Gwyllm.com

This is as good as it gets… the recovered bits of Mondays’ Trainwreck on Turfing, and Earthrites in general. argh….

Turfing & EarthRites.org Swag coming soon! Priceless Items! Keep the wheels of this site running!

Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

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On The Recovered Menu:

Psychedelic Healing Part 1 & 2

Bonus!: A Sufi Tale thrown in to the mix!!!

Coming Again -The orgasmic release of the Apocalypse myth

Poetry: Spring Has Sprung – Phil Whalen

Art: Jean-Leon Gerome

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Psychedelic Healing Part 1

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Psychedelic Healing Part 2

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The Tiger and the Fox

A fox who lived in the deep forest of long ago had lost its front legs. No one knew how: perhaps escaping from a trap. A man who lived on the edge of the forest , seeing the fox from time to time, wondered how in the world it managed to get its food. One day when the fox was not far from him he had to hide himself quickly because a tiger was approaching. The tiger had fresh game in its claws. Lying down on the ground, it ate its fill, leaving the rest for the fox.

Again the next day the great Provider of this world sent provisions to the fox by this same tiger. The man began to think: “If this fox is taken care of in this mysterious way, its food sent by some unseen Higher Power, why don’t I just rest in a corner and have my daily meal provided for me?”

Because he had a lot of faith, he let the days pass, waiting for food. Nothing happened. He just went on losing weight and strength until he was nearly a skeleton. Close to losing consciousness, he heard a Voice which said: “O you, who have mistaken the way, see now the Truth! You should have followed the example of that tiger instead of imitating the disabled fox.”

(And Rumi said, “You have feet; why pretend that you are lame?”)

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Coming Again -The orgasmic release of the Apocalypse myth

by Robert Anton Wilson Published November 15, 1999 in Whoa!

The sky is falling! The sky is falling! — Chicken Little

Back in the early 1980s, Vicki Weaver, a pious Christian lady, persuaded her husband Randy that the Bible proved that the final battle between Christ and Antichrist would take place in 1987, beginning with an attempted slaughter of the Christians by ZOG — the Zionist Occupied Government in Washington, D.C. The two of them (and their children) logically moved to a high hill in Idaho — Ruby Ridge — where they planned to stage their own last fight for the Lord.

Alas, 1987 passed, Vicki had to recalculate, and things were a bit fuzzy there for a while. But then the ’90s came ’round, Randy sold a sawed-off shotgun to a government informer, and the Feds arrived to arrest him. Randy and Vicki thought they were facing the ZOG, the Feds thought they were dealing with lunatics, and the results were so bloody all around that Ruby Ridge remains controversial to this day.

Sometimes, the Apocalypse can ruin your whole week.

On the other hand, I have survived Doomsday so many times that it has begun to bore me. In the last three months alone, I have — we all have — lived right on through three dates that leading eschatologists have authoritatively named as the Day of Reckoning (11 August, 11 September, and 7 November.).

I wonder why so many people have such a lascivious longing for the Apocalypse? It seems a far more popular fantasy game than Dungeons & Dragons, and, of course, it has all the thrills and chills of a slasher movie.

But there may be more here, just as there is to horror and catastrophe movies if you think about them. Neo-Freudians, and especially Reichians, suggest that our form of civilization stifles and constricts us so much that at times we all long to experience some orgasmic but catastrophic “explosion,” like King Kong breaking his chains and wrecking New York, or even more like the masochist in bondage, according to Dr. Reich. This sudden release from the bondage-and-discipline of our jobs and our taxes — actually called the Rapture by Fundamentalists — seems ghoulishly attractive to Christians, New Agers, and others who believe in a “spirit” that will survive the general wreckage. In that case, the end of the world seems no worse than a visit to the dentist: You know you’ll feel better afterwards. This sort of desire for Total Escape/Total Annihilation has always had its bards and visionaries.

Christianity, for instance, started out as a typical Doomsday cult:

Verily, I say unto you, there will be some of them that stand here which shall not taste of death until they have seen the Kingdom of God come with power. — Mark 9:1

And there shall be signs in the sun and in the moon and in the stars… This generation shall not pass until all be fulfilled. — Luke 21: 25,32

And then shall appear the sign of the Son of Man in heaven … This generation shall not pass until all these things be fulfilled. — Matt 24: 30,34

Of course, when all the marks standing there and their whole generation did pass without the Apocalypse coming, these prophecies required reinterpretation. The second most common talent among Doomsayers — after their unparalleled ability to predict dates on which the world perversely does not end — is their capacity to recalculate. But, then, theology is logic with deuces and one-eyed jacks wild.

Among those not committed to the Rapture, prophecies of doom usually have another loophole: Only most of humanity will perish. In these scenarios, those with the Right Ideas will survive, although they will probably need to stockpile food, water, and guns in advance.

Those with the Right Ideas are the ones who believe in the Prophet, of course. Thus there seems an element of sadism mixed in with the masochism of the Millennialist mentality: We will suffer only a little, these folks say, but the rest of you motherfuckers are really going to get the works. Well, Freud himself pronounced that sadism and masochism always contain a bit of one another.

Here’s a brief list of some of the Doomsdays that had to be postponed:

1141 CE — Hildegard of Bingen predicted the world would end that year. It didn’t.

October 22, 1844 — This was Doomsday, as calculated from the Bible by William Miller, who had previously goofed by announcing that it would occur in 1843. When the 1844 prophecy also failed, new calculations from the same texts gave birth to the Adventists, the Seventh-day Adventists and, later, the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

The Jehovah’s Witnesses originally picked 1914 as the jackpot year. Some of them rejoiced in the bloody World War that began that year, as the palpable, visible, undeniable “beginning” of the end. But others calculated exact years for the end of the end: 1918, 1920, 1925, 1941, 1975, and 1994, for instance. I survived all of them, and I guess you did, too, or you wouldn’t be reading this.

In 1957, a pastor named Mihran Ask chose April 23, 1957 as the Last Day; I remember that vividly because Paul Krassner claimed in the next issue of The Realist that the world had really ended that day and we just weren’t paying attention.

In 1986, Moses David of the Children of God predicted the battle of Armageddon would happen that year and Christ would return in 1993.

In 1983, Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh predicted the catastrophes would begin in 1984 and climax in 1999.

The famous psychic Edgar Cayce predicted that Christ would return in 1998. Why haven’t we heard from him? Maybe he’s having trouble finding a place to rent.

Another psychic, Criswell — best remembered for his oratorical performances in Ed Wood’s movies — predicted August 18, 1999 as the end of time.

This is only a very, very small selection of failed end-times prophecy; if you are curious, you can find longer lists of Doomsdays here and here.

So far, the batting average of all Doomsayers has stayed firm at 0.000. That, of course, will not stop this ever-popular guessing game. We survived the alleged three meteors of November 7, but we still have Y2K ahead of us; and if we survive that, well, the Weekly World News recently reported the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to be in the vicinity of Santa Fe, heading east.

As long as people enjoy scaring themselves and scaring one another, horror movies will remain popular, and so will Doomsday. Pick a date — any date — and you may become the leader of a new cult. You may even get as rich as Rajneesh or the Pope.

Robert Anton Wilson is the author of 32 books, including Everything Is Under Control, an encyclopedia of conspiracy theories, and maintains the Web’s strangest site @ www.rawilson.com. He also serves as CEO of CSICON (the Committee for Surrealist Investigation of Claims of the Normal).

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Spring Has Sprung: Phil Whalen

Homage to St. Patrick, Garcia Lorca, & the Itinerant Grocer

FOR M-D. SCHNEIDER

A big part of this page (a big part of my head)

Is missing. That cabin where I expected to sit in the

Woods and write a novel got sold

out from under my imagination

I had it all figured out

in the green filter of a vine-maple shade

The itinerant grocer would arrive every week

There was no doubt in my mind that I’d have money

To trade for cabbages and bread

Where did that vision take place-maybe Arizona

Or New Mexico, where trees are much appreciated-

I looked forward to having many of my own

possessed them in a nonexistent future green world of lovely prose

Lost them in actual present poems in Berkeley

All changed, all strange, all new; none green.

—

The Bay Trees Were About to Bloom

For each of us there is a place

Wherein we will tolerate no disorder.

We habitually clean and reorder it,

But we allow many other surfaces and regions

To grow dusty, rank and wild.

So I walk as far as a clump of bay trees

Beside the creek’s milky sunshine

To hunt for words under the stones

Blessing the demons also that they may be freed

From Hell and demonic being

As I might be a cop, “Awright, move it along, folks,

It’s all over, now, nothing more to see, just keep

Moving right along”

I can move along also

“Bring your little self and come on”

What I wanted to see was a section of creek

Where the west bank is a smooth basalt cliff

Huge tilted slab sticking out of the mountain

Rocks on the opposite side channel all the water

Which moves fast, not more than a foot deep,

Without sloshing or foaming.

—-

What About It?

When I began to grow old I searched out the Land

Of the Gods in the West, where our people have always said it is.

Once I floated there on the water. Once I flew there.

I heard their music and saw the magic dancing.

They appeared in many shapes; once as kachina,

Once I could only see shining feet and radiant clothes

Their houses blend into water, trees and stone.

A curtain moved. Water fell in certain order.

Sometimes there was a great mirror of polished bronze.

Other messages were smell of hinoki, sugi, gingko

Newly watered stones.

The land itself delivers a certain intelligence.

How embarrassing to note that four days are gone.

All I can say right now is I can see clouds in the sky

If I stand still and look out the window.

Diane Di Prima came and told me, “If we leave

Two hours of the day open for them

The poems will come in or out or however;

Anyway, to devote time in return for a place

That makes us accessible to them.”

—

Sourdough Mountain Lookout

Tsung Ping (375-443). “Now I am old and infirm.

I fear I shall no more be able to roam among the beautiful mountains.

Clarifying my mind. I meditate on the mountain trails and wander

about only in dreams.”

-in The Spirit of the Brush, tr. by Shio Sakanishi. p. 34.

FOR KENNETH REXROTH

I always say I won’t go back to the mountains

I am too old and fat there are bugs mean mules

And pancakes every morning of the world

Mr. Edward Wyman (63)

Steams along the trail ahead of us all

Moaning, “My poor old feet ache, my back

Is tired and I’ve got a stiff prick”

Uprooting alder shoots in the rain

Then I’m alone in a glass house on a ridge

Encircled by chiming mountains

With one sun roaring through the house all day

& the others crashing through the glass all night

Conscious even while sleeping

Morning fog in the southern gorge

Gleaming foam restoring the old sea-level

The lakes in two lights green soap and indigo

The high cirque-lake black half-open eye

Ptarmigan hunt for bugs in the snow

Bear peers through the wad at noon

Deer crowd up to see the lamp

A mouse nearly drowns in the honey

I see my bootprints mingle with deer-foot

Bear-paw mule-shoe in the dusty path to the privy

Much later I write down:

“raging, Viking sunrise

The gorgeous death of summer in the east”

(Influence of a Byronic landscape-

Bent pages exhibiting depravity of style.)

Outside the lookout I lay nude on the granite

Mountain hot September sun but inside my head

Calm dark night with all the other stars

HERACLITUS: “The Waking have one common world

But the sleeping turn aside

Each into a world of his own.”

I keep telling myself what I really like

Are music, books, certain land and sea-scapes

The way light falls across them, diffusion of

Light through agate, light itself…I suppose

I’m still afraid of the dark

“Remember smart-guy there’s something

Bigger something smarter than you.”

Ireland’s fear of unknown holies drives

My father’s voice (a country neither he

Nor his great-grandfather ever saw)

A sparkly tomb a plated grave

A holy thumb beneath a wave

Everything else they hauled across Atlantic

Scattered and lost in the buffalo plains

Among these trees and mountains

From Duns Scotus to this page

A thousand years

(” . . . a dog walking on his hind legs-

not that he does it well but that he

does it at all.”)

Virtually a blank except for the hypothesis

That there is more to a man

Than the contents of his jock-strap

EMPEDOCLES: “At one time all the limbs

Which are the body’s portion are brought together

By Love in blooming life’s high season; at another

Severed by cruel Strife, they wander each alone

By the breakers of life’s sea.”

Fire and pressure from the sun bear down

Bear down centipede shadow of palm-frond

A limestone lithograph-oysters and clams of stone

Half a black rock bomb displaying brilliant crystals

Fire and pressure Love and Strife bear down

Brontosaurus, look away

My sweat runs down the rock

HERACLITUS: “The transformations of fire

are, first of all, sea; and half of the sea

is earth, half whirlwind. . . .

It scatters and it gathers; it advances

and retires.”

I move out of a sweaty pool

(The sea!) .

And sit up higher on the rock

Is anything burning?

The sun itself! Dying

Pooping out, exhausted

Having produced brontosaurus, Heraclitus

This rock, me,

To no purpose

I tell you anyway (as a kind of loving) . . .

Flies & other insects come from miles around

To listen

I also address the rock, the heather,

The alpine fir

BUDDHA: “All the constituents of being are Transitory: Work out your salvation with diligence.”

(And everything, as one eminent disciple of that master Pointed out, has been tediously complex ever since.)

There was a bird

Lived in an egg

And by ingenious chemistry

Wrought molecules of albumen

To beak and eye

Gizzard and craw

Feather and claw

My grandmother said:

“Look at them poor bed-

raggled pigeons!”

And the sign in McAlister Street:

IF YOU CAN’T COME IN

SMILE AS YOU GO BY

LOVE THE BUTCHER

I destroy myself, the universe (an egg)

And time-to get an answer:

There are a smiler, a sleeper, and a dancer

We repeat our conversation in the glittering dark

Floating beside the sleeper.

The child remarks, “You knew it all the time.”

I: “I keep forgetting that the smiler is

Sleeping; the sleeper, dancing.”

From Sauk Lookout two years before

Some of the view was down the Skagit

To Puget Sound: From above the lower ranges,

Deep in forest-lighthouses on clear nights.

This year’s rock is a spur from the main range

Cuts the valley in two and is broken

By the river; Ross Dam repairs the break,

Makes trolley buses run

Through the streets of dim Seattle far away.

I’m surrounded by mountains here

A circle of 108 beads, originally seeds

of ficus religiosa

Bo-Tree

A circle, continuous, one odd bead

Larger than the rest and bearing

A tassel (hair-tuft) (the man who sat

under the tree)

In the center of the circle,

A void, an empty figure containing

All that’s multiplied;

Each bead a repetition, a world

Of ignorance and sleep.

Today is the day the goose gets cooked

Day of liberation for the crumbling flower

Knobcone pinecone in the flames

Brandy in the sun

Which, as I said, will disappear

Anyway it’ll be invisible soon

Exchanging places with stars now in my head

To be growing rice in China through the night.

Magnetic storms across the solar plains

Make Aurora Borealis shimmy bright

Beyond the mountains to the north.

Closing the lookout in the morning

Thick ice on the shutters

Coyote almost whistling on a nearby ridge

The mountain is THERE (between two lakes)

I brought back a piece of its rock

Heavy dark-honey color

With a seam of crystal, some of the quartz

Stained by its matrix

Practically indestructible

A shift from opacity to brilliance

(The Zenbos say, “Lightning-flash & flint-spark”)

Like the mountains where it was made

What we see of the world is the mind’s

Invention and the mind

Though stained by it, becoming

Rivers, sun, mule-dung, flies-

Can shift instantly

A dirty bird in a square time

Gone

Gone

REALLY gone

Into the cool

O MAMA

Like they say, “Four times up,

Three times down.” I’m still on the mountain.

Sourdough Mountain I5:viii:55

Berkeley 27-28:viii:56

NOTE: The quotes of Empedocles and Heraclitus are from John

Burnet’s Early Greek Philosophy, Meridian Books, New York.

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Quiet day in the northland… scuttling clouds, dogs barking half heartedly outside. The sun comes and goes, and the earth is breathing…’spring’. Buds everywhere, flowers appearing.

Life returns to the north country…!

Have a good day…!

On The Menu

The Links

The Battle Of The Birds

Gutei’s Finger

The Poetry Of Yeats

Art: Briton Rivière

Riviere was an animal painter, and was widely regarded as the successor of Landseer [1802-1873]. He was also one of the few painters with an Oxford University Degree. He was the son of a well known artist. Riviere lived near to London Zoo, where he spent much time studying the physiology of animals. He painted glorified, romanticised pictures of wild animals. Another speciality was sentimental, rather humanised paintings of dogs, which found a considerable market. Rather surprisingly he only was narrowly beaten to the Presidency of the Royal Academy by Edward Poynter [1836-1919] in 1896.

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The Links:

A liking for Vikings

Wizardry book in school library upsets some parents

Witchcraft destroying the Catholic Church in Africa, experts say

N.D. Senate OKs Cohabitation Law Change

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From Scotland: The Battle Of The Birds

There was to be a great battle between all the creatures of the earth and the birds of the air. News of it went abroad, and the son of the king of Tethertown said that when the battle was fought he would be there to see it, and would bring back word who was to be king. But in spite of that, he was almost too late, and every fight had been fought save the last, which was between a snake and a great black raven. Both struck hard, but in the end the snake proved the stronger, and would have twisted himself round the neck of the raven till he died had not the king’s son drawn his sword, and cut off the head of the snake at a single blow. And when the raven beheld that his enemy was dead, he was grateful, and said:

‘For thy kindness to me this day, I will show thee a sight. So come up now on the root of my two wings.’ The king’s son did as he was bid, and before the raven stopped flying, they had passed over seven bens and seven glens and seven mountain moors.

‘Do you see that house yonder?’ said the raven at last. ‘Go straight for it, for a sister of mine dwells there, and she will make you right welcome. And if she asks, “Wert thou at the battle of the birds?” answer that thou wert, and if she asks, “Didst thou see my likeness?” answer that thou sawest it, but be sure thou meetest me in the morning at this place.’

The king’s son followed what the raven told him and that night he had meat of each meat, and drink of each drink, warm water for his feet, and a soft bed to lie in.

Thus it happened the next day, and the next, but on the fourth meeting, instead of meeting the raven, in his place the king’s son found waiting for him the handsomest youth that ever was seen, with a bundle in his hand.

‘Is there a raven hereabouts?’ asked the king’s son, and the youth answered:

‘I am that raven, and I was delivered by thee from the spells that bound me, and in reward thou wilt get this bundle. Go back by the road thou camest, and lie as before, a night in each house, but be careful not to unloose the bundle till thou art in the place wherein thou wouldst most wish to dwell.’

Then the king’s son set out, and thus it happened as it had happened before, till he entered a thick wood near his father’s house. He had walked a long way and suddenly the bundle seemed to grow heavier; first he put it down under a tree, and next he thought he would look at it.

The string was easy to untie, and the king’s son soon unfastened the bundle. What was it he saw there? Why, a great castle with an orchard all about it, and in the orchard fruit and flowers and birds of very kind. It was all ready for him to dwell in, but instead of being in the midst of the forest, he did wish he had left the bundle unloosed till he had reached the green valley close to his father’s palace. Well, it was no use wishing, and with a sigh he glanced up, and beheld a huge giant coming towards him.

‘Bad is the place where thou hast built thy house, king’s son,’ said the giant.

‘True; it is not here that I wish to be,’ answered the king’s son.

‘What reward wilt thou give me if I put it back in the bundle?’ asked the giant.

‘What reward dost thou ask?’ answered the king’s son.

‘The first boy thou hast when he is seven years old,’ said the giant.

‘If I have a boy thou shalt get him,’ answered the king’s son, and as he spoke the castle and the orchard were tied up in the bundle again.

‘Now take thy road, and I will take mine,’ said the giant. ‘And if thou forgettest thy promise, I will remember it.’

Light of heart the king’s son went on his road, till he came to the green valley near his father’s palace. Slowly he unloosed the bundle, fearing lest he should find nothing but a heap of stones or rags. But no! all was as it had been before, and as he opened the castle door there stood within the most beautiful maiden that ever was seen.

‘Enter, king’s son,’ said she, ‘all is ready, and we will be married at once,’ and so they were.

The maiden proved a good wife, and the king’s son, now himself a king, was so happy that he forgot all about the giant. Seven years and a day had gone by, when one morning, while standing on the ramparts, he beheld the giant striding towards the castle. Then he remembered his promise, and remembered, too, that he had told the queen nothing about it. Now he must tell her, and perhaps she might help him in his trouble.

The queen listened in silence to his tale, and after he had finished, she only said:

‘Leave thou the matter between me and the giant,’ and as she spoke, the giant entered the hall and stood before them.

‘Bring out your son,’ cried he to the king, ‘as you promised me seven years and a day since.’

The king glanced at his wife, who nodded, so he answered:

‘Let his mother first put him in order,’ and the queen left the hall, and took the cook’s son and dressed him in the prince’s clothes, and led him up to the giant, who held his hand, and together they went out along the road. They had not walked far when the giant stopped and stretched out a stick to the boy.

‘If your father had that stick, what would he do with it?’ asked he.

‘If my father had that stick, he would beat the dogs and cats that steal the king’s meat,’ replied the boy.

‘Thou art the cook’s son!’ cried the giant. ‘Go home to thy mother’; and turning his back he strode straight to the castle.

‘If you seek to trick me this time, the highest stone will soon be the lowest,’ said he, and the king and queen trembled, but they could not bear to give up their boy.

‘The butler’s son is the same age as ours,’ whispered the queen; ‘he will not know the difference,’ and she took the child and dressed him in the prince’s clothes, and the giant let him away along the road. Before they had gone far he stopped, and held out a stick.

‘If thy father had that rod, what would he do with it?’ asked the giant.

‘He would beat the dogs and cats that break the king’s glasses,’ answered the boy.

‘Thou art the son of the butler!’ cried the giant. ‘Go home to thy mother’; and turning round he strode back angrily to the castle.

‘Bring out thy son at once,’ roared he, ‘or the stone that is highest will be lowest,’ and this time the real prince was brought.

But though his parents wept bitterly and fancied the child was suffering all kinds of dreadful things, the giant treated him like his own son, though he never allowed him to see his daughters. The boy grew to be a big boy, and one day the giant told him that he would have to amuse himself alone for many hours, as he had a journey to make. So the boy wandered to the top of the castle, where he had never been before. There he paused, for the sound of music broke upon his ears, and opening a door near him, he beheld a girl sitting by the window, holding a harp.

‘Haste and begone, I see the giant close at hand,’ she whispered hurriedly, ‘but when he is asleep, return hither, for I would speak with thee.’ And the prince did as he was bid, and when midnight struck he crept back to the top of the castle.

‘To-morrow,’ said the girl, who was the giant’s daughter, ‘to- morrow thou wilt get the choice of my two sisters to marry, but thou must answer that thou wilt not take either, but only me. This will anger him greatly, for he wishes to betroth me to the son of the king of the Green City, whom I like not at all.’

Then they parted, and on the morrow, as the girl had said, the giant called his three daughters to him, and likewise the young prince to whom he spoke.

‘Now, O son of the king of Tethertown, the time has come for us to part. Choose one of my two elder daughters to wife, and thou shalt take her to your father’s house the day after the wedding.’

‘Give me the youngest instead,’ replied the youth, and the giant’s face darkened as he heard him.

‘Three things must thou do first,’ said he.

‘Say on, I will do them,’ replied the prince, and the giant left the house, and bade him follow to the byre, where the cows were kept.

‘For a hundred years no man has swept this byre,’ said the giant, ‘but if by nightfall, when I reach home, thou has not cleaned it so that a golden apple can roll through it from end to end, thy blood shall pay for it.’

All day long the youth toiled, but he might as well have tried to empty the ocean. At length, when he was so tired he could hardly move, the giant’s youngest daughter stood in the doorway.

‘Lay down thy weariness,’ said she, and the king’s son, thinking he could only die once, sank on the floor at her bidding, and fell sound asleep. When he woke the girl had disappeared, and the byre was so clean that a golden apple could roll from end to end of it. He jumped up in surprise, and at that moment in came the giant.

‘Hast thou cleaned the byre, king’s son?’ asked he.

‘I have cleaned it,’ answered he.

‘Well, since thou wert so active to-day, to-morrow thou wilt thatch this byre with a feather from every different bird, or else thy blood shall pay for it,’ and he went out.

Before the sun was up, the youth took his bow and his quiver and set off to kill the birds. Off to the moor he went, but never a bird was to be seen that day. At last he got so tired with running to and fro that he gave up heart.

‘There is but one death I can die,’ thought he. Then at midday came the giant’s daughter.

‘Thou art tired, king’s son?’ asked she.

‘I am,’ answered he; ‘all these hours have I wandered, and there fell but these two blackbirds, both of one colour.’

‘Lay down thy weariness on the grass,’ said she, and he did as she bade him, and fell fast asleep.

When he woke the girl had disappeared, and he got up, and returned to the byre. As he drew near, he rubbed his eyes hard, thinking he was dreaming, for there it was, beautifully thatched, just as the giant had wished. At the door of the house he met the giant.

‘Hast thou thatched the byre, king’s son?’

‘I have thatched it.’

‘Well, since thou hast been so active to-day, I have something else for thee! Beside the loch thou seest over yonder there grows a fir tree. On the top of the fir tree is a magpie’s nest, and in the nest are five eggs. Thou wilt bring me those eggs for breakfast, and if one is cracked or broken, thy blood shall pay for it.’

Before it was light next day, the king’s son jumped out of bed and ran down to the loch. The tree was not hard to find, for the rising sun shone red on the trunk, which was five hundred feet from the ground to its first branch. Time after time he walked round it, trying to find some knots, however small, where he could put his feet, but the bark was quite smooth, and he soon saw that if he was to reach the top at all, it must be by climbing up with his knees like a sailor. But then he was a king’s son and not a sailor, which made all the difference.

However, it was no use standing there staring at the fir, at least he must try to do his best, and try he did till his hands and knees were sore, for as soon as he had struggled up a few feet, he slid back again. Once he climbed a little higher than before, and hope rose in his heart, then down he came with such force that his hands and knees smarted worse than ever.

‘This is no time for stopping,’ said the voice of the giant’s daughter, as he leant against the trunk to recover his breath.

‘Alas! I am no sooner up than down,’ answered he.

‘Try once more,’ said she, and she laid a finger against the tree and bade him put his foot on it. Then she placed another finger a little higher up, and so on till he reached the top, where the magpie had built her nest.

‘Make haste now with the nest,’ she cried, ‘for my father’s breath is burning my back,’ and down he scrambled as fast as he could, but the girl’s little finger had caught in a branch at the top, and she was obliged to leave it there. But she was too busy to pay heed to this, for the sun was getting high over the hills.

‘Listen to me,’ she said. ‘This night my two sisters and I will be dressed in the same garments, and you will not know me. But when my father says ‘Go to thy wife, king’s son,’ come to the one whose right hand has no little finger.’

So he went and gave the eggs to the giant, who nodded his head.

‘Make ready for thy marriage,’ cried he, ‘for the wedding shall take place this very night, and I will summon thy bride to greet thee.’ Then his three daughters were sent for, and they all entered dressed in green silk of the same fashion, and with golden circlets round their heads. The king’s son looked from one to another. Which was the youngest? Suddenly his eyes fell on the hand of the middle one, and there was no little finger.

‘Thou hast aimed well this time too,’ said the giant, as the king’s son laid his hand on her shoulder, ‘but perhaps we may meet some other way’; and though he pretended to laugh, the bride saw a gleam in his eye which warned her of danger.

The wedding took place that very night, and the hall was filled with giants and gentlemen, and they danced till the house shook from top to bottom. At last everyone grew tired, and the guests went away, and the king’s son and his bride were left alone.

‘If we stay here till dawn my father will kill thee,’ she whispered, ‘but thou art my husband and I will save thee, as I did before,’ and she cut an apple into nine pieces, and put two pieces at the head of the bed, and two pieces at the foot, and two pieces at the door of the kitchen, and two at the big door, and one outside the house. And when this was done, and she heard the giant snoring, she and the king’s son crept out softly and stole across to the stable, where she led out the blue-grey mare and jumped on its back, and her husband mounted behind her. Not long after, the giant awoke.

‘Are you asleep?’ asked he.

‘Not yet,’ answered the apple at the head of the bed, and the giant turned over, and soon was snoring as loudly as before. By and bye he called again.

‘Are you asleep?’

‘Not yet,’ said the apple at the foot of the bed, and the giant was satisfied. After a while, he called a third time, ‘Are you asleep?’

‘Not yet,’ replied the apple in the kitchen, but when in a few minutes, he put the question for the fourth time and received an answer from the apple outside the house door, he guessed what had happened, and ran to the room to look for himself.

The bed was cold and empty!

‘My father’s breath is burning my back,’ cried the girl, ‘put thy hand into the ear of the mare, and whatever thou findest there, throw it behind thee.’ And in the mare’s ear there was a twig of sloe tree, and as he threw it behind him there sprung up twenty miles of thornwood so thick that scarce a weasel could go through it. And the giant, who was striding headlong forwards, got caught in it, and it pulled his hair and beard.

‘This is one of my daughter’s tricks,’ he said to himself, ‘but if I had my big axe and my wood-knife, I would not be long making a way through this,’ and off he went home and brought back the axe and the wood-knife.

It took him but a short time to cut a road through the blackthorn, and then he laid the axe and the knife under a tree.

‘I will leave them there till I return,’ he murmured to himself, but a hoodie crow, which was sitting on a branch above, heard him.

‘If thou leavest them,’ said the hoodie, ‘we will steal them.’

‘You will,’ answered the giant, ‘and I must take them home.’ So he took them home, and started afresh on his journey.

‘My father’s breath is burning my back,’ cried the girl at midday. ‘Put thy finger in the mare’s ear and throw behind thee whatever thou findest in it,’ and the king’s son found a splinter of grey stone, and threw it behind him, and in a twinkling twenty miles of solid rock lay between them and the giant.

‘My daughter’s tricks are the hardest things that ever met me,’ said the giant, ‘but if I had my lever and my crowbar, I would not be long in making my way through this rock also,’ but as he had got them, he had to go home and fetch them. Then it took him but a short time to hew his way through the rock.

‘I will leave the tools here,’ he murmured aloud when he had finished.

‘If thou leavest them, we will steal them,’ said a hoodie who was perched on a stone above him, and the giant answered:

‘Steal them if thou wilt; there is no time to go back.’

‘My father’s breath is burning my back,’ cried the girl; ‘look in the mare’s ear, king’s son, or we are lost,’ and he looked, and found a tiny bladder full of water, which he threw behind him, and it became a great lock. And the giant, who was striding on so fast, could not stop himself, and he walked right into the middle and was drowned.

The blue-grey mare galloped on like the wind, and the next day the king’s son came in sight of his father’s house.

‘Get down and go in,’ said the bride, ‘and tell them that thou hast married me. But take heed that neither man nor beast kiss thee, for then thou wilt cease to remember me at all.’

‘I will do thy bidding,’ answered he, and left her at the gate. All who met him bade him welcome, and he charged his father and mother not to kiss him, but as he greeted them his old greyhound leapt on his neck, and kissed him on the mouth. And after that he did not remember the giant’s daughter.

All that day she sat on a well which was near the gate, waiting, waiting, but the king’s son never came. In the darkness she climbed up into an oak tree that shadowed the well, and there she lay all night, waiting, waiting.

On the morrow, at midday, the wife of a shoemaker who dwelt near the well went to draw water for her husband to drink, and she saw the shadow of the girl in the tree, and thought it was her own shadow.

‘How handsome I am, to be sure,’ said she, gazing into the well, and as she stopped to behold herself better, the jug struck against the stones and broke in pieces, and she was forced to return to her husband without the water, and this angered him.

‘Thou hast turned crazy,’ said he in wrath. ‘Go thou, my daughter, and fetch me a drink,’ and the girl went, and the same thing befell her as had befallen her mother.

‘Where is the water?’ asked the shoemaker, when she came back, and as she held nothing save the handle of the jug he went to the well himself. He too saw the reflection of the woman in the tree, but looked up to discover whence it came, and there above him sat the most beautiful woman in the world.

‘Come down,’ he said, ‘for a while thou canst stay in my house,’ and glad enough the girl was to come.

Now the king of the country was about to marry, and the young men about the court thronged the shoemaker’s shop to buy fine shoes to wear at the wedding.

‘Thou hast a pretty daughter,’ said they when they beheld the girl sitting at work.

‘Pretty she is,’ answered the shoemaker, ‘but no daughter of mine.’

‘I would give a hundred pounds to marry her,’ said one.

‘And I,’ ‘And I,’ cried the others.

‘That is no business of mine,’ answered the shoemaker, and the young men bade him ask her if she would choose one of them for a husband, and to tell them on the morrow. Then the shoemaker asked her, and the girl said that she would marry the one who would bring his purse with him. So the shoemaker hurried to the youth who had first spoken, and he came back, and after giving the shoemaker a hundred pounds for his news, he sought the girl, who was waiting for him.

‘Is it thou?’ inquired she. ‘I am thirsty, give me a drink from the well that is yonder.’ And he poured out the water, but he could not move from the place where he was; and there he stayed till many hours had passed by.

‘Take away that foolish boy,’ cried the girl to the shoemaker at last, ‘I am tired of him,’ and then suddenly he was able to walk, and betook himself to his home, but he did not tell the others what had happened to him.

Next day there arrived one of the other young men, and in the evening, when the shoemaker had gone out and they were alone, she said to him, ‘See if the latch is on the door.’ The young man hastened to do her bidding, but as soon as he touched the latch, his fingers stuck to it, and there he had to stay for many hours, till the shoemaker came back, and the girl let him go. Hanging his head, he went home, but he told no one what had befallen him.

Then was the turn of the third man, and his foot remained fastened to the floor, till the girl unloosed it. And thankfully, he ran off, and was not seen looking behind him.

‘Take the purse of gold,’ said the girl to the shoemaker, ‘I have no need of it, and it will better thee.’ And the shoemaker took it and told the girl he must carry the shoes for the wedding up to the castle.

‘I would fain get a sight of the king’s son before he marries,’ sighed she.

‘Come with me, then,’ answered he; ‘the servants are all my friends, and they will let you stand in the passage down which the king’s son will pass, and all the company too.’

Up they went to the castle, and when the young men saw the girl standing there, they led her into the hall where the banquet was laid out and poured her out some wine. She was just raising the glass to drink when a flame went up out of it, and out of the flame sprang two pigeons, one of gold and one of silver. They flew round and round the head of the girl, when three grains of barley fell on the floor, and the silver pigeon dived down, and swallowed them.

‘If thou hadst remembered how I cleaned the byre, thou wouldst have given me my share,’ cooed the golden pigeon, and as he spoke three more grains fell, and the silver pigeon ate them as before.

‘If thou hadst remembered how I thatched the byre, thou wouldst have given me my share,’ cooed the golden pigeon again; and as he spoke three more grains fell, and for the third time they were eaten by the silver pigeon.

‘If thou hadst remembered how I got the magpie’s nest, thou wouldst have given me my share,’ cooed the golden pigeon.

Then the king’s son understood that they had come to remind him of what he had forgotten, and his lost memory came back, and he knew his wife, and kissed her. But as the preparations had been made, it seemed a pity to waste them, so they were married a second time, and sat down to the wedding feast.

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Gutei’s Finger

Gutei raised his finger whenever he was asked a question about Zen. A boy attendant began to imitate him in this way. When anyone asked the boy what his master had preached about, the boy would raise his finger.

Gutei heard about the boy’s mischief. He seized him and cut off his finger. The boy cried and ran away. Gutei called and stopped him. When the boy turned his head to Gutei, Gutei raised up his own finger. In that instant the boy was enlightened.

When Gutei was about to pass from this world he gathered his monks around him. `I attained my finger-Zen,’ he said, `from my teacher Tenryu, and in my whole life I could not exhaust it.’ Then he passed away.

Mumon’s comment: Enlightenment, which Gutei and the boy attained, has nothing to do with a finger. If anyone clings to a finger, Tenyru will be so disappointed that he will annihilate Gutei, the boy and the clinger all together.

Gutei cheapens the teaching of Tenyru,

Emancipating the boy with a knife.

Compared to the Chinese god who pushed aside a mountain with one hand

Old Gutei is a poor imitator.

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The Poetry Of Yeats…

The Well and the Tree

‘The Man that I praise,’

Cries out the empty well,

‘Lives all his days

Where a hand on the bell

Can call the milch-cows

To the comfortable door of his house.

Who but an idiot would praise

Dry stones in a well?’

‘The Man that I praise,’

Cries out the leafless tree,

‘Has married and stays

By an old hearth, and he

On naught has set store

But children and dogs on the floor.

Who but an idiot would praise

A withered tree?’

—

When Helen lived

We have cried in our despair

That men desert,

For some trivial affair

Or noisy, insolent, sport,

Beauty that we have won

From bitterest hours;

Yet we, had we walked within

Those topless towers

Where Helen walked with her boy,

Had given but as the rest

Of the men and women of Troy,

A word and a jest.

—

Against Unworthy Praise

O Heart, be at peace, because

Nor knave nor dolt can break

What’s not for their applause,

Being for a woman’s sake.

Enough if the work has seemed,

So did she your strength renew,

A dream that a lion had dreamed

Till the wilderness cried aloud,

A secret between you two,

Between the proud and the proud.

What, still you would have their praise!

But here’s a haughtier text,

The labyrinth of her days

That her own strangeness perplexed;

And how what her dreaming gave

Earned slander, ingratitude,

From self-same dolt and knave;

Aye, and worse wrong than these.

Yet she, singing upon her road,

Half lion, half child, is at peace.

—-

To a Child dancing in the Wind

I

Dance there upon the shore;

What need have you to care

For wind or water’s roar?

And tumble out your hair

That the salt drops have wet;

Being young you have not known

The fool’s triumph, nor yet

Love lost as soon as won,

Nor the best labourer dead

And all the sheaves to bind.

What need have you to dread

The monstrous crying of wind?

II

Has no one said those daring

Kind eyes should be more learn’d?

Or warned you how despairing

The moths are when they are burned,

I could have warned you, but you are young,

So we speak a different tongue.

O you will take whatever’s offered

And dream that all the world’s a friend,

Suffer as your mother suffered,

Be as broken in the end.

But I am old and you are young,

And I speak a barbarous tongue.

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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

—-

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

—-

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

—–

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.

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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.

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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.

______________

Göksel Baktagir – Mercan Dede

______________

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.

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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.

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