Gwyllm.com

Off to work… Last day for this temp job. I am thankful that the work popped up. Good people out there, and love shows itself in wondrous ways.

I am touching on voices of Catalan today with Turfing. A lovely part of the world, and unique in so many ways. The poets… the poets… and the music that has come out of those coastlines and hills.

Anyway, the weekend is here, and there are projects I must get on with. I hope you have a good one, and remember to share in the beauty of this life with your loved ones and friends.

Have a good day!

Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

The Quotes

A wee bit of Guitar

A Fairytale from Catalan:The Water Of Life

A Voice Of Catalan: The Poetry Of Agustí Bartra

Art: Selkies and Mermaids….

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The Quotes:

“The surest way to make a monkey of a man is to quote him.”

“Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance.”

“I detest life-insurance agents; they always argue that I shall some day die, which is not so.”

“Posterity is as likely to be wrong as anyone else.”

“In my many years I have come to a conclusion that one useless man is a shame, two is a law firm, and three or more is a congress.”

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From Catalan:The Water Of Life

Three brothers and one sister lived together in a small cottage, and they loved one another dearly. One day the eldest brother, who had never done anything but amuse himself from sunrise to sunset, said to the rest, ‘Let us all work hard, and perhaps we shall grow rich, and be able to build ourselves a palace.’

And his brothers and sister answered joyfully, ‘Yes, we will all work!’

So they fell to working with all their might, till at last they became rich, and were able to build themselves a beautiful palace; and everyone came from miles round to see its wonders, and to say how splendid it was. No one thought of finding any faults, till at length an old woman, who had been walking through the rooms with a crowd of people, suddenly exclaimed, ‘Yes, it is a splendid palace, but there is still something it needs!’

‘And what may that be?’

‘A church.’

When they heard this the brothers set to work again to earn some more money, and when they had got enough they set about building a church, which should be as large and beautiful as the palace itself.

And after the church was finished greater numbers of people than ever flocked to see the palace and the church and vast gardens and magnificent halls.

But one day, as the brothers were as usual doing the honours to their guests, an old man turned to them and said, ‘Yes, it is all most beautiful, but there is still something it needs!’

‘And what may that be?’

‘A pitcher of the water of life, a branch of the tree the smell of whose flowers gives eternal beauty, and the talking bird.’

‘And where am I to find all those?’

‘Go to the mountain that is far off yonder, and you will find what you seek.’

After the old man had bowed politely and taken farewell of them the eldest brother said to the rest, ‘I will go in search of the water of life, and the talking bird, and the tree of beauty.’

‘But suppose some evil thing befalls you?’ asked his sister. ‘How shall we know?’

‘You are right,’ he replied; ‘ I had not thought of that!’

Then they followed the old man, and said to him, ‘My eldest brother wishes to seek for the water of life, and the tree of beauty, and the talking bird, that you tell him are needful to make our palace perfect. But how shall we know if any evil thing befall him?’

So the old man took them a knife, and gave it to them, saying, ‘Keep this carefully, and as long as the blade is bright all is well; but if the blade is bloody, then know that evil has befallen him.’

The brothers thanked him, and departed, and went straight to the palace, where they found the young man making ready to set out for the mountain where the treasures he longed for lay hid.

And he walked, and he walked, and he walked, till he had gone a great way, and there he met a giant.

‘Can you tell me how much further I have still to go before I reach that mountain yonder?’

‘And why do you wish to go there?’

‘I am seeking the water of life, the talking bird, and a branch of the tree of beauty.’

‘Many have passed by seeking those treasures, but none have ever come back; and you will never come back either, unless you mark my words. Follow this path, and when you reach the mountain you will find it covered with stones. Do not stop to look at them, but keep on your way. As you go you will hear scoffs and laughs behind you; it will be the stones that mock. Do not heed them; above all, do not turn round. If you do you will become as one of them. Walk straight on till you get to the top, and then take all you wish for.’

The young man thanked him for his counsel, and walked, and walked, and walked, till he reached the mountain. And as he climbed he heard behind him scoffs and jeers, but he kept his ears steadily closed to them. At last the noise grew so loud that he lost patience, and he stooped to pick up a stone to hurl into the midst of the clamour, when suddenly his arm seemed to stiffen, and the next moment he was a stone himself!

That day his sister, who thought her brother’s steps were long in returning, took out the knife and found the blade was red as blood. Then she cried out to her brothers that something terrible had come to pass.

‘I will go and find him,’ said the second. And he went. And he walked, and he walked, and he walked, till he met the giant, and asked him if he had seen a young man travelling towards the mountain.

And the giant answered, ‘Yes, I have seen him pass, but I have not seen him come back. The spell must have worked upon him.’

‘Then what can I do to disenchant him, and find the water of life, the talking bird, and a branch of the tree of beauty?’

‘Follow this path, and when you reach the mountain you will find it covered with stones. Do not stop to look at them, but climb steadily on. Above all, heed not the laughs and scoffs that will arise on all sides, and never turn round. And when you reach the top you can then take all you desire.’

The young man thanked him for his counsel, and set out for the mountain. But no sooner did he reach it than loud jests and gibes broke out on every side, and almost deafened him. For some time he let them rail, and pushed boldly on, till he had passed the place which his brother had gained; then suddenly he thought that among the scoffing sounds he heard his brother’s voice. He stopped and looked back; and another stone was added to the number.

Meanwhile the sister left at home was counting the days when her two brothers should return to her. The time seemed long, and it would be hard to say how often she took out the knife and looked at its polished blade to make sure that this one at least was still safe. The blade was always bright and clear; each time she looked she had the happiness of knowing that all was well, till one evening, tired and anxious, as she frequently was at the end of the day, she took it from its drawer, and behold! the blade was red with blood. Her cry of horror brought her youngest brother to her, and, unable to speak, she held out the knife!

‘I will go,’ he said.

So he walked, and he walked, and he walked, until he met the giant, and he asked, ‘Have two young men, making for yonder mountain, passed this way?’

And the giant answered, ‘Yes, they have passed by, but they never came back, and by this I know that the spell has fallen upon them.’

‘Then what must I do to free them, and to get the water of life, and the talking bird, and the branch of the tree of beauty?’

‘Go to the mountain, which you will find so thickly covered with stones that you will hardly be able to place your feet, and walk straight forward, turning neither to the right hand nor to the left, and paying no heed to the laughs and scoffs which will follow you, till you reach the top, and then you may take all that you desire.’

The young man thanked the giant for his counsel, and set forth to the mountain. And when he began to climb there burst forth all around him a storm of scoffs and jeers; but he thought of the giant’s words, and looked neither to the right hand nor to the left, till the mountain top lay straight before him. A moment now and he would have gained it, when, through the groans and yells, he heard his brothers’ voices. He turned, and there was one stone the more.

And all this while his sister was pacing up and down the palace, hardly letting the knife out of her hand, and dreading what she knew she would see, and what she did see. The blade grew red before her eyes, and she said, ‘Now it is my turn.’

So she walked, and she walked, and she walked till she came to the giant, and prayed him to tell her if he had seen three young men pass that way seeking the distant mountain.

‘I have seen them pass, but they have never returned, and by this I know that the spell has fallen upon them.’

‘And what must I do to set them free, and to find the water of life, and the talking bird, and a branch of the tree of beauty?’

‘You must go to that mountain, which is so full of stones that your feet will hardly find a place to tread, and as you climb you will hear a noise as if all the stones in the world were mocking you; but pay no heed to anything you may hear, and, once you gain the top, you have gained everything.’

The girl thanked him for his counsel, and set out for the mountain; and scarcely had she gone a few steps upwards when cries and screams broke forth around her, and she felt as if each stone she trod on was a living thing. But she remembered the words of the giant, and knew not what had befallen her brothers, and kept her face steadily towards the mountain top, which grew nearer and nearer every moment. But as she mounted the clamour increased sevenfold: high above them all rang the voices of her three brothers. But the girl took no heed, and at last her feet stood upon the top.

Then she looked round, and saw, lying in a hollow, the pool of the water of life. And she took the brazen pitcher that she had brought with her, and filled it to the brim. By the side of the pool stood the tree of beauty, with the talking bird on one of its boughs; and she caught the bird, and placed it in a cage, and broke off one of the branches.

After that she turned, and went joyfully down the hill again, carrying her treasures, but her long climb had tired her out, and the brazen pitcher was very heavy, and as she walked a few drops of the water spilt on the stones, and as it touched them they changed into young men and maidens, crowding about her to give thanks for their deliverance.

So she learnt by this how the evil spell might be broken, and she carefully sprinkled every stone till there was not one left–only a great company of youths and girls who followed her down the mountain.

When they arrived at the palace she did not lose a moment in planting the branch of the tree of beauty and watering it with the water of life. And the branch shot up into a tree, and was heavy with flowers, and the talking bird nestled in its branches.

Now the fame of these wonders was noised abroad, and the people flocked in great numbers to see the three marvels, and the maiden who had won them; and among the sightseers came the king’s son, who would not go till everything was shown him, and till he had heard how it had all happened. And the prince admired the strangeness and beauty of the treasures in the palace, but more than all he admired the beauty and courage of the maiden who had brought them there. So he went home and told his parents, and gained their consent to wed her for his wife.

Then the marriage was celebrated in the church adjoining the palace. Then the bridegroom took her to his own home, where they lived happy for ever after.

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A Voice Of Catalan: The Poetry Of Agustí Bartra

(Barcelona, 1908 – Terrassa, 1982)

When, finally, there is nothing left…

When, finally, there is nothing left of me but my words

Perched like birds on the taut wires

Of spirits faithful to the hymns of life,

A hammer will cry out for the extinguished light.

The day will wear mimosa wreaths.

Perhaps there will be forgiveness on the ceaseless sea.

The sun will bear in its mouth, by the stem, its everlasting

And new voices will say the joy of water.

The wind will lay waste streetlights and statues.

Summer will wear its yellow smock

And the white cane of the blind will tap on grey cobblestones.

Among the jagged rocks and in foresta of souls

Orpheus will seduce the anonymous beast.

Full moons will come to make maidens shudder,

Those who await the advent of love amid cricket and acacia.

I will be faceless. In my ears of grass

Time will ring a bell made of stars…

February 7, 1978

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Like he who departs with the tide and twilight,

Like the rain that settles to sleep on the leaves of the willow,

Like the footfall of the lover toward his love who sighs,

Like the wind that transforms the listless face of water,

Like the conqueror who unites land and flag,

Like the frothy vowels of the laughing sea:

Thus, I would have you come to me, Poetry,

Bearing birds, bonfires, dreams and stars…

March 26, 1978

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Angel Of Light

Allow me to stand upon the earth once more,

Oh angel of light, as you draw wealth, aloft,

From change and the stubborn root that persists.

Let me be idle upon the living earth

And behold the birth of roads that take their start

Below the stars and near the eyes of water,

While my heart searches the song of the nightingtale

And interrogates the night that bows its head under mystery.

Allow me, smiling angel of return and balance,

To soar like a poplar, trembling all over with existence,

Toward the fountainhead of the rim of horizon where spring is born.

Touched by your fingers, let the smell of haylofts

Come to lie down, near me, as if beside its master.

Don’t leave me, angel, to the salary of charity

That suffering pays out as it lessens.

I am naked. And vulnerable to the diamond of day.

Let us go to ward the larks!

A red colt grazes.

The east comes, with the gull.

Oh angel of power among blind shapes,

Let me feel the titanic force

Of a blade of grass as it grows,

The prayer of the waters,

The enigma of fire.

Come, angel, accompany me with your necessary light.

Come, come, don’t leave me, luminous beauty,

Creation and solace,

Piety turned spirit.

Look, angel, deep in the Valley — Demeter sleeps; lying,

Solemn and vast, she makes a great gesture with her hand,

A gesture of protection and order, and all birds take flight,

And later, murmuring, she slowly changes position…

And the angel makes the Sign: the eternal circle.

Terrassa, March 25, 1982

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If I Don’t Have You…

If I don’t have you I stand alone,

Mutilated solitude.

Silence dressed in mourning

At the most fateful hour,

No laughter, no flight:

Start to count the eyes of dawn

And the birds in every flock.

If I don’t have you I stand alone

And my voice, a cavern.

If I don’t have you I stand alone,

A scarecrow on the edge of the fields.

I can no longer wear the sun,

No longer wear the cape of air,

I move about like the slow snail

That bears its house upon its back.

If I don’t have you I sand alone

And my voice, chimera.

If I don’t have you I stand alone

Like the tallest weather vane.

As you come up, path

Of sweetscented fatigue;

As you go down, brook

Of foamy riders,

Say along with me: if I stand alone

My voice is but despair.

If I don’t have you I stand alone

Like the Evening Star.

Sound, cosmic shawm,

As you strip me of fear

On days when the sky is in revolt,

And bring thimbles of water to my eyes.

If I don’t have you I stand alone

And my voice is crucified.

Terrassa, May 5, 1982

Our Lady of the Remedy Clinic

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Agustí Bartra (Barcelona, 1908 – Terrassa, 1982) was a poet, novelist, translator and playwright, one of several writers who had to go into exile because of the Spanish Civil War. In 1940, with the writer Anna Murià, he settled in Mexico where he worked as a translator. During this period he received grants that enabled him to make several trips to the United States, which he combined with intense literary activity, producing for example Antologia de la lírica nord-americana (Anthology of American Poetry, 1951). He returned to Catalonia in 1970 and went to live in Terrassa. Outstanding among his works are the novel Crist de 200.000 braços (Christ of 200,000 Arms, 1968) in which he describes the collective experience of the concentration camps, and his book of poems entitled Ecce homo (1968), which reflects his personal cosmology through the four elements: earth, fire, air and water.

Bartra’s poetry has traditionally been compared with that of Walt Whitman, but he also followed in the footsteps of German Romantic poets such as Novalis, Hölderlin and Rilke. The Generalitat (Government) of Catalonia rendered homage to Bartra and his work by awarding him the Creu de Sant Jordi (Saint George Cross).

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Kinda of a hefty Turf today… Best get your cuppa and sit back. Lots to digest, and to have fun with.

There is a fresh wind coming…. it looks like A Change In The Weather.

Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

John Bauer Biography

The Emperor

The Links

A Change in the Weather

Zen Koans

Poetry: The Mystical Poetry of Teixeira de Pascoaes

Art: The Fairy Art of John Bauer

John Bauer was born in Jonkoping, Sweden, in 1882, the third of four children born to Emma and Joseph Bauer. The loss of his sister Anna, two years his senior, who died when John was only 11, which affected his family very much. At 16, John went to Stockholm to begin his art studies. After two years, he was accepted at The Royal Academy of Art, where Classical Art classes, Anatomy, Perspective, and History of Art lectures comprised seven lecture hours, with overtime and drawing assignments at home. There he met his wife, Esther, whom he married in December, 1906. Esther was the model for The Fairy Princess and many of his later illustrations. In the spring of 1908, John and Esther traveled to Italy, settling in a villa above Volterra. They stayed in Italy for nearly two years. Bauer was stricken by the beauty of 14th century works he found in the museum of Naples, causing him to say “I notice more and more, that it is from the oldest and most primitive artists that one must learn to become an artist oneself”.

The details of John Bauer’s work are accurate — Bronze Age axes and medieval ironwork. The costumes in his fairy tales are modeled from books in found in the Royal Library. In 1904, he was commissioned to do a book about Lappland and spent a summer following the Lapps on their migrations. Some of the details of their dress are included in the costumes of his trolls.

His most famous work, the illustrations to the first of eight volumes of Bland tomtar och Troll (Among Gnomes and Trolls), a collection of fary tales written by Swedish authors, was published in 1907. It was hugely successful. In the early volumes, the illustrations were printed in grey tones only, sometimes with yellow color added. In the later volumes we find the famous examples of his mature work: Princess tuvstarr and Skutt the moose against the twilight sky. In the later volumes, his illustrations were printed in color.

In 1915, he resigned from the commission to illustrate BTT because he wanted to take his art in a different direction. He painted Adam and Eve, a fresco of St. Martin, a large oil painting on canvas, Freja. He suffered from depression, and doubted his abilities and purpose. By 1918, his marriage was on the rocks, divorce was being discussed, and the world was at war. The country house at Bjorkudden was too remote for Esther and a new home was built in Stockholm with assistance from John’s father. Esther and John, and their two-year old son, Bengt or Putte, hoped to start a new life in the new home in Stockholm. John distrusted trains and insisted that they return by ferry, but the Per Brahe capsized in stormy weather and all aboard drowned.

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Big Thanks To Morgan For This….

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The Links:

DNA clue to presidential puzzle

Roman descendants found in China?

Art sleuth looks for lost Da Vinci masterpiece

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A Change in the Weather

Progressive Dennis Kucinich takes over a new House subcommittee, signaling changes in national drug policy

~ By DEAN KUIPERS ~

~ The drug hawk’s worst nightmare: Kucinich’s hearings will raise a ruckus ~

The Democratic sweep in the 2006 mid-term elections has done more than finally install a woman as speaker of the House. It has also put one of the most vocal critics of the ill-starred “War on Drugs” in a position to affect federal drug policy. On January 18, Ohio Congressman and presidential candidate Dennis Kucinich, one of the most progressive Democratic voices in the House, was appointed as chair of the new House Government Reform and Oversight subcommittee on domestic policy, causing drug reform organizations coast-to-coast to rejoice in hopes that a moment for significant change may have finally come.

This subcommittee replaces the now-defunct Criminal Justice, Drug Policy, and Human Resources subcommittee, which was headed up by staunch drug warrior, Rep. Mark Souder (R-IN). Kucinich will assume many of his oversight duties, including policy oversight of the White House Office of National Drug Control Policy and appointed Drug Czar John Walters. One commentator on Stopthedrugwar.org crowed that “the responsibility of overseeing the ONDCP has effectively been transferred from Congress’s most reckless drug warrior to its most outspoken drug policy reformer” [his emphasis].

“He is certainly the polar opposite of his predecessor, Mark Souder,” says Allen St. Pierre, spokesman for the National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws, or NORML. “Since the time the [ONDCP] was created in 1988, there have always been friendly people in that subcommittee and the ONDCP has always been able to get what they want under the guise of protecting children and saving America from drugs. But Kucinich doesn’t believe any of that. Any of it!”

For instance, St. Pierre notes, Kucinich is a supporter of industrial hemp, the non-psychoactive product of the cannabis sativa plant. He is also a supporter of medical marijuana and of the federal rescheduling of marijuana, where it is currently illegal as a Schedule I drug, classified as having “no medical value.” This classification clashes with states such as California, which have legalized medical use of marijuana, and leads directly to the current rash of raids on medical marijuana dispensaries by the federal Drug Enforcement Agency. Kucinich is expected, St. Pierre says, to be a sponsor of a new bill to be introduced in March that would decriminalize pot.

Washington insiders, however, are not holding their breath for great upheaval in federal drug policy overall. Sources close to the appointment, who asked not to be named, say that Speaker Nancy Pelosi and other members of the Democratic leadership have effectively embargoed major crime or drug policy legislation for the next two years, to avoid looking soft on crime in the 2008 election.

Kucinich, however, is promising a couple years of entertaining and edifying hearings.

“We’re going to open up the discussion to new hearings,” says Kucinich, interviewed Sunday in Culver City, where he presented his bill for Universal Health Care, which is co-sponsored by Rep. John Conyers (D-MI). “We want to explore the federal government’s policies and the Department of Justice’s policies on medical marijuana, for example. We need to also look at the drug laws that have brought about mandatory minimum sentences that have put people in jail for long periods of time. I think it’s an appropriate time to look at the proliferation of drugs in America, and how that fits in with our health care crisis, and how that fits in with law enforcement.”

The ONDCP did not reply to several requests for comment. That office, however, which is a function of the executive branch, has been deeply involved in pushing heavy sentences for nonviolent drug offenders and resisting medical marijuana, buying big-money ad campaigns attacking marijuana in states trying to legalize at the state level. Controlling that ad money could be a key to reform. When asked if his subcommittee has any budget oversight or other muscle, Kucinich shook his head and added, “No, this committee does not have control of the budgets, but it does have control of the policy, and it can ask questions and get documents that others couldn’t get.”

That can make a difference, says Ethan Nadelmann, executive director of the Drug Policy Alliance, one of the nation’s biggest drug policy reform organizations. His group plans to push for incremental slices of legislation that can move a progressive agenda while not upsetting Democratic unity, adding that Kucinich can “hold hearings on some of the subjects that haven’t been addressed in, you know, decades. Like a hearing on America having the highest incarceration rate in the world. Or maybe a hearing on why the DEA has jurisdiction over medical issues.

“One can obviously empathize with the democratic leadership’s desire to be cautious when it comes to supporting drug policy reforms and other sentencing reforms,” he adds. “But when you have a growing number of Republicans supporting sentencing reform, this might be a good time for the Democrats to show a little leadership.”

In fact, several activists point out, the new Congress may be the most sympathetic to drug-law reform that America has ever seen. Progressives like Senator Richard Durbin and Reps. Pelosi, George Miller, Conyers, Barney Frank, Henry Waxman, Kucinich, and Bobby Scott have all turned up in leadership positions.

“If we had to pick out our 40 best friends in Congress, they’d be disproportionately in leadership positions,” says Nadelmann. He includes Sen. Patrick Leahy on that list, but cautions: “Mind you, seven years ago, Leahy said that sentencing reform was one of the top priorities, but now it’s not even a top-10 priority. Part of that’s because there’s so much other stuff to deal with.”

Still, action on several fronts is expected. Sentencing reform should get some attention, with an aim of reducing the number of non-violent drug offenders currently getting long prison sentences, which has given the U.S. the highest per-capita incarceration rate in the world. One such change would be to make sentences involving crack cocaine equal to those given for powdered cocaine, as community activists have long contended these simply punish the black and poor who are more likely to use the drug in the form of crack. Hearings might also bring new media scrutiny to decades-long marijuana rescheduling motions and several Data Quality Act petitions, which force bodies like the Food and Drug Administration to make decisions based on science rather than ideology, and which have been roundly ignored by the Bush administration.

St. Pierre points out another potential point of influence: High Intensity Drug Trafficking Areas, or HIDTAs. Congress funnels millions of dollars to local law enforcement for use in these areas, and activists have long argued they are wrongly prioritized.

“That’s a very obscure acronym, but when it comes down to the billions of dollars that get channeled out to local governments and their law enforcement, HIDTA is the battleground. That’s where Dennis can come in and say, ‘Mr. Walters, we the Congress, and, clearly, your own constituents want methamphetamines as the number one priority, not marijuana, and certainly not in the states that have medical marijuana laws.’ A couple of weeks ago, Walters was out in Fresno giving awards away for busting buyers’ clubs. Dennis can clip those wings. It all depends on how he’s going to want to pull the trigger.”

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Zen Koans

The Voice of Happiness

After Bankei had passed away, a blind man who lived near the master’s temple told a friend:

“Since I am blind, I cannot watch a person’s face, so I must judge his character by the sound of his voice. Ordinarily when I hear someone congratulate another upon his happiness or success, I also hear a secret tone of envy. When condolence is expressed for the misfortune of another, I hear pleasure and satisfaction, as if the one condoling was really glad there was something left to gain in his own world.

“In all my experience, however, Bankei’s voice was always sincere. Whenever he expressed happiness, I heard nothing but happiness, and whenever he expressed sorrow, sorrow was all I heard.”

—

Every-Minute Zen

Zen students are with their masters at least ten years before they presume to teach others. Nan-in was visited by Tenno, who, having passed his apprenticeship, had become a teacher. The day happened to be rainy, so Tenno wore wooden clogs and carried an umbrella. After greeting him Nan-in remarked: “I suppose you left your wodden clogs in the vestibule. I want to know if your umbrella is on the right or left side of the clogs.”

Tenno, confused, had no instant answer. He realized that he was unable to carry his Zen every minute. He became Nan-in’s pupil, and he studied six more years to accomplish his every-minute Zen.

—

Arresting the Stone Buddha

A merchant bearing fifty rolls of cotton goods on his shoulders stopped to rest from the heat of the day beneath a shelter where a large stone Buddha was standing. There he fell asleep, and when he awoke his goods had disappeared. He immediately reported the matter to the police.

A judge named O-oka opened court to investigate. “That stone Buddha must have stolen the goods,” concluded the judge. “He is supposed to care for the welfare of the people, but he has failed to perform his holy duty. Arrest him.”

The police arrested the stone Buddha and carried it into the court. A noisy croud followed the statue, curious to learn what kind of a sentence the judge was about to impose.

When O-oka appeared on the bench he rebuked the boisterous audience. “What right have you people to appear before the court laughing and joking in this manner? You are in contempt of court and subject to a fine and imprisonment.”

The people hastened to apologize. “I shall have to impose a fine on you,” said the judge, “but I will remit it provided each one of you brings one roll of cotton goods to the court within three days. Anyone failing to do this will be arrested.”

One of the rolls of cloth which the people brought was quickly recognized by the merchant as his own, and thus the thief was easily discovered. The merchant recovered his goods, and the cotton rolls were returned to the people.

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The Poetry: Teixeira de Pascoaes

Encounter

My living encounter with the humble

Things of Nature gives birth to souls,

Divine apparitions,

Which abstractly behold me from I don’t know where,

From I don’t know what unfamiliar place

Outside this space

In which trees and rocks appear.

I see specters, images of Mystery,

Fantastical figures,

Glowing outlines imprinted on the dusk,

Like so many omens. . .

Outlines of pallor emerging in the distance,

And sorrows that are fading portraits

Of unknown Divinities. . .

Statues of silence and melancholy

In the solitude of the hills. . .

Sphinxian postures in the desert,

The shadows of the Pyramids in the sun,

And Plato dragging his tunic of light

Among Egypt’s sad and solemn priests

Wearing vestments of dust and dead penumbras,

In temples of moonlight and petrified clouds. . .

I see before me fantastical presences,

Dreamed horizons that gird me

In a painful embrace! Dark birds that alight

On my brow, where night has fallen,

And winds that carry me through

Mists and lightning. . .

Already lost and dead, I’m no more

Than a human appearance,

Floating over the waves of emotion

That surge inside me like blood

From an open wound. . .

And I ride the waves, which spread

Over shores of snow and white foam,

In blue distances of endless clarity,

And in the nocturnal vagueness where stars

Emerge, like smiles of the devil. . .

I float on a lofty dream,

In heights of mystic splendor,

Where the white lily of moonlight opens.

I float on a lofty dream, in which I see

Myself as an indefinite being. . . The vast night,

Spreading over me its black wings,

Cannot hide me. My face,

Risen above the darkness,

Contemplates the divine Moon.

—

INDEFINITE SONG XXII

Fraternal things, cosmic memory

Of the divine hope

Which expands in an infinite thrust

And cools into forms of granite,

Earth and fire – beautiful brute forms!

And it kindles in the imperfect creature

(Humanized, embodied night)

Souls, which are intimate stars.

Of all its vast creation

The deepest and most vital inspiration

Leaves, in words of ink, the splendor of a verse.

So too hope, endlessly burning,

Following its ethereal course,

Leaves in space the forms of the Universe,

Smoky vestiges,

Mortal recollections of its divine being.

—

WIND OF THE SPIRIT

I felt a mysterious wind pass by

In a profound and cosmic whirl.

It took me in its arms; I avidly

Went; and I saw the Spirit of the World.

Earth’s solitary things, glowing

Like an unconscious gaze of night,

Like a tear’s dead light, felt none

Of that tragic gust, which ruffled

Only my soul! O lofty wind!

Wind of Prophecy and Exaltation!

Wind that blows in waves of mystery,

Stirring me up, making me ecstatic!

Strange wind, raging without touching

The tenderest flower! But it inflames

My entire being, causing it to give off

God’s light, love’s light, infinite light!

O wind that nothing resists except

An invisible shadow. . . A forest

Or rough stone is, for you, a wispy

Essence, and I am a rugged cliff.

At night, O crazy wind, you pound

My troubled soul, and a loud whoosh wraps it

And swoops it away; and so it passes

From life to life, and from death to death.

Wind that took me to I don’t know where. . .

But I know I went, and I saw close up,

Before my eyes, the burning mist that hides

God’s ghost, hovering over the desert!

And I also saw the hazy light

That loomed out of the darkness, enlightening

My heart, which soars beyond life,

Shedding its burden of tears.

That great wind overturned

My calm existence; and ancient sorrow

Drenched my mean and feeble body,

Like rain the tatters of a beggar woman.

In a great wind I went; I went and saw:

I saw God’s Shadow. And in that shadow

I lay down, ravished, and felt within me

The earth in bloom and the sky aglitter.

——

Teixeira de Pascoaes

[Portugal] 1877–1952

A mystic poet who felt profoundly connected to the humblest things and to the brightest stars, Teixeira de Pascoaes was born and died in the small town of Amarante, in northern Portugal, and led a relatively uneventful life. In 1896 he went to Coimbra to study law, though poetry and contemplation were his favorite endeavors. University life was, at the time, a rather boisterous affair, but Pascoaes kept out of student brawls and political rows, devoting himself to study and writing. He published his first three books of poems while at university (not counting the book, later repudiated, that he had published a year before arriving at Coimbra), and these already show his attraction to an idealized nature, to the darkly mysterious, to the vague and ethereal. He worked for a few years as a lawyer and a judge, but then retreated, as it were, into his inner life. He was by no means a recluse, however. His religiosity had a missionary side: Pascoaes became the chief apostle and theoretician of saudosismo.

Saudosismo was a movement that promulgated saudade as a national spiritual value that could have transformative power. Saudade means “longing, nostalgia, yearning” for something absent, but it is a feeling fraught with more emotional weight and affective intensity than corresponding words from English and other languages convey. Pascoaes gave this unique Portuguese word a philosophical and spiritual twist. In an article published in 1913, he wrote that “saudade is creation, a perpetual and fruitful marriage of Remembrance with Desire, of Evil with God, of Life with Death . . .”. And in a conference delivered that same year, he spoke of “the action of desire on remembrance and of remembrance on desire, the two intimate elements of saudade”, described elsewhere in the conference as “the perfect and living fusion of Nature and the Spirit”. Saudade was, in Pascoaes’ conception, a species of élan vital.

From 1910 to 1916, Pascoaes was editor of A Águia, an Oporto-based magazine that became the mouthpiece for the Renascença Portuguesa (Portuguese Renaissance), a movement of which saudosismo was part and parcel. It was by cultivating saudade, considered to be the defining characteristic of the ‘Portuguese soul’, that a national renaissance was supposed to take place. This signified not “a simple return to the Past” (wrote Pascoaes in A Águia in 1912) but a “return to the original wellsprings of life in order to create a new life”. To achieve this Renaissance he advocated, among other things, the establishment of a Portuguese Church, which could better accommodate the original spirit of the nation, part Christian but also part pagan.

The nationalist program of saudosismo is only latently felt in most of Pascoaes’ poetry, for his bent was predominantly spiritual, and in a lecture delivered in the last year of his life, he remarked: “Man does not belong only to society; he belongs, first and foremost, to the Cosmos. Society is not an end but a means for facilitating man’s mission on earth, which is to be the consciousness of the Universe.” This point of view informs virtually all of his poetry, which is, in large measure, a pantheistic celebration of life – not just life on earth, but also the life of the imagination and the universe. In the early poem ‘Poet’, he states that “I am, in the future, time past” – the embodiment, in effect, of saudade. He claims to be “a mountain cliff”, “an astral mist”, “a living mystery”, “God’s delirium”, and so on, which is why he also says, “I’m man fleeing from himself”. Not limited to his own body, he connects with the rest of reality, to the point of interpenetrating and becoming its other manifestations.

Pascoaes’ universe is one of correspondences between seeming opposites: the past with the future, nostalgia with hope, sorrow with joy, the material with the spiritual. The dynamic nature of this unity of opposites is well expressed by two verses greatly admired by Fernando Pessoa: “The leaf that fell /Was a soul that ascended” (from a poem titled ‘Elegy of Love’). Far from being a fixed machine of integrated moving parts, Pascoaes’ universe is in continual expansion, through the creative energy of hope, sorrow, desire, saudade. Just as poetic inspiration leaves “the splendor of a verse” on the printed page, “so too hope, endlessly burning, (…) / Leaves in space the forms of the Universe, (…) / Mortal recollections of its divine being” (in ‘Indefinite Song XXII’). And man, through his “living encounter” with the things of Nature “gives birth to souls, / Divine apparitions” (in ‘Encounter’).

Profoundly religious in spirit, Pascoaes did not seem to have or to need any clear notion of God. His poetry is an ongoing hymn to a Nature made divine, in which man’s role is to see and sing it.

(Richard Zenith)

Some delightful stuff today…

Great Pics from Australia (Thanks Kath!) Strange Links, A Folktale from Brittany, a bit of Portuguese Poetry, and the wonderful art of Kay Nielsen…

Made it to the coast and back, on my own as Morgan had other things to do. The quickest visit I have ever had to the beach. Down to Pacific City, hit the Brewery for some barrels and back. The Coast is looking a little ragged, as well as the pass over the coastal range. A terrific number of trees are down as well as many land slides. They have been catching the brunt of it all weather-wise this year. Still, such beauty. If I could, I would live on the coast, hands down.

Have To Hop, more on the way!

Gwyllm

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On The Menu

Pics From The Rainbow Serpent Festival

The Links

Folktales of Brittany: The Magic Rose

The Poetry of Luis Vaz de Camoes

Art: Kay Nielsen

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Received an email from Kath in Australia… She and many friends (including Graham the man) had attended the Rainbow Serpent Festtival for the last week in Victoria….

Pics o’ Interest:

Kath and Rak Razam giving a talk at the Rainbow Serpent Festival…

Web Grrl’s collection of Photos from the festival (some 9000 gathered!)

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The Links:

Mind Games…

Google search history and privacy

And So It Rages On: Global Warming: The Cold, Hard Facts?

Pollen Reveals Terracotta Army Origins

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Folktales of Brittany: The Magic Rose

An aged Breton couple had two sons, the elder of whom went to Paris to seek his fortune, while the younger one was timid by nature and would not leave the paternal roof. His mother, w, ho felt the burden of her age, wished the stay-at-home to marry. At first he would not hear of the idea, but at last, persuaded by her, he took a wife. He had only been married a few weeks, however, when his young bride sickened and died. La Rose, for such was his name, was inconsolable. Every evening he went to the cemetery where his wife was buried, and wept over her tomb.

One night he was about to enter the graveyard on his sad errand when he beheld a terrible phantom standing before him, which asked him in awful tones what he did there. “I am going to pray at the tomb of my wife,” replied the terrified La Rose.

“Do you wish that she were alive again?” asked the spirit.

“Ah, yes!” cried the sorrowing husband. “There is nothing that I would not do in order that she might be restored to me.”

“Hearken, then,” said the phantom. “Return to this place to-morrow night at the same hour. Provide yourself with a pick and you will see what comes to pass.”

On the following night the young widower was punctually at the rendezvous. The phantom presented itself before him and said:

“Go to the tomb of your wife and strike it with your pick; the earth will turn aside and you will behold her lying in her shroud. Take this little silver box, which contains a rose; open it and pass it before her nostrils three times, when she will awake as if from a deep sleep.”

La Rose hastened to the tomb of his wife, and everything happened as the phantom had predicted. He placed the box containing the rose to his wife’s nostrils and she awoke with a sigh, saying: “Ah, I have been asleep for a long time.” Her husband provided her with clothes which he had brought with him, and they returned to their house, much to the joy of his parents.

Some time afterward La Rose’s father died at a great age, and the grief-stricken mother was not long in following him to the grave. La Rose wrote to his brother in Paris to return to Brittany in order to receive his portion of the paternal inheritance, but he was unable to leave the capital, so La Rose had perforce to journey to Paris. He promised his wife before leaving that he would write to her every day, but on his arrival in the city he found his brother very ill, and in the anxiety of nursing him back to health he quite forgot to send his wife news of how he fared. The weeks passed and La Rose’s wife, without word of, her husband, began to dread that something untoward had happened to him. Day by day she sat at her, window weeping and watching for the courier who brought letters from Paris. A regiment of dragoons chanced to be billeted in the town, and the captain, who lodged at the inn directly opposite La Rose’s house, was greatly attracted by the young wife. He inquired of the landlady who was the beautiful dame who sat constantly weeping at her window, and learned, the details of her history. He wrote a letter to her purporting to come from La Rose’s brother in Paris, telling her that her husband had died in the capital, and some time after paid his addresses to the supposed widow, who accepted him. They were married, and. when the regiment left the town the newly wedded pair accompanied it. Meanwhile La Rose’s brother recovered from his illness, and the eager husband hastened back to Brittany. But when he arrived at his home he was surprised to find the doors closed, and was speedily informed of what had occurred during his absence. For a while he was too grief-stricken to act, but, recovering himself somewhat, he resolved to enlist in the regiment of dragoons in which the false captain held his commission. The beauty of his handwriting procured him the post of secretary to one of the lieutenants, but although he frequently attempted to gain sight of his wife he never succeeded in doing so. One day the captain entered the lieutenant’s office, observed the writing of La Rose, and asked his brother officer if he would kindly lend him his secretary for a few days to assist him with some correspondence. While helping the captain La Rose beheld his wife, who did not, however, recognize him. Greatly pleased with his work, the captain invited him to dinner. During the repast a servant, who had stolen a silver dish, fearing that it was about to be missed, slid it into La Rose’s pocket, and when it could not be found, accused the secretary of the theft. La Rose was brought before a court-martial, which condemned him to be shot.

While in prison awaiting his execution La Rose struck up an acquaintance with an old veteran named Père La Chique, who brought him his meals and seemed kindly disposed to him.

“Père La Chique,” said La Rose one day, “I have two thousand francs; if you will do as I ask you they shall be yours.”

The veteran promised instantly, and La Rose requested that after he was shot La Chique should go to the cemetery where he was buried and resuscitate him with the magic rose, which he had carefully preserved. On the appointed day La Rose was duly executed, but Père La Chique, with his pockets full of money, went from inn to inn, drinking and making merry. Whenever the thought of La Rose crossed his mind, he muttered to himself in bibulous accents: “Poor fellow, poor fellow, he is better dead. This is a weary world; why should I bring him back to it?”

When Père La Chique had caroused with his comrades for some days the two thousand francs had almost disappeared. Then remorse assailed him and he made up his mind to do as La Rose had wished. Taking a pick and an axe he went to the graveyard, but when he struck the grave with his tools and the earth rolled back, disclosing the body of La Rose, the old fellow was so terrified that he ran helter-skelter from the spot A draught of good wine brought back his failing courage, however, and he returned and passed the rose three times under the nostrils of his late acquaintance. Instantly La Rose sat up.

“By my faith, I’ve had a good sleep!” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Where are my clothes?”

Père La Chique handed him his garments, and after he had donned them they quitted the graveyard with all haste.

La Rose now found it necessary to cast about for a living. One day he heard the sound of a drum in the street, and, following it, found that it was beaten by a crier who promised in the King’s name a large reward to those who would enlist as sentinels to guard a chapel where the King’s daughter, who had been changed into a monster, was imprisoned. La Rose accepted the offer, and then learned to his dismay that the sentinel who guarded the place between the hours of eleven and midnight was never seen again. On the very first night that he took up his duties this perilous watch fell to his lot. He felt his courage deserting him, and he was about to fly when he heard a voice say: “La Rose, where are you?”

La Rose trembled. “What do you wish with me?” he asked.

“Hearken to me, and no evil will befall you,” replied the voice. “Soon a great and grisly beast will appear. Leave your musket by the side of the sentrybox, climb on the top, and the beast will not touch you.

As eleven o’clock struck La Rose heard a noise and hastened to climb on the top of the sentry-box. Soon a hideous monster came out of the chapel, breathing flames and crying: “Sentinel of my father, where art thou, that I may devour thee?” As it uttered these words, it fell against the musket, which it seized between its teeth. Then the creature disappeared into the chapel and La Rose descended from his perch. He found the musket broken into a thousand pieces.

The old King was delighted to learn that his sentinel had not been devoured, for in order that his daughter should be delivered from her enchantment as a beast it was necessary that the same sentinel should mount guard for three consecutive nights between the hours of eleven and midnight.

On the following night La Rose was pacing up and down on guard, when the same voice addressed him, telling him on this occasion to place his musket before the door of the chapel. The beast issued as before, seized the musket, broke it into small Pieces, and returned to the chapel. On the third night the voice advised him to throw open the door of the chapel, and when the beast came out to run into the building himself, where he would see a leaden shrine, behind which he could take refuge, and where he would find a small bottle, with the contents of which he was to sprinkle the beast’s head. With its usual dreadful roar the monster issued from the chapel. La Rose leapt past it and ran for the leaden shrine. It followed him with hideous howls, and he only reached the protective sanctuary in time. Seizing the little bottle which lay there, he fearlessly confronted the beast and sprinkled its contents over its head. Instantly it changed into a beautiful princess, whom La Rose escorted to her delighted parents. La Rose and the princess were betrothed and duly married, and shortly afterward the King gave up his throne to his son-in-law.

One day the new King was inspecting the regiment of dragoons to which he had once belonged.

“Colonel,” he said, “I miss a man from your regiment.”

“It is true, sire,” replied the Colonel. “It is an old fellow called Père La Chique, whom we have left at the barracks playing his violin, the old good-for-nothing!”

“I wish to see him,” said the King.

Père La Chique was brought forward trembling, and the King, tearing the epaulettes from the shoulders of the captain who had stolen his wife, placed them on those of Père La Chique. He then gave orders for a great fire to be lit, in which were burned the wicked captain and the wife who had so soon forgotten her husband.

La Rose and his Queen lived happily ever afterward–which is rather odd, is it not, when one thinks of the treatment meted out to his resuscitated spouse? But if the lights in folk-tale are bright, the shadows are correspondingly heavy, and rarely does justice go hand in hand with mercy in legend!

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The Poetry of Luis Vaz de Camoes (1524-1580)

Sonnet: That Sad And Joyful Dawn

That sad and joyful dawn,

light full of pity and grief,

while the world wakes in loneliness

I’ll praise it and remember it.

The mild light was breaking, shadows

ran from the sun. Light was the eye of the world –

it saw the parting of two souls,

two wills I thought were indivisible.

And light witnessed the tears

that fell from their eyes, ran together. and formed

a river as long and broad as the Amazon –

and heard the bitter, heartsick words

that made the fires of Hell burn cold

and soothed the lost spirits under the world.

—

Dear Gentle Soul

Dear gentle soul, who went so soon away

Departing from this life in discontent,

Repose in that far sky to which you went

While on this earth I linger in dismay.

In the ethereal seat where you must be,

If you consent to memories of our sphere,

Recall the love which, burning pure and clear;

So often in my eyes you used to see!

If then, in the incurable, long anguish

Of having lost you, as I pine and languish,

You see some merit-do this favour for me:

And to the God who cut your life short, pray

That he as early to your sight restore me

As from my own he swept you far away.

—

On a Shipmate, Pero Moniz, Dying At Sea

My years on earth were short, but long for me,

And full of bitter hardship at the best:

My light of day sinks early in the sea:

Five lustres from my birth I took my rest.

Through distant lands and seas I was a ranger

Seeking some cure or remedy for life,

Which he whom Fortune loves not as a wife,

Will seek in vain through strife, and toil, and danger

Portugal reared me in my green, my darling

Alanguer but the dank, corrupted air

That festers in the marshes around there

Has made me food for fish here in the snarling,

Fierce seas that dark the Abyssinian shore,

Far from the happy homeland I adore.

—

Sonnet: My Errors My Loves My Unlucky Star

My errors my loves my unlucky star

these three things have been my curse.

My luck and my errors were bad enough

but love was the worst.

I have survived. But the pain

has bitten so deep in the bone

the rage and grief will not let go –

too hurt to want contentment now.

The blunders scattered through my life

are like a broken rosary.

I gave myself to fortune; fortune broke me.

Of love there is hardly a ghost left.

O who what angel of power can assuage

my terrible demon of revenge!

—

There is only one time in the history of each planet when its inhabitants first wire up its innumerable parts to make one large machine…You and I are alive at this moment.—Kevin Kelly

Off to the coast with Morgan… down to Pacific City. Hopefully, a good drive. Pacific City is very beautiful… I may bring some pictures back.

Weather seems to be changing fast everywhere. I am amazed at what is going on. If the predictions are correct, much of what we love here as the Pacific Coast and its small towns are going to change very dramatically, very soon.

More on this later,

Gwyllm

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On The Menu

The Links

Quotes from: Thich Nhat Hanh

From Walker – Bombay Dub Orchestra/Monsoon Malabar

Ancient Tales: Story of the betel leaf and the areca nut

Ancient Tales: How the Tiger got his stripes

Vietnamese Poetry: Lâm Thi My Da

Art: Portrayals of Maitreya….

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The Links:

Pagans Want Their Ancestors Bones Reburied

Home Grown Terrorist? 8o)

China and India both know about underground UFO base in the Himalayan border area deep into the tectonic plates

Computer stunner for family

Beauty Sued For Marrying A Tree

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Quotes from: Thich Nhat Hanh

“Hope is important because it can make the present moment less difficult to bear. If we believe that tomorrow will be better, we can bear a hardship today.”

“The most precious gift we can offer others is our presence. When mindfulness embraces those we love, they will bloom like flowers.”

“We have more possibilities available in each moment than we realize.”

“Breath is the bridge which connects life to consciousness, which unites your body to your thoughts.”

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From Walker – Bombay Dub Orchestra/Monsoon Malabar

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Ancient Tales: Story of the betel leaf and the areca nut

(From Viet Nam)

There were two twin brothers of the Cao family. Their names were Tan for the eldest brother, and Lang for the youngest one. They got schooling with a Taoist named Chu Chu who lived with his eighteen-year old daughter. He then married her to Tân, and the young couple lived their conjugal life happily. But, Lang found out that his brother treated him less intimately since he got married. In fact, Lang left the house wandering around the country. He reached a larger river and couldn’t cross it. Not even a small boat was in the vicinity to transport him to the other side of the river. He was so sad that he kept on weeping till death and was transformed into a lime-stone lying by the river side.

Troubled by the long absence of his brother, Tân went out to look for him. When he reached the riverside he sat on the lime-stone and died by exhaustion and weariness. He was transformed into an areca tree. The young woman in turn was upset by the long absence of her husband and got out for a search. She reached the same place where the areca tree had grown, leaned against the tree and died, transformed into a plant with large piquant leaves climbing on the areca tree. Hearing of this tragic love story, local inhabitants in the area set up a temple to their memory.

One day, King Hùng went by the site and gained knowledge of this story from local people. He ordered his men to take and ground together a leaf of betel, an areca nut and a piece of lime. A juice as red as human blood was squeezed out from the melange. He tasted the juice and found it delicious. Then he recommended the use of betel chewed along with areca nut and lime at every marital ceremony. From this time on, chewing betel became a custom for Vietnamese, and very often they began their conversation with a quid of betel. 1

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Ancient Tales: How the Tiger got his stripes

(From Viet Nam)

This story took place in prehistoric times, when animals still had the power of speech. A young farmer had just stopped plowing his rice paddy. It was noon, and he sat down to eat his lunch in the shade of banana plant near his land. Not far away his water buffalo was grazing along the grass-covered dikes enclosing rice fields. After the meal the farmer reclined and observed the stout beast which was chewing quietly. From time to time it would chase away the obnoxious flies with a vigorous swing of its massive head.

Suddenly the great beast became alarmed; the wind carried the odor of a dangerous animal. The buffalo rose to its feet, and awaited the arrival of the enemy. With the speed of lighting a tiger sprang into the clearing.

“I have not come as an enemy,” he said. “I only wish to have something explained. I have been watching you every day from the edge of the forest, and I have observed the strange spectacle of your common labour with the man. That man, that small and vertical being, who has neither great strength nor sharp vision, nor even a keen sense of smell, has been able to keep you in bondage and work for his profit. You are actually ten times heavier than he, much stronger, and more hardened to heavy labour. Yet he rules you. What is the source of his magic power?”

“To tell the truth,” said the buffalo, “I know nothing about all that. I only know I shall never be freed of his power, for he has a talisman he calls wisdom.”

“I must ask him about that,” said the tiger, “because, you see, if I could get this wisdom I would have even greater power over the other animals. Instead of having to conceal myself and spring on them unawares, I could simply order them to remain motionless. I could choose from among all the animals, at my whim and fancy, the most delicious meats.”

“Well!” replied the startled buffalo. “Why don’t you ask the farmer about his wisdom.”

The tiger decided to approach the farmer.

“Mr Man,” he said, “I am big, strong, and quick but I want to be more so. I have heard it said that you have something called wisdom which makes it possible for you to rule over all the animals. Can you transfer this wisdom to me? It would be of great value to me in my daily search for food.”

“Unfortunately,” replied the man, “I have left wisdom at home. I never bring it with me to the fields. But if you like I will go there for it.”

“May I accompany you?” asked the tiger, delighted with what had just heard.

“No, you had better stay here,” replied the farmer, “if the villagers see you with me they may become alarmed and perhaps beat you to death. Wait here, I will find what you need and return.”

And the farmer took a few steps, as if to set off homeward. But then he turned around and with wrinkled brow addressed the tiger.

“I am somewhat disturbed by the possibility that during my absence you might be seized with the desire to eat my buffalo. I have great need of it in my daily work. Who would repay me for such a loss?”

The tiger did not know what to say.

The farmer continued: “If you consent, I will tie you to a tree; then my mind will be free.”

The tiger wanted the mysterious wisdom very much so much, in fact, that he was willing to agree to anything. He permitted the farmer to pass ropes round his body and to tie him to the trunk of big tree.

The farmer then went home and gathered a great armload of dry straw. He returned to the big tree and placed the straw under the tiger and set it on fire.

“Be hold my wisdom!” he shouted at his unfortunate victim, as the flames encircled the tiger and burned him fiercely. The tiger roared so loudly that the neighbouring trees trembled. He raged and pleaded, but the farmer would not untie him. Finally, the fire burned through the ropes and he was able to free himself from cremation. He bounded away into the forest, howling with pain.

In time his wounds healed, but he was never able to rid himself of the long black stripes of the ropes which the flames had seared into his flesh.

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Vietnamese Poetry: Lâm Thi My Da

Friends

My friends are gathered here

Like a cluster of fresh fruit.

Bright as red monordica

Soothing as custard apples

Sharp and keen as star-fruit

They give, like gold persimmons.

The durian behind its thorn

Exudes an unearthly scent.

Outside green, inside red —

O, sweet watermelon.

My friends love serenely

Like squash on low vines.

When we talk over snail soup

And laugh, our voices rise.

None of us has much time

But we give to one another.

When one of us goes away

The others stand by her boat.

I love you deeply, friends.

Though life is passing by

I hope our sharing of sweetness

And sorrow never ends.

I have carried friendship with me

On all my many journeys —

An undepleted treasure

Like the vibrant shimmering sky.

And if in dark moments

My life seems dull and bleak,

I am warmed by the hearts of friends

Like pineapple, fresh and sweet.

—-

Night Harvest

The white circles of conical hats have come out

Like the quiet skies of our childhood,

Like an egret’s spreading wings in the night:

White circles evoking the open sky.

The golds of rice and cluster-bombs blend together.

Even delayed-fuse bombs bring no fear:

Our spirits have known many years of war.

Come, sisters, let us gather the harvest.

Each of us wears her own small moon

Glittering on a carpet of gold rice.

We are the harvesters of my village,

Twelve white hats bright in the long night.

We are not frightened by bullets and bombs in the air —

Only by dew wetting our lime-scented hair.

— 1971

Dedicated To A Dream

A bird brings a dream and flies away.

A little boy sleeps under a starlit sky;

He has no worries.

What did you dream last night?

I dreamed I became a bird.

What was the voice of the bird in the dream?

The bird in the dream was silent

Like a mermaid,

Its radiant song

Kept all its life

As a gift for one person.

Flying through a thousand nights

Flying through a thousand stars

Leaves gleaming a magical color

Flowers shaped like fingers and hands —

Sleep now sleep

Now sleep.

Who was the boy?

I was the boy.

Who was the bird?

I was the bird.

Who was the dream?

I was the dream.

Last night

I dreamed I became myself.

I dreamed I became a bird.

I dreamed I became a dream.

Monday… I am leaving the house so this is brief….

On The Menu

The Links

The Quotes

Amazigh (Berber) Music

A Tale of Seven Brothers

The Other Intifada – Poetry Of The Amazigh Women

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The Links:

Study Explains Why Psychedelic Drugs Produce Different Neurological Effects

Cosmic Calendar: Spaceshapes – triangle and pinwheel

Archaeology trumps oil, gas

Poll shows most Britons want Blair to resign now</a

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The Quotes:

“The denunciation of the young is a necessary part of the hygiene of older people, and greatly assists in the circulation of their blood.”

“Skeptical scrutiny is the means, in both science and religion, by which deep insights can be winnowed from deep nonsense.”

“I never know how much of what I say is true.”

“Thomas Jefferson once said, ‘We should never judge a president by his age, only by his works.’ And ever since he told me that, I stopped worrying.”

“Idealism is what precedes experience; cynicism is what follows.”

“Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much.”

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A Tale of Seven Brothers

By Mustapha Baztout

Almond and Olive

Olive trees and almond trees, beloved of the Berber people, grew all around grandmother’s house. The almond blossom gave pleasure to the eye, and perfumed the evening air. And the olives – well, there was the dark beauty of the trees, but so much more besides.

The hard, dramatically grained wood of the olive tree can be used for everything from salad spoons to roof-struts, and grandmother’s house was thatched with brush from olive branches. Olives and olive oil played a large part in the meals she cooked; and the fire we so often gathered around in the evenings was fuelled by olive wood. Do you like baked potatoes? If you do, you’d have loved the ones we used to cook in the embers of that fragrant fire. And when the fire was cold and spent, those olives still hadn’t gone beyond usefulness. Grandmother said the ashes of an olive fire, rubbed into the scalp, are an effective preventative for dandruff!

So as the evening draws on, imagine yourself breathing in the almond-scented air, praise the powers that be for all the gifts of the almond and the olive, and take your place in the family circle to hear another of grandmother’s stories…

A Tale of Seven Brothers

Once upon a time there was a girl called Aicha who lived with her father and her stepmother in a little village in North Africa. She grew up as most girls do, playing with the other children of the village, but she was called a daddy’s girl because she spent as much time as she could with her father. Perhaps this was because Aicha’s mother had died when she was very young, or perhaps it was because Aicha’s step-mother had a daughter of her own, and looked coldly on Aicha.

As time went on Aicha’s stepmother began to notice that Aicha claimed a lot of her father’s attention. She got jealous on behalf of her own daughter, and began thinking how she might get rid of Aicha. One day when she was tidying up their little house her glance fell upon a ball of string and an idea came to her. She slipped the string into her pocket and called to Aicha.

“Come child,” she said. “Leave your father in peace. You and I are going for a walk.”

Aicha followed her stepmother obediently and soon they were making their way up a mountain path. Aicha’s stepmother handed her the end of the string, saying, “You hold onto this and I’ll hold the ball, then you won’t get lost.”

They crossed the river that ran into their valley, and walked through the dark forest that grew round the mountain’s knees.

“Where are we going?” said Aicha.

“You’ll see,” said her stepmother, and went on climbing.

Onwards and upwards they went until at last they reached the top of the mountain, where they stopped to gaze at the tiny houses and people in the valley far below. Suddenly Aicha saw her stepmother’s ball of string bouncing away from her and rolling down the mountainside.

“Stupid girl!” said her stepmother. “You pulled on the string and made me drop the ball. Now just you go and fetch it back.”

Aicha didn’t remember pulling on the string but being a dutiful girl, she handed the end of the string to her stepmother and ran off down the mountainside after the bouncing ball. Soon she ran into the dark forest. Keeping her eye on the string that would lead her to the lost ball, she soon came out of the other side of the forest, and saw the string disappearing into the river. Without stopping she waded in, following the string through the water, out the other side, and on down the mountain.

At last she came to the end of the string – and found no ball to take back to her stepmother. She walked back up to the river and down the mountainside again, looking under every bush and behind every rock, but she couldn’t find the ball. Eventually she gave up and decided to follow the string back to her stepmother. But she had wandered a long way in search of the ball, and now she couldn’t find the string, either.

Nor could she find the mountain path. She looked around at strange hills and strange valleys. She was in a place she had never seen before and she didn’t know her way home.

Her stepmother on the other hand, knew her way home very well. As soon as she’d seen Aicha wade into the river she had reeled in her string, rolling it into a ball once more. Then with a satisfied smile, she had turned away from her unwanted stepdaughter and headed back to the village.

-o0o-

Up on the mountainside, far from home, Aicha watched the evening sun going down and wondered where she was going to spend the night. Looking around, she spotted a wisp of smoke rising in the distance and headed towards it. As darkness fell she came upon a pleasant little house with sweet wood-smoke rising from its chimney. She could hear someone moving about in the house. She wanted to show herself but she was frightened, so she let herself in quietly and hid in the animals’ feed-store at the back of the house.

Presently there was a commotion of talking and laughter outside. Aicha poked her head out of her hiding place and saw six young men striding towards the house. As she watched, a seventh – the one she had heard moving around inside – came out to greet them. Aicha thought they seemed like a happy, friendly band of brothers. It appeared that one had stayed home to keep house and prepare supper whilst the others had been out hunting. As the brothers bustled into the kitchen and settled down to their supper, Aicha felt hungry and lonely and wished she could join them in the warm, bright kitchen. But caution led her to stay hidden.

The next morning six brothers set off at sunrise to go about their daily business. Aicha noticed that today a different one took a turn staying home to keep house. Aicha watched him until he went outside to tend the garden and water the fruit trees. As soon as he did so, Aicha crept into the kitchen, aiming to earn her dinner. Glancing regularly out of the window to check that the young man was still busy amongst his trees, Aicha cleaned up the kitchen, laid the table and cooked supper. Then, feeling it would now be fair to take some food for herself, she crept back to her hiding place clutching a bowl of stew in one hand and a piece of bread in the other. As she quietly ate her meal the young man came in from his gardening, thinking it was time to clean up the kitchen and prepare supper.

“What magic is this?” he cried, when he walked into a clean and tidy kitchen and saw the supper bubbling away on the stove!

Soon his tired and hungry brothers trooped back into the kitchen. He sat down with them, wondering how to tell them about the strange events of the day, but before he could find the words one of his brothers exclaimed: “This stew is delicious. You’re a better cook that I knew, brother!”

Another agreed, and added: “And the table is so clean I thought it was a new one.”

“And the windows have never been so clean!” added a third.

Another commented on the dish of flowers that decorated the table, another on the sweet strewing-herbs on the floor. By now the guilty brother had his mouth full and was enjoying his dinner and the praise and so somehow, he said nothing.

The same thing happened the next day, and the next, until all the brothers had a guilty secret. Then at last, walking home on a beautiful, fragrant evening, the first brother who had experienced the ‘strange magic’ could keep silent no more.

“But the same thing happened to me!” said his next brother when he’d heard the confession.

“And to me!” said the next.

So when they got home that night they searched the house for their mysterious helper. But Aicha was quick and clever, so that wherever the brothers searched, she was always somewhere else. At last the young men gave up and sat down to their supper – a particularly delicious couscous that Aicha had made, served up with dishes of olives and salad from their garden. As they commented on the tasty food, Aicha crept into the doorway to listen and find out what they thought of her.

“If our helper’s a girl, she will be our beloved sister,” said one.

“And if he is a boy, he will be our most esteemed brother,” said another.

And so at last Aicha decided it was safe to show herself. The brothers greeted her with delight and made a fuss of her, and told her she should live with them as long as she liked and have the best share of all that they had.

-o0o-

Life went on happily enough. The brothers were as good as their word – Aicha had the best share of everything and was allowed to do as she liked. Only one rule did the brothers impose on her, and that was little enough trouble to her. They had a big tabby cat who lived in front of the kitchen fire, and no-one was allowed to disturb that cat.

As the brothers left the house on the first day after Aicha had shown herself, the youngest had turned to her and said, “The cat has a dry broad bean somewhere, that she likes to play with, so be careful when you are sweeping up. See that you don’t touch it.”

Aicha had no objection to letting the cat keep her toy. She went about her business every day, keeping house, working in the garden, preparing supper. But one day when she was sweeping the floor, she was a bit annoyed because the cat had left her toy in the middle of the floor and gone off to sit in the sunshine.

“Come here and collect your broad bean!” called Aicha.

But the cat was busy washing herself and wasn’t interested.

Aicha called her again, so the cat looked up with heavy lidded green eyes and she said, “I’m busy. I don’t want my toy any more.”

So Aicha shrugged her shoulders and carried on sweeping. Soon the cat’s dry broad bean was in the fireplace along with all the dust and rubbish Aicha had collected up. That was all very well until the cat had finished cleaning herself and came into the kitchen looking for new amusement. She looked all around for her toy and couldn’t find it, so she called to Aicha: “Where is my dry broad bean?”

“It’s in the fire,” Aicha replied. “You said you didn’t want it any more.”

“I want it now,” yowled the cat. “Give me my toy, or I’ll wee on the fire!”

“Never mind,” said Aicha. “I’ll find you another toy.”

“Naaao, I want my dry broad bean!” yowled the cat, and she refused even to look at the piece of wool Aicha offered her, or the twist of straw, or even the bunch of catnip.

“I want my dry broad bean!” she yowled.

And when Aicha shrugged her shoulders and turned away, that angry cat weed on the fire.

“Oh you silly cat!” cried Aicha. “Now I will have to go out and beg an ember from someone so I can restart the fire for supper!”

“That’s okay,” said the cat, who was happy now, playing with her rescued broad bean.

Aicha sighed and shook her head then she cleaned out the fireplace, laid a new fire, and then set out to find someone who might offer her an ember to re-light it.

_______________

The Other Intifada – Poetry Of The Amazigh Women

(Photos are not of the Poets…)

At first glance, Nanna Ferroudja appears the typical grandmother from the mountains of Kabylia, dressed in the traditional taqendurt n leqbayel (Kabyle dress) and fuda (skirt apron), monolingual in Takbaylit (the regional Tamazight of Kabylia), with no formal schooling, and unable to read or write. But Nanna Ferroudja is more than the caretaker of her grandchildren, the keeper of her hearth. She is a poetess and a die-hard Amazigh militant.

Nanna Faroudja’s face is lined with the sorrows and trials of her 67 years of life. Much of her sorrows and experiences have been verbalized in her poetry. Her lyrics address various topics, including: the current crisis in Kabylia, emigration from Kabylia, family issues, and the Algerian war against the French. She started creating poems at age 24, at the death of her brother during the war. The tragedies of war and oppression, the struggle for freedom and Amazigh recognition has been the source of her inspiration.

Since the recent events emanating from Kabylia began in April of this year, her poems, which are a release of her griefs and fury, have flowed more quickly. When the uprising started, she was abroad, helping to care for a newborn grandchild. This did not stop her, however, from participating in all the demonstrations in support of the people of Kabylia, which were held in the surrounding cities of her host country. She surprised the participants with the elocution of her spontaneously-created poetry, becoming a symbol and an inspiration for the area’s Amazigh diaspora.

Please note that these translations are not literal. They are interpretations of the text in order to preserve the structure of the poems while faithfully conveying the meaning behind the words to a different culture, represented by the language of translation. Nanna Ferroudja was consulted throughout the translation processs. The poems have been transcribed by Karim Achab, Amazigh scholar and linguist. The English translations are the joint effort of K. Achab and Blanca Madani.

Ayen yedran di tmura

(What happened in Kabylia)

The heart cries, the soul is wounded

Because of what happened in Kabylia

Many youth were killed

Their lives yet unfulfilled

They gave their lives for Tamazight

That’s about honor, not robbery

Let’s agree to unite

As we did against the French

A million-and-a-half dead

Yet freedom has not come

CSnatched by the undeserving

Such dishonor, but do they care?

Today things have grown clear

Algeria is scorned by foreign lands

You who are bright, awaken!

Come, free us

That we may live in dignity.

—

Netswahqer

(Disgrace)

My heart cries impatiently

Oh, my brethren, we are a disgrace

We have known nothing each day but war

Many youth have died

More bloodshed than the raging waters of a torrent

They all died for Tamazight

Which the others long tried to conceal

My brethren, do not surrender!

With valor, we will overcome!

Blessings on the martyrs

Their names inscribed in History

Luckily, the saviors were not all gone

They unearthed it, Tamazight

Its brilliance will finally sparkle

My brethren, do not retreat

The bloodshed must be honored with our freedom.

—

Nanna Ferroudja, having suffered through the miscarriage of her first child, her only boy, eventually bore and raised three healthy girls. In 1985, when her youngest was still a teenager, she lost her husband, with whom she’d shared her life for 28 years. Then, eleven years later, she suffered the pain of separation when her youngest daughter, who had been her only constant companion since her older daughters had married, left with her new husband to North America.

Lgwerba

(In exile)

ADiscretely, I cry,

Cries, Oh Brethren, no one hears

I left it behind

The country where I was raised

Like birds, we flew

To the lands of others

We left our families, tearful

Separated; there was no other choice

I took a seat in a machine

Flying so high in the sky

My feet touched the land of Canada

Where I found folks, so kind

I looked for people from Kabylia

To unite our goals and strength

When we call our mothers

It is but a voice through the wire

Mothers be patient, don’t worry

We will return one day.

—

Tafsut Imazigen di Kanada

(Amazigh Spring in Canada)

$It is about Canada

A country inundated in snow

It drained Kabylia of its brains

And left the villages desolate

Families were left behind lamenting

What torture, this heart broken in pieces

KBe grateful to them, oh, Canada

Honor the immigrants with respect

This is the Day of Tamazight

Future generations will know It

Greetings to the immigrants

To each and every one.

A Sunday Treat….. A nice way to start the day. Take your time, explore a bit!

Enjoy,

Gwyllm

——

On The Menu:

The Links

The Story of the Three Genjias

Poetry: Eavan Boland

Musical Focus: Mercan Dede

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The Links:

23: How weird Is That?

Evangelicals eyed in Brazil

2012 and the Old Equator

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Mercan Dede

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The Story of the Three Genjias

Once upon a time in a certain place there lived three men who all had the same name — Genjia. One was the tribal chief, the second a carpenter, and the third the chief’s steward.

Genjia the carpenter was married to an exceptionally beautiful woman. Genjia the steward fancied her and dreamt day and night of having her for himself. But she was a very upright woman and would not let him get anywhere near her. Finally, he was driven to find some way of killing the carpenter in order to attain his end.

After a while, the father of Genjia the chief died. The steward saw in this a golden opportunity for eliminating the carpenter. Every day he secretly studied the calligraphy of the Buddhist scriptures and succeeded in reproducing the old-fashioned and esoteric style in which they were written. He then wrote a document in this style and handed it to the chief, saying, “Master, here is a document I came across the other day. I cannot understand a word of it and have brought it here specially for you to decipher.”

Genjia the chief was baffled by the writing and passed it on to his secretary in charge of documents. After reading it, the secretary said, “This document claims to be from the old chief. In it he says that he has ascended to heaven and is now serving as an official there, but he doesn’t have an official mansion. He asks you, Master, to send him a carpenter — the most skilled you have — to direct the construction of such a mansion.”

Genjia the chief thought constantly of his father and was most concerned to hear that he had nowhere to lay his head in heaven. He sent for Genjia the carpenter, showed him the document and ordered him to go to heaven at once.

Genjia the carpenter was greatly startled. He dared not refuse, however, and could only plead for time, “How could I disobey your order, Master! But I need some time to prepare. Please allow me seven days. After that time, please hold a Twig Burning Ceremony in the hemp field behind my house to send me off. Then I’ll be able to ascend to heaven to build the mansion for the old chief.”

Genjia the chief considered this request reasonable and willingly agreed.

When Genjia the carpenter left, he went round making a few investigations. He wanted to find out where the chief had got this idea. He eventually discovered that it had originated in a classical document found by Genjia the steward. He put two and two together and concluded that it must be a sinister plot against him hatched by the steward.

He went home and consulted with his wife. “The most absurd thing has happened. The chief wants me to go and build a mansion in heaven. He must have been tricked into it by Genjia the steward. I did not dare refuse, but asked him to hold a Twig Burning Ceremony behind our house before I go. It would be no use trying to disobey him now. There is only one way for me to get out of this alive. The two of us must dig a tunnel under cover of night leading from the field to our bedroom, and then you can hide me there later. In a year’s time I will find some way to get even.”

The wife was shocked by this tale. Hatred for the steward filled the very marrow of her bones. She was willing to do anything to save her husband. So every day when night fell, the two of them dug the tunnel in secret. On the seventh day it was completed. They sealed the entrance with a slab of stone and scattered soil on it, so that people wouldn’t notice it.

The eighth day came, the day for the carpenter to ascend to heaven. At the head of a retinue of elders and stewards and with a great din of bugles and drums, the chief came to send him off. They made a pile of faggots in the hemp field and asked Genjia the carpenter to sling his tool-kit over his shoulder and carry his bag in one hand. They made him stand in the middle, lit the faggots and watched the smoke rise, “carrying him up to heaven”.

Genjia the steward was afraid that as soon as the faggots were lit, the carpenter would spoil everything by crying out in terror. “Come on !” he shouted to the crowd. “Blow your bugles and beat your drums! Laugh and cheer! Genjia the carpenter is on his way to heaven to build a mansion for our old chief. Isn’t that a wonderful thing!”

The chief came over to have a look. Genjia the steward pointed gleefully to the rising smoke and said, “Master, you see, there goes his horse. Genjia the carpenter is on his way to heaven.”

The chief was delighted.

The moment the faggots were lit and the smoke began rising into the sky, Genjia the carpenter raised the slab and escaped through the tunnel back to his own bedroom.

He confined himself to his house for a whole year. His wife went to great lengths to find milk, butter and other nutritious food for him; and as he did no work, by the end of that year he was plumper and fairer-skinned than ever.

Meanwhile, Genjia the steward tried a thousand and one ways of seducing the carpenter’s wife, and she tried a thousand and one ways of avoiding him. He failed completely to attain his goal.

While Genjia the carpenter was hiding at home, he diligently practiced the calligraphy of the Buddhist scriptures. He prepared a document written in the authentic style and kept it on his person. On the first anniversary of his “ascent to heaven” he went and stood on the very spot where he was supposed to have been burned, the same tool-kit on his shoulder and the same bag in his hand. He called out, “How is everybody? I’ve just got back from heaven.”

His wife was the first to come out. She pretended to be extremely surprised and hurried over to report the news to the chief.

The chief was very happy when he heard that Genjia the carpenter was back. He gave him a hero’s welcome with bugles and drums, and invited him to stay in his mansion. He wanted to find out how his father was faring in heaven.

On meeting the chief, Genjia the carpenter said in a very serious tone of voice, “When I was constructing the official mansion in heaven, the old chief treated me with exceptional kindness, just as you always do, Master. That’s why I’m in such good shape! The mansion is finished, and what a magnificent building it is — ten times the size of an earthly mansion! Only one thing is lacking: a steward. The old chief misses his old steward dearly. He very much wants the steward to go up to heaven and manage things for him. After a period of time he can come back.” This said, he promptly produced the document and showed it to the chief, adding that it was the old chief who had asked him to bring it down.

Genjia the chief read the document and was totally convinced by the whole story. Presently he sent for Genjia the steward and asked him to go and work for the old chief in his newly-built mansion in heaven.

When Genjia the steward saw Genjia the carpenter standing there and looking so well after his “ascent to heaven,” and when he heard the vivid description of heaven given by the carpenter, he just didn’t know what to think. “Perhaps I really possess some sort of magic power”, he thought to himself. “It was my idea for him to go to heaven, and he actually seems to have done so! Perhaps it really is possible to fly to heaven, and the old chief really does have a new mansion there!”

He followed the carpenter’s example and asked for seven days to get ready, and a Twig Burning Ceremony to be held in the hemp field behind his house to send him off to heaven. He thought that since Genjia the carpenter could come back, he could too. On the eighth day, as on the previous occasion, Genjia the steward stood in the middle of the faggots with a box on his shoulder and a bag in his hand. As on the previous occasion, there was a great din of bugles and drums, and the chief gave the order to light the faggots and send him off to heaven.

But the outcome this time was somewhat different. One difference was that after everything was over, a pile of charred bones was found among the ashes. Another difference was that the steward never came back. He stayed on in heaven forever to help the old chief run his mansion.

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Göksel Baktagir – Mercan Dede

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Poetry: Eavan Boland

Daphne With Her Thighs In Bark

I have written this

so that,

in the next myth,

my sister will be wiser.

Let her learn from me:

the opposite of passion

is not virtue

but routine.

I can be cooking,

making coffee,

scrubbing wood, perhaps,

and back it comes:

the crystalline, the otherwhere,

the wood

where I was

when he began the chase.

And how I ran from him!

Pan-thighed,

satyr-faced he was.

The trees reached out to me.

I silvered and I quivered. I shook out

My foil of quick leaves.

He snouted past.

What a fool I was!

I shall be here forever,

setting out the tea,

among the coppers and the branching alloys and

the tin shine of this kitchen;

laying saucers on the pine table.

Save face, sister.

Fall. Stumble.

Rut with him.

His rough heat will keep you warm and

you will be better off than me,

with your memories

down the garden,

at the start of March,

unable to keep your eyes

off the chestnut tree –

just the way

it thrusts and hardens.

—

Child Of Our Time

for Aengus

Yesterday I knew no lullaby

But you have taught me overnight to order

This song, which takes from your final cry

Its tune, from your unreasoned end its reason;

Its rhythm from the discord of your murder

Its motive from the fact you cannot listen.

We who should have known how to instruct

With rhymes for your waking, rhythms for your sleep,

Names for the animals you took to bed,

Tales to distract, legends to protect,

Later an idion for you to keep

And living, learn, must learn from you, dead.

To make our broken images rebuild

Themselves around your limbs, your broken

Image, find for your sake whose life our idle

Talk has cost, a new language. Child

Of our time, our times have robbed your cradle.

Sleep in a world your final sleep has woken.

—

The Atlantic Ocean

This stone, this Spanish stone, flings light

Like acid in my eyes. Walls splice the day.

Our freighter chokes, then belches anthracite,

Fresh water up by noon. We are away.

A shrivelled Europe faces

Starboard. Our guzzling boat

Bloats on fish, swallows, chases

The anchor down its throat.

Waves are conjurors, splashes sleeves,

Up which aces of past and future hide.

One man finds love, another what he grieves

By watching. To me they are another side

Of life, not one to do

With retrospect or manners

But with the ballyhoo

Of war, the hoist of banners.

Out of this ocean now, its menacing storms,

Out of its cryptic structures, its tribal

Tides, out of its secret order, from the cabal

Of trade wind and water, look, a Soviet forms!

A squad of drops batters

The sky for a second, wears

Out its force, then turns and tears

Each imperial crest to tatters.

The waves are agitating now, the sea

Itself becomes the theatre of the battle.

Lesser waves congregate, they settle

On a policy for all. All agree

Not to abandon their will

To fight, their fierce airs

Their stormy posture until

Victory is theirs.

So what has started well can flourish still,

As for example, underneath the tide

The marvel of structured self-protecting coral –

Now a milestone, sure to be a guide

To the she-whale, the sperm-whale nosing

Clear of the shark, the porpoises

Braceleting the ships’ bows.

The octopus intricately dozing.

No wonder it beats like an alternate heart in me,

No wonder its drops fill and fall from my eyes

In familiar drops. It’s in the family.

At last I see, at last I recognize

In its wild station,

Its ice and riot, its other

Prowess, of my revolution

The elder brother.

—

Listen, This is the Noise of Myth

this is the story of a man and a woman

under a willow and beside a weir

near a river in a wooded clearing.

They are fugitives. Intimates of myth.

Fictions of my purpose. I suppose

I shouldn’t say that yet or at least

before I break their hearts or save their lives

I ought to tell their stories and I will.

When they went first it was winter; cold,

cold through the Midlands and as far West

as they could go. They knew they had to go –

through Meath, Westmeath, Longford,

their lives unraveling like the hours of light –

and then there were lambs under the snow

and it was January, aconite and jasmine

and the hazel yellowing and puce berries on the ivy.

They could not eat where they had cooked,

nor sleep where they had eaten

nor at dawn rest where they had slept.

They shunned the densities

of trees with one trunk and of caves

with one dark and dangerous embrace

of islands with a single landing place.

And all the time it was cold, cold:

the fields still gardened by their ice,

the trees stitched with snow overnight,

the ditches full; frost toughening lichen,

darning lace into rock crevices.

And then the woods flooded and buds

blunted from the chestnut and the foxglove

put its big leaves out and chaffinches

chinked and flirted in the branches of the ash.

And here we are where we started from –

under a willow and beside a weir

near a river in a wooded clearing.

The woman and the man have come to rest.

Look how light is coming through the ash.

The weir sluices kingfisher blues.

The woman and the willow tree lean forward, forward.

Something is near, something is about to happen;

Something more than spring

and less than history. Will we see

hungers eased after months of hiding?

Is there a touch of heat in that light?

If they stay here soon it will be summer; things

returning, sunlight fingering minnowy deeps

seedy greens, reeds, electing lights

and edges from the river. Consider

legend, self-deception, sin, the sum

of human purpose and its end; remember

how our poetry depends on distance,

aspect: gravity will bend starlight.

Forgive if I set the truth to rights.

Bear with me if I put an end to this:

she never turned to him; she never leaned

under the sallow-willow over to him.

They never made love; not there; not here;

not anywhere; there was no winter journey;

no aconite, no birdsong and no jasmine,

no river and no woodland and no weir.

Listen. This is the noise of myth. It makes

the same sound as shadow. Can you hear it?

Daylight grays in the preceptories.

Her head begins to shine

pivoting the planets of a harsh nativity.

They were never mine. This is mine.

This sequence of evicted possibilities.

Displaced facts. Tricks of light. Reflections.

Invention. Legend. Myth. What you will.

The shifts and fluencies are infinite.

The moving parts are marvelous. Consider

how the bereavements of the definite

Are easily lifted from our heroine.

She may or she may not. She was or wasn’t

by the water at his side as dark

waited above the Western countryside.

O consolations of the craft.

How we put

the old poultices on the old sores,

the same mirrors to the old magic. Look.

The scene returns. The willow sees itself

drowning in the weir and the woman

gives the kiss of myth her human heat.

Reflections. Reflections. He becomes her lover.

The old romances make no bones about it.

The long and the short of it. The end and the beginning.

The glories and the ornaments are muted.

And when the story ends the song is over.

Eavan Boland is an Irish poet.

Boland was born in Dublin on 24 September 1944. Her father, Frederick Boland was a career diplomat and her mother was the post-expressionist painter, Frances Kelly.

She was educated in London and New York as well as in her native Dublin; graduating from Trinity College with a first class honors degree in English Literature. In 2004 she received an honorary degree from Trinity.

Eavan Boland’s first book of poetry was “New Territory” published in 1967 with Dublin publisher Allen Figgis. This was followed by “The War Horse” (1975), In Her Own Image (1980) and Night Feed (1982), which established her reputation as a writer on the ordinary lives of women and on the difficulties faced by women poets in a male-dominated literary world.

Boland’s publications also include: An Origin Like Water: Collected Poems 1967-1987 (1996), Outside History: Selected Poems 1980-1990 (1990), and a prose memoir Object Lessons: The Life of the Woman and the Poet in Our Time (1995). Her collection In a Time of Violence (1994) received a Lannan Award and was shortlisted for the T.S. Eliot Poetry Prize. All of her volumes of poetry have been Poetry Book Society Choices in the UK.In the United States her publisher is W.W.Norton. Her volume of poems “Against Love Poetry” (W.W. Norton 2001) was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year.

She is co-editor of The Making of a Poem: A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms (with Mark Strand; W. W. Norton &amp; Co., 2000). She also published a volume of translations in 2004 called After Every War (Princeton University Press). The translations are of German-speaking women poets.

Boland has taught at a number of universities, including Trinity College, Dublin. She was also writer in residence at Trinity College, Dublin, and at the National Maternity Hospital.

She is currently Bella Mabury and Eloise Mabury Knapp Professor in the Humanities at Stanford University in Palo Alto, California, and Melvin and Bill Lane Professor for Director of the Creative Writing program there.

She is married to author Kevin Casey; they have two daughters.

____________

Mercan Dede….

On the Music Box: Nick Drake/Time Of No Reply

First, a Blessing on You and Yours this Imbolc under the full moon!

Blessing For Hearth-Keepers

Brighid of the Mantle, encompass us,

Lady of the Lambs, protect us,

Keeper of the Hearth, kindle us.

Beneath your mantle, gather us,

And restore us to memory.

Mothers of our mother,

Foremothers strong.

Guide our hands in yours,

Remind us how

To kindle the hearth.

To keep it bright,

To preserve the flame.

Your hands upon ours,

Our hands within yours,

To kindle the light,

Both day and night.

The Mantle of Brighid about us,

The Memory of Brighid within us,

The Protection of Brighid keeping us

From harm, from ignorance, from heartlessness.

This day and night,

From dawn till dark,

From dark till dawn.

______

Have a good weekend, and if you can visit the radio this weekend, we will have a host of new music and on the spoken word, poetry.

Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

On The Menu

From The Diamond Sutra

The Links

What’s Happening In Philadelphia Next Week

Three Zen Parables

Poems of Stéphane Mallarmé

______________

From The Diamond Sutra…

Subhuti said to Buddha: World-honored One, will there always be men who will truly believe after coming to hear these teachings?

Buddha answered: Subhuti, do not utter such words! At the end of the last five-hundred-year period following the passing of the Tathagata, there will be self-controlled men, rooted in merit, coming to hear these teachings, who will be inspired with belief. But you should realize that such men have not strengthened their root of merit under just one Buddha, or two Buddhas, or three, or four, or five Buddhas, but under countless Buddhas; and their merit is of every kind. Such men, coming to hear these teachings, will have an immediate uprising of pure faith, Subhuti; and the Tathagata will recognize them. Yes, He will clearly perceive all these of pure heart, and the magnitude of their moral excellences.

Wherefore? It is because such men will not fall back to cherishing the idea of an ego-entity, a personality, a being, or a separated individuality. They will neither fall back to cherishing the idea of things as having intrinsic qualities, nor even of things as devoid of intrinsic qualities.

Wherefore? Because if such men allowed their minds to grasp and hold on to anything they would be cherishing the idea of an ego-entity, a personality, a being, or a separated individuality; and if they grasped and held on to the notion of things as having intrinsic qualities they would be cherishing the idea of an ego-entity, a personality, a being, or a separated individuality. Likewise, if they grasped and held on to the notion of things as devoid of intrinsic qualities they would be cherishing the idea of an ego-entity, a personality, a being, or a separated individuality. So you should not be attached to things as being possessed of, or devoid of, intrinsic qualities. This is the reason why the Tathagata always teaches this saying: My teaching of the Good Law is to be likened unto a raft. [Does a man who has safely crossed a flood upon a raft continue his journey carrying that raft upon his head?] The Buddha-teaching must be relinquished; how much more so mis-teaching!

__________

The Links:

silicone ‘nerve’ bra

Mars Anomalies

Vampire child found in China

Scientists offered cash to dispute climate study

__________

What’s Happening In Philadelphia Next Week…

Templeton Research Lectureship Program on the Constructive Engagement Between Science and Religion (2005-2008)

A Special Presentation in Association with the Spirituality, Religion, and Health Interest Group:

Entheogens, Enlightenment, and Experimental Humanities

Thomas B. Roberts, Ph.D.

Professor Emeritus at Northern Illinois University

Author: Psychoactive Sacramentals

Wednesday February 7th, 2007,

10:00 a.m. -12:00 noon

Medical Alumni Hall

(pizza will be provided after the lecture)

Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania

3400 Spruce Street

Philadelphia, PA 19104

1st Floor Maloney

For questions, please contact 215-614-0332 or go to www.mindreligion.com

_________________

Three Zen Parables

A Mother’s Advice

Jiun, a Shingon master, was a well-known Sanskrit scholar of the Tokugawa era. When he was young he used to deliver lectures to his brother students.

His mother heard about this and wrote him a letter:

“Son, I do not think you became a devotee of the Buddha because you desired to turn into a walking dictionary for others. There is no end to information and commentation, glory and honor. I wish you would stop this lecture business. Shut yourself up in a little temple in a remote part of the mountain. Devote your time to meditation and in this way attain true realization.”

—

The Voice of Happiness

After Bankei had passed away, a blind man who lived near the master’s temple told a friend:

“Since I am blind, I cannot watch a person’s face, so I must judge his character by the sound of his voice. Ordinarily when I hear someone congratulate another upon his happiness or success, I also hear a secret tone of envy. When condolence is expressed for the misfortune of another, I hear pleasure and satisfaction, as if the one condoling was really glad there was something left to gain in his own world.

“In all my experience, however, Bankei’s voice was always sincere. Whenever he expressed happiness, I heard nothing but happiness, and whenever he expressed sorrow, sorrow was all I heard.”

—

Great Waves

In the early days of the Meiji era there lived a well-known wrestler called O-nami, Great Waves.

O-nami was immensely strong and knew the art of wrestling. In his private bouts he defeated even his teacher, but in public he was so bashful that his own pupils threw him.

O-nami felt he should go to a Zen master for help. Hakuju, a wandering teacher, was stopping in a little temple nearby, so O-nami went to see him and told him of his trouble.

“Great Waves is your name,” the teacher advised, “so stay in this temple tonight. Imagine that you are those billows. You are no longer a wrestler who is afraid. You are those huge waves sweeping everything before them, swallowing all in their path. Do this and you will be the greatest wrestler in the land.”

The teacher retired. O-nami sat in meditation trying to imagine himself as waves. He thought of many different things. Then gradually he turned more and more to the feeling of the waves. As the night advanced the waves became larger and larger. They swept away the flowers in their vases. Even the Buddha in the shrine was inundated. Before dawn the temple was nothing but the ebb and flow of an immense sea.

In the morning the teacher found O-nami meditating, a faint smile on his face. He patted the wrestler’s shoulder. “Now nothing can disturb you,” he said. “You are those waves. You will sweep everything before you.”

The same day O-nami entered the wrestling contests and won. After that, no one in Japan was able to defeat him.

——-

Poems of Stéphane Mallarmé

At The Tomb of Verlaine

Anniversary – January 1897

The black rock, angered

that the blast should make it roll

shall not pause between

pious hands hoping to sense

resemblance to human ills,

as if to bless some

dire moulding. Almost always

if here the ring-dove

coos, this immaterial

mourning burdens with many

nubile folds the star

nourished by tomorrows, whose

scintillations shall

silver the crowd. Who, gazing

on the solitary flight

in external form

seeks our vagabond – Verlaine?

He is hidden in

the grass, Verlaine, so as not

to take by surprise without

a naive consent

the lip that is drinking there,

inhaling his breath

from a brook less than profound,

and calumniating death.

—

When The Shades Threatened

When the shades threatened

with their fatal law, as in

some past Dream, desire

and disease of vertebra,

grieving to perish under

funeral ceilings

they folded up within me

implacable wings.

Luxury, O ebon hall

where, to ensnare a king,

the garlands of

a celebration intertwined

their deaths, you are but

an arrogance belied by

the darknesses in eyes of

the lone one blinded

by his faith. – Yes, I know that

far off in this night

the Earth casts, in a great flash,

the strangest of mysteries

from centuries of

horror that darken it less.

Space all its own, and

whether increased or denied

revolves in that ennui

that takes the vilest

fires as witnesses to prove

it was a great star

in all its festive radiance

lit the flames of genius.

—

Spring

The fevered spring has sped regretfully

Clear-eyed winter, season of tranquil art,

My being, governed by a phantom heart

Gives one long yawn, and stretches lazily.

Within my skull, bound like an ancient tomb

With iron belt, a snowy half-light breathes.

Through fields that chant the vast refrain of leaves

Forlorn, I chase a faint and lovely dream.

Weary, and prostrate with the scent of trees,

I press my dream face-downwards into death,

Biting the warm soil where the lilac grows;

Half-buried, wait release from tedious earth …

– Meanwhile the blue beams on the hedgerow dawn,

And flower-birds that chirrup in the sun.

_________

Quite a nice day here in Portland. I worked with my friend Morgan yesterday delivering beer to pubs. Quite a bit of fun in its own way. More of that coming up. I guess I will be getting in physical shape with it all!

—

The Four Points Of Pondering Of This Day For Yours Truly:

How do we make the world more beautiful for our passing through this life?

Who is it that we touch?

How do we do less harm?

What is the nature of love?

Perhaps these are the eternal questions… but I like the running of them through my mind.

Working on a new website, hopefully soon it will be revealed!

If you haven’t downloaded the magazine, you don’t know what you are missing! 8o)

Pax,

Gwyllm

On The Menu

The Links

Deirdre of the Sorrows

Poetry: William Butler Yeats…

_____________

The Links:

Green Your IPOD: Tokyo micro garden

Microsoft Focuses on “Immortal Computing” Concept

Druids call for burial

Greeks give Zeus an extreme makeover

______________

Deirdre of the Sorrows

By Megan Powell

Fedlimid the bard hosted a festival for his lord King Conchobar of Ulster, while in the same house Fedlimid’s wife cried out in pain.

At the end of her labor, a servant entered the room where Fedlimid, Conchobar, and the rest of the guests celebrated. “The child is a girl,” she told Fedlimid.

While a boy would have been preferable, this news in itself was not disastrous. But then the druid Cathbad stood.

“She will grow to be beautiful,” Cathbad announced, speaking not only to Fedlimid but to the entire room. “Her name shall be Deirdre, and she will be the most beautiful woman in the world. But that beauty shall bring death to many heroes, and much sorrow to Ulster.”

Having uttered his prophesy, Cathbad sat. Conchobar’s warriors demanded that the child be killed.

“I will not allow it,” Conchobar said. “Such beauty will not be destroyed needlessly. I will arrange for Deirdre’s care, and when she is of a suitable age, she will be my wife.”

Fedlimid nodded eagerly. Such a match was a great honor, and it was only Conchobar’s intervention that guaranteed the girl’s survival.

Conchobar hid his prize deep in the mountains, away from the eyes of other men. As she matured, Deirdre only saw three people: a nurse, a fosterer and a teacher.

One day, Deirdre watched as her fosterer killed a calf to eat. The calf’s blood ran bright red in the snow, and a raven swooped down.

“If there were a man with hair as black as that raven, skin as white as that snow, and cheeks as red as that blood, I would wish to marry him,” Deirdre said, in what was perhaps the first manifestation of her second sight.

“There is such a man,” replied her teacher, Levarcham. While she was intelligent, Deirdre was also innocent; and since it was approaching the time when she was to marry the king, Levarcham supposed that she should know something of the world. “His name is Naoise, a son of Usnach. He is of the same race as the king your husband.”

“I should like to meet this man,” Deirdre said.

Her teacher hesitated. Deirdre was indeed as beautiful as Cathbad had predicted, and Conchobar wanted a virgin bride.

“I have never met Conchobar,” Deirdre continued. “Perhaps this Naoise can tell me something of him, and what I can expect as his wife in Ulster.”

Levarcham was convinced of Deirdre’s innocent intentions, and Naoise had an honorable reputation, so the meeting was arranged.

On the appointed day, Deirdre’s teacher escorted Naoise to meet her. “You are ideed beautiful, lady,” Naoise said in amazement, for he had not imagined that such beauty existed. “You are fit to be the wife of the king.”

“I had hoped that you might speak to me of my husband, and the other heroes of Ulster,” Deirdre said. So Naoise began to relate tales of great deeds, and eventually Deirdre’s teacher withdrew.

“Naoise,” Deirdre interupted. “I thank you for your stories, but they are not the true reason I wanted to see you.”

Naoise looked puzzled.

“I have never met Conchobar,” Deirdre said. “I have heard tales of his great deeds–your tales and others’. But all that I truly know of him is this: he took a babe from its parents, and kept his future wife as a prisoner with only the company of the animals and three people. I do not wish to be married to such a man, Naoise. I wish to be married to you.”

Naoise could not believe it. He would never have hoped to win such an unbearably beautiful woman’s love.

“You are the king’s,” he said, knowing as he spoke the words that he did not care. “If I took you away from him, we should have to live as exiles.”

“Exiles from what?” Deirdre asked. “Exiles from a land where we cannot possess what we most desire. I would embrace such an exile.”

“As would I,” Naoise said, and took her in his arms.

“Then come for me tonight,” Deirdre said. “I have never caused trouble; they will not expect me to try to escape.”

“I will be here,” Naoise promised. “And I will ask my brothers to join me as well.”

That night, Deirdre met the sons of Usnach outside the few buildings which had been the only home she had ever known. No one cried out in alarm; her disappearance was not noted until the morning, by which point Deirdre, Naoise, Ardan and Ainle were well on their way to Alba.

They formed an alliance with one of Alba’s kings. In return for aiding him in his battles–for the sons of Usnach were accomplished warriors–the exiles were allowed to wander freely.

They lived off the land, following the deer, and finally settled on the shore of Loch Etive. Deirdre had never been so happy. The first real decision of her life had been the right one. For their part, the sons of Usnach were satisfied. Their free lifestyle was welcome. Ardan and Ainle loved Deirdre as a sister; they felt no less priviledged than Naoise to have met her and won her affection.

Upon hearing of Deirdre’s abduction, Conchobar was outraged at the betrayal of the sons of Usnach. Later, when Deirdre’s complicity seemed undeniable, he raged inwardly at her as well. But he did not speak of his anger, and instead waited.

When he judged enough time had passed, he posed a question to his warriors as they feasted at Emain Macha. “Have any of you heard of a nobler company than those of us assembled here?”

Laughing, the heroes shook their heads.

“Yet we are not as great as we might be,” Conchobar continued. “The prowess of the sons of Usnach is well known. Why, they alone could defend Ulster against any other province. It is shameful that they remain exiles, especially for so pointless a reason as the fickleness of a woman. I would gladly welcome them back.”

The rest of the company nodded. “We would have counseled this, save for the heat of your anger,” they said.

“My anger has cooled,” Conchobar replied lightly. “I shall send a champion to fetch the sons of Usnach.”

After the feast, Conchobar privately summoned Conall the Victorious. “Tell me, Conall, what would you do if you were sent to bring back the sons of Usnach, but they were killed despite your promise of safe conduct?”

“I would kill the man that killed them,” Conall replied, “as well as any man who had a part in the plan.”

Conchobar nodded, and dismissed Conall. Then he secretly called Cuchulainn, son of Sualtam, and asked the same question.

“No man who performed such a deed would be safe,” Cuchulainn vowed. “Not even you could offer me a bribe sufficient to quell my wrath.”

After Cuchulainn left, Conchobar summoned Fergus, son of Roy, and posed the question a third time. “Such a foul deed would be avenged,” Fergus said. “I would slay any man–save you, of course, my lord–who had conspired to perform such murders.”

Conchobar smiled. “I am anxious to see the sons of Usnach again. Set out tomorrow, with all speed, and do not return without them. Return to Ireland at the Dún of Borrach, and do not linger. In fact, even if you yourself meet with some delay, send the sons of Usnach forward without you, for I weary of their exile.”

Fergus set out in his galley for Alba, accompanied by his two sons, Illannn the Fair and Buinne the Ruthless Red. When they reached Loch Etive, they debarked, and Fergus called out.

Naoise, Deirdre, Ardan and Ainle heard Fergus’s cry. “That was a man of Erin,” Naoise said, looking up from a game of chess.

Deirdre felt a sudden dread. “No,” she insisted. “That is a man of Alba. Pay no attention.”

But her warning was ignored, and Ardan went down to the shore and met Fergus and his sons. He brought them back, and the brothers were overjoyed at the message of friendship Fergus bore.

“The king wishes you to return from exile,” Fergus said. “I personally offer a promise of safe conduct, should you return to Ulster.”

“I wish to greet our fellows again,” Ardan said.

“Are they any more beloved than your brothers and I?” Deirdre asked.

“I long for the sight of the land I knew,” Ainle said.

“How can it compare to the beauty of Alba?” Deirdre asked.

“When it was a choice between Ulster without you, and exile with you, I gladly chose exile,” Naoise said to Deirdre. “But if I can again be welcome in Ulster, with you by my side, how could I do otherwise?”

“Listen to me,” Deirdre pleaded. “This will end badly, I am sure of it. We must not return.”

But the sons of Usnach were determined to return to their own land, so unhappily Deirdre boarded the galley with them the next morning. “We shall never see this land again,” she predicted quietly.

They landed at the Dún of Borrach, as Fergus had arranged with Conchobar. Unknown to Fergus, Conchobar had spoken to Borrach, ordering that he hold a feast. Unable to refuse Borrach’s hospitality, Fergus decided that he must send his charges on without his company.

“For the king was very clear, and said that nothing must delay you,” Fergus said. The sons of Usnach were annoyed at this change of plans; Deirdre was terrified. “My sons shall accompany you, and guarantee your safety.”

A vision came to Deirdre: Naoise, Ardan, Ainle, headless, and Illann dead as well, under a cloud of blood. “No, I beg you. We must not go. At least let us wait for the end of the feast.”

But once again, her advice was ignored, and they continued to Emain Macha. Conchobar received them splendidly, and placed the palace, the Red Branch House, at their disposal.

That evening, Conchobar summoned Deirdre’s old teacher, Levarcham. “Go and see Deirdre, and tell me if she is still the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Levarcham kissed Deirdre, who wept to see her teacher once more. “Beware the king,” Levarcham said. “He is kind and hospitable now, but he plots treachery.” She took her leave quickly, and returned to Conchobar. “It is sad,” she told the king. “She lived a hard life in the mountains of Alba; it has ruined her.”

Conchobar’s jealousy cooled, and he considered letting Naoise keep this woman who was no longer beautiful. But later, after he had drunk more wine, he sent a second messenger to bring him news of Deirdre’s appearance.

This messenger went in secret, and peered in a window. Deirdre glimpsed the spy, and cried out in outrage. Enraged, Naoise flung a chessman at the man, and put out one of his eyes.

“Truly, her beauty is great,” the wounded man told Conchobar. “Though it cost me one eye, I would gladly have stayed and gazed upon her with the other.”

These words rekindled Conchobar’s rage. He ordered his warriors to set fire to the Red Branch House. “Slay all within,” he shouted. “All save Deirdre!”

Fergus’s son Buinne ran outside as the first firebrands were thrown. He put out the fire, and slaughtered those men who came within reach. Seeing the prowess of only one of the five men inside the House, Conchobar called Buinne to him.

“I offer you land, and my friendship,” Conchobar said. “I am king; they are exiles. Abandon their cause.”

Buinne hesitated, and accepted Conchobar’s offer. He survived the night, and expected to become rich. But the land that Conchobar gave him, which had been green and fertile, turned barren that night, indignant that it was owned by a traitor.

After Buinne’s defection, Illann ran outside and continued the slaughter. “He will accept no bribe,” Conchobar predicted. So he turned to his son Fiacha, and gave him magic weapons, including his own shield. This shield was called “Moaner”, and roared whenever the man who carried it was in danger.

Fiacha fought Illann, who proved the stronger warrior. As Fiacha crouched beneath the shield, it roared for help. From a distance, Conall the Victorious heard the roar, and feared for his king’s life. He ran toward the duelists and, without pause, drove his spear through the body of Illann.

“I did not seek the king’s death,” Illann managed to say, having guessed the reason behind Conall’s action. “The sons of Usnach are inside, who came here under my father’s safe conduct. I only seek to protect them.”

Conall believed Illann’s dying words, and suspected the king’s involvement in the treacherous attack. He turned and slew Fiacha, who should have died at Illann’s hand.

All that night, the sons of Usnach beat back Conchobar’s warriors. But they began to tire, and with the dawn light realized that they must escape the Red Branch House or soon die.

“Stand in our center, behind our shields,” Naoise told Deirdre. “We shall protect you.”

They emerged, and cut their way past many warriors. In despair, Conchobar called the druid Cathbad.

“They must not escape,” the king said. “Do something to stop them, place a spell on them.” And, when Cathbad hesitated: “I promise to spare their lives.”

Cathbad agreed, and cast the illusion of a stormy sea about the exiles. Naoise tried to bear Deirdre on his shoulders, and keep her above water, but the water continued to rise. The sons of Usnach dropped their weapons, and they swam.

Conchobar’s men seized the sons of Usnach. Despite his promise to Cathbad, Conchobar condemned them to death.

The men of Ulster had witnessed the bravery of the sons of Usnach, and knew something of the king’s treachery; they all refused carry out the executions. Conchobar had to enlist the aid of a Norwegian, whose father had been killed by Usnach and who wished revenge upon the family.

Though they did not protest their sentence, the sons of Usnach each begged to be the first to die, and so avoid witnessing the deaths of the others. “Wait,” Naoise said. “This bickering must end. I shall lend our executioner the great sword “Retaliator”, given to me by Manannán son of Lêr. We shall die together.”

The sons of Usnach knelt beside one another, and with a single blow of the divine sword, all three were beheaded together.

Deirdre wept over her husband and his brothers, and cursed Conchobar. “I hate you more than any man alive,” she declared. “Perhaps even more than the man that struck the blow that killed them.”

“You must also be punished,” Conchobar said. “And if you hate me so much, then that shall be part of your punishment. And after a year, I will give you to the Norwegian for a year, so that you may enjoy the company of us both.”

This pronouncement did not affect Deirdre in the least; all that she feared had already come to pass. As Conchobar bore his prize to his palace, she broke away and hurled herself from a great height, breaking her body on the rocks and following the sons of Usnach into death.

Conchobar saw the prophesy of the druid Cathbad fulfilled. The men of Ulster never again trusted him. Fergus, when he heard what had happened, slaughtered many of Conchobar’s warriors, including his son. He and his own men then fled to Ailill and Medb of Connaught, Ulster’s greatest enemies. Cathbad cursed the king and the kingdom.

Ulster continued for a time, diminished and tarnished, and then fell. The buildings went to pieces, and grass grew up over them, and wild animals lived where once great men had walked.

______________

Poetry: William Butler Yeats

The Cap and Bells

The jester walked in the garden:

The garden had fallen still;

He bade his soul rise upward

And stand on her window-sill.

It rose in a straight blue garment,

When owls began to call:

It had grown wise-tongued by thinking

Of a quiet and light footfall;

But the young queen would not listen;

She rose in her pale night-gown;

She drew in the heavy casement

And pushed the latches down.

He bade his heart go to her,

When the owls called out no more;

In a red and quivering garment

It sang to her through the door.

It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming

Of a flutter of flower-like hair;

But she took up her fan from the table

And waved it off on the air.

`I have cap and bells,’ he pondered,

`I will send them to her and die’;

And when the morning whitened

He left them where she went by.

She laid them upon her bosom,

Under a cloud of her hair,

And her red lips sang them a love-song

Till stars grew out of the air.

She opened her door and her window,

And the heart and the soul came through,

To her right hand came the red one,

To her left hand came the blue.

They set up a noise like crickets,

A chattering wise and sweet,

And her hair was a folded flower

And the quiet of love in her feet.

—

He hears the Cry of the Sedge

I wander by the edge

Of this desolate lake

Where wind cries in the sedge:

Until the axle break

That keeps the stars in their round,

And hands hurl in the deep

The banners of East and West,

And the girdle of light is unbound,

Your breast will not lie by the breast

Of your beloved in sleep.

—

The Wheel

Through winter-time we call on spring,

And through the spring on summer call,

And when abounding hedges ring

Declare that winter’s best of all;

And after that there’s nothing good

Because the spring-time has not come —

Nor know that what disturbs our blood

Is but our longing for the tomb.

—

Her Praise

SHE is foremost of those that I would hear praised.

I have gone about the house, gone up and down

As a man does who has published a new book

Or a young girl dressed out in her new gown,

And though I have turned the talk by hook or crook

Until her praise should be the uppermost theme,

A woman spoke of some new tale she had read,

A man confusedly in a half dream

As though some other name ran in his head.

She is foremost of those that I would hear praised.

I will talk no more of books or the long war

But walk by the dry thorn until I have found

Some beggar sheltering from the wind, and there

Manage the talk until her name come round.

If there be rags enough he will know her name

And be well pleased remembering it, for in the old days,

Though she had young men’s praise and old men’s blame,

Among the poor both old and young gave her praise.

_______________

Out to work, so this is a quick one… if you had trouble downloading the magazine yesterday, please try again.

On the Menu

The Higher Links

The Quotes

The Vision of MacConglinney

The Poetry of Medbh McGuckian

Have a good one!

G

The Invisible College

You can down load it by going to the home page of EarthRites.org or you can go to this page:The Invisible College

_________

The Higher Links:

State triples medical pot fees

High School to Expand Alcohol Testing

Medical Marijuana Shop Defies Order to Shut Down

Mushrooms and mysticism

_____________

The Quotes:

“When a thing ceases to be a subject of controversy, it ceases to be a subject of interest.”

“Any intelligent fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius — and a lot of courage — to move in the opposite direction.”

“Adventure is just bad planning.”

“The greatest of faults, I should say, is to be conscious of none.”

“Cats are intended to teach us that not everything in nature has a function.”

“When you are eight years old, nothing is any of your business.”

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The Vision of MacConglinney

Cathal, King of Munster, was a good king and a great warrior. But there came to dwell within him a lawless evil beast, that afflicted him with hunger that ceased not, and might not be satisfied, so that he would devour a pig, a cow, and a bull calf and three-score cakes of pure wheat, and a vat of new ale, for his breakfast, whilst as for his great feast, what he ate there passes account or reckoning. He was like this for three half-years, and during that time it was the ruin of Munster he was, and it is likely he would have ruined all Ireland in another half-year.

Now there lived in Armagh a famous young scholar and his name was Anier MacConglinney. He heard of the strange disease of King Cathal, and of the abundance of food and drink, of whitemeats, ale and mead, there were always to be found at the king’s court. Thither then was he minded to go to try his own fortune, and to see of what help he could be to the king.

He arose early in the morning and tucked up his shirt and wrapped him in the folds of his white cloak. In his right hand he grasped his even-poised knotty staff, and going right-hand-wise round his home, he bade farewell to his tutors and started off.

He journeyed across all Ireland till he came to the house of Pichan. And there he stayed and told tales, and made all merry. But Pichan said:

“Though great thy mirth, son of learning, it does not make me glad.”

“And why ?” asked MacConglinney.

“Knowest thou not, scholar, that Cathal is coming here to-night with all his host. And if the great host is trouble-some, the king’s first meal is more troublesome still ; and troublesome though the first be, most troublesome of all is the great feast. Three things are wanted for this last: a bushel of oats, and a bushel of wild apples, and a bushel of flour cakes.”

“What reward would you give me if I shield you from the king from this hour to the same hour to-tnorrow ?”

“A white sheep from every fold between Cam and Cork.”

“I will take that,” said MacConglinney.

Cathal, the king, came with the companies, and a host of horse of the Munster men. But Cathal did not let the thong of his shoe be half loosed before he began supplying his mouth with both hands from the apples round about him. Pichan and all the men of Munster looked on sadly and sorrowfully. Then rose Macconglinney, hastily and impatiently, and seized a stone, against which swords were used to be sharpened ; this he thrust into his mouth and began grinding his teeth against the stone.

“What makes thee mad, son of learning?” asked Cathal.

“I grieve to see you eating alone,” said the scholar.

Then the king was ashamed and flung him the apples, and it is said that for three half-years he had not performed such an act of humanity.

“Grant me a further boon,” said MacConglinney.

“It is granted, on my troth,” said the king.

“Fast with me the whole night,” said the scholar.

And grievous though it was to the king, he did so, for he had passed his princely troth, and no King of Munster might transgress that.

In the morning MacConglinney called for juicy old bacon, and tender corned beef, honey in the comb, and English salt on a beautiful polished dish of white silver. A fire he lighted of oak wood without smoke, without fumes, without sparks.

And sticking spits into the portion of meat, he set to work to roast them. Then he shouted, “Ropes and cords here.”

Ropes and cords were given to him, and the strongest of the warriors.

And they seized the king and bound him securely, and made him fast with knots and hooks and staples. When the king was thus fastened, MacConglinney sat himself down before him, and taking his knife out of his girdle, he carved the portion of meat that was on the spits, and every morsel he dipped in the honey, and, passing it in front of the king’s mouth, put it in his own.

When the king saw that he was getting nothing, and he had been fasting for twenty-four hours, he roared and bellowed, and commanded the killing of the scholar. But that was not done for him.

Listen, King of Munster,” said MacConglinney, “a vision appeared to me last night, and I will relate it to you.”

He then began his vision, and as he related it he put morsel after morsel past Cathal’s mouth into his own.

“A lake of new milk I beheld

In the midst of a fair plain,

Therein a well-appointed house,

Thatched with butter.

Puddings fresh boiled,

Such were its thatch-rods,

Its two soft door posts of custard,

Its beds of glorious bacon.

Cheeses were the palisades,

Sausages the rafters.

Truly ’twas a rich filled house,

In which was great store of good feed.

Such was the vision I beheld, and a voice sounded into my ears. ‘Go now, thither, MacConglinney, for you have no power of eating in you.’ ‘ What must I do,’ said I, for the sight of that had made me greedy. Then the voice bade me go to the hermitage of the Wizard Doctor, and there I should find appetite for all kinds of savoury tender sweet food, acceptable to the body.

“There in the harbour of the lake before me I saw a juicy little coracle of beef; its thwarts were of curds, its prow of lard ; its stern of butter ; its oars were flitches of venison. Then I rowed across the wide expanse of the New Milk Lake, through seas of broth, past river mouths of meat, over swelling boisterous waves of butter milk, by perpetual pools of savoury lard, by islands of cheese, by headlands of old curds, until I reached the firm level land between Butter Mount and Milk Lake, in the land of O’Early-eating, in front of the hermitage of the Wizard Doctor.

“Marvellous, indeed, was the hermitage. Around it were seven-score hundred smooth stakes of old bacon, and instead of thorns above the top of every stake was fixed juicy lard. There was a gate of cream, whereon was a bolt of sausage. And there I saw the doorkeeper, Bacon Lad, son of Butterkins, son of Lardipole, with his smooth sandals of old bacon, his legging of pot-meat round his shins, his tunic of corned beef, his girdle of salmon skin round him, his hood of flummery about him, his steed of bacon under him, with its four legs of custard, its four hoofs of oaten bread, its ears of curds, its two eyes of honey in its head ; in his hand a whip, the cords whereof were four-and-twenty fair white puddings, and every juicy drop that fell from each of these puddings would have made a meal for an ordinary man.

“On going in I beheld the Wizard Doctor with his two gloves of rump steak on his hands, setting in order the house, which was hung all round with tripe, from roof to floor.

“I went into the kitchen, and there I saw the Wizard Doctor’s son, with his fishing hook of lard in his hand, and the line was made of marrow, and he was angling in a lake of whey. Now he would bring up a flitch of ham, and now a fillet of corned beef. And as he was angling, he fell in, and was drowned.

“As I set my foot across the threshold into the house, I saw a pure white bed of butter, on which I sat down, but I sank down into it up to the tips of my hair. Hard work had the eight strongest men in the house to pull me out by the top of the crown of my head.

“Then I was taken in to the Wizard Doctor. ‘What aileth thee ?’ said he.

“My wish would be, that all the many wonderful viands of the world were before me, that I might eat my fill and satisfy my greed. But alas ! great is the misfortune to me, who cannot obtain any of these.

“‘On my word,’ said the Doctor, ‘the disease is grievous. But thou shall take home with thee a medicine to cure thy disease, and shalt be for ever healed therefrom.’

” ‘What is that ?’ asked I.

When thou goest home to-night, warm thyself before a glowing red fire of oak, made up on a dry hearth, so that its embers may warm thee, its blaze may not burn thee, its smoke may not touch thee. And make for thyself thrice nine morsels, and every morsel as big as an heath fowl’s egg, and in each morsel eight kinds of grain, wheat and barley, oats and rye, and therewith eight condiments, and to every condiment eight sauces. And when thou hast prepared thy food, take a drop of drink, a tiny drop, only as much as twenty men will drink, and let it be of thick milk, of yellow bubbling milk, of milk that will gurgle as it rushes down thy throat.’

” ‘And when thou hast done this, whatever disease thou hast, shall be removed. Go now,’ said he, ‘in the name of cheese, and may the smooth juicy bacon protect thee, may yellow curdy cream protect, may the cauldron full of pottage protect thee.’ “

Now, as MacConglinney recited his vision, what with the pleasure of the recital and the recounting of these many pleasant viands, and the sweet savour of the honeyed morsels roasting on the spits, the lawless beast that dwelt within the king, came forth until it was licking its lips outside its head.

Then MacConglinney bent his hand with the two spits of food, and put them to the lips of the king, who longed to swallow them, wood, food, and all. So he took them an arm’s length away from the king, and the lawless beast jumped from the throat of Cathal on to the spit. MacConglinney put the spit into the embers, and upset the cauldron of the royal house over the spit. The house was emptied, so that not the value of a cockchafer’s leg was left in it, and four huge fires were kindled here and there in it. When the house was a tower of red flame and a huge blaze, the lawless beast sprang to the rooftree of the palace, and from thence he vanished, and was seen no more.

As for the king, a bed was prepared for him on a downy quilt, and musicians and singers entertained him going from noon till twilight. And when he awoke, this is what he bestowed upon the scholar – a cow from every farm, and a sheep from every house in Munster. Moreover, that so long as he lived, he should carve the king’s food, and sit at his right hand.

Thus was Cathal, King of Munster, cured of his craving, and MacConglinney honoured.

________________

The Poetry of Medbh McGuckian

Open Rose

The moon is my second face, her long cycle

Still locked away. I feel rain

Like a tried-on dress, I clutch it

Like a book to my body.

His head is there when I work,

It signs my letters with a question-mark;

His hands reach for me like rationed air.

Day by day I let him go

Till I become a woman, or even less,

An incompletely furnished house

That came from a different century

Where I am guest at my own childhood.

I have grown inside words

Into a state of unbornness,

An open rose on all sides

Has spoken as far as it can.

—–

Ylang-Ylang

On Ballycastle Beach

Her skin, though there were areas of death,

Was bright compared with the darkness

Working through it. When she wore black,

That rescued it, those regions were rested

Like a town at lighting up time. In a heart-

Casket flickered her heartless ‘jeune fille’

Perfume; I was compelled by her sunburnt,

Unripe story and her still schoolgirl hand.

My life, sighed the grass-coloured,

Brandy-inspired carafe, is like a rug

That used to be a leopard, beckoning

To something pink. Yes, I replied, I have

A golf-coat almost as characterless,

Where all is leaf. We began moving over one

Each other in the gentlest act of colour,

Not as far as the one-sided shape of red,

But out of that seriousness, out of the stout

Ruled notebook. She would stream in, her

Sculptor’s blouse disturbed so by the violence

Of yellow, I would have to thank the light

For warning me of her approach. Not I,

But the weakened blue of my skirt

Wanted the thrown-together change, from vetiver

To last night’s ylang-ylang, and back again.

—

The Flower Master

Like foxgloves in the school of the grass moon

We come to terms with shade, with the principle

Of enfolding space. Our scissors in brocade,

We learn the coolness of straight edges, how

To stroke gently the necks of daffodils

And make them throw their heads back to the sun.

We slip the thready stems of violets, delay

The loveliness of the hibiscus dawn with quiet ovals,

Spirals of feverfew like water splashing,

The papery legacies of bluebells. We do

Sea-fans with sea-lavendar, moon-arrangements

Roughly for the festival of moon-viewing.

This black container calls for sloes, sweet

Sultan, dainty nipplewort, in honour

Of a special guest, who summoned to the

Tea ceremony, must stoop to our low doorway,

Our fontanelle, the trout’s dimpled feet.

The Invisible College

You can down load it by going to the home page of EarthRites.org or you can go to this page:The Invisible College

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Nice response so far to the Magazine. Thanks for all the kind notes… 8o) Please let other people know about it. Share it with friends, and whoever might enjoy it.

Off for a walk, so let me just say it is a chilly one here in Portland today. Sunny though, and that counts for a lot. Spring is coming… Spring is coming… Spring is coming…

More info, poems, stories on the way…

Have a Beautiful Day!

Cheers,

Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

The Links

Creation Tales: How the Hopi Indians Reached Their World

The Poetry of William Blake

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The Links:

US answer to global warming: smoke and giant space mirrors

Personal TV censor

Don’t be fooled by Bush’s defection: his cures are another form of denia

Legal Psychedlics Blog

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Creation Tales: How the Hopi Indians Reached Their World

When the world was new, the ancient people and the ancient creatures did not live on the top of the earth. They lived under it. All was darkness, all was blackness, above the earth as well as below it.

There were four worlds: this one on top of the earth, and below it three cave worlds, one below the other. None of the cave worlds was large enough for all the people and the creatures.

They increased so fast in the lowest cave world that they crowded it. They were poor and did not know where to turn in the blackness. When they moved, they jostled one another. The cave was filled with the filth of the people who lived in it. No one could turn to spit without spitting on another. No one could cast slime from his nose without its falling on someone else. The people filled the place with their complaints and with their expressions of disgust.

Some people said, “It is not good for us to live in this way.”

“How can it be made better?” one man asked.

“Let it be tried and seen!” answered another.

Two Brothers, one older and one younger, spoke to the priest- chiefs of the people in the cave world, “Yes, let it be tried and seen. Then it shall be well. By our wills it shall be well.”

The Two Brothers pierced the roofs of the caves and descended to the lowest world, where people lived. The Two Brothers sowed one plant after another, hoping that one of them would grow up to the opening through which they themselves had descended and yet would have the strength to bear the weight of men and creatures. These, the Two Brothers hoped, might climb up the plant into the second cave world. One of these plants was a cane.

At last, after many trials, the cane became so tall that it grew through the opening in the roof, and it was so strong that men could climb to its top. It was jointed so that it was like a ladder, easily ascended. Ever since then, the cane has grown in joints as we see it today along the Colorado River.

Up this cane many people and beings climbed to the second cave world. When a part of them had climbed out, they feared that that cave also would be too small. It was so dark that they could not see how large it was. So they shook the ladder and caused those who were coming up it to fall back. Then they pulled the ladder out. It is said that those who were left came out of the lowest cave later. They are our brothers west of us.

After a long time the second cave became filled with men and beings, as the first had been. Complaining and wrangling were heard as in the beginning. Again the cane was placed under the roof vent, and once more men and beings entered the upper cave world. Again, those who were slow to climb out were shaken back or left behind. Though larger, the third cave was as dark as the first and second. The Two Brothers found fire. Torches were set ablaze, and by their light men built their huts and kivas, or travelled from place to place.

While people and the beings lived in this third cave world, times of evil came to them. Women became so crazed that they neglected all things for the dance. They even forgot their babies. Wives became mixed with wives, so that husbands did not know their own from others. At that time there was no day, only night, black night. Throughout this night, women danced in the kivas (men’s “clubhouses”), ceasing only to sleep. So the fathers had to be the mothers of the little ones. When these little ones cried from hunger, the fathers carried them to the kivas, where the women were dancing. Hearing their cries, the mothers came and nursed them, and then went back to their dancing. Again the fathers took care of the children.

These troubles caused people to long for the light and to seek again an escape from darkness. They climbed to the fourth world, which was this world. But it too was in darkness, for the earth was closed in by the sky, just as the cave worlds had been closed in by their roofs. Men went from their lodges and worked by the light of torches and fires. They found the tracks of only one being, the single ruler of the unpeopled world, the tracks of Corpse Demon or Death. The people tried to follow these tracks, which led eastward. But the world was damp and dark, and people did not know what to do in the darkness. The waters seemed to surround them, and the tracks seemed to lead out into the waters.

With the people were five beings that had come forth with them from the cave worlds: Spider, Vulture, Swallow, Coyote, and Locust. The people and these beings consulted together, trying to think of some way of making light. Many, many attempts were made, but without success. Spider was asked to try first. She spun a mantle of pure white cotton. It gave some light but not enough. Spider therefore became our grandmother.

Then the people obtained and prepared a very white deerskin that had not been pierced in any spot. From this they made a shield case, which they painted with turquoise paint. It shed forth such brilliant light that it lighted the whole world. It made the light from the cotton mantle look faded. So the people sent the shield-light to the east, where it became the moon.

Down in the cave world Coyote had stolen a jar that was very heavy, so very heavy that he grew weary of carrying it. He decided to leave it behind, but he was curious to see what it contained. Now that light had taken the place of darkness, he opened the jar. From it many shining fragments and sparks flew out and upward, singeing his face as they passed him. That is why the coyote has a black face to this day. The shining fragments and sparks flew up to the sky and became stars.

By these lights the people found that the world was indeed very small and surrounded by waters, which made it damp. The people appealed to Vulture for help. He spread his wings and fanned the waters, which flowed away to the east and to the west until mountains began to appear.

Across the mountains the Two Brothers cut channels. Water rushed through the channels, and wore their courses deeper and deeper. Thus the great canyons and valleys of the world were formed. The waters have kept on flowing and flowing for ages. The world has grown drier, and continues to grow drier and drier.

Now that there was light, the people easily followed the tracks of Death eastward over the new land that was appearing. Hence Death is our greatest father and master. We followed his tracks when we left the cave worlds, and he was the only being that awaited us on the great world of waters where this world is now.

Although all the water had flowed away, the people found the earth soft and damp. That is why we can see today the tracks of men and of many strange creatures between the place toward the west and the place where we came from the cave world.

Since the days of the first people, the earth has been changed to stone, and all the tracks have been preserved as they were when they were first made.

When people had followed in the tracks of Corpse Demon but a short distance, they overtook him. Among them were two little girls. One was the beautiful daughter of a great priest. The other was the child of somebody-or-other She was not beautiful, and she was jealous of the little beauty. With the aid of Corpse Demon the jealous girl caused the death of the other child. This was the first death.

When people saw that the girl slept and could not be awakened, that she grew cold and that her heart had stopped beating, her father, the great priest, grew angry.

“Who has caused my daughter to die?” he cried loudly.

But the people only looked at each other.

“I will make a ball of sacred meal,” said the priest. “I will throw it into the air, and when it falls it will strike someone on the head. The one it will strike I shall know as the one whose magic and evil art have brought my tragedy upon me.”

The priest made a ball of sacred flour and pollen and threw it into the air. When it fell, it struck the head of the jealous little girl, the daughter of somebody-or-other. Then the priest exclaimed, “So you have caused this thing! You have caused the death of my daughter.”

He called a council of the people, and they tried the girl. They would have killed her if she had not cried for mercy and a little time. Then she begged the priest and his people to return to the hole they had all come out of and look down it.

“If you still wish to destroy me, after you have looked into the hole,” she said, “I will die willingly.”

So the people were persuaded to return to the hole leading from the cave world. When they looked down, they saw plains of beautiful flowers in a land of everlasting summer and fruitfulness. And they saw the beautiful little girl, the priest’s daughter, wandering among the flowers. She was so happy that she paid no attention to the people. She seemed to have no desire to return to this world.

“Look!” said the girl who had caused her death. “Thus it shall be with all the children of men.”

“When we die,” the people said to each other, “we will return to the world we have come from. There we shall be happy. Why should we fear to die? Why should we resent death?”

So they did not kill the little girl. Her children became the powerful wizards and witches of the world, who increased in numbers as people increased. Her children still live and still have wonderful and dreadful powers.

Then the people journeyed still farther eastward. As they went, they discovered Locust in their midst.

“Where did you come from?” they asked.

“I came out with you and the other beings,” he replied.

“Why did you come with us on our journey?” they asked.

“So that I might be useful,” replied Locust.

But the people, thinking that he could not be useful, said to him, “You must return to the place you came from.”

But Locust would not obey them. Then the people became so angry at him that they ran arrows through him, even through his heart. All the blood oozed out of his body and he died. After a long time he came to life again and ran about, looking as he had looked before, except that he was black.

The people said to one another, “Locust lives again, although we have pierced him through and through. Now he shall indeed be useful and shall journey with us. Who besides Locust has this wonderful power of renewing his life? He must possess the medicine for the renewal of the lives of others. He shall become the medicine of mortal wounds and of war.”

So today the locust is at first white, as was the first locust that came forth with the ancients. Like him, the locust dies, and after he has been dead a long time, he comes to life again– black. He is our father, too. Having his medicine, we are the greatest of men. The locust medicine still heals mortal wounds.

After the ancient people had journeyed a long distance, they became very hungry. In their hurry to get away from the lower cave world, they had forgotten to bring seed. After they had done much lamenting, the Spirit of Dew sent the Swallow back to bring the seed of corn and of other foods. When Swallow returned, the Spirit of Dew planted the seed in the ground and chanted prayers to it. Through the power of these prayers, the corn grew and ripened in a single day.

So for a long time, as the people continued their journey, they carried only enough seed for a day’s planting. They depended upon the Spirit of Dew to raise for them in a single day an abundance of corn and other foods. To the Corn Clan, he gave this seed, and for a long time they were able to raise enough corn for their needs in a very short time.

But the powers of the witches and wizards made the time for raising foods grow longer and longer. Now, sometimes, our corn does not have time to grow old and ripen in the ear, and our other foods do not ripen. If it had not been for the children of the little girl whom the ancient people let live, even now we would not need to watch our cornfields whole summers through, and we would not have to carry heavy packs of food on our journeys.

As the ancient people travelled on, the children of the little girl tried their powers and caused other troubles. These mischief-makers stirred up people who had come out of the cave worlds before our ancients had come. They made war upon our ancients. The wars made it necessary for the people to build houses whenever they stopped travelling. They built their houses on high mountains reached by only one trail, or in caves with but one path leading to them, or in the sides of deep canyons. Only in such places could they sleep in peace.

Only a small number of people were able to climb up from their secret hiding places and emerge into the Fourth World. Legends reveal the Grand Canyon is where these people emerged. From there they began their search for the homes the Two Brothers intended for them.

These few were the Hopi Indians that now live on the Three Mesas of northeastern Arizona.

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The Poetry of William Blake

The Voice Of The Ancient Bard

Youth of delight! come hither

And see the opening morn,

Image of Truth new-born.

Doubt is fled, and clouds of reason,

Dark disputes and artful teazing.

Folly is an endless maze;

Tangled roots perplex her ways;

How many have fallen there!

They stumble all night over bones of the dead;

And feel–they know not what but care;

And wish to lead others, when they should be led.

—-

The Price of Experience

What is the price of experience? Do men buy it for a song?

Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price

Of all a man hath, his house, his wife, his children.

Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy,

And in the wither’d field where the farmer plows for bread in vain.

It is an easy thing to triumph in the summer’s sun

And in the vintage and to sing on the waggon loaded with corn.

It is an easy thing to talk of prudence to the afflicted,

To speak the laws of prudence to the houseless wanderer,

To listen to the hungry raven’s cry in wintry season

When the red blood is fill’d with wine and with the marrow of lambs.

It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements,

To hear the dog howl at the wintry door, the ox in the slaughterhouse moan;

To see a god on every wind and a blessing on every blast;

To hear sounds of love in the thunder-storm and destroys our enemies’ house;

To rejoice in the blight that covers his field, and the sickness that cuts off his children,

While our olive and vine sing and laugh round our door, and our children bring fruits and flowers.

Then the groan and the dolour are quite forgotten, and the slave grinding at the mill,

And the captive in chains, and the poor in the prison, and the soldier in the field

When the shatter’d bone hath laid him groaning among the happier dead.

It is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity:

Thus could I sing and thus rejoice: but it is not so with me.

—

London, from Songs of Experience

I wander thro’ each charter’d street,

Near where the charter’d Thames does flow,

And mark in every face I meet

Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,

In every Infant’s cry of fear,

In every voice, in every ban,

The mind-forg’d manacles I hear.

How the Chimney-sweeper’s cry

Every black’ning Church appals;

And the hapless Soldier’s sigh

Runs in blood down Palace walls.

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear

How the youthful Harlot’s curse

Blasts the new-born infant’s tear,

And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.

—

Auguries of Innocence

To see a world in a grain of sand

And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand

And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage

Puts all heaven in a rage.

A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons

Shudders hell through all its regions.

A dog starved at his master’s gate

Predicts the ruin of the state.

A horse misused upon the road

Calls to heaven for human blood.

Each outcry of the hunted hare

A fibre from the brain does tear.

A skylark wounded in the wing,

A cherubim does cease to sing.

The game-cock clipped and armed for fight

Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf’s and lion’s howl

Raises from hell a human soul.

The wild deer wandering here and there

Keeps the human soul from care.

The lamb misused breeds public strife,

And yet forgives the butcher’s knife.

The bat that flits at close of eve

Has left the brain that won’t believe.

The owl that calls upon the night

Speaks the unbeliever’s fright.

He who shall hurt the little wren

Shall never be beloved by men.

He who the ox to wrath has moved

Shall never be by woman loved.

The wanton boy that kills the fly

Shall feel the spider’s enmity.

He who torments the chafer’s sprite

Weaves a bower in endless night.

The caterpillar on the leaf

Repeats to thee thy mother’s grief.

Kill not the moth nor butterfly,

For the Last Judgment draweth nigh.

He who shall train the horse to war

Shall never pass the polar bar.

The beggar’s dog and widow’s cat,

Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat.

The gnat that sings his summer’s song

Poison gets from Slander’s tongue.

The poison of the snake and newt

Is the sweat of Envy’s foot.

The poison of the honey-bee

Is the artist’s jealousy.

The prince’s robes and beggar’s rags

Are toadstools on the miser’s bags.

A truth that’s told with bad intent

Beats all the lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so:

Man was made for joy and woe;

And when this we rightly know

Through the world we safely go.

Joy and woe are woven fine,

A clothing for the soul divine.

Under every grief and pine

Runs a joy with silken twine.

The babe is more than swaddling bands,

Throughout all these human lands;

Tools were made and born were hands,

Every farmer understands.

Every tear from every eye

Becomes a babe in eternity;

This is caught by females bright

And returned to its own delight.

The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar

Are waves that beat on heaven’s shore.

The babe that weeps the rod beneath

Writes Revenge! in realms of death.

The beggar’s rags fluttering in air

Does to rags the heavens tear.

The soldier armed with sword and gun

Palsied strikes the summer’s sun.

The poor man’s farthing is worth more

Than all the gold on Afric’s shore.

One mite wrung from the labourer’s hands

Shall buy and sell the miser’s lands,

Or if protected from on high

Does that whole nation sell and buy.

He who mocks the infant’s faith

Shall be mocked in age and death.

He who shall teach the child to doubt

The rotting grave shall ne’er get out.

He who respects the infant’s faith

Triumphs over hell and death.

The child’s toys and the old man’s reasons

Are the fruits of the two seasons.

The questioner who sits so sly

Shall never know how to reply.

He who replies to words of doubt

Doth put the light of knowledge out.

The strongest poison ever known

Came from Caesar’s laurel crown.

Nought can deform the human race

Like to the armour’s iron brace.

When gold and gems adorn the plough

To peaceful arts shall Envy bow.

A riddle or the cricket’s cry

Is to doubt a fit reply.

The emmet’s inch and eagle’s mile

Make lame philosophy to smile.

He who doubts from what he sees

Will ne’er believe, do what you please.

If the sun and moon should doubt,

They’d immediately go out.

To be in a passion you good may do,

But no good if a passion is in you.

The whore and gambler, by the state

Licensed, build that nation’s fate.

The harlot’s cry from street to street

Shall weave old England’s winding sheet.

The winner’s shout, the loser’s curse,

Dance before dead England’s hearse.

Every night and every morn

Some to misery are born.

Every morn and every night

Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight,

Some are born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie

When we see not through the eye

Which was born in a night to perish in a night,

When the soul slept in beams of light.

God appears, and God is light

To those poor souls who dwell in night,

But does a human form display

To those who dwell in realms of day.