Gwyllm.com

On The Music Box: Astralasia….

We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out.

– Ray Bradbury

(Winter Solstice – Damien M. Jones)

Can you feel it? I feel the excitement building as the Solstice rolls around. I love the turnings of the year, as we tumble around the sun in the great hurley-burley that is called life on this wonderful planet.

Chill days here. Full of wind, bleakness and aching beauty. I dream well on these nights, visiting here and there in my past and future, and visiting those great halls where we all go for instruction and healing, coming back renewed each morning…

Rowan is working on presents for his pod of friends, it is a joy watching him apply himself to these projects as he pours himself over everybit, fretting as he does…

I must cut this short, but I am in a writing mood, so more will be following soon.

The station is still going through birth-pangs over in the UK, soon I hope, soon.

Something interesting soon coming our way, oh yes….

Gwyllm

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On The Menu

The Links

Old Europe

Poetry: Amergin

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The Links:

India’s killer elephant shot dead

Head-butt by horse restores man’s sight

Aboriginal language had ice age origins

Comet born of our own Sun

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Old Europe

Before Sumer, Crete or the Maltese civilisation, there was “Old Europe”, or the Vinca culture… a forgotten, rather than lost civilisation that lies at the true origin of most of our ancient civilisations.

Philip Coppens

There are lost civilisations, and then there are forgotten civilisations. From the 6th to the 3rd millennium BC, the so-called “Vinca culture” stretched for hundreds of miles along the river Danube, in what is now Serbia, Romania, Bulgaria and the Republic of Macedonia, with traces all around the Balkans, parts of Central Europe and Asia Minor, and even Western Europe.

Few, if any, have heard of this culture, though they have seen some of their artefacts. They are the infamous statues found in Sumer, where authors such as Zecharia Sitchin have labelled them as “extra-terrestrial”, seeing that the shapes of these beings can hardly be classified as typically human. So why was it that few have seen (or were aware of) their true origin?

The person largely responsible for the isolation of the Vinca culture was the great authority on late prehistoric Europe, Vere Gordon Childe (1892-1957). He was a synthesiser of various archaeological discoveries and tried to create an all-encompassing framework, creating such terms as “Neolithic Revolution” and “Urban Revolution”. In his synthesis, he perceived the Vinca culture as an outlying cultural entity influenced by more “civilised” forces. His dogmatic stance and clout meant that the Vinca culture received only scant attention. Originally, interest in the signs found on pottery had created interest in some academic circles, but that now faded following Childe’s “papal bull”.

Interest was rekindled in the 1960s (following the death of Childe), largely due to a new discovery made in 1961 by Dr. N. Vlassa, while excavating the Transylvanian site of Tartaria, part of Vinca culture. Amongst various artefacts recovered were three clay tablets, which he had analysed with the then newly introduced radiocarbon dating methodology. The artefacts came back as ca. 4000 BC and were used by the new methodology’s detractors to argue that radio carbon-dating was obviously erroneous. How could it be “that” old?

Traditionally, the Sumerian site of Uruk had been dated to 3500-3200 BC. Vlassa’s discovery was initially (before the carbon dating results) further confirmation that the “Vinca Culture” had strong parallels with Sumer. Everyone agreed that the Sumerians had influenced Vinca Culture (and the site of Tartaria), which had therefore been assigned a date of 2900-2600 BC (by the traditional, comparative methodology, which relied on archaeologists’ logic, rather than hard scientific evidence). Sinclair Hood suggested that Sumerian prospectors had been drawn by the gold-bearing deposits in the Transylvanian region, resulting in these off-shoot cultures.

But if the carbon dating results were correct, then Tartaria was 4000 BC, which meant that the Vinca Culture was older than Sumer, or Sumer was at least a millennium older than what archaeologists had so far assumed. Either way, archaeology would be in a complete state of disarray and either some or all archaeologists would be wrong. Voila, the reason as to why radio carbon dating was attacked, rather than merely revising erroneous timelines and opinions.

There is no debate about it: the artefacts from the Vinca culture and Sumer are very much alike. And it is just not some pottery and artefacts: they share a script that seems highly identical too. In fact, the little interest that had been shown in the Vinca culture before the 1960s all revolved around their script. Vlassa’s discovery only seemed to confirm this conclusion, as he too immediately stated that the writing had to be influenced by the Near East. Everyone, including Sinclair Hood and Adam Falkenstein, agreed that the two scripts were related and Hood also saw a link with Crete. Finally, the Hungarian scholar Janos Makkay stated that the “Mesopotamian origin [of the Tartaria pictographs] is beyond doubt.” It seemed done and dusted.

But when the Vinca Culture suddenly predated Sumer, this thesis could no longer be maintained (as it would break the archaeological framework, largely put in place by Childe and his peers), and thus, today, the status is that both scripts developed independently. Of course, we should wonder whether this is just another attempt to save reputations and whether in the following decades, the stance will finally be reversed, which would mean that the Vinca Culture is actually at the origin of the Sumerian civilisation… a suggestion we will return to shortly.

But what is the Vinca Culture? In 1908, the largest prehistoric and most comprehensively excavated Neolithic settlement in Europe was discovered in the village of Vinca, just 14 km downstream from the Serbian capital Belgrade, on the shores of the Danube. The discovery was made by a team led by Miloje M. Vasic, the first schooled archaeologist in Serbia.

Vinca was excavated between 1918 and 1934 and was revealed as a civilisation in its own right: a forgotten civilisation, which Marija Gimbutas would later call “Old Europe”. Indeed, as early as the 6th millennium BC, three millennia before Dynastic Egypt, the Vinca culture was already a genuine civilisation. Yes, it was a civilisation: a typical town consisted of houses with complex architectural layouts and several rooms, built of wood that was covered in mud. The houses sat along streets, thus making Vinca the first urban settlement in Europe, but equally being older than the cities of Mesopotamia and Egypt. And the town of Vinca itself was just one of several metropolises, with others at Divostin, Potporanj, Selevac, Plocnik and Predionica. Maria Gimbutas concluded that “in the 5th and early 4th millennia BC, just before its demise in east-central Europe, Old Europeans had towns with a considerable concentration of population, temples several stories high, a sacred script, spacious houses of four or five rooms, professional ceramicists, weavers, copper and gold metallurgists, and other artisans producing a range of sophisticated goods. A flourishing network of trade routes existed that circulated items such as obsidian, shells, marble, copper, and salt over hundreds of kilometres.”

Everything about “Old Europe” is indeed older than anything else in Europe or the Near East. To return to their script. Gimbutas had a go at trying to translate it and called it the “language of the goddess”. She based her work on that of Shan Winn, who had completed the largest catalogue of Vinca signs to date. He narrowed the number of signs down to 210, stating that most of the signs were composed of straight lines and were rectilinear in shape. Only a minority had curved lines, which was perhaps due to the difficulty of curved carving on the clay surface. In a final synthesis, he concluded that all Vinca signs were found to be constructed out of five core signs:

– a straight line;

– two lines that intersect at the centre;

– two lines that intersect at one end;

– a dot;

– a curved line.

Winn however did not consider this script to be writing, as even the most complex examples were not “texts”; he thus labelled them “pre-writing”, though Gimbutas would later claim they were indeed “writing”. Still, everyone is in agreement that the culture did not have texts as that which was written was too short in length to be a story, or an account of a historical event. So what was it?

In Sumer, the development of writing has been pinned down as a result from economical factors that required “record keeping”. For the Vinca Culture, the origin of the signs is accepted as having been derived from religious rather than material concerns. In short, the longest groups of signs are thus considered to be a kind of magical formulae.

The Vinca Culture was also millennia ahead of the status quo on mining. At the time, mining was thought not to predate 4000 BC, though in recent years, examples of as far back as 70,000 years ago have been discovered. The copper mine at Rudna Glava, 140 km east of Belgrade, is at least 7000 years old and had vertical shafts going as deep as twenty metres and at the time of its discovery was again extremely controversial.

It is but two examples that underline that Old Europe was a civilisation millennia ahead of its neighbours. And Old Europe is a forgotten culture, as Richard Rudgeley has argued: “Old Europe was the precursor of many later cultural developments and […] the ancestral civilisation, rather than being lost beneath the waves through some cataclysmic geological event, was lost beneath the waves of invading tribes from the east.” Indeed, Rudgeley argued that when confronted with the “sudden arrival” of civilisation in Sumer or elsewhere, we should not look towards extra-terrestrial civilisation, nor Atlantis, but instead to “Old Europe”, a civilisation which the world seems intent on disregarding… and we can only wonder why. “Civilisation” in Sumer was defined as the cultivation of crops and domestication of animals, with humans living a largely sedentary life, mostly in village or towns, with a type of central authority. With that definition of civilisation, it is clear that it did not begin in Sumer, but in Old Europe. Old Europe was a Neolithic civilisation, living of agriculture and the breeding of domestic animals. The most frequent domestic animals were cattle, although smaller goats, sheep and pigs were also bred. They also cultivated the most fertile prehistoric grain species. There was even a merchant economy: a surplus of products led to the development of trade with neighbouring regions, which supplied salt, obsidian or ornamental shells.

In fact, they were not actually a “Neolithic civilisation” – they were even further ahead of the times: in the region of Eastern Serbia, at Bele Vode and (the already discussed) Rudna Glava, in crevices and natural caves, the settlers of Vinca came in contact with copper ore which they began fashioning with fire, initially only for ornamental objects (beads and bracelets). They were more “Bronze Age” than “Stone Age”… this at a time when the rest of Europe and the Near East was not even a “Stone Age civilisation”.

One scholar, the already cited Marija Gimbutas, has highlighted the importance of Old Europe. So much so, that many consider her to have gone too far. She interpreted Old Europe as a civilisation of the Goddess, a concept which has taken on a life of its own in the modern New Age industry, extending far beyond anything Gimbutas herself could ever have imagined. Bernard Wailes stated how Gimbutas was “immensely knowledgeable but not very good in critical analysis… She amasses all the data and then leaps to conclusions without any intervening argument… Most of us tend to say, oh my God, here goes Marija again”. But everyone agrees that her groundwork is solid, and it is from that which we build.

Gimbutas dated the civilisation of Old Europe from 6500 to 3500-3200 BC. It was at that time that the area was overrun by invading Indo-Europeans. The local population could do two things: remain and be ruled by new masters, or migrate, in search of new lands. It appears that the people of Old Europe did both: some went in search of a haven to the south, on the shores of the Aegean Sea, and beyond. Harald Haarmann has identified them as being responsible for the rise of the so-called Cycladic culture, as well as Crete, where the new settlers arrived around 3200 BC.

For Gimbutas, the difference between Old Europe and Indo-Europe was more than just one people invading another. It was the difference between a goddess-centred and matriarchal and the Bronze Age Indo-European patriarchal cultural elements. According to her interpretations, Old Europe was peaceful, they honoured homosexuals and they espoused economic equality. The Indo-Europeans were warmongering males. And it’s that conclusion with which many have great difficulty, for nothing is ever as distinct as that.

Today, artefacts of the Vinca culture grace the display cabinets of several museums, for they are magnificent ceramics – of an artistic and technological level which would not be equalled by other cultures for several millennia. It is believed that their writing originated out of sacred writing. Like Crete, they were a peaceful nation; Crete’s palaces had no defensive qualities.

The recovered artefacts of the Vinca culture equally show they had a profound spiritual life. The cult objects include figurines, sacrificial dishes, anthropomorphic and zoomorphic dishes. When we note that their number (over 1000 examples at Vinca alone) exceeds the total number of figurines discovered in the region of the Greek Aegean, we can only wonder why Old Europe is not better known today.

Life was represented on these objects as embodying the cycle of birth and death of Nature, along with the desire of man to get Nature’s sympathy or to mollify it in the interest of survival. Shrines were discovered in Transylvania with complex architectural designs, indicating the involvedness of the rituals which were conducted in them. It may not have been a matriarchal, Goddess worshipping civilisation, but it was definitely a complex and established religious framework. Though nothing suggests it was a Goddess cult.

The same mistake has been made in Malta, where for generations certain statues were interpreted as “Mother Goddess” statues, whereas alternative thinkers as Joseph Ellul pointed out that there was nothing specifically feminine about these statues; that they showed a deity, but that it could equally be male or female. Recently, Ellul’s point of view has become shared by other experts on Malta, such as Dr. Caroline Malone, who argued that the theory that the Maltese temples were erected as part of a goddess-worshipping culture is no longer valid. In her opinion, Maltese prehistoric society was a relatively stable, agricultural community, living on an intense and densely populated island, which celebrated cyclical cycles of life, rites of passage, transitions between different stages of life, from separation to reintegration, fertility, ancestors, all of this within a cosmological context… and very much like Old Europe.

Around 3200 BC, the culture of Old Europe migrated, to the Aegean Sea and to Crete. Today, they are considered to be the origin of the Minoan civilisation, though it is a dimension that few Minoan scholars have included in their writing, instead largely opting to see Crete as yet another “stand alone” civilisation. Gimbutas stated that: “the civilisation that flourished in Old Europe between 6500 and 3500 BC and in Crete until 1450 BC enjoyed a long period of uninterrupted peaceful living.” Motifs such as the snake, intertwined with the bird goddess motif, the bee and the butterfly, with the distinctive motif of the double axe, are found both in Old Europe and Crete. But the best evidence is in the writing of Old Europe and the Linear A script of Crete, which are to all intents and purposes identical.

But it is equally clear that contacts between Sumer and Old Europe existed at the time of the Ubaid culture, in Eridu – the site which inspired Sitchin so greatly in his formulation of the Annunaki theory and his identification of these statues as “Nephilim”. The Ubaid culture is ca. 4500 BC and though we should perhaps not go as far as concluding that Sumer was a child of Old Europe, the two cultures obviously knew each other. Indeed, in recent years, Old European artefacts were even discovered in Southeastern France, suggesting that the civilisation of Old Europe travelled not merely to the East, but also to the West. Perhaps we should even consider them to be at the origin of the megalithic civilisation? But no-one, it seems, has dared to topple that stone yet.

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Poetry: Amergin

In which I bring back an old favourite, and introduce more of the ancient works…

Amergin’s call to the land of Ireland enabled the Milesians to land successfully and establish the presence of mortals on the magical isle.

I invoke the land of Ireland:

much coursed be the fertile sea,

fertile be the fruit strewn mountain,

fruit strewn be the showery wood,

showery be the river of waterfalls,

of waterfalls be the lake of deep pools,

deep pooled be the hill-top well,

a well of tribes be the assembly,

an assembly of kings be Temair.

Temair be the hill of the tribes,

the tribes the sons of Mil,

of Mil of the ships, the barks!

Let the lofty bark be Ireland,

Lofty Ireland, darkly sung,

an incantation of great cunning:

the great cunning of the wives of Bres,

the wives of Bres of Buiagne:

the great lady, Ireland,

Eremon hath conquered her,

I, Eber have invoked her

I invoke the land of Ireland.

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Song of Amergin

I am a stag: of seven tines,

I am a flood: across a plain,

I am a wind: on a deep lake,

I am a tear: the Sun lets fall,

I am a hawk: above the cliff,

I am a thorn: beneath the nail,

I am a wonder: among flowers,

I am a wizard: who but I

Sets the cool head aflame with smoke?

I am a spear: that roars for blood,

I am a salmon: in a pool,

I am a lure: from paradise,

I am a hill: where poets walk,

I am a boar: ruthless and red,

I am a breaker: threatening doom,

I am a tide: that drags to death,

I am an infant: who but I

Peeps from the unhewn dolmen, arch?

I am the womb: of every holt,

I am the blaze: on every hill,

I am the queen: of every hive,

I am the shield: for every head,

I am the tomb: of every hope.

—-

Fishful Sea

Fishful sea –

Fertile land –

Burst of fish –

Fish under wave –

With courses of birds –

Rough sea –

A white wall –

With hundreds of salmon –

Broad whale –

A port of song –

A burst of fish.

—

Amergin

I AM the wind which breathes upon the sea,

I am the wave of the ocean,

I am the murmur of the billows,

I am the ox of the seven combats,

I am the vulture upon the rocks,

I am a beam of the sun,

I am the fairest of plants,

I am a wild boar in valour,

I am a salmon in the water,

I am a lake in the plain,

I am a word of science,

I am the point of the lance in battle,

I am the God who creates in the head the fire.

Who is it who throws light into the meeting on the mountain?

Who announces the ages of the moon?

Who teaches the place where couches the sun?

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On the Music Box: Red Shift / ‘Ether’

Chuang Tzu and Hui Tzu were strolling along the dam of the Hao River when Chuang Tzu said, “See how the minnows come out and dart around where they please! That’s what fish really enjoy!”

Hui Tzu said, “You’re not a fish—how do you know what fish enjoy?”

Chuang Tzu said, “You’re not I, so how do you know I don’t know what fish enjoy?”

Hui Tzu said, “I’m not you, so I certainly don’t know what you know. On the other hand, you’re certainly not a fish—so that still proves you don’t know what fish enjoy!”

Chuang Tzu said, “Let’s go back to your original question, please. You asked me how I know what fish enjoy—so you already knew I knew when you asked the question. I know it by standing here beside the Hao.”

On the Run… will talk later. May I present:

The Tuesday Feast!

The Links

From The Chuang Tzu: In The World of Men On Long Distance Relationships

Mckenna: On UFOs and Science

Angels & Daimons

Chuang Tzu: Section Twenty-Two

Poetry: Chuang Tzu

Alien Dreamtime – Terence McKenna

From The Chuang Tzu:Discussion On Making All Things Equal

Art: William Blake

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The Links

From our friend Adele: Python Rites Expanded!

Solved at last: the burning mystery of Joan of Arc

Pot is called biggest cash crop

Reading Shakespeare has dramatic effect on human brain

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From The Chuang Tzu:

In The World of Men On Long Distance Relationships

I want to tell you something else I have learned. In all human relations, if the two parties are living close to each other, they may form a bond through personal trust. But they are far apart, they must use words to communicated the loyalty, and words must be transmitted by someone. To transmit words that are either pleasing to both parties or infuriating to both parties is one of the most difficult things in the world. Where both parties are pleased, there must be some exaggeration of the good points and where bother parties are angered, there must be some exaggeration of the bad points. Anything that smacks of exaggeration is irresponsible. Where there is irresponsibility, no one will trust what is said, and when that happens, the man who is transmitting the words will be in danger. Therefore the aphorism says, “Transmit the established facts; do not transmit words of exaggeration.” If you do that, you will probably come out all right.

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Mckenna: On UFOs and Science

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Angels & Daimons

Stories of guardian angels have enjoyed a renaissance in recent years, becoming a staple of fluffy New Age-ism and the subject of countless books. But, argues Patrick Harpur, these mediators between God and man have a long and fascinating history and might not be quite as cuddly as we’ve been led to believe.

Hope Macdonald describes, in When Angels Appear (1982), an incident in which a young mother sees that her three-year-old daughter, Lisa, has escaped from the garden and is sitting on the railway line beyond. At that moment, a train comes around the bend, its whistle blowing. “As she raced from the house screaming her daughter’s name, she suddenly saw a striking figure, clothed in pure white, lifting Lisa off the track with an arm around the child… When the mother reached the daughter’s side, Lisa was standing alone.”

Not many tales of guardian angels are as dramatic as this one, but a surprising number of people attest to some experience or other that they ascribe to the action of a guardian angel, whether it’s a single word of warning or, as is commonly reported, a simple touch on the shoulder or tug on the sleeve. According to a US poll in the 1990s, 69 per cent of Americans believe in angels; 46 per cent claim to have their own guardian angels and 32 per cent have felt an angelic presence. Nor does the pre-millennial craze for angels seem to have abated, if the number of Internet references to them is any indication.

While Lisa’s angel conforms to our expectations – a white, possibly winged, powerful and protective being – they are not always thus. A clergyman’s widow told her friend, folklorist Katharine Briggs, how she suffered from an injured foot and had been sitting one day on a seat in London’s Regent’s Park, wondering how on Earth she’d find the strength to limp home, when suddenly she saw a tiny man in green who looked at her very kindly and said: “Go home. We promise that your foot shan’t pain you tonight.” Then he disappeared. But the intense pain in her foot had gone. She walked home easily and slept painlessly all night.

Angelic Origins

The origin of angels is not easy to unravel. They do not feature greatly in the Old Testament but seem to have returned with the Jews from their Babylonian Captivity, where the angelology of Zoroastrian Persia was probably influential. Although the Zoroastrians had a well-developed doctrine of guardian angels, the angels who became dominant figures in the Jewish apocalyptic writings from the third century BC onwards were impersonal rather than personal. As Harold Bloom reminds us in Omens of Millennium (1996), far from being sweetness and light, angels were highly ambiguous, awesome, even terrifying, like the archangel Metatron. We might remember that when Muhammad the Prophet asked to look upon the angel Gabriel, who, as the agent of his revelation might well be called his guardian angel, he fainted dead away at the shock of seeing such a vast being, filling the horizon and stretching upwards out of view. In the Book of Enoch (Enoch was held by some to have been transformed into Metatron when “he walked with God, and was not, because God took him”) angels lust after Earth women, like the Nephilim of Genesis, who “mated with the daughters of men.” Thus did St Paul warn women “to have a veil on their heads, because of the angels” (Corinthians 11:10). In Colossians, he warns against worship of angels, implying that there’s no difference between angels and demons.

However, angels found their way into Western culture largely through Dionysius the Areopagite, who was originally believed to have been an Athenian disciple of St Paul, but is now reckoned to be a Syrian monk of the late fifth century. His book The Celestial Hierarchy is the most influential text in the history of angelology. It was he, for example, who decided that angels were pure spiritual beings, an idea taken up enthusiastically by St Thomas Aquinas, and hence by the Roman Catholic Church (although St Augustine was not so sure whether or not angels had material bodies). It was he who arranged the angels into their nine orders from Cherubim, Seraphim and Thrones, through Dominations, Virtues and Powers, down to Principalities, Archangels and Angels – each order a link in the Great Chain of Being which stretched from God down to mankind, the animals, plants and stones.

The idea that angels mediated between God and mankind was actually a much older one that the pseudo-Dionysius derived from the great Neoplatonists who flourished in the Hellenistic culture surrounding Alexandria in the first to fourth centuries AD. His whole system of theology in fact was cribbed wholesale from Plotinus, Iamblichus and Proclus and then Christianised. But in the original ‘theology’ the mediating beings were not called angels but daimones, daimons (or, after the Latin, if you prefer, dæmons). The idea of guardian angels comes from the Greek notion of the personal daimon.

The most famous personal daimon in antiquity belonged to Plato’s mentor, Socrates. According to Apuleius, in On the god of Socrates, the god was a daimon which mediated between God or the gods and Socrates. Daimons, claimed Apuleius, inhabit the air and have bodies of so transparent a kind that we can’t see them, only hear them. This was the case with Socrates, whose daimon was famous for simply saying “No” whenever he was about to encounter danger or do something displeasing to the gods. Nevertheless, the daimons are as much material as spiritual, despite what later Catholic apologists, such as Aquinas, might have us believe. To say they inhabit the air is a metaphor for the middle realm they inhabit between the material and spiritual realms – what the great scholar of Sufism, Henri Corbin, calls “the imaginal world” in which a different, daimonic reality prevails.

We all have a personal daimon, which the Romans translated as ‘genius’ – indeed, they sacrificed to their genius on their birthdays – but perhaps it is only in those with an exceptionally powerful summons from the daimon, a striking vocation, that daimons become unusually apparent. CG Jung, the great Swiss psychologist, for instance, dreamt of a winged being sailing across the sky. He saw that it was an old man with the horns of a bull. He held a bunch of four keys, one of which he clutched as if he were about to open a lock. The lock he was about to open, of course, was the locked unconscious psyche of Jung. This mysterious figure introduced himself as Philemon; and he visited Jung often after that, not only in dreams but while he was awake as well. “At times he seemed to me quite real,” wrote Jung in Memories, Dreams, Reflections (1961), “as if he were a living personality. I went walking up and down the garden with him, and to me he was what the Indians call a guru… Philemon brought home to me the crucial insight that there are things in the psyche which I do not produce, but which have their own life… I held conversations with him and he said things which I had not consciously thought… He said I treated thoughts as if I generate them myself but in his view thoughts were like animals in the forest, or people in a room… It was he who taught me psychic objectivity, the reality of the psyche.”

If this is an unconventional picture of a ‘guardian angel’, it is conservative compared to Napoleon’s ‘familiar spirit’ which, as described by Aniela Jaffé in Apparitions (1958), “protected him, which guided him, as a dæmon, and which at particular moments took on the shape of a shining sphere, which he called his star, or which visited him in the figure of a dwarf clothed in red that warned him”. On the other hand, it was not so eccentric when we consider that, according to the Neoplatonist Iamblichus, daimons favour luminous appearances or ‘phasmata’ second only to manifesting in personified form. The phasmata of daimons are “various and dreadful”. They appear “at different times… in a different form, and appear at one time great, but at another small, yet are still recognised to be the phasmata of dæmons”. Thus it’s not so surprising if a personal daimon shape-shifts, showing itself now as a Gabriel-sized angel, now as a red dwarf. And perhaps the little ‘aliens’ who appear to those who have shortly before seen an anomalous light in the sky, are not so much inhabitants of the UFO as an alternative manifestation of it.

Genius and genes

Another paradox in the nature of the personal daimon is that it can also be impersonal. Our clergyman’s widow encountered a being that was clearly and intimately connected with her – yet also almost part of the landscape, like a fairy. I suggest that, while the personal daimon is exactly that – personal – it is also always grounded in the impersonal and unknowable depths of the psyche. It is also, in other words, a manifestation of the Anima Mundi, or Soul of the World – as the case of Plotinus, the first and greatest of the Neoplatonic philosophers, makes clear.

While he was living in Rome, Plotinus was approached by an Egyptian priest who, wishing to show off his theurgical powers, asked if he might be allowed to invoke a visible manifestation of Plotinus’s daimon. The sage agreed. The rite took place in the Temple of Isis, the only pure place in Rome, according to the priest. But to everyone’s surprise, the daimon turned out to be a god. The priest was so shocked that the god disappeared before it could be questioned. Plotinus himself was eloquent on the subject of the personal daimon. He held that every human psyche is a spectrum of possible levels, on any one of which we may choose to live (each of us is an ‘intellectual cosmos’); whatever level one chooses, the next one above it serves as one’s daimon. If one lives well, one may live at a higher level in the next life, and then the level of one’s daimon will accordingly rise, until for the perfect sage the daimon is the One itself – the One being the transcendent source and goal of everything that is. In other words, the daimon was not, for Plotinus, an anthropomorphic being but an inner psychological principle, the spiritual level above that on which we conduct our lives. It is therefore both within us and, at the same time, transcendent; this suggests that it is simultaneously as personal as a ‘familiar’ and as impersonal as a god. Iamblichus went further, to assert that personal daimons are not fixed but can develop or perhaps unfold in relation to our own spiritual development, rather as Jung might say that, in the course of individuation, we move beyond the personal unconscious to the impersonal, collective unconscious, through the daimonic to the divine. We are assigned a daimon at birth, said Iamblichus, to govern and direct our lives; but our task is to obtain a god in its place.

This doctrine comes from a story or myth told by Plato in The Republic (X, 620e) concerning a man called Er, who had what we would now call a near-death experience. He brought back news not just of what happens after death, but what happens before birth. We choose the lives we are about to lead, he said, but we are allotted a daimon to act as guardian and to help us fulfil our choice. Then we pass under the throne of Necessity, the pattern of our lives having been fixed, to be born. Our daimons are the imaginative blueprints of our lives. They lay down the personal myth, as it were, which we are bound to enact in the course of our lives. They are the voice that calls us to our true purpose, our vocation. The reality of the personal daimon is affirmed by the fact that it is an idea that persists in the human mind, so that no matter how we may wish to grow out of belief in Plato’s old tale, it crops up in different guises again and again – as the Roman genius, for example, or the Arabic genie; as the shaman’s spirit helper or the Christian guardian angel.

Its latest, and debased, incarnation is in the Just So story of the ‘selfish gene’. In the early pages of his book of that name, Richard Dawkins finds it impossible to avoid talking about our ‘selfish genes’ as if they were personal daimons. They “create form”, he says, and “mould matter” and “choose”. They are “the immortals”. They “possess us” (my italics). We are merely “lumbering robots” whose genes “created us body and mind”. This anthropomorphic language is, I would suggest, hardly that of science, but let it pass. For Dawkins is doing what scientism often does: he is unconsciously literalising a myth. Traditionally, our bodies have been seen as the vehicles of our personal daimon, our soul or ‘higher self’. Now, by an amusing inversion, we are asked to believe that our most valuable attributes are simply pressed into the service of our genes. As Professor RC Lewontin sums up wryly in The Doctrine of DNA: Biology as Ideology (1993), “it is really our genes that are propagating themselves through us. We are only their instruments, their temporary vehicles…”

The ‘selfish gene’ is allotted to us by Chance and thereafter subjects us to its inexorable Necessity – the pattern we are forced by the genes to live out. Chance and Necessity: the twin goddesses of science who are supposed to rule our lives. But Plato’s daimon tells another tale, one which science has not so much replaced as inverted and made literal. The daimon is allotted to us in accordance with the life we have already chosen. We are not merely the random result of the chance meeting of our parents, for we have chosen them just as they have, willy-nilly, chosen each other. We really do come into the world ‘trailing clouds of glory’. Thereafter, we are subject, certainly, to Necessity; but it manifests as a fate or destiny we are also free to deny. Of course, that would not be advisable: to cut oneself off from one’s daimon is to lose its protection and guidance, to court accidents and to lose one’s way. Besides, to deny the daimon turns out to be only the illusion of freedom. Real freedom, it turns out, paradoxically, is freely to choose to subordinate our egotistical desires and wishes to the imperatives of the personal daimon, whose service is perfect freedom.

Creative Daimons

In The Soul’s Code (1996), James Hillman – the best of the post-Jungian analytical psychologists – develops a whole child psychology based on the idea of the personal daimon. He calls it the acorn theory, according to which “each life is formed by its unique image, an image that is the essence of that life and calls it to a destiny. As the force of fate, this image acts as a personal daimon, an accompanying guide who remembers your calling… The daimon motivates. It protects. It invents and persists with stubborn fidelity. It resists compromising reasonableness and often forces deviance and oddity upon its keeper and especially when it is neglected or opposed.”

Since it represents the fate of the individual – since our adult ‘oak’ life is latent in our acorn state – the personal daimon is prescient. It knows the future – not in detail, perhaps, because it can’t manipulate events, but the general pattern. It is that within us which is forever restless and unsatisfied, yearning and homesick, even when we are at home. (But we should note that it is not our conscience: the daimon is not a moralist, and so it is possible to ask our daimon to fulfil our own desires, even evil or selfish ones; we can appropriate the daimon’s power for our own egotistical ends.) In short, our behaviour is not just formed by the past, as psychology tends to suppose; it can be formed retroactively by the future, by the intuition of where our calling will take us, and what we are destined to become. Hillman cites the example of many famous people’s biographies where the child either knows what he might become – like Yehudi Menuhin insisting as a tiny child on having a violin, yet smashing the toy violin he was given: his daimon was already grown up and disdained to play a child’s toy – or fears to know what he must become – Manolete, bravest and best of bullfighters, clung to his mother’s apron strings as if he already knew the dangers he would have to encounter as an adult. Winston Churchill was a poor scholar, consigned to what we’d now call a remedial reading class, as if putting off the moment when he would have to labour for his Nobel Prize for Literature.

Thus, when we see bright children going off the rails, we should hesitate to blame their parents and their past. Their daimons are, after all, parentless and have plans for them other than the plans of parents or the conformist demands of school. (It’s notable that our passion for attributing aberrant behaviour in children to dodgy parenting is highly eccentric: in traditional societies, whatever’s wrong always comes from elsewhere, whether witchcraft, taboo-breaking, neglected rituals, contact with unfavourable places, a remote enemy, an angry god, a hungry ghost, an offended ancestor and so on – but never to what your mum and dad did to you, or didn’t do, years ago.)

Those exceptional souls who become aware of their daimon, as Jung did, have the satisfaction of fulfilling its purpose and hence of fulfilling their true selves. But this does not make them immune to suffering; for who knows what Badlands the daimon would have us cross before we reach the Isles of the Blessed? Who knows what wrestling, what injury, we are in for – like Jacob – at the hands of our angel? What our daimon teaches us, therefore, is not to always be seeking a cure for our suffering but rather to seek a supernatural use for it. “I have had much trouble in living with my ideas,” wrote Jung at the end of his long and fruitful life. “There was a daimon in me… It overpowered me, and if I was at times ruthless it was because I was in the grip of a daimon… A creative person has little power over his own life. He is not free. He is captive and driven by his daimon… The daimon of creativity has ruthlessly had its way with me.”

For the poet, the daimon is his or her Muse, who is at the very least a mixed blessing. Keats painted portraits of his Muse in Lamia and The Belle Dame sans Merci: white-skinned, cold, irresistibly alluring figures who seduce the poet, drain him like a vampire for their own purposes, and leave him “alone and palely loitering”. For, once she is awakened, the Muse will drive relentlessly to become the centre of the personality, casting aside whatever we think of as ourselves. The rewards in terms of achievement can be enormous, but they are also dangerous; and everyday life, with its little comforts and satisfactions, can be a casualty. As the late Poet Laureate, Ted Hughes, writes feelingly in Winter Pollen (1994), the Muse “from earliest times came to the poet as a god, took possession of him, delivered the poem, then left him.” It was axiomatic, he says, that she lived her own life separate from the poet’s everyday personality; that she was entirely outside his control; and that she was, above all, supernatural.

The last word on personal daimons goes to the great Irish poet, WB Yeats, who wrote in his book, Mythologies (1959): “I think it was Heraclitus who said: the Daimon is our destiny. When I think of life as a struggle with the Daimon who would ever set us to the hardest work among those not impossible, I understand why there is a deep enmity between a man and his destiny, and why a man loves nothing but his destiny… I am persuaded that the Daimon delivers and deceives us, and that he wove the netting from the stars and threw the net from his shoulder…” Here is a portrait of the personal daimon which is both daunting and beautiful and, like Jung’s, tinged with a poignant melancholy. For the daimon is our taskmaster, driving us to perform the most difficult work possible for us, no matter what the human cost. No wonder our feelings for it are as ambiguous as it shows itself to be. Anyone who invokes their guardian angel, therefore, should beware. It may not be as fluffy and cuddly as you’d have it. It will protect you, yes – but only the ‘you’ who serves its plan for your self. It will guide you, certainly – but who knows what sojourn in the wilderness this might entail? And, because the personal daimon is, finally, grounded in the impersonal Ground of Being itself, you will inevitably be led way, way out of your depth.

End

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Chuang Tzu: Section Twenty-Two

Master Tung-kuo asked Chuang Tzu, “This thing called the Way-where does it exist?”

Chuang Tzu said, “There’s no place it doesn’t exist.”

“Come,” said Master Tung-kuo, “you must be more specific!”

“It is in the ant.”

“As low a thing as that?”

“It is in the panic grass.”

“But that’s lower still!”

“It is in the tiles and shards.”

“How can it be so low?”

“It is in the piss and shit.”

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Poetry: Chuang Tzu

The Giant Peng Bird

In the Northern Sea there is a fish

Its name is Kun

The great size of Kun

We know not how many thousand leagues

Its name is Peng

The wingspan of Peng

We know not how many thousand leagues

It surges into flight.

Its wings are like the clouds that hang from the sky

This bird, when the ocean begins to heave

Will travel to the Southern Sea

The Southern Sea – the heavenly pond

trans. by Derek Lin

——

Distinguishing Ego from Self

All that is limited by form, semblance, sound, color is called object.

Among them all, man alone is more than an object.

Though, like objects, he has form and semblance,

He is not limited to form.

He is more.

He can attain to formlessness.

When he is beyond form and semblance, beyond “this” and “that,”

where is the comparison with another object?

Where is the conflict?

What can stand in his way?

He will rest in his eternal place which is no-place.

He will be hidden in his own unfathomable secret.

His nature sinks to its root in the One.

His vitality, his power hide in secret Tao.

-trans. T.Merton

—-

Letting go of thoughts

The mind remains undetermined in the great Void.

Here the highest knowledge is unbounded.

That which gives things their thusness cannot be delimited by things.

So when we speak of ‘limits’, we remain confined to limited things.

The limit of the unlimited is called ‘fullness.’

The limitlessness of the limited is called ‘emptiness.’

Tao is the source of both.

But it is itself neither fullness nor emptiness.

-trans by T.Merton

—-

One Legged Man

Kung Wen Hsien saw Yo Shi and exclaimed:

“What kind of person is this?

How come only one foot?

Is this ordained by Heaven,

Or caused by Man?”

He then said to himself:

“It is Heaven, not Man.

Heaven’s destiny let him be crippled.

The image of Man is given by Heaven.

Therefore we know this is the work of Heaven, not Man.”

-The True Tao

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Alien Dreamtime – Terence McKenna SF Multimedia DMT Trip

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From The Chuang Tzu:

Discussion On Making All Things Equal

Now let me ask you some questions. If a man sleeps in a damp place, his back aches and he ends up half paralyzed, but is this true of a loach? If he lives in a tree, he is terrified and shakes with fright, but is this true of a monkey? Of these three creatures, then, which one knows the proper place to live? Men eat the flesh of grass-fed and grain-fed animals, deer eat grass, centipedes find snakes tasty, and hawks and falcons relish mice. Of these four, which knows how food ought to taste? Monkeys pair with monkeys, deer go out with deer, and fish play around with fish. Men claim that Mao-chi’iang and Lady Li were beautiful, but if fish saw them they would dive to the bottom of the stream, if birds saw them they would fly away, and if deer saw them they would break into a run. Of these four, which knows how to fix the standard of beauty for the world? The way I see it, the rules of benevolence and righteousness and the paths of right and wrong are all hopelessly snarled and jumbled. How could I know anything about such discriminations?”

The sage embraces things. Ordinary men discriminate among them and parade their discriminations before others. So I say, those who discriminate fail to see.

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On The Music Box… Arcana: ‘The New Light’

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Solstice 2006

Solstice Time Again… We had the traditional gathering of tribes this weekend… With people coming from as far as the north Washington Cascade slopes… to the the wilds of Sherwood and greater Wilsonville, they came as pilgrims do, ready to party, drink and dance….

We had a extra nice surprise this year: The Wild Cascadian Alkemist came down from the western slopes with his traveling circus of hounds, friends and his very own version of the ‘Water of Life’…

Here is a shot of the Solstice Tree the night before….

The Solstice Bunny and The Magick Licking Toad…

We were blest by a visit of the Solstice Bunny and his good buddy, the Magick Licking Toad.

According to the legend, they travel to all good Solstice gatherings offering up the joys of the toad to all and sundry….

Many people were blest, and a few were frightened by the Toad, but most were just freaked by the Solstice Bunny. So it goes!

Our youngest party guest chowing down… She took great interest in the art, and the fire ceremony.

Miss F. asked if she could come back next year (as long as she brings her parents, our dear friends Paul and Barb!)… She was an absolute delight, with some very interesting comments on what she was observing…

Our group of younger members grows, and some are now coming back year after year.

Gen seems to be having a good time in this picture, and was seen dancing during the evening. She is well known for her guitar work on acoustic and electric, and hopefully we will get a song out her at next years Solstice gathering….

Just prior to the Fire Ceremony…

Rowan has been taking on more of a role in the yearly winter rites. This year brought a new innovation; he and I read “For Juan on the Winter Solstice”, by Robert Graves by exchanging verses. I think it was a nice touch, and very moving with the ancient motifs that Graves brings forth. A keeper I think for the next year….

Andrew has a new Friend…

I was concerned when I found nephew Andrew getting kinda friendly with the rapidly morphing

Magick Licking Toad…

I checked him over, and found that he had been availing himself to the excellent Scottish Seasonal Ale that Morgan graciously brought…

All in all, a great evening, with wonderful friends and company!

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On The Menu

The Links

Ardor: White Wedding

Powel, Prince of Dyfed

Medieval Poetry

Carmina Burana – From Corvus Corax

Art: Sulamith Wulfing

Born in Germany in 1901, Sulamith Wulfing began drawing at the age of four. Her family concerned itself with spiritual matters; in fact, her father was a Theosophist.

A touch of the supernatural embues all her work. She attended Art College in Wuppertal and completed her course of studies there in 1921. Her home and much of her art was destroyed during WW2. She continued to draw and paint until her death in 1989.

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The Links:

120-Year-Old Woman Claims Smoking Pot Everyday Is Her Secret To Long Life

US church splits over sexuality

Airlines workers sacrifice camel at airport

Concern over Europe ‘snow crisis’

Charges Dropped on High Times Freedom Fighter Eddy Lepp After Feds Seize 32,512 Pot Plants

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Ardor: White Wedding

_________

_________

Powel, Prince of Dyfed

POWEL, Prince of Dyfed, was lord of the seven Cantrevs of Dyfed; and once upon a time Powel was at Narberth, his chief palace, where a feast had been prepared for him, and with him was a great host of men. And after the first meal, Powel arose to walk, and he went to the top of a mound that was above the palace, and was called Gorseth Arberth.

” Lord,” said one of the court, “it is peculiar to the mound that whosoever sits upon it cannot go thence without either receiving wounds or blows, or else seeing a wonder.”

“I fear not to receive wounds and blows in the midst of such a host as this; but as to the wonder, gladly would I see it. I will go, therefore, and sit upon the mound.”

And upon the mound he sat. And while he sat there, they saw a lady, on a pure white horse of large size, with a garment of shining gold around her, coming along the highway that led from the mound; and the horse seemed to move at a slow and even pace, and to be coming up towards the mound.

“My men,” said Powel, ” is there any among you who knows yonder lady?”

“There is not, lord,” said they.

“Go one of you and meet her, that we may know who she is.”

And one of them arose ; and as he came upon the road to meet her she passed by, and he followed as fast as he could, being on foot; and the greater was his speed, the farther was she from him. And when he saw that it profited him nothing to follow her, he returned to Pwyll, and said unto him, “Lord, it is idle for any one in the world to follow her on foot.”

“Verily,” said Powel, “go unto the palace, and take the fleetest horse that thou seest, and go after her.”

And he took a horse and went forward. And he came to an open level plain, and put spurs to his horse; and the more he urged his horse, the farther was she from him. Yet she held the same pace as at first. And his horse began to fail; and when his horse’s feet failed him, he ye-turned to the place where Powel was.

“Lord,” said he, ” it will avail nothing for any one to follow yonder lady. I know of no horse in these realms swifter than this, and it availed me not to pursue her.”

“Of a truth,” said Powel, “there must be some illusion here. Let us go towards the palace.” So to the palace they went, and they spent that day. And the next day they arose, and that also they spent until it was time to go to meat. And after the first meal, “Verily,” said Powel, “we will go, the same party as yesterday, to the top of the mound. Do thou,” said he to one of his young men, “take the swiftest horse that thou knowest in the field. And thus did the young man. They went towards the mound, taking the horse with them. And as they were sitting down they beheld the lady on the same horse, and in the same apparel, coming along the same road. “Behold,” said Powel, “here is the lady of yesterday. Make ready, youth, to learn who she is.”

My lord,” said he “that will I gladly do.” And thereupon the lady came opposite to them. So the youth mounted his horse ; and before he had settled himself in his saddle, she passed by, and there was a clear space between them. But her speed was no greater than it had been the day before. Then he put his horse into an amble, and thought, that, notwithstanding the gentle pace at which his horse went, he should soon overtake her. But this availed him not: so he gave his horse the reins. And still he came no nearer to her than when he went at a foot’s pace. The more he urged his horse, the farther was she from him. Yet she rode not faster than before. When he saw that it availed not to follow her, he returned to the place where Powel was. ” Lord,” said he, “the horse can no more than thou hast seen.”

“I see indeed that it avails not that any one should follow her. And by Heaven,” said he, “she must needs have an errand to some one in this plain, if her haste would allow her to declare it. Let us go back to the palace.” And to the palace they went, and they spent that night in songs and feasting, as it pleased them.

The next day they amused themselves until it was time to go to meat. And when meat was ended, Powel said, “Where are the hosts that went yesterday and the day before to the top of the mound ?”

“Behold, lord, we are here,” said they.

“Let us go,” said he, “to the mound to sit there. And do thou,” said he to the page who tended his horse, “saddle my horse well, and hasten with him to the road, and bring also my spurs with thee.” And the youth did thus, They went and Sat upon the mound. And ere they had been there but a short time, they beheld the lady coming by the same road, and in the same manner, and at the same pace. “Young man, said Powel, “I see the lady coming give me my horse.” And no sooner had he mounted his horse than she passed him. And he turned after her, and followed her. And he let his horse go bounding playfully, and thought that at the second step or the third he should come up with her. But he came no nearer to her than at first. Then he urged his horse to his utmost speed, yet he found that it availed nothing to follow her. Then said Powel, “O maiden, ” for the sake of him who thou best lovest, stay for me.”

“I will stay gladly,” said she, “and it were better for thy horse hadst thou asked it long since.” So the maiden stopped, and she threw back that part of her head-dress which covered her face. And she fixed her eyes upon him, and began to talk with him,

“Lady,” asked he, “whence comest thou, and whereunto dost thou journey ?”

“I journey on mine own errand,” said she, “and right glad am I to see thee.”

“My greeting be unto thee,” said he. Then he thought that the beauty of all the maidens, and all the ladies that he had ever seen, was as nothing compared to her beauty.

“Lady,” he said, “wilt thou tell me aught concerning thy purpose?”

“I will tell thee,” said she. ” My chief quest was to seek thee.”

“Behold,” said Powel, “this is to me the most pleasing quest on which thou couldst have come. And wilt thou tell me who thou art ?”

“I will tell thee, lord,” said she. “I am Rhiannon, the daughter of Heveyth Hên, and they sought to give me to a husband against my will. But no husband would I have, and that because of my love for thee, neither will I yet have one unless thou reject me. And hither have I come to hear thy answer.”

“By Heaven,” said Powel, “behold this is my answer. If I might choose among all the ladies and damsels in the world, thee would I choose.”

“Verily,” said she, “if thou art thus minded, make a pledge to meet me ere I am given to another.”

“The sooner I may do so, the more pleasing will it be unto me,” said Powel, “and wheresoever thou wilt, there will I meet with thee.”

“I will that thou meet me this day twelvemonth, at the palace of Heveyth. And I will cause a feast to be prepared, so that it be ready against thou come.”

“Gladly,” said he, ” will I keep this tryst.”

“Lord,” said she, “remain in health, and be mindful that thou keep thy promise And now I will go hence.”

So they parted, and he went back to his hosts and to them of his household. And whatsoever questions they asked him respecting the damsel, he always turned the discourse upon other matters. And when a year from that time was gone, he caused a hundred knights to equip themselves, and to go with him to the palace of Heveyth Hên. And he came to the palace, and there was great joy concerning him, with much concourse of people, and great rejoicing, and vast preparations for his coming. And the whole court was placed under his orders.

And the hall was garnished, and they went to meat, and thus did they sit; Heveyth Hên was on one side of Powel, and Rhiannon on the other. And all the rest according to their rank. And they ate and feasted and talked, one with another; and at the beginning of the carousal after the meat, there entered a tall auburn-haired youth, of royal bearing, clothed in a garment of satin. And when he came into the hall he saluted Powel and his companions.

“The greeting of Heaven be unto thee, my soul,” said Powel. “Come thou and sit down.”

“Nay,” said he, “a suitor am I; and I will do mine errand.”

“Do so willingly,” said Powel.

“Lord,” said he, “my errand is unto thee ; and it is to crave a boon of thee that I come.”

“What boon soever thou mayest ask of me, as far as I am able, thou shalt have.”

“Ah,” said Rhiannon, “wherefore didst thou give that answer ?”

“Has he not given it before the presence of these nobles?” asked the youth.

“My soul,” said Powel, “what is the boon thou askest?”

“The lady whom best I love is to be thy bride this night I come to ask her of thee, with the feast and the banquet that are in this place.”

And Powel was silent because of the answer which he had given.

“Be silent as long as thou wilt,” said Rhiannon. “Never did man make worse use of his wits than thou hast done.”

“Lady,” said he, “I knew not who he was.”

“Behold, this is the man to whom they would have given me against my will,” said she.

“And he is Gwawl the son of Clud, a man of great power and wealth; and because of the word thou hast spoken, bestow me upon him, lest shame befall thee.”

“Lady,” said he, “I understand not thine answer. Never can I do as thou sayest.”

“Bestow me upon him,” said she, “and I will cause that I shall never be his.”

“By what means will that be?” said Powel.

“In thy hand will I give thee a small bag,” said she. See that thou keep it well, and he will ask of thee the banquet and the feast, and the preparations, which are not in thy power. Unto the hosts and the household will I give the feast. And such will be thy answer respecting this. And as concerns myself, I will engage to become his bride this night twelvemonth. And at the end of the year be thou here,” said she, “and bring this hag with thee and let thy hundred knights be in the orchard up yonder. And when he is in the midst of joy and feasting, come thou in by thyself, clad in ragged garments, and holding thy bag in thy hand, and ask nothing but a bagful of food and I will cause that if all the meat and liquor that are in these seven cantrevs were put into it, it would be no fuller than before. And after a great deal has been put therein, he will ask thee whether thy bag will ever be full. Say thou then that it never will, until a man of noble birth and of great wealth arise and press the food in the bag with both his feet, saying, ‘Enough has been put therein.’ And I will cause him to go and tread down the food in the bag, and when he does so, turn thou the bag, so that he shall be up over his head in it’ and then slip a knot upon the thongs of the bag. Let there be also a good bugle-horn about thy neck, and as soon as thou hast bound him in the bag, wind thy horn, and let it be a signal between thee and thy knights. And when they hear the sound of the horn,. let them come down upon the palace.”

“Lord,” said Gwawl, “it is meet that I have an answer to my request.”

“As much of that thou hast asked as it is in my power to give, thou shalt have,” replied Powel.

“My soul,” said Rhiannon unto him, “as for the feast and the banquet that are here, I have bestowed them upon the men of Dyved, and the household, and the warriors that are with us. These can I not suffer to be given to any. In a year from to-night a banquet shall be prepared for thee in this palace, that I may become thy bride.”

So Gwawl went forth to his possessions, and Powel went also back to Dyved. And they both spent that year until it was the time for the feast at the palace of Heveyth Hên. Then Gwawl the son of Clud set out to the feast that was prepared for him, and he came to the palace and was received there with rejoicing. Powel also, the chief of Annuvyn, came to the orchard with his hundred knights, as Rhiannon had commanded him, having the bag with him. And Powel was clad in coarse and ragged garments, and wore large clumsy old shoes upon his feet. And when he knew that the carousal after the meat had begun, he went towards the hall, and when he came into the hall, he saluted Gwawl the son of Clud, and his company, both men and women.

“Heaven prosper thee ” said Gwawl, “and the greeting of Heaven be unto thee!”

“Lord,” said he, “may Heaven reward thee !” I have an errand unto thee.”

“Welcome be thine errand, and, if thou ask of me that which is just, thou shalt have it gladly.”

“It is fitting,” answered he. “I crave but from want and the boon that I ask is to have this small bag that thou seest filled with meat.”

“A request within reason is this,” said he, ” and gladly shalt thou have it. Bring him food.”

A great number of attendants arose, and began to fill the bag; but for all that they put into it, it was no fuller than at first.

“My soul,” said Gwawi, “will thy bag be ever full ?”

“It will not, I declare to Heaven,” said he, “for all that may be put into it, unless one possessed of lands and domains and treasure shall arise, and tread down with both his feet the food which is within the bag, and shall say, ‘Enough has been put herein.’ “

Then said Rhiannon unto Gwawl the son of Clud, “Rise up quickly.”

“I will willingly arise,” said he. So he rose up, and put his two feet into the bag. And Powel turned up the sides of the bag, so that Gwawl was over his head in it. And he shut it up quickly, and slipped a knot upon the thongs, and blew his horn. And thereupon behold his household came down upon the palace. And they seized all the host that had come with Gwawl, and cast them into his own prison. And Powel threw off his rags, and his old shoes, and his tattered array. And as they came in, every one of Powel’s knights struck a blow upon the bag, and asked, ” What is here ?”

“A badger,” said they. And in this manner they played, each of them striking the bag, either with his foot or with a staff. And thus played they with the bag. Every one as he came in asked, “What game are you playing at thus?”

“The game of Badger in the Bag,” said they. And then was the game of Badger in the Bag first played.

“Lord,” said the man in the bag, “if thou wouldest but hear me, I merit not to be slain in a bag.”

Said Heveyth Hên, “Lord, he speaks truth. It were fitting that thou listen to him ; for he deserves not this.”

“Verily,” said Powel, “I will do thy counsel concerning him.”

“Behold, this is my counsel then,” said Rhiannon “Thou art now in a position in which it behoves thee to satisfy suitors and minstrels let him give unto them in thy stead, and take a pledge from him that he will never seek to revenge that which has been done to him. And this will he punishment enough.”

“I will do this gladly,” said the man in the bag.

“And gladly will I accept it,” said Powel, ” since it is the counsel of Heveyth and Rhiannon.”

“Such, then, is our counsel,” answered they.

“I accept it,” said Powel.

“Seek thyself sureties.”

“We will be for him,” said Heveyth, until his men be free to answer for him.” And upon this he was let out of the bag, and his liege-men were liberated. Demand now of Gwawl his sureties,” said Heveyth : “we know which should be taken for him.” And Heveyth numbered the sureties.

Said Gwawl, ” Do thou thyself draw up the covenant.”

“It will suffice me that it be as Rhiannon said,” answered Powel. So unto that covenant were all the sureties pledged.

“Verily, lord,” said Gwawl “I am greatly hurt, and I have many bruises. I have need to be anointed ; with thy leave I will go forth. I will leave nobles in my stead to answer for me in all that thou shalt require.”

“Willingly,” said Powel, ” mayest thou do thus.” So Gwawl went towards his own possessions.

And the hall was set in order for Powel and the men of his host, and for them also of the palace, and they went to the tables and sat down. And as they had sat that time twelvemonth, so sat they that night. And they ate and feasted, and spent the night in mirth and tranquillity.

And next morning, at the break of day, “My lord,” said Rhiannon, “arise and begin to give thy gifts unto the minstrels. Refuse no one to-day that may claim thy bounty.”

“Thus shall it be, gladly,” said Powel, “both to-day and every day while the feast shall last.” So Powel arose, and he caused silence to be proclaimed, and desired all the suitors and the minstrels to show and to point out what gifts were to their wish and desire. And this being done, the feast went on, and he denied no one while it lasted. And when the feast was ended, Powel said unto Heveyth, “My lord, with thy permission, I will set out for Dyved to-morrow.”

“Certainly,” said Heveyth. “May Heaven prosper thee! Fix also a time when Rhiannon may follow thee.”

Said Powel, ” We will go hence together.”

“Willest thou this, lord ?” said Heveyth.

“Yes,” answered Powel.

And the next day they set forward towards Dyved, and journeyed to the palace of Narberth, where a feast was made ready for them. And there came to them great numbers of the chief men and the most noble ladies of the land, and of these there was none to whom Rhiannon did not give some rich gift, either a bracelet, or a ring, or a precious stone. And they ruled the land prosperously both that year and the next.

And in the fourth year a son was born to them, and women were brought to watch the babe at night. And the women slept, as did also Rhiannon. And when they awoke they looked where they had put the boy, and behold he was not there. And the women were frightened ; and, having plotted together, they accused Rhiannon of having murdered her child before their eyes.

“For pity’s sake,” said Rhiannon, “the Lord God knows all things. Charge me not falsely. If you tell me this from fear, I assert before Heaven that I will defend you.”

“Truly,” said they, “we would not bring evil on ourselves for any one in the world.”

“For pity’s sake,” said Rhiannon, “you will receive no evil by telling the truth.” But for all her words, whether fair or harsh, she received but the same answer from the women.

And Powel the chief of Annuvyn arose, and his household and his hosts. And this occurrence could not be concealed; but the story went forth throughout the land, and all the nobles heard it. Then the nobles came to Powel, and besought him to put away his wife because of the great crime which she had done. But Powel answered them that they had no cause wherefore they might ask him to put away his wife.

So Rhiannon sent for the teachers and the wise men, and as she preferred doing penance to contending with the women, she took upon her a penance. And the penance that was imposed upon her was that she should remain in that palace of Narberth until the end of seven years, and that she should sit every day near unto a horse-block that was without the gate ; and that she should relate the story to all who should come there whom she might suppose not to know it already; and that she should offer the guests and strangers, if they would permit her, to carry them upon her back into the palace. But it rarely happened that any would permit. And thus did she spend part of the year.

Now at that time Teirnyon Twryv Vliant was lord of Gwent Is Coed, and he was the best man in the world. And unto his house there belonged a mare than which neither mare nor horse in the kingdom was more beautiful. And on the night of every first of May she foaled, and no one ever knew what became of the colt. And one night Teirnyon talked with his wife: “Wife,” said he, “it is very simple of us that our mare should foal every year, and that we should have none of her colts.”

“What can be done in the matter?” said she.

“This is the night of the first of May,” said he. “The vengeance of Heaven be upon me, if I learn not what it is that takes away the colts.” So he armed himself, and began to watch that night. Teirnyon heard a great tumult, and after the tumult behold a claw came through the window into the house, and it seized the colt by the mane. Then Teirnyon drew his sword, and struck off the arm at the elbow: so that portion of the arm, together with the colt, was in the house with him. And then did he hear a tumult and wailing both at once. And he opened the door, and rushed out in the direction of the noise, and he could not see the cause of the tumult because of the darkness of the night; but he rushed after it and followed it. Then he remembered that he had left the door open, and he returned. And at the door behold there was an infant-boy in swaddling clothes, wrapped around in a mantle of satin. And he took up the boy, and behold he was very strong for the age that he was of.

Then he shut the door, and went into the chamber where his wife was. ” Lady,” said he, “art thou sleeping ?”

“No, lord,” said she: “I was asleep, but as thou camest in I did awake.”

“Behold, here is a boy for thee, if thou wilt,” said he, “since thou hast never had one.”

“My lord,” said she, “what adventure is this ?”

“It was thus,” said Teirnyon. And he told her how it all befell.

“Verily, lord,” said she, ” what sort of garments are there upon the boy?”

“A mantle of satin,” said he.

“He is then a boy of gentle lineage,” she replied. And they caused the boy to be baptised, and the ceremony was performed there. And the name which they gave unto him was Goldenlocks, because what hair was upon his head was as yellow as gold. And they had the boy nursed in the court until he was a year old. And before the year was over he could walk stoutly ; and he was larger than a boy of three years old, even one of great growth and size. And the boy was nursed the second year, and then he was as large as a child six years old. And before the end of the fourth year, he would bribe the grooms to allow him to take the horses to water.

“My lord,” said his wife unto Tiernyon, ” where is the colt which thou didst save on the night that thou didst find the boy ?”

“I have commanded the grooms of the horses,” said he, “that they take care of him.”

“Would it not be well, lord,” said she, “if thou wert to cause him to be broken in, and given to the boy, seeing that on the same night that thou didst find the boy, the colt was foaled, and thou didst save him?”

“I will not oppose thee in this matter,” said Tiernyon. “I will allow thee to give him the colt.”

“Lord,” said she, “may Heaven reward thee ! I will give it him.” So the horse was given to the boy. Then she went to the grooms and those who tended the horses, and commanded them to be careful of the horse, so that he might be broken ii’ by the time that the boy could ride him.

And while these things were going forward, they heard tidings of Rhiannon and her punishment. And Teirnyon Twryv Vliant, by reason of the pity that he felt on hearing this story of Rhiannon and her punishment, inquired closely concerning it, until he had heard from many of those who came to his court. Then did Teirnyon, often lamenting the sad history, ponder with himself; and he looked steadfastly on the boy, and as he looked upon him, it seemed to him that he had never beheld so great a likeness between father and son as between the boy and Powel the chief of Annuvyn. Now the semblance of Powel was well known to him, for he had of yore been one of his followers. And thereupon he became grieved for the wrong that he did in keeping with him a boy whom he knew to be the son of another man. And the first time that he was alone with his wife he told her that it was not right that they should keep the boy with them, and suffer so excellent a lady as Rhiannon to be punished so greatly on his account, whereas the boy was the son of Powel the chief of Annuvyn. And Teirnyon’s wife agreed with him that they should send the boy to Powel. “And three things, lord,” said she, “shall we gain thereby – thanks and gifts for releasing Rhiannon from her punishment, and thanks from Powel for nursing his son and restoring him unto him ; and, thirdly, if the boy is of gentle nature, he will be our foster-son, and he will do for us all the good in his power.” So it was settled according to this counsel.

And no later than the next day was Teirnyon equipped and two other knights with him. And the boy, as a fourth in their company, went with them upon the horse which Teirnyon had given him. And they journeyed towards Narberth, and it was not long before they reached that place. And as they drew near to the palace, they beheld Rhiannon sitting beside the horse-block. And when they were opposite to her, ” Chieftain,” said she, ” go not farther thus “I will bear every one of you into the palace. And this is my penance for slaying my own son, and devouring him.”

“Oh, fair lady,” said Teirnyon, “think not that I will be one to be carried upon thy back.”

“Neither will I,” said the boy.

“Truly, my soul,” said Teirnyon, ” we will not go.” So they went forward to the palace, and there was great joy at their coming. And at the palace a feast was prepared because Powel was come back from the confines of Dyfed And they went into the hall and washed, and Powel rejoiced to see Teirnyon. And in this order they sat Teirnyon between Powel and Rhiannon, and Teirnyon’s two companions on the other side of Powel, with the boy between them. And after meat they began to carouse and discourse. And Teirnyon’s discourse was concerning the adventure of the mare and the boy, and how he and his wife had nursed and reared the child as their own. “Behold here is thy son, lady,” said Teirnyon. “And whosoever told that lie concerning thee has done wrong. When I heard of thy sorrow, I was troubled and grieved. And I believe that there is none of this host who will not perceive that the boy is the son of Powel,” said Teirnyon.

“There is none,” said they all, ” who is not certain thereof.”

“I declare to Heaven,” said Rhiannon, “that if this be true, there is indeed an end to my trouble.”

“Lady,” said Pendaran Dyfed, “well hast thou named thy son Pryderi (end of trouble), and well becomes him the name of Pryderi son of Powel chief of Annuvyn.”

“Look you,” said Rhiannon “will not his own name become him better?”

“What name has he ?” asked Pendaran Dyfed.

“Goldenlocks is the name that we gave him.”

“Pryderi,” said Pendaran, “shall his name be.”

“It were more proper,” said Powel, “that the boy should take his name from the word his mother spoke when she received the joyful tidings of him.” And thus was it arranged.

“Teirnyon,” said Powel, “Heaven reward thee that thou hast reared the boy up to this time, and, being of gentle lineage, it were fitting that he repay thee for it.”

“My lord,” said Teirnyon, “it was my wife who nursed him, and there is no one in the world so afflicted as she at parting with him. It were well that he should bear in mind what I and my wife have done for him.”

“I call Heaven to witness,” said Powel, “that while I live I will support thee and thy possessions as long as I am able to preserve my own. And when he shall have power, he will more fitly maintain them than I. And if this counsel be pleasing unto thee and to my nobles, it shall be, that, as thou hast reared him up to the present time, I will give him to be brought up by Pendaran Dyfed from henceforth. And you shall be companions, and shall both be foster-fathers unto him.”

“This is good counsel,” said they all. So the boy was given to Pendaran Dyfed, and the nobles of the land were sent with him. And Teirnyon Twryv VIant and his companions set out for his country and his possessions, with love and gladness. And he went not without being offered the fairest jewels, and the fairest horses, and the choicest dogs; but he would take none of them.

Thereupon they all remained in their own dominions. And Pryderi the son of Powel the chief of Annuvyn was brought up carefully, as was fit, so that he became the fairest youth, and the most comely, and the best skilled in all good games, of any in the kingdom. And thus passed years and years until the end of Powel the chief of Annuvyn’s life came, and he died.

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Extract: The Romance Of The Rose

– Guillaume de Lorris /translated by Brian Cole

People say that when we dream

they’re lying tales, not what they seem;

but then sometimes we may recall

a dream that tells no lies at all

and is confirmed by reality.

I can quote as guarantee

an author called Marcobes, who

did not consider dreams untrue,

and wrote about a vision once

King Cypion had experienced.

Those who think and even say

it’s mad or stupid in some way

to think a dream could come to pass

can if they wish think me an ass!

However I am quite convinced

that dreams have fortune-telling sense

and tell what comes, for good or ill;

for many people’s dreams are filled

with a host of things in dim half-light

that later they see clear and bright.

When my twentieth year had come,

the time with love calls on the young

to pay their tribute, I was abed

one night, and sleeping like the dead,

and in that state of trance so deep

I had a dream while I was asleep,

most fair, that gave me great delight

and every detail from that night

came true and in reality

happened exactly so to me.

And now my dream I will impart

in verse, to fill with joy your hearts,

for Love wills and commands this task.

And if a man or lady ask

the title I shall give this lay

that I’m just starting, I shall say

it is the ‘Romance of the Rose’

where all the art of love’s disclosed.

I shall tell beauteous things and new;

and may God grant it be well viewed

by her for whom I pen this verse.

For she’s a lady of such worth

deserving of a love so famed

that ‘Rose’ should be her proper name.

I thought that May was at the door

five years ago, or even more.

Yes, it was May, and I would dream

of days of loving joy; it seemed

that all of Nature was so gay

and every bush and hedge in May

you see will decorate itself,

of new-born leaves take on a wealth.

The woods, all winter long so dry,

are now bedecked with greenery;

the Earth is full of pride, and new

in its fresh coat of moistening dew,

and can forget the poverty

it suffered in long winter’s fee.

Then the Earth in all its pride

wants a new dress, like a bride,

and has one made that is so gay

with full two hundred different shades;

of grasses, flowers, violet and blue,

and many other colours too;

that is the dress that I describe

which fills the Earth with swelling pride.

The birds that all fell silent when

they felt the cold attack them, then

suffered from harsh winter’s frost,

now in May their cares have lost.

They are so gay they have to sing

to show their hearts are full of Spring

that forces them to loudest song.

The nightingale then joins the throng

and vies with wondrous tunes; and hark!

the vivid parrot and the lark

awake and join the happy throng.

Young people then should follow on,

devote themselves to love’s gay beat,

because the Spring is warm and sweet.

A hard heart does not love in May

when it hears the birds’ sweet lay

so moving in the branches green

One night I had a wondrous dream:

it was this month of joys untold,

when Love makes every creature bold.

I felt somehow not yet awake,

that morning was already late.

I quickly jumped up from my bed,

washed and dressed, and ate my bread.

I took a needle from its place

in a splendid sewing-case

and threaded it with greatest care.

I planned to leave the town, go where

the happy sounds of birds would ring

in fresh green bushes where they sing

in this new season all about.

I sewed my ruffs to flounce them out

and set off all alone that day

listening to the birds so gay

who called on all their strength to sing

in flowering verge and on the wing.

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Triolet

-Jean Froissart translated by Stan Solomons

Take Time as it is pleased to come;

For Fortune is a wheel that turns.

Old Time goes out, a new returns;

Take Time as it is pleased to come.

And I take comfort that I know

The new moon every month is born.

Take Time as it is pleased to flow;

For Fortune is a wheel that turns.

—-

Extract:La Belle Dame Sans Merci

-Alain Chartier translated by A.S.Kline

I rode past, thinking, recently,

Like one who’s sad and sorrowful,

Of that lament that renders me

Of all lovers the most mournful,

Since, with his dart so dreadful,

Death has stolen my mistress,

And left me lonely: left me dull,

In the sole charge of Sadness.

I said to myself: ‘I should cease

Writing and rhyming, it appears,

Abandon laughter, and be pleased

To replace all this with tears.

And so I must employ my years,

Without heart or inclination

To pen a single thing, I fear,

That pleases me, or anyone.

If any would constrain my will

To write of happy things,

My pen would not possess the skill,

Nor my tongue the power to sing.

My lips could never part, in smiling,

Without a gaze that lips betrayed,

Since my heart would claim denial

Through the tears my cheeks displayed.

I leave it to the lover, who nurses

Hopes that his wound might heal,

To make ballads, songs and verses,

That each might his own skill reveal.

My lady, by her will, did steal

At her Death, God save her soul,

And carry away, my power to feel,

That lies with her beneath the stone.’

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Carmina Burana – From Corvus Corax

__________

A friend’s eye is a good mirror.

-Celtic Proverb

Yes, it does come in threes…

I shall not repeat myself

I shall not repeat myself

I shall not repeat myself….

Have a good Friday… shooting this off at Midnight, monster winds coming our way… so we may not have electricity in the morning.

Have a brilliant weekend!

Talk Later,

Gwyllm

On The Menu:

The Three Links

Three Irish Quotes

Three Sufi Stories

Three Poems of Seamus Heaney

Three Paintings: Rossetti

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The Three Links:

Seven Legged Deer?

4,000-year-old Seahenge to rise again – but not until 2008

‘ My Plane’s Just Taken Off Withoug Me!’

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Three Irish Quotes

If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton,

you may as well dance with it

‘Tis better to buy a small bouquet

And give to your friend this very day,

Than a bushel of roses white and red

To lay on his coffin after he’s dead.

May the Blessings of the Light be on you,

Light Without and Light Within.

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Three Sufi Tales

The Two Kings

There were once two kings, a just and an unjust; and this one had a land abounding in trees and fruits and herbs; but he let no merchant pass without robbing him of his monies and his merchandise, and the traders endured this with patience, by reason of their profit from the fatness of the earth in the means of life and its pleasantness, more by token that it was renowned for its richness in precious stones and gems.

Now the just king, who loved jewels, heard of this land and sent one of his subjects thither; and it being told to the unjust king that a merchant was come to his kingdom with much money to buy jewels withal, he sent for him to the presence and said to him: ‘Who are you and from where do you come and who brought you here thither and why have you come?’

The merchant responded: ‘I am of such and such a region, and the king of that land gave me money and bade me buy therewith jewels from this country; so I obeyed his bidding and came’. Cried the unjust king, ‘Out with you! Don’t you know my fashion of dealing with the people of my realm and how each day I take their money? Why then do you come to my country? And furthermore, you have already stayed here since such a time!’

Answered the trader, ‘The money is not mine, not a penny of it; nay, ‘tis a trust in my hands, till I bring its equivalent to its owner’. But the king said, ‘I will not let you take your livelihood of my land so now you have to give me all your money or else you shall die!”

So the man said in himself, ‘I am fallen between two kings, and I know that the oppression of this ruler embraces all who abide in his dominions: and if I satisfy him not, I shall lose both life and money (whereof is no doubt) and shall fail of my errand; whilst, on the other hand, if I give him all the gold, it will most assuredly prove my ruin with its owner, the other king: wherefore no device will serve me but that I give this one a trifling part thereof and content him therewith and avert from myself and from the money perdition. Thus shall I get my livelihood of the fatness of this land, till I buy that which I desire of jewels; and, after satisfying the tyrant with gifts, I will take my portion of the profit and return to the owner of the money with his need, trusting in his justice and indulgence, and unfearing that he will punish me for that which this unjust king takes of the treasure, especially if it be but a little’.

Then the trader called down blessings on the tyrant and said to him, ‘O, king! I will ransom myself and this specie with a small portion thereof, from the time of my entering thy country to that of my going forth therefrom’. The king agreed to this and left him at peace for a year, till he brought all manner jewels with the rest of the money and returned therewith to his master, to whom he made his excuses, confessing to having saved himself from the unjust king as before related.

The just king accepted his excuse and praised him for his wise device and set him on his right hand in his divan and appointed him in his kingdom an abiding inheritance and a happy life-tide.

________

The Dream

A visitor came to a Chishti pir. This visitor wanted to demonstrate his own knowledge of the Qur’an and intended to overpower the Chishti pir in a debate. When he entered, the Chishti pir took the initiative however and mentioned Yusuf and the dreams he has had according to the Qur’an. He then suddenly turned to his visitor and asked him if he could tell him about a dream, so that the visitor may give his interpretation thereof. After receiving permission the Sufi told that he has had a dream and both of them were in it. The Chishti pir then went on by describing the following dream event: “I saw your hand immersed in a jar of honey, while my hand was immersed in the latrine”.

The visitor hastened to interpret: “It is quite obvious! You are immersed in wrong pursuits whereas I am leading a righteous life”.

“But’, the Sufi said, “there is more to the dream”. The visitor asked him to continue. The Chishti pir then went on by telling this: “You were licking my hand and I was licking yours”.

___________

The Cobbler Who Became an Astrologer

There was in the city of Isfahan a poor cobbler called Ahmed, who was possesses of a singularly greedy and envious wife. Every day the woman went to the public baths, the Hammam, and each time saw someone there of whom she became jealous. One day she espied a lady dressed in a magnificent robe, jewels on every finger, pearls in her ears, and attended by many persons. Asking whom this might be, she was told, “The wife of the king’s astrologer”.

“Of course, that is what my wretched Ahmed must become, an astrologer,” thought the cobbler’s wife, and rushed home as fast as her feet would carry her. The cobbler, seeing her face asked: “What in the world is the matter, my dear one?”

“Don’t you speak to me or come near me until you become a court astrologer!” she snapped. “Give up your vile trade of mending shoes! I shall never be happy until we are rich!”

“Astrologer! Astrologer! Cried Ahmed, “What qualifications have I to read the stars? You must be mad!”

“I neither know nor care how you do it, just become an astrologer by tomorrow or I will go back to my father’s house and seek a divorce,” she said.

The cobbler was out of his mind with worry. How was he to become an astrologer – that was the question? He could not bear the thought of losing his wife, so he went out and bought a table of the zodiac signs, an astrolabe and an astronomical almanac. To do this he had to sell his cobblers’ tools, and so felt he must succeed as an astrologer. He went out into the market-place, crying: “O, people, come to me for all answers to everything! I can read the stars, I know the sun, the moon and the twelve signs of the zodiac! I can foretell that which is to happen!”

Now it so happened that the king’s jeweller was passing by, in great distress at losing one of the crown jewels, which had been entrusted to him for polishing. This was a great ruby, and he had searched for it high and low without success. The court jeweller knew that if he did not find it his head would be forfeit. He came to the crowd surrounding Ahmed and asked what was happening.

“Oh, the very latest astrologer, Ahmed the cobbler, now promises to tell everything there is to know!” laughed one of the bystanders. The court jeweller pressed forward and whispered into Ahmed’s ear: “If you understand your art, discover for me the king’s ruby and I will give you two hundred pieces of gold. If you do not succeed, I will be instrumental in bringing out your death!”

Ahmed was thunderstruck. He put a hand to his brow and shaking his head, thinking of his wife, said: “O, woman, woman, you are more baneful to the happiness of man than the vilest serpent!”. Now the jewel had been secreted by the jeweller’s wife, who, guilty about the theft, had sent a female slave to follow her husband everywhere. This slave, on hearing the new astrologer cry out about a woman who was as poisonous as a serpent, thought that all must be discovered, and ran back to the house to tell her mistress.

“You are discovered by a hateful astrologer! Go to him, lady, and plead with the wretch to be merciful, for if he tells your husband you are lost”. The woman then threw on her veil, and went to Ahmed and flung herself at his feet, crying: “Spare my honour and my life and I will tell all!”

“Tell what?” inquired Ahmed.

“Oh nothing that you do not know already!” she wept, “You know well I stole the ruby. I did so to punish my husband, he uses me so cruelly! But you, o most wonderful man from whom nothing is hidden, command me and I will do whatever you ask that this secret never sees the light”.

Ahmed thought quickly, then said: “I know all you have done and to save you I ask you to do this: Place the ruby at once under your husband’s pillow and forget all about it”. The jeweller’s wife returned home and did as she was bidden. In an hour Ahmed followed her and told the jeweller that he had made his calculations and by the sun, moon and stars the ruby was at that moment lying under his pillow. The jeweller ran from the room like a hunted stag and returned a few moments later the happiest of men. He embraced Ahmed like a brother and placed a bag containing two hundred pieces of gold at his feet.

The praises of the jeweller ringing in his ears, Ahmed returned home grateful that he could now satisfy his wife’s lust for money. He thought he would have to work no more, but he was disenchanted to hear her say: “This is only your first adventure in this new way of life! Once your name gets known, you will soon be summoned to court!”

Unhappily Ahmed remonstrated with her. He had no wish to go further in his career of fortune-telling, it simply was not safe. How could he expect to have further strokes of luck like the last, he asked? But his wife burst into tears and again threatened him with divorce.

Ahmed agreed to sally forth next day t the market-place, to advertise himself once more. He exclaimed as loudly as before “I am an astrologer! I can see everything which will happen by the power given to me by the sun, the moon and the stars!”

The crowd gathered again and a veiled lady was passing while Ahmed was holding forth. She paused with her maid and heard of the success he had had the day before with the finding of the king’s ruby, together with a dozen other stories, which had never happened. The lady, very tall and dressed in fine silks, pushed her way forward and said: “I ask you this conundrum. Where are my necklace and earrings, which I mislaid yesterday? I dare not tell my husband about the loss, as he is a very jealous man and may think I have given them to a lover. Do you, astrologer, tell me at once where they are or I am dishonoured! If you give me the right answer, which should not be difficult for you, I will at once give you fifty pieces of gold”.

The unfortunate cobbler was speechless for a moment, on seeing such an important-looking lady before him, plucking at his arm and he put a hand over his eyes. He looked at her again, wondering what he should say. Then he noticed that part of her face was showing, which was quite unsuitable for one of her social level, and the veil was torn, apparently in her pressing through the crowd. He leaned down and said in a quiet voice: “Madam, look down to the rent, look to the rent!”

He meant the rent in her veil, but it immediately touched off a recollection in her mind. “Stay here, o greatest of astrologers,” she said and returned to her house, which was not far away. There, in the rent in her bathroom wall, she discovered her necklace and earrings, which she herself had hidden them from prying eyes. Soon she was back, wearing another veil and carrying a bag containing fifty pieces of gold for Ahmed. The crowd pressed around him in wonder at this new example of the brilliance of the cobbler astrologer.

Ahmed’s wife, however, could not yet rival the wife of the chief court astrologer, so she still urged her husband to continue seeking fame and fortune.

Now, at this time, the king’s treasury was robbed of forty chests of gold and jewels. Officers of state and the chief of police all tried to find the thieves but to no avail. At last, two servants were dispatched to Ahmed to ask if he would solve the case of the missing chests.

The king’s astrologer, however, was spreading lies about Ahmed behind his back and was heard to say that he gave Ahmed forty days to find the thieves, then he prophesied, Ahmed would be hanged for not being able to do so.

Ahmed was being summoned to the presence of the king and bowed low before the sovereign. “Who is the thief, then, according to the stars?” asked the king.

“It is very difficult to say, my calculations will take some time,” stammered Ahmed, “but I will say this so far, your majesty, there was not one thief, but forty who did this dreadful robbery of your majesty’s treasure”.

“Very well,” said the king, “where are they and what can they have done with my gold and jewels?”

“I cannot say before forty days,” answered Ahmed, “if your majesty will grant me that time to consult the stars. Each night, you see, there are different conjunctions to study…”.

“I grant you forty days, then,” said the king, “but when they are past, if you do not have the answer, your life will be forfeit”.

The court astrologer looked very pleased and smirked behind his beard and that look made poor Ahmed very uncomfortable. Suppose the court astrologer was right after all? He returned to his home and told his wife: “My dear, I fear that your great greed has meant that I have now only forty more days to live. Let us cheerfully spend all we have made, for in that time I shall have to be executed”.

“But husband,” she said “you must find out the thieves in that time by the same method you found the king’s ruby and the woman’s necklace and the earrings!”

“Foolish creature!” said he, “do you not recall that I found the answers to those two cases simply by the will of Allah! I can never pull off such a trick again, not if I live to be a hundred. No, I think the best thing will be for me each night to put a date in a bowl, and by the time that there are forty in it, I shall know that it is the night of the fortieth day and the end of my life. You know I have no skill in reckoning and shall never know if I do not do it in this way”.

“Take courage,” she said, “mean, spiritless wretch that you are and think of something even while we are putting dates in the bowl, so that I may ever yet be attired like the wife of the court astrologer and placed in that rank of life to which my beauty has entitled me!” Not a word of kindness did she give him, not a thought of herself and her personal victory over the wife of the court astrologer.

Meanwhile, the forty thieves, a few miles away from the city, had received accurate information regarding the measures taken to detect them. They were told by spies that the king had sent for Ahmed, and hearing that the cobbler had told of their exact number, feared for their lives. But the captain of the gang said: “Let us go tonight, after dark, and listen outside his house, for in fact he might have made an inspired guess and we might be worrying over nothing”.

Everybody approved of this scheme, so after nightfall one of the thieves listening on the terrace just after the cobbler had offered his evening prayer, heard Ahmed say: “Ah, there is the first of the forty!” He had just been handed the first date by his wife. The thief, hearing these words, hurried back in consternation to the gang and told them that somehow, through wall and window, Ahmed had sensed his unseen presence and said: “Ah, there is the first of the forty!”

The tale of the spy was not believed and the next day two members of the band were sent to listen, completely hidden by darkness, outside the house. To their dismay they both heard Ahmed say quite distinctly: “My dear wife, tonight there are two of them!” Ahmed, of course, having finished his evening prayer, had been given the second date by his wife. The astonished thieves fled into the night, and told their companions what they had heard.

The next night three men were sent and the fourth night four, and so for many nights they came just as Ahmed was putting the date into the bowl. On the last night they all went and Ahmed cried loudly: “Ah, the number is complete! Tonight the whole forty are here!”

All doubts were now removed. It was impossible that they could have been seen, under cover of darkness they had come, mingling with passers-by and people of the town. Ahmed had never looked out of the window; had he done so, he would not even been able to see them, so deeply were they hidden in the shadows.

“Let us bribe the cobbler-astrologer!” said the chief of the thieves. “We will offer him as much of the booty as he wants and then we will prevent him telling the chief of police about us tomorrow,” he whispered to the others.

They knocked at Ahmed’s door, it was almost dawn. Supposing it to be the soldiers coming to take him away to be executed, Ahmed came to the door in good spirits. He and his wife had spent half of the money on good living and he was feeling quite ready to go. He did not even feel sorry that he was to leave his wife behind. She, in fact, was secretly pleased at having quite a lot of money left over to spend solely on herself.

“I know what you have come for!” he shouted out, as the cock crowed and the sun began to rise. “Have patience, I am coming out to you now. But what a wicked deed are you about to do!’ and he stepped forward bravely.

“Most wonderful man!” cried the head of the thieves. “We are fully convinced that you know why we have come, but can we not tempt you with two thousand pieces of gold and beg you to say nothing about the matter!”

“Say nothing about it?” said Ahmed. “Do you honestly think it is possible that I should suffer such gross wrong and injustice without making it known to all the world?”

“Have mercy upon us,” exclaimed the thieves and most of them threw themselves at his feet. “Only spare our lives and we shall return the treasure we stole!”

The cobbler was not sure if he was indeed awake or perhaps still sleeping, but realising that these were the forty thieves he assumed a solemn tone and said: “Wretched men! You cannot escape from my penetration, which reaches to the sun and the moon and knows every star in the sky. If you restore every chest of the forty I will do my very best to intercede with the king on your behalf. But go now, get the treasure and place it in a ditch a foot deep, which you must dig under the wall of the old hammam, the public baths. If you do this before the people of Isfahan are up and about, your lives will be spared. If not, you shall all hang! Go or destruction will fall upon you and your families!”

Stumbling and falling and picking themselves up, the band of thieves rushed away. Would it work? Ahmed knew he had only a short time to wait and find out. It was a very long shot, but he knew that he had only one life to lose and that he was in great danger anyway.

But Allah is just. Rewards suitable to their merits awaited Ahmed and his wife. At midday Ahmed stood cheerfully before the king, who said: “Your looks are promising, have you good news?”

“Your majesty!” said Ahmed, “the stars will only grant one or the other – the forty thieves or the forty chests of treasure. Will your majesty choose?”

“I should be sorry not to punish the thieves” said the king, “but if it must be so, I choose the treasure”.

“And you give the thieves a full and free pardon, O king?”

“I do,” said the monarch “provided I find my treasure untouched”.

“Then follow me,” said Ahmed and set off to the old hammam.

The king and all his courtiers followed Ahmed, who most of the times was casting his eyes to heaven and murmuring things under his breath, describing circles in the air the while. When his prayer was finished, he pointed to the southern wall and requested that his majesty ask the slaves to dig, saying that the treasure would be found intact. In his heart of hearts he hoped it were true.

Within a short while all the forty chests were discovered, with all the royal seals intact. The king’s joy knew no bounds. He embraced Ahmed like a father and immediately appointed him chief court astrologer. “I declare that you shall marry my only daughter,” he cried delightedly, “as you have restored the fortunes of my kingdom and to thus promote you is nothing less than my duty!”

The beautiful princess, who was as lovely as the moon on her fourteenth night, was not dissatisfied with her father’s choice, for she had seen Ahmed from afar and secretly loved him from the first glance.

The wheel of fortune had taken a complete turn. At dawn Ahmed was conversing with the band of thieves, bargaining with them; at disk he was lord of a rich palace and the possessor of a fair, young, highborn wife who adored him. But his did not change his character and he was as contented as a prince as he had been as a poor cobbler. His former wife, for whom he had now ceased to care, moved out of his life, and got the punishment to which her unreasonableness and unfeeling vanity had condemned her. Thus is the tapestry, which is our life, completed by the Great Designer.

___________

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Poetry: Revisiting Seamus Heaney…

The Otter

When you plunged

The light of Tuscany wavered

And swung through the pool

From top to bottom.

I loved your wet head and smashing crawl,

Your fine swimmers’ back and shoulders

Surfacing and surfacing again

This year and every year since.

I sat dry-throated on the warm stones.

You were beyond me.

The mellowed clarities, the grape-deep air

Thinned and disappointed.

Thank God for the slow loadening

When I hold you now

We are close and deep

As the atmosphere on the water.

My two hands are plumbed water.

You are my palpable, lithe

Otter of memory

In the pool of the moment,

Turning to swim on your back,

Each silent thigh-shaking kick

Re-tilting the light,

Heaving the cool at your neck.

And suddenly you’re out,

Back again, intent as ever,

Heavy and frisky in your freshened pelt,

Printing the stones.

—

The Skunk

Up, black, striped and damasked like the chasuble

At a funeral Mass, the skunk’s tail

Paraded the skunk. Night after night

I expected her like a visitor.

The refrigerator whinnied into silence.

My desk light softened beyond the verandah.

Small oranges loomed in the orange tree.

I began to be tense as a voyeur.

After eleven years I was composing

Love-letters again, broaching the word ‘wife’

Like a stored cask, as if its slender vowel

Had mutated into the night earth and air

Of California. The beautiful, useless

Tang of eucalyptus spelt your absence.

The aftermath of a mouthful of wine

Was like inhaling you off a cold pillow.

And there she was, the intent and glamorous,

Ordinary, mysterious skunk,

Mythologized, demythologized,

Snuffing the boards five feet beyond me.

It all came back to me last night, stirred

By the sootfall of your things at bedtime,

Your head-down, tail-up hunt in a bottom drawer

For the black plunge-line nightdress.

—-

Sweeney’s Last Poem

There was a time when I preferred

the turtle-dove’s soft jublilation

as it flitted round a pool

to the murmur of conversation.

There was a time when I preferred

the blackbird singing on a hill

and the stag loud against the storm

to the clinking tongue of this bell.

There was a time when I preferred

the mountain grouse crying at dawn

to the voice and closeness

of a beautiful woman.

There was a time when I preferred

wolf-packs yelping and howling

to the sheepish voice of a cleric

bleating out plainsong.

You are welcome to pledge healths

and carouse in your drinking dens;

I will dip and steal water

from a well with my open palm.

You are welcome to that cloistered hush

of your students’ conversation;

I will study the pure chant

of hounds baying in Glen Bolcain.

You are welcome to your salt meat

and fresh meat in feasting-houses;

I will live content elsewhere

on tufts of green watercress.

The herd’s sharp spear wounded me

and passed clean through my body.

Ah Christ, who disposed all things, why

was I not killed at Moira?

Of all the innocent lairs I made

the length and breadth of Ireland

I remember an open bed

above the lough in Mourne.

Of all the innocent lairs I made

the length and breadth of Ireland

I remember bedding down

above the wood in Glen Bolcain.

To you, Christ, I give thanks

for your Body in communion

Whatever evil I have done

in this world, I repent.

Then Sweeney’s death-swoon came over him and Moling,

attended by his clerics, rose up and each of them placed a

stone on Sweeney’s grave.

On The Music Box: Le Cafe Abstrait Vol 1….

(Andromeda – Gustave Dore)

In Greek mythology, Andromeda was the daughter of Cepheus and Cassiopeia, king and queen of Aethiopia.

Cassiopeia, having boasted herself equal in beauty to the Nereids, drew down the vengeance of Poseidon, who sent an inundation on the land and a sea-monster, which destroyed man and beast. The oracle of Ammon announced that no relief would be found until the king exposed his daughter Andromeda to the monster, so she was fastened to a rock on the shore.

Perseus, returning from having slain the Gorgon, found Andromeda, slew the monster, set her free, and married her in spite of Phineus, to whom she had before been promised. At the wedding a quarrel took place between the rivals, and Phineus was turned to stone by the sight of the Gorgon’s head (Ovid, Metamorphoses v. 1).

Andromeda followed her husband to Tiryns in Argos, and became the ancestors of the family of the Perseidae through Perseus’ and Andromeda’s son, Perses. Perseus and Andromeda had six sons (Perseides): Perses, Alcaeus, Heleus, Mestor, Sthenelus, and Electryon, and one daughter, Gorgophone. Their descendants ruled Mycenae from Electryon down to Eurystheus, after whom Atreus got the kingdom, and include the great hero Heracles. According to this mythology, Perses is the ancestor of the Persians.

After her death she was placed by Athena amongst the constellations in the northern sky, near Perseus and Cassiopeia. Sophocles and Euripides (and in more modern times Corneille) made the story the subject of tragedies. The tale is represented in numerous ancient works of art.

Andromeda is represented in the northern sky by the constellation Andromeda which contains the Andromeda Galaxy.

__________

Gentle Reader,

Todays entry for you, as promised…. We are expecting a pretty large wind storm tonight, so if you don’t see an entry tomorrow, there was a very windy and electric-less reason.

Winds have been howling all night, heavy rains. Gust are expected up over 100mph tonight!

Yikes!

Getting ready for the Solstice and the ceremonies there-in. Hopefully, hopefully….

Gwyllm

_______

On The Menu:

The Links

Sema Ceremony In Seattle & Portland

Koans: The Stingy Artist & Just Go To Sleep

Poetry: The Amazing Blondel de Nesle & Richard The Lion Heart

Art: Gustave Dore….

________________

The Links:

Search for Extraterrestrial Life Using Chiral Molecules: Mandelate Racemase as a Test Case

300 Mazahua Indians seize Mexican plant

Rowan is Happy Happy!!!

Erm…Soy is making kids ‘gay’?

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Sema Ceremony of the Whirling Dervishes

My long time good friend and early spiritual mentor Susan Shipley informed me about these events; she will be there dancing in rememberance of Rumi’s passing. I expect these ceremonies and dances to be quite something else. I may well be there myself at the Portland event….

Sema Ceremony of the Whirling Dervishes

The Prayer Dance of Rumi – with a Sufi Music Concert

8pm Saturday, December 16 in Seattle

Spartan Gymnasium at Shoreline Community Center

NE 185th & Second Ave. NE, Shoreline, Washington

Directed by Postneshin Jelaluddin Loras. Featuring Master Sufi

Musicians direct from Turkey, Necati Çelik on oud, Arif Biçer on

ney & vocals, and Timuçin Çevikoglu on vocals and ney with

Musicians and Semazens of the Mevlevi Order of America.

Tickets $15 and $25 available at the door, or in advance at

www.brownpapertickets.com.

Info from Hafiz, 206-784-8178.

Sema Ceremony of the Whirling Dervishes

Shebi Arus – The Wedding Night of Hz. Mevlana Jelaluddin RUMI

4:30pm Sunday, December 17 in Portland, Oregon

Smith Hall Ballroom at Portland State University

1825 SW Broadway, 97201

________________

Koans:

Just Go To Sleep

Gasan was sitting at the bedside of Tekisui three days before his teacher’s passing. Tekisui had already chosen him as his successor.

A temple recently had burned and Gasan was busy rebuilding the structure. Tekisui asked him: “What are you going to do when you get the temple rebuilt?”

“When your sickness is over we want you to speak there,” said Gasan.

“Suppose I do not live until then?”

“Then we will get someone else,” replied Gasan.

“Suppose you cannot find anyone?” continued Tekisui.

Gasan answered loudly: “Don’t ask such foolish questions. Just go to sleep.”

—

The Stingy Artist

Gessen was an artist monk. Before he would start a drawing or painting he always insisted upon being paid in advance, and his fees were high. He was known as the “Stingy Artist.”

A geisha once gave him a commission for a painting. “How much can you pay?” inquired Gessen.

“Whatever you charge,” replied the girl, “but I want you to do the work in front of me.”

So on a certain day Gessen was called by the geisha. She was holding a feast for her patron.

Gessen with fine brush work did the painting. When it was completed he asked the highest sum of his time.

He received his pay. Then the geisha turned to her patron, saying: “All this artist wants is money. His paintings are fine but his mind is dirty; money has caused it to become muddy. Drawn by such a filthy mind, his work is not fit to exhibit. It is just about good enough for one of my petticoats.”

Removing her skirt, she then asked Gessen to do another picture on the back of her petticoat.

“How much will you pay?” asked Gessen.

“Oh, any amount,” answered the girl.

Gessen named a fancy price, painted the picture in the manner requested, and went away.

It was learned later that Gessen had these reasons for desiring money:

A ravaging famine often visited his province. The rich would not help the poor, so Gessen had a secret warehouse, unknown to anyone, which he kept filled with grain, prepared for those emergencies.

From his village to the National Shrine the road was in very poor condition and many travellers suffered while traversing it. He desired to build a better road.

His teacher had passed away without realizing his wish to build a temple, and Gessen wished to complete this temple for him.

After Gessen had accomplished his three wishes he threw away his brushes and artist’s materials and, retiring to the mountains, never painted again.

___________________

Poetry: The Amazing Blondel de Nesle & Richard The Lion Heart

(Blondel de Nesle, dressed as a minstrel, finds the captive King Richard I of England by singing the first two couplets of a song they composed jointly.– Gustave Dore)

L ‘amours dont sui espris

Me semont de chanter;

Si fais con hons sopris

Qui ne puet endurer.

Et s’ai je tant conquis

Que bien me puis venter:

Que j’ai piec’a apris

Leaument a amer.

A li sont mi penser

Et seront a touz dis;

Ja nes en quier oster.

Remembrance dou vis

Qu’il a vermoil et cler

A mon cuer a ce mis

Que ne l’en puis oster;

Et se j’ai les maus quis,

Bien les doi endurer.

Or ai je trop mespris:

Ainz les doi mieuz amer.

Comment que j’os conter.

N’i a rien, ce m’est vis.

Fors que merci crier.

Plus bele ne vit nuns,

Ne de cors ne de vis;

Nature ne mist plus

De beaute en nul pris.

Por li mainiendrai l’us

D ‘Eneas et Paris,

Tristan et Pyramus,

Qui amerent jadis.

Or serai ses amis,

Or pri Deu de la sus,

Qu’a lor fin sole pris.

—-

I am on fire with a love

which compels me to sing;

I act like a man taken by surprise

who cannot resist.

And yet I have gained something

to boast of:

that I long ago learned

to love loyally.

My thoughts are of her

and always will be;

I shall never seek to transfer them.

The memory of her face,

rosy and bright,

has so penetrated my heart

that I cannot remove it;

and since I have asked for these pains

I must endure them.

No this is mistaken–

I should rather love them.

Whatever I may say,

there is nothing to be done, I think.

Except to cry for mercy.

No one ever saw a fairer lady

either of form or of face;

Nature has never endowed anything

with more beauty.

For her I shall continue the tradition

of Aeneas and Paris.

of Tristan and Pyramus,

all of whom loved long ago.

Now I shall be their ally,

And now I pray to God above,

That I might share their fate.

Blondel de Nesle – Trans Christopher Page

—-

Cuer Desirous Apaie…

Cuer desirous apaie

Douçours et confors;

Par joie d’amour vraie

Sui en baisant mors.

S’encor ne m’est autres dounez,

Mar fui onques de li privez.

A morir sui livrez,

Se trop le me delaie.

Premiers baisiers est plaie

D’Amours dedenz cors;

Mout m’angoisse et esmaie,

si ne pert defors.

He! las! por coi m’en sui vantez!

Ja ne me puet venir santez,

Se ce, dont sui navrez,

ma bouche ne rassaie.

Amours, vous me feïstes

Mon fin cuer trichier,

Qui tel savour meïstes

En son douz baisier,

A morir li avez apris,

Se pluz n’i prent qu’il n’i a pris;

Dont m’est il bien a vis,

Qu’en baisant me trahistes.

Certes, mout m’atraisistes

Juene a cel mestier;

N’ainc nului n’i vous istes

Fors moi engignier.

Je sui li plus loiauz amis.

Cui onques fust nus biens pramis.

He! las! tant ai je pis!

Amours, mar me nourristes!

Se je Dieu tant amaisse,

Con je fais celi,

Qui si me painne et lasse,

J’eüsse merci;

Qu’ainc amis de meilleur voloir

ne la servi pour joie avoir,

Con j’ai fait tout pour voir

Sanz merite et sanz grasse.

Se de faus cuer proiaisse,

Dont je ne la pri,

Espoir je recovraisse;

Maiz n’est mie einsi.

Amours, trop me faites doloir;

Et se vous serf sanz decevoir,

Ce me tient en espoir:

Qu’Amours nevre et repasse.

A Honeyed Consolation…

A honeyed consolation

will soothe anxious hearts

by true love’s exultation

I die by a kiss

unless another’s given me

I never will be free of it.

I’m delivered to death

If there’s too much delaying.

At first, a kiss is pleasure

of Love in the heart:

it brings dismay and anguish

if it’s lost without;

ah, then alas, why should I boast

my health no longer can return

by what I’m deprived of:

my mouth has no returning.

Love, you have made within me

a treacherous heart,

for you’ve put such a savor

into your sweet kiss

that you have taught it how to die

unless it takes more than it did

wherefore I clearly see

in kissing, you’ve betrayed me.

You surely drew me greatly

while young, to this means.

You never would deceive

another, just me.

I am the loyallest of friends

who ever had a promise made;

ah! so much worse for me!

Love, you have served me badly.

Had I loved God so greatly

as I have loved her,

and if I were tormented

I’d have mercy then,

And even well-intentioned friends

have been no help in having joy

as I’ve done all to see

unthanked and unrewarded.

If I asked out of falseness

(but that’s not the case)

I could get back my hoping,

but it’s not like that.

O Love, you make me ache too much

and if I serve without deceit

this will keep up my hopes,

for Love heals what he wounded.

Blondel de Nesle – Trans. James H.Donalson

__________

The Historical Blondel de Nesle

(fl 1180-1200)

Only two facts concerning him are known for a certainty: dedications of various songs to the oldest generation of trouvères indicate that he must have been born around 1155-1160; according to features of dialect in his songs, he hailed from Picardy, most likely the town of Nesle.

Some scholars have attempted to identify him with a powerful local lord named Jehan II, while others, pointing out that in contemporary mentions of him he is nowhere referred to as Messire or Monsignor, have suggested that he was a younger son of lesser nobility or perhaps a commoner.

Twenty-three of Blondel’s songs survive, some of them in ten or more sources, and seven of these with the music. So a third fact about him may be added to those two above: his chansons were exceedingly popular.

The work of Blondel that is featured in Coeur de Lion, Mon Coeur is listed as Chanson XI by Yvan Lepage

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Richard The Lion Heart…

(Richard The Lion Heart In Palestine – Gustave Dore)

Sirventes

Dalfin, fe·us voilh deresnier,

Vos e le comte Guion,

Que an en ceste seison

Vos feïstes bon guerrier,

E vos jurastes en moi:

Et me·n portastes tiel foi

Com en Aenqris a Rainart:

E sembles dou poil liart.

Vos me laïstes aidier

Por treive de quierdon:

E car savies qu’a Chinon

Non a argent ni denier;

Et roi voletz, riche roi,

Bon d’armes, qui vos port foi;

Et je suis chiché, coart,

Si vos viretz de l’autre part.

Encor vos voilh demandier

D’Ussoire, s’il vous siet bon:

Ni s’in prendetz vanjaison,

Ni lonaretz soudadier.

Mas una rien vos outroi

Si be·us faussastes la loi,

Bon guerrier a l’estendart

Trovaretz le roi Richart.

Ie vos vi, au comencier,

Large, de grande mession;

Mes puis troves ochoison

Que per forts chastels levier,

Laissastes don et denoi

Et cors et segre tornoi:

Mes n’est qu’a avoir regart

Que François sont Longobart.

E

Vai, sirventes: ie t’envoi

A Avernhe, et di moi

As deus comtes, de ma part,

S’ui mes funt pes, Diex les gart!

Que chaut si garz ment sa foi,

Que escuiers n’a point de loi!

Mes des or avant se gart

Que n’ait en pejor sa part.

Sirventes

Dauphin, I would like to ask

you and Guy the Count, as well,

who heretofore have always been

of the best of fighting men:

you swore your fealty to me

and you demonstrated faith:

Isenqrim’s faith to Renard –

are you made of rabbit-skins?

Now you’ve left off helping me

fearing there’ll be no reward,

for you know that at Chinon

there’s no copper, much less gold,

and you want a king who’s rich:

good at arms, inspiring you,

while I’m petty, cowardly,

so you turn the other way.

Once aqain, I have to ask,

if you think about Issoire:

if you’ll take revenge down there;

if you’ll raise your soldiers up,

but there’s one thíng I must grant:

though you’re false to honor’s law

you will find a fighter still

when King Richard takes the flag.

At the first, I thought you were

generous and noble men,

but you found occasion then

to deliver strongholds while

dropping gifts and courtly words,

horns and secret tournaments,

but just look around and see

that the French are Lombards now.

E

Sirventes, I’ll send you now

to Auvergne, to the two counts:

can tell them then, for me,

if unjustly they make peace,

God help them! For I don’t care:

if a lawless knave should lie,

but they should take care henceforth

not to take a lower place.

King Richard I (Lionheart) trans. James H.Donalson

—

I

Ja nus hons pris ne dira sa raison

Adroitement, se dolantement non;

Mais par effort puet il faire chançon.

Mout ai amis, mais povre sont li don;

Honte i avront se por ma reançon

— Sui ça deus yvers pris.

II

Ce sevent bien mi home et mi baron–

Ynglois, Normant, Poitevin et Gascon–

Que je n’ai nul si povre compaignon

Que je lessaisse por avoir en prison;

Je nou di mie por nule retraçon,

—Mais encor sui [je] pris.

III

Or sai je bien de voir certeinnement

Que morz ne pris n’a ami ne parent,

Quant on me faut por or ne por argent.

Mout m’est de moi, mes plus m’est de ma gent,

Qu’aprés ma mort avront reprochement

—Se longuement sui pris.

IV

N’est pas mervoille se j’ai le cuer dolant,

Quant mes sires met ma terre en torment.

S’il li membrast de nostre soirement

Quo nos feïsmes andui communement,

Je sai de voir que ja trop longuement

—Ne seroie ça pris.

V

Ce sevent bien Angevin et Torain–

Cil bacheler qui or sont riche et sain–

Qu’encombrez sui loing d’aus en autre main.

Forment m’amoient, mais or ne m’ainment grain.

De beles armes sont ore vuit li plain,

—Por ce que je sui pris

VI

Mes compaignons que j’amoie et que j’ain–

Ces de Cahen et ces de Percherain–

Di lor, chançon, qu’il ne sunt pas certain,

C’onques vers aus ne oi faus cuer ne vain;

S’il me guerroient, il feront que vilain

—Tant con je serai pris.

VII

Contesse suer, vostre pris soverain

Vos saut et gart cil a cui je m’en clain

—Et por cui je sui pris.

VIII

Je ne di mie a cele de Chartain,

—La mere Loës.

I

No prisoner can tell his honest thought

Unless he speaks as one who suffers wrong;

But for his comfort as he may make a song.

My friends are many, but their gifts are naught.

Shame will be theirs, if, for my ransom, here

—I lie another year.

II

They know this well, my barons and my men,

Normandy, England, Gascony, Poitou,

That I had never follower so low

Whom I would leave in prison to my gain.

I say it not for a reproach to them,

—But prisoner I am!

III

The ancient proverb now I know for sure;

Death and a prison know nor kind nor tie,

Since for mere lack of gold they let me lie.

Much for myself I grieve; for them still more.

After my death they will have grievous wrong

—If I am a prisoner long.

IV

What marvel that my heart is sad and sore

When my own lord torments my helpless lands!

Well do I know that, if he held his hands,

Remembering the common oath we swore,

I should not here imprisoned with my song,

—Remain a prisoner long.

V

They know this well who now are rich and strong

Young gentlemen of Anjou and Touraine,

That far from them, on hostile bonds I strain.

They loved me much, but have not loved me long.

Their plans will see no more fair lists arrayed

—While I lie here betrayed.

VI

Companions whom I love, and still do love,

Geoffroi du Perche and Ansel de Caieux,

Tell them, my song, that they are friends untrue.

Never to them did I false-hearted prove;

But they do villainy if they war on me,

—While I lie here, unfree.

VII

Countess sister! Your sovereign fame

May he preserve whose help I claim,

—Victim for whom am I!

VIII

I say not this of Chartres’ dame,

—Mother of Louis!

Translated by Henry Adams

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Have A Good One!

“The state welcomes only those forms of cultural activity which help it to maintain its power. It persecutes with implacable hatred any activity which oversteps the limits set by it and calls its existence into question. It is, therefore, as senseless as it is mendacious to speak of a ‘state culture‘; for it is precisely the state which lives in constant warfare with all higher forms of intellectual culture and always tries to avoid the creative will of culture.” (Rocker, Culture and Nationalism, Michael E. Coughlan, 1978, p.85)

Featuring the art of one of our favourites… John Duncan. The emphasis today is on the Sidhe/Fairy/Fey/Faery side of the world. Our constant companions though seldom seen. Here is to their world, and to those among us who have ventured in…

Bright Blessings,

G

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On The Menu:

On Banshees/Bean-Sidhe…

The Links

The Banshee Of The MacCarthys

Poetry:19th Century Irish Poems About Fairies (Featuring Alfred Percival Graves)

Art: John Duncan

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I am including this description because it is said to be fairly accurate. I have met several people who have experienced the Bean-Sidhe, and she marked their lives with her passings and fetching of souls of those with the the ancient blood-lines. There is an interesting book that I am trying to locate about the phenomena of her comings and goings in the Irish community of New York after the diaspora of the 1840′s-1850′s after the great famine. From what I read she kept coming back until the last born on Irish soil had died. She does not come for those born elsewhere, which in my mind is only proper. -G

On Banshees/ Bean-Sidhe…

The bean-sidhe (woman of the fairy) may be an ancestral spirit appointed to forewarn members of certain ancient Irish families of their time of death.

According to tradition, the banshee can only cry for five major Irish families: the O’Neills, the O’Briens, the O’Connors, the O’Gradys and the Kavanaghs. Intermarriage has since extended this select list. Whatever her origins, the banshee chiefly appears in one of three guises: a young woman, a stately matron or a raddled old hag. These represent the triple aspects of the Celtic goddess of war and death, namely Badhbh, Macha and Mor-Rioghain. She usually wears either a grey, hooded cloak or the winding sheet or grave robe of the unshriven dead. She may also appear as a washer-woman, and is seen apparently washing the blood stained clothes of those who are about to die. In this guise she is known as the bean-nighe (washing woman). Although not always seen, her mourning call is heard, usually at night when someone is about to die.

In 1437, King James I of Scotland was approached by an Irish seeress or banshee who foretold his murder at the instigation of the Earl of Atholl. This is an example of the banshee in human form.There are records of several human banshees or prophetesses attending the great houses of Ireland and the courts of local Irish kings. In some parts of Leinster, she is referred to as the bean chaointe (keening woman) whose wail can be The Banshee appearing as a hooded crowso piercing that it shatters glass. In Kerry, the keen is experienced as a “low, pleasant singing”; in Tyrone as “the sound of two boards being struck together”; and on Rathlin Island as “a thin, screeching sound somewhere between the wail of a woman and the moan of an owl”.

The banshee may also appear in a variety of other forms, such as that of a hooded crow, stoat, hare and weasel – animals associated in Ireland with witchcraft.

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The Links:

The Gospel of the Flintstones…

The X-Rated XMAS Tree

Mystery Amphibian…

Dog tunnels through snow to save owners

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The Banshee Of The MacCarthys

T. Crofton Croker

Charles Mac Carthy was, in the year 1749, the only surviving son of a very numerous family. His father died when he was little more than twenty, leaving him the Mac Carthy estate, not much encumbered, considering that it was an Irish one. Charles was gay, handsome, unfettered either by poverty, a father, or guardians, and therefore was not, at the age of one-and-twenty, a pattern of regularity and virtue. In plain terms, he was an exceedingly dissipated–I fear I may say debauched, young man. His companions were, as may be supposed, of the higher classes of the youth in his neighbourhood, and, in general, of those whose fortunes were larger than his own, whose dispositions to pleasure were, therefore, under still less restrictions, and in whose example he found at once an incentive and an apology for his irregularities. Besides, Ireland, a place to this day not very remarkable for the coolness and steadiness of its youth, was then one of the cheapest countries in the world in most of those articles which money supplies for the indulgence of the passions. The odious exciseman,–with his portentous book in one hand, his unrelenting pen held in the other, or stuck beneath his hat-band, and the inkbottle (“black emblem of the informer”) dangling from his waistcoat-button–went not then from ale-house to ale-house, denouncing all those patriotic dealers in spirits, who preferred selling whiskey, which had nothing to do with English laws (but to elude them), to retailing that poisonous liquor, which derived its name from the British “Parliament” that compelled its circulation among a reluctant people. Or if the gauger–recording angel of the law–wrote down the peccadillo of a publican, he dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever! For, welcome to the tables of their hospitable neighbours, the guardians of the excise, where they existed at all, scrupled to abridge those luxuries which they freely shared; and thus the competition in the market between the smuggler, who incurred little hazard, and the personage ycleped fair trader, who enjoyed little protection, made Ireland a land flowing, not merely with milk and honey, but with whiskey and wine. In the enjoyments supplied by these, and in the many kindred pleasures to which frail youth is but too prone, Charles Mac Carthy indulged to such a degree, that just about the time when he had completed his four-and-twentieth year, after a week of great excesses, he was seized with a violent fever, which, from its malignity, and the weakness of his frame, left scarcely a hope of his recovery. His mother, who had at first made many efforts to check his vices, and at last had been obliged to look on at his rapid progress to ruin in silent despair, watched day and night at his pillow. The anguish of parental feeling was blended with that still deeper misery which those only know who have striven hard to rear in virtue and piety a beloved and favourite child; have found him grow up all that their hearts could desire, until he reached manhood; and then, when their pride was highest, and their hopes almost ended in the fulfilment of their fondest expectations, have seen this idol of their affections plunge headlong into a course of reckless profligacy, and, after a rapid career of vice, hang upon the verge of eternity, without the leisure or the power of repentance. Fervently she prayed that, if his life could not be spared, at least the delirium, which continued with increasing violence from the first few hours of his disorder, might vanish before death, and leave enough of light and of calm for making his peace with offended Heaven. After several days, however, nature seemed quite exhausted, and he sunk into a state too like death to be mistaken for the repose of sleep. His face had that pale, glossy, marble look, which is in general so sure a symptom that life has left its tenement of clay. His eyes were closed and sunk; the lids having that compressed and stiffened appearance which seemed to indicate that some friendly hand had done its last office. The lips, half closed and perfectly ashy, discovered just so much of the teeth as to give to the features of death their most ghastly, but most impressive look. He lay upon his back, with his hands stretched beside him, quite motionless; and his distracted mother, after repeated trials, could discover not the least symptom of animation. The medical man who attended, having tried the usual modes for ascertaining the presence of life, declared at last his opinion that it was flown, and prepared to depart from the house of mourning. His horse was seen to come to the door. A crowd of people who were collected before the windows, or scattered in groups on the lawn in front, gathered around when the door opened. These were tenants, fosterers, and poor relations of the family, with others attracted by affection, or by that interest which partakes of curiosity, but is something more, and which collects the lower ranks round a house where a human being is in his passage to another world. They saw the professional man come out from the hall door and approach his horse; and while slowly, and with a melancholy air, he prepared to mount, they clustered round him with inquiring and wistful looks. Not a word was spoken, but their meaning could not be misunderstood; and the physician, when he had got into his saddle, and while the servant was still holding the bridle as if to delay him, and was looking anxiously at his face as if expecting that he would relieve the general suspense, shook his head, and said in a low voice, “It’s all over, James;” and moved slowly away. The moment he had spoken, the women present, who were very numerous, uttered a shrill cry, which, having been sustained for about half a minute, fell suddenly into a full, loud, continued, and discordant but plaintive wailing, above which occasionally were heard the deep sounds of a man’s voice, sometimes in deep sobs, sometimes in more distinct exclamations of sorrow. This was Charles’s foster-brother, who moved about the crowd, now clapping his hands, now rubbing them together in an agony of grief. The poor fellow had been Charles’s playmate and companion when a boy, and afterwards his servant; had always been distinguished by his peculiar regard, and loved his young master as much, at least, as he did his own life.

When Mrs. Mac Carthy became convinced that the blow was indeed struck, and that her beloved son was sent to his last account, even in the blossoms of his sin, she remained for some time gazing with fixedness upon his cold features; then, as if something had suddenly touched the string of her tenderest affections, tear after tear trickled down her checks, pale with anxiety and watching. Still she continued looking at her son, apparently unconscious that she was weeping, without once lifting her handkerchief to her eyes, until reminded of the sad duties which the custom of the country imposed upon her, by the crowd of females belonging to the better class of the peasantry, she now, crying audibly, nearly filled the apartment. She then withdrew, to give directions for the ceremony of waking, and for supplying the numerous visitors of all ranks with the refreshments usual on these melancholy occasions. Though her voice was scarcely heard, and though no one saw her but the servants and one or two old followers of the family, who assisted her in the necessary arrangements, everything was conducted with the greatest regularity; and though she made no effort to check her sorrows they never once suspended her attention, now more than ever required to preserve order in her household, which, in this season of calamity, but for her would have been all confusion.

The night was pretty far advanced; the boisterous lamentations which had prevailed during part of the day in and about the house had given place to a solemn and mournful stillness; and Mrs. Mac Carthy, whose heart, notwithstanding her long fatigue and watching, was yet too sore for sloop, was kneeling in fervent prayer m a chamber adjoining that of her son. Suddenly her devotions were disturbed by an unusual noise, proceeding from the persons who were watching round the body. First there was a low murmur, then all was silent, as if the movements of those in the chamber were checked by a sudden panic, and then a loud cry of terror burst from all within. The door of the chamber was thrown open, and all who were not overturned in the press rushed wildly into the passage which led to the stairs, and into which Mrs. Mac Carthy’s room opened. Mrs. Mac Carthy made her way through the crowd into her son’s chamber, where she found him sitting up in the bed, and looking vacantly around, like one risen from the grave. The glare thrown upon his sunk features and thin lathy frame gave an unearthy horror to his whole aspect. Mrs. Mac Carthy was a woman of some firmness; but she was a woman, and not quite free from the superstitions of her country. She dropped on her knees, and, clasping her hands, began to pray aloud. The form before her moved only its lips, and barely uttered “Mother”; but though the pale lips moved, as if there was a design to finish the sentence, the tongue refused its office. Mrs. Mac Carthy sprung forward, and catching the arms of her son, exclaimed, “Speak I in the name of God and His saints, speak! are you alive?”

He turned to her slowly, and said, speaking still with apparent difficulty, “Yes, my mother, alive, and–but sit down and collect yourself; I have that to tell which will astonish you still more than what you have seen.” He leaned back upon his pillow, and while his mother remained kneeling by the bedside, holding one of his hands clasped in hers, and gazing on him with the look of one who distrusted all her senses, he proceeded: “Do not interrupt me until I have done. I wish to speak while the excitement of returning life is upon me, as I know I shall soon need much repose. Of the commencement of my illness I have only a confused recollection; but within the last twelve hours I have been before the judgment-seat of God. Do not stare incredulously on me–’tis as true as have been my crimes, and as, I trust, shall be repentance. I saw the awful judge arrayed in all the terrors which invest him when mercy gives place to justice. The dreadful pomp of offended omnipotence, I saw–I remember. It is fixed here; printed on my brain in characters indelible; but it passeth human language. What I can describe I will–I may speak it briefly. It is enough to say, I was weighed in the balance, and found wanting. The irrevocable sentence was upon the point of being pronounced; the eye of my Almighty Judge, which had already glanced upon me, half spoke my doom; when I observed the guardian saint, to whom you so often directed my prayers when I was a child, looking at me with an expression of benevolence and compassion. I stretched forth my hands to him, and besought his intercession. I implored that one year, one month, might be given to me on earth to do penance and atonement for my transgressions. He threw himself at the feet of my Judge, and supplicated for mercy. Oh! never–not if I should pass through ten thousand successive states of being–never, for eternity, shall I forget the horrors of that moment, when my fate hung suspended–when an instant was to decide whether torments unutterable were to be my portion for endless ages! But Justice suspended its decree, and Mercy spoke in accents of firmness, but mildness, ‘Return to that world in which thou hast lived but to outrage the laws of Him who made that world and thee. Three years are given thee for repentance; when these are ended, thou shalt again stand here, to be saved or lost for ever.’ I heard no more; I saw no more, until I awoke to life, the moment before you entered.”

Charles’s strength continued just long enough to finish these last words, and on uttering them he closed his eyes, and lay quite exhausted. His mother, though, as was before said, somewhat disposed to give credit to supernatural visitations, yet hesitated whether or not she should believe that although awakened from a swoon which might have been the crisis of his disease, he was still under the influence of delirium. Repose, however, was at all events necessary, and she took immediate measures that he should enjoy it undisturbed. After some hours’ sleep, he awoke refreshed, and thenceforward gradually but steadily recovered.

Still he persisted in his account of the vision, as he had at first related it; and his persuasion of its reality had an obvious and decided influence on his habits and conduct. He did not altogether abandon the society of his former associates, for his temper was not soured by his reformation; but he never joined in their excesses, and often endeavoured to reclaim them. How his pious exertions succeeded, I have never learnt; but of himself it is recorded that he was religious without ostentation, and temperate without austerity; giving a practical proof that vice may be exchanged for virtue, without the loss of respectability, popularity, or happiness.

Time rolled on, and long before the three years were ended the story of his vision was forgotten, or, when spoken of, was usually mentioned as an instance proving the folly of believing in such things. Charles’s health, from the temperance and regularity of his habits, became more robust than ever. His friends, indeed, had often occasion to rally him upon a seriousness and abstractedness of demeanour, which grew upon him as he approached the completion of his seven-and-twentieth year, but for the most part his manner exhibited the same animation and cheerfulness for which he had always been remarkable. In company he evaded every endeavour to draw from him a distinct opinion on the subject of the supposed prediction; but among his own family it was well known that he still firmly believed it. However, when the day had nearly arrived on which the prophecy was, if at all, to be fulfilled, his whole appearance gave such promise of a long and healthy life, that he was persuaded by his friends to ask a large party to an entertainment at Spring House, to celebrate his birthday. But the occasion of this party, and the circumstances which attended it, will be best learned from a perusal of the following letters, which have been carefully preserved by some relations of his family. The first is from Mrs. Mac Carthy to a lady, a very near connection and valued friend of her’s who lived in the county of Cork, at about fifty miles’ distance from Spring House.

“To Mrs. Barry, Castle Barry”

“Spring House, Tuesday morning,

October 15th, 1752

“My Dearest Mary,

“I am afraid I am going to put your affection for your old friend and kinswoman to a severe trial. A two days’ journey at this season, over bad roads and through a troubled country, it will indeed require friendship such as yours to persuade a sober woman to encounter. But the truth is, I have, or fancy I have, more than usual cause for wishing you near me. You know my son’s story. I can’t tell you how it is, but as next Sunday approaches, when the prediction of his dream, or vision, will be proved false or true, I feel a sickening of the heart, which I cannot suppress, but which your presence, my dear Mary, will soften, as it has done so many of my sorrows. My nephew, James Ryan, is to be married to Jane Osborne (who, you know, is my son’s ward), and the bridal entertainment will take place here on Sunday next, though Charles pleaded hard to have it postponed for a day or two longer. Would to God–but no more of this till we meet. Do prevail upon yourself to leave your good man for one week, if his farming concerns will not admit of his accompanying you; and come to us, with the girls, as soon before Sunday as you can.

“Ever my dear Mary’s attached cousin and friend,

Ann Mac Carthy.”

Although this letter reached Castle Barry early on Wednesday, the messenger having travelled on foot over bog and moor, by paths impassable to horse or carriage, Mrs. Barry, who at once determined on going, had so many arrangements to make for the regulation of her domestic affairs (which, in Ireland, among the middle orders of the gentry, fall soon into confusion when the mistress of the family is away), that she and her two young daughters were unable to leave until late on the morning of Friday. The eldest daughter remained to keep her father company, and superintend the concerns of the household. As the travellers were to journey in an open one-horse vehicle, called a jaunting-car (still used in Ireland), and as the roads, bad at all times, were rendered still worse by the heavy rains, it was their design to make two easy stages–to stop about midway the first night, and reach Spring House early on Saturday evening. This arrangement was now altered, as they found that from the lateness of their departure they could proceed, at the utmost, no farther than twenty miles on the first day; and they, therefore, purposed sleeping at the house of a Mr. Bourke, a friend of theirs, who lived at somewhat less than that distance from Castle Barry. They reached Mr. Bourke’s in safety after a rather disagreeable ride. What befell them on their journey the next day to Spring House, and after their arrival there, is fully recounted in a letter from the second Miss Barry to her eldest sister.

“Spring House, Sunday evening,

20th October, 1752.

“Dear Ellen,

“As my mother’s letter, which encloses this, will announce to you briefly the sad intelligence which I shall here relate more fully, I think it better to go regularly through the recital of the extraordinary events of the last two days.

“The Bourkes kept us up so late on Friday night that yesterday was pretty far advanced before we could begin our journey, and the day closed when we were nearly fifteen miles distant from this place. The roads were excessively deep, from the heavy rains of the last week, and we proceeded so slowly that, at last, my mother resolved on passing the night at the house of Mr. Bourke’s brother (who lives about a quarter-of-a-mile off the road), and coming here to breakfast in the morning. The day had been windy and showery, and the sky looked fitful, gloomy, and uncertain. The moon was fun, and at times shone clear and bright; at others it was wholly concealed behind the thick, black, and rugged masses of clouds that rolled rapidly along, and were every moment becoming larger, and collecting together as if gathering strength for a coming storm. The wind, which blew in our faces, whistled bleakly along the low hedges of the narrow road, on which we proceeded with difficulty from the number of deep sloughs, and which afforded not the least shelter, no plantation being within some miles of us. My mother, therefore, asked Leary, who drove the jaunting-car, how far we were from Mr.[paragraph continues] Bourke’s? ‘`Tis about ten spades from this to the cross, and we have then only to turn to the left into the avenue, ma’am.’ ‘Very well, Leary; turn up to Mr. Bourke’s as soon as you reach the cross roads.’ My mother had scarcely spoken these words, when a shriek, that made us thrill as if our very hearts were pierced by it, burst from the hedge to the right of our way. If it resembled anything earthly it seemed the cry of a female, struck by a sudden and mortal blow, and giving out her life in one long deep pang of expiring agony. ‘Heaven defend us!’ exclaimed my mother. ‘Go you over the hedge, Leary, and save that woman, if she is not yet dead, while we run back to the hut we have just passed, and alarm the village near it.’ ‘Woman!’ said Leary, beating the horse violently, while his voice trembled, ‘that’s no woman; the sooner we get on, ma’am, the better’; and he continued his efforts to quicken the horse’s pace. We saw nothing. The moon was hid. It was quite dark, and we had been for some time expecting a heavy fall of rain. But just as Leary had spoken, and had succeeded in making the horse trot briskly forward, we distinctly heard a loud clapping of hands, followed by a succession of screams, that seemed to denote the last excess of despair and anguish, and to issue from a person running forward inside the hedge, to keep pace with our progress. Still we saw nothing; until, when we were within about ten yards of the place where an avenue branched off to Mr. Bourke’s to the left, and the road turned to Spring House on the right, the moon started suddenly from behind a cloud, and enabled us to see, as plainly as I now see this paper, the figure of a tall, thin woman, with uncovered head, and long hair that floated round her shoulders, attired in something which seemed either a loose white cloak or a sheet thrown hastily about her. She stood on the comer hedge, where the road on which we were met that which leads to Spring House, with her face towards us, her left hand pointing to this place, and her right arm waving rapidly and violently as if to draw us on in that direction. The horse had stopped, apparently frightened at the sudden presence of the figure, which stood in the manner I have described, still uttering the same piercing cries, for about half a minute. It then leaped upon the road, disappeared from our view for one instant, and the next was seen standing upon a high wall a little way up the avenue on which we purposed going, still pointing towards the road to Spring House, but in an attitude of defiance and command, as if prepared to oppose our passage up the avenue. The figure was now quite silent, and its garments, which had been flown loosely in the wind, were closely wrapped around it. ‘Go on, Leary, to Spring House, in God’s name!’ said my mother; ‘whatever world it belongs to, we will provoke it no longer.’ ‘`Tis the Banshee, ma’am,’ said Leary; ‘and I would not, for what my life is worth, go anywhere this blessed night but to Spring House. But I’m afraid there’s something bad going forward, or she would not send us there.’ So saying, he drove forward; and as we turned on the road to the right, the moon suddenly withdrew its light, and we saw the apparition no more; but we heard plainly a prolonged clapping of hands, gradually dying away, as if it issued from a person rapidly retreating. We proceeded as quickly as the badness of the roads and the fatigue of the poor animal that drew us would allow, and arrived here about eleven o’clock last night. The scene which awaited us you have learned from my mother’s letter. To explain it fully, I must recount to you some of the transactions which took place here during the last week.

“You are aware that Jane Osborne was to have been married this day to James Ryan, and that they and their friends have been here for the last week. On Tuesday last, the very day on the morning of which cousin Mac Carthy despatched the letter inviting us here, the whole of the company were walking about the grounds a little before dinner. It seems that an unfortunate creature, who had been seduced by James Ryan, was seen prowling in the neighbourhood. in a moody, melancholy state for some days previous. He had separated from her several months, and, they say, had provided for her rather handsomely; but she had been seduced by the promise of his marrying her; and the shame of her unhappy condition, uniting with disappointment and jealousy, had disordered her intellects. During the whole forenoon of this Tuesday she had been walking in the plantations near Spring House, with her cloak folded tight round her, the hood nearly covering her face; and she had avoided conversing with or even meeting any of the family.

“Charles Mac Carthy, at the time I mentioned, was walking between James Ryan and another, at a little distance from the rest, on a gravel path, skirting a shrubbery. The whole party was thrown into the utmost consternation by the report of a pistol, fired from a thickly-planted part of the shrubbery which Charles and his companions had just passed. He fell instantly, and it was found that he had been wounded in the leg. One of the party was a medical man. His assistance was immediately given, and, on examining, he declared that the injury was very slight, that no bone was broken, it was merely a flesh wound, and that it would certainly be well in a few days. ‘We shall know more by Sunday,’ said Charles, as he was carried to his chamber. His wound was immediately dressed, and so slight was the inconvenience which it gave that several of his friends spent a portion of the evening in his apartment.

“On inquiry, it was found that the unlucky shot was fired by the poor girl I just mentioned. It was also manifest that she had aimed, not at Charles, but at the destroyer of her innocence and happiness, who was walking beside him. After a fruitless search for her through the grounds, she walked into the house of her own accord, laughing and dancing, and singing wildly, and every moment exclaiming that she had at last killed Mr. Ryan. When she heard that it was Charles, and not Mr. Ryan, who was shot, she fell into a violent fit, out of which, after working convulsively for some time, she sprung to the door, escaped from the crowd that pursued her, and could never be taken until last night, when she was brought here, perfectly frantic, a little before our arrival.

“Charles’s wound was thought of such little consequence that the preparations went forward, as usual, for the wedding entertainment on Sunday. But on Friday night he grew restless and feverish, and on Saturday (yesterday) morning felt so ill that it was deemed necessary to obtain additional medical advice. Two physicians and a surgeon met in consultation about twelve o’clock in the day, and the dreadful intelligence was announced, that unless a change, hardly hoped for, took place before night, death must happen within twenty-four hours after. The wound, it seems, had been too tightly bandaged, and otherwise injudiciously treated. The physicians were right in their anticipations. No favourable symptom appeared, and long before we reached Spring House every ray of hope had vanished. The scene we witnessed on our arrival would have wrung the heart of a demon. We heard briefly at the gate that Mr. Charles was upon his death-bed. When we reached the house, the information was confirmed by the servant who opened the door. But just as we entered we were horrified by the most appalling screams issuing from the staircase. My mother thought she heard the voice of poor Mrs. Mac Carthy, and sprung forward. We followed, and on ascending a few steps of the stairs, we found a young woman, in a state of frantic passion, struggling furiously with two men-servants, whose united strength was hardly sufficient to prevent her rushing upstairs over the body of Mrs. Mac Carthy, who was lying in strong hysterics upon the steps. This, I afterwards discovered, was the unhappy girl I before described, who was attempting to gain access to Charles’s mom, to ‘get his forgiveness’, as she said, ‘before he went away to accuse her for having killed him’. This wild idea was mingled with another, which seemed to dispute with the former possession of her mind. In one sentence she called on Charles to forgive her, in the next she would denounce James Ryan as the murderer, both of Charles and her. At length she was torn away; and the last words I heard her scream were, ‘James Ryan, ’twas you killed him, and not I–’twas you killed him, and not I–’twas you killed him, and not I.’

“Mrs. Mac Carthy, on recovering, fell into the arms of my mother, whose presence seemed a great relief to her. She wept the first tears, I was told, that she had shed since the fatal accident. She conducted us to Charles’s room, who, she said, had desired to see us the moment of our arrival, as he found his end approaching, and wished to devote the last hours of his existence to uninterrupted prayer and meditation. We found him perfectly calm, resigned, and even cheerful. He spoke of the awful event which was at hand with courage and confidence, and treated it as a doom for which he had been preparing ever since his former remarkable illness, and which he never once doubted was truly foretold to him. He bade us farewell with the air of one who was about to travel a short and easy journey; and we left him with impressions which, notwithstanding all their anguish, will, I trust, never entirely forsake us.

“Poor Mrs. Mac Carthy–but I am just called away. There seems a slight stir in the family; perhaps–”

The above letter was never finished. The enclosure to which it more than once alludes told the sequel briefly, and it is all that I have further learned of the family of Mac Carthy. Before the sun had gone down upon Charles’s seven-and-twentieth birthday, his soul had gone to render its last account to its Creator.

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Poetry:19th Century Irish Poems About Fairies

(Featuring Alfred Percival Graves)

The Fairies

William Allingham

Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We daren’t go a-hunting

For fear of little men;

Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl’s feather!

Down along the rocky shore

Some make their home,

They live on crispy pancakes

Of yellow tide-foam;

Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain lake,

With frogs for their watch-dogs,

All night awake.

High on the hill-top

The old King sits;

He is now so old and grey

He’s nigh lost his wits.

With a bridge of white mist

Columbkill he crosses,

On his stately journeys

From Slieveleague to Rosses;

Or going up with music

On cold starry nights,

To sup with the Queen

Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget

For seven years long;

When she came down again

Her friends were all gone.

They took her lightly back,

Between the night and morrow,

They thought that she was fast asleep,

But she was dead with sorrow.

They have kept her ever since

Deep within the lake,

On a bed of flag-leaves,

Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,

Through the mosses bare,

They have planted thorn-trees

For pleasure here and there.

Is any man so daring

As dig them up in spite,

He shall find their sharpest thorns

In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We daren’t go a-hunting

For fear of little men;

Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl’s feather!

—-

The Fairy Nurse

– Edward Walsh

Sweet babe! a golden cradle holds thee,

And soft the snow-white fleece enfolds thee;

In airy bower I’ll watch thy sleeping,

Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping.

Shuheen, sho, lulo lo!

When mothers languish broken-hearted,

When young wives are from husbands parted,

Ah! little think the keeners lonely,

They weep some time-worn fairy only.

Shuheen, sho, lulo lo!

Within our magic halls of brightness,

Trips many a foot of snowy whiteness;

Stolen maidens, queens of fairy–

And kings and chiefs a sluagh-shee airy,

Shuheen, sho, lulo lo!

Rest thee, babe! I love thee dearly,

And as thy mortal mother nearly;

Ours is the swiftest steed and proudest,

That moves where the tramp of the host is loudest.

Shuheen, sho, lulo lo!

Rest thee, babe! for soon thy slumbers

Shall flee at the magic koelshie’s 1 numbers;

In airy bower I’ll watch thy sleeping,

Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping.

Shuheen, sho, lulo lo!

—-

Cusheen Loo.

Translated from the Irish by J. J. Callahan

[This song is supposed to have been sung by a young bride, who was forcibly detained in one of those forts which are so common in Ireland, and to which the good people are very fond of resorting. Under pretence of hushing her child to rest, she retired to the outside margin of the fort, and addressed the burthen of her song to a young woman whom she saw at a short distance, and whom she requested to inform her husband of her condition, and to desire him to bring the steel knife to dissolve the enchantment.

SLEEP, my child! for the rustling trees,

Stirr’d by the breath of summer breeze,

And fairy songs of sweetest note,

Around us gently float.

Sleep! for the weeping flowers have shed

Their fragrant tears upon thy head,

The voice of love hath sooth’d thy rest,

And thy pillow is a mother’s breast.

Sleep, my child!

Weary hath pass’d the time forlorn,

Since to your mansion I was borne,

Tho’ bright the feast of its airy halls,

And the voice of mirth resounds from its walls.

Sleep, my child!

Full many a maid and blooming bride

Within that splendid dome abide,

And many a hoar and shrivell’d sage,

And many a matron bow’d with age.

Sleep, my child!

Oh! thou who hearest this song of fear,

To the mourner’s home these tidings bear.

Bid him bring the knife of the magic blade,

At whose lightning-flash the charm will fade.

Sleep, my child!

Haste! for tomorrow’s sun will see

The hateful spell renewed for me;

Nor can I from that home depart,

Till life shall leave my withering heart.

Sleep, my child!

Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees,

Stirr’d by the breath of summer breeze.

And fairy songs of sweetest note,

Around us gently float.

—-

Song of the Ghost

Alfred Percival Graves

(Robert Graves Father)

When all were dreaming

But Pastheen Power,

A light came streaming

Beneath her bower: p. 135

A heavy foot

At her door delayed,

A heavy hand

On the latch was laid.

“Now who dare venture,

At this dark hour,

Unbid to enter

My maiden bower?”

“Dear Pastheen, open

The door to me,

And your true lover

You’ll surely see.”

“My own true lover,

So tall and brave,

Lives exiled over

The angry wave.”

“Your true love’s body

Lies on the bier,

His faithful spirit

Is with you here.”

“His look was cheerful,

His voice was gay;

Your speech is fearful,

Your face is grey;

And sad and sunken

Your eye of blue,

But Patrick, Patrick,

Alas! ’tis you!”

Ere dawn was breaking

She heard below

The two cocks shaking

Their wings to crow. p. 136

“Oh, hush you, hush you,

Both red and grey,

Or will you hurry

My love away.

“Oh, hush your crowing,

Both grey and red,

Or he’ll be going

To join the dead;

Or, cease from calling

His ghost to the mould,

And I’ll come crowning

Your combs with gold.”

When all were dreaming

But Pastheen Power,

A light went streaming

From out her bower,

And on the morrow,

When they awoke,

They knew that sorrow

Her heart had broke.

—-

The Fairy Host

By Alfred Percival Graves (Translated)

Pure white the shields their arms upbear,

With silver emblems rare o’ercast;

Amid blue glittering blades they go,

The horns they blow are loud of blast.

In well-instructed ranks of war

Before their Chief they proudly pace;

Coerulean spears o’er every crest—

A curly-tressed, pale-visaged race.

Beneath the flame of their attack,

Bare and black turns every coast;

With such a terror to the fight

Flashes that mighty vengeful host.

Small wonder that their strength is great,

Since royal in estate are all,

Each hero’s head a lion’s fell—

A golden yellow mane lets fall.

Comely and smooth their bodies are,

Their eyes the starry blue eclipse,

The pure white crystal of their teeth

Laughs out beneath their thin red lips.

Good are they at man-slaying feats,

Melodious over meats and ale;

Of woven verse they wield the spell,

At chess-craft they excel the Gael.

(Pygmalion and Galatea -Jean-Leon Gerome)

Here is the entry for today…. I have been setting up for a new painting. I am returning to an old theme of mine, that has had me captivated for many an outing with the paint or air brush; The Wheel Of Dharma. After I finish this entry, back to working on it. I have a smaller version I am working from, but have found some classic sources that are pretty sweet.

It seems the BBC has picked up a story run in Pravda a year ago: Russian squirrel pack ‘kills dog’ This of course is pure fantasy… It was debunked and now it is back, so what gives with the BEEB putting this one out?

The house last night was humming with activity, Mary with her sewing machine, Rowan was working on making talismans, and I was pulling my hair out with the prep for the painting. Had to use Melatonin to fall asleep I was so wound up…

Still working through Graham Hancock’s “Supernatural”. I really suggest that you pick it up. A great read.

That is it for today, hope your life is sweet.

Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

The Story of Pygmalion and Galatea

The Links

From Germany: The Dwarf’s Nose

Saif al-Rahbi Poems Part 2

Art: Jean-Leon Gerome

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The Story of Pygmalion and Galatea

as told by Orpheus in Ovid’s Metamorphoses; translated and with an introduction by Mary N. Innes; Penguin Books; 1955.

…As for the loathsome Propoetides, they dared to deny the divinity of Venus. The story goes that as a result of this, they were visited by the wrath of the goddess, and were the first women to lose their good names by prostituting themselves in public. Then, as all sense of shame left them, the blood hardened in their cheeks, and it required only a slight alteration to transform them into stony flints.

When Pygmalion saw these women, living such wicked lives, he was revolted by the many faults which nature has implanted in the female sex, and long lived a bachelor existence, with out any wife to share his home. But meanwhile, with marvelous artistry, he skillfully carved a snowy ivory statue. He made it lovelier than any woman born, and he fell in love with his own creation. The statue had all the appearance of a real girl, so that it seemed to be alive, to want to move, did not modesty forbid. So cleverly did his art conceal its art. Pygmalion gazed in wonder, and in his heart there rose a passionate love for this image of a human form. Often he ran his hands over the work, feeling to see whether it was flesh or ivory, and would not yet admit that ivory was all it was. He kissed the statue, and imagined that it kissed him back, spoke to it and embraced it, and thought he felt his fingers sink into the limbs he touched, so that he was afraid lest a bruise appear where he had pressed the flesh. Sometimes he addressed it in flattering speeches, sometimes brought the kind of presents that girls enjoy: shells and polished pebbles, little birds and flowers of a thousand hues, lilies and painted balls, and drops of amber which fall from the trees that were once Phaethon’s sisters. He dressed the limbs of his statue in woman’s robes, and put rings on its fingers, long necklaces round its neck. Pearls hug from its ears, and chains were looped upon its breast. All this finery became the image as well, but it was no less lovely unadorned. Pygmalion then placed the statue on a couch that was covered with cloths of Tyrian purple, laid its head to rest on soft down pillows, as if it could appreciate them, and called it his bedfellow.

The festival of Venus, which is celebrated with the greatest pomp all through Cyprus, was now in progress, and heifers, their crooked horns gilded for the occasion, had fallen at the alter as the axe struck their snowy necks. Smoke was rising from the incense, when Pygmalion, having made his offering, stood by the alter and timidly prayed, saying: “If you gods can give all things, may I have as my wife, I pray–” he did not dare say: “the ivory maiden,” but finished: “one like the ivory maid.” However, golden Venus, present at her festival in person, understood what his prayers meant, and as a sign that the gods were kindly disposed, the flames burned up three times, shooting a tongue of fire into the air. When Pygmalion returned home, he made straight for the statue of the girl he loved, leaned over the couch, and kissed her. She seemed warm: he laid his lips on hers again, and touched her breast with his hands–at his touch the ivory lost its hardness, and grew soft: his fingers made an imprint on the yielding surface, just as wax of Hymettus melts in the sun and, worked by men’s fingers, is fashioned into many different shapes, and made fit for use by being used. The lover stood, amazed, afraid of being mistaken, his joy tempered with doubt, and again and again stroked the object of his prayers. It was indeed a human body! The veins throbbed as he pressed them with his thumb. Then Pygmalion of Paphos was eloquent in his thanks to Venus. At long last, he pressed his lips upon living lips, and the girl felt the kisses he gave her, and blushed. Timidly raising her eyes, she saw her lover and the light of day together. The goddess Venus was present at the marriage she had arranged and, when the moon’s horns had nine times been rounded into a full circle, Pygmalion’s bride bore a child, Paphos, from whom the island takes its name….

_________________

The Links:

Computer Provides More Questions Than Answers

Nasca: Outlines of a mystery

Before the Wright Brothers…There Were UFOs

Virtual reality, virtual memories

____________________

(The End of the Sitting – Jean-Leon Gerome)

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From Germany: The Dwarf’s Nose

In a well-known town in Germany there lived for many years a shoemaker and his wife. He mended boots and shoes and made new ones when he had money to buy the leather, and she sold fruit and vegetables which she grew in their little garden. Many customers came to her stall in the market-place, being attracted by her neat appearance, and the way she arranged her wares.

This worthy couple had one boy, named Jacob; he was eight years old, handsome and well-grown. He helped his mother at the stall and sometimes carried home the customers’ purchases.

One day, as the shoemaker’s wife was sitting in the market-place, and little Jacob stood near calling out the prices of her vegetables, there came along an old woman, rather shabbily dressed, with a thin, pinched face, red eyes, and a long pointed nose. She leant on a long staff, and hobbled and halted as if her feet were covered with corns, and she looked as if every moment she might tumble on her nose.

“Are you Hannah, the vegetable woman?” asked she, wagging her head. “Let me see if you have what I want.” With her ugly brown hands she turned and tumbled the cabbages about, breaking their leaves; with her long, skinny fingers she poked here and there. When she had disarranged all the baskets, she grumbled “Bad stuff, wretched cabbages–much better to be had fifty years ago; bad stuff!”

These remarks made little Jacob angry, and he cried: “Listen, you horrid old woman; you call our vegetables ‘bad stuff,’ and with your long nose you sniff and smell at them so that no one else will care to buy them; but all the same the Grand Duke’s cook buys all he wants of us!”

The old woman looked at the bonny boy, and answered hotly: “My lad, my nose seems to please you. You shall have one like it, but longer still!” She picked over the cauliflowers again, and threw them back into the basket, muttering: “Bad cauliflowers, bad stuff!”

“Make up your mind what you want,” returned the shoemaker’s wife, indignant at the waste of time. “That were better than talking nonsense to my boy!”

“I will take these six cauliflowers,” said the old woman; “but I cannot carry them home. Let your boy come along with me and I will pay him for his trouble.”

The boy did not want to go; but his mother persuaded him, for she thought it would be wrong to let the feeble old dame carry such a load, and half crying, Jacob went.

The old dame walked slowly, and it was quite an hour before they reached a little house outside the town. She opened the door, and Jacob was quite surprised when he entered; for inside the house was beautiful. The walls and staircases were of marble, the furniture ebony inlaid with gold, the floors of glass so highly polished that Jacob slipped and fell. The old woman took a whistle out of her pocket, blew it, and immediately some guinea-pigs came in, and Jacob noticed with amusement that they wore men’s clothes and walked on their hind legs.

“Where are my slippers?” shrieked the old woman, shaking her stick at them, so that they were quite frightened. They came back again directly with two cocoa-nut shells soled with leather, and the old woman put them on.

Now she began to bustle about. She took Jacob by the hand and went quickly across the glass floor. At last she took him into a room something like a kitchen. “Sit down, little man,” said she, pushing him into the corner of a couch. “You have had a heavy load to carry. Men’s heads are not light.”

“What do you mean?” cried the boy. “They were cauliflowers I brought here.”

“Now you know that is a lie,” laughed the old woman; and took a man’s head out of the basket. The boy was dreadfully frightened, for he thought if this got known his mother would be in sore trouble.

“I must give you a little present,” said the old woman; “wait a moment and you shall have some delicious soup.” She whistled; and there entered several guinea-pigs in men’s clothes, with aprons on and cooking spoons stuck through their waistbelts; after them came several squirrels in white Turkish trousers; they also walked on their hind legs and wore green velvet caps on their heads. They bustled about and brought saucepans and dishes; and the old woman ran hither and thither in her cocoa-nut slippers, and Jacob saw she was evidently going to give him something good to eat. At last something in one of the pots began to boil over, and the smell filled the room. She took it off the fire, poured the contents into a silver soup tureen, and said: “Now, sonny, if you drink this soup, you will have all that you admire in me. And you might also become an excellent cook, only that you will never be able to find the particular cabbage of which it is made. Why does your mother not keep it on her stall?”

The boy hardly understood what she, meant; but he drank the soup eagerly and it tasted delicious. His mother had often made good things for him to eat, but nothing like this. While he was drinking the last spoonful, the whistle sounded for the guinea-pigs, and thick clouds of smoke began to fill the room. The fumes of the smoke confused little Jacob; he wanted to get away; he said he ought to be going back to his mother; but he seemed unable to move, and fell back on the couch and went fast asleep.

Wonderful dreams came to him. It seemed to him that he was changed into a squirrel, and he went about with the squirrels and guinea-pigs and had his duties like the others. At first he had to work as a shoemaker. As he had often helped his father he did not find that difficult. After a time, pleasanter work was given him. He had to go with some of the squirrels to get sunberries. The old dame preferred a certain sort; and as she had no teeth, she made her dinner off bread and sunberries.

After a year he was set to find drinking-water for the old woman. This was done in many different ways. The squirrels and Jacob had to fill the hazel nutshells with dew from the roses, and that was her drinking-water. As she was always thirsty, her water-carriers had plenty to do.

After another year he had indoors work to do; chiefly to keep the glass floors clean. He had to sweep them and then tie his feet up in cloths and so dust them.

In four years’ time he was put in the kitchen, and Jacob, from being scullery boy, became head pastry-cook, and his skill was so great that he was sometimes surprised; for pasties of two hundred different flavours, and the most delicate cabbage soups, he could make with greatest ease.

After he had been seven years in the old woman’s service it happened one day, when she had gone out with basket and staff, that Jacob had to draw a fowl and stuff and roast it before she came back. In the herb-room he suddenly noticed a cupboard he had not seen before. He looked in it and found inside a great many baskets of herbs. He opened one and found a herb of a quite different colour. He looked carefully at it; it smelt strong, and like the soup that the old woman had given to him on his first day there. But the smell was so strong that he began to sneeze, and sneeze and sneeze, until at last–sneezing he awoke.

He was lying on the old woman’s sofa and looked bewildered around.

“What strange things dreams are!” said he. “I could have sworn that I had been a squirrel; and as squirrel a clever cook. How my mother will laugh when I tell her: but how she will scold me for sleeping away from home, instead of helping her.

His limbs were stiff with long sleeping, and so was his neck, and every moment when he moved he either hit the wall with his nose, or when he turned over banged it against the doorpost. The squirrels and guinea-pigs ran busily here and there as if they would accompany him, but they gave it up as they saw him leave the house, and took their nutshells inside and by-and-by he heard them chattering in the distance. He felt very anxious as he got near the market. His mother sat in her usual place and had plenty of vegetables in her baskets; he could not have slept long; but it seemed to him that she was very sad, for instead of calling to the passers-by, she sat with her head resting on her hand; and as he came nearer, he saw she was looking paler than usual. At last he plucked up heart and said, “Mother, are you angry with me?”

His mother turned round, and shrieked with fright.

“Go away, horrid dwarf,” said she; “I do not like such jokes.”

“Dear little mother, look at me. I am Jacob, your son!”

“Now, this is really too much,” cried Hannah; “there stands a hideous dwarf, who says, ‘I am your son, your Jacob.’ For shame!”

Then all the market-women came to try and comfort this poor Hannah, whose fine boy had been stolen seven years ago.

Poor Jacob did not know what to think. They called him a hideous dwarf and spoke of seven years ago! What had happened to him?

When he saw that his mother would have nothing to do with him, he went with tears in his eyes to the booth where his father worked at his shoemaking, and stood by the door and looked in. The master was so busy that he did not notice him, but chancing to look round he cried out, “Good heaven! what is that? What is that?”

“Good day,” said Jacob, stepping in; “how are you?”

“Badly, little man,” answered his father to Jacob’s surprise, for it seemed he was not recognised. “I am so lonely, and old, and weak.”

“Have you no one who can help you?” asked Jacob. “Where is your son?”

“God knows!” answered the shoemaker. “Seven years ago he was stolen from the market-place.”

“Seven years ago!” cried Jacob.

“Yes, little man, seven years ago. An ugly old woman came to the market, tumbled about my wife’s vegetables, and bought so many that she could not carry them herself. My wife, good soul, sent our boy along with her–and we have never seen him. since.”

“And is that seven years ago, do you say?”

“Seven years next spring. We sought him everywhere the town crier ‘cried’ him, but all to no purpose.”

So spoke Jacob’s father, and returned to his last.

The youth realised now that he had not been dreaming, but that for seven years he had worked as a squirrel for the old woman. He stood for some time thinking over his strange fate, and then his father said: “Do you want anything, young man? A pair of slippers, or a case for your nose?”

“What is the matter with my nose? Why should I want a case for my nose?” asked Jacob.

“If I had such a horrible nose,” said the shoemaker, “I should put a red patent leather cover over it. You might do worse, little man!”

Jacob was dumb with annoyance. He felt his nose. It was about eight inches long. “Oh, for pity’s sake let me look in the glass,” said he, “it is not for vanity’s sake.”

“I have not one, but if you want to look in a mirror, go over the way to Barber Urban, he has one as big as your head!”

With these words he pushed the youth through the doorway, shut the door, and sat down to work. The boy went sadly across to the barber, whom he knew in years gone by.

“Good morning, Urban,” cried he. “Will you let me look in your looking-glass?”

“With pleasure,” laughed the barber. “You are a handsome youth, and a little bit vain, I am thinking.”

As the barber spoke a ripple of laughter went round the saloon. The dwarf, however, stepped to the glass and looked at himself. Tears came into his eyes. How dreadful he looked! His eyes were little; his nose hideous, it hung down over his mouth and chin; his head was deep set between his shoulders; his back and chest were humpy, like a well-filled sack. His clumsy body had thin short legs, but his arms were long, his hands brown, his fingers thin and bony, and when he reached them out they touched the floor. He was the most misshapen dwarf ever seen.

“Have you gazed long enough, my prince?” said the barber, as he laughingly looked on. “Come, enter my service, little man; you shall have whatever you ask for, if you only stand at my doors every day and invite the people to step in. I shall get more customers, and each will give you a present.”

Jacob was annoyed at this proposition, but it could not be helped. He told the barber he had no time for such service and went away. He intended, however, to pay a final visit to his mother.

He went to the market and begged her to listen to him. He reminded her of the past, and told her that the old woman had turned him into a squirrel, and had kept him there seven years. The shoemaker’s wife knew not what to say to this, and thought she had better talk it over with her husband.

She went with the dwarf to the shoemaker’s bench, and said:

“Listen! This dwarf says he is our long-lost son Jacob, and he has told me how he has been for seven years bewitched.”

“Wait a moment,” said the shoemaker. “I told him all that an hour ago, and now he goes to you with the tale. Take care, boy, or I will have you locked up!”

Thus saying, he took a bundle of pieces he had just cut and beat the dwarf over the back and arms so severely that he screamed and ran outside.

He found no one who pitied him or took compassion on him; and had to sleep, that night, on the stone steps of the church. When morning came he went into the church and prayed. Then he suddenly remembered that he could easily earn a living as a cook, and that the Grand Duke was fond of eating, and loved a good table. So he went to the Palace.

As he passed through its gates the doorkeeper asked what he wanted. He said he was a cook, and that he wished to see the major-domo.

When Jacob was taken to his office, the major-domo looked him up and down from head to foot, and said laughing: “So you want to be a cook. Whoever sent you to me has been making a fool of you.”

The dwarf would not let himself be disheartened. “Where there is plenty to eat,” said he, “an egg or two, some flour and sausage, will never be missed; give me a little meal to prepare, and then you will say, ‘He is indeed a cook, and no mistake.’”

The dwarf spoke earnestly, and it was amusing to see how his long nose wagged from side to side, and how he gesticulated with his long thin fingers.

“Very well,” said the major-domo, “just for fun we will go into the kitchen.”

It was a large, roomy, well-arranged apartment, fires were burning on twenty hearths, and kitchen utensils of every sort lay about and rubbed shoulders with kettles and pans and spoons and forks.

But when the major-domo entered all the servants paused in their work, and the only sound heard was the crackling of the fires.

“What has the Grand Duke ordered for his breakfast to-day?” asked the major-domo of an old cook whose position was “head of the breakfast department.”

“Danish soup and red Hauburg dumpling.”

“Good,” said the major-domo to Jacob. “Do you think you could prepare this difficult meal?”

“Nothing easier,” answered the dwarf. “For the soup I shall want the fat of a wild swan, turnips and eggs; for the dumpling, however, I shall want four different kinds of meat, some Madeira wine, goose-grease, ginger, and some mixed herbs and marjoram.”

“What magician has taught you?” cried the cook with astonishment. “We have never even heard of that herb; it must make the dish very much nicer.”

“Let us put him to the test,” said the major-domo; “give him the things that he requires.”

This they did, and arranged everything on the stove, but found that the dwarf was too short to reach them, so they put two stools together, and laid thereon a marble slab, and invited the little curiosity to begin his cooking.

When he had got everything ready he asked them to put both pots on the fire and let them simmer for a certain time; then he called out, “Stop!”

The pots were set aside, and the dwarf invited the major-domo to come and taste their contents.

The great man marched with dignity to the hearth, tasted, smacked his lips, and said: “Excellent, excellent, upon my soul!”

And the head cook shook the dwarf heartily by the hand and said: “You are a veritable master in the art. That herb gives it quite a special flavour.”

Just then a footman came to say that the Duke was waiting for his breakfast. The food was put on silver dishes and sent to table. The major-domo, however, took the dwarf into his room and entertained him there. They had not been together long before a messenger came to say that the major-domo was to go at once to the Duke.

The Grand Duke looked very pleased and stroked his beard.

“Well, major-domo,” said he, “who cooked my breakfast to-day? It has never been so good since I came into my kingdom. Tell me the name of the cook; we will send him a little present.”

“My Lord Duke, it is quite a history,” said the major-domo, and told him all that had happened.

The Grand Duke sent for the dwarf, and asked him who he was and where he came from.

The dwarf answered briefly, that he had no parents, and had been taught cooking by an old woman.

The Grand Duke asked no more, but made himself very merry over the new cook’s comical appearance.

“If you can stay with me I will give you every year fifty ducats and a handsome suit of clothes. In return for this you must cook my breakfast every day yourself and keep my kitchen clean. You shall be called ‘Longnose’ and wear the uniform of a deputy major-domo.”

“Longnose” fell on his knees before the Grand Duke, and kissed his feet, and promised to serve him faithfully.

The dwarf well fulfilled his duties; before he came, the Grand Duke had been sometimes inclined to throw the plates and dishes at the cook’s head; but since the dwarf had been in the house everything soon changed. Instead of three meals a day, the Duke ate five, and found everything delicious. He was always good-tempered and got stouter every day. The dwarf was the wonder of the town; people begged for permission to see him at work, and some of the best families obtained leave from the Duke for their servants to take lessons from him, and he earned no small amount of money this way.

He gave all this, however, to the other cooks, so that they should not be jealous of him.

So “Longnose” lived respected and prosperous, only troubled by the thoughts of his parents’ grief; but at the end of his second year’s service he had a great stroke of luck. As often as he could find time “Longnose” went to the market-place to buy poultry and fruit. One day at the end of the stalls he saw a woman sitting by a large coop of geese, which seemed not quite the common kind. He went up to her and felt and examined the birds. They seemed satisfactory, and so he bought three. He noticed with some surprise that, while two of the geese gobbled and grunted, the third was quiet and mopish, and sighed heavily like a human being.

“It is ill,” said he; “I must make haste and cure it!”

But the goose suddenly said:

“Treat me well, I’ll be your friend;

Treat me ill, your life shall end!”

“Longnose” was so startled that he dropped the coop, and the goose looked at him with soft, sad eyes and sighed.

“Why, you can speak!” cried Jacob. “I did not expect this. Do not be so unhappy. I will do all I can to help you. You certainly were not born with feathers on your back!”

“That is true,” said the goose. “I was not born in this terrible form, but while I was in my cradle it was prophesied that I should end my life in the kitchen of a Grand Duke!”

“Do not be alarmed, you poor thing,” said the dwarf; “nothing shall happen to you. I will take your coop to my own room, and will tell the major-domo that I am feeding up a goose on special green stuff for the Grand Duke’s table, and at the first opportunity I will set you free.”

The dwarf did all that he had promised. He built up a little cage for the enchanted bird in his own room, saying he wanted to fatten it up on special diet as a surprise for his master. As often as he had time he used to go and chat with her.

She told him all her history, and “Longnose” learnt that the goose was called Mimi, and was the daughter of Wetterbock the magician, who lived on the island of Gottland. He had quarrelled with an old fairy, who had revenged herself by turning his daughter into a swan, and bringing her to market.

When “Longnose” had listened to her story, she said:

“What you have told me about herb magic, and your own transfiguration after smelling a herb, convinces me that you have been bewitched by the perfume of these herbs, and that if you could find the plant used by the old fairy, you could regain your own appearance.”

Just at this time a very powerful Prince visited the Grand Duke, who sent for “Longnose” and said:

“This is an excellent opportunity for you to show what a master cook you are! The Prince who is coming to stay with me is a connoisseur in food, and a very wise man. See, now, that such meals be served as may quite astonish him. Never serve the same dish twice. You can ask my treasurer for anything you want. I would rather become poor than blush for my table.”

The little dwarf put all his skill forward. All day long he was to be seen in clouds of smoke from roasting fires, and his words of command were to be heard all through the kitchen.

The stranger Prince had been a fortnight at the Castle, and was well fêted and flattered. There were always five meals a day, and the Grand Duke was delighted with his cook’s skill, when he saw how his guest enjoyed himself. On the fifteenth day the Grand Duke sent for the dwarf, and presented him to the Prince, asking if he was satisfied with his cooking.

“You certainly know what is good to eat,” said the Prince to “Longnose”; “you have never repeated a dish all the time I have been here; and everything is splendidly served. But why have you delayed sending us a ‘Suzeraine’ pasty? It is the queen of dishes.”

“Longnose” had never heard of this queen of pasties, but he answered readily enough:

“My Lord, I hoped your gracious visit to this Court would be a long one, and I was waiting to offer this delicacy on the day of your departure.”

“Why have you never prepared this pasty for me?” cried the Grand Duke. “Think of another parting dish, and let us have the pasty to-morrow.”

“It shall be as my Lord wishes,” replied the dwarf. And he went out feeling as if his luck was over, for he had not the least idea how to make the pasty; and he went to his room and wept.

The goose, Mimi, asked what troubled him. “Dry your tears,” she said, when he told her; “we often had that pasty at my father’s table. I know exactly how it is made, and what you require for it, and if some little thing is left out, no one will be much the wiser.”

“Longnose” blessed the day when he bought this good little goose, and immediately set to work to make this queen of pasties according to her instructions. He first made a small one, and it tasted delicious, and the major-domo again praised his ability.

The next day he sent the pasty to table hot from the oven and decorated with a wreath of flowers; then put on his best suit and went to the dining-hall. As he entered the Court carver had just served both the Prince and Grand Duke with their portions, and on magnificent silver plates. The Grand Duke ate a mouthful, looked at his plate, and said:

“Truly this is the queen of pasties, and my dwarf is the king of cooks. Is he not, my friend?”

‘The guest took a bite and chewed and tasted, laughing to himself. “The thing is good enough,” said he, as he pushed his plate away, “but the ‘Suzeraine’ it certainly is not; I can answer for that.”

The Grand Duke frowned with anger and cried: “Dog of a dwarf how dare you trifle with your Lord?”

“Heaven knows, my Lord, I have made the pasty according to the best recipe; it must be right,” tremblingly answered the dwarf.

“It is a lie, you rascal,” shouted the Grand Duke, “my guest would not otherwise have found fault. I will have you chopped up and made into a pasty.”

“Have pity,” said the dwarf, throwing himself on his knees before the Prince. “Tell me what is lacking. Do not let me die for a handful of flour and a little bit of meat.”

“That would not serve any purpose, dear ‘Longnose’,” answered the Prince, smiling. “This pasty lacks a herb which no one about here knows. It is the herb ‘borage,’ a notable relish, and without it the pasty has not its true flavour, and neither your master nor I care to eat it!”

Then the Grand Duke stormed and raged. “By my soul,” he cried, “if you do not bring me the exact pasty to-morrow, your head shall be cut off and fastened on the gate of my Palace. Go, you little wretch. I will give you just twenty-four hours’ grace!”

The dwarf went weeping from the hall and told the goose of his fate, and that he must die because he had never heard of this herb.

“Tell me, my friend, are there any old chestnut-trees near the Castle?” asked the goose.

“Yes,” answered “Longnose,” “by the lake there is a large group; but why do you ask?”

“Well, at the foot of old chestnut-trees this herb grows,” said Mimi; “so take me under your arm and put me down by the trees, and I will try to find it for you.”

He took her up and went to the door. But a guard had been placed there and said: “I have orders that you are not to go out of the house.”

“But I must go in the garden,” said “Longnose.” “Send one of your fellows to the officer of the Palace and ask if I may go into the garden to look for herbs.” The guard did so, and the dwarf received permission to go into the garden. The goose wandered round and round the chestnut-trees, but could not find the herb, and cried with disappointment and sympathy. But the dwarf, who was also looking about, suddenly noticed some trees the other side of the lake and cried: “Over there, there is a large old tree, perhaps we shall be more fortunate.”

The goose flew along, and he ran after her as quickly as his little legs could carry him; the chestnut-tree threw a deep shadow, and it was so dark beneath its branches that it was difficult to see anything; but the goose suddenly stood still, flapped her wings with joy, and poked her bill into the long grass, and pulled something out, which she handed to the astonished dwarf and said:

“This is the herb, and here is a large patch of it, so you need never be without it again.”

The dwarf looked thoughtfully at the herb; its, sweet scent reminded him of the day when he was bewitched; the stalks and leaves were bluish-green, and it had a bright red flower with golden stamen.

“Thank God!” he cried at last. “How wonderful! I believe this is the very same herb which changed me from a squirrel to a dreadful little dwarf. Shall I taste a bit?”

“Not now,” said the goose. “Bring a handful with you, and let us go back to your room and collect all your things together, and then you shall see what the herb will do.”

They went back to his room, and the dwarf’s heart beat fast with excitement. After he had made a bundle of his clothes and safely concealed his money–about fifty ducats–he said: “Surely God has willed that I shall end this unhappy condition,” and he pushed his nose down in the bunch of herbs and inhaled the scent.

Then his whole body seemed to stir, he felt as if he had his own head on his shoulders. He looked at his nose in the glass, and it was getting smaller and smaller, his chest and back straightened out, and his legs grew longer.

The goose was greatly astonished.

“Oh, how you are growing! How tall you are!” cried she. “Thank God that nothing worse has happened to you. Now you are yourself again!”

Jacob was indeed happy, and he folded his hands and said a short prayer. But in his joy he did not forget his gratitude to the goose Mimi; and though he longed to go at once to his parents, he felt he must defer this pleasure for her sake, and said:

“To whom do I owe this happiness but to you? Without you I should never have found that herb, and must always have remained a dwarf or have been hanged by the Grand Duke. So first of all I must consider you. I will take you to your father; and he being so clever in magic will easily remove the spell from you.”

The goose shed tears of joy and they took their departure. Jacob got safely and unrecognised out of the Palace, and made his way as quickly as possible to the seashore, where Mimi’s home was.

There is little more to tell, except that they happily reached their journey’s end; and that Wetterbock was able to turn his daughter back into her former state, and that Jacob, laden with presents, made his way home. His parents welcomed him joyfully, and with the money Wetterbock had given him he bought himself a shop, and became rich and prosperous.

One thing more; after he had left the Palace things were rather unsettled; for the next day, when the dwarf did not bring the pasty as he promised, the Grand Duke raged and stormed and sent for Jacob to cut off his head. But he could nowhere be found. And the Prince said he believed the Grand Duke had hidden him away so that no one should rob him of his best cook; and accused the Duke of breaking his word.

Then war was declared between the two Princes, well known as the “Herb War,” and many battles were fought; but peace was made at last, and this was known as the “Pasty Peace,” because at the banquet the Prince’s cook served the celebrated “Suzeraine” pasty, so that the Grand Duke should taste it in perfection.

So you see that small beginnings have often great endings, and there is no more to tell about the Dwarf’s Nose.

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Saif al-Rahbi Poems Part 2

Museum of Shadows

White birds cross wide rivers

on nights more lonesome than widows of war.

Bridges and closed-eyes trees strolling

with passers-by,

as if in a museum of shadows.

From a distance you could see their shadows, staggering

among the stupidity of daytime’s

empty bottles.

You know them, one by one –

incurable curse,

nameless glories.

They came from a house next to your dreams,

searching for a heart more merciful than knowledge

and under the enormous shadows of a sombre dawn

they all disappeared

except for a single peal of laughter.

—

Distant Waters

In the murky mirrors of distant waters

the bird of desire soars beyond a sealed horizon

Faces split by the cawing of years

Chariots bark behind the walls

As if you came for a trip preceding birth

you follow a grand funeral of reminiscences

wearing a shirt stained with the blood of distances.

Struck with amnesia, camels

are lost in the alleyways

Dynasties crossing the desert

all drowned in quicksand

You walk with a lonely step

leaving every place its private wound

and every minaret a belt of howls.

Body smeared with departures,

those who came from distant waters tell you to stop

and watch your sin fleeing.

From Mudia Wahidah la Takfi li-Dhabh Usfur

[One Penknife Isn’t Enough to Slaughter a Bird],Oman, 1988

—-

Water Blessed by Prophets

Spoils granted by heaven

Water blessed by prophets

at the rock of their racking thirst

Flutter of the hoopoe’s wing at Solomon’s throne

From pain and delight you cry my love

from desire, erupting at the curve of longing

(My body’s veins are hidden rivers)

You walk around stripped of a wedding ring on

your finger

You were the lake dreamt of by the winds.

You shut all doors

so I can open up a door or window

and look through at your dark cave

your concealed treasures

where crescents and baskets dangle

with ripe fruits

and gazelles through whose movements the ignorance

of those who passed before me seeps.

The luxurious find

for the body that’s moulded with a breeze

And for him who loiters in the night of organs

the blood of desire oozes

in search of the spring that flows with abandon

in the delirium of the forest.

—-

Under the Roofs of Morning

My scream is still blossoming under

the roofs of morning.

Your city couldn’t stifle it.

My scream, on whose frost

I built a lawn –

a blind plunderer of the legacy of silence.

The screams of shepherds when their herd is startled

by a predatory animal

The screams of saints and demons

at the edge of doomsday

She carried it from town to town

like a nursing mother carries her child

like a tribe carries its seeds of origin

My only guide to the source of the river

in the blind darkness

in times of forgetfulness –

my scream under the roofs of morning

and night

is the witness to my silence

the witness of madness and pleasure.

You can’t take that away from me

no matter how big the claws and weapons.

From Al-Jundi al-Ladhi Ra’a al-Ta’ir fi Nawmih

[The Soldier who Saw the Bird in his Sleep], Cologne, 2000

—-

Bells will not toll tonight

The storm in front of my door

will not subside tonight.

Its Herculean armies have slammed shut the doors.

In the church’s fading light

I glance at monks pulling handcarts,

fleeing to the mountains

on horses that stretch and strain in the wind

as if from the Byzantine age.

On this memorial night,

bells will not toll,

the storm will never subside.

—-

Music

When I go out,

I leave the music on

to guard the souls of the dead,

music of the ancients that carries

the smell of grass,

and guards the gardens of Babylon

hanging in the depths.

When I go out,

I leave everything closed in on itself

except for the music throbbing in the empty lounges

and some oysters,

which I picked from the shore

on the night of the storm.

—-

From my room to the café

In the morning when I wake up,

the world wakes in my head

with creatures and screams smashing my bones.

I leave my room –

it’s like a cave filled with the slain –

and shuffle off to the café.

I look intently at my cup — it’s like a snake

relaxing on a summer afternoon –

and think: “This is my last cup in this city!”

But morning is still at its outset,

and I’ll have to go through wars and kisses

and will only discover their flavour

after centuries.

—-

Arrival

When I travel to a country,

rumours precede me there,

and I am aroused

like a wolf whose fantasies anticipate

its prey,

and I never arrive.

—-

Steps

I walk, I feel under my feet

a sky, trembling with all its victims,

and on my head, an earth

that has stopped rotating.

I hear a thunder of steps behind me,

steps of people coming

from the past,

silent as if they are dead.

Past, retreat a while,

let me finish today’s walk.

—-

Our old house

It’s as if I’m walking

through valleys, filled with fear,

valleys I can neither touch

nor easily recall.

As if I’m taking that first step there,

I walk into our old house, and find emaciated horses,

the ghosts of our ancestors

wander amongst their neighings.

The door opens onto this desert of absence

a smell of grilled fish,

a smell of gas,

wafting from the disused stove.

The jars as they were, speaking to the corners,

and water still boiling in the pots.

The sheep have come back from the fields

except for the one a wolf ate.

Saddles and guns hang on the walls

as if at a funeral gathering.

Tomorrow is Eid al-Adha+,

but the children have forgotten to buy new shoes,

or wash their feet before they slept.

White clouds wrap the neighbouring sky,

and accompany travellers to their distant villages.

And we are swimming in the festival rain,

where birds gently peck the air,

to wake it, with us, on the roofs,

where we dried our dates and dreams

on the clayey balconies

and fell between the feet of an agitated bull,

where the stains of an enervated sun

seize the house, with its birds and women

and ancient trees stumbling like

shepherds among ruins.

Beyond the fence

you can still see the palm trees,

like bewildered spirits colliding with minarets,

like ships lowering their sails

in misty seas,

and amid their somnolence and green dreams

lurks the evening’s next soirée.

+ the Sacrifice Festival

__________

(Phryne – Jean-Leon Gerome)

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Here is the Monday Entry… running late, gotta get back to the night time version!

Have a good one!

Gwyllm

On The Menu

Gustave Moreau Biography

The Links

The Quotes…

Algerian Fairy Tale: How the Caliph became a Stork

Saif al-Rahbi Poems Part 1

Art: Gustave Moreau

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Gustave Moreau(1826-1898). French painter, one of the leading Symbolist artists. He was a pupil of Chassériau and was influenced by his master’s exotic Romanticism, but Moreau went far beyond him in his feeling for the bizarre and developed a style that is highly distinctive in subject and technique. His preference was for mystically intense images evoking long-dead civilizations and mythologies, treated with an extraordinary sensuousness, his paint encrusted and jewel-like. Although he had some success at the Salon, he had no need to court this as he had private means, and much of his life was spent in seclusion. In 1892 he became a professor at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts and proved an inspired teacher, bringing out his pupils’ individual talents rather than trying to impose ideas on them. His pupils included Marquet and Matisse, but his favorite was Rouault, who became the first curator of the Moreau Museum in Paris (the artist’s house), which Moreau left to the nation on his death. The bulk of his work is preserved there.

____________

The Links:

DNA Gatherers Hit Snag: Tribes Don’t Trust Them

Verizon can’t count…

Squirrel Alert!: Squirrels to be given contraceptives

3rd Millennium BC Artificial Eyeball Discovered in Burnt City

______________

The Quotes:

“Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.”

“The only reason for being a professional writer is that you can’t help it.”

“The author of the Iliad is either Homer or, if not Homer, somebody else of the same name.”

“Typos are very important to all written form. It gives the reader something to look for so they aren’t distracted by the total lack of content in your writing.”

“A healthy male adult bore consumes each year one and a half times his own weight in other people’s patience.”

“Let us make a special effort to stop communicating with each other, so we can have some conversation.”

“People who have what they want are fond of telling people who haven’t what they want that they really don’t want it.”

“Everybody hates me because I’m so universally liked.”

“Everywhere is walking distance if you have the time.”

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Algerian Fairy Tale: How the Caliph became a Stork

Many years ago, on a lovely afternoon, the Caliph Casid of Bagdad sat at his ease on a luxurious sofa. It was a very hot day; he had had a sound nap, and had awakened in the happiest of moods. He drew a few puffs through his long rosewood-stemmed pipe, sipped the coffee brought by an obsequious slave, and stroked his long beard with an air of extreme satisfaction. It was evident that the Caliph felt at peace with the world. Indeed, at such an hour he was easy to approach, and so every day he received a visit from his Grand Vizier, Mansor.

But on this particular afternoon the Grand Vizier seemed rather thoughtful and disinclined to talk; so the Caliph, taking his pipe from his mouth, said:

“What is the matter with you to-day, Mansor?”

The Grand Vizier crossed his arms on his breast, and bowing low answered:

“Mighty lord, there is really nothing the matter; but outside the Castle stands a merchant who has such beautiful wares that I feel quite unhappy that I have no money to spare and to spend.”

The Caliph, who had always rather favoured the Grand Vizier, at once sent a black slave to conduct the merchant to his presence. Not many moments did he wait ere a little fat man, with sunbrowned face and ragged garments, appeared. This was the merchant, and he carried a pack containing all sorts of treasures–pearls and rings, richly ornamented pistols, golden cups and combs. The Caliph and the Vizier turned the articles over and over, and the Caliph bought some fine pistols for himself and Mansor, and for the Vizier’s wife a comb. While the merchant was packing up his wares in his box, the Caliph noticed therein a small drawer, and asked what it held. The merchant opened the drawer, and showed them a snuff-box containing some black powder, and a small piece of paper, on which was written something which neither the Caliph nor the Vizier could read.

“I got these from a merchant in Mecca,” said the pedlar, “and do not know what the writing means. If you like, you can have them for a trifling sum.”

The Caliph, who had in his library many rare manuscripts which he could not decipher, but in the possession of which he took pride, bought both snuff-box and paper and dismissed the pedlar. He was, however, very curious about the meaning of the writing, so asked the Vizier if he knew any one who could translate it.

“Gracious lord and master,” answered Mansor, “near the great Mosque lives a man named Selim the Scholar, who understands all languages. Bid him come hither; perhaps he can read these secret instructions.”

The learned man was sent for at once.

“Selim,” said the Caliph, “you are said to be well informed. Look at this writing: if you can read it you shall have a fine new coat; if you cannot, you shall be bastinadoed on back and feet, and every one shall know that Selim the Scholar has not the wisdom he pretends.”

Selim bowed humbly and said: “Thy will be done, great lord!” For some minutes he scanned the writing, then exclaimed: “This is Latin, great lord; if not, may I be hanged!”

“Then if it be Latin, tell us what it says,” returned the Caliph.

Selim read thus: “‘Thou, who this findest, praise Allah for his mercy! Whoever snuffs the powder in this box and says “Mutabor,” changes himself to the form of an animal, and will be able to understand animal language. Should he desire to resume his manhood, he need only turn to the east, bow three times, and repeat the word. But he must beware lest during his metamorphosis he laugh; if so, he will forget the magic word and remain for ever an animal.’”

Satisfied with Selim’s translation, the Caliph, binding him by solemn oaths not to divulge the secret between them, gave him a new kaftan and sent him away. To his Grand Vizier he said: “I call that a good bargain, Mansor! I should like for once in a way to be an animal. To-morrow morning come to me. We will go together outside the city, snuff a little of this powder, and understand, perhaps, the language of those which fly, swim, or crawl.”

Hardly had the Caliph Casid breakfasted the following morning ere the Grand Vizier appeared ready for the appointed walk. The Caliph put the snuff-box safely in his sash, and bidding his followers remain in the city, set out alone with the Grand Vizier. First they walked through the gardens of the Caliphate; but hurriedly, for they were anxious to try the experiment, and the Vizier spoke of a pond outside the walls where he had seen many animals, but particularly storks, whose dignified actions and hoarse cries had often attracted his attention.

The Caliph, therefore, decided in favour of the pond, and together they walked to its bank, where there were quite a number of these quaint birds, who took no notice of their approach, but continued to fish for frogs. At the same time they noticed overhead another stork which was hastening to join the rest.

“I’ll wager my beard,” said the Vizier, “that these storks have plenty to say to each other. What do you think of our turning storks for a time?”

“An excellent idea,” said the Caliph. “But first let us carefully remember exactly how to become men again. We must bow three times to the east, and say ‘Mutabor,’ then I shall be Caliph and you Grand Vizier. But, in the name of Allah, no laughing, or we shall indeed be in a fix!”

While the Caliph was speaking, he observed how the Stork above their heads balanced his wings and slowly dropped to earth. Quickly he drew forth the box, took a good pinch of snuff, the Vizier doing the same, and both cried: “Mutabor.”

Immediately their legs shrivelled and became thin and red; their lovely yellow slippers became storks’ feet and their arms wings; their necks stretched till they were nearly a yard long; their beards disappeared, and their bodies were covered with feathers.

“You have a beautiful bill, my Grand Vizier,” said the Caliph in some astonishment. “By the beard of the Prophet, this is indeed a transformation.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” said the Grand Vizier, bowing. “May I return it by saying that your Highness is even handsomer as a stork than as a Caliph? But would it not be as well to join our comrades at once, and ascertain whether we really can understand stork language?”

By this time the other Stork had settled down. It rubbed its bill against its feet, plumed its feathers and went to the pond. The two new Storks, however, hurried after it, and on nearing the group, to their amazement, heard the following conversation:

“Good morning, Madame Longlegs. You are out early this morning.”

“Good morning to you, dear Chatterbox! Yes, I have had a nice little breakfast. How have you fared? I suppose you only ‘pecked a bit’–a mere quarter of a lizard or hind leg of a frog!”

“Thank you very much. I have not much appetite to-day. Besides, I have to dance for the entertainment of my father’s guests. Excuse me if I leave you. I must practise a few steps.”

And without ceremony Miss Stork left her companions and at once began her posturing. The Caliph and the Vizier watched her with curious interest; but when she stood on one foot and waved her wings affectedly, they could no longer contain their feelings, but broke into a hearty peal of laughter.

The Caliph was the first to realise the seriousness of the situation. “This is a joke which gold cannot pay for,” said he.

The Grand Vizier, too, began to regret that they had not sufficiently remembered that they were on no account to laugh. He tried to conceal his discomfiture by exclaiming: “By Mecca and Medina! It would be a fine thing if I must remain a stork for ever. Can you, my lord, remember that stupid word? It has completely slipped my memory.”

Said the Caliph: “Three times must we bow towards the east; and then say ‘Mu— Mu— Mu—’” but no more could he recall, and both he and the Caliph had no choice but to remain Storks.

Sadly they wandered through the fields, not knowing what their unfortunate condition might bring upon them. Storks they must remain for the present. It was useless to return to the city and attempt to explain themselves, for who would believe a Stork if he said: “Good people, I am your Caliph!” Or, if belief were accorded, was it likely that the people of Bagdad would consent to be ruled by a Stork? So day by day passed by, and they sustained themselves with wild fruit, finding some difficulty in eating with those long bills. For lizards and frogs they had no appetite. Their one pleasure in this unfortunate state was the ability to fly, and they often flew to Bagdad, and from the roofs watched the doings in the city.

At first they only noticed much sorrow and bewilderment on the part of the people; but about four days after their transformation, as they were resting on the roof of the Caliph’s palace, they saw a splendid procession pass through the streets.

Drums and pipes sounded, a man in a gold and scarlet cloak sat on a splendidly caparisoned horse surrounded with liveried guards. Half Bagdad acclaimed him thus:

“Hail, Miszra, Lord of Bagdad!”

The two Storks looked at one another; and then the Caliph said:

“Guess you not, Mansor, why I have been bewitched? This Miszra is the son of my greatest enemy, the mighty magician Cassimir, who in an evil hour swore revenge against me. But I will not despair! Come with me, faithful companion in misery. Let us make a pilgrimage to the grave of the Prophet. Perhaps on that holy spot we shall recall the magic word.”

So they forsook the roof of the Palace, and flew towards Medina.

But they were not yet well accustomed to flying, for they had had little practice, and at last the Grand Vizier gasped out:

“Great lord, with your permission I will rest a little. You fly too fast for me. Evening draws near; would it not be well to seek some shelter for to-night?”

To this the Caliph agreed, and as they perceived in the valley near by a ruin which still had some sort of a roof, they flew in its direction. It had evidently been at one time a castle. Although terribly dilapidated, there were remains of stately apartments and splendid passages. The Caliph and the Vizier traversed these with some interest, but suddenly Mansor stopped.

“Lord and deliverer,” faltered he, “it is rather ridiculous for a Grand Vizier, even for a Stork, to be afraid of ghosts. But I hear sobbings and sighings, and my courage fails me!”

The Caliph paused and listened, and heard most unmistakably the soft weeping either of a human being or some animal. Full of impatience, he would have pressed forward to ascertain the cause of this distress, but the Grand Vizier seized hold of Casid’s wing so that he should not wantonly rush into any new danger. But it was no use. The Caliph, whether man or stork, had a brave heart, and wrenching himself free at the expense of a few feathers, he plunged into a dark passage. Ere long he came to some broken stairs leading to a door, only half fastened, and from behind which the sobs evidently came. Pressing his beak against this door and carefully awaiting surprises, he saw through the narrow opening a ruined chamber, lighted only by a deep casement window on the sill of which was sitting a large night-owl. Thick tears were streaming from her big round eyes, and with plaintive cries she bemoaned her lot. But when she saw the Caliph and the Grand Vizier she uttered a joyful cry. Hastily brushing the tears from her eyes with a dexterous movement of her brown wings, she, much to the astonishment of the two men, called out in excellent Arabic:

“Welcome, welcome, good Storks. You are the tokens of my deliverance; for long ago it was told me that through Storks I should meet with good luck.”

As soon as the Caliph recovered from his astonishment, he drew his feet together in an elegant pose, bowed his long neck, and said:

“Night-Owl! From your words I gather you are a fellow-sufferer with ourselves. But, alas! any hope you may have formed as to our capacity to assist you is doomed to disappointment. You will the better understand this if we relate to you our sad story.”

When the Caliph concluded his recital the Owl said:

“Listen to my tale of woe, and then you will agree that I am as unfortunate as you. My father is the King of India, and I, his only and unhappy daughter, am named Lusa. The magician Cassimir, who bewitched you, worked his arts on me also. He came one day to my father, and asked me in marriage for his son Miszra. My father threw him down the palace stairs. But the wretch determined on an abominable vengeance, and one morning when I was walking in the palace garden he disguised himself as a slave, and brought me a goblet containing a draught, which had the effect of changing me into an Owl. He then conveyed me to this place, and his hateful voice hissed in my ear these terrible words:

“‘In this horrible tower you shall remain till you die, unless some one, in spite of your hideous condition, will make you his wife. So I revenge myself on you and your father!’

“Since then many months have passed by, and all alone I have lived in this gloomy tower. Nature’s beauties cannot console me, for in the daytime I am blind; only at night can I see.”

The Owl paused, and again brushed from her eyes the tears caused by her sad thoughts.

The story told by the Princess made the Caliph very grave.

“It seems to me,” he said at last, “that between your troubles and mine own there is some resemblance; but where shall we find the key to this riddle?”

The Owl replied:

“My lord, I only know this, that when I was a quite young girl, a wise woman foretold that a Stork would bring me luck; and I have an idea how we may deliver ourselves.”

The Caliph was astounded, and asked what she meant.

“The magician who has wrought evil on us all,” said she, “comes once every month to these ruins. Not far from this apartment is a large hall; there he and others of his sort hold feastings and consultations. I have often watched them. They tell each other of their scandalous tricks; perhaps this next time they meet, the magic word you have so unfortunately forgotten may be disclosed.”

“Oh, dearest Princess,” cried the Caliph, “tell us when will they come, and where is the hall?”

The Owl was silent for a few minutes. Then: “Do not think me unkind,” said she, “but it is only on one condition that I can grant your wish–”

“Name it, name it,” cried Casid. “Every moment is precious, and no conditions will be too difficult!”

The Owl replied: “I also wish to be free; but this can only happen if one of you offers to marry me–that is the condition.”

At this the Storks seemed rather confused, and the Caliph beckoned the Grand Vizier aside.

“Mansor,” said he, whispering, “this is a stupid idea; but you can marry the Owl afterwards.”

“Indeed,” said the Vizier, “so that my wife may scratch my eyes out when I return home! Besides, look what an old man I am. You are young and unmarried, and can easily offer your hand to a young and beautiful Princess!”

“That is just the point,” sighed the Caliph dejectedly, drooping his wings. “How do we know she is young and beautiful? I do not care to buy a pig in a poke.”

They spoke seriously for some time, but when the Caliph realised that the Vizier would rather remain a Stork than marry the Owl, he gave way, and agreed himself to fulfil this hard condition. The Owl was delighted with the result of their conference. She assured them that they had all chanced to meet at a particularly lucky moment, for this very night the merchants would assemble.

So all three together they left the chamber and went towards the hall. Through many dark passages they softly stepped. At last a bright light streamed through a crack in a wall. As they approached nearer the Owl begged them to make no noise whatever. From the stones on which they stood they could perceive all that was going on in the hall. Many-coloured lamps shed a light equal to that of day. In the middle was a round table with a variety of choice dishes thereon. Round about the table were couches on which men were sitting. In one of these men the Caliph recognised the pedlar who had sold the magic powder. His neighbour at table was asking him for the latest details of his business. Then, among other anecdotes, he told the story of the Caliph and his Vizier.

“And what was the word you gave him?” asked another magician.

“A Latin word, ‘Mutabor,’” was the reply.

When the Storks heard this they were beside themselves with joy. They ran so fast from the place that the Owl could scarcely keep up with them.

Then said the Caliph to the Owl: “Saviour of my life and of the life of my friend, receive our ever-heartfelt thanks and honour me by becoming my wife.” Then he turned to the east, for the first rays of the morning sun were showing above the mountain-tops, and he and the Vizier bowed their long necks.

“Mutabor,” cried they, and in an instant were they restored to their former state; and in the delight of the moment the Caliph and Vizier laughed and wept in each other’s arms. But imagine their astonishment when they saw a lovely woman, most beautifully dressed, standing before them, who smilingly gave her hand to the Caliph.

“Cannot you recognise your Night-Owl?” said she; and the Caliph was so enraptured with her beauty and grace than he more than once declared that he was only too glad that he had been changed into a Stork.

Three very happy people journeyed together to Bagdad. The Caliph found among his clothes, not only the snuff-box, but his purse; and was therefore able to buy, in the villages they passed through, such things as were necessary, so without any delay they reached the city. Arriving there the Caliph heard strange news. He had been mourned as dead. Now, however, his people hastened to rejoice over his happy return, and with each hour their hatred of the usurper Miszra increased. The crowd rushed to the Palace and seized both father and son. The old man was sent by the Caliph to the tower in which the Princess had lived as an Owl, and there he was hanged. To the son, who was ignorant of his father’s magic arts, the Caliph gave the choice of death or a pinch of snuff. As he chose the latter, the Grand Vizier handed him the box. A mighty pinch–and the magic word pronounced by the Caliph changed Miszra into a Stork, and confined in an iron cage, he passed the rest of his life in the Palace garden.

Long and happily lived the Caliph Casid with his Princess wife: his happiest hours, perhaps, still being those of the Grand Vizier’s afternoon calls, when they often talked over their strange experiences. And sometimes when the Caliph was in a merry mood he would tease the Grand Vizier about his appearance as a Stork. He would strut stiffly up and down the apartment, flap his arms as if they were wings, and bow as the forgetful Vizier did, crying, “Mu, Mu!” This little scene always gave great delight to the Calipha and her children; but after the Caliph had made fun of his friend with his clapping, croaking, and bowing, and his “Mu, mu, mu!” the Vizier was wont to request that the part of the story referring to the Night-Owl the Calipha herself should relate.

_________

Saif al-Rahbi Poems Part 1

Suitcase

A man lives in a suitcase

his feet are crossroads –

a gloomy sky at each.

Once he saw a flock of sheep on the horizon

and remembered his grandfather

He lit a candle inside a cave

and kept circling it

century after century

until his shadow cracked

and his days welled up with tears.

—

Friends

From the dreariness of the road

they came

bundled up in coats whose belts

were the autumn of water-springs.

Their wounds galloped over

mountains and dreams

but never made it.

from the collection

Rajul Min al-Rub’ al-Khali [A Man from the Empty Quarter], Beirut, 1994

—

No Country We Headed To

No woman we loved

the enemy didn’t conquer first.

No country we headed to

fire didn’t level down to the ground..

No wound we bandaged with our eyelids

didn’t fling wide open.

No arena

No child we begat under horses hooves

(What horses?)

No horizon, or memory unbuttoning

in the splendour of its hallway.

No childhood, even remote like Saturn

No lion, as he left at dawn along with his lair

The mountains’ eternal foundations collapsed

I don’t hear the crows cawing in the arac trees

Eagles were hanged by summits

No echoes

Nothing at all.

From Rajul Min al-Rub’ al-Khali

[A Man from the Empty Quarter], Beirut, 1994

—-

Scream

The scream that’s sunk inside

like an animal buried in a cave, prowls around

sleepers, along with its foreign soldiers,

forces them to go to

uncharted, distant lands.

The scream that comes down from the age

of enormous floods – my only

travel guide

my spoiled woman whom sometimes

I watch duping hyenas in my bed

then falling asleep in my etherized, tranquil

arms.

At times it falls upon distant summits,

wailing, like a primordial widow.

But tonight, as she abandons me,

I see at the far end of the forest

a wounded tigress watching me in admiration.

—-

Arrival

When I travel to a country

rumours arrive before me

I feel intoxicated

like a wolf whose dreams beat him to the prey

So I don’t arrive.

—-

A Tramp Dreaming of Nothing

And like a wave clawing

a hurricane,

I entered this world’s wilderness

throwing the treasures of my forefathers to the bottom of hell

honing my limbs on an exile-forged

blade.

And like a child who’s always losing the game,

I didn’t expect much from my ilk

I didn’t expect anything

but the clamour of doors and windows

being opened and shut near my head

with the innocence of aimless

storms.

But I exist and don’t exist

knowing I’m hallowed with emptiness

A chronicle missing no detail

lit with magical lanterns

and you need to plough its

heart for a

single tear

or confession.

You need to follow the moon of departure,

stretched between water and land, land

and grave,

in order to see a shadow in a cave.

A genie trembling in awe of God,

napping on the devil’s

thigh.

But I am here . . . Maybe now

I’m in a café,

watching the world from behind the glass

The pale sunset,

a hangover after yesterday’s trip

I’ll extinguish with today’s

and not care about anything

Let rivers dump their cities of garbage

into the sea

Let vagrants spit at the shrines of saints

and soldiers crop the heads of their barracks,

Let eagles soar high or low

That’s all.

It would be redundant to discuss

the relation between mouth and spring

or a village delirious under

the trap of the flood’s ribs,

or nice evenings of poets who dream of suicide aboard

a boat slowly sinking into water’s

haze

or by an axe suddenly plunging,

with no mercy.

You need to sell the furniture in your house

for morning coffee

(what house have you had?)

except for a tattered shoe over which

city nights stumble

and rags bequeathed to you by a dead friend

You remember (how could you forget?)

being chased by the scarecrow of poverty and Pharisees

and jackals

in Cairo and Damascus, in Beirut

and Algiers and Sophia and Paris and the rest

You remember it all, with the brilliance of birth,

the clarity of a crab crawling between

rivers like a tourist enchanted by Bedouin

tents.

O mother, sleeping on the bare

concrete

among the wreckage of hessian and scattered clothes

like the ruins of a village

razed by a thunderbolt.

There’s no field left for your anticipating

visions

We no longer listen to the crowing of roosters

or bring fish from the beach

There’s no dawn left whose feathers you play with

at the edge of the well

where you bade me farewell for the first time

seventeen years ago

(Don’t stay away for too long!)

A single step blew up the orbit

of miles

and joined in the delirium of galaxies.

____________

Saif al-Rahbi

is a poet and prose writer, born in 1956 in Sroor, a village in Oman. He was sent to school in Cairo when a young boy, and there began his lifelong passion for literature and poetry. He has lived and worked in Cairo, Damascus, Algeria, Paris for many years, London, and other Arab and European cities. His third poetry collection Ajras al-Qatia’a [The Bells of Rapture], published in 1985 when he was living in Paris, and marked him as “one of the most distinguished new poetic voices in the Gulf region”. Later, he returned to Oman and founded Nizwa, Oman’s main quarterly cultural magazine and highly regarded throughout the Arab world. Today he is its editor-in-chief. He has published a number of volumes of poetry, prose and essays.

___________

Welcome to Sunday… Kinda of a monograph today. I have been taken with the story of Lir for many a year. This is a melange of various images, story and poems. We also have a review of sorts and of course the links.

Have a great day,

Cheers,

Gwyllm

_____

On The Menu

Loreena McKennitts’ “An Ancient Muse”

The Links

The Children of Lir

Poetry: Various interpretations of “The Children Of Lir

The Art:Top Painting: John Duncan / 3 paintings by Brian Boylan

See More of Brian Boylans’ work here…

—–

On The Music Box: Loreena McKennitts’ “An Ancient Muse”

I first became aware of Loreena McKennitt in 1992, from KBOO radio in Portland Oregon. I was sitting a rather dull and stifling job in a bank, when I heard her music on the radio. At lunch time, I hopped a bus and went to the local record store and bought the album. Within a month, I had collected all the other albums…

Mary and I have seen her twice, Once in a medium size venue in Seattle, and once at a small theatre in Portland. Her shows are at the top of my list for best live performances… which she shares with Pink Floyd’s “Animal Tour”, and a couple of others.

Before I let you loose on the description that I copied from her site, let me say that this album came at the right time. Mary and I had all but given up hope that she would ever release another album, after the tragedy of her her fiance’s untimely death in 1998. Out of her tragedy she has brought forth an object of astounding beauty. If you buy but one album this year, make it this one. You can order it online, or at your local store.

Here is McKennitts’ web site: Quinlan Road You will find samples of the 9 tracks…

Beautiful Listening to you and yours…

——-

From Quinlanroad.com

“Tell me, O Muse, of those who travelled far and wide”

Aptly, it is an echo of Homer’s timeless Odyssey that introduces Loreena McKennitt’s seventh studio recording, the latest volume of a project she describes as “musical travel writing”. This time, the journey takes her in search of the Celts’ easternmost paths, from the plains of Mongolia to the kingdom of King Midas and the Byzantine Empire. Along the way, she muses on the concepts of home, of travel in all its incarnations, of the cultural intermingling that underpins human history and our universal legacies of conflict and hope.

Recorded at Real World Studios and featuring a host of acclaimed musicians, the album proffers a treasure trove of instruments, from harp, hurdy-gurdy and accordion to oud, lyra, kanoun and nyckelharpa (the Scandinavian keyed fiddle). Highlights include the seductive rhythms and Silk Road influences of first single “Caravanserai”; “Penelope’s Song”, a paean to steadfast love; and Loreena’s musical setting of Sir Walter Scott’s poem of star-crossed romance, “The English Ladye And The Knight”. Together, the nine songs that comprise An Ancient Muse conjure up a wide world’s worth of human stories that are as unique as they are unforgettable.

__________

The Links:

Special K: The story of a women who was saved by a rave drug

Nose Candy Suspension…

Historical Note: I Saw a Sea Monster, by Ralph Bandini

Planet-detector nears its launch

__________

The Children of Lir

From:Celtic Wonder Tales by Ella Young

Long ago when the Tuatha De Danaan lived in Ireland there was a great King called Lir. He had four children–Fionnuala, Aodh, Fiacra, and Conn. Fionnuala was the eldest and she was as beautiful as sunshine in blossomed branches; Aodh was like a young eagle in the blue of the sky; and his two brothers, Fiacra and Conn, were as beautiful as running water.

In those days sorrow was not known in Ireland: the mountains were crowned with light, and the lakes and rivers had strange starlike flowers that shook a rain of jewelled dust on the white horses of the De Danaans when they came down to drink. The horses were swifter than any horses that are living now and they could go over the waves of the sea and under deep lake-water without hurt to themselves. Lir’s four children had each one a white horse and two hounds that were whiter than snow.

Every one in Lir’s kingdom loved Fionnuala, and Aodh, and Fiacra, and Conn, except their step-mother, Aoifa. She hated them, and her hatred pursued them as a wolf pursues a wounded fawn. She sought to harm them by spells and witchcraft. She took them in her chariot to the Lake of Darvra in Westmeath. She made them bathe in the lake and when they were coming out of the water she struck them with a rod of enchantment and turned them into four white swans.

Swim as wild swans on this lake,” she said, “for three hundred years, and when that time is ended swim three hundred years on the narrow sea of the Moyle, and when that time is ended swim three hundred years on the Western Sea that has no bounds but the sky.”

Then Fionnuala, that was a swan, said:

“O Wicked Woman, a doom will come upon you heavier than the doom you have put on us and you will be more sorrowful than we are to-day. And if you would win any pity in the hour of your calamity tell us now how we may know when the doom will end for us.”

“The doom will end when a king from the North weds a queen from the South; when a druid with a shaven crown comes over the seas; when you hear the sound of a little bell that rings for prayers.”

The swans spread their wings and flew away over the lake. They made a very sorrowful singing as they went, lamenting for themselves.

When the Great King, their father, knew the sorrow that had come to him, he hastened down to the shore of the lake and called his children.

They came flying to him, four white swans, and he said:

“Come to me, Fionnuala; come Aodh; come Conn; come Fiacra.” He put his hands on them and caressed them and said: ” I cannot give you back your shapes till the doom that is laid on you is ended, but come back now to the house that is mine and yours, White Children of my Heart.”

Then Fionnuala answered him:

“The shadow of the woman who ensnared us lies on the threshold of your door: we cannot cross it.”

And Lir said:

“The woman who ensnared you is far from any home this night. She is herself ensnared, and fierce winds drive her into all the restless places of the earth. She has lost her beauty and become terrible; she is a Demon of the Air, and must wander desolate to the end of time–but for you there is the firelight of home. Come back with me.”

Then Conn said:

“May good fortune be on the threshold of your door from this time and for ever, but we cannot cross it, for we have the hearts of wild swans and we must fly in the dusk and feel the water moving under our bodies; we must hear the lonesome cries of the night. We have the voices only of the children you knew; we have the songs you taught us–that is all. Gold crowns are red in the firelight, but redder and fairer is dawn.”

Lir stretched out his hands and blessed his children. He said:

“May all beautiful things grow henceforth more beautiful to you, and may the song you have be melody in the heart of whoever hears it. May your wings winnow joy for you out of the air, and your feet be glad in the water-ways. My blessing be on you till the sea loses its saltness and the trees forget to bud in springtime. And farewell, Fionnuala, my white blossom; and farewell Aodh, that was the red flame of my heart; and farewell, Conn, that brought me gladness; and farewell, Fiacra, my treasure. Lonesome it is for you, flying far off in places strange to you; lonesome it is for me without you. Bitter it is to say farewell, and farewell, and nothing else but farewell.”

Lir covered his face with his mantle and sorrow was heavy on him, but the swans rose into the air and flew away calling to each other. They called with the voices of children, but in their heart was the gladness of swans when they feel the air beneath them and stretch their necks to the freedom of the sky.

Three hundred years they flew over Lake Darvra and swam on its waters. Often their father came to the lake and called them to him and caressed them; often their kinsfolk came to talk with them; often harpers and musicians came to listen to the wonder of their singing. When three hundred years were ended the swans rose suddenly and flew far and far away. Their father sought them, and their kinsfolk sought them, but the swans never touched earth or rested once till they came to the narrow Sea of the Moyle that flows between Ireland and Scotland. A cold stormy sea it was, and lonely. The swans had no one to listen to their singing, and little heart for singing amid the green curling bitter waves. The storm-wind beat roughly on them, and often they were separated and calling to one another without hope of an answer. Then Fionnuala, for she was the wisest, said:

“Let us choose a place of meeting, so that when we are separated and lost and wandering each one will know where to wait for the others.

The swans, her brothers, said it was a good thought; they agreed to meet together in one place, and the place they chose was Carraig-na-Ron, the Rock of the Seals. And it was well they made that choice, for a great storm came on them one night and scattered them far out over the sea. Their voices were drowned in the tempest and they were driven hither and thither in the darkness.

In the pale morning Fionnuala came to the Rock of the Seals. Her feathers were broken with the wind and draggled with the saitness of the sea and she was lamenting and calling on Aodh and Fiacra and Conn.

“O Conn, that I sheltered under my feathers, come to me! O Fiacra, come to me! O Aodh, Aodh, Aodh, come to me!”

And when she did not see them, and no voice answered, she made a sore lamentation and said:

“O bitter night that was blacker than the doom of Aoifa at the first to us! O three that I loved! O three that I loved! The waves are over your heads and I am desolate!”

She saw the red sun rising, and when the redness touched the waters, Conn came flying to her. His feathers were broken with the wind and draggled with the saltness of the sea. Fionnuala gathered him under her wings and comforted him, and she said:

“The day would not seem bitter to me now if only Aodh and Fiacra were come.”

In a little while Fiacra came to her over the rough sea. She sheltered and comforted him with her wings, and she cried over the waters:

“O Aodh, Aodh, Aodh, come to me!”

The sun was high in the heavens when Aodh came, and he came with his feathers bright and shining and no trace of the bitter storm on him.

“O where have you been, Aodh?” said Fionnuala and Fiacra and Conn to him.

“I have been flying where I got sight of our kinsfolk. I have seen the white steeds that are swifter than the winds of March, and the riders that were comrades to us when we had Our own shapes. I have seen Aodh and Fergus, the two sons of Bove Dearg.”

“O tell us, Aodh, where we may get sight of them!” said the swans.

“They are at the river mouth of the Ban,” said Aodh, “Let us go there, and we may see them though we cannot leave the Moyle.”

So much gladness came on all the swans that they forgot their weariness and the grievous buffeting of the storm and they rose and flew to the river mouth of the Bann. They saw their kinsfolk, the beautiful company of the Faery Host, shining with every colour under heaven and joyous as the wind in Springtime.

“O tell us, dear kinsfolk,” said the swans, ” how it is with our father?”

“The Great King has wrapped his robes of beauty about him, and feasts with those from whom age cannot take youth and light-hearted-ness,” said Fergus.

“Ah,” said Fionnuala, ” he feasts and it is well with him! The joy-flame on his hearth cannot quench itself in ashes. He cannot hear us calling through the night–the wild swans, the wanderers, the lost children.”

The Faery Host was troubled, seeing the piteous plight of the swans, but Aodh, that was a swan said to Fergus, his kinsman and comrade:

“Do not cloud your face for us, Fergus; the horse you ride is white, but I ride a whiter–the cold curling white wave of the sea.”

Then Fiacra said:

“O Fergus, does my own white horse forget me, now that I am here in the cold Moyle?”

And Conn said:

“O Fergus, tell my two hounds that I will come back to them some day.”

The memory of all beautiful things came on the swans, and they were sorrowful, and Fionnuala said:

“O beautiful comrades, I never thought that beauty could bring sorrow: now the sight of it breaks my heart,” and she said to her brothers:

“Let us go before our hearts are melted utterly.” The swans went over the Moyle then, and they were lamenting, and Fionnuala said:

“There is joy and feasting in the house of Lir to-night, but his four children are without a roof to cover them.”

“It is a poor garment our feathers make when the wind blows through them: often we had the purple of kings’ children on us.

“We are cold to-night, and it is a cold bed the sea makes: often we had beds of down with broidered coverings.

“Often we drank mead from gold cups in the house of our father; now we have the bitterness of the sea and the harshness of sand in our mouths.

“It is weariness–O a great weariness–to be flying over the Moyle; without rest, without cornpanions, without comfort.

“I am thinking of Angus to-night: he has the laughter of joy about him for ever.

“I am thinking to-night of Mananaun, and of white blossoms on silver branches.

“O swans, my brothers, I am thinking of beauty, and we are flying away from it for ever.”

The swans did not see the company of the Faery Host again. They swam on the cold stormy sea of the Moyle, and they were there till three hundred years were ended.

“It is time for us to go,” said Fionnuala, “we must seek the Western Sea.”

The swans shook the water of the Moyle from their feathers and stretched out their wings to fly.

When they were come to the Western Sea there was sorrow on them, for the sea was wilder and colder and more terrible than the Moyle. The swans were on that sea and flying over it for three hundred years, and all that time they had no comfort, and never once did they hear the foot-fall of hound or horse or see their faery kinsfolk.

When the time was ended, the swans rose out of the water and cried joyfully to each other:

“Let us go home now, the time is ended!”

They flew swiftly, and yet they were all day flying before they came to the place where Lir had his dwelling; when they looked down they saw no light in the house, they heard no music, no sound of voices. The many-coloured house was desolate and all the beauty was gone from it; the white hounds and the brightmaned horses were gone, and all the beautiful glad-hearted folk of the Sidhe.

“Every place is dark to us!” said Conn. “Look at the hills!”

The swans looked at the hills they had known, and every hill and mountain they could see was dark and sorrowful: not one had a star-heart of light, not one had a flame-crown, not one had music pulsing through it like a great breath.

“O Aodh, and Conn, and Fiacra,” said Fionnuala, “beauty is gone from the earth: we have no home now!”

The swans hid themselves in the long dank grass, till morning. They did not speak to each other; they did not make a lamentation; they were silent with heaviness of grief. When they felt the light of morning they rose in the air and flew in wide circles seeking their kinsfolk. They saw the dwellings of strangers, and a strange people tending flocks and sowing corn on plains where the Tuatha De Danaan had hunted white stags with horns of silver.

“The grief of all griefs has come upon us!” said Fionnuala. “It is no matter now whether we have the green earth under us or bitter sea-waves: it is little to us now that we are in swans’ bodies.”

Her brothers had no words to answer her; they were dumb with grief till Aodh said:

“Let us fly far from the desolate house and the dead hills. Let us go where we can hear the thunder of the Western Sea.”

The swans spread their wings and flew westward till they came to a little reedy lake, and they alit there and sheltered themselves, for they had no heart to go farther.

They took no notice of the days and often they did not know whether it was the moon or the sun that was in the sky, but they sang to each other, and that was all the comfort they had.

One day, while Fionnuala was singing, a man of the stranger-race drew near to listen. He had the aspect of one who had endured much hardship. His garments were poor and ragged. His hair was bleached by sun and rain. As he listened to the song a light came into his eyes and his whole face grew beautiful. When the song ended he bowed himself before the swans and said:

“White Swans of the Wilderness, ye have flown over many lands. Tell me, have ye seen aught of Tir-nan-Oge, where no one loses youth; or Tir-na-Moe, where all that is beautiful lives for ever; or Moy-Mell, that is so honey-sweet with blossom?”

“Have we seen Tir-nan-Oge? It is our own country! We are the children of Lir the King of it.”

“Where is that country? How may one reach it? Tell me! “

“Ochone! It is not anywhere on the ridge of the world. Our father’s house is desolate! “

“Ye are lying, to make sport for yourselves! Tir-nan-Oge cannot perish–rather would the whole world fall to ruin!

“O would we had anything but the bitterness of truth on our tongues!” said Aodh. “Would we could see even one leaf from those trees with shining branches where the many-coloured birds used to sing! Ochone! Ochone! for all the beauty that has perished with Tir-nan-Oge!”

The stranger cried out a loud sorrowful cry and threw himself on the ground. His fingers tore at the roots of the grass. His body writhed and trembled with grief.

The children of Lir wondered at him, and Aodh said:

“Put away this fierceness of grief and take consolation to yourself. We, with so much heavier sorrow, have not lamented after this fashion.”

The stranger raised himself: his eyes blazed like the eyes of a hunted animal when it turns on the hunters.

“How could your sorrow be equal to mine? Ye have dwelt in Tir-nan-Oge; ye have ridden horses whiter than the snow of one night and swifter than the storm-wind; ye have gathered flowers in the Plain of Honey. But I have never seen it–never once! Look at me! I was born a king! I have become an outcast, the laughing stock of slaves! I am Aibric the wanderer!–I have given all–all, for the hope of finding that country. It is gone now–it is not anywhere on the round of the world!”

“Stay with us,” said Fiacra, “and we will sing for you, and tell you stories of Tir-nan-Oge.”

“I cannot stay with you! I cannot listen to your songs! I must go on seeking; seeking;

seeking while I live. When I am dead my dreams will not torment me. I shall have my fill of quietness then.”

“Can you not believe us when we tell you that Tir-nan-Oge is gone like the white mists of morning? It is nowhere.”

“It is in my heart, and in my mind, and in my soul! It burns like fire! It drives me like a tireless wind! I am going. Farewell!

“Stay!” cried Aodh, “we will go with you. There is nothing anywhere for us now but brown earth and drifting clouds and wan waters. Why should we not go from place to place as the wind goes, and see each day new fields of reeds, new forest trees, new mountains? O, we shall never see the star-heart in any mountain again! “

“The mountains are dead,” said Conn.

“The mountains are not dead,” said Aibric. “They are dark and silent, but they are not dead. I know. I have cried to them in the night and laid my forehead against theirs and felt the beating of their mighty hearts. They are wiser than the wisest druid, more tender than the tenderest mother. It is they who keep the world alive.”

“O,” said Fionnuala, ” if the mountains are indeed alive let us go to them; let us tell them our sorrowful story. They will pity us and we shall not be utterly desolate.”

Aibric and the swans journeyed together, and at dusk they came to a tall beautiful mountain–the mountain that is called Nephin, in the West.

It looked dark and sombre against the fading sky, and. the sight of it, discrowned and silent, struck chill to the hearts of our wild swans: they turned away their heads to hide the tears in their eyes. But Aibric stretched his hands to the mountain and cried out:

“O beautiful glorious Comrade, pity us! Tir-nan-Oge is no more, and Moy-Mell is lost for ever! Welcome the children of Lir, for we have nothing left but you and the earth of Ireland!”

Then a wonder happened.

The star-heart of Nephin shone out–magnificent–tremulous–coloured like a pale amethyst.

The swans cried out to each other:

“The mountain is alive! Beauty has come again to the earth! Aibric, you have given us back the Land of Youth!”

A delicate faery music trembled and died away and was born again in the still evening air, and more and more the radiance deepened in the heart of Nephin. The swans began to sing most sweetly and joyously, and at the sound of that singing the star-heart showed in mountain after mountain till every mountain in Ireland pulsed and shone.

“Crown yourselves, mountains!” said Aodh, “that we may know the De Danaans are still alive and Lir’s house is builded now where old age cannot wither it! “

The mountains sent up great jewelled rays of light so that each one was crowned with a rainbow; and when the Children of Lir saw that splendour they had no more thought of the years they had spent over dark troublous waters, and they said to each other:

“Would we could hear the sound of the little bell that rings for prayers, and feel our swan-bodies fall from us!”

“I know the sound of a bell that rings for prayers,” said Aibric, ” and I will bring you where you can hear it. I will bring you to Saint Kemoc and you will hear the sound of his bell.”

“Let us go,” said the swans, and Aibric brought them to the Saint. The Saint held up his hands and blessed God when he saw them, and he besought them to remain a while and to tell him the story of their wanderings. He brought them into his little church and they were there with him in peace and happiness relating to him the wonders of the Land of Youth. It came to pass then that word reached the wife of King Largnen concerning the swans: she asked the king to get them for her, and because she demanded them with vehemence, the king journeyed to the Church of Saint Kemoc to get the swans.

When he was come, Saint Kemoc refused to give him the swans and Largnen forced his way into the church to take them. Now, he was a king of the North, and his wife was a queen of the South, and it was ordained that such a king should put an end to the power of Aoifa’s spell.

He came to the altar, and the swans were close to it. He put his hands on the swans to take them by force. When he touched them the swan-feathers dwindled and shrivelled and became as fine dust, and the bodies of Lir’s children became as a handful of dust, but their spirits attained to freedom and joined their kinsfolk in the Land-of-the-Ever-Living.

It was Aibric who remembered the story of the children of Lir, because he loved them. He told the story to the people of Ireland, and they were so fond of the story and had such pity for Lir’s children that they made a law that no one was to hurt a wild swan, and when they saw a swan flying they would say:

“My blessing with you, white swan, for the sake of Lir’s children!”

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The Children Of Lir

– Katharine Tynan (1861-1931) From: Twenty One Poems by Katharine Tynan: Selected by W. B. Yeats

Out upon the sand-dunes thrive the coarse long grasses;

Herons standing knee-deep in the brackish pool;

Overhead the sunset fire and flame amasses

And the moon to eastward rises pale and cool.

Rose and green around her, silver-gray and pearly,

Chequered with the black rooks flying home to bed;

For, to wake at daybreak, birds must couch them early:

And the day’s a long one since the dawn was red.

On the chilly lakelet, in that pleasant gloaming,

See the sad swans sailing: they shall have no rest:

Never a voice to greet them save the bittern’s booming

Where the ghostly sallows sway against the West.

‘Sister,’ saith the gray swan, ‘Sister, I am weary,’

Turning to the white swan wet, despairing eyes;

‘O’ she saith, ‘my young one! O’ she saith, ‘my dearie !’

Casts her wings about him with a storm of cries.

Woe for Lir’s sweet children whom their vile stepmother

Glamoured with her witch-spells for a thousand years;

Died their father raving, on his throne another,

Blind before the end came from the burning tears.

Long the swans have wandered over lake and river;

Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir:

Gone and long forgotten like a dream of fever:

But the swans remember the sweet days that were.

Hugh, the black and white swan with the beauteous feathers,

Fiachra, the black swan with the emerald breast,

Conn, the youngest, dearest, sheltered in all weathers,

Him his snow-white sister loves the tenderest.

These her mother gave her as she lay a-dying;

To her faithful keeping; faithful hath she been,

With her wings spread o’er them when the tempest’s crying,

And her songs so hopeful when the sky’s serene.

Other swans have nests made ‘mid the reeds and rushes,

Lined with downy feathers where the cygnets sleep

Dreaming, if a bird dreams, till the daylight blushes,

Then they sail out swiftly on the current deep.

With the proud swan-father, tall, and strong, and stately,

And the mild swan-mother, grave with household cares,

All well-born and comely, all rejoicing greatly:

Full of honest pleasure is a life like theirs.

But alas ! for my swans with the human nature,

Sick with human longings, starved for human ties,

With their hearts all human cramped to a bird’s stature.

And the human weeping in the bird’s soft eyes.

Never shall my swans build nests in some green river,

Never fly to Southward in the autumn gray,

Rear no tender children, love no mates for ever;

Robbed alike of bird’s joys and of man’s are they.

Babbles Conn the youngest, ‘Sister, I remember

At my father’s palace how I went in silk,

Ate the juicy deer-flesh roasted from the ember,

Drank from golden goblets my child’s draught of milk.

Once I rode a-hunting, laughed to see the hurry,

Shouted at the ball-play, on the lake did row;

You had for your beauty gauds that shone so rarely.’

‘Peace’ saith Fionnuala, ‘that was long ago.’

‘Sister,’ saith Fiachra, ‘well do I remember

How the flaming torches lit the banquet-hall,

And the fire leapt skyward in the mid-December,

And among the rushes slept our staghounds tall.

By our father’s right hand you sat shyly gazing,

Smiling half and sighing, with your eyes a-glow,

As the bards sang loudly all your beauty praising. ‘

‘Peace,’ saith Fionnuala, ‘that was long ago.’

‘Sister,’ then saith Hugh ‘most do I remember

One I called my brother, one, earth’s goodliest man,

Strong as forest oaks are where the wild vines clamber,

First at feast or hunting, in the battle’s van.

Angus, you were handsome, wise, and true, and tender,

Loved by every comrade, feared by every foe:

Low, low, lies your beauty, all forgot your splendour.’

‘Peace,’ saith Fionnuala, ‘that was long ago.’

Dews are in the clear air and the roselight paling;

Over sands and sedges shines the evening star;

And the moon’s disc lonely high in heaven is sailing;

Silvered all the spear-heads of the rushes are.

Housed warm are all things as the night grows colder,

Water-fowl and sky-fowl dreamless in the nest;

But the swans go drifting, drooping wing and shoulder

Cleaving the still water where the fishes rest.

—–

The Children of Lir

– Sam Burnside

Wild things are out there, riding the dark waves

They dress the black rock of Carricknarone

Their shadows confound the stronghold of the White Field

An still, neither bell nor call to marriage breaks the silence

Aed

“After the change, for many days and many nights,

“the sea bubbled and boiled beneath my chest

“the air was afire with tongues of scarlet and yellow

“and breath came shallow and fast and score to me.”

Fiacra

“We are no wild things; we are

Finola and Aed, Fiacra and Conn. Yet it is known

“We have travelled long on salt weighted wings;

“We have long dined off sea salt and tear salt.”

Finola

“I find the world careless of its treasures

“it leaves behind in pool and in cove

“Coverlets of foamy lace. Under a full moon,

“When fish lie deep, I dream, bedecked in finery, I dance.”

Conn

“Always, at day’s break I draw near the smell of loam and leaf;

“the smell of damp grass draws me.

“Always at day’s end I am drawn to the sea’s land-march;

“the scent of cut grass and crushed wild parsley is dear to me.”

—–

Children of Lir

– George William (“A. E.”) Russell (1867–1935). Collected Poems by A.E. 1913.

We woke from our sleep in the bosom where cradled together we lay:

The love of the dark hidden Father went with us upon our way.

And gay was the breath in our being, and never a sorrow or fear

Was on us as, singing together, we flew from the infinite Lir.

Through nights lit with diamond and sapphire we raced with the children of dawn,

A chain that was silver and golden linked spirit to spirit, my swan,

Till day in the heavens passed over, and still grew the beat of our wings,

And the breath of the darkness enfolded to teach us unspeakable things.

Yet lower we fell and for comfort our pinionless spirits had now

The leaning of bosom to bosom, the lifting of lip unto brow.

Though chained to the earth yet we mourned not the loss of our heaven above,

But passed from the vision of beauty to the fathomless being of love.

Still gay is the breath in our being, we wait for the bell branch to ring

To call us away to the Father, and then we will rise on the wing,

And fly through the twilights of time till the home lights of heaven appear;

Our spirits through love and through longing made one in the infinite Lir.

Friday: Off to take on the task of the day.

I hope this finds you in some place of harmony.

I am struggling a bit with that myself right now.

Todays’ edition features a Portland fixture, Timbuktunes.

We have some nice poetry, and some fun links.

Have a good weekend…

The Solstice is nearly upon us.

Blessings,

G

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On The Menu:

The Links

Twisted Kitty!

Timbuktunes

The Poetry of Lao Tzu

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The Links:

Saint Paul Found?

Henry Rollins Speaks His Mind!

Digging dog’s archaeological find

Japanese Researchers Extract Vanilla From…

Wing Tunes!

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File Under: Twisted Kitty!

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Timbuktunes…

I will let you in on one of the best kept secrets of the best city on the left coast: Timbuktunes. Again, my friend Morgan introduced me to this most delightful of music stores. I walked in; and I found musics from around the world I had no idea about.

It is a great place for all kinds of music. World, American Root genres, avant-garde, classical, jazz and experimental musics…

As Andy Hosch, the owner and founder of Timbuktunes says: “Timbuktunes hopes that through sharing the love of music, it can help introduce people to new worlds of sound. World music can help to combat the xenophobia that plagues our society. We can celebrate cultural diversity through sound. Music can be highly instrumental in breaking down cultural barriers. In music, there exists a common thread of humanity that transcends political, social and religious differences.”

You feel this when you come in the door. Posters, material on the walls celebrate a vibrant world culture. Music from Andalusia, Malay, China, South America…

It is a great place to find what you may not know that you needed/wanted to hear…

Some suggestions from Timbuktunes for music:

Rachid Taha (Algeria) /Diwan 2 I actually obtained this the day it came in. Excellent. If you like his work “Bara Bara”, you’ll find this album very satisfying. The fusion elements in the music are exceptional, as well as the use of various languages. A wonderful, danceable melange. Recommended!

Listening Booths…

Rahim AlHaj (Iraq) / When the Soul is Settled: Music of Iraq

As received from his teachers and transformed by his considerable musical gifts and life experience, Rahim Alhaj carries on a significant strand of Iraqi musical tradition toward future generations – in his own way, in his own time. Alhaj studied music in Baghdad with Munir Bashir and other great teacher-performers. His extended improvisations on the oud, accompanied on Near Eastern percussion by Souhail Kaspar, include uniquely Iraqi pieces. Together they represent a proud tradition’s meeting with modernity.”

Tartit / Abacabok (Mali)

“As others have overtaken them, it’s easy to forget that Tartit were pioneers among the new generation of desert blues ensembles. But there’s a grave celebration in their mostly acoustic sound that’s so thoroughly rooted in both place and tradition, with singers backed largely just by drums and handclaps, with a one-string fiddle and three-string lute for melody. This is what they offer on the opener, “Tabey Tarate,” with male and female voices trading off in call and response over the rhythm. Abacabok sounds wonderfully spontaneous, as if they’d sat down with the producer and suddenly decided to make the record on the spot, drafting in occasional guests to offer change-ups, as electric guitar and bass do on “Ansari,” where the electricity brings them very close to Tinariwen. But that seems like a commercial concession; it’s when they’re most stripped-down that they shine brightest. Even a luminary like Afel Bocoum doesn’t do anything to enhance the purity of their sound. It might seem too stark for some ears, but there’s genuine beauty here.” ~ Chris Nickson

One Night @ the 1001, Vol 1: Moroccan Music Recorded by Brion Gysin

“Reissue of this long unavailable 1998 album, with new cover artwork. As surrealist painter, poet, novelist, audio experimenter, inventor of the Dream Machine, and favorite collaborator of William S. Burroughs, Brion Gysin would influence the most creative minds of the ’60s and ’70s. In 1954, Gysin launched his 1001 Nights club in Tangier. In his mythic restaurant that stayed opened only a few months, Gysin invited the best traditional Moroccan musicians to perform all night long. The first CD of this document is what the lucky Western and Moroccan customers of the interzone could hear at the time: a varied selection of pure traditional and trance music (along with other Joujouka master musicians, Bachir Attar’s father). Joujouka utilizes the technique of circular breathing backed by trance-inducing rhythms and sounds from the rhaita, reed flutes and small drums. A decade before Brian Jones brought this timeless music to the world, this is a unique document recorded by the inventor of the cut-up method himself, digitally remastered by Brion’s recordings heir Ramuntcho Matta and includes Paul Bowles’ exclusive introduction. The second volume of this double CD document is based on a spoken word tape called Dilaloo that is a precise description — written and read in 1956 by Brion Gysin “Master Brahim” himself — of an initiation ceremony in the village of Jajouka. Ramuntcho added a quiet electronic music background generated by a computer algorithm program that he created in Gysin’s random permutative spirit. Between the music of trance and the raw cry of being, we see the process of transformation at work. Trust your bones and put your faith in the Third Mind! Rare archives filed in the Aural Documents collection.”

Andy Hosch – Timbuktunes Founder

Master Musicians of Joujouka (Morocco) / Boujeloud

“The Master Musicians of Joujouka are often credited with being the first “world music” group. The Joujouka music for Boujeloud, or the Father of Skins, is frantic and has several movements which would equate to a symphony or the score of an opera if it were European classical music. The festival and ritual originate in the worship of the God Pan. In 1994, Frank Rynne began a two year long project recording the Master Musicians of Joujouka in their village. Sub Rosa released two CDs from these recordings, Joujouka Black Eyes and Sufi to critical acclaim in 1995 and 1996, respectively. This is the third and final CD from these intimate recordings to be released by Sub Rosa. Boujeloud contains several different renditions of the ritual music Boujeloud. Each version has a widely different character which is determined by the combination of musicians and the spontaneous improvisation of the lead players. Tracks 1, 2, 6, and 8 are flute versions from various combinations of the Masters, while track 3 features the intense sound of the massed rhaitas playing the ritual. There are also songs which are used in lead up to the ritual, and songs that the musicians use to drive Boujeloud/Pan out of the village. The musicians recorded on this CD span four generation of Joujouka masters. Master musician Mujehid Mujdoubi was 83 years old when he recorded his music for this CD: though he had lost the ability to play the double-reed rhaita, Mujehid’s lira playing fully demonstrates the musical dexterity which seventy years of playing honed to perfection. The core group who still live and play in the village are widely represented on this CD. The different versions of “Boujeloud” and the related songs allow the listener to experience the melodies and the improvisational nature of Joujouka music played live in its natural setting. These recordings are an intimate and unique experience.”

Visit Timbuktunes World Music site if you are curious, or would like to order. The Website is located at: WWW.Timbuktunes.com

If you are in Portland and want to stop by…

Timbuktunes World Music is located at:

4726-B SE Hawthorne / Portland, OR 97215 / (503) 239-0179

<>

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The Poetry of Lao Tzu

Beauty and ugliness have one origin.

Name beauty, and ugliness is.

Recognizing virtue recognizes evil.

Is and is not produce one another.

The difficult is born in the easy,

long is defined by short, the high by the low.

Instrument and voice achieve one harmony.

Before and after have places.

That is why the sage can act without effort

and teach without words,

nurture things without possessing them,

and accomplish things without expecting merit:

only one who makes no attempt to possess it

cannot lose it.

—-

The Tao that can be trodden is not the enduring and unchanging Tao.

The name that can be named is not the enduring and unchanging name.

(Conceived of as) having no name,

it is the Originator of heaven and earth; (conceived of as) having a name,

it is the Mother of all things.

Always without desire we must be found,

If its deep mystery we would sound;

But if desire always within us be,

Its outer fringe is all that we shall see.

Under these two aspects, it is really the same;

but as development takes place, it receives the different names.

Together we call them the Mystery.

Where the Mystery is the deepest is the gate of all that

is subtle and wonderful.

—

The Tao is (like) the emptiness of a vessel;

and in our employment of it we must be on our guard against all fullness.

How deep and unfathomable it is, as if it were the Honoured Ancestor of

all things!

We should blunt our sharp points, and unravel the complications of things;

we should attempt our brightness, and bring ourselves into agreement with the obscurity of others.

How pure and still the Tao is, as if it would ever so continue!

I do not know whose son it is. It might appear to have been before God.

—

The valley spirit dies not, aye the same;

The female mystery thus do we name.

Its gate, from which at first they issued forth,

Is called the root from which grew heaven and earth.

Long and unbroken does its power remain,

Used gently, and without the touch of pain.

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