Gwyllm.com

Terence McKenna: Who’s the boss?

“Animals are something invented by plants to move seeds around. An extremely yang solution to a peculiar problem which they faced.”

I hope you enjoy this entry… a bit of art history of a long forgotten master, and some comments from another more contemporary master of words… A taste more of Hafiz and some glorious art.

The weather has finally cooled out a bit here in Portland, finally…

I am hoping for some pictures and commentary on the SheShamans Conference. If you have a story, pics .. please let me know.

Happy Hump Day!

Gwyllm

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On The Menu:

The Links

The Silent Temple

Just Go To Sleep

The Poetry of Hafiz…

Terence McKenna: Evolution Now

The Art is by: Frederick Arthur Bridgman

Biography: Tuskegee, Alabama, 1847 – Rouen, France, 1928

Frederick Bridgman was born in Alabama, the son of an itinerant doctor from Massachusetts. His father died when Frederick was only three years old and, sensing the north-south tensions prior to the Civil War, his mother decided to return with her two sons to Boston in the north. However they soon moved to New York where Frederick, already showing artistic talent, joined the American Banknote Company as an apprentice engraver. But in spite of his progress and the opportunities for rapid promotion, he preferred to dedicate his time to painting, taking evening drawing classes first at the Brooklyn Art Association, then at the National Academy of Design. It is recounted that he even rose at 4 o’clock every morning to paint before going to work.

Bridgman’s studies soon produced results and in 1865 and again in 1866 he exhibited works at the Brooklyn Art Association. Encouraged by his success he gave up his job and in 1866, with the sponsorship of a group of Brooklyn businessmen, set out for Paris. However he soon found himself in Pont-Avent, the small village in Brittany which was home to an American artist colony under the charismatic leadership of Robert Wylie (1839-1877) who painted dramatic rural landscapes. He stayed there for two summers, thinking also of becoming a landscape painter like Wylie.

In the autumn of 1866 Bridgman joined the atelier of Jean-Léon Gérôme in Paris. But entry was not easy since, officially, the ateliers of the École des Beaux-Arts were all full. His friend the painter Thomas Eakins went to great lengths pulling strings to enable entry of a group of American students, amongst whom were Eakins himself, Earl Shinn, the future Orientalist Harry Humphrey Moore, and Bridgman. He remained there for four years, spending his summers at Pont-Aven with Wylie.

Bridgman was soon exhibiting at the Paris Salons and his A Provincial Circus had much success at the Salon of 1870, so much so that he then sent it to America for exhibition at the Brooklyn Art Association. At this time he also had one of his canvases engraved for reproduction in the journal Le Monde Illustré and began to sell some of his work to the dealer Goupil, Gérome’s father-in-law.

He spent the period of the Franco-Prussian War and the Paris Commune painting rural scenes in Pont-Aven and in Spain. The winter of 1872-3 he spent in Spain and North Africa accompanied by an unknown English painter friend. Starting first in Tangiers, which he found picturesque but was apalled by the poverty, they quickly moved on, first by boat to Oran, then by train to Algeria – a country he found more conducive. There they lodged at a hotel in Biskra whilst renting an atelier in the poor quarter. In the evenings they sampled the local nightlife and their afternoons they spent exploring the surrounding villages and oases on horseback. Here they found the local colour they were looking for – the crowds in the markets, the belly-dancers, even witnessing a fencing duel between two soldiers of the Biskra regiment. While there Bridgman worked assiduously, returning to Paris in the spring of 1873 with numerous painted canvases, oil sketches, pencil and ink drawings, together with some costumes and accessories he had used in his atelier.

The favourable response to his Algerian scenes in Paris led him to plan another visit to North Africa the following winter. Accompanying him this time was Charles Sprague Pearce, a student of Bonnat, whom he had met in the south of France the previous winter. Arriving in Cairo in December 1873, they worked in the city producing numerous sketches of the Islamic monuments, but also the street life, which was Bridgman’s main inspiration. Then, encouraged by an enthusiastic English couple they had met at the opera, they set off to travel up the Nile, a journey lasting three-and-a-half months. They sailed as far as the Second Cataract and visited Abu-Simbel. Bridgman brought back to Paris over three hundred sketches and studies and yet more studio accessories.

In Paris he rented an atelier in the same building as Pearce and another American, E H Blashfield. There he commenced painting several ambitious reconstructions of antique Egyptian life, seeming to have forgotten his original ambition of being a landscape artist of the Bretan or Algerian countryside! The first, The Mummy’s Funeral, was exhibited at the Salon of 1877 and was remarkably successful, becoming an exhibition favourite. It was engraved, copied and finally bought by the proprietor of the New York Herald, James Gordon Bennett. His reputation then made, he married a young heiress from Boston, Florence Mott Baker.

The peak of his career probably came with the mounting of a personal exhibition displaying over three hundred of his works at the American Art Gallery, the major innovation of this exhibition being the inclusion of a large number of his sketches besides the usual new paintings and prints of older works. His work was highly praised not only for the variety of subjects but also the fine quality of their execution, their frankness, fidelity, freshness and beauty. Following this success, Bridgman was elected a member of the National Academy of Design.

In the winter of 1885-6, Bridgman returned to Algiers with his wife, not just to work but because of his wife’s failing health (she was showing signs of a hereditary neurological illness) – the climate there was much kinder and life more peaceful. However he could also return to his favourite compositional subject – daily Algerian life. He lodged his wife and family at a hotel and obtained for himself the services of a guide, Belkassem, who found him a place to work in the Casbah. It was the tiny home of a widow called Baia who lived there with her seven year old daughter, Zohr. He worked from a shady corner of their terrace from which vantage point he could paint both domestic scenes and daily life on the street. He became a good friend of the family and carried on a correspondence with Baia long after his return to France.

In 1888 Bridgman published a long fully illustrated account of his stay in Algiers in Harper’s Monthly Magazine. It was taken from his larger, more complete publication of the same year entitled Winters in Algiers which also described his previous stays in the city and which was sumptuously illustrated with wood engravings of his drawings and paintings.

The next decade was a period of uninterrupted success. He was honoured with having five works displayed at the 1889 Universal Exhibition in Paris. The following year a personal exhibition, similar to that of 1881, of about 400 of his pictures took place at Fifth Avenue Galleries in New York. When it moved on to Chicago it contained less than a hundred of these works – evidence of significant sales, enabling him to significantly expand his Parisian home on the Boulevard Malesherbes. Its extravagant decor in classical and oriental style led the artist John Singer Sargent to say that it was one of the two sights worth visiting Paris to see; the other being the Eiffel tower!

There he continued to paint even more exotic North African scenes. However, feeling a need for new subject matter, he later made an attempt at a symbolist style, even turning to society portraiture, and then, in the 1890′s, returning to historical and biblical themes just like his mentor Gérôme. But non of this later work was as successful as his Orientalist compositions of the previous decade.

In 1901 Bridgman’s wife, Florence, finally succumbed to her lengthy illness and died. Three years after this he married again, at the age of 54, to Marthe Yaeger. The marriage was to be long and happy.

In 1907 he bacame an Officer of the French Legion of Honour. However after the First World War, his popularity declined and he moved out of Paris to Lyons-la-Forêt in Normandy where, although continuing to paint, he died in 1928 almost forgotten by his former admiring public.

Along with his fellow-countryman Edwin Lord Weeks, Frederick Arthur Bridgman is considered to be one of the doyens of the American Orientalist school.

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The Links

UN Criticises British Decision to Downgrade Cannabis

Excellent Commentary…!@

‘Peter Pan’ copyright holder objects to erotic Wendy books

Animatronic Flesh Shoe [2004 – 2005]

Moore….

prototype VOCODER of german 70´s Electronic Pioneers

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The Silent Temple

Shoichi was a one-eyed teacher of Zen, sparkling with enlightenment. He taught his disciples in Tofuku temple.

Day and night the whole temple stood in silence. There was no sound at all.

Even the reciting of sutras was abolished by the teacher. His pupils had nothing to do but meditate.

When the master passed away, an old neighbor heard the ringing of bells and the recitation of sutras. Then she knew Shoichi had gone.

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<img width='305' height='400' border='0' hspace='5' align='left' src='http://www.earthrites.org/turfing2/uploads/08620Bridgman20J207.jpg' alt='' /

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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.”

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The Poetry of Hafiz…

TEACHINGS OF HAFIZ

IV

SLEEP on thine eyes, bright as narcissus flowers,

Falls not in vain

And not in vain thy hair’s soft radiance showers

Ah, not in vain!

Before the milk upon thy lips was dry,

I said: “Lips where the salt of wit doth lie,

Sweets shall be mingled with thy mockery,

And not in vain!”

Thy mouth the fountain where Life’s waters flow,

A dimpled well of tears is set below,

And death lies near to life thy lovers know,

But know in vain!

God send to thee great length of happy days

Lo, not for his own life thy servant prays;

Love’s dart in thy bent brows the Archer lays,

Nor shoots in vain.

Art thou with grief afflicted, with the smart

Of absence, and is bitter toil thy part?

Thy lamentations and thy tears, oh Heart,

Are not in vain

Last night the wind from out her village blew,

And wandered all the garden alleys through,

Oh rose, tearing thy bosom’s robe in two;

‘Twas not in vain!

And Hafiz, though thy heart within thee dies,

Hiding love’s agony from curious eyes,

Ah, not in vain thy tears, not vain thy sighs,

Not all in vain

TEACHINGS OF HAFIZ

V

OH Turkish maid of Shiraz! in thy hand

If thou’lt take my heart, for the mole on thy cheek

I would barter Bokhara and Samarkand.

Bring, Cup-bearer, all that is left of thy wine!

In the Garden of Paradise vainly thou’lt seek

The lip of the fountain of Ruknabad,

And the bowers of Mosalla where roses twine.

They have filled the city with blood and broil,

Those soft-voiced Lulis for whom we sigh;

As Turkish robbers fall on the spoil,

They have robbed and plundered the peace of my heart.

Dowered is my mistress, a beggar am I;

What shall I bring her? a beautiful face

Needs nor jewel nor mole nor the tiring-maid’s art.

Brave tales of singers and wine relate,

The key to the Hidden ’twere vain to seek;

No wisdom of ours has unlocked that gate,

And locked to our wisdom it still shall be.

But of Joseph’s beauty the lute shall speak;

And the minstrel knows that Zuleika came forth,

Love parting the curtains of modesty.

When thou spokest ill of thy servant ’twas well–

God pardon thee! for thy words were sweet;

Not unwelcomed the bitterest answer fell

From lips where the ruby and sugar lay.

But, fair Love, let good counsel direct thy feet;

Far dearer to youth than dear life itself

Are the warnings of one grown wise–and grey!

The song is sung and the pearl is strung

Come hither, oh Hafiz, and sing again!

And the listening Heavens above thee hung

Shall loose o’er thy verse the Pleiades’ chain.

TEACHINGS OF HAFIZ

VI

A FLOWER-TINTED cheek, the flowery close

Of the fair earth, these are enough for me

Enough that in the meadow wanes and grows

The shadow of a graceful cypress-tree.

I am no lover of hypocrisy;

Of all the treasures that the earth can boast,

A brimming cup of wine I prize the most–

This is enough for me!

To them that here renowned for virtue live,

A heavenly palace is the meet reward;

To me, the drunkard and the beggar, give

The temple of the grape with red wine stored!

Beside a river seat thee on the sward;

It floweth past-so flows thy life away,

So sweetly, swiftly, fleets our little day–

Swift, but enough for me!

Look upon all the gold in the world’s mart,

On all the tears the world hath shed in vain

Shall they not satisfy thy craving heart?

I have enough of loss, enough of gain;

I have my Love, what more can I obtain?

Mine is the joy of her companionship

Whose healing lip is laid upon my lip–

This is enough for me!

I pray thee send not forth my naked soul

From its poor house to seek for Paradise

Though heaven and earth before me God unroll,

Back to thy village still my spirit flies.

And, Hafiz, at the door of Kismet lies

No just complaint-a mind like water clear,

A song that swells and dies upon the ear,

These are enough for thee!

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Terence McKenna: Evolution Now

“DMT is a pseudo-neurotransmitter that when ingested and allowed to come to rest in the synapses of the brain, allows one to see sound, so that one can use the voice to produce not musical compositions, but pictoral and visual compositions. This, to my mind, indicates that we’re on the cusp of some kind of evolutionary transition in the language-forming area, so that we are going to go from a language that is heard to a language that is seen, through a shift in interior processing. The language will still be made of sound but it will be processed as the carrier of the visual impression. This is actually being done by shamans in the Amazon. The songs they sing sound as they do in order to look a certain way. They are not musical compositions as we’re used to thinking of them. They are pictoral art that is caused by audio signals.”

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Talk Soon!

G

(Luke Brown – Baphomet detail)

Think of this entry as a poem of various elements… from the words, to the pictures to the flow of it all.

A very warm day again. Melting. I am challenged by the heat, being by nature happiest in spring and fall.

Took the dog out for a walk, she was panting in a block or so… Rowan was with me. A hot wind, sirens in the distance (Is it the 4th yet?) and almost pitch dark in some areas. This is the kind of heat we get in August and September, but not June. Odd how it is changing so fast. I read today that Mr. Bush is now concerned about Global Warming. What a bright spot in our world, the Glorious Leader. A bit late, eh?

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On The Menu

The Links

A Meditation on our Mortality: Terence McKenna on Death

A Bit of Zen:Time to Die

Article: Tlazolteotl, the Filth Eater

Poetry: The Teachings of Hafiz…

A Final Note: Terence McKenna on The Perversion of Language…

A mashup of an entry, but I think enjoyable.

Cheers,

Gwyllm

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The Links

Band’s latest release: Blank discs/ The Residents of Course…

The Deadwood Drive

Clowns Sabotage Nuke Missile

The ‘fairy door’ phenomenon

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Terence McKenna on Death:

“Everything is a blessing and everything comes as a gift. And I don’t regret anything about the situation I find myself in. If psychedelics don’t ready you for the great beyond, then I don’t know what really does. And we’re all under sentence of ‘moving up’ at some point in our lives.

I have an absolute faith that the universe prefers joy and distills us with joy. That is what religion is trying to download to us, and this is what every moment of life is trying to do-if we can open to it. And we psychedelic people, if we could secure that death has no sting, we would have done the greatest service to suffering intelligence that can be done.

And I feel that death is close, and I feel strong because of this (psychedelic) community and these people and plants that it rests on, and the ancient practices that it rests on, and I am full of hope, not only for my own small problems, but for humanity in general.”

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Time to Die

Ikkyu, the Zen master, was very clever even as a boy. His teacher had a precious teacup, a rare antique. Ikkyu happened to break this cup and was greatly perplexed. Hearing the footsteps of his teacher, he held the pieces of the cup behind him. When the master appeared, Ikkyu asked: “Why do people have to die?”

“This is natural,” explained the older man. “Everything has to die and has just so long to live.”

Ikkyu, producing the shattered cup, added: “It was time for your cup to die.”

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Tlazolteotl, the Filth Eater

The ancient Aztecs of central Mexico appear to have been extremely puritanical towards sex and, for that matter, towards women in general. Aztec (or more properly, Mexica) society was a male-dominated warrior aristocracy, and according to the no-doubt somewhat biased Roman Catholic monks who collected the sole first-person accounts of Mexica life, women played almost no role in government and civil matters.

However, recognition of the undeniable power and mystery of the female was not absent in a people who worshipped more than 1600 separate deities. Ometeotl, the supreme creator in the Mesoamerican pantheon, in fact, possessed a dual nature—both male and female—and it was the constant tension within this dualistic concept that gave birth to all the other gods and goddesses, as well as everything and everyone in the Aztec world.

As in all primitive societies, the Aztecs also worshipped a goddess we may certainly call the Earth Mother. Terrifying yet alluring, bountiful and omni-present, the complex and contradictory ideas of birth and death, healing, romance and regeneration were encompassed by an amalgam of female deities that were all considered aspects of the eternal female. Tonantzin (“Our Holy Mother”) was literally The Earth, from which issued forth food in the form of the Aztec staple, maize. Toci (“Our Grandmother”) was the great healer who attended the infirm. Yohualticitl was the “The Midwife of the Night.” Mictecacihuatl was “The Lady of the Dead” who presided over Mictlan, the Land of the Dead, with her consort Mictlantecuhtli. Coatlicue (“She of the Serpent Skirt”) symbolized fecundity as well as death and regeneration. In spite of giving birth to both the fire god and the moon goddess and the stars as well as over 400 sons (20 times 20—to the Aztec mind, innumerable), Coatlicue was considered by the Aztecs to be a virgin (a strong plea for the concept of duality) and was extremely interesting therefore to the Catholic Conquistadors, who tended to compare her to the Virgin Mary.

And then of course there is Xochiquetzal (shak i KAY tsal), the flower queen, who is most reminiscent of Venus or Eve, a beautiful creature said to be the lover of Quetzalcoatl who was also the mother of twins (remember, Aztec duality) and the patroness of pregnancy and childbirth.

But the aspect of femininity, I believe, that is most revealing of the Aztec attitude towards sexuality and the role of woman in society must be Tlazolteotl (tla sol TE otl), “the Filth Eater.”

Here is woman as hag, as harridan, as primordial witch capable of both bringing insanity (through venereal disease) and curing it (with medicine), of inspiring sexual misconduct and, not so surprisingly, absolving it. Tlazolteotl is both the earth mother and goddess of fertility, the patron of physicians and the cruel, disease-bringing goddess of insanity.

In the extant Aztec (or more properly Mexica) codices, Tlazolteotl the Filth Eater is portrayed in the squatting position Aztec women used to give birth, often defecating unceremoniously. Excrement was symbolic of sexual lust for the Aztecs, and one may imagine with what vigor the Spanish monks of the New World examined this original concept.

Perhaps mirroring Mexica amazement at the protean nature of femininity, Tlazolteotl was considered an aspect of the moon and thus had four phases of existence: first as brilliant adolescent, cruel, unreliable, and yet absolutely delightful; then as young woman, sensual and adventuresome, though of dubious morality. It was in her third phase (corresponding perhaps also to menstruation and childbirth) that the witch goddess was able to absorb the evils committed by mankind and purify the soul IF the sinner had made a proper and honest confession to a priest. The confession, however, could only be made once, so it was usually late in life—beyond the years of sexual temptation—that a man sought redemption from the priest of Tlazolteotl. This aspect of the goddess also gave blessings to married life and apparently brought peace and fertility to the home. The third, forgiving, phase was comparatively short-lived and it was inevitably replaced by the monstrous disease-ridden creature who destroyed her lovers, stole wealth, and punished sexual excess.

The Aztecs evolved one of their more sinister customs in the name of Tlazolteotl: they forced girls into service as prostitutes in the barracks of young soldiers still in training. After they had been sufficiently “soiled” they were killed and their bodies were dumped unceremoniously into the marshes of Lake Texcoco where they became food for the birds, who of course aspired to the heavens.

It has been posited that Tlazolteotl represented a sort of Freudian fear of femininity in this extremely male-dominated society, as if—somewhere in the back of their minds— Aztec men dreaded the havoc their wives and sisters might wreak if they ever overcame their subservient roles in the culture. Their dualistic minds evolved a goddess both life-giving and cruel, the bringer of insanity yet provider of forgiveness.

One thing is certain: if Aztec thought can be understood only in terms of duality, an incapacity to reason in singularities, the multi-faceted aspects of Tlazolteotl stand as an important synthesis by ancient man (and woman): the collective Aztec mind related such disparate facts as birth, evolution, death, resurrection, water, plants, woman, and fertility to the moon.

And then they called it god.

The dust and the garbage

The works of the flesh

Were caused by Tlazolteotl,

She light them.

Tlazolteotl fomented them

And only she discharged.

She purified, she relieved

She washed, She bathed.

—The Codex Vaticanus B, Vatican Library, Rome

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Teachings of Hafiz

TEACHINGS OF HAFIZ I

ARISE, oh Cup-bearer, rise! and bring

To lips that are thirsting the bowl they praise,

For it seemed that love was an easy thing,

But my feet have fallen on difficult ways.

I have prayed the wind o’er my heart to fling

The fragrance of musk in her hair that sleeps

In the night of her hair-yet no fragrance stays

The tears of my heart’s blood my sad heart weeps.

Hear the Tavern-keeper who counsels you:

“With wine, with red wine your prayer carpet dye!”

There was never a traveller like him but knew

The ways of the road and the hostelry.

Where shall I rest, when the still night through,

Beyond thy gateway, oh Heart of my heart,

The bells of the camels lament and cry:

“Bind up thy burden again and depart!”

The waves run high, night is clouded with fears,

And eddying whirlpools clash and roar;

How shall my drowning voice strike their ears

Whose light-freighted vessels have reached the shore?

I sought mine own; the unsparing years

Have brought me mine own, a dishonoured name.

What cloak shall cover my misery o’er

When each jesting mouth has rehearsed my shame!

Oh Hafiz, seeking an end to strife,

Hold fast in thy mind what the wise have writ:

“If at last thou attain the desire of thy life,

Cast the world aside, yea, abandon it!”

TEACHINGS OF HAFIZ II

THE bird of gardens sang unto the rose,

New blown in the clear dawn: “Bow down thy head!

As fair as thou within this garden close,

Many have bloomed and died.” She laughed and said

“That I am born to fade grieves not my heart

But never was it a true lover’s part

To vex with bitter words his love’s repose.”

The tavern step shall be thy hostelry,

For Love’s diviner breath comes but to those

That suppliant on the dusty threshold lie.

And thou, if thou would’st drink the wine that flows

From Life’s bejewelled goblet, ruby red,

Upon thine eyelashes thine eyes shall thread

A thousand tears for this temerity.

Last night when Irem’s magic garden slept,

Stirring the hyacinth’s purple tresses curled,

The wind of morning through the alleys stept.

“Where is thy cup, the mirror of the world?

Ah, where is Love, thou Throne of Djem?” I cried.

The breezes knew not; but “Alas,” they sighed,

“That happiness should sleep so long!” and wept.

Not on the lips of men Love’s secret lies,

Remote and unrevealed his dwelling-place.

Oh Saki, come! the idle laughter dies

When thou the feast with heavenly wine dost grace.

Patience and wisdom, Hafiz, in a sea

Of thine own tears are drowned; thy misery

They could not still nor hide from curious eyes.

TEACHINGS OF HAFIZ III

WIND from the east, oh Lapwing of the day,

I send thee to my Lady, though the way

Is far to Saba, where I bid thee fly;

Lest in the dust thy tameless wings should lie,

Broken with grief, I send thee to thy nest,

Fidelity.

Or far or near there is no halting-place

Upon Love’s road-absent, I see thy face,

And in thine car my wind-blown greetings sound,

North winds and east waft them where they are bound,

Each morn and eve convoys of greeting fair

I send to thee.

Unto mine eyes a stranger, thou that art

A comrade ever-present to my heart,

What whispered prayers and what full meed of praise

I send to thee.

Lest Sorrow’s army waste thy heart’s domain,

I send my life to bring thee peace again,

Dear life thy ransom! From thy singers learn

How one that longs for thee may weep and bum

Sonnets and broken words, sweet notes and songs

I send to thee.

Give me the cup! a voice rings in mine cars

Crying: “Bear patiently the bitter years!

For all thine ills, I send thee heavenly grace.

God the Creator mirrored in thy face

Thine eyes shall see, God’s image in the glass

I send to thee.

Hafiz, thy praise alone my comrades sing;

Hasten to us, thou that art sorrowing!

A robe of honour and a harnessed steed

I send to thee.”

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and in passing:

Terence McKenna on the Perversion of Language

“I can’t preach Scientism cause I don’t believe it. I can’t preach Buddhism cause I can’t understand it. The only thing I can preach is the felt presence of immediate experience which for me came through the psychedelics, which are not drugs but plants. It’s a perversion of language to try to derail this thing into talk of drugs. There are spirits in the natural world that come to us in this way and so far as I can tell this is the only way that they come to us that is rapid enough for it to have an impact upon us as a global population.”

Hot as all get out in Portland in the 100F levels… ack.

A big congratulation to Diane Darling for her SheShamans Conference held this weekend in Geyserville California. I hear it was a success and went well surmounting all the challenges of launching a new project.

Diane Darling has been at the center of the Maelstrom of change and evolution in Northern California for quite awhile, often working quietly in the background, subverting the Post Dominant Paradigm with Acts of Intelligence, Beauty, and Love.

A big kiss out to her and all those who pulled this conference off! Good one Diane.

—

This edition deals mainly with Ska Pastora, or as some know her, Salvia Divinorum. She is a wily, wild one always willing to drop you into the deep abyss, and carry on a dialog as well…

This edition is dedicated to my Girls out in the garden. I promise to spritz you in the morning and afternoon, really I do.

Have a Wonderful Monday,

Gwyllm

On The Menu:

On The Soul – Plato

The Links

Excerpt: Psychedelics Are The Grease On The Wheels Of Eternity…. (Gwyllm)

Ska Pastora -Poems in Her Honour…

A group poetry effort from the Earth Rites Community.

All Art: Luke Brown….

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“Since, then, the soul is immortal and has been born many times, since it has seen all things both in this world and in the other, there is nothing it has not learnt. No wonder, then, that it is able to recall to mind goodness and other things, for it knew them beforehand. For, as all reality is akin and the soul has learnt all things, there is nothing to prevent a man who has recalled – or, as people say, learnt’ – only one thing from discovering all the rest for himself, if he will pursue the search with unwearying resolution. For on this showing all inquiry or learning is nothing but recollection.”

PLATO

Anamnesis (Greek) [from ana back again + mimnesco remember] Recollection; used by Plato in his theory of knowledge. He taught that the human elements of consciousness sprang from seeds of inherent knowledge in the soul, present in the mind as the result of past experiences of the egoic center or reincarnating ego. Thus the acquisition of knowledge is a process of reminiscence or recollection of former experiences.

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The Links:

Girl of the Century

Candidate for Psychedelic Therapy…

The Uncanny Valley

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Psychedelics Are The Grease On The Wheels Of Eternity…. (Gwyllm)

Psychedelics are the grease on the wheels of eternity, facilitating the move from form to form, by bringing all into a certain mindfulness.

These sacred substances, like us, are made up of light, flowing endlessly through all that is. They partake of the eternal, crystallized elements that refract and reflect the glory of beingness.

Psychedelics are devices that trigger the memory of what our true bodies are: vessels of eternity that we delight in if we allow flow to happen. These devices are not blind blundering mechanics, but discreet, intelligent agents, that can tune and manipulate aspects of our spirits and corporeal selves for our betterment.

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Ska Pastora -Poems in Her Honour…

A group poetry effort from the Earth Rites Community. We hope you enjoy!

WANTON DESIRE – Will Penna

INTRODUCTION: This is a piece I’ve already shared with several folks who were with me at the 1999 Breitenbush Salvia conference, some of whom also shared the session the poem refers to. The piece came to me spontaneously when I returned to my cabin after a session in the sanctuary in which we shared Sage Goddess Emerald Essence. I did not ‘craft’ it; it came to me into my journal as you read it now in one fell swoop or even more as one ‘swell foop.’

Our group had started out as just six of us but—as these things go— inexplicably and inextricably—grew to a dozen. Also, I approached the invitation to join with my two inner voices in conflict; and rather

than follow my usual dictum, ‘when in doubt, don’t,’ I went ahead. One voice, my lefthand dark guardian Azazel, said: ‘do it, Will; you’ve spent all your money here so you won’t have a chance to sample it otherwise until a couple weeks after you return home and send to Daniel for it!’ The other voice, Lee my righthand angel of light, said: ‘you will know when it is best for you to partake; it is not now, in this strange place among strangers, even with these friendly strangers!’

We formed our circle, introduced ourselves, stating how strong a dose we would take and sharing our intentions. I had decided on 3 undiluted droppersful, a moderate dose; some were going to have one or two dropper loads, many were going to dilute the liquid—about as strong as everclear—with hot water. Most people stated a respectful and respectable intention; I perhaps foolishly thought mine equally

appropriate: ‘you have shown me, Ska Pastora, what you have to show on other occasions when

I have chewed or smoked you; show me now your power in this form.’ Then, when we were passing the bottle and dropper, on the third round a bit dribbled down my lip, so I decided to squirt a fourth load in,

not consciously realizing that this would nudge my dose into the strong category.

We had decided to douse the lights when we were done with the circle work. As you will see below, I was unprepared for the suddenness and strength of the trip I was now on. But then, like some other intrepid psychedelic explorers, let alone the sorcerer’s apprentice, I have at other times over the past 35 years or so found myself beyond the M.C. Escher beyond as I begin the entheogenic beguine.

WANTON DESIRE – Will Penna

she will not suffer fools

i knew that

waiting at her gate

it was not my time

but wanton desire beckoned

almost roared

so i let myself be blinded

even though the snow was melting

so it wasn’t that

even though the circle was imperfect

but it wasn’t that

even though i’d heard no call

so it was that

so when i communed with her

in that refuge from the snow

darkness descended before i knew it

walls folded impossibly outwardly in

escaping voices twisted away

i lay alone in the desacrated temple

its heaving walls an unfunhouse ride

she would not suffer fools

i reached up to broken shards

then down to a vagrant pillow

broken slants of light

more distant muffled sighs

all was riven now

perhaps never whole

i knew not how i’d come

to this crazy house

i must go out

if there were an out

rolling over i found a wall

then the broken sharp things again

then—somehow not surprisingly—

a berber carpet under me

i rolled some more

hands fumbled on an edge

reached down

a stair

another

i dragged my belly my knees

came almost head over heals

(head over heals?)

boarding down the stairs

arms and legs my wheels

but she stopped me—

no, not SHE, but just she—

and asked me where i was going

‘oh, someone’s here!’

yes

come back

i crawled back in the dark

back into the broken temple

less broken now

but no less desacralized

‘ouch! you’re stepping on me!’

the stepping stopped

sorry! came a distant sigh

as light and sanity blinked on

we all held our breath for both

i glimpsed the menacing shards

merely seashells along the wall

we gradually told our stories—

those who desired—

lawnmower man his

green goddess lady hers

one had disappeared

another stayed grimly silent

a hand over his face

we chatted we laughed we humans

but it was never right

foolish wanton deed

but it was done—good to go

12-12-99

——-

Salvia – Victoria

May as well leave your gentle white faced god asleep at home,

Your green loving goddess snoozing in a tree.

Come naked, come empty.

If you’re looking for something more cosy,

a soft kiss is perhap more advisable.

We’re gonna shake your hand, and forget to let go for a while.

We’re gonna whisper sweet everything’s in your ear.

And scour you down at the gate…all the way down to your secrets.

Sometimes the leaves can get a bit thorny you know.

This won’t hurt a bit.

YOU ALIEN, YOU REDUCED DRAGON.

We’re gonna blow you up like a balloon, but that is what you asked for.

My brain shifts uncomfortably in it’s chair.

It knows it has to go.

It stomps out of the room,

Ha, they laugh, I wonder if it will come crawling back this time?

Sure, I mutter, it has an old habit of creating itself.

So, poised, I seek the fine ritual magick,

only to end up sprawled inelegantly, grinning.

Being whispered away by a dream called reality.

What was so funny? I don’t think I remember.

It was rare and elemental, words don’t suffice.

———–

Salvia Odyssey – —Sage Student

A small bitter ball of midnight-black wax,

Smelling of tea, and time’s passing,

And fey sorcery.

Lights out. I lie down in bed.

It’s like getting ready for sleep

Yet beside me are a bowl and towel.

I chew the wax.

A little something

Sparkles in the darkness.

The wax is dissolving,

The universe is fragmenting.

Into green patterns.

Fractal, complex.

No joy. No fear.

Observe.

Become the still point.

Lash myself to the mast

Of stillness

Immobility,

Passivity.

Consciousness persists.

Remember.

Hold breath to increase effect.

And fractal lights bloom.

Many people.

Many places.

My name is legion.

Many times.

A bar in Dublin, near the water.

Ulysses? Joyce?

No and Yes.

A pioneer wagon

crossing the icy Missouri.

Become not one person.

But a family amid

Cold brown in-pouring waters.

Dying consciousness falls

Into an infolding green flower.

Petals closing inwards.

Falling into a black hole.

Within whose event horizon

Is neither death, nor time.

Losing self who becomes the universe?

Dying was nothing at all.

Death is being everything.

Something urgent.

A need to spit. Spitting

Wiping a mouth with a towel

I feel a face pushing into a bowl.

I feel a bowl pushing into a face.

I have a face! A face!

The Zen master asked

“What was your original face

before you were conceived?”

Besaged laughter,

the koan makes sense.

All has always been.

Awareness crystallizes,

Out of a cooling magma,

One crystal choosing to be me.

I know my name.

Jump out of bed.

Freezing.

Get into the hot tub,

Soaking up heat.

Soaking up life.

Lazarus returning.

Orpheus returning.

Odysseus returning.

Is that Argus barking?

No! It’s real.

My dogs are barking.

I give them dog biscuits.

Trip’s over.

I’m back.

—–

Salvia divinorum Anagram Poem — Sage Student

Vivid Mana roil us,

Livid savior man?

Avoid rival. I’m Sun!

Amoral vivid in us?

A moral vivid in us,

Survival an idiom.

Vivid airman soul,

Mad via lion virus,

Land via ovum iris.

Visual or via mind?

In so vivid a mural,

I’m no survival aid.

—Sage Student

—–

Salvia – Tomas

I’ve been twirled

I’ve been spun

And stretched just

like human gum

Pulled through a gossamer vale

extruded like six penny nails

watched it twirling through a hole

in a wall and then I saw

these floating balls

nothing left, not even space

until I looked around the place

and suddenly it all appeared

where it all went was never clear….

——

I am a node – Gwyllm

I am a node on a multinodal plant,

that dreams it is a part of

something called humanity…

I dream of dreamers dreaming dreams…

Thought dancing as waves of light,

molecules hallucinating solid states…

The illusion is full

and never abates….

I am a node on multinodal chain…

Welcome to the weekend edition of Turfing… for this edition, we are heading to the Pyrenees, for some time in Basque Country…

Hot days here in Portland, muggy as well. Helped our friends move some more this morning (Saturday) Sad seeing them leave their home of 10 years. We lived there for 2 years before they moved in. Great art, parties, and watching Rowan grow to 5 there was nice.

Tom and Cheryl (our friends) are on their way in the fall to Sedona. Tom as I may have mentioned before has been a close friend since 1969. Seems everyone is bailing out from Portland in our crowd… but we stay on until Rowan is out of school. I would like to stay here, but Portugal seems like a good option in many ways. The next election cycle will play a part in my decision for residency…

On The Menu:

The Links

Tales From The Basque: ERRUA, THE MADMAN

Basque Poetry: Ancient Tongues…

Have an excellent time this weekend…

Gwyllm

__________

The Links:

Fly Air Torture…

The Strange Meter Just Went Off The Scale…

Ann Coulter, Deadhead…

Ancient Jewelry…

Dancing with the moon goddess in Callanish

___________

Tales From The Basque: ERRUA, THE MADMAN

Like many others in the world, there was a man and woman who had a. son. He was very wicked, and did nothing but mischief, and was of a thoroughly depraved disposition. The parents decided that they must send him away, and the lad was quite willing to set off.

He set out then, and goes far, far, far away. He comes to a city, and asks if they want a servant. They wanted one in a (certain) house. He goes there. They settle their terms at so much a month, and that the one who is not satisfied should strip the skin off the other’s back.

The master sends his servant to the forest to get the most crooked pieces of wood that he can find. Near the forest there was a vineyard. What does the servant do but cut it all up, and carries it to the house. The master asks him where the wood is. He shows him the vine-wood cut up. The master said nothing to him, but he was not pleased.

Next day the master says to him, “Take the cows to such a field, and don’t break any hole in the fence.”

What does the lad do? He cuts all the cows into little pieces, and throws them bit by bit into the field. The master was still more angry; but he could not say anything, for fear of having his skin stripped off. So what does he do? He buys a herd of pigs, and sends his servant to the mountain with the herd.

The master knew quite well that there was a Tartaro in this mountain, but he sends him there all the same.

Our madman goes walking on, on, on. He arrives at a little hut. The Tartaro’s house was quite close to his. The Pigs of the Tartaro and those of the madman used to go out together. The Tartaro said one day to him–

“Will you make a wager as to who will throw a stone farthest?”

He accepted the wager. That evening our madman was very sad. While he was at his prayers, an old woman appeared to him, and asks him–

“What is the matter with you? Why are you so sad?”

He tells her the wager that he has made with the Tartaro. The old woman says to him–

“If it is only that, it is nothing,”

And so she gives him a bird, and says to him–

“Instead of a stone, throw this bird.”

The madman was very glad at this. The next day he does as the old woman told him. The Tartaro’s stone went enormously far, but at last it fell; but the madman’s bird never came down at all.

The Tartaro was astonished that he had lost his wager, and they make another–which of the two should throw a bar of iron the farthest. The madman accepted again. He was in his little house sadly in prayer. The old woman appears again. She asks him–

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I have made a wager again, which of the two will throw the bar of iron the farthest, and I am very sorry.”

“If it is only that, it is nothing. When you take hold of the bar of iron, say, ‘Rise up, bar of iron, here and Salamanca.’” (Altchaala palenka, hemen eta Salamanka.)

Next day the Tartaro takes his terrible bar of iron, and throws it fearfully far. The young man could hardly lift up one end, and he says–

“Rise up, bar of iron, here and Salamanca.”

When the Tartaro heard that (he cried out)–

“I give up the wager–you have won,” and he takes the bar of iron away from him. “My father and my mother live at Salamanca; don’t throw, I beg of you, I implore you–you will crush them.”

Our madman goes away very happy.

The Tartaro says to him again:

“I will pull up the biggest oak in the forest, and you pull up another.”

He says, “Yes.” And the later it grew in the day, the sadder he became. He was at his prayers. The old woman comes to him again, and says to him–

“What’s the matter with you?”

He tells her the wager he has made with the Tartaro, and how he will pull up an oak. The old woman gives him three balls of thread, and tells him to begin and tie them to all the oaks in the forest.

Next day the Tartaro pulls up his oak, an enormously, enormously big one; and the madman begins to tie, and to tie, and to tie.

The Tartaro asks him:

“What are you doing that for?”

“You (pulled up) one, but I all these.”

The Tartaro replies,

“No! No! No! What shall I do to fatten my pigs with without acorns? You have won; you have won the wager.”

The Tartaro did not know what to think about it, and saw that he had found one cleverer than himself, and so he asks him if he will come and spend the night at his house.

The madman says, “Yes.”

He goes to bed then with the Tartaro. But he knew that there was a dead man under the bed. When the Tartaro was asleep what does the madman do? He places the dead man by the Tartaro’s side, and gets under the bed himself. In the middle of the night the Tartaro gets up, and takes his terrible bar of iron and showers blows upon blows, ping pan, ping pan, as long and as hard as he could give them.

The Tartaro gets up as usual, and goes to see his pigs, and the madman also comes out from under the bed; and he goes to see the pigs too. The Tartaro is quite astounded to see him coming, and does not know what to think of it. He says to himself that he has to do with a cleverer than he; but he asks him if he has slept well.

He answers, “Yes, very well; only I felt a few flea-bites.”

Their pigs had got mixed, and as they were fat, he had to separate them in order to go away with his. The Tartaro asked the madman what mark his pigs had.

The madman says to him, “Mine have some of them one mark, some of them two marks.”

They set to work to look at them, and they all had these same marks.

Our madman goes off then with all the hogs. He goes walking on, on, on, with all his pigs. He comes to a town where it was just market day, and sells them all except two, keeping, however, all the tails, which he put in his pockets. As you may think, he was always in fear of the Tartaro. He sees him coming down from the mountain. He kills one of his hogs, and puts the entrails in his own bosom under his waistcoat. There was a group of men near the road. As he passed them he took out his knife, and stabs it into his chest, and takes out the pig’s bowels, and our mad man begins to run very much faster than before, with his pig in front of him.

When the Tartaro comes up to these men, he asks if they have seen such a man.

“Yes, yes, he was running fast, and in order to go faster just here he stabbed himself, and threw away his bowels, and still he went on all the faster.” The Tartaro, too, in order to go faster, thrusts his knife into his body, and falls stark dead.

The madman goes to his master’s. Near the house there was a marsh quite full of mud. He puts his live pig into it, and all the tails too. He enters the house, and says to the master that he is there with his pigs. The master is astounded to see him.

He asks him, “Where are the pigs, then?”

He says to him, “They have gone into the mud, they were so tired.”

Both go out, and begin to get the real pig out, and between the two they pull it out very well. They try to do the same thing with the others; but they kept pulling out nothing but tails.

The madman says, “You see how fat they are; that is why the tails come out alone.”

He sends the servant to fetch the spade and the hoe. Instead of bringing them he begins to beat the mistress, whack! whack! and he cries to the master, “One or both?”

The master says to him, “Both, both.”

And then he beats the servant maid almost to pieces. He goes then to the master, taking with him the spade and the hoe, and he sets to beating him with the spade and the hoe, until he can no longer defend himself, and then he thrashes the skin off his back, and takes his pig and goes off home to his father and mother; and as he lived well he died well too.

PIERRE BERTRAND learnt it from his Grandmother,

who died a few years since, aged 82.

________

Basque Poetry: Ancient Tongues…

THE SONG OF BERTERRETCHE – Anonymous, 15th century

The alder has not pith,

nor does the reed have bark.

I did not think that noblemen spoke lies.

The valley of Andoze,

oh the long valley!

Though it be weaponless thrice has it pierced my heart.

Berterretche from his bed

speaks low to the maidservant:

“Go see if there are men in sight.”

Straightway the maid told him

what she had seen,

Three dozen men going from door to door.

From his window

Berterretche greets my Lord Count

And offers him a hundred cows and their bull.

Treacherously spoke then

my Lord Count:

“Come to the door Berterretche, you shall return forthwith.”

Mother, give me my shirt,

perchance the one that I shall never cast off.

Those who live will remember the dawn that follows Easter.»

Oh the haste of Mari-Santz

as she sped past Bostmendieta!

On her two knees she entered the house of Buztanobi at Lacarry.

“O young Master of Buztanobi,

my beloved brother,

Without your aid my son is lost.”

“Be silent my sister,

I beg you do not weep;

If your son lives he is gone to Mauleon.”

Oh the haste of Mari-Santz

to the door of my Lord Count!

“Alas! my Lord Count, where have you my fine son?”

“Have you sons

other than Berterretche?

He lies dead over by Ezpeldoi; you who are alive go tend him.”

Oh, the men of Ezpeldoi;

they of little understanding,

Who having the dead so near knew nothing of it!

The daughter of Ezpeldoi,

she whom they call Margarita,

Gathers up the blood of Berterretche in handfulls.

Oh, what fine linen there is

to be washed at the house of Ezpeldoi!

Of the shirts of Berterretche they say there are three dozen.

(Translation: Rodney Gallop)

(The Song of Berterretche The medieval Bereterretxe ballad or «kantore» is probably the best known throughout the Basque Country. Versions of it have been recorded by singers and are available on records, but its success may also be put down to the daramtism of the subject and the quality of the text. Handed down orally from generation to generation, this composition tells the story of one of many episodes of the fight between rival clans. The crime that is denounced in the ballad took place between 1434 and 1449, and was ordered by the Count of Lerin.)

—–

A PLEA FOR A KISS – Bernat Etxepare, 1545

Lady, may God protect you. Now are we on equal ground.

If I were king, you would be queen.

Please give me a kiss. Fear not!

The sorrows I have suffered for you are worthy of one.

Go on! Begone! Who do you take me for!

I do not think I have ever seen the likes of you.

Do not say such harsh words to me.

Go and tell the others! I am not what you take me for.

If you were a bad woman, I should pay no heed.

Because you are who you are, I agonize over you.

I do not believe I have said anything indecent.

By giving a kiss you would not be slighted.

Your kiss, I know, demands something else.

Lady, you have guessed even before I spoke.

Then stop saying such things to me.

As you are so shrewish, I shall do something else.

As long as I live, then, I shall let you not.

That which I now desire, shall you do here.

— I truly believe you are not in jest.

— Is this man going to shame me here?

Oh, what shall I do? — Hush up a while!

Tralala, tralala, kisses galore and another one for good measure.

Lady, once again, speak more gently!

(Translation: Toni Strubell)

—-

IN DEFENCE OF WOMEN – Bernat Etxepare, 1545

Speak no ill of women, by my love;

If men let them alone, they’d do no wrong.

Many men speak ill of them,

Talking in a light and dishonest way.

They’d be better off in silence,

Women would do no wrong were there no men.

Few sane men there are who slang them,

It is more honest to speak well of them.

Why must they be criticised?

Big and small, we are all born of them.

To blame women is not brave,

Or to equal them all to criticize but one.

A man thus behaving would be better off mute,

And deserves not to have been fed milk.

He who blames women should think

Where he and all of us are born from,

I would ask him if he was born of woman or not.

If only for her, he should praise them all.

Women are always a benefit for men,

By them we all come to the world;

If she didn’t bring us up, we’d die on birth,

And when we’ve grown up, we still need her.

When we are healthy, through her we dress and eat,

When we’re ill, we’re lost without her,

When we die, who will weep for us like a woman?

We need her at all times, there’s no doubt.

Where there’s no woman, I see nothing pleasing,

Neither man nor the home is tended to,

Disorder reigns throughout the house.

I care not for paradise if there’s no women there.

Never have I heard that women attack men first,

Rather that it’s man who offends the woman.

Evil always pours from men,

Why then are women to be blamed?

Men should have more virtue

I see more of it among women;

There are a thousand bad men for every bad woman,

For every virtuous man there are a thousand women.

If we believed men, there’d be no good women,

They can’t help attacking them even if they’re good.

But there are many women who avoid men,

Because virtue is much greater amongst them.

Never have I heard of a woman forcing a man,

It’s the man who chases the woman like a fool.

If any should approach him lovingly,

Must man blame her for this?

God loves women more than anything on earth;

He came down from heaven for love of one.

It was a woman who made Him our brother,

And through her, all women are worthy of praise.

I think a woman is something sweet,

Something charming in all her charms,

She supplies great pleasure by night and by day.

Great villainy it is to speak ill of her.

There’s nothing so pretty and pleasurable

As a naked woman beneath the man,

Surrendered with wide open arms,

So a man can do with her as he please.

Though he harms her with his dart in her body,

She will complain less than would an angel.

The dart once relaxed and healed the wound,

The power of her charms reconciles them.

Can there be any so coarse as not to see this

And who can blame her for this?

It is not a well bred man who behaves thus

Because he does not the good that women do.

(Translation: Toni Strubell

(Bernat Etxepare – He was born in Eiheralarre, a village close to Donibane Garazi (Saint Jean de Pied de Port), capital of the part of Navarre that today forms part of France. This priest was the author of the first book printed in the Basque language in 1545. We know little about his life, but we do know he spent some time in prison, probably accused of political involvement at a time when the kingdoms of France and Castile were jostling to take over the old Kingdom of Navarre. In his book, he gathered autobiographical, religious, amatory and patriotic poems, some of which praise the Basque language.

_________________

Have a good weekend!

G

“Necessity is the plea for every infringement of human freedom. It is the argument of tyrants; it is the creed of slaves”.—William Pitt

An odd day… weird news, odd events and strangeness everywhere I turned. Almost in complete counterpoint to the days leading up to Solstice.

Rowan had his gathering, and it was pretty nice. (a high point)

Another nice time was having Morgan stopped by, bringing some excellent music along as well. We talked about the Amadou et Mariam show, and went over the fine points, polishing our memories up, comparing notes…

We pray that the band will play the Zoo next time around. Nothing like it. It seems like a mini-festival (which I always enjoyed) under very optimum circumstances….

Anyway, I am rambling, so off to work I go…

Pax,

Gwyllm

on The Menu

The Links

The Thief Who Became a Disciple

Celtic Poems: A random selection

Photos: Ancient Grave Site from the Caspian Sea

—————

The Links:

Sisters lose second coming cover

Planets, Bees, and a Donkey

Class Warfare: The Minimum Wage Goes Down

West Hollywood Seeks to Ease on Private Herb Smoking

________

The Thief Who Became a Disciple

One evening as Shichiri Kojun was reciting sutras a thief with a sharp sword entered, demanding wither his money or his life.

Shichiri told him: “Do not disturb me. You can find the money in that drawer.” Then he resumed his recitation.

A little while afterwards he stopped and called: “Don’t take it all. I need some to pay taxes with tomorrow.”

The intruder gathered up most of the money and started to leave. “Thank a person when you receive a gift,” Shichiri added. The man thanked him and made off.

A few days afterwards the fellow was caught and confessed, among others, the offense against Shichiri. When Shichiri was called as a witness he said: “This man is no thief, at least as far as I am concerned. I gave him the money and he thanked me for it.”

After he had finished his prison term, the man went to Shichiri and became his disciple.

_____________

Celtic Poems: A random selection

How Curious the Light behaves

(Anon…)

How curious the light behaves

Reflecting off the dancing waves.

Oh how my very being craves

A view from down below.

Suspended in my watery lair,

I would not need to gasp for air,

For I’m no longer human there

Beneath the icy flow.

It’s peaceful there, but I have found

I still can hear the distant sound

Of voices of the souls who drowned

And left loved ones to mourn.

The lonely wails transmit the pain

Of those who just could not remain

So journeyed to the unknown plane

Of dead souls and unborn.

But in this world there still exist

Survivors who will always miss

The passion of their lovers’ kiss

That warmed them night and day.

Though here above the vast, cold sea,

My heart is without tragedy,

For I have someone dear to me

Who hasn’t passed away.

Never let that be untrue,

For I could not bear thoughts of you

Trapped underneath the ocean blue

Deprived of your last breath.

No harm to you would I condone,

For I’d be left here on my own

To face this tragic world alone,

A fate far worse than death.

—-

The Harp of Cnoc I’Chosgair

Harp of Cnoc I’Chosgair, you who bring sleep

to eyes long sleepless;

sweet subtle, plangent, glad, cooling grave.

Excellent instrument with smooth gentle curve,

trilling under red fingers,

musician that has charmed us,

red, lion-like of full melody.

You who lure the bird from the flock,

you who refresh the mind,

brown spotted one of sweet words,

ardent, wondrous, passionate.

You who heal every wounded warrior,

joy and allurement to women,

familiar guide over the dark blue water,

mystic sweet sounding music.

You who silence every instrument of music,

yourself a sweet plaintive instrument,

dweller among the Race of Conn,

instrument yellow-brown and firm.

The one darling of sages,

restless, smooth, sweet of tune,

crimson star above the Fairy Hills,

breast jewel of High Kings.

Sweet tender flowers, brown harp of Diarmaid,

shape not unloved by hosts, voice of cuckoos in May!

I have not heard music ever such as your frame makes

since the time of the Fairy People,

fair brown many coloured bough,

gentle, powerful, glorious.

Sound of the calm wave on the beach,

pure shadowing tree of pure music,

carousals are drunk in your company,

voice of the swan over shining streams.

Cry of the Fairy Women from the Fairy Hill of Ler,

no melody can match you,

every house is sweet stringed through your guidance,

you the pinnacle of harp music.

– Gofraidh Fion O Dalaigh. 1385]

——

Lightenings viii

(Seamus Heaney)

The annals say: when the monks of Clonmacnoise

Were all at prayers inside the oratory

A ship appeared above them in the air.

The anchor dragged along behind so deep

It hooked itself into the altar rails

And then, as the big hull rocked to a standstill,

A crewman shinned and grappled down a rope

And struggled to release it. But in vain.

`This man can’t bear our life here and will drown,’

The abbot said, `Unless we help him.’ So

They did, the freed ship sailed and the man climbed back

Out of the marvelous as he had known it.

Mary and Rowan hanging out, eating a bit before the show….

Andrew, pre Kool-Aid…

Maren &amp; Morgan making arcane family signals….

John, Rowan &amp; Mary doing the mass giggle….

Andrew post Kool-Aid… (just joking folks!)

Morgan &amp; Gwyllm conspiring to take over the NW Blog-o-Sphere…. (after we finish our drinks!)

Then the music started…. and we headed down to the stage…..

Mary &amp; Rowan in the crowd…. having a very good time!

Igor the Drummer was on fire!

The Crowd was surging to the beats….

Burning Down the Solstice in a most spectacular way…. All the women in the crowd were beautiful, as all the men were handsome… the night came crashing down on us as we were all one, dancing….

Amadou and Mariam, signing CD’s afterwards…. I got to say hello to the band, and thank them for the great evening….

Our friends Janice and Ed who we caught up with in the crowd and danced with. We gave them a ride down from the Zoo with another addition… to the group. (see below)

Jack the wandering hound. He came running down the road towards us, almost getting hit by a car… We looked for his person/s to no avail. Leaving a phone number with some passing dog walkers, we headed down the hill with a very full vehicle.

We arrived home to a message from Jim, Jacks’ person who came by shortly after. Jack had gone missing after the show, and it was a joyous reunion at Caer Llwydd for the two of them…

Tonight is another Solstice Gathering, organized by Rowan for his friends at our home.

Ever Onward!

Amadou et Mariam…. who we saw on Solstice!

What an amazing show! Will have commentary and photos later on… I just erased the entry, so I am exhausted…. Danced to some of the best music, like ever!

A great gathering of friends, a beautiful evening, a wonderful celebration of the Solstice!

More Later on….

Gwyllm

——–

NOW THE HUNGRY LION ROARS – WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Now the hungry lion roars,

And the wolf behowls the moon;

Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,

All with the weary task fordone.

Now the wasted brands do glow

Whilst the scritch-owl, scratching loud,

Puts the wretch that lies in woe

In remembrance of a shroud.

Now it is the time of night

That the graves, all gaping wide,

Everyone lets forth his sprite,

In the churchway paths to glide:

And we fairies, that do run

By the triple Hecate’s team

From the presence of the sun,

Following darkness like a dream,

Now are frolic; not a mouse

Shall disturb this hallowed house:

I am sent with broom before,

To sweep the dust behind the door.

Through the house give glimmering light,

By the dead and drowsy fire;

Every elf and fairy sprite

Hope as light as bird from brier;

And this ditty, after me,

Sing, and dance it, trippingly.

First rehearse your song by rote,

To each word a warbling note:

Hand in hand, with fairy grace,

Will we sing, and bless this place.

Now, until the break of day,

Through this house each fairy stray.

To the best bride-bed will we,

Which by us shall blessed be;

And the issue there create

Ever shall be fortunate.

So shall all the couples three

Ever true in loving be;

And the blots of Nature’s hand

Shall not in their issue stand;

Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar,

Nor mark prodigious, such as are

Despised in nativity,

Shall upon their children be.

With this field-dew consecrate,

Every fairy take his gait;

And each several chamber bless,

Through this palace with sweet peace:

And the owner of it blest,

Ever shall in safety rest.

Trip away;

Make no stay:

Meet me all by break of day

For the beautry of the day…

the rising of the Solstice Sun,

in perfect conjunction

in perfect bliss,

The young ones join

the long dance,

The older ones smile

sweet memories,

Here it is: The biggest dose of Light

On this day – Solstice Bright….

Join us tonight (Wednesday the 21st) to dance the Solstice down at the Oregon Zoo with Mariam et Amadou… A good time, a wild time promised for all.

There is no better way to celebrate the ripeness of the Earth than to dance the Sun into the Western Lands, there is no better way to connect to the pulse of life than raising your voice in song and your body in the Sacred Dance, the long dance…

Join us, we will be there with friends, lovers, kids, food and very, very good times…

Big Love, To You All….

Gwyllm

——

On The Menu:

The Summer Solstice (From the BBC)

The Poetry of the Solstice….

_____________

(From the BBC)

Summer Solstice

21st June (sometimes 20th)

Standing stones on a summer’s day

As the sun spirals its longest dance,

Cleanse us

As nature shows bounty and fertility

Bless us

Let all things live with loving intent

And to fulfill their truest destiny

Taken from a Wiccan blessing for Summer

Solstice, Midsummer or Litha means a stopping or standing still of the sun. It is the longest day of the year and the time when the sun is at its maximum elevation.

This date has had spiritual significance for thousands of years as humans have been amazed by the great power of the sun. The Celts celebrated with bonfires that would add to the sun’s energy, Christians placed the feast of St John the Baptist towards the end of June and it is also the festival of Li, the Chinese Goddess of light.

Like other religious groups, Pagans are in awe of the incredible strength of the sun and the divine powers that create life. For Pagans this spoke in the Wheel of the Year is a significant point. The Goddess took over the earth from the horned God at the beginning of spring and she is now at the height of her power and fertility. For some Pagans the Summer Solstice marks the marriage of the God and Goddess and see their union as the force that creates the harvest’s fruits.

This is a time to celebrate growth and life but for Pagans, who see balance in the world and are deeply aware of the ongoing shifting of the seasons it is also time to acknowledge that the sun will now begin to decline once more towards winter.

When celebrating midsummer Pagans draw on diverse traditions. In England thousands of Pagans and non-Pagans go to places of ancient religious sites such as Stonehenge and Avebury to see the sun rising on the first morning of summer. Many more Pagans hold small ceremonies in open spaces, everywhere from gardens to woodlands.

_______________

The Poetry of the Solstice….

The Haymaker’s Song

In the merry month of June,

In the prime time of the year;

Down in yonder meadows

There runs a river clear;

And many a little fish

Doth in that river play;

And many a lad, and many a lass,

Go abroad a-making hay

And when the bright day faded,

And the sun was going down,

There was a merry piper

Approached from the town;

He pulled out his pipe and tabor,

So sweetly he did play,

Which made all lay down their rakes,

And leave off making hay.

Then joining in a dance

They jig it o’er the green;

Though tired with their labour

No one less was seen.

But sporting like some fairies,

Their dance they did pursue,

In leading up, and casting off,

Till morning was in view.

——–

The sun is shining

The sun is shining –

The sun is shining

That is the Magic.

The flowers are growing-

the roots are stirring.

That is the Magic.

Being alive is the Magic

being strong is the Magic.

The Magic is in me-

it is in me.

It’s in every one of us.

From the Secret Garden

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

——-

The Fairy Ring

by George Mason and John Earsden

Let us in a lover’s round

Circle all this hallowed ground;

Softly, softly trip and go,

the light-foot Fairies jet it so.

Forward then and back again,

Here and there and everywhere,

Winding to and fro,

Skipping high and louting low;

And, like lovers, hand in hand,

March around and make a stand.

——-

I Stood Against the Window

By Rose Fyleman

I stood against the window

And I loked between the bars,

And there were strings of fairies

Hanging from the stars;

Everywhere and everywhere

In shining, swinging chains;

The air ws full of shimmering,

Like sunlight when it rains.

They kept on swinging, swinging,

They flung themselves so high

They caught upon the pointed moon

And hung across the sky.

And when I woke next morning,

There still were crowds and crowds

In beautiful bright bunches

All sleeping on the clouds

——-

MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

SHAKESPERE

Be kind and courteous to this gentleman;

Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes;

Feed him with apricots and dewberries,

With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries;

The honey-bags steal from the huble-bees,

And for night-tapers crop their waxen things.

And light them at the fiery glow-worm eyes,

To have my love to bed and to arise;

And pluck the wings from painted butterflies

To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes:

Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies

(Midsummer Night’s Dream Act 3 Scene 1)

——

PUCK

How now spirit! Whither wander you?

Over hill, over dale

Through bush, through brier,

Over park, over pale

Thorough flood, thorough fire

I do wander everywhere

Swifter than the moone’s sphere:

And I serve the fairy queen.

To dew her orbs upon the green

The cowslips tall her pensioners be:

In their gold coats spots you see

Those be rubies fairy favours

In those freckles live their savours:

I must go seek some dewdrops here

And hang a peaarl in every cowslip’s ear…

(Midsummer Night’s Dream)

——-

Through the Looking Glass 1872

Lewis Carroll

Child of pure, unclouded brow

And dreaming eyes of wonder!

Though time be fleet and I and thou

Are half a life asunder,

Thy loving smile will surely hail

The love-gift of a fairy tale.

——-

QUEEN MAB

P. B. SHELLEY

I am the Fairy MAB: to me ‘tis given

The wonders of the human world to keep:

The secrets of the immeasurable past,

In the unfailing consciences of men,

Those stern, unflattering chroniclers, I find:

The future, form the causes which arise

In each event, I gather: not the sting

Which retributive memory implants

In the hard bosom of the selfish man;

Nor that ecstatic and exulting throb

Which virtue’s votary feels when he sums up

The thoughts and actions of a well-spend day,

Are unforeseen, unregistered by me:

And it is yet permitted me, to rent

The veil of mortal frailty, that the spirit

Clothed in its changeless purity, may know

How soonest to accomplish the great end

For which it hath its being, and may taste

That peace, which in the end all life will share

——–

THE FAIRIES

ROBERT HERRICK

If ye will with Mab find grace,

Set each Platter in his place:

Rake the Fier up, and get

Water in, ere Sun be set.

Wash your Pails, and cleanse your Dairies;

Sluts are loathsome to the Fairies:

Sweep your house: Who doth not so,

Mab will pinch her by the toe.

Some Tickets Still on Sale for She Shamans &amp; Magic Mamas Conference!

Though we cannot attend due to business responsibilities, I suggest that if you have the time, that you support this great and unique Conference.

I believe some tickets as still available, please contact the Conference Folks at the above Link!

On the Menu:

The Dance Upon The Lawn

Baal’s Fire…St. Johns’ Eve

Poetry: People of the Mounds…

A short one, off to work…

Getting ready for the Solstice. If you are in Northern California, or in Southern Oregon this coming weekend, may I suggest the above mentioned event?

We are off to the Oregon Zoo on Solstice for Mariam et Amadou… you can hear them on EarthRites Radio…..

Talk Later,

G

____________

THE DANCE UPON THE LAWN.

I sing the days, the merry days-

To English hearts most dear-

When good old English customs ruled,

And reigned throughout the year;

When merry lads and lasses met,

And daily toil was o’er,

And grey-haired fathers watched their mirth

Beside the cottage door.

Oh, there was joy in Britain’s isle,

And peace from night till morn-

When our sturdy peasants’ pastime was

The dance upon the lawn!

Oh, those were days, were happy days

For England’s peasant band,

When pipe and tabor’s merry sounds

Were heard throughout the land!

When May-pole, deck’d with ribbons gay,

Stood forth in village green,

And harmless mirth and jollity

Beneath its boughs were seen.

We join’d the happy cottar’s throng,

Nor lad nor lass would scorn

To trip a measure gaily in

The dance upon the lawn.

But though these days, these merry days,

Long since have passed away-

There still is plenty in the land,

Then, wherefore not be gay?

If summer’s glorious sunshine will

The fruits and flowers restore,

I know not he who would not be

As happy as of yore.

Then, care away, we’ll still be gay,

We’ll laugh our foes to scorn;

And once again we’ll sport it in

The dance upon the lawn.

____________

BAAL FIRE–ST. JOHN’S EVE

Readers of the Old Testament are well acquainted with the condemnation passed upon the worship of Baal, but some of them may be surprised to know that there is a custom in Northumberland of lighting Baal fires on St. John’s Eve, which is a relic of ancient Baal worship. The identity between the celebration of the pagan rite of old and of the modern remainder is too obvious to be doubted. The ancients passed their children through the fire, and the villagers at Whalton used to jump over and through the flames. Moreover, as will be seen from the historical references to be given shortly, there is further ground provided for establishing a genuine fire worship. Of the Whalton custom a modern writer says:–” As midsummer approaches, much wood is marked out for the bonfire, sometimes with the consent of local farmers. When this has been cut, it is brought into the village with a certain amount of formality. On the evening of the 4th July a cart is borrowed and loaded with branches of faggots, some of the men get into the shafts, more are hooked on by means of long ropes, and then, with a good deal of shouting and horn blowing, the lumbersome vehicle is run down into the village.” The same site for the fire is chosen year after year, and it has never been changed. The village turns out en masse to see the bonfire built. The children join hands and dance round the stack of wood and branches until they are tired; youths and maidens also dance a little distance away.

At dark a cry is raised: “Light her!” Soon the whole village is illuminated by a huge blaze, and the Baal fire is at its height. No ceremony follows, but tradition says people used to jump over the fire and through it, a tradition which is well founded, for we have strong evidence of such practices in Scotland and Ireland.

In Sir John Sinclair’s Statistical Account of Scotland (1794), the minister of Callander, in Perthshire, speaking of “Peculiar Customs,” says:–”The people of this district have two customs, which are fast wearing out, not only here but all over the Highlands, and therefore ought to be taken notice of while they remain. Upon the first day of May, which is called Beltan or Bal-tein-day, all the boys in a township or hamlet meet in the moors. They cut a table in the green sod, of a round figure, by casting a trench in the ground of such circumference as to hold the whole company. They kindle a fire, and dress a repast of eggs and milk in the consistence of a custard. They knead a cake of oatmeal, which is toasted at the embers against a stone. After the custard is eaten up, they divide the cake into so many portions, as similar as possible to one another in size and shape, as there are persons in the company. They daub one of these portions all over with charcoal until it be perfectly black. They put all the bits of the cake into a bonnet. Every one, blindfold, draws out a portion. He who holds the bonnet is entitled to the last bit. Whoever draws the black bit is the devoted person who is to be sacrificed to Baal, whose favour they moan to implore, in rendering the year productive of the sustenance of man and beast. There is little doubt of these inhuman sacrifices having been once offered in this country as well as in the East, although they now pass from the act of sacrificing, and only compel the devoted person to leap three times through the flames; with which the ceremonies of this festival are closed.”

In the same work, the minister of Logierait, in Perthshire, says:–”On the 1st of May, O. S., a festival called Beltan is annually held here. It is chiefly celebrated by the cowherds, who assemble by scores in the fields to dress a dinner for themselves of boiled milk and eggs. These dishes they eat with a sort of cakes baked for the occasion, and having small lumps, in the form of nipples, raised all over the surface. The cake might, perhaps, be an offering to some deity in the days of Druidism.”

Pennant’s account in his Tour in Scotland (1771) of this rural sacrifice is more minute. He tells us that, on the 1st of May, in the Highlands of Scotland, the herdsmen of every village hold their Bel-tein.

“They cut a square trench in the ground, leaving the turf in the middle; on that they make a fire of wood, on which they dress a large caudle of eggs, butter, oatmeal, and milk, and bring, besides the ingredients of the caudle, plenty of beer and whisky; for each of the company must contribute something. The rites begin with spilling some of the caudle on the ground, by way of libation; on that, every one takes a cake of oatmeal, upon which are raised nine square knobs, each dedicated to some particular being, the supposed preserver of their flocks and herds, or to some particular animal, the real destroyer of them. Each person then turns his face to the fire, breaks off a knob, and, flinging it over his shoulders, says: ‘This I give to thee, preserve thou my horses;’ ‘This to thee, preserve thou my sheep;’ and so on. After that they use the same ceremony to the noxious animals. ‘This I give to thee, O fox! spare thou my lambs;’ ‘this to thee, O hooded crow;’ ‘this to thee, eagle!’ When the ceremony is over, they dine on the caudle; and after the feast is finished, what is left is hid by two persons deputed for that purpose; but on the next Sunday they reassemble and finish the reliques of the first entertainment.” “That the Caledonians paid a superstitious respect to the sun, as was the practice among other nations, is evident,” says Ellis, “not only by the sacrifice at Baltein but upon many other occasions. When a Highlander goes to bathe, or to drink waters out of a consecrated fountain, he must always approach by going round the place from east to west on the south side in imitation of the apparent diurnal motion of the sun. This is called in Gaelic going round the right or the lucky way. And if a person’s meat or drink were to affect the wind-pipe, or come against his breath, they instantly cry out disheal, which is an ejaculation praying that it may go the right way.”

The Baal worship is even more pronounced in Irish history. In The Survey of the South of Ireland we read something similar to what has already been quoted in a note from The Statistical Account of Scotland. “The sun” (says the writer) “was propitiated here by sacrifices of fire: one was on the 1st of May, for a blessing on the seed sown. The 1st of May is called in Irish language La Beal-tine, that is, the day of Beal’s fire. Vossius says it is well known that Apollo was called Belinus, and for this he quotes Herodian, and an inscription at Aquileia, Apollini Beline. The Gods of Tyre were Baal, Ashtaroth, and all the Host of Heaven, as we learn from the frequent rebukes given to the backsliding Jews for following after Sidonian idols; and the Phenician Baal, or Baalam, like the Irish Beal, or Bealin, denotes the sun, as Ashtaroth does the moon.”

In another place the same author says:–”It is not strange that many Druid remains should still exist; but it is a little extraordinary that some of their customs should still be practised. They annually renew the sacrifices that used to be offered to Apollo, without knowing it. On Midsummer’s Eve, every eminence, near which is a habitation, blazes with Bonfires–and round these they carry numerous torches, shouting and dancing, which affords a beautiful sight, and at the same time confirms the observation of Scaliger:–’En Irelande ils sont quasi tous papistes, mais c’est PapautŽ meslee de Paganisme, comme partout.’ Though historians had not given us the mythology of the pagan Irish, and though they had not told us expressly that they worshipped Beal, or Bealin, and that this Beal was the Sun and their chief God, it might nevertheless be investigated from this custom, which the lapse of so many centuries has not been able to wear away. . . I have, however, heard it lamented that the alteration of the style had spoiled these exhibitions; for the Roman Catholics light their Fires by the new style, as the correction originated from a pope; and for that very same reason the Protestants adhere to the old.”

I find the following, much to our purpose, in The Gentleman’s Magazine for February 1795:–”The Irish have ever been worshippers of Fire and of Baal, and are so to this day. This is owing to the Roman Catholics, who have artfully yielded to the superstitions of the natives, in order to gain and keep up an establishment, grafting Christianity upon Pagan rites. The chief festival in honour of the Sun and Fire is upon the 21st of June, when the sun arrives at the summer solstice, or rather begins its retrogade motion. I was so fortunate in the summer of 1782 as to have my curiosity gratified by a sight of this ceremony to a very great extent of country. At the house where I was entertained, it was told me that we should see at midnight the most singular sight in Ireland, which was the lighting of Fires in honour of the Sun. Accordingly, exactly at midnight, the Fires began to appear; and taking the advantage of going up to the leads of the house, which had a widely extended view, I saw on a radius of thirty miles, all around, the Fires burning on every eminence which the country afforded. I had a farther satisfaction in learning, from undoubted authority, that the people danced round the Fires, and at the close went through these fires, and made their sons and daughters, together with their cattle, pass through the Fire; and the whole was conducted with religious solemnity.” This is at the end of some Reflections by the late Rev. Donald M’Queen, of Kilmuir, in the Isle of Skye, on ancient customs preserved in that Island.

The Roman Catholic bishop, Dr Milner, was opposed to the notion of the Irish having ever been worshippers of Fire and of Baal. In An Inquiry into certain Vulgar Opinions concerning the Catholic Inhabitants and the Antiquities of Ireland (Lond. 1808), he tells us that the “modern hunters after paganism in Ireland think they have discovered another instance of it (though they derive this neither from the Celtic Druidesses nor the Roman Vestals, but from the Carthaginians or Phoenicians) in the fires lighted up in different parts of the country on the Eve of St. John the Baptist, or Midsummer Day. This they represent as the idolatrous worship of Baal, the Philistine god of Fire, and as intended by his pretended Catholic votaries to obtain from him fertility for the earth. The fact is, these fires, on the eve of the 24th of June, were heretofore as common in England and all over the Continent as they are now in Ireland, and have as little relation with the worship of Baal as the bonfires have which blaze on the preceding 4th of June, being the King’s birth-day: they are both intended to be demonstrations of joy. That, however, in honour of Christ’s precursor is particularly appropriate, as alluding to his character of bearing witness to the light (John vi. 7) and his being himself a bright and shining light (John v. 35).”

It is only natural that a Christian apologist should take up this attitude, but the verdict of history is against him; for, in addition to the testimony from Scotland and Ireland, there is similar testimony from England to the actual survivals, one of which has already been noticed.

Borlase in his Antiquities of Cornwall tells us:–”Of the fires we kindle in many parts of England, at some stated times of the year, we know not certainly the rise, reason, or occasion, but they may probably be reckoned among the relics of the Druid superstitious Fires. In Cornwall, the festival Fires, called Bonfires, are kindled on the Eve of St. John the Baptist and St. Peter’s Day; and Midsummer is thence, in the Cornish tongue, called ‘Goluan,’ which signifies both light and rejoicing. At these Fires the Cornish attend with lighted torches, tarr’d and pitch’d at the end, and make their perambulations round their Fires, and go from village to village carrying their torches before them; and this is certainly the remains of the Druid superstition, for ‘faces praeferre,’ to carry lighted torches, was reckoned a kind of Gentilism, and as such particularly prohibited by the Gallick Councils: they were in the eye of the law ‘accensores facularum,’ and thought to sacrifice to the devil, and to deserve capital punishment.”

Echoes of the ceremony are also found in unexpected quarters:–Every Englishman has heard of the “Dance round our coal-fire,” which receives illustration from the probably ancient practice of dancing round the fires in our Inns of Court (and perhaps other halls in great men’s houses). This practice was still in 1733 observed at an entertainment at the Inner Temple Hall, on Lord Chancellor Talbot’s taking leave of the house, when “the Master of the Revels took the Chancellor by the hand, and he, Mr Page, who with the Judges, Sergeants, and Benchers, danced round the Coal Fire, according to the old ceremony, three times; and all the times the antient song, with music, was sung by a man in a Bar gown.”

In an old collection of Epigrams and Satires this leaping over the Midsummer fire is mentioned among other pastimes:–

At Shrove-groate, ventor-point or crosse and pile

At leaping over a Midsummer bone-fier.

Or at the drawing clear out of the myer.

Leaping over the fires is mentioned among the superstitious rites used at the Palilia in Ovid’s Fasti. The Palilia were feasts instituted in honour of Pales, the goddess of Shepherds on the Calends of May. But fire ceremonies are not the property of one nation: they belonged to all, and to-day in Japan it is possible to see the celebration of fire-walking. From Japan one may travel to other Continents and see similar phenomena. As civilisation advances these customs tend to die down; but there can be no doubt the few remaining fire festivals in this country are the relics of a very old and superstitious worship, which our semi-savage forefathers indulged in at a time when the sun and moon were not items of science, but Gods of a truth. Christianity was responsible for most of the abolition of these curious practices. For instance, the Sixth Council of Constantinople, A.D. 680, by its 65th canon (cited by Prynne in his Histriomastix), has the following interdiction:–”Those Bonefires that are kindled by certaine people on New Moones before their shops and houses, over which also they are ridiculously and foolishly to leape, by a certaine antient custome, we command them from henceforth to cease. Whoever therefore shall doe any such thing; if he be a clergyman, let him be deposed; if a layman, let him be excommunicated; for, in the Fourth Book of the Kings, it is thus written: ‘And Manasseh built an altar to all the hoast of heaven, in the two courts of the Lord’s house, and made his children to pass through the Fire,’ etc.”

Prynne–the Puritan stalwart–remarks on this:–”Bonefires therefore had their originall from this idolatrous custome, as this Generall Councell hath defined; therefore all Christians should avoid them.” And the Synodus Francica under Pope Zachary, A.D. 742, cited ut supra, inhibits “those sacrilegious Fires which they call Nedfri (or Bonefires), and all other observations of the Pagans whatsoever.”

A custom that has survived so long in particular places–though few–in England, occasions the enquiry: How have they prevented the death which overtook the celebration elsewhere? At Whalton the people are more a people to themselves than others, because they are removed from train, tram, and motor bus. By and bye these agents of civilisation will reach them, and the end will be in sight. A new generation with new ideas will spring up, and there will be less disposition to gather the faggots and burn them as the darkness comes down. Finally, Baal fire, even as a fire, will cease to be, and one more custom will pass into history.

THE ORIGINS OF SUPERSTITIONS AND CUSTOMS

By T. Sharper Khowlson. 1910.

___________

Poetry: People of the Mounds…

FAERY SONG – Oran Sidhe

Trans by Shaw

I left in the doorway of the bower

My jewel, the dusky, brown, white-skinned,

Her eye like a star, her lip like a berry,

Her voice like a stringed instrument.

I left yesterday in the meadow of the kind

The brown-haired maid of sweetest kiss,

Her eye like a star, her cheek like a rose,

Her kiss has the taste of pears.

—–

A Fairy Song

by Percy French

Stay, silver ray,

Till the airy way we wing

To the shade of the glade

Where the fairies dance and sing:

The mortals are asleep –

They can never understand

That night brings delight,

It is day in Fairyland

Float, golden note,

From the lute strings all in tune,

Climb, quiv’ring chime,

Up the moonbeams to the moon.

There is music on the river,

There is music on the strand,

Night brings delight,

It is day in Fairyland.

Sing while we swing

From the bluebell’s lofty crest.

Hey! Come and play,

Sleepy songbirds in your nest;

The glow-worm lamps are lit,

Come and join our Elfin band,

Night brings delight,

It is day in Fairyland.’

Roam thro’ the home

Where the little children sleep,

Light in our flight

Where the curly ringlets peep.

Some shining eyes may see us,

But the babies understand,

Night brings delight,

It is day in Fairyland.

—-

The Fairy Ring

By George Mason and John Earsden

Let us in a lover’s round

Circle all this hallowed ground;

Softly, softly trip and go,

the light-foot Fairies jet it so.

Forward then and back again,

Here and there and everywhere,

Winding to and fro,

Skipping high and louting low;

And, like lovers, hand in hand,

March around and make a stand.

—–

I’d Love to be a Fairy’s Child

By Robert Graves (1895–1985)

CHILDREN born of fairy stock

Never need for shirt or frock,

Never want for food or fire,

Always get their heart’s desire:

Jingle pockets full of gold, 5

Marry when they’re seven years old.

Every fairy child may keep

Two strong ponies and ten sheep;

All have houses, each his own,

Built of brick or granite stone; 10

They live on cherries, they run wild—

I’d love to be a Fairy’s child.

—–

The Fairies

By William Allingham

Up the airy mountain

Down the rushy glen,

We dare n’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 gray

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 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 the thornies set

In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain

Down the rushy glen,

We dare n’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.

Saturday: Helped our friends Cheryl and Tom move out of their house Saturday for a bit … they sold it, as they are getting ready to head to Arizona. Tom and I have known each other some 38 years… Kinda strange and all thinking we won’t be on each others door step every few days. So, after they finished up, we had them and their nephew Woody, over for dinner, and then Woody left for a film with friends.

We sat back for a nice night of Absinthe drinking and general hanging out. A wonderful time, fraught with those emotions of this could be it for quite awhile. (they are threatening to come up for Winter Solstice, which would be rather cool)

A poem that came after they left that evening:

– La Fée Verte Saturday Night –

So the evening flows…

The lights fade, and we sit

drinking absinthe and talking

the times

future and past

and how it is now…

The candle plays across the glasses as I

perform the ceremony:

Absinthe, Spoon, Sugar, Cold Water

mixing the Cloud…

Mary Smiles, asking for a glass

her smile takes mine

and we soon are listening as one..

oh my beautiful one…

Another round

The heavy glasses clouded now

Tom is smiling, his pains have disappeared

“It’s a miracle he exclaims”!

His smile returns and he is the lad

I have always known…

No, it is but the “La Fée Verte”

and she is dancing, dancing in our heads…

I rush to make another and the light is amber

Laughter rises in waves, Laughter rises in waves,

and it is a wonder…

and it is a wonder…

a joyous

Wonder……

—

Sunday: Victor came by, after not showing up for many, many months it seems. Had a great time, talking, drinking coffee (it helped from the night before with the absinthe…) He brought some excellent sounds by, which will migrate over to Earth Rites Radio this week.

I got some nice cards for Fathers’ Day, from my relatives. Thanks to you all. We had a brilliant curry, that Rowan did lots of. He is learning basic Indian Cookery from Mary, and is taking to it like a duck to water!

—

The Week looks like it will be a busy one. Web Site work, finishing the Magazine, Some outside stuff and the odd and interesting that shows up…

On the Menu:

The Links

The Quotes

The Last Poem of Hoshin

Haiku/Poetry: Basho

The Art: Japanese Wood Block Prints from the 18th &amp; 19th Centuries…

Enjoy!

Gwyllm

_________

The Links:

Taking Happy to the Extreme (caffeine powered!)

Who Owns the Word ‘Terror’?

SINGAPORE: Blogger who posted cartoons of Christ online being investigated

_________

The Quotes:

“Tact is the knack of making a point without making an enemy.”

“Do I contradict myself?/ Very well then I contradict myself,/ (I am large, I contain multitudes.)”

“The nice thing about being a celebrity is that when you bore people, they think it’s their fault.”

“A marriage is always made up of two people who are prepared to swear that only the other one snores.”

“The trouble with facts is that there are so many of them.”

“Fashion is something that goes in one year and out the other.”

“Being in the army is like being in the Boy Scouts, except that the Boy Scouts have adult supervision.”

_______

The Last Poem of Hoshin

The Zen Master Hoshin lived in China many years. Then he returned to the northeastern part of Japan, where he taught his disciples. When he was getting very old, he told them a story he had heard in China. This is the story:

One year on the twenty-fifth of December, Tokufu, who was very old, said to his disciples: “I am not going to be alive next year so you fellows should treat me well this year.”

The pupils thought he was joking, but since he was a great-hearted teacher each of them in turn treated him to a feast on succeeding days of the departing year.

On the eve of the new year, Tokufu concluded: “You have been good to me. I shall leave tomorrow afternoon when the snow has stopped.”

The disciples laughed, thinking he was aging and talking nonsense since the night was clear and without snow. But at midnight snow began to fall, and the next day they did not find their teacher about. They went to the meditation hall. There he had passed on.

Hoshin, who related this story, told his disciples: “It is not necessary for a Zen master to predict his passing, but if he really wishes to do so, he can.”

“Can you?” someone asked.

“Yes,” answered Hoshin. “I will show you what I can do seven days from now.”

None of the disciples believed him, and most of them had even forgotten the conversation when Hoshin called them together.

“Seven days ago,” he remarked, “I said I was going to leave you. It is customary to write a farewell poem, but I am neither a poet or a calligrapher. Let one of you inscribe my last words.”

His followers thought he was joking, but one of them started to write.

“Are you ready?” Hoshin asked.

“Yes sir,” replied the writer.

Then Hoshin dictated:

I came from brillancy

And return to brillancy.

What is this?

This line was one line short of the customary four, so the disciple said: “Master, we are one line short.”

Hoshin, with the roar of a conquering lion, shouted “Kaa!” and was gone.

__________

_________

Haiku/Poetry: Basho

Cold night: the wild duck

Cold night: the wild duck,

sick, falls from the sky

and sleeps awhile.

—

In this world of ours,

Yo no naka wa kutte hako shite nete okite

Sate sono ato wa shinuru bakari zo

In this world of ours,

We eat only to cast out,

Sleep only to wake,

And what comes after all that

Is simply to die at last.

—

The dragonfly

The dragonfly

can’t quite land

on that blade of grass.

—

Midfield

Midfield,

attached to nothing,

the skylark singing.

—

Wrapping the rice cakes

Wrapping the rice cakes,

with one hand

she fingers back her hair.

—

Four Haiku

Spring:

A hill without a name

Veiled in morning mist.

The beginning of autumn:

Sea and emerald paddy

Both the same green.

The winds of autumn

Blow: yet still green

The chestnut husks.

A flash of lightning:

Into the gloom

Goes the heron’s cry.

—

Heat waves shimmering

Heat waves shimmering

one or two inches

above the dead grass

More Basho:

arranged in saijiki fashion

AUTUMN

this autumn

as reason for growing old

a cloud and a bird

—

the whole family

all with white hair and canes

visiting graves

—

souls’ festival

today also there is smoke

from the crematory

—

lotus pond

as they are unplucked

Souls’ Festival

—

Buddha’s Death Day

from wrinkled praying hands

the rosaries’ sound

—

Mii Temple

knocking on the gate for a wish

today’s moon

—

not to think of yourself

as someone who did not count –

Festival of the Souls

—

the moon so pure

a wandering monk carries it

across the sand

—

all night

autumn winds being heard

behind the mountains

(from Oka no Hosomichi)

—

blue seas

breaking waves smell of rice wine

tonight’s moon

—

so clear the sound

echoes to the Big Dipper

the fulling block

—

hair shaved in a moon-shape

with their hands on their knees

in the early hours of night

—-

the setting moon

the thing that remains

four corners of his desk

—

sleeping in the temple

the serious-looking face

is moon-viewing

—

the full moon

seven story-songs of a woman

turning towards the sea

—

viewing the moon

no one at the party

has such a beautiful face

—

the farmer’s child

rests from husking rice

then sees the moon

—

occasional clouds

one gets a rest

from moon-viewing

—

famous moon!

circling the pond all night

even to the end

—

buying a measure box

now I feel differently

about moon-viewing

—

harvest moon

northland weather

uncertain skies

—

taken in my hand

it will vanish in hot tears

autumn frost

—

full autumn moon

to my gate comes rising

crested tide

—

thin from the Kiso trip

and still not yet recovered

the late harvest moon

—

bright red

the pitiless sun

autumn winds

—

autumn wind

broken with sadness

his mulberry stick

—

autumn winds

in the sliding door’s opening

a sharp voice

—

autumn wind:

as thickets in fields are

Fuwa’s barriers