Gwyllm.com

Saturday morning, seasonal change rapidly coming down the road here in P-Town. This of course means waking with a massive pressure headache. You would think that I had a migraine to go with it by the way it is going….
OTOH… Radio Free EarthRites has a new address:
Tattoo this on yer forhead! Radio Free EarthRites: http://78.105.9.201:8000/
Big Thanks to Doug in the UK for putting another pence in the meter… and for being ever so patient and generous. He is re-uploading the music onto our 100Gig hard-drive, and his recent addition of 9 gigs of spoken word files is very appreciated as well!.
Stay tuned to EarthRites Radio… some nice changes coming on…. Now that I have Skype we may be able to do some interviews that will be exclusive to EarthRites, and we will be implementing Week-End shows as well.

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I am looking to opening up Earthrites.org as a larger site with more input via blogs etc., and a new format… looking for Volunteers to help make this happen…
I am going back to a daily feed for Turfing, though reduced in size… (Thanks for the suggestion Laura!)… More poetry, less articles. Articles and such on the weekend.

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Well, it is almost here. It will more than likely will be out in a variety formats…
PDF Web Edition: Free, though not as large as other formats.. at 72 dpi on Earthrites.org
PDF Down Load Version: Small Fee, Complete Edition downloadable at 300 DPI for printing.
Soft Back Version: Complete Edition in traditional magazine format
Hard Back Version: Complete Edition with Slip Cover, highly collectable…
Stay Tuned!

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Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
On The Menu:

Linkage…

Liban the Sea Woman

Fintain’s Yew Tree

A Visit With William Butler Yeats…

Sheila Chandra: Lament of McCrimmon/Song of the Banshee

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The Links

Migraine, Hallucinations, The Whole Nine Yards…(Thanks To Morgan For This!

In Canada: The Smell Of Marijuana…

FREAKANGELS: Episode One

Domestic Access to Spy Imagery Expands

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Liban the Sea Woman
The time Angus Og sent away Eochaid and Ribh from the plain of Bregia that was his playing ground, he gave them the loan of a very big horse to carry all they had northward. And Eochaid went on with the horse till he came to the Grey Thornbush in Ulster; and a well broke out where he stopped, and he made his dwelling-house beside it, and he made a cover for the well and put a woman to mind it. But one time she did not shut down the cover, and the water rose up and covered the Grey Thornbush, and Eochaid was drowned with his children; and the water spread out into a great lake that has the name of Loch Neach to this day. But Liban that was one of Eochaid’s daughters was not drowned, but she was in her sunny-house under the lake and her little dog with her for a full year, and God protected her from the waters. And one day she said “O Lord, it would be well to be in the shape of a salmon, to be going through the sea the way they do.” Then the one half of her took the shape of a salmon and the other half kept the shape of a woman; and she went swimming the sea, and her little dog following her in the shape of an otter and never leaving her or parting from her at all. And one time Caoilte was out at a hunting near Beinn Boirche with the King of Ulster, and they came to the shore of the sea. And when they looked out over it they saw a young girl on the waves, and she swimming with the side-stroke and the foot-stroke. And when she came opposite them she sat up on a wave, as anyone would sit upon a stone or a hillock and she lifted her head and she said “Is not that Caoilte Son of Ronan?” “It is myself surely” said he. “It is many a day” she said “we saw you upon that rock, and the best man of Ireland or of Scotland with you, that was Finn son of Cumhal. “Who are you so girl?” said Caoilte. “I am Liban daughter of Eochaid, and I am in the water these hundred years, and I never showed my face to anyone since the going away of the King of the Fianna to this day. And it is what led me to lift my head to-day” she said “was to see yourself Caoilte.” Just then the deer that were running before the hounds made for the sea and swam out into it. “Your spear to me Caoilte!” said Liban. Then he put the spear into her hand and she killed the deer with it, and sent them back to him where he was with the King of Ulster; and then she threw him back the spear and with that she went away. And that is the way she was until the time Beoan son of Innle was sent by Comgall to Rome, to have talk with Gregory and to bring back rules and orders. And when he and his people were going over the sea they heard what was like the singing of angels under the currach. “What is that song?” said Beoan. “It is I myself am making it” said Liban. “Who are you?” said Beoan. “I am Liban daughter of Eochaid son Mairid, and I am going through the sea these three hundred years.’ Then she told him all her story, and how it was under the round hulls of ships she had her dwelling-place, and the waves were the roofing of her house, and the strands its walls. “And it is what I am come for now” she said “to tell you that I will come to meet you on this day twelve-month at Inver Ollorba; and do not fail to meet me there for the sake of all the saints of Dalaradia.” And at the year’s end the nets were spread along the coast where she said she would come, and it was in the net of Fergus from Miluic she was taken. And the clerks gave her her choice either to be baptized and go then and there to heaven, or to stay living through another three hundred years and at the end of that time to go to heaven; and the choice she made was to die. Then Comgall baptized her and the name he gave her was Muirgheis, the Birth of the Sea. So she died, and the messengers that came and that carried her to her burying place, were horned deer that were sent by the angels of God.

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Fintain’s Yew Tree
And when Fintain came to Ireland is not known; but anyway it was for him and for Tuan that Diarmuid King of Teamhuir sent one time when there was a dispute about land and about the old custom. And when Fintain came he had eighteen troops with him, nine before him and nine after him, that were all of them his children’s children. And when the king’s people asked how far did his memory go back “I will tell you that” he said. “I passed one day through the west of Munster, and I brought home with me a red berry of a yew tree and I planted it in my garden and it grew there till it was the height of a man. I took it out of the garden then and I planted it in the green lawn before my house, and it grew in that lawn till a hundred fighting men could come together under its branches, and find shelter there from wind and rain and cold and heat. And I myself and my yew tree were wearing out our time together, till at last all the leaves withered and fell from it. And then to get some profit from it I cut it down and I made from it seven vats, seven kieves, seven barrels, seven churns, seven pitchers, seven measures, seven methers, with hoops for all. I went on then with my yew vessels till the hoops fell from them with age and rottenness. After that I made them over again, but all I could get was a kieve out of the vat, a barrel out of the kieve, a mug out of the barrel, a pitcher out of the mug, a measure out of the pitcher, and a mether out of the measure. And I leave it to the great God” he said “that I do not know where is their dust now, after the crumbling of them away from me through age.”

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A Visit With William Butler Yeats…

A Poet to his Beloved
I bring you with reverent hands

The books of my numberless dreams;

White woman that passion has worn

As the tide wears the dove-gray sands,

And with heart more old than the horn

That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:

White woman with numberless dreams

I bring you my passionate rhyme.

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The Everlasting Voices
O sweet everlasting Voices be still;

Go to the guards of the heavenly fold

And bid them wander obeying your will

Flame under flame, till Time be no more;

Have you not heard that our hearts are old,

That you call in birds, in wind on the hill,

In shaken boughs, in tide on the shore?

O sweet everlasting Voices be still.

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Into the Twilight
Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn,

Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;

Laugh heart again in the gray twilight,

Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.

Your mother Eire is always young,

Dew ever shining and twilight gray;

Though hope fall from you and love decay,

Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.

Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:

For there the mystical brotherhood

Of sun and moon and hollow and wood

And river and stream work out their will;

And God stands winding His lonely horn,

And time and the world are ever in flight;

And love is less kind than the gray twilight,

And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

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The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

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Sheila Chandra: Lament of McCrimmon/Song of the Banshee

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On The Music Box: Kila – Gamblers’ Ball

Monday swings around… A weekend filled with finishing up work, visiting friends, running Rowan & Ivy out to Gresham for final film editing on “The Gamble”… this is the running title for their film that they are entering into the next festival. Somehow, they got 3 hours down to 12 minutes, including credits etc. We all went out for dinner last night after Mary and I picked them up… the two of them were glowing with having finished in time to make it for one of the entries as the cut off was today.
Ran into Andrew and Will at Hollywood Freddie’s… both were kinda illish, and Will had a jones for a corn-dog, to no avail. Nice seeing them!
Mike Hoffman sent me some new poems, which I will be featuring on Turfing in a couple of days.
Talked to Doug in London, he said the radio will be up on Wednesday… I am thinking of changing out lots of the music, sticking some more vocals and ethnic folk music on… thoughts?
Magazine is still going on. I made very little headway this weekend. Slogging…. slogging…
Hope this finds you well…
Blessings,
Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

Red Eye Express: Aqua

A Flash From The Past: Terence McKenna

Samuel Taylor Coleridge Quotes…

Poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Mia – You Are My Love

Art: Arthur Rackham!

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Red Eye Express: Aqua

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A Flash From The Past: Terence McKenna

The DMT Experience

(from Food of the Gods, pp. 257-260)
What can be said of DMT as an experience and in relation to our own spiritual emptiness? Does it offer us answers? Do the short-acting tryptamines offer an analogy to the ecstasy of the partnership society before Eden became a memory? And if they do, then what can we say about it?
What has impressed me repeatedly during my many glimpses into the world of the hallucinogenic indoles, and what seems generally to have escaped comment, is the transformation of narrative and language. The experience that engulfs one’s entire being as one slips beneath the surface of the DMT ecstasy feels like the penetration of a membrane. The mind and the self literally unfold before one’s eyes. There is a sense that one is made new, yet unchanged, as if one were made of gold and had just been recast in the furnace of one’s birth. Breathing is normal, heartbeat steady, the mind clear and observing. But what of the world? What of incoming sensory data?
Under the influence of DMT, the world becomes an Arabian labyrinth, a palace, a more than possible Martian jewel, vast with motifs that flood the gaping mind with complex and wordless awe. Color and the sense of a reality-unlocking secret nearby pervade the experience. There is a sense of other times, and of one’s own infancy, and of wonder, wonder and more wonder. It is an audience with the alien nuncio. In the midst of this experience, apparently at the end of human history, guarding gates that seem surely to open on the howling maelstrom of the unspeakable emptiness between the stars, is the Aeon.
The Aeon, as Heraclitus presciently observed, is a child at play with colored balls. Many diminutive beings are present there — the tykes, the self-transforming machine elves of hyperspace. Are they the children destined to be father to the man? One has the impression of entering into an ecology of souls that lies beyond the portals of what we naively call death. I do not know. Are they the synesthetic embodiment of ourselves as the Other, or of the Other as ourselves? Are they the elves lost to us since the fading of the magic light of childhood? Here is a tremendum barely to be told, an epiphany beyond our wildest dreams. Here is the realm of that which is stranger than we can suppose. Here is the mystery, alive, unscathed, still as new for us as when our ancestors lived it fifteen thousand summers ago. The tryptamine entities offer the gift of new language, they sing in pearly voices that rain down as colored petals and flow through the air like hot metal to become toys and such gifts as gods would give their children. The sense of emotional connection is terrifying and intense. The Mysteries revealed are real and if ever fully told will leave no stone upon another in the small world we have gone so ill in.
This is not the mercurial world of the UFO, to be invoked from lonely hilltops; this is not the siren song of lost Atlantis wailing through the trailer courts of crack-crazed America. DMT is not one of our irrational illusions. What we experience in the presence of DMT is real news. It is a nearby dimension — frightening, transformative, and beyond our powers to imagine, and yet to be explored in the usual way. We must send fearless experts, whatever that may come to mean, to explore and to report on what they find.

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Samuel Taylor Coleridge Quotes…
A man may devote himself to death and destruction to save a nation; but no nation will devote itself to death and destruction to save mankind.
A poet ought not to pick nature’s pocket. Let him borrow, and so borrow as to repay by the very act of borrowing. Examine nature accurately, but write from recollection, and trust more to the imagination than the memory.
Advice is like snow – the softer it falls, the longer it dwells upon, and the deeper in sinks into the mind.
Alas! they had been friends in youth; but whispering tongues can poison truth.
All sympathy not consistent with acknowledged virtue is but disguised selfishness.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights Whatever stirs this mortal frame All are but ministers of Love And feed His sacred flame.
And though thou notest from thy safe recess old friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air love them for what they are; nor love them less, because to thee they are not what they were.
As I live and am a man, this is an unexaggerated tale – my dreams become the substances of my life.

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Poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Psyche
The butterfly the ancient Grecians made

The soul’s fair emblem, and its only name–

But of the soul, escaped the slavish trade

Of mortal life !–For in this earthly frame

Ours is the reptile’s lot, much toil, much blame,

Manifold motions making little speed,

And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed.
—

The Pains of Sleep
Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,

It hath not been my use to pray

With moving lips or bended knees ;

But silently, by slow degrees,

My spirit I to Love compose,

In humble trust mine eye-lids close,

With reverential resignation,

No wish conceived, no thought exprest,

Only a sense of supplication ;

A sense o’er all my soul imprest

That I am weak, yet not unblest,

Since in me, round me, every where

Eternal Strength and Wisdom are.
But yester-night I prayed aloud

In anguish and in agony,

Up-starting from the fiendish crowd

Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me :

A lurid light, a trampling throng,

Sense of intolerable wrong,

And whom I scorned, those only strong !

Thirst of revenge, the powerless will

Still baffled, and yet burning still !

Desire with loathing strangely mixed

On wild or hateful objects fixed.

Fantastic passions ! maddening brawl !

And shame and terror over all !

Deeds to be hid which were not hid,

Which all confused I could not know

Whether I suffered, or I did :

For all seemed guilt, remorse or woe,

My own or others still the same

Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame.
So two nights passed : the night’s dismay

Saddened and stunned the coming day.

Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me

Distemper’s worst calamity.

The third night, when my own loud scream

Had waked me from the fiendish dream,

O’ercome with sufferings strange and wild,

I wept as I had been a child ;

And having thus by tears subdued

My anguish to a milder mood,

Such punishments, I said, were due

To natures deepliest stained with sin,–

For aye entempesting anew

The unfathomable hell within,

The horror of their deeds to view,

To know and loathe, yet wish and do !

Such griefs with such men well agree,

But wherefore, wherefore fall on me ?

To be beloved is all I need,

And whom I love, I love indeed.
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Kubla Khan

Or, A Vision In A Dream… A Fragment
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree :

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round :

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !

A savage place ! as holy and enchanted

As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover !

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced :

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail :

And ‘mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :

And ‘mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war !

The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves ;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !

A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw :

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight ‘twould win me,

That with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !

His flashing eyes, his floating hair !

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

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Mia – You Are My Love (I am sure this inhabits dance floors somewhere…)

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The Eightfold Path

consists of:

(1) right understanding,

(2) right thought,

(3) right speech,

(4) right action,

(5) right livelihood,

(6) right effort,

(7) right mindfulness, and

(8) right concentration.

The divisions of the Path are: knowledge (and faith), conduct (with morality), and meditation.

Radio Free EarthRites… Will be down for a few more days as British Telecom can’t seem to do anything in a timely manner. (this is not news if you have lived in the UK) After all, they are doing you a favour by turning on the switch…
Our friend Doug has been graciously hosting the radio for the last year or so… he had to move from his locale (a brilliant view of British Rail…. every 5 minutes another train) up the hill towards St. John’s Wood.
EarthRites has been blessed with his assistance in all things teckie….

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Rowan has a marathon editing session this week end with Ivy to finish the film up for the up-coming film festival at his school. He would like to win the prize, as it would allow him to pay for supplies for the next four films. He has a grueling filming schedule coming up for the next couple of months, but is quite eager to get on with it!

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Musical Note… Side LinerI have heard this group on compilations (and they have been on Radio Free EarthRitees… but I found some videos recently…. see below
On The Menu:

Side Liner – Haunted Thoughts

Zen Tales…

Extracts from The Dhammapada

Side Liner – Morning Dewdrops
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm

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Side Liner – Haunted Thoughts

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Zen Tales…
Two traveling monks reached a river where they met a young woman. Wary of the current, she asked if they could carry her across. One of the monks hesitated, but the other quickly picked her up onto his shoulders, transported her across the water, and put her down on

the other bank. She thanked him and departed. As the monks continued on their way, the one was brooding and preoccupied.
Unable to hold his silence, he spoke out. “Brother, our spiritual training teaches us to avoid any contact with women, but you picked that one up on your shoulders and carried her!”
“Brother,” the second monk replied, “I set her down on the other side, while you are still

carrying her.”

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Ryokan, a Zen master, lived the simplest kind of life in a little hut at the foot of a mountain.

One evening a thief visited the hut only to discover there was nothing to steal. Ryokan returned and caught him. “You have come a long way to visit me,” he told the prowler, “and you should not return empty-handed. Please take my clothes as a gift.” The thief was bewildered. He took the clothes and slunk away. Ryoken sat naked, watching the moon.

“Poor fellow,” he mused, “I wish I could have given him this beautiful moon.”

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The great Taoist master Chuang Tzu once dreamt that he was a butterfly fluttering here and there.

In the dream he had no awareness of his individuality as a person. He was only a butterfly.

Suddenly, he awoke and found himself laying there, a person once again. But then he thought to himself, “Was I before a man who dreamt about being a butterfly, or am I now a butterfly who dreams about being a man?”

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(Extracts from The Dhammapada – version by Thomas Byrom)
Choices

We are what we think.

All that we are arises with our thoughts.

With our thoughts we make the world.

Speak or act with an impure mind

And trouble will follow you

As the wheel follows the ox that draws the cart.

We are what we think.

All that we are arises with our thoughts.

With our thoughts we make the world.

Speak or act with a pure mind

And happiness will follow you

As your shadow, unshakable.

“Look how he abused me and hurt me,

How he threw me down and robbed me.”

Live with such thoughts and you live in hate.

“Look how he abused me and hurt me,

How he threw me down and robbed me.”

Abandon such thoughts, and live in love.

In this world

Hate never yet dispelled hate.

Only love dispels hate.

This is the law,

Ancient and inexhaustible.

You too shall pass away.

Knowing this, how can you quarrel?

How easily the wind overturns a frail tree.

Seek happiness in the senses,

Indulge in food and sleep,

And you too will be uprooted.

The wind cannot overturn a mountain.

Temptation cannot touch the man

Who is awake, strong and humble,

Who masters himself and minds the dharma.

If a man’s thoughts are muddy,

If he is reckless and full of deceit,

How can he wear the yellow robe?

Whoever is master of his own nature,

Bright, clear and true,

He may indeed wear the yellow robe.

Mistaking the false for the true,

And the true for the false,

You overlook the heart

And fill yourself with desire.

See the false as false,

The true as true.

Look into your heart.

Follow your nature.

An unreflecting mind is a poor roof.

Passion, like the rain, floods the house.

But if the roof is strong, there is shelter.

Whoever follows impure thoughts

Suffers in this world and the next.

In both worlds he suffers

And how greatly

When he sees the wrong he has done.

But whoever follows the dharma

Is joyful here and joyful there.

In both worlds he rejoices

And how greatly

When he sees the good he has done.

For great is the harvest in this world,

And greater still in the next.

However many holy words you read,

However many you speak,

What good will they do you

If you do not act upon them?

Are you a shepherd

Who counts another man’s sheep,

Never sharing the way?

Read as few words as you like,

And speak fewer.

But act upon the dharma.

Give up the old ways –

Passion, enmity, folly.

Know the truth and find peace.

Share the way.

—
The Wise Man
The wise man tells you

Where you have fallen

And where you yet may fall –

Invaluable secrets!

Follow him, follow the way.

Let him chasten and teach you

and keep you from mischief.

The world may hate him.

But good men love him.

Do not look for bad company

Or live with men who do not care.

Find friends who love the truth.

Drink deeply.

Live in serenity and joy.

The wise man delights in the truth

And follows the law of the awakened.

The farmer channels water to his land.

The fletcher whittles his arrows.

And the carpenter turns his wood.

So the wise man directs his mind.

The wind cannot shake a mountain.

Neither praise nor blame moves the wise man.

He is clarity.

Hearing the truth,

He is like a lake,

Pure and tranquil and deep.

Want nothing.

Where there is desire,

Say nothing.

Happiness or sorrow –

Whatever befalls you,

Walk on

Untouched, unattached.

Do not ask for family or power or wealth,

Either for yourself or for another.

Can a wise man wish to rise unjustly?

Few cross over the river.

Most are stranded on this side.

On the riverbank they run up and down.

But the wise man, following the way,

Crosses over, beyond the reach of death.

He leaves the dark way

For the way of light.

He leaves his home, seeking

Happiness on the hard road.

Free from desire,

Free from possessions,

Free from the dark places of the heart.

Free from attachment and appetite,

Following the seven lights of awakening,

And rejoicing greatly in his freedom,

In this world the wise man

Becomes himself a light,

Pure, shining, free.

—

The Master
At the end of the way

The master finds freedom

From desire and sorrow –

Freedom without bounds.

Those who awaken

Never rest in one place.

Like swans, they rise

And leave the lake.

On the air they rise

And fly an invisible course,

Gathering nothing, storing nothing.

Their food is knowledge.

They live upon emptiness.

They have seen how to break free.

Who can follow them?

Only the master,

Such is his purity.

Like a bird,

He rises on the limitless air

And flies an invisible course.

He wishes for nothing.

His food is knowledge.

He lives upon emptiness.

He has broken free.

He is the charioteer.

He has tamed his horses,

Pride and the senses.

Even the gods admire him.

Yielding like the earth,

Joyous and clear like the lake,

Still as the stone at the door,

He is free from life and death.

His thoughts are still.

His words are still.

His work is stillness.

He sees his freedom and is free.

The master surrenders his beliefs.

He sees beyond the end and the beginning.

He cuts all ties.

He gives up all desires.

He resists all temptations.

And he rises.

And wherever he lives,

In the city or the country,

In the valley or in the hills,

There is great joy.

Even in the empty forest

He finds joy

Because he wants nothing.

—
Violence
All beings tremble before violence.

All fear death.

All love life.

See yourself in other.

Then whom can you hurt?

What harm can you do?

He who seeks happiness

By hurting those who seek happiness

Will never find happiness.

For your brother is like you.

He wants to be happy.

Never harm him

And when you leave this life

You too will find happiness.

Never speak harsh words

For they will rebound upon you.

Angry words hurt

And the hurt rebounds.

Like a broken gong

Be still, and silent.

Know the stillness of freedom

Where there is no more striving.

Like herdsmen driving their cows into the fields,

Old age and death will drive you before them.

But the fool in his mischief forgets

And he lights the fire

Wherein one day he must burn.

He who harms the harmless

Or hurts the innocent,

Ten times shall he fall –

Into torment or infirmity,

Injury or disease or madness,

Persecution or fearful accusation,

Loss of family, loss of fortune.

Fire from heaven shall strike his house

And when his body has been struck down,

He shall rise in hell.

He who goes naked,

With matted hair, mud bespattered,

Who fasts and sleeps on the ground

And smears his body with ashes

And sits in endless meditation –

So long as he is not free from doubts,

He will not find freedom.

But he who lives purely and self-assured,

In quietness and virtue,

Who is without harm or hurt or blame,

Even if he wears fine clothes,

So long as he also has faith,

He is a true seeker.

A noble horse rarely

Feels the touch of the whip.

Who is there in this world as blameless?

Then like a noble horse

Smart under the whip.

Burn and be swift.

Believe, meditate, see.

Be harmless, be blameless.

Awake to the dharma.

And from all sorrows free yourself.

The farmer channels water to his land.

The fletcher whittles his arrows.

The carpenter turns his wood.

And the wise man masters himself.

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Side Liner – Morning Dewdrops

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It is called the American Dream because you have to be asleep to believe it.

-George Carlin
So…. here we are at Powell’s in Portland Oregon… in our part of town the great South East (The Peoples Autonomous Republic Of Hawthorne!)

And here is The Invisible College 3rd edition on the shelves in the Small Press Section! WahoooO! Finishing up the 4th issue this week, hopefully we’ll have it out soon…
This one will be packed with art, literature, reviews, poetry, more than the last issue… It went through a major redesign during December, and this held back the publication date among other hurdles… So…… check back and find out about our new publication date…

—-
Forward

Weather has been most foul in the Northwest, massive snows, ice and other wonders of the winters world… They did not all disappear on Imbolc, which was a bit of a bother… We were out today and heard a crow talking (no, really!) It was saying ‘Hello?…. Hello?… Hello? Truly amazing for the pair of us…
On The Menu:

The Links

River Man

Nick Drake – A Skin Too Few

Nick Drake Lyrics/Poems

Bright Blessings, and happy February!
Gwyllm

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The Links:
Brigid’s birds and biddy boys

Pug!

A New Anarchy Blog I discovered…..

The Rich Stand Accused

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River Man

Betty came by on her way

Said she had a word to say

About things today

And fallen leaves.
Said she hadn’t heard the news

Hadn’t had the time to choose

A way to lose

But she believes.
Going to see the river man

Going to tell him all I can

About the plan

For lilac time.
If he tells me all he knows

About the way his river flows

And all night shows

In summertime.
Betty said she prayed today

For the sky to blow away

Or maybe stay

She wasn’t sure.
For when she thought of summer rain

Calling for her mind again

She lost the pain

And stayed for more.
Going to see the river man

Going to tell him all I can

About the ban

On feeling free.
If he tells me all he knows

About the way his river flows

I don’t suppose

It’s meant for me.
Oh, how they come and go

Oh, how they come and go

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Nick Drake – A Skin Too Few (Documentary) 1

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Nick Drake – A Skin Too Few (Documentary) 2nd part

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Nick Drake – A Skin Too Few (Documentary) 3rd part

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Nick Drake – A Skin Too Few (Documentary) 4th part

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Nick Drake – A Skin Too Few (Documentary) 5th part

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Nick Drake Lyrics/Poems

Parasite
Lifting the mask from from a local clown

Feeling down like him

Seeing the light in a station bar

And travelling far in sin

Sailing downstairs to the northern line

Watching the shine of the shoes

And hearing the trial of the people there

Who’s to care if they lose.

And take a look you may see me on the ground

For I am the parasite of this town.
Dancing a jig in a church with chimes

A sign of the times today

And hearing no bell from a steeple tall

People all in dismay

Falling so far on a silver spoon

Making the moon for fun

And changing a rope for a size too small

People all get hung.

Take a look and see me coming through

For I am the parasite who travels two by two.
When lifting the mask from a local clown

And feeling down like him

And I’m seeing the light in a station bar

And travelling far in sin

And I’m sailing downstair to the northern line

Watching the shine of the shoes

And hearing the trials of the people there

Who’s to care if they lose.

And take a look you may see me on the ground

For I am the parasite of this town.

And take a look you may see me in the dirt

For i am the parasite who hangs from your skirt.

—

Time of no reply
Summer was gone and the heat died down

And Autumn reached for her golden crown

I looked behind as I heard a sigh

But this was the time of no reply.
The sun went down and the crowd went home

I was left by the roadside all alone

I turned to speak as they went by

But this was the time of no reply.
The time of no reply is calling me to stay

There is no hello and no goodbye

To leave there is no way.
The trees on the hill had nothing to say

They would keep their dreams till another day

So they stood and thought and wondered why

For this was the time of no reply.
Time goes by from year to year

And no one asks why I am standing here

But I have my answer as I look to the sky

This is the time of no reply.
The time of no reply is calling me to stay

There`s no hello and no goodbye

To leave there is no way.

—-

The thoughts of Mary Jane
Who can know

The thoughts of Mary jane

Why she flies

Or goes out in the rain

Where she’s been

And who she’s seen

In her journey to the stars.
Who can know

The reasons for her smile

What are her dreams

When they’ve journeyed for a mile

The way she sings

And her brightly coloured rings

Make her the princess of the sky.
Who can know

What happens in her mind

Did she come from a strange world

And leave her mind behind

Her long lost sighs

And her brightly coloured eyes

Tell her story to the wind.
Who can know

The thoughts of Mary Jane

Why she flies

Or goes out in the rain

Where she’s been

And who she’s seen

In her journey to the stars.

In my usual way… I stumble on a treasure (?) that I missed over the years… Linda Perhacs perhaps is one of those… A chance visit to a website, a name mentioned… a video found. Anyway, it struck me this was a perfect place to feature her music, and this lyric:
Chimacum Rain
And it rains here

Everyday since I came,

and the linen covers rocks

And the green finds everything

Chimacum rain…
In the soar of leaves

And needle tufts and form,

in the grasses and the reeds,

and the spilling over stones

Chimacum rain…
I’m spacing out, I’m seeing silence between leaves,

I’m seeing down, I’m seeing silence that are his

He belongs here, can’t have him

He belongs here, can’t know him

He belongs here
It kinda gets inside you,

the silences I mean

They kinda wrap around you,

and loosen everything

Chimacum rain…

—

Nothing deep, but enjoyable. Take it for the moment it was, back in 1970. A mixture of psychedelia… a wistful pop. Tasty!
G

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Life in the North West…
Working away on the magazine mostly this weekend, but we went to a nice party for Richard’s 60th birthday over at Trish & Kyles’ on Friday evening. Leanna, Richard’s wife and best friend threw a surprise for him… Kim (sans Victor who was wandering around Seattle for some reason)was there, Cymon of course showed up, and Mary n’ yours truly of course. It was a bit of fun, and we had a very, very pleasant evening. I think Richard had a good time, he had a very, large grin most of the evening…. 80)
In other news, Kyle is heading off to Europa for a month for some biz, and Trish is opening a new business this next week… (more details on this soon!)
Cymon looked great, as did Kim. We missed ya Vic!
Rowan, Ivy and one of their actors, Bailey edited the new film today over at Metro East. I got to sit in on the process for a few minutes. It looks great, and Ivy is a Wiz with Final Cut Pro…
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
On The Menu:

The Links

Linda Perhacs-Parrallograms Deux

Zen Poetry…

Linda Perhacs – If You Were My Man (Daft Punk’s Electroma)

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The Links:

‘Serious’ Pundits and the Death of Informed Democracy

Misreading the mind

Film Review: Jeremy Vaeni’s ‘No One’s Watching’

Practical Values: Works Well With Others

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Linda Perhacs-Parrallograms Deux

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Zen Poetry…
My daily activities are not unusual,

I’m just naturally in harmony with them.

Grasping nothing, discarding nothing…

Supernatural power and marvelous activity –

Drawing water and carrying firewood.

– Layman Pang-yun (740-808)

—
The wind has settled, the blossoms have fallen;

Birds sing, the mountains grow dark –

This is the wondrous power of Buddhism.

– Ryokan, (1758-1831)

Dewdrops on a Lotus Leaf

The mind of the past is ungraspable;

the mind of the future is ungraspable;

the mind of the present is ungraspable.

– Diamond Sutra

—

Nothing in the cry

of cicadas suggests they

are about to die

– Basho

—

Unfettered at last, a traveling monk,

I pass the old Zen barrier.

Mine is a traceless stream-and-cloud life,

Of these mountains, which shall be my home?

– Manan (1591-1654)

—
My legacy –

What will it be?

Flowers in spring,

The cuckoo in summer,

And the crimson maples

Of autumn …

– Ryokan (1758-1831)

—
Enlightenment is like the moon reflected on the water.

The moon does not get wet, nor is the water broken.

Although its light is wide and great,

The moon is reflected even in a puddle an inch wide.

The whole moon and the entire sky

Are reflected in one dewdrop on the grass.

– Dogen

—
Those who see worldly life as an obstacle to Dharma

see no Dharma in everyday actions.

They have not yet discovered that

there are no everyday actions outside of Dharma.

– Dogen

—
It is as though you have an eye

That sees all forms

But does not see itself.

This is how your mind is.

Its light penetrates everywhere

And engulfs everything,

So why does it not know itself?

Foyan

Who is hearing?

Your physical being doesn’t hear,

Nor does the void.

Then what does?

Strive to find out.

Put aside your rational Intellect,

Give up all techniques.

Just get rid of the notion of self.

– Bassui

—
What is this mind?

Who is hearing these sounds?

Do not mistake any state for

Self-realization, but continue

To ask yourself even more intensely,

What is it that hears?

– Bassui

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Linda Perhacs – If You Were My Man (Daft Punk’s Electroma)

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Well, isn’t Bohemia a place where everyone is as good as everyone else – and must not a waiter be a little less than a waiter to be a good Bohemian?

-Djuna Barnes

Young Film Makers: Ivy & Rowan

Here is a picture of Ivy & Rowan, heading out to film this past Saturday. Ivy has been partnering with Rowan on the filming and production of his current 5 film schedule… She is well versed in editing, camera work, and production. It has been quite fun watching their assembled cast and crew working as a unit. A pleasure to see new ideas coming to fruition, and with so much energy. They have people working on music, costuming, props, all of the elements. Of course, I serve as a driver, who woulda known? Anyway, we will run trailers as the films come up if I get the go ahead from this dynamic duo…
Lots going on in this entry… a return to form some might say… 8o)

On The Menu:

Return of the Links!

KRISTI STASSINOPOULOU STATHIS KALIVIOTIS – Favourites from Greece…

The Maya Creation Story

FALLEN ART feat. Fanfare Ciocarlia – Surrealism with a Gypsy Soundtrack…

Rilke: Winter Afternoons…

Tom Middleton – “Shinkansen” from his most excellent album….
Here is to the high novelty value of the emerging culture, blending with the recent and ancient…
Bright Blessings!
Gwyllm

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Return Of The Links!:

Guess Which Drug Is Illegal?

From John…. Free Hugs!

Teleportation? Yeah Baby!

Well, like Duh!:72% say church is full of hypocrites

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A bit of Greek Beauty… the music of:
KRISTI STASSINOPOULOU STATHIS KALIVIOTIS

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The Maya Creation Story

By Gene Fernandez
People of all times and places have sought to understand how the universe came into being and how humanity developed. Each culture provides its own account, unique in detail but embodying universal themes. This similarity of thought among remote civilizations may indicate a form of archetypal intelligence available to any human being with the spiritual capacity to access it, as well as the existence of a very ancient worldwide civilization. The Popol Vuh records one branch of the ancient Central American heritage. Written shortly after the Spanish conquest by a Quiche Indian in his native language but using the Roman alphabet, it was transcribed and translated into Spanish by a Dominican priest in Guatemala at the end of the 17th century. His manuscript, housed in the library of the University of San Carlos, Guatemala City, was brought to the attention of European scholars in 1854, making Maya cosmogony and history available outside Central America. Today researchers can also draw on other documents, inscriptions, and the traditions kept alive by the Maya’s descendants.
Considered from a theosophic perspective, the Maya story of creation reveals its kinship with the worldwide wisdom tradition. It begins with the emptiness of the primordial waters of space, in a darkness which contains no manifested thing. There Hunab Ku, the divine one, the first cause, eternal, unborn, undying, all that was, is, and will be, uncontained, boundless, absolute, awakened from the dreamless sleep of thirteen eternities and emanated out of his own will the Heart of Heaven. A one-dimensional emanation of Hunab Ku’s own divinity, the Heart of Heaven was the recipient of all potentialities. Its only dimension, length, disappeared into the nonexistent breadth and height, and set in motion the process of cosmic evolution in planes of existence so spiritual that only the eye of the mystic could conceive it. Space was not, since there was nothing to contain it. Time was not, since there were no events to divide it. There was only the incomprehensible divinity of Hunab Ku, permeating the Heart of Heaven which slumbered for seven eternities. Then by the power of his word Hunab Ku thrilled the Heart of Heaven. Awakening from its dreamless sleep, Heart of Heaven emanated the God Seven, the cosmic Demiurgus, the creator, one in essence, seven in manifestation. This interpretation of the Maya story brings out its similarities with other ancient accounts, such as the Stanzas of Dzyan, the Kabbala, and the Biblical Genesis. The sacred numbers seven and thirteen relate to the Maya cycles of evolution and to their lunar calendar of 819 days (7 x 13 x 9).
The manifestations of God Seven — Itzamna Kauil, Tzacol, Bitol, Tepeu, Gucumatz, Alom, and Caholom — each had dominion over and were identified with a cosmic dimension, and later with a cardinal direction and color. The seven had the innate compulsion to create, so they took counsel and unanimously decided to say the word that would create the new dimension of breadth. Manifesting through the Heart of Heaven, breadth extended infinitely through the four quarters. Itzamna Kauil, Tepeu, and Gucumatz marked the cosmic center with three green stones. Tzacol sat on a black stone in the west quarter, Bitol on a red stone in the east. Alom sat on a white stone in the north, and Caholom sat on a yellow stone in the south. Each tried in vain to create progeny to help organize and administer his dominion. But not even the three in the center, acting together, could create, and after many independent attempts the seven still remained alone, floating like sparks of darkness in the homogenous chaos of the Heart of Heaven.
Taking counsel at the center, God Seven marveled that each had independently attempted to take the same course of action and failed. They agreed that creating progeny to populate their dominions was the right thing to do. Together they said the word once again: the blue-green light of differentiation filled the chaos and their progeny — the seeds of heaven, matter (earth), and the waters of the underworld — became manifest. All things were confounded within the two-dimensional universe, the Cha-Chan (low-down heavens), where generation after generation of denizens, the seeds of worlds-to-be, lived and had their being.
At that moment of creation, God Seven knew that any act of creation could be realized only if the seven were together with absolute concordance of all parts. This creative act of God Seven started cosmic evolution: the ethereal differentiated into substances, each attracted to and attracting its opposite, merging into each other and modifying its own essence into a duality that completely transformed its forces into something new which balanced its own innate characteristic. Each was akin to its own substance, the spiritual never changing its divinity, the ethereal becoming ether, the material becoming matter. The Cha-Chan was then a two-dimensional ethereal world. Generation after generation of denizens populated the intermingled two worlds whose opened portals linked them in a harmonious duality: at one end the spiritual world of the creators, and at the other the dark waters of Xibalba, the Underworld.
Human evolution in the Popol Vuh stems from the Regents Ixpiyacoc and Ixmucane, the Supreme Pair, grandparents of the Maya as well as of humanity as a whole. Ixmucane was the mother of the Ahpu twins, One Hunahpu and Seven Hunahpu, who were each one and seven: three male/female duads and one unity. Together the twins represented the highest qualities and aspirations of their world. They had all the knowledge accumulated by their race, but were devoid of malice and unaware of their own powers. Not knowing evil, their actions were completely innocent and their pleasure was to play ball, the ancient Maya Game. On one level the ball game is an allegory for the movements of the celestial bodies. Perhaps this is why they could play the game in any combination of seven, up to three on one side and four on the other, representing the five closest planets plus the sun and moon, depending on their position in the night sky.
Xibalba, the Underworld, was ruled by Lords who embodied very different knowledge and values. They were upset with the noise of the ball game, so they issued an invitation to the boys to play a game against them in the bowels of the Underworld, with the intention of killing them. The boys politely accepted. After an arduous trip to Xibalba, the twins were asked their names, which they politely gave the Lords. The Maya believe that once someone knows your name, he knows you and your thoughts. This allowed the Lords to victimize the boys with many trials and humiliations before the ball game itself which, of course, was rigged in favor of the Lords. After losing the game, the twins were decapitated and their bodies buried under the surface of the ball court, except for the head of One Hunahpu which was hung on a calabash tree at the entrance of Xibalba as a warning. The story of these first twins reveals the failure of purely spiritual beings to bring their evolution to more material levels. They would need a sphere full of desires and free will to continue their slow descent on the downward arc of evolution, as the next story in the Popol Vuh, concerning the hero twins Hunahpu and Ixbalamque, seems to indicate.
After the head of One Hunahpu was hung on the calabash tree, Blood Woman, the virgin daughter of one of the Lords of Xibalba, heard the story and was curious about the skull. One day she wandered around the tree and tried to touch the skull, which spat on her hand. Thus, without her knowledge, she became pregnant. As time went by, her pregnancy became obvious, so her father questioned her angrily, fearing dishonor for him and his family. She truthfully answered that she had been with no man and cried her innocence in vain. Maya social customs were very strict in regard to sexual conduct; her father ordered two of his servants to take her into the woods and bring back her heart in a container. The
servants took her to the edge of Xibalba, but decided to let her go. They put a red fruit and red sap in the container and took it to their master instead.
Blood Woman now knew that One Hunahpu was the father of her children, and she went to his home and pleaded with his mother Ixmucane, explaining that she was carrying her grandchildren. Ixmucane did not believe her, but finally accepted her as the household servant, giving her the most miserable tasks to do until she bore male twins, Hunahpu and Ixbalamque. The grandmother rejoiced in the twins and tried to protect them as they grew into youngsters with exceptional powers. She hid the ballgame gear that had belonged to their father and uncle because she blamed the game for their early demise.
The hero twins, however, were not as innocent as their father. They had acquired some of the cunning qualities of the Underworld through their mother’s line, while retaining their father’s and uncle’s power and knowledge, somewhat magnified by curiosity. Known for their intelligence and heroic virtues, they performed many acts for the benefit of the Cha-Chan, their imperfect world of chaos. For example, they separated the future humanity from the monkeys by sending their own half-brothers into the trees. They punished Itzam Ye (Venus), a boisterous bird with bright plumage who committed the sin of pride by boasting that he was the Sun. They killed Itzam Ye’s two sons who were wreaking havoc in the world of matter by “moving and squashing mountains.” They revived the 400 boys and set them in the sky as the Pleiades. Finally they discovered their father’s ballgame gear and played noisily, moving celestial bodies to their proper places, the ball game being an allegory for these movements.

Hunahpu shoots Itzam-Yeh (from a Maya vase painting)
The Lords of Xibalba were disturbed by the noise, as they had been before, and invited the hero twins to the Underworld for a game in which the winners would take all and the losers would lose their lives. But these were not the innocent creatures who had gone before them; they were successful in avoiding all the traps that the Xibalbans prepared for them before the game. During the game itself, after solving many schemes and enduring the Lords’ bad calls, they seemed to give up. Convincing the Lords that the only way to kill them was by grinding their bones and throwing the powder into the river, they held hands and jumped into a fire. The Lords pulled out their bones, ground them up, and threw the fine grains into the river. From the powdered bone emerged a pair of catfish — perhaps a suggestion that all life on earth started in water. Following the path of evolution, eventually the catfish were transformed into two small boys who became performing magicians.
The Lords of Xibalba heard about the tricks performed by the youngsters and invited them to the Underworld for their entertainment. They urged the youngsters to perform their most difficult feats: after a house was burned with one of them inside, it suddenly appeared as if nothing had happened. Then the youngsters, seeming eager to please the Lords, did the following: one of them cut the other in pieces and threw the parts into the air, where they disappeared. After a long pause the twin materialized unharmed, to the amazement of the Lords. The principal Lord, wishing to show off his daring in front of his vassals, begged the twins to perform the trick on him. The twins agreed most willingly. After dismembering the Lord, they did the same with the other Lords, but none returned alive after their limbs and bodies were thrown into the air. After thus defeating them, the twins put several conditions on the return of the Lords, which were irrevocably accepted. The twins returned the Lords unharmed, and all agreed to many restrictions, such as no longer intentionally harming other beings, although they were allowed random acts such as storms, famine, and floods, but only impersonally and when absolutely necessary. The Lords also promised to live in the Underworld without ever stepping on the earth’s surface.
The twins ordered the Lords to reveal the burial site of their father and uncle so that they could bring them back to life. The Lords revealed that they were buried under the floor of the ball court, which by extension represents the earth’s surface. The boys exhumed the corpses and prepared a magic ritual that brought both of them back to life. At this point there is a significant event: the twins asked their father and uncle the names of various parts of the body, and they could not identify some of them. This passage seems to indicate that they were from a former race and that even their physical forms were different, perhaps lacking some of the physical or mental capacities that had evolved since their demise. At this point the hero twins decided that their ancestors were not fit to live in the current world, but being deities of their own race, they were reburied with great respect, and the twins built a temple so they could be properly worshipped.
As soon as the temple was completed on the floor of the ball court, the Tree of the World erupted from the bowels of Xibalba, breaking through the ball court floor, pushing Xibalba down with its roots, pushing the sky above the world of matter with its branches, and leaving the world of matter between the Underworld and the Heavens. Cha-Chan, the flat heavens, was no more, as the third dimension was born from that creation. Now there were different regions — spiritual, material, and underworld — connected only through the World Tree whose roots are in the Underworld, its branches in the world of matter, and its crown in the spiritual realm of the Heavens. The ancestral twin One Hunahpu ascended to become the Sun, while his brother Seven Hunahpu became the Moon.

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FALLEN ART feat. Fanfare Ciocarlia

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Rilke: Winter Afternoons…

Going Blind
She sat just like the others at the table.

But on second glance, she seemed to hold her cup

a little differently as she picked it up.

She smiled once. It was almost painful.
And when they finished and it was time to stand

and slowly, as chance selected them, they left

and moved through many rooms (they talked and laughed),

I saw her. She was moving far behind
the others, absorbed, like someone who will soon

have to sing before a large assembly;

upon her eyes, which were radiant with joy,

light played as on the surface of a pool.
She followed slowly, taking a long time,

as though there were some obstacle in the way;

and yet: as though, once it was overcome,

she would be beyond all walking, and would fly.

—

Night

Night. O you whose countenance, dissolved

in deepness, hovers above my face.

You who are the heaviest counterweight

to my astounding contemplation.
Night, that trembles as reflected in my eyes,

but in itself strong;

inexhaustible creation, dominant,

enduring beyond the earth’s endurance;
Night, full of newly created stars that leave

trails of fire streaming from their seams

as they soar in inaudible adventure

through interstellar space:
how, overshadowed by your all-embracing vastness,

I appear minute!—

Yet, being one with the ever more darkening earth,

I dare to be in you.

—

Sacrifice
How my body blooms from every vein

more fragrantly, since you appeard to me;

look, I walk slimmer now and straighter,

and all you do is wait-:who are you then?
Look: I feel how I’m moving away,

how I’m shedding my old life, leaf by leaf.

Only your smile spreads like sheer stars

over you and, soon now, over me.
Whatever shines through my childhood years

still nameless and gleaming like water,

I will name after you at the altar,

which is blazing brightly from your hair

and braided gently with your breasts.
—

What Survives
Who says that all must vanish?

Who knows, perhaps the flight

of the bird you wound remains,

and perhaps flowers survive

caresses in us, in their ground.
It isn’t the gesture that lasts,

but it dresses you again in gold

armor -from breast to knees-

and the battle was so pure

an Angel wears it after you.

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“Sweetness”
Tom Middleton – “Shinkansen”

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“The modern picture of the artist began to form: The poor, but free spirit, plebeian but aspiring only to be classless, to cut himself forever free from the bonds of the greedy bourgeoisie, to be whatever the fat burghers feared most, to cross the line wherever they drew it, to look at the world in a way they couldn’t see, to be high, live low, stay young forever — in short, to be the bohemian.”

-Thomas Wolfe

Venis desde muy lejos mas esta lejania

que es para vuestra sangre que canta sin fronteras?

La necesaria muerte os nombra cada dia

no importa en que ciudades, campos o carreteras.
De este pais, del otro, del grande, del pequenyo

del que apenas se el mapa da un color desvaido

con las mismas raices que tiene un mismo suenyo

sencillamente anonimos y hablando habeis venido
No conoceis siquiera ni el color de los muros

que vuestra infranqueable compromiso amuralla

La tierra que os entierra la defendeis, seguros

a tiros con la muerte vestida de batalla.
Quedad que asi lo quieren los arboles, los llanos

las minimas partidas de luz que reanima

un solo sentimiento que el mar sacude: Hermanos!

Madrid con vuestro nombre se agranda y se ilumina.

-Rafael Alberti
In Translation:
You come from very far away.. But this distance,

What is it for you blood which sings without borders?

Necessary death names you each day,

no matter in which cities, fields, or highways.
From this country, from the other, from the large one, from the small one,

from the country to which the map barely gives its faded color,

with the same roots, sharing the same dream,

so simply anonymous and speaking out you have come.
You do not even know the color of the wall

that your insurmountable commitment fortifies

You defend the earth that buries you, secure

in a shoot out with death, dressed for battle.
Stay; this is how the trees, the plains,

and the smallest particles of light would want it – reviving

a single feeling that the sea tosses forth:Brothers!

Madrid, with your name, shines with greatness.
Rafael Alberti (trans. by V Waddick)

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Milton Wolff died this week. You probably have no idea who he was, or what he did… If there was ever a heroic personality, I think Milton might qualify…
From Brooklyn, at the age of 22, he went to Spain to fight for the Republic, and was the last commander of The Lincoln Brigade… at the age of 23. Milton claimed he only got the job because of two causes… Everyone above him had rotten luck and ended up being killed by the fascist. He also had a bull horn of a voice, that when he was shouting, could be heard over the din of battle. A commander was made. He led the brigade to their final battles before disbandment in 1938.
He was hounded for many years after by the right wing and the red hunters of the 40′s-50′s along with the other members of the Brigade that had come out of Spain, but he survived, and died at the age of 92 this week.
There is going to be a statue dedicated to the American Brigades at the end of March 2008 in San Francisco. Milton knew before he died that he would not be there. I pray some of you who are in the Bay Area would attend, and lay flowers to his memory, and for the others who gave so much to preserve liberty. One small act….
Here is to Milton, and to all the members of the Foreign Brigades….
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm

_____________
(Milton Wolff – Center)

(These are excerpts from Milton’s writings about the Spanish Civil War)
Excerpts from Another Hill
THEY CAME OFF THE SLOPE onto a dirt road, white in the light of the stars and level, and after the hours of climbing, it was like flying. The stars were close and moved with them, and Mitch thought they looked bigger and softer than he had ever seen them. Bigger than they had seemed in the night skies of the Alleghenies, where they had bristled like spikes of blue ice. He silently thanked President Roosevelt for the CCC’s where forestry in the Allegheny Mountains had conditioned him for the Pyrenees, though in 1933 he hadn’t known it would. Neither had FDR, who along with France’s Leon Blum and England’s Neville Chamberlain had closed the border and embargoed Republican Spain. Mitch’s passport, like those of all the others, was stamped NOT VALID FOR TRAVEL IN SPAIN. (p. 5)

—

Leo was conscious of the wetness between his legs and the warm lumps there. He had shitted himself and this gave him comfort. It took him back to his childhood, to his mama, to a warm bed in a warm room full of warm smells and the comforting warmth of shit between his legs.

He began to relax, the sun on his back easing the tension of his muscles. He heard the bullets whip overhead, but now he listened easily to the sounds around him. He heard a machine gun firing from behind, and every so often Murray would fire a round and then he heard the pull and slam of the bolt. He thought he heard the spent cartridges fall into the stubble. He was so close to the ground, almost part of it; his muscles, nerves, brain all gone limp and washed into the bittersweet smell of earth. (pp. 46-7)

—
Milton & Ernest Hemingway

“Something’s afoot,” Rolfe announced. He nodded toward the open door of the bathroom. “Who’s in there?”

“Eulalia, the gal who was with you and those other guys at Chicote the other night. It’s all right. She can’t hear and she doesn’t understand a word – well, not quite – of English.”

“Hemingway’s girl. He let you walk away with her.”

“He did?” Well, if he did, thank him for me; tell him it’s the best thing he’s done for La Causa as far as I’m concerned.”

“I’ll tell him,” Eddie laughed. “But there’s nothing else I can tell you except to get down to the Plaza de los Torres and grab a truck.”

“How much time?”

“You’re late now. Kiss her goodbye for me.” As he was leaving, he called over his shoulder, “The rent’s been taken care of.” (p. 59)

—

“Comrade Rogin.” He began slowly and calmly, but his tone sharpened and became more penetrating as he ticked off his points. “The penalty for desertion under fire is death. The penalty for dealing in the black market is death. The penalty for aiding and abetting in desertion is death. The penalty for buying and selling forged passports is death.” He had reached the extreme range of intensity in his voice before he paused. He let it sink in.

Leo stared at him, at the handsome face with planes that went slightly flat under the cheekbones, flat lips under a strong nose that also tended to flatten out, the elongated brown eyes staring intently at him.

Leo was incredulous. “Death?”

“Firing squad,” Serrota snapped.

Leo winced. “Oh, no. No, I’m a volunteer… a … a Communist. That’s ridiculous. No, you can’t. You don’t have to stare at me like that. I said I’m willing – What do you mean? What do you want?”

“We want you to realize the seriousness of your actions,” the man in the middle said.

“I do. I said I did. What more -”

He stopped as one of the men got up and went to the door. The man opened it and beckoned, and in came Sebastian, smiling, between two guards. A well-dressed civilian followed behind.

“Hello, Sebastian,” Leo forced a smile. “I’m in a little trouble -”

“I can see,” Sebastian used the English he had picked up from his customers. “I can see. And you want me in it for company, no?” (pp. 135-6)

—

“Hey Mitch! Hey, what happened?”

“Fuckin’ mud!” Mitch bent to scan his face. “Leo! What the hell are you doing here? Let me in out of this fuckin’ rain. When’d you get back? How the hell are you? This your hole?”

Mitch squirmed, fishing under his cape, and came out with a pipe which he stuffed from a Bull Durham sack and lit with a machero, sparks spraying in every direction.

“Goddamned dehydrated horseshit!” he cursed, pulling in sunken cheeks, the white of his teeth flashing as he drew his lips back with each puff.

Good Christ, the kid from Bensonhurst, Leo though, looks like a cadaver, a pirate, a roaring, fire-spouting dragon. But Leo was glad to see one of the men he had known from the bucolic days in Capestan here on this muddy plain somewhere near Huesca, wherever that was. He avoided Mitch’s questions and repeated his own instead: “What happened to Lyons? I saw you put him in the ambulance -”

“He had an accident, but – Oh, hell, everyone will know by morning if they don’t already. The stupid bastard was cleaning his pistol… a little bit of a thing… it went off… and powie! a neat little hole in his foot.”

In the dark Leo thought he saw a smile on Mitch’s face. “Powie!” Mitch repeated. “That sonofabitch has more bad luck than anyone I know.”

“Bad luck, what bad luck?”

“Aaagh!” Mitch said. “He’s been bucking for battalion commander ever since Tarazona. He finally gets it when Amlie chickens out at Belchite, and before he can take us into action, powie! Tough shit.”

Crowded and huddled as they were, they warmed the space under the poncho. The stink of mud that Castle had brought in combined with the smell of wet wool and the sharp reek of burning tobacco. They were silent for a moment and then Mitch asked again, “When’d you get back?”

“As soon as I got out of the hospital.” Leo wanted to bring the talk back to Lyons, away from himself. …

“Just back, huh?” Mitch leaned back. Leo could feel the wetness coming through the poncho where his humped shoulders pushed against it. “You got a ride out of Bruneté, didn’t you? That was in July. This is September or October, shit, I don’t know which. So where’ve you been all this time? What in hell’d you come back for?”

“What d’you mean? I was in the hospital. I was sick. You’re not spreading that rumor too?”

“No, I ain’t spreading nothing. I just listen.” Mitch twisted to a crouch in order to crawl out of the pup tent. “They sent me to a hospital too, only I didn’t go until the shooting was over. I came back the next day.” (pp. 104-5)

______________
Poetry Of The Spanish Civil War:

Self-Destroyers
Load upon load of bomb and shell

Shakes down the brick and stone and dust,

But what does all this ruin spell

When only brick and stone are crushed?

Beneath your storm of steel the town

Shivers, and sinks slowly down,

And you believe that hearts lie deep

With homes under the rubble heap!

Your loss is greater than your gain;

Men whose homes are here no longer

Spread the fever of their anger

Through the length and breadth of Spain.

A million hearts you have made stronger,

You have armed a million men.

What you destroy, shatter burn,

Are not the things that in their turn

Will strike you and your cannons dumb,

Is not the spirit in whose name

We built an army, and defied

Your steel, your thunder and your flame:

These cannot die till we have died.

You understand so little. You

Have more than walls to batter through –

Men

Such as your brutish heroes never knew

the way to overcome.
Miles Tomalin

—

Instructions From England
Note nothing of why or how, enquire

no deeper than you need

into what set these veins on fire,

note simply that they bleed.
Spain fought before and fights again,

better no question why;

note churches burned and popes in pain

but not the men who die.
Valentine Ackland

—
Bombing Casualties: Spain
Dolls’ faces are rosier but these were children

their eyes not glass but gleaming gristle

dark lenses in whose quicksilvery glances

the sunlight quivered. These blenched lips

were warm once and bright with blood

but blood

held in a moist bleb of flesh

not spilt and spatter’d in touseled hair.
In these shadowy tresses

red petals did not always

thus clot and blacken to a scar.
These are dead faces:

wasps’ nests are not more wanly waxen

wood embers not so grely ashen.
They are laid out in ranks

like paper lanterns that have fallen

after a night of riot

extinct in the dry morning air.
Herbert Read

—

A Song for the Spanish Anarchists
The golden lemon is not made

but grows on a green tree:

A strong man and his crystal eyes

is a man born free.
The oxen pass under the yoke

and the blind are led at will:

But a man born free has a path of his own

and a house on the hill
And man are men who till the land

and women are women who veave:

Fity men own the lemon grove

and no man is a slave.
Herbert Read

_________

In any circumstance good or bad, abandon

All hope from Buddhas and give up

All fears of suffering in Samsara.

Recognize that hope and fear are the

Magical display of your own mind

Of Primordial Purity.

Remain in the state where there is neither

Perceiver nor object of perception.

Let go into the immaculate space

Of Great Perfection beyond

Meditation or distractive disturbance.

– Tibetan Scroll
In Memory of Anna Marly…..

Leonard Cohen – Performing Anna Marlys’ ‘The Partisan”

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I came in from working all day in the cold, ear-ache and throat working overtime, but it was glorious, Beautiful Sun, and a gentle North West breeze… I will take the physical bs for the beauty…
Morgan stopped by our work-site, he was in a fine mood, back from visiting his lady friend back in Vermont and Maine….
This edition was brought about by Lo talking about Leonard Cohen the other day…. So without further ado….
On The Menu:

Zen Quotes

Leonard Cohen – The Gypsy Wife

Poetry: Leonard Cohen…

Assorted Images… Songs… Poems…
Blessings,
Gwyllm

Zen Quotes:
The clouds of sunset

Gather in the western sky,

And over the silent silvery Han

Rises a white jade moon.

Not often does life

Bring such beauty.

Where shall I see the moon

Next year?

– Su T’ung-Po (1037-1101)

—

The Way is vast and without favor.

The all-empty Tao is profound.

With an empty heart,

Its nature is easily learned,

Though its power encompasses the cosmos.

With its wisdom one may discern

Life’s great mysteries,

So that the heart may becomes pure

As the throne of the immortals.

– Loy Ching-Yuen (1873-1960)

—

The wind is the breath of heaven and earth.

Into every corner it unfolds and reaches;

Without choosing between high or low,

Exalted or humble, it touches everywhere.

– Song Yu (290-223 BCE)

—

Listening to Snow

Cold night, no wind, bamboo making noises,

Noises far apart, now bunched together,

Filtering the pine-flanked lattice.

Listening with ears is less fine

Than listening with the mind.

Beside the lamp I lay

Aside the half scroll of sutra

– Daito

—

Where subject and object are realized

As a single sphere

Happiness and sorrow mingle as one

Whatever circumstances I encounter,

I am free in the blissful realm

Of self-awakening Wisdom

– Milarepa

—

There is no help in changing

Your environment.

The obstacle is the mind,

Which must be overcome,

Whether at home or in the forest.

If you can do it in the forest,

Why not in the home?

Therefore, why change the environment?

– Ramana Maharshi

—

Evening mountains veiled in somber mist,

One path entering the wooded hill:

The monk has gone off, locking his pine door.

From a bamboo pipe a lonely trickle of water flows.

– Ishikawa Jozan (1583-1672)

____________
Leonard Cohen – The Gypsy Wife

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_________
Poetry: Leonard Cohen

Waiting for Marianne from “Flowers for Hitler”
I have lost a telephone

with your smell in it
I am living beside the radio

all the stations at once

but I pick out a Polish lullaby

I pick it out of the static

it fades I wait I keep the beat

it comes back almost alseep
Did you take the telephone

knowing I’d sniff it immoderately

maybe heat up the plastic

to get all the crumbs of your breath
and if you won’t come back

how will you phone to say

you won’t come back

so that I could at least argue

—
Leonard Cohen – A Thousand kisses deep

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—
Millennium from “Flowers for Hitler”
This could be my little

book about love

if I wrote it–

but my good demon said:

‘Lay off documents!’

Everybody was watching me

burn my books–

I swung my liberty torch

happy as a gestapo brute;

the only thing I wanted to save

was a scar

a burn or two–

but my good demon said:

‘Lay off documents!

The fire’s not important!’

The pile was safely blazing.

I went home to take a bath.

I phoned my grandmother.

She is suffering from arthritis.

‘Keep well,’ I said, ‘don’t mind the pain.’

‘You neither,’ she said.

Hours later I wondered

did she mean

don’t mind my pain

or don’t mind her pain?

Whereupon my good demon said:

‘Is that all you can do?’

Well was it?

Was it all I could do?

There was the old lady

eating alone, thinking about

Prince Albert, Flanders Field,

Kishenev, her fingers too sore

for TV knobs;

but how could I get there ?

The books were gone

my address lists–

My good demon said again:

‘Lay off documents!

You know how to get there!’

And suddenly I did!

I remembered it from memory!

I found her

pouring over the royal family tree,

‘Grandma,’

I almost said,

‘you’ve got it upside down–’

‘Take a look,’ she said,

‘it only goes to George V.’

‘That’s far enough

you sweet old blood!’

‘You’re right!’ she sang

and burned the

London Illustrated Souvenir

I did not understand

the day it was

till I looked outside

and saw a fire in every

window on the street

and crowds of humans

crazy to talk

and cats and dogs and birds

smiling at each other!

—

Leonard Cohen – If it be your will

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—

Story Of Isaac
The door it opened slowly,

my father he came in,

I was nine years old.

And he stood so tall above me,

his blue eyes they were shining

and his voice was very cold.

He said, “I’ve had a vision

and you know I’m strong and holy,

I must do what I’ve been told.”

So he started up the mountain,

I was running, he was walking,

and his axe was made of gold.

Well, the trees they got much smaller,

the lake a lady’s mirror,

we stopped to drink some wine.

Then he threw the bottle over.

Broke a minute later

and he put his hand on mine.

Thought I saw an eagle

but it might have been a vulture,

I never could decide.

Then my father built an altar,

he looked once behind his shoulder,

he knew I would not hide.

You who build these altars now

to sacrifice these children,

you must not do it anymore.

A scheme is not a vision

and you never have been tempted

by a demon or a god.

You who stand above them now,

your hatchets blunt and bloody,

you were not there before,

when I lay upon a mountain

and my father’s hand was trembling

with the beauty of the word.

And if you call me brother now,

forgive me if I inquire,

“Just according to whose plan?”

When it all comes down to dust

I will kill you if I must,

I will help you if I can.

When it all comes down to dust

I will help you if I must,

I will kill you if I can.

And mercy on our uniform,

man of peace or man of war,

the peacock spreads his fan.

_________

The problem is, if god is dead, then you lose the most important word in your language and you will need a substitute. God was one end, one extreme, and when one extreme disappears from your mental vision the necessary and inevitable is that you will fall to the other extreme, and that is what has happened… Instead of god, fuck has become the most important word in our language.—Osho, Strange Consequences

I awoke this morning at 4:20… 80) I know, I know…) wrapped in a dream, no a vision. Ever woken up to find yourself in a natural altered state? Hard to describe, this many hours on, but it was in the middle of a toss of I-Ching coins, with the universe spinning around within a chamber filled with beings. I woke up, promised myself I would remember everything, and I did, until I awoke from another dream where I was in a hotel in Northern Pakistan, holding a conversation with a Sufi master disguised as an inn-keeper one moment, and then various other characters following.. Ah… sleeping… not as safe or somber as one would expect. I found that a couple of hours having such altered mindscapes reveals the multiplicity of accessible states. You don’t need drugs, meditation, or any technique except what is already there inside awaiting to be revealed…
Editing the next issue of The Invisible College at this point, and getting closer, yes…. closer.
Warm Regards,
Gwyllm
On The Menu:

Quotes: Osho…

The MaryJane Links…

Michael Stearns – Planetary Unfolding

Coyote A Chippewa Legend

Poetry: William Butler Yeats For A Mid-Week Read…

Art: Helen Of Troy…

_________
The MaryJane Links…
Landlords Of Medical Cannabis Centers Threatened With Real Estate Forfeiture

Woman’s creative cannabis concealment causes concern during arrest

Minneapolis officers raid innocent family’s home, trade fire with frightened dad; no injuries

_________
MICHAEL STEARNS – PLANETARY UNFOLDING

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________
“Experience life in all possible ways –

good-bad, bitter-sweet, dark-light,

summer-winter. Experience all the dualities.

Don’t be afraid of experience, because

the more experience you have, the more

mature you become.”

-Osho

________

Coyote A Chippewa Legend
Coyote was walking along a lake and saw a flock of ducks, which put him in the mood for a good duck dinner. So he stuffed a bag full of grass and walked past the ducks, stepping lively and singing a catchy tune.
“Where are you going?” asked one of the ducks.
“I am going to a circle,” replied Coyote.
“What’s in the bag?” asked the duck.
“Songs that I am bringing to the circle,” replied Coyote.
“Oh, please sing your songs for us,” the ducks all said.
“I’m very busy”
“Please, please, please, please ….”
“I’m running late …”
“Please, please, please, please….”
“Oh, alright. I’ll sing a song for you, but I need your help. All of you stand in three lines. The fattest ones in the front, those in the middle who are neither fat nor thin, and the thin ones in back. All of you close your eyes and dance and sing as loud as you can. Don’t anyone open your eyes or stop singing, because my songs are very powerful and if you do that you may go blind! Is everyone ready?”
“We are!” replied the ducks, and they fell into lines and began dancing and singing along with Coyote’s tune.
Coyote moved up and down the line, thumping the ducks on the head and stuffing them into his bag. The ducks were singing and dancing so hard that no one could hear the thumps or know what was happening.
This would have gone on till none were left, if not for one scraggly duck in the back who opened his eyes and saw what was going on. “Hey, he’s going to get us all!” cried the scraggly one.
At this, the other surviving ducks opened their eyes and made their getaway.
Coyote wasn’t too upset; he already had a lot of ducks in his bag. He went home and ate good for a good while.
The ducks went home and mourned their dead, and gave thanks to The Great Duck that one of them had been wise enough to open his eyes, and that the rest of them had been wise enough to listen to the one who gave warning.

_______
“Infinite emptiness will be mirrored

: two mirrors facing each other . But

if you have some idea, then you will

see your own idea in me.”

– Osho

_______

Poetry: William Butler Yeats For A Mid-Week Read…
TO A CHILD DANCING IN THE WIND

Dance there upon the shore;

What need have you to care

For wind or water’s roar?

And tumble out your hair

That the salt drops have wet;

Being young you have not known

The fool’s triumph, nor yet

Love lost as soon as won,

Nor the best labourer dead

And all the sheaves to bind.

What need have you to dread

The monstrous crying of wind?

—
WHEN HELEN LIVED
We have cried in our despair

That men desert,

For some trivial affair

Or noisy, insolent sport,

Beauty that we have won

From bitterest hours;

Yet we, had we walked within

Those topless towers

Where Helen walked with her boy,

Had given but as the rest

Of the men and women of Troy,

A word and a jest.

—
THE SORROW OF LOVE
The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,

The full round moon and the star-laden sky,

And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,

Had hid away earth’s old and weary cry.

And then you came with those red mournful lips,

And with you came the whole of the world’s tears,

And all the sorrows of her labouring ships,

And all the burden of her myriad years.

And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,

The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,

And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves

Are shaken with earth’s old and weary cry.

_______
The heart knows nothing of the past,

nothing of the future; it knows only of the

present. The heart has no time concept.”

-Osho

_______

On The Menu:

One Year!

The Story Of The Sage of Herat

Yunus Emre Poetry…

Art: Gustave Moreau

________
One Year!
Andrew, Catherine, & Eildon

This time last year, Catherine had delivered Eildon to the wide and wandering world…
We went to his first Birthday party tonight, and he was having quite a bit of fun. He had two lively playmates, Kelrith, and Ivy… sweet little ones!
He tore open some packages, had some cake, and generally charmed everyone.
It is truly amazing to see how much children grow from their first day to their first year. Here is to the little Guy! Happy B-day Eildon!
— —- — —- — —- — —-
The Story Of The Sage of Herat:

It has been told, that during the reign of Sultan Mahmud of Ghazna, there lived a certain Haidar Ali Jan. His father, Iskandar Khan, wanted to gain the patronage of the Sultan, so he sent Haidar Ali away to study spirituality under the guidance of a well known sage.
After Haidar Ali had mastered various exercises and spiritual recitals, taught in the Sufi schools, his father took him before Sultan Mahmud.
“Mighty Sultan Mahmud,” said Iskandar Khan, “I have had my eldest and most intelligent son specially trained in the ways of the Sufi, so that he might be given a good position in your court, knowing that you are a patron of learning!”
Sultan Mahmud did not look up, but just said, “Bring him back in a year!”
Slightly disappointed, but maintaining high hopes, Iskandar Khan sent Haidar Ali to study the works of the great Sufis of the past and to visit the shrines of the ancient masters, so that he would be better prepared the following year.
The next year, when he took Haidar Ali back to Sultan Mahmud’s court, he said, “Your Majesty, my son has covered long and difficult journeys and is now more knowledgeable in Sufi history and classical spiritual exercises. Please have him tested, so it can be proven that he will be a wonderful asset to your court.”
“Let him,” said Sultan Mahmud without hesitation, “return after another year!”
Over the next twelve months, Haidar Ali crossed the Amu Darya river and visited Bukhara and Samarqand, Qasr-i-Arifin and Tashkent, Dushambe and the turbats of the Sufi saints of Turkestan.
When he returned to the court, Sultan Mahmud of Ghazna took one look at him and said, “He may care to come back after a year!”
Haidar Ali made the pilgrimage to Mecca that year. He then traveled to India and in Persia he consulted rare books and never missed an opportunity to seek out and pay his respects to the great dervishes of the time.
When he returned to Ghazna, Sultan Mahmud said to him, “Now select a sheikh (teacher) if he will have you, and come back in a year!”
Another year was over and Iskandar Khan prepared to take his son to the court, however, this time Haidar Ali showed no interest in going before the Sultan. He sat at the feet of his sheikh in Herat and nothing that his father could say would move him.
“I have wasted my time and money, and my son has failed the tests imposed by Sultan Mahmud,” Iskandar Khan cried to his family and friends. He decided to abandoned his great plans for Haidar Ali and left him alone with his sheikh.
The day preset day for Haidar Ali to present himself at the court came and went. Sultan Mahmud said to his courtiers, “Prepare for a journey to Herat, for there is someone in that city I have to meet.”
When Sultan Mahmud’s entourage entered Herat to the sound of drums and trumpets, Haidar Ali and his sheikh were sitting in a garden sanctuary near by. Sultan Mahmud and his courtier Ayaz, approached the sanctuary and took off their shoes in respect.
“Welcome, Sultan Mahmud,” said the Sufi sheikh, and he pointed to Haidar Ali and said, “Here is the man who was nothing while he was a visitor at your court, but now, he is worthy of a visit from a king. Take him as your Sufi counselor, for he is ready!”

__________

Yunus Emre Poetry…

Dervishood
Dervishood tells me, you cannot become a dervish

So what can I tell you? You cannot become a dervish.
A dervish needs a wounded heart and eyes full of tears.

He needs to be as easy going as a sheep.

You can’t be a dervish.
He must be without hands when someone hits him.

He must be tongueless when cursed.

A dervish needs to be without any desire.

You can’t be a dervish.
You make a lot of sounds with your tongue, meaningful things.

You get angry about this and that.

You can’t be a dervish.
If it were all right to be angry on this path,

Muhammad himself would have gotten angry.

Because of your anger, you can’t be a dervish.
Unless you find a real path, unless you find a guide,

unless Truth grants you your portion,

you can’t be a dervish.
Therefore, dervish Yunus, come,

dive into the ocean now and then.

Unless you dive in the ocean, you cannot be a dervish.

The drink sent down from Truth,

we drank it, glory be to God.

And we sailed over the Ocean of Power,

glory be to God.
Beyond those hills and oak woods,

beyond those vineyards and gardens,

we passed in health and joy, glory be to God.
We were dry, but we moistened,

We grew wings and became birds,

we married one another and flew,

glory be to God.
To whatever lands we came,

in whatever hearts, in all humanity,

we planted the meanings Taptuk taught us,

glory be to God.
Come here, let’s make peace,

let’s not be strangers to one another.

We have saddled the horse

and trained it, glory be to God.
We became a trickle that grew into a river.

We took flight and dove into the sea,

and then we overflowed, glory be to God.
We came down to the valley for winter,

we did some good and some bad things.

Now it’s spring and we’ll return, glory be to God.
We became servants at Taptuk’s door.

Poor Yunus, raw and tasteless,

finally got cooked, glory be to God.

—

A single word can brighten the face
A single word can brighten the face

of one who knows the value of words.

Ripened in silence, a single word

acquires a great energy for work.
War is cut short by a word,

and a word heals the wounds,

and there’s a word that changes

poison into butter and honey.
Let a word mature inside yourself.

Withhold the unripened thought.

Come and understand the kind of word

that reduces money and riches to dust.
Know when to speak a word

and when not to speak at all.

A single word turns the universe of hell

into eight paradises.
Follow the Way. Don’t be fooled

by what you already know. Be watchful.

Reflect before you speak.

A foolish mouth can brand your soul.
Yunus, say one last thing

about the power of words –

Only the word “I”

divides me from God.

—

The drink sent down from Truth
The drink sent down from Truth,

we drank it, glory be to God.

And we sailed over the Ocean of Power,

glory be to God.
Beyond those hills and oak woods,

beyond those vineyards and gardens,

we passed in health and joy, glory be to God.
We were dry, but we moistened.

We grew wings and became birds,

we married one another and flew,

glory be to God.
To whatever lands we came,

in whatever hearts, in all humanity,

we planted the meanings Taptuk taught us,

glory be to God.
Come here, let’s make peace,

let’s not be strangers to one another.

We have saddled the horse

and trained it, glory be to God.
We became a trickle that grew into a river.

We took flight and drove into the sea,

and then we overflowed, glory be to God.
We became servants at Taptuk’s door.

Poor Yunus, raw and tasteless,

finally got cooked, glory be to God.

—

The lover is outcast and idle
My soul,

the way of the masters

is thinner than the thinnest.

What blocked Solomon’s way was an ant.
Night and day the lover’s

tears never end,

tears of blood,

remembering the Beloved.
“The lover is outcast and idle,”

they used to tell me.

It’s true.

It happened to me.
I tried to make sense of the Four Books,

until love arrived,

and it all became a single syllable.
You who claim to be dervishes

and to never do what God forbids –

the only time you’re free of sin

is when you’re in His hands.
Two people wer talking.

One said, “I wish I could see this Yunus.”

“I’ve seen him,” the other says,

“He’s just another old lover.”