the same old dust of ten thousand ages.

The rabbit in the moon pounds the medicine in vain;
Fu-sang, the tree of immortality,
has crumbled to kindling wood.
Man dies, his white bones are dumb without a word

When the green pines feel the coming of the spring.
Looking back, I sigh;
Looking before, I sigh again.
What is there to prize in the life’s vaporous glory?

– Li Po / Translated by:Shigeyoshi Obata
There are no revelations here, no deep insights.  A recounting of days and nights with those we love, and cherish.

Time is short.  Let everyone you love know that they are.

I have been meaning to post for a few days, but life is in a hurry as of late.

On ya go now. Have a read.

On The Menu:
To Mantis Hill & Back
From Laura & Dale Pharmako/Thanatos
Mazzy Star: Into Dust
The Poetry Of Li Po
After Thoughts…
Tomorrow Never Knows

To Mantis Hill, & Back
So, we were in a panic come Thursday morning the 12th of April. We were to head south to Dale Pendell’s Memorial/Birthday on Saturday the 14th, and the weather reports had snow on 4 passes south which meant multiple chaining and dechaining, plus 12 hours of driving. I had all about given up when George Post suggested that we take the train. Brilliant Idea!  So we booked the train, and it ran about the same cost wise as driving, motels and expenses.

We headed down via the train Friday afternoon.  We saw into numerous backyards through the Willamette Valley, the back alleys of little towns, homeless camps.  Through the fields, and then into Eugene.  After that up the beautiful MacKenzie into the Cascades.  Such beauty!  Elk watching the train pass by as mist played through the trees and surrounding peaks, then down into central south Oregon in the darkness to Klamath Falls.  We had one hour of sleep due to a manic passenger on the car we were on (sweet but challenged).  George graciously picked us up at the station in Sacramento, and off we went to Mantis Hill.

Arriving there, we found the parking lot full, with many of Dale & Laura’s friends having arrived early or the evening before.  Some we knew of course (Jacob for instance) but were soon introduced to everyone.  Lots of love in the air, and preparation for the afternoon event.

We all packed up and went up the San Juan Ridge at the North Columbia SchoolHouse Cultural Center, about 10:30 or so, arriving early to help set up if we could.  We floated in, to a crowd of wonderful faces already there. Nungies & Nick, Sylvia, Trout, Kiki Ivors and many others. Things moved along as we got closer to the time.  Wild stories about psychedelic boundaries nbeing crossed, mad adventures that included tales of Dale & Laura, laughter, laughter, laughter…

We had a conch call us to the memorial and birthday ceremony.  We sat down next to Trout, Fire & Earth Erowid, Jon Hanna.  Our friend George Post ranged about catching wonderful photographs… (See The Gallery Below)

Laura kicked it off, and she turned the proceedings over to “Jerry Tecklin.  Long time friend of Dale’s from when he first arrived in the area in 1970s.  They were “neighbors” which out here means the nearest person to where you live but not visible or probably even within a easy jaunt”(Laura). .  I believe Dave Pendell came up first to speak next. It was weirdly odd seeing Dale’s older brother speaking, Dale/Not Dale.   Gary Snyder was on next, and I remember a couple of others…  Kat Harrison who I did not recognize at first until she got up on stage, after all it being some 15 years since I had seen her.

There was some very fine poetry, stories, and songs.  This one afternoon expanded my awareness of Dale in a way I had not expected.  Who he was to so many,  tales of his past I hadn’t heard, hearts that he touched.  There were tales a plenty of Dales’ polymathic abilities.  One of the most touching of talks was Marici’s description of how Dale helped her with school lessons and their shared explorations of natural phenomena and math.  And… before you knew it the circle was closed, and we joined together as a group listening to the musicians who had drifted in and out of Oracular Madness and other configurations, play as we mingled, hugged, talked and remembered. It was indeed a gathering of friends and lovers in all of the best ways.

I met wonderful people that day, John Mabey, , Nick, the various iterations of the Pendell clan.  I finally got to meet Marici and Miss Scarlett.  That, was wonderful. I did get to meet Gary Snyder, and many others. I spent time with Gary. Of course, I have read his works, and they have come to inform a better part of my life, and what I have come to consider the concept of being in place. Luckily I did not babble like a massive FanBoi, I give thanks for that! 😛
John Mabey Caught this moment:

The sun arching towards the west, we made our partings, and left back to Mantis Hill.  The sun sank in the west, and we all settled into Mantis hill again, where the evening stretched late, and I got to know the circle that Dale and Laura had gathered to them over the years.  Wonderful people.  Vicki D was an absolute delight, Her husband Jim kept me in stitches through the evening. Everyone dispersed around 11:00 as Laura and everyone had reached saturation point.  We walked out, under the Milky Way. It was glorious.  The rushing of the springtime stream, the voices of the trees in the wind, the magick that is Mantis Hill was vibrant in the beautiful darkness.

George Post Photographs Of The Birthday Party Memorial:

The Next Day, Sunday: 

Mary & I awoke around 8:00 in the morning.  Still exhausted from the long haul down, and the one hour of sleep in the previous 40 plus hours. We were in the guest room out in the Barn/Studio/Library.  The building was very quiet as everyone else had walked up to the main house.  We spent the morning getting to know and greet friends and new acquaintances we hadn’t had enough time with the previous day.  We found George stirring, so we headed together up the main house.  As we walked up the road/path, you could hear laughter and talking.  Everyone was on the deck, spilling in and out of the sliding doors.  Breakfast was on, and would be for several hours as it evolved into various iterations. The discussions were varied and wonderful.  I had a wonderful discussion  with Jim on the merits of synthesizers, and using the concept of randomness in mixing ambient music…. the discussion was far more rambling in many ways, but fascinating from beginning to end.  I had a chance to spend time with David E. a fellow VPL member.  The time spent with David & Kristi was lovely as well, a sweet presence they made. David uses Dale’s Pharmako Poeia in a class he teaches at Berkeley.  (He was also one of the presenters at the gathering.)

Jacob kept us all in stitches through the morning.  He has such a lovely presence.

As the day lengthened Dave Pendell and his wife Ann & clan made an appearance, along with Marici and Scarlett. Howard & Pat Pendell with their daughters appeared as well. It was moving towards the time when everyone started to depart. We said our goodbyes as each group, and family left. George Mary & I headed off to Grass Valley to visit a friend of Georges’, John Hoft, perhaps one of the great artist you have never heard about.  We spent a couple of hours talking art, looking at the most impressive work I have seen in a long time.  Such talent!

We made our way back to Mantis Hill, in time for dinner with Laura, Howard & Pat and their daughters.  We spent many hours talking about their lives up in Alaska, and Dale.  The stories flowed back and forth through the evening.  Eventually, their daughters Katy & Coral left early with Coral’s partner Gary(a very nice young man) for an early flight back to Alaska.  Wonderful young people.  We said our goodnights along the way and headed down to the barn, stumbling under stars.


One Of Dale’s Paintings…. 











Up latish for breakfast, we retreated back to the barn/library for a bit. I visited Dales’ office, standing there contemplating all that had transpired there, and it was as if Dale had just stepped away for a moment.  George and I hung out in the library, revelling in the wonderful collection of books and subjects that Dale had delved into over the years.  Most volumes had little slips of paper in them from his research projects…

Then George, Mary & I scooted off to visit people.  It was quite a whirlwind trip, meeting Nate F. & Amelia for a walk with pooches.  So after escaping the snows in the passes, we got dumped on in the Sierra.  Beautiful, cold, and fun.  We had a long session of talking and hanging, and then went to Nevada City where we met up with the delightful Molly Fisk the Poet Laureate of Nevada City. We talked about  Poetry (of course), Nevada City, and much more.  The hours flew by. If I could, I would live there.  It is such a wonderful town.

Later, we headed up to Rough and Ready to visit with George’s friend Sharon.  She and John Hoft had been partners for many years.  She had his fabulous art everywhere.  It was quite a sweet visit.

Headed back to Mantis Hill to pick up our gear, and to say goodbye to Laura. Not enough time of course as these events go.  It had been a whirlwind for everyone, and saying good bye came at the right moment.

Flowers From The Meadow At Mantis Hill – Mary

On The Way Home….
Arrived at the Train Station around 10:00. Said our farewells to George as he headed out to the Bay area. He was a complete champ chaperoning us everywhere over the previous days, and introducing us to multiples of his his friends. We hung out in the station, talking together of the events, and struck up a conversation or two with other people. It is amazing how sweet people are. There are so many good hearts in the world. Eventually we got back onto the train heading north through the valley, into the dark, and then into dreams.

I awoke on the train between Dunsmuir & Mt. Shasta, with the beginnings of sunrise. The mountain was covered in mist and cloud which lifted as the train progressed.It was all blues and purples, then intense light. Although I lived there for years, it stole my breath away. Of course, it was too dark to photograph, and I wouldn’t of caught the state of awe that I was in anyways.

Here is to Love and Friendship.  Dale, we  miss you dearly.


The Western Cascades… out the window on the way back into the valley.  I am so in love with the land here.  Such Beauty!

From Laura & Dale:  Pharmako/Thanatos How I Died…

“Sometimes poison is the medicine.
Sometimes the action of this medicine
is as gentle as waking up,
but sometimes the world as you know it
is dissolved in a torrent of seeming madness,
so that another world might become visible.”
We All Go…
Mazzy Star: Into Dust


Poltergeist – Gwyllm 2018

Keening/From The Scots Gaelic: caoineadh (“to cry, to weep”) This piece I realized touched on something in the process…

Keening is a traditional form of vocal lament for the dead. In Ireland and Scotland it is customary for women to wail or keen at funerals. Keening has also been used as part of civil disobedience and protest.
The Poetry Of Li Po

To wash and rinse our souls of their age-old sorrows,
We drained a hundred jugs of wine.
A splendid night it was . . . .
In the clear moonlight we were loath to go to bed,
But at last drunkenness overtook us;
And we laid ourselves down on the empty mountain,
The earth for pillow, and the great heaven for coverlet.
– Li Po – Translated by: Shigeyoshi Obata
Green Mountain

You ask me why I dwell in the green mountain;
I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care.
As the peach-blossom flows down stream
and is gone into the unknown,
I have a world apart that is not among men.

– Li Po. Translated by: A. S. Kline’s
Down From The Mountain

As down Mount Emerald at eve I came,
The mountain moon went all the way with me.
Backward I looked, to see the heights aflame
With a pale light that glimmered eerily.

A little lad undid the rustic latch
As hand in hand your cottage we did gain,
Where green limp tendrils at our cloaks did catch,
And dim bamboos o’erhung a shadowy lane.

Gaily I cried, “Here may we rest our fill!”
Then choicest wines we quaffed; and cheerily
“The Wind among the Pines” we sang, until
A few faint stars hung in the Galaxy.

Merry were you, my friend: and drunk was I,
Blissfully letting all the world go by.

– Li Po
This last poem reminds me of Dale, being present, and now not. Bright Blessings…

Looking For A Monk And Not Finding Him

I took a small path leading
up a hill valley, finding there
a temple, its gate covered
with moss, and in front of
the door but tracks of birds;
in the room of the old monk
no one was living, and I
staring through the window
saw but a hair duster hanging
on the wall, itself covered
with dust; emptily I sighed
thinking to go, but then
turning back several times,
seeing how the mist on
the hills was flying, and then
a light rain fell as if it
were flowers falling from
the sky, making a music of
its own; away in the distance
came the cry of a monkey, and
for me the cares of the world
slipped away, and I was filled
with the beauty around me.

– Li Po. Translated by: Rewi Allen
After Thoughts:
It has been a long winter, that tumbled into spring, and now with the passing of Beltane into the rites/riots of summer. The plants in the backyard are going wild with their mating frenzies, colour erupts and pollen flys in Dionysian abandonment. Amidst all that proclaims “LIFE!!” I have dwelt on passing and impermanence. It is a passing of seasons that I think we most resemble at times. We are never far from our roots, and that begins in dust, and ends in dust, but oh, such glories on the inbetween.

I once believed in God, as I once believed in reincarnation. I am not saying that I don’t anymore… but that perhaps it is not necessary to hold any beliefs on what transpires after we jump through that door, as we will all do so regardless. What comes after, comes after, or not.

There are times I am haunted by those that have passed away… yet, I am haunted more by those that are yet to be born. How we comport ourselves will touch those we will never meet. That, I believe is a fact. Today I wrote this:

“I believe we live in a mythic moment/eternal… His/Herstory accounts for the propaganda of the times… but we live within the greater tale, where every one has a part, not just the powerful and famous.

The daily acts of Love & Kindness is what binds us, not the consensual hallucinations of civilization. We are far more ancient, and greater than that.”

I do not hold to idea of personal enlightenment anymore.  It is not a contest, it is not something to aspire to, except in that how we treat others and ourselves.  Kindness and Love are their own Yogas and Disciplines.  Your path may vary of course.

Gwyllm – 5/4/18

Asako Eguchi
Tomorrow Never Knows…
The Original:

Suns Of Arqa – Tomorrow Never Knows:

The Wooing Of Olwen

Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire. – William Butler Yeats

John Duncan, Riders of the Sidhe, 1911

Ah, Saturday morning, and I am just finishing this up. It has been a busy week here at Caer Llwydd. Spring is in the air of course, and everything is rushing to the Equinox. The buds are out, and a sense of renewal can be felt everywhere. Time to do some replantings, and to start prepping the garden.

This entry is a return to roots, to that part of my heart which is never far away, regardless of the paths and roads my mind wanders. It seems when I need a reset, it is to these old tales, and poetry that I go to. I find my perspective on my life, and the culture that I am in through these meanderings.

I was going to write about the recent shootings, and political situations, but there is enough of that in the world. Time will put it in perspective, and we are moving through and past a rough spot in our stories. We are part of a greater tale, and these times will fade like others. What will be of value will be hopefully retained, and that which is not shall dissipate, and fade. Know that we will get through all of this.

A note on the art in this edition. You’ll find 3 pieces here of my favourite Scottish Symbolist, John Duncan. He first went to art school when he was 11… and his art only got better. There has been a revival of sorts around his works, which I am happy to see. We have had a piece of his (a poster) in our Bedroom for over 20 years.

A note on the music in this edition. Alan Stivell. What can one say about this Breton native, except that he was and is central to the Celtic Revival in Brittany, and elsewhere in Europe. I had the pleasure of seeing him in very small venues in Europe over the years. His music is sublime, and really worth exploring if you get a chance.

I hope you enjoy your visit.

On The Menu:
The Links
Alan Stivell – Suite Irlandaise
The Wooing Of Olwen
Alan Stivell – YS
Ancient Celtic Poetry
Alain Stivell – Ar Voraerion

Resurrect The Extinct?
The Mermaid Of Fornham
The Stakes Are High
Against Popular Culture
Alan Stivell – Suite Irlandaise / The King of the fairies


John Duncan (1866-1945)

The Wooing Of Olwen
Celtic Fairy Tales, by Joseph Jacobs, [1892]

SHORTLY after the birth of Kuhuch, the son of King Kilyth, his mother died. Before her death she charged the king that he should not take a wife again until he saw a briar with two blossoms upon her grave and the king sent every morning to see if anything were growing thereon. After many years the briar appeared, and he took to wife the widow of King Doged. She foretold to her stepson, Kuhuch, that it was his destiny to marry a maiden named Olwen, or none other, and he, at his father’s bidding, went to the court of his cousin, King Arthur, to ask as a boon the hand of the maiden. He rode upon a grey steed with shell-formed hoofs, having a bridle of linked gold, and a saddle also of gold. In his hand were two spears of silver, well-tempered, headed with steel, of an edge to wound the wind and cause blood to flow, and swifter than the fall of the dew-drop from the blade of reed grass upon the earth when the dew of June is at its heaviest. A gold-hilted sword was on his thigh, and the blade was of gold, having inlaid upon it a cross of the hue of the lightning of heaven. Two brindled, white-breasted greyhounds,  with strong collars of rubies, sported round him, and his courser cast up four sods with its four hoofs like four swallows about his head. Upon the steed was a four. cornered cloth of purple, and an apple of gold was at each corner. Precious gold was upon the stirrups and shoes, and the blade of grass bent not beneath them, so light was the courser’s tread as he went towards the gate of King Arthur’s palace.

Arthur received him with great ceremony, and asked him to remain at the palace; but the youth replied that he came not to consume meat and drink, but to ask a boon of the king.

Then said Arthur, “Since thou wilt not remain her; chieftain, thou shalt receive the boon, whatsoever thy tongue may name, as far as the wind dries and the rain moistens, and the sun revolves, and the sea encircles, and the earth extends, save only my ships and my mantle, my sword, my lance, my shield, my dagger, and Guinevere my wife.”

So Kilhuch craved of him the hand of Olwen, the daughter of Yspathaden Penkawr, and also asked the favour and aid of all Arthur’s court.

Then said Arthur, “O chieftain, I have never heard of the maiden of whom thou speakest, nor of her kindred, but I will gladly send messengers in search of her.”

And the youth said, “I will willingly grant from this night to that at the end of the year to do so.”

Then Arthur sent messengers to every land within his dominions to seek for the maiden; and at the end of the year Arthur’s messengers returned without having gained any knowledge or information concerning Olwen more than on the first day.

Then said Kilhuch, “Every one has received his boon, and I yet lack mine. I will depart and bear away thy honour with me.”

Then said Kay, “Rash chieftain! dost thou reproach Arthur? Go with us, and we will not part until thou dost either confess that the maiden exists not in the world, or until we obtain her.”

Thereupon Kay rose up.

Kay had this peculiarity, that his breath lasted nine nights and nine days under water, and he could exist nine nights and nine days without sleep. A wound from Kay’s sword no physician could heal. Very subtle was Kay. When it pleased him he could render himself as tall as the highest tree in the forest. And he had another peculiarity-so great was the heat of his nature, that, when it rained hardest, whatever he carried remained dry for a handbreadth above and a handbreath below his hand; and when his companions were coldest, it was to them as fuel with which to light their fire.

And Arthur called Bedwyr, who never shrank from any enterprise upon which Kay was bound. None was equal to him in swiftness throughout this island except Arthur and Drych Ail Kibthar. And although he was one-handed, three warriors could not shed blood faster than he on the field of battle. Another property he had; his lance would produce a wound equal to those of nine opposing lances.

And Arthur called to Kynthelig the guide. “Go thou upon this expedition with the Chieftain.” For as good a guide was he in a land which he had never seen as he was in his own.

He called Gwrhyr Gwalstawt Ieithoedd, because he knew all tongues.

He called Gwalchmai, the son of Gwyar, because he never returned home without achieving the adventure of which he went in quest. He was the best of footmen and the best of knights. He was nephew to Arthur, the son of his sister, and his cousin.

And Arthur called Menw, the son of Teirgwaeth, in order that if they went into a savage country, he might cast a charm and an illusion over them, so that none might see them whilst they could see every one.

They journeyed on till they came to a vast open plain, wherein they saw a great castle, which was the fairest in the world. But so far away was it that at night it seemed no nearer, and they scarcely reached it on the third day. When they came before the castle they beheld a vast flock of. sheep, boundless and without end. They told their errand to the herdsman, who endeavoured to dissuade them, since none who had come thither on that quest had returned alive. They gave to him a gold ring, which he conveyed to his wife, telling her who the visitors were.

On the approach of the latter, she ran out with joy to greet them, and sought to throw her arms about their necks. But Kay, snatching a billet out of the pile, placed the log between her two hands, and she squeezed it so that it became a twisted coil.

“O woman,” said Kay, “if thou hadst squeezed me thus, none could ever again have set their affections on me. Evil love were this.”

They entered the house, and after meat she told them that the maiden Olwen came there every Saturday to wash. They pledged their faith that they would not harm her, and a message was sent to her. So Olwen came, clothed in a robe of flame-coloured silk, and with a collar of ruddy gold, in which were emeralds and rubies, about her neck. More golden was her hair than the flower of the broom, and her skin was whiter than the foam of the wave, and fairer were her hands and her fingers than the blossoms of the wood anemone amidst the spray of the meadow fountain. Brighter were her glances than those of a falcon; her bosom was more snowy than the breast of the white swan, her cheek redder than the reddest roses. Whoso beheld was filled with her love. Four white trefoils sprang up wherever she trod, and therefore was she called Olwen.

Then Kilhuch, sitting beside her on a bench, told her his love, and she said that he would win her as his bride if he granted whatever her father asked.

Accordingly they went up to the castle and laid their request before him.

“Raise up the forks beneath my two eyebrows which have fallen over my eyes,” said Yspathaden Penkawr, “that I may see the fashion of my son-in-law.”

They did so, and he promised them an answer on the morrow. But as they were going forth, Yspathaden seized one of the three poisoned darts that lay beside him and threw it back after them.

And Bedwyr caught it and flung it back, wounding Yspathaden in the knee.

Then said he, “A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly. I shall ever walk the worse for his rudeness. This poisoned iron pains me like the bite of a gad-fly. Cursed be the smith who forged it, and the anvil whereon it was wrought.”

The knights rested in the house of Custennin the herds-man, but the next day at dawn they returned to the castle and renewed their request.

Yspathaden said it was necessary that he should consult

Olwen’s four great-grandmothers and her four great-grand-sires.

The knights again withdrew, and as they were going he took the second dart and cast it after them.

But Menw caught it and flung it back, piercing Yspathaden’s breast with it, so that it came out at the small of his back.

“A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly,” says he, “the hard iron pains me like the bite of a horse-leech. Cursed be the hearth whereon it was heated! Henceforth whenever I go up a hill, I shall have a scant in my breath and a pain in my chest.”

On the third day the knights returned once more to the palace, and Yspathaden took the third dart and cast it at them.

But Kilbuch caught it and threw it vigorously, and wounded him through the eyeball, so that the dart came out at the back of his head.

“A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly. As long as I remain alive my eyesight will be the worse. Whenever I go against the wind my eyes will water, and peradventure my head will burn, and I shall have a giddiness every new moon. Cursed be the fire in which it was forged. Like the bite of a mad dog is the stroke of this poisoned iron.”

And they went to meat.

Said Yspathaden Penkawr, “Is it thou that seekest my daughter?”

“It is I,” answered Kilhuch.

“I must have thy pledge that thou wilt not do towards me otherwise than is just, and when I have gotten that which I shall name, my daughter thou shalt have.”

“I promise thee that willingly,” said Kilhuch, “name what thou wilt.”

“I will do so,” said he.

“Throughout the world there is not a comb or scissors with which I can arrange my hair, on account of its rankness, except the comb and scissors that are between the two ears of Turch Truith, the son of Prince Tared. He will not give them of his own free will, and thou wilt not be able to compel him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. It will not be possible to hunt Turch Truith without Drudwyn the whelp of Greid, the son of Eri, and know that throughout the world there is not a huntsman who can hunt with this dog, except Mabon the son of Modron. He was taken from his mother when three nights old, and it is not known where he now is, nor whether he is living or dead.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. Thou wilt not get Mabon, for it is not known where he is, unless thou find Eidoel, his kinsman in blood, the son of Aer. For it would be useless to seek for him. He is his cousin.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it will not be easy. Horses shall I have, and chivalry; and my lord and kinsman Arthur will obtain for me all these things. And I shall gain thy daughter, and thou shalt lose thy life.”

“Go forward. And thou shalt not be chargeable for food or raiment for my daughter while thou art seeking these things; and when thou hast compassed all these marvels, thou shalt have my daughter for wife.”

Now, when they told Arthur how they had sped, Arthur said, ” Which of these marvels will it be best for us to seek first?”

“It will be best,” said they, “to seek Mabon the son of Modron; and he will not be found unless we first find Eidoel, the son of Aer, his kinsman.”

Then Arthur rose up, and the warriors of the Islands of Britain with him, to seek for Eidoel; and they proceeded until they came before the castle of Glivi, where Eldoel was imprisoned.

Glivi stood on the summit of his castle, and said, “Arthur, what requirest thou of me, since nothing remains to me in this fortress, and I have neither joy nor pleasure in it; neither wheat nor oats?”

Said Arthur, “Not to injure thee came I hither, but to seek for the prisoner that is with thee.”

“I will give thee my prisoner, though I had not thought to give him up to any one; and therewith shalt thou have my suport and my aid.”

His followers then said unto Arthur, “Lord, go thou home, thou canst not proceed with thy host in quest of such small adventures as these.”

Then said Arthur, ” It were well for thee, Gwrhyr Gwalstawt Ieithoedd, to go upon this quest, for thou knowest all languages, and art familiar with those of the birds and the beasts. Go, Eidoel, likewise with my men in search of thy cousin. And as for you, Kay and Bedwyr, I have hope of whatever adventure ye are in quest of’ that ye will achieve it. Achieve ye this adventure for me.”

These went forward until they came to the Ousel of Cilgwri, and Gwrhyr adjured her for the sake of Heaven, saying, “Tell me if thou knowest aught of Mabon, the son of Modron, who was taken when three nights old from between his mother and the wall.

And the Ousel answered, “When I first came here there was a smith’s anvil in this place, and I was then a young bird, and from that time no work has been done upon it, save the pecking of my beak every evening, and now there is not so much as the size of a nut remaining thereof; yet the vengeance of Heaven be upon me if during all that time I have ever heard of the man for whom you inquire. Nevertheless, there is a race of animals who were formed before me, and 1 will be your guide to them.”

So they proceeded to the place where was the Stag of Redynvre.

Stag of Redynvre, behold we are come to thee, an embassy from Arthur, for we have not heard of any animal older than thou. Say, knowest thou aught of Mabon?”

The stag said, “When first I came hither, there was a plain all around me, without any trees save one oak sapling, which grew up to be an oak with an hundred branches. And that oak has since perished, so that now nothing remains of it but the withered stump; and from that day to this I have been here, yet have I never heard of the man for whom you inquire. Nevertheless, I will be your guide to the place where there is an animal which was formed before I was.”

So they proceeded to the place where was the Owl of Cwm Cawlwyd, to inquire of him concerning Mabon.

And the owl said, “If I knew I would tell you. When first I came hither, the wide valley you see was a wooded glen. And a race of men came and rooted it up. And there grew there a second wood, and this wood is the third. My wings, are they not withered stumps? Yet all this time, even until to-day, I have never heard of the man for whom you inquire. Nevertheless, I will be the guide of Arthur’s embassy until you come to the place where is the oldest


animal in this world, and the one who has travelled most, the eagle of Gwern Abwy.”

When they came to the eagle, Gwrhyr asked it the same question; but it replied, “I have been here for a great space of time, and when I first came hither there was a rock here, from the top of which I pecked at the stars every evening, and now it is not so much as a span high. From that day to this I have been here, and I have never heard of the man for whom you inquire, except once when I went in search of food as far as Llyn Llyw. And when I came there, I struck my talons into a salmon, thinking he would serve me as food for a long time. But he drew me into the deep, and I was scarcely able to escape from him. Mter that I went with my whole kindred to attack him and to try to destroy him, but he sent messengers and made peace with me, and came and besought me to take fifty fish-spears out of his back. Unless he know something of him whom you seek, I cannot tell you who may. However, I will guide you to the place where he is.

So they went thither, and the eagle said, “Salmon of Uyn .Llyw, I have come to thee with an embassy from Arthur to ask thee if thou knowest aught concerning Mabon, the son of Modron, who was taken away at three nights old from between his mother and the wall.”

And the salmon answered, “As much as I know I will tell thee. With every tide I go along the river upwards, until I come near to the walls of Gloucester, and there have I found such wrong as I never found elsewhere; and to the end that ye may give credence thereto, let one of you go thither upon each of my two shoulders.”

So Kay and Gwrhyr went upon his shoulders, and they proceeded till they came to the wall of the prison, and they heard a great wailing and lamenting from the dungeon.

Said Gwrhyr, “Who is it that laments in this house of stone?”

And the voice replied, “Alas, it is Mabon, the son of Modron, who is here imprisoned!”

Then they returned and told Arthur, who, summoning his warriors, attacked the castle.

And whilst the fight was going on, Kay and Bedwyr, mounting on the shoulders of the fish, broke into the dungeon, and brought away with them Mabon, the son of Modron.

Then Arthur summoned unto him all the warriors that were in the three islands of Britain and in the three islands adjacent; and he went as far as Esgeir Oervel in Ireland where the Boar Truith was with his seven young pigs. And the dogs were let loose upon him from all sides. But he wasted the fifth part of Ireland, and then set forth through the sea to Wales. Arthur and his hosts, and his horses, and his dogs followed hard after him. But ever and awhile the boar made a stand, and many a champion of Arthur’s did he slay. Throughout all Wales did Arthur follow him, and one by one the young pigs were killed. At length, when he would fain have crossed the Severn and escaped into Cornwall, Mabon the son of Modron came up with him, and Arthur fell upon him together with the champions of Britain. On the one side Mabon the son of Modron spurred his steed and snatched his razor from him, whilst Kay came up with him on the other side and took from him the scissors. But before they could obtain the comb he had regained the ground with his feet, and from the moment that he reached the shore, neither dog nor man nor horse could overtake him until he came to Cornwall. There Arthur and his hosts followed in his track until they over-took him in Cornwall. Hard had been their trouble before, but it was child’s play to what they met in seeking the comb. Win it they did, and the Boar Truith they hunted into the deep sea, and it was never known whither he went.

Then Kilhuch set forward, and as many as wished ill to Yspathaden Penkawr. And they took the marvels with them to his court. And Kaw of North Britain came and shaved his beard, skin and flesh clean off to the very bone from ear to ear.

“Art thou shaved, man?” said Kilhuch.

“I am shaved,” answered he.

“Is thy daughter mine now?”

“She is thine, but therefore needst thou not thank me, but Arthur who hath accomplished this for thee. By my free will thou shouldst never have had her, for with her I lose my life.”

Then Goreu the son of Custennin seized him by the hair of his head and dragged him after him to the keep, and cut off his head and placed it on a stake on the citadel.

Thereafter the hosts of Arthur dispersed themselves each man to his own country.

Thus did Kilhuch son of Kelython win to wife Olwen, the daughter of Yspathaden Penkawr.
Alan Stivell, YS

Ancient Celtic Poetry
Translated by Kuno Meyer

The Messenger of Tethra – John Duncan

The Sea-God’S Address to Bran
Then on the morrow Bran went upon the sea. When he had been at sea two days and two nights, he saw a man in a chariot coming towards him over the sea. It was Manannan, the son of Ler, who sang these quatrains to him.

To Bran in his coracle it seems
A marvellous beauty across the clear sea:
To me in my chariot from afar
It is a flowery plain on which he rides.
What is a clear sea
For the prowed skiff in which Bran is,
That to me in my chariot of two wheels
Is a delightful plain with a wealth of flowers.
Bran sees
A mass of waves beating across the clear sea:
I see myself in the Plain of Sports
Red-headed flowers that have no fault.
Sea-horses glisten in summer
As far as Bran can stretch his glance:
Rivers pour forth a stream of honey
In the land of Manannan, son of Ler.
The sheen of the main on which thou art,
The dazzling white of the sea on which thou rowest about—
Yellow and azure are spread out,
It is a light and airy land.
Speckled salmon leap from the womb
Out of the white sea on which thou lookest:
They are calves, they are lambs of fair hue,
With truce, without mutual slaughter.
Though thou seest but one chariot-rider
In the Pleasant Plain of many flowers,
There are many steeds on its surface,
Though them thou seest not.
Large is the plain, numerous is the host,
Colours shine with pure glory,
A white stream of silver, stairs of gold
Afford a welcome with all abundance.
An enchanting game, most delicious,
They play over the luscious wine,
Men and gentle women under a bush,
Without sin, without transgression.
Along the top of a wood
Thy coracle has swum across ridges,
There is a wood laden with beautiful fruit
Under the prow of thy little skiff.
A wood with blossom and with fruit
On which is the vine’s veritable fragrance,
A wood without decay, without defect,
On which is a foliage of a golden hue.
We are from the beginning of creation
Without old age, without consummation of clay,
Hence we expect not there might be frailty—
Transgression has not come to us.
Steadily then let Bran row!
It is not far to the Land of Women:
Evna with manifold bounteousness
He will reach before the sun is set.
Deirdre’s Lament
And Deirdre dishevelled her hair and began kissing Noisi and drinking his blood, and the colour of embers came into her cheeks, and she uttered this lay.

Long is the day without Usnagh’s Children;
It was never mournful to be in their company.
A king’s sons, by whom exiles were rewarded,
Three lions from the Hill of the Cave.
Three dragons of Dun Monidh,
The three champions from the Red Branch:
After them I shall not live—
Three that used to break every onrush.
Three darlings of the women of Britain,
Three hawks of Slieve Gullion,
Sons of a king whom valour served,
To whom soldiers would pay homage.
Three heroes who were not good at homage,
Their fall is cause of sorrow—
Three sons of Cathba’s daughter,
Three props of the battle-host of Coolney.
Three vigorous bears,
Three lions out of Liss Una,
Three lions who loved their praise,
Three pet sons of Ulster.
That I should remain after Noisi
Let no one in the world suppose!
After Ardan and Ainnle
My time would not be long.
Ulster’s high-king, my first husband,
I forsook for Noisi’s love:
Short my life after them,
I will perform their funeral game.
After them I will not be alive—
Three that would go into every conflict,
Three who liked to endure hardships,
Three heroes who never refused combat.
O man that diggest the tomb,
And that puttest my darling from me,
Make not the grave too narrow,
I shall be beside the noble ones.
The Host Of Faery

White shields they carry in their hands,
With emblems of pale silver;
With glittering blue swords,
With mighty stout horns.
In well-devised battle array,
Ahead of their fair chieftain
They march amid blue spears,
Pale-visaged, curly-headed bands.
They scatter the battalions of the foe,
They ravage every land they attack,
Splendidly they march to combat,
A swift, distinguished, avenging host!
No wonder though their strength be great:
Sons of queens and kings are one and all;
On their heads are
Beautiful golden-yellow manes.
With smooth comely bodies,
With bright blue-starred eyes,
With pure crystal teeth,
With thin red lips.
Good they are at man-slaying,
Melodious in the ale-house,
Masterly at making songs,
Skilled at playing fidchell.

(Fidchell – a game like draughts)
Alain Stivell – Ar Voraerion 1978

Do not wait to strike till the iron is hot; but make it hot by striking. – William Butler Yeats

John Duncan – Tutt’Art

Shock The Angels

“There is an angel inside me whom I am constantly shocking.” – Jean Cocteau

Ray Donley. Figure with mask and skull 2006
Dear Friends,
Well, thrashing around again.  I have been submerged in projects, and finding myself distracted quite frequently by the ensnarement of social media.  I have been realizing how much time I spend on it.  I have posted art and media as a service for quite awhile, and found some wonderful artist, and shared some of my long standing loves as well, but I realized to the detriment of my own creative process with art.  As I spend more time working away on the computer, the less time I spend with pen and pencil, airbrush, and paint.  Trying to turn that around… oh, and blogging.  I am returning to that as well.
I am actually looking for typewriter ribbons.  I have an old one, that is still in good nick.  I do like to write by hand, but there is something about a typewriter, the clicking and clacking, the feel of the keys and the paper.  I may have spent years on those machines.  They do have their limitations, but they do for stories, etc.  Poetry?  I think not, though I confess I did type poetry during my mad jags at 3:00 in the morning over the years.  I seriously don’t think is was very good though.  Poetry requires reciting it aloud, and memorizing the lines, or writing it down by hand.  I have been able to write it down by hand of course, but the modern world and writing is unkind to the memory.  How much have we lost because of that?  Think on the bards and poets who carried the Illiad, or The Cattle Raids in their heads, and passed it down through countless generations….
 So, perhaps as I get older, a bit of the Luddite starts to assert itself, or as I feel time growing short for this ride on the Dharma Wheel, that I must attend to what gifts I have been given.  I believe that there are gifts that we either take up, or they flee to others.  I have given away many ideas over the years.  Gladly it seems, I have seen a few of those gifts give wealth and happiness to others.  I did my part, in dreaming them first, but not perhaps hard enough to make them fully mine.  A conduit of sorts for an interesting version of the muse….
Anyway, I meander.  We have bought more space for the Radio Station with a generous donation, and we are putting some ideas in place for the future…. New shows coming of course, stay tuned.
Announcements coming from The Invisible College as well, on several fronts.  Projects, projects.
On the home front, Rowan & Suzanne have been off in Europe for almost 2 months.  I believe they will be coming back later next week, or in November. It has all been very nebulous  Lately they have been in Portugal trying out the port and cuisine, and apparently having the time of their lives. Rowan got to meet family in Scotland which was a love fest all around from what I heard from his Auntie.  You can catch up with the sweet twosome on FB and Instagram: Rowan S Floyd

 Well that is enough for tonight. Nice to be back with the Hares’ Tale.
Lots of material here, enjoy!
Bright Blessings,
On The Menu:
The Links
Bill Laswell – Kingdom Come
Poetry: Ira Cohen
Dead Rabbits: Here She Comes

The Links:
The Emerging States?
Great Tits Are Evolving…!
Saber Tooth Kitten?
Dentine & The Ancient Ones

This is wonderful!

Recurrence from Julius Horsthuis on Vimeo.

Bill Laswell – Kingdom Come Ambient Site

Ira Cohen Poetry
Ira Cohen
The Arm of the Dorje
Sunyata – Song to the Winter Sun
There was much wind
but I new not how to call it,
a roomful of strangers,
how familiar the feeling,
how cold it must be – barefoot
at the fountain when the sun goes down,
how the brown people love the blond baby
The white horse which looks out
from the wall suggests a journey
I once might have taken,
a covered memory reeking of sulphur
Words, they can go anywhere,
can they tell me where I come from,
the name of my planet,
the empty space which was my home?
The condemned murderer longs for
a firing squad, knows
where to put the shadows
you keep inside –
Between hands there are worlds
of ashes & thunder,
silent collisions of meaning,
the utter sugar of nights
taken for granted
They say the sun rises every day,
that sleep is incidental
I say myself
& so I look for your face at dawn
rising over my grief, over
the twice told terrain, violet w/ciphers,
Suffused w/ yr eternal smile
I would offer my flesh to your tiger,
turn your stone wheels w/ my water
Longing for the peaks the stars say
it will be clear
Let us meet in the sky then
till we come closer down here.
The Day of the Basilisk – The Wayfarer’s Song
It started in the dark room
thinking that night had fallen at dawn
Then arising we glued red eyes
into the dry sockets of a dead bird
its belly full of dirty cotton
Then across the paddies & out of
the town
where familiar figures of Kleist &
rise from the road in eddies of dust
The voice of the Changeling names the day,
the day of the Basilisk, usurped
from the tyrant’s quest to know
how not to maim the Gilded Hind of
self knowledge
Licchavi sirens shortchanged of a renaissance
spread out cracked wooden arms,
split skulls of haunting beauty, smiling
Mud murtis made by nature distract
Goethean comments fearful of what is hidden
while the delicate head of Mahadev
whittled by the wind
still seals the lingam in the ancient temple
We look with Mudusa’s eyes
at the first born fruits,
the full breasts of the river
where there is no infidelity -The golden larva w/ the royal face of Narayan,
hold it by its tail & call it by its name
Narayan, Narayan
it will dance for you & shake its head,
it lives only on air -we do not know if
it is alive or if it is dead, so gilded
its beauty
The face of Vishnu etches a dream of
ancient seas tinted w/ fallen light
Your face is everywhere
Your glory rings out over the peaks
capped w/ flame
Your shadow is enclosed within your shadow
You watch yourself falling
While falling you watch yourself looking down
You want to pick up the Tamang corpse
no one will touch
You call the children of darkness,
refute the wasted years of salt
poured into furrows
You see the thread needled to the hem of Night
betrayed by the shinbone of Day
where the fear is burned away
You look w/ basilisk eyes
turning the day to stone,
touched & transfigured
by the human, by the changing,
by the eternal, the always repeating
Imagine Jean Cocteau
Imagine Jean Cocteau in the lobby
holding a torch
Imagine a trained dog act,
a Rock and Roll Band
Imagine I am Curly of the Three Stooges
disguised as Wm Shakespeare
Imagine that I’m the cousin of the Mayor
of New York or the King of Nepal
(I didn’t say Napoleon!)
Imagine what it is like to be in the glare
of hot lights when you are longing for dark
Imagine the Ghost Patrol, the Tribal
Orchestra –
Imagine an elephant playing a harmonica
or someone weighing out bones on the edge
of the desert in Afghanistan
Imagine that these poems are recorded moments
of temporary sanity
Imagine that the clock was just turned back –
or forwards – a hundred years instead of an hour
Let us pretend that we have no place to go,
that we are here in the Cosmic Hotel,
that our bags are packed & that we have one hour
to checkout time
Imagine whatever you will but know that it is not
imagination but experience which makes poetry,
and that behind every image,
behind every word there is something
I am trying to tell you,
something that really happened.
Insomnia On Duke Ellington Boulevard July 14, Breakfast w/myself at the Olympia Diner, 106th & B’way
Fell asleep around 4 AM
w/ the TV on
Van Heflin & Barbara Stanwyck
enter my disturbed sleep
Sometimes the only way out
is to die, but happily
someone else escapes,
takes to the road, goes on
I’m up at seven, go to the post office.,
send two Cuban alligators
to Brussels,
the read Gabriel’s column in NEWSDAY
about the real meaning of the closet,
feel nauseous, order a hardboiled egg
which come w/out a shell
mashed in a cup
Is my heart, too, yearning
for its dying hour?
Please bring me one order
of cool snow!
If I could remember just a fraction
of what I said on the telephone
If he could take his clothes off
and sit on the banks of the Ganga
If she could see the profile of Caliban
in the smoke over the oilfieds
If we could just take off & go to Madagascar
If they would stop killing each other
and wake up tomorrow morning
w/ a new vision
I would stick my head in a printing press
and you could read tomorrow’s paper today:EXTRA! EXTRA!
Read all about it
Poets’ brains prove to be useful!

P.S. Sometimes when I pick up my pen
it leaks gold all over the tablecloth.

Dead Rabbits Here She Comes

This Edition Is Dedicated To All The Lovers In The World…