Earthrites

Wherever you are is the entry point – Kabir

June 16, 2005
by gwyllm
0 comments

Happy Thursday

Happy Thursday. Some nice entries on the Web log today (tonight for me, burning the midnight oil) I am hard pressed not to dedicating this one as well to Yeats poetry. It seems as I go over my books, I keep on rediscovering works that move me. I had nice feed back from a friend who was moved deeply by the pieces yesterday. That makes all this thrashing around well worth it to me. So much good stuff, and so many poets. I swear I will branch out again, I do, I do, I do…

I have been watching the world struggle over the last couple of days, and it appears to be as dire as usual. Has it ever been any other way? On the personal front, life is good, but out there in the political sphere things are strange, very strange. It all seems like a case of Sorcery gone wrong, and deeply misapplied. I think a form of magick does go on in these struggles. What we are seeing here on this level of existence may actually be mirroring what struggles are going on in the Ur-Mind of Humanity, or even the planet. Angels and Spirits struggling, but struggling as concepts and principles.

So, I thought a bit of magick here or there of fairer sort might be needed…

Enjoy,

Gwyllm

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Quote of the Day:

Magic, religion and science are nothing but theories of thought; and as science has supplanted its predecessors, so it may hereafter be itself superceded by some more perfect hypothesis, perhaps by some totally different way of looking at the phenomena – of registering the shadows on the screen – of which we in this generation can form no idea.

Sir James Frazer

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Samuel Coleridge – The Garden Of Boccaccio

[exerpt]

Of late, in one of those most weary hours,

When life seems emptied of all genial powers,

A dready mood, which he who ne’er has known

May bless his happy lot, I sate alone ;

And, from the numbing spell to win relief,

Call’d on the Past for thought of glee or grief.

In vain ! bereft alike of grief and glee,

I sate and cow’r’d o’er my own vacancy !

And as I watch’d the dull continuous ache,

Which, all else slumb’ring, seem’d alone to wake ;

O Friend ! long wont to notice yet conceal,

And soothe by silence what words cannot heal,

I but half saw that quiet hand of thine

Place on my desk this exquisite design.

Boccaccio’s Garden and its faery,

The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry !

An Idyll, with Boccaccio’s spirit warm,

Framed in the silent poesy of form.

Like flocks adown a newly-bathéd steep

Emerging from a mist : or like a stream

Of music soft that not dispels the sleep,

But casts in happier moulds the slumberer’s dream,

Gazed by an idle eye with silent might

The picture stole upon my inward sight.

A tremulous warmth crept gradual o’er my chest,

As though an infant’s finger touch’d my breast.

And one by one (I know not whence) were brought

All spirits of power that most had stirr’d my thought

In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost

Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost ;

Or charm’d my youth, that, kindled from above,

Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love ;

Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan

Of manhood, musing what and whence is man !



And many a verse which to myself I sang,

That woke the tear, yet stole away the pang,

Of hopes, which in lamenting I renew’d :



Thanks, gentle artist ! now I can descry

Thy fair creation with a mastering eye,

And all awake ! And now in fix’d gaze stand,

Now wander through the Eden of thy hand ;



I see no longer ! I myself am there,

Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share.

‘Tis I, that sweep that lute’s love-echoing strings,

And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings :

Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells

From the high tower, and think that there she dwells.

With old Boccaccio’s soul I stand possest,

And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest.



Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks,



With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves !

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Midsummer Is Coming!


Titania….







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Delivery Service

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So Old……

400,000-year-old stone tools discovered in Mazandaran

TEHRAN, June 8 (MNA) — Recent discoveries by a team of archaeologists indicate that the coast of the Caspian Sea in Mazandaran Province was home to the earliest hominid habitation in that region.

Archaeologist Ali Mahforuzi said on Wednesday that 400,000-year-old stone tools discovered in the valleys of Shuresh near the Rostam Kola, Huto, and Kamarband caves are the oldest ever found in the area.

The previous studies had dated human settlement in the region to have begun about 50,000 years ago.

“The recent studies conducted by a joint team of archaeologists from the Mazandaran Cultural Heritage and Tourism Department and archaeologists from the Mazandaran National Museum led to the discovery of several stone tools.

“The primary studies on the tools did not reveal their exact age, so the tools were sent to Professor Marcel Otte of the University of Liege in Belgium. He happened to be in Iran and he dated the tools to be 400,000 years old,” Mahforuzi explained.

Archaeologists are currently following up their studies to learn more about the people who made the tools.

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enter Big Brother….

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The Great Homeland Security Disconnect – Check out the Bar-be-que…

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Samuel Coleridge – The Eolian Harp

My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined

Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is

To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o’ergrown

With white-flower’d Jasmin, and the broad-leav’d Myrtle,

(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)

And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,

Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve

Serenely brilliant (such should Wisdom be)

Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents

Snatch’d from yon bean-field! and the world so hushed!

The stilly murmur of the distant Sea

Tells us of silence.

And that simplest Lute,

Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark!

How by the desultory breeze caress’d,

Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover,

It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs

Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its strings

Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes

Over delicious surges sink and rise,

Such a soft floating witchery of sound

As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve

Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,

Where Melodies round honey-dripping flowers,

Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,

Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untam’d wing!

O! the one Life within us and abroad,

Which meets all motion and becomes its soul,

A light in sound, a sound-like power in light,

Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every where—

Methinks, it should have been impossible

Not to love all things in a world so fill’d;

Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air

Is Music slumbering on her instrument.

And thus, my Love! as on the midway slope

Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon,

Whilst through my half-clos’d eye-lids I behold

The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main.

And tranquil muse upon tranquillity;

Full many a thought uncall’d and undetain’d,

And many idle flitting phantasies,

Traverse my indolent and passive brain,

As wild and various as the random gales

That swell and flutter on this subject Lute!

And what if all of animated nature

Be but organic Harps diversely fram’d,

That tremble into thought, as o’er them sweeps

Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,

At once the Soul of each, and God of all?

But thy more serious eye a mild reproof

Darts, O belovéd Woman! nor such thoughts

Dim and unhallow’d dost thou not reject,

And biddest me walk humbly with my God.

Meek Daughter in the family of Christ!

Well hast thou said and holily disprais’d

These shapings of the unregenerate mind;

Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break

On vain Philosophy’s aye-babbling spring.

For never guiltless may I speak of him,

The Incomprehensible! save when with awe

I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels;

Who with his saving mercies healéd me,

A sinful and most miserable man,

Wilder’d and dark, and gave me to possess

Peace, and this Cot, and thee, heart-honour’d Maid!

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and… another one by Yeats. Can’t help myself, really.

THE OLD MEN ADMIRING THEMSELVES IN THE WATER.

I heard the old, old men say

‘Everything alters,

And one by one we drop away.’

They had hands like claws, and their knees

Were twisted like the old thorn trees

By the waters.

I heard the old, old men say

‘All that’s beautiful drifts away

Like the waters.’

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Have a good day!

Gwyllm

(This Turfing was dedicated to Maud)

June 15, 2005
by gwyllm
0 comments

"Wednesday Conundrum"…

Well I have been dancing around with these selections for a couple of hours, and need to let it go. Sometimes I spend 2 to 3 hours a day assembling these. (I need to get a life or something… or get on with the Book and or Art) The truth is, I like doing the Hunt and Gather across the web. I start out with nothing in my head, I kinda de-focus, and let the creatures appear out of the woods so to speak…

We have a variety of subjects to cover, and with apologies, this one is rather large. From quotations from The Buddha, to the Pixies of Devon, through Genius and Madness, to hair-raising visuals, we bring you the “Wednesday Conundrum”.

I promise to bring some personal tales soon. Life has been a bit maddening of late and the tide is running towards the ebb rather than the flow. I have been reading Graves “Jason and the Argonauts” for the first time is some 15 years. It is pretty good, and it travels through time very well. Graves never ceases to amaze me. There are times when I cannot abide to read his works, and other times when I just have to submerge myself. Thankfully we are into the submerge kind of time.

I have been working on lots of art. I will link to some of it, as I have been doing poster work for Elliot here in Portland, who has an event coming up at the end of the month in Portland. (Details to follow)

Here is some of my new work on Ebay: MOIRÉ EYES Blotter

Take a view, feedback is always appreciated. purchasing is ever appreciated, and you will receive an Artist and Failed Poets Blessing if ya do! 8o)

Enjoy your visit Gentle Reader… onward.

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Believe nothing because a wise man said it.

Believe nothing because it is generally held.

Believe nothing because it is written.

Believe nothing because it is said to be divine

Believe nothing because someone else believes it.

But believe only what you yourself judge to be true.

– The Buddha

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LIKE RABBITS!

Humans ‘Freeze in Headlights’

By John von Radowitz, PA Science Correspondent

Humans freeze with fear in just the same way as a rabbit caught in headlights, scientists have revealed.

Tests showed that the bodies of human volunteers stiffened when they were shown pictures of mutilation or injury.

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Aedh Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven

William Butler Yeats

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

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Madness and Genius…



‘Missing link’ between madness and genius

By Amy Iggulden

(Filed: 11/06/2005)

Genius cannot exist without mental disorder, according to a study that names George Orwell, LS Lowry and Lewis Carroll among 21 artists who suffered a form of autism.

The psychiatric portrait of some of the most imaginative minds in history claims to prove the link between madness and greatness.

Beethoven, Mozart, Hans Christian Andersen and Immanuel Kant are among the musicians, writers, painters and philosophers who have been diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome.

Prof Michael Fitzgerald, a psychiatrist and expert in the syndrome that affects social relationships but not intellect, claims that people with Asperger’s can have exceptional artistic creativity, as well as mathematical genius.

Einstein and other engineering geniuses have already been suggested as sufferers. Prof Fitzgerald claims that some of the same genes that cause Asperger’s are a source of creative brilliance.

One of the characteristics of Asperger’s is thought to be an inability to engage in creative play. But Prof Fitzgerald says the syndrome almost certainly drove Orwell, Lowry and Carroll to writing and painting as a form of “self-help”.

“Asperger’s and creativity are two sides of the same coin – you can’t get one without the other,” he said.

His claims are set out in The Genesis of Artistic Creativity, which is to be published later this month, and have already won support from The National Autistic Society.

Dr Judith Gould, the director of the diagnostic unit at the National Autistic Society, said yesterday: “The theory makes sense, because one of the diagnostic criteria for Asperger’s is a ‘patchy’ ability, where some skills are better than others.

“That is greatly emphasised in geniuses.”

However, Prof John Geake, a researcher into cognitive creativity attached to Oxford University and Oxford Brookes University, was not convinced.

He said: “The truth is that most highly intelligent people are very competent at life.”

Prof Fitzgerald, a psychiatrist at Trinity College, Dublin, has diagnosed more than 900 people with the syndrome since he began practising in 1974. For the study, he assessed the personalities of 21 geniuses against the criteria for Asperger’s, using biographies and first-person recollections. He believes that Orwell displayed the social impairment, narrow focus, repetitive behaviour and clumsiness typical of the syndrome. And Beethoven, who was “clumsy”, “emotionally immature” and “had an unusually large head” also fit the criteria for Asperger’s. An expert on Beethoven, Dr Barry Cooper, said last night that he barely recognised the description of the composer.

“He was unkempt because his mind was on higher things,” he said. “And I have never heard him described as emotionally immature.”

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Most likely a hair raising experience!

I feel like Frankenstein!

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Aedh Laments the Loss of Love

William Butler Yeats

PALE brows, still hands and dim hair,

I had a beautiful friend

And dreamed that the old despair

Would end in love in the end:

She looked in my heart one day

And saw your image was there;

She has gone weeping away.

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Sheer Paleolithic Genius…

Scientists Trace Corn Ancestry From Ancient Grass To Modern Crop

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The Dartmoor Pixies



AMONG the superstitions of bygone times which still linger in Devonshire, the ideas regarding the pixies are undoubtedly the most interesting and romantic. Although the faith of the peasantry in the ability of these “little people” to exercise a control over their domestic arrangements is less firm than of yore, yet a notion still prevails that ill-luck will certainly overtake the hapless wight who is so unfortunate as to offend any of these diminutive elves. While instances are frequently related of help having been given to the farmer by these little sprites at night, the peasant who has only “heerd tell” of them, naturally looks upon them with some slight suspicion, and this lack of ocular demonstration on the part of the pixies it is that has somewhat shaken the faith of Hodge and Giles in their doings. However, let them be out late at night and hear some unusual sound at a lonely part of their road, or see, in the hollow below, the Will-o’-the-Wisp hovering about, and straightway they will begin to fancy the “little people” have something to do with it, and although they may he inclined to combat the idea, yet they will not be able to quite rid themselves of the impression that what they heard and saw was the pixies indulging in their midnight revels.

But it is to Dartmoor. we must go if we would hear fully of the fantastic tricks and antics of this elfin race, for there, and amid the combes which run far up into its borders, we shall find many a nook where they have often been observed dancing at night, according to old Uncle So-and-so, and in many an ancient farm-house shall be told how the -butter has been made, and the corn in the barn been threshed by these industrious little goblins.

Not far from the point of confluence of the two branches of the Mew rises “Sheepstor’s dark-browed rock,” and on the slope of the tor, on the side on which the village lies, is a vast clatter of boulders. Amid this is a narrow opening between two upright rocks, which will admit the visitor, though not without a little difficulty, into a small grotto, celebrated in local legend, and known as the Pixies’ Cave. On entering the cleft we shall find that the passage, which is only a few feet in length, turns abruptly to the left, and we shall also have to descend a little, as the floor of the cave is several feet lower than the rock at the entrance. This turning leads immediately into the cave which we shall find to be a small square apartment capable of containing several persons, but scarcely high enough to permit us to stand upright. On our left as we enter is a rude stone seat, and in the furthest corner a low narrow passage, extending for some little distance, is discoverable. According to a note in Polwhele’s Devon, this cavern became the retreat durng the Civil Wars of one of the Elford family, who here successfully hid himself from Cromwell’s soldiers, and it is related that he beguiled the time by painting on the rocky walls of the cavern, traces of the pictures remaining long afterwards, hut nothing of the sort is discoverable now. Mrs. Bray in her romance of Warleigh has introduced with good effect this story of the fugitive royalist, and indeed it was this tradition, so she tells us in her Borders of the Tamar and the Tavy, which first awakened a desire in her mind to search out the legendary lore of the neighbourhood, and which she afterwards presented to the public in so agreeable a form.

As its name indicates, the grotto is one of the haunts of the pixies, and according to local tradition these little fairy elves have made it their resort from time immemorial. Doubtless in days gone by the old people of Sheepstor saw–or fancied they saw–the

“Litt’e pixy fair and slim

Without a rag to cover him.”

busy clambering over the rocks by moonlight as he issued forth from his retreat to visit some farm-house to help forward the good yeoman’s work, or to wait until sunrise to pinch the lazy maid-servants should they fail to leave their beds at the proper time.

But there is one thing which we must not forget ere we leave the cave. Do not let us go thoughtlessly away without leaving an offering for the pixies, or piskies, as the country people more frequently call them. They are not extravagant in their expectations, so we shall not be taxed very highly. A pin will suffice, or a piece of rag, provided it is sufficiently large to make a garment for one of these little folks, for though sometimes seen in a state of nudity, they would seem to be proud of possessing a suit of clothes. Indeed a sort of weakness for finery exists among them, and a piece of ribbon appears to be as highly prized by them, as a gaudy coloured shawl or string of heads would be by an African savage.

The cave is rather difficult to find, and one might pass and re-pass the crevice which forms its opening, without ever dreaming that such a place existed there, so narrow does the entrance look. The clatter is a perfect wilderness of boulders, and stretches around to the eastern side of the tor, where the rocks rise perpendicularly, forming a precipice of great height.

As we stand at the entrance to the grotto we may look down upon the little village of Sheepstor and its church with sturdy granite tower, nestling in the sheltered combe, while the grey tor rises high behind us, exposed to all the buffetings of the wild moorland storm.

The tradition connecting the cavern on Sheeps Tor with the Elford family has, of course, rendered it more celebrated than it otherwise would have become had it depended on the pixies alone for its; notoriety, for though most people in this part of Devonshire have heard of the cave, few beyond the borders of Dartmoor have any knowledge of a larger and more striking retreat of these llittle people.”

This is known to the dwellers on the moor as the Piskies’ Holt, and is situated in Huccaby Cleave, not far from Dartmeet. [a]

The West Dart makes a sweep round the hill between Hexworthy Bridge and the point: where it meets its sister stream as it comes rolling down by the plantations of Brimpts, and after leaving Week Ford passes the cleave. Among the tangled bushes and underwood growing here, may be seen four rather large sycamore trees, at some distance from the left bank of the river, and it is beneath these that we shall discover the Piskies’ Holt. [b] It is a long narrow passage formed by large slabs of granite resting on two natural walls of the same. It is curved in form and extends for a distance of thirty-seven feet. its width is about four feet, and it is of sufficient height for a man to stand upright in it. The entrance, which is but two-and-a-half feet in height, is at the eastern cud, and at time other extremity is a small aperture through which it is possible to climb out of te cave. The floor is thickly covered with decayed leaves, blown in by the wind.

In summer time the knoll beneath which runs the bolt, is a most charming spot. The sycamore trees cast a cool and refreshing shade around, and the ferns with their bright green fronds, and the tall fox-gloves which lift their heads amid them, cover the ground near time fairy haunt, and force upon us the conviction that the pixies at all events have exhibited a deal of taste in their choice of an abode. Below, the West Dart hurries away to mingle its waters with time companion who never deserts it, but flows onward with it to the ocean, forcing its way over huge boulders, its banks overhung with foliage, and on the opposite hill-side are numerous enclosures which the hand of industry has rescued from the desert, with the brown moor stretching away beyond.

Truly it is a delightful spot, and as we throw ourselves back on the soft moss with the bright sun-rays streaming through the leafy canopy overhead, we can imagine that we are at the court of Oberon and Queen Titania. Did we visit the haunt by moonlight, perchance we should see the little elves coming stealthily forth from their retreat, and forming a fairy ring, indulge in their merry gambols on the sward.

Oh, these be Fancy’s revellers by night

Stealthy companions of the downy moth–

Diana’s motes, that flit in her pale light.

Shunners of sunbeams in diurnal sloth

These be the feasters on night’s silver cloth

The gnat with shrilly trump is their convener.

Forth from their flowery chambers, nothing loth,

With lulling times to charm the air serener.

Or dance upon the grass to make it greener. ” [c]

Many are the tales related of the doings of the pixies in this romantic neighbourhood, and in my note-book I have stored up more than one curious story, as I have gathered them from the Dartmoor peasants, to relate some of which shall presently be my pleasing task.

The two grottoes that I have noticed are the principal haunts of the pixies of Dartmoor, but there is not a tor near any of the moorland farms that has not been visited by them occasionally, and every homestead has at some time or other been the scene of the pranks of these merry elves. If we ask an old house-wife who and what the pixies are, she will tell us they are the souls of unbaptized children, and if we enquire as to their appearance, we shall be informed that they sometimes present themselves to human vision under the semblance of a small bundle of rags, but more frequently are seen in the form of little beings dressed in fantastic garments.

We shall find that beyond an excessive fondness for leading travellers astray, and for curiously riding on the Dartmoor colts much to the annoyance of the farmers, they seldom interfere with, or seek to bring trouble upon anyone, unless injury has been inflicted upon them. liven the practice in which they indulge of misleading travellers, we are told, may not be simply one of mischief, but may be for the purpose of leading the wayfarer from their secret haunts when he is unconsciously approaching too near diem, or may perhaps be intended as a punishment for some slight shown to them. It is true that lazy servants, and greedy and indolent masters suffer occasionally at their hands, but who can find fault with this? As a rule these “little people” seem to desire to do kind actions to the country folk, rather than cause them annoyance and inconvenience.

If perchance one should happen to be “pixy-led,” as it is termed, and should find it impossible to discover the desired track, an infallible remedy for this state of things is to divest oneself of some outer garment, turn it inside out, and put it on again, when the charm will be at once broken. Only a few years since an instance o this being tried came tinder my notice, but although it may have prevented the pixies from continuing their spell, it certainly did not have the effect of enabling the wanderers to find their road, when they had been once turned aside from it. Some young people set out from Hexworthy with The intention of going to Princetown by way of Swincombe, and across Tor Royal New-take. When they reached the latter enclosure, which is a very extensive one, a Dartmoor mist utterly prevented them from finding their way across it, and they wandered about for some time, totally unable to discover the wall of the new-take, and so gain the gate. They concluded they must be “pixy-led,” and the remedy in question was called into requisition. A short time after having done this they came upon an old kistvaen, known to the moor people as the “Crock of Gold,” and which they had already stumbled upon several times in their wandering. This is close beside the green path that leads across the new-take, but night being far advanced and the mist being still very dense they determined to wait until the morning broke, when their friends, who had made up a search party, discovered them.

Sometimes these merry little elves have been seen dancing in a circle on thc sides of the hills, as the peasant has made his way homeward after night-fall; but as such sights have generally been witnessed when the beholder has been returning from a merry-making, a sheep-shearing feast, perhaps, or a Christmas revel, I am reluctantly obliged to confess that I am of opinion that the appearance of these spirits must have had some connection with the spirits of the hospitable farmer, and that a nodding thistle, or a bunch of gorse, may have been, in the heated imagination of the rustic, set down as a dancing elf.

Such tricks hath strong imagination;

That if it would but apprehend some joy,

It comprehends some bringer of that joy

Or, in the night, imagining some fear,

How easy is a bush suppos’d a bear!” [d]

These merry little folks though credited with many a frolicsome gambol, are seemingly very shy of disporting themselves at the present day, being much more retiring in their disposition than we are informed was the case “years agone;” but their curious pranks still form a theme for conversation when, the labours of the day being over, and darkness covers the moor, the cottagers gather round to spend the evening hour by the comfortable peat fire.

[a] At this delightful spot. one of the best known of any on Dartmoor, the East and West Dart unite. These are both fine streams, and give name to the wild district in which they rise.

[b] On the moor the word holt is used to signify a hole, or hollow among rocks,–the retreating place of a fox or a badger.–a hold, as it were. The ancient meaning of the word was a wood, or grove, and Risdon (Survey of Devon, p. 315, Edit. 1811) in noticing the parish of High Bickington, in North Devn, quotes the following ancient grant by King Athelstane. where the word, is used. Athelstane king, grome of this home, geve and graunt to the preist of this chirch, one yoke of mye land frelith to holde, woode in my holt house to buyld, bitt grass for all hys beasts. fuel for hys hearth, pannage for his sowe and piggs world without end.”

[c] Hood. Plea of the Midsummer Fairies.

[d] Midsummers Nights Dream, Act V., Sc. 1.

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Aedh gives his Beloved certain Rhymes

William Butler Yeats

FASTEN your hair with a golden pin,

And bind up every wandering tress;

I bade my heart build these poor rhymes:

It worked at them, day out, day in,

Building a sorrowful loveliness

Out of the battles of old times.



You need but lift a pearl-pale hand,

And bind up your long hair and sigh;

And all men’s hearts must burn and beat;

And candle-like foam on the dim sand,

And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky,

Live but to light your passing feet.

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Here is to the passing of the days…

Midsummer looms, and the rain is soft in the Cascades.

Here is to love, in all its infinite ways,

Here is to the mutual worship that the season brings….

Be Well….

Gwyllm

June 13, 2005
by gwyllm
0 comments

Tuesday Fumble

Well, better late than never.

People who should never have gotten married

Euro Civilization (the elder)

NDE’s and the scientific method

Christians Flock to Religious Media….

China resurrects world’s earliest seismograph

2 poems by Pablo Neruda…

Gwyllm

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People who should never have gotten married….





Found: Europe’s oldest civilisation found right around the corner from Dresden….

Found: Europe’s oldest civilisation

By David Keys, Archaeology Correspondent

11 June 2005

Archaeologists have discovered Europe’s oldest civilisation, a network of dozens of temples, 2,000 years older than Stonehenge and the Pyramids.

More than 150 gigantic monuments have been located beneath the fields and cities of modern-day Germany, Austria and Slovakia. They were built 7,000 years ago, between 4800BC and 4600BC. Their discovery, revealed today by The Independent, will revolutionise the study of prehistoric Europe, where an appetite for monumental architecture was thought to have developed later than in Mesopotamia and Egypt.

In all, more than 150 temples have been identified. Constructed of earth and wood, they had ramparts and palisades that stretched for up to half a mile. They were built by a religious people who lived in communal longhouses up to 50 metres long, grouped around substantial villages. Evidence suggests their economy was based on cattle, sheep, goat and pig farming.

Their civilisation seems to have died out after about 200 years and the recent archaeological discoveries are so new that the temple building culture does not even have a name yet.

Excavations have been taking place over the past few years – and have triggered a re-evaluation of similar, though hitherto mostly undated, complexes identified from aerial photographs throughout central Europe.

Archaeologists are now beginning to suspect that hundreds of these very early monumental religious centres, each up to 150 metres across, were constructed across a 400-mile swath of land in what is now Austria, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, and eastern Germany.

The most complex excavated so far – located inside the city of Dresden – consisted of an apparently sacred internal space surrounded by two palisades, three earthen banks and four ditches.

The monuments seem to be a phenomenon associated exclusively with a period of consolidation and growth that followed the initial establishment of farming cultures in the centre of the continent.

It is possible that the newly revealed early Neolithic monument phenomenon was the consequence of an increase in the size of – and competition between – emerging Neolithic tribal or pan-tribal groups, arguably Europe’s earliest mini-states.

After a relatively brief period – perhaps just one or two hundred years – either the need or the socio-political ability to build them disappeared, and monuments of this scale were not built again until the Middle Bronze Age, 3,000 years later. Why this monumental culture collapsed is a mystery.

The archaeological investigation into these vast Stone Age temples over the past three years has also revealed several other mysteries. First, each complex was only used for a few generations – perhaps 100 years maximum. Second, the central sacred area was nearly always the same size, about a third of a hectare. Third, each circular enclosure ditch – irrespective of diameter – involved the removal of the same volume of earth. In other words, the builders reduced the depth and/or width of each ditch in inverse proportion to its diameter, so as to always keep volume (and thus time spent) constant .

Archaeologists are speculating that this may have been in order to allow each earthwork to be dug by a set number of special status workers in a set number of days – perhaps to satisfy the ritual requirements of some sort of religious calendar.

The multiple bank, ditch and palisade systems “protecting” the inner space seem not to have been built for defensive purposes – and were instead probably designed to prevent ordinary tribespeople from seeing the sacred and presumably secret rituals which were performed in the “inner sanctum” .

The investigation so far suggests that each religious complex was ritually decommissioned at the end of its life, with the ditches, each of which had been dug successively, being deliberately filled in.

“Our excavations have revealed the degree of monumental vision and sophistication used by these early farming communities to create Europe’s first truly large scale earthwork complexes,” said the senior archaeologist, Harald Staeuble of the Saxony state government’s heritage department, who has been directing the archaeological investigations. Scientific investigations into the recently excavated material are taking place in Dresden.

The people who built the huge circular temples were the descendants of migrants who arrived many centuries earlier from the Danube plain in what is now northern Serbia and Hungary. The temple-builders were pastoralists, controlling large herds of cattle, sheep and goats as well as pigs. They made tools of stone, bone and wood, and small ceramic statues of humans and animals. They manufactured substantial amounts of geometrically decorated pottery, and they lived in large longhouses in substantial villages.

One village complex and temple at Aythra, near Leipzig, covers an area of 25 hectares. Two hundred longhouses have been found there. The population would have been up to 300 people living in a highly organized settlement of 15 to 20 very large communal buildings.

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NDEs raise questions about human consciousness, light and time.

Near-death experiences attract attention of researchers

When Deb Foster died in a San Diego hospital, she found herself on a stairway surrounded by cats and dogs and mesmerized by a celestial blue sky, the likes of which she had never seen on Earth.

When it was Mary Clare Schlesinger’s turn, she hovered above her bed in the intensive-care unit, watching her husband and daughter react in shock and fathomless grief at the thought of her passing.

Beverly Brodsky said she went on a spectacular journey through a tunnel of intense light, a magic ride with angels and a shapeless God to a place of perfect knowledge, wisdom, truth and justice.

All three said the journeys on which they embarked while “clinically dead,” a period of a few moments when their hearts stopped, transformed their lives and left them with no fear of death.

They are not alone.

more at site….

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Christians flocking to religious media

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China resurrects world’s earliest seismograph

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Now here are two poems from that wily old Stalinist, Pablo Neruda.











Love Sonnet XI

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,

your hands the color of a savage harvest,

hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,

I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,

the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,

I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,

hunting for you, for your hot heart,

like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

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A Song of Despair

translated by w.s.merwin

The memory of you emerges from the night around me.

The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

Deserted like the dwarves at dawn.

It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.

Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

In you the wars and the flights accumulated.

From you the wings of the song birds rose.

You swallowed everything, like distance.

Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.

The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

Pilot’s dread, fury of blind driver,

turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.

Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,

sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

I made the wall of shadow draw back,

beyond desire and act, I walked on.

Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,

I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.

and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

There was the black solitude of the islands,

and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.

There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me

in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

How terrible and brief my desire was to you!

How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.

Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,

still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,

oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force

in which we merged and despaired.

And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.

And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,

and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,

what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not

drowned!

From billow to billow you still called and sang.

Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents.

Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.

Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,

lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour

which the night fastens to all the timetables.

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.

Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.

Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.

It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!

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More Tomorrow! Thanks for stopping by.

Gwyllm

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June 10, 2005
by gwyllm
0 comments

The Monday Jump!

Happy Monday! Hope you are all doing well and had a great weekend. We had a nice time.

First up is a great article that I thought I would share, then lots o links, followed up with Poetry from Ancient Egypt…

Enjoy…!

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I love this article. It touches the heart. Can you imagine? Yes, we can.

In the Spirit of Fathering…



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Tryp-toe-meme Evil Clown Generator

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Here is something to turn the worlds’ myth structure on end….

Odysseus and the Sea People?

The Corryvreckan whirlpool

DIANE MACLEAN



IT WOULD be amusing to draw a map of Scotland in the style of an ancient 16th-century cartographer. Pen and ink sketches would indicate where fairies and giants live. Lochs would be home to monsters and our seas filled with mermaids. To top the whole thing off you could even draw a great big swirling whirlpool showing a ship being dragged down into its watery depths.

Whilst there are few people who would suggest that fairies and monsters exist outside of this rather fantastical map of Scotland, you may be surprised to learn that everyone – even the Royal Navy – acknowledge the existence of one of these ancient mysteries. Because, on the west coast of Argyll, just off the Isle of Jura is a terrifying natural phenomenon.

You can hear the Corryvreckan whirlpool from ten miles away. Among the largest whirlpools in the world, it is caused by the intersection of tidal pathways which collide undersea round a 200-metre pinnacle of rock. Water rushes upwards causing enormous waves to rise up in the middle of the Sound of Jura and, if conditions are right, the whirlpool bursts into action. The Royal Navy considers it to be one of the most dangerous stretches of water in the British Isles and it is alleged to have taken many lives, including that of the man the whirlpool is said to be named.

Legend has it that a young Viking prince named Breacan asked for the hand in marriage of the Lord of the Isles’s daughter. To win her hand, the young man had to hold his boat steady in the whirlpool for three days, in true “Once upon a time” style. He asked his father’s wise men for advice and was told to gather three ropes – one of wool, one of hemp and the other woven from the hair of the pure maidens of the village. As our young hero was something of a looker, the women rushed to his aid.

The wool rope broke his first night in the whirlpool. The hemp rope went on the second. And disaster struck on the third night when the hair rope snapped too. It transpired that one of the young maidens who had donated her hair had previously forsaken her honour. For the want of her virtue, Breacan was drowned.

Whilst the story of poor Breacan cannot be verified, one sailor has had his encounter with the whirlpool witnessed and recorded. In 1947 Eric Blair was on Jura writing a novel. Tiring of the rigours of fiction writing, he decided to go for a sail with his nieces and nephews. Having just sailed out, they ran into an angry Corryvreckan. The boat was tossed about and the outboard motor was ripped off. Fearing for the lives of his young relations, Blair grabbed the oars and struck out for land. When the oars were lost and the boat was sucked under, he battled to reach a small rocky island, barely managing to rescue his three-year-old nephew as the boat flipped over.

Fortunately they were rescued by a lobster boat. Had they perished then Eric Blair – or George Orwell as he is better known – would never have returned to Jura and completed his novel 1984 and Big Brother would have remained unwritten.

Since then there have been some rather grand claims made on behalf of the whirlpool. Some writers in recent times have been troubled with the setting of Homer’s epic novel The Odyssey. A couple of startling re-appraisals of Odysseus’s travels have re-set the voyage far from the Mediterranean and nearer the North Atlantic.

Edo Nyland, in his book Odysseus and the Sea People, lines up an impressive list of sources to give weight to his theory that all the action was far west of Greece. Plutarch, Tacitus and Dante are just a sample of the big-hitters he calls on to pitch for his theory that the journey was set in Ireland and the west coast of Scotland. Integral to our story though, is his conclusion that if you follow Homer’s tale to where Odysseus was bewitched by Siren songs (Hebridean women waulking the heather on Iona, according to Nyland.), he reached the whirlpool of Charybdis. Nyland looks at tides and charts, cliffs and dimensions of all sorts of technical matters and concludes that Charybdis is no more, nor less than Corryvreckan.

Such a revisionist theory of a Greek classic needs looking into, or would if any academic thought Nyland’s whirlpool theory held any, well, water. But it seems unlikely to gather serious research, if Dr Domhnall Uilleam Stiùbhart at Edinburgh University is anything to go by.

“Brilliantly mad”, he says, before heading off laughing to reconsider his classics degree.

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It isn’t always top down…..

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The Scientific Method?

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Mothers Little Helper…

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Cat Butt…

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The following two pieces of writing were written by a scribe living in Amarna in aproximately 2750 B.C.

The first is written in honour of a beautiful neighbour and the second is in honour of his newborn child.

This scribe was just an ordinary Egyptian, these texts however give us a glimpse into the spirituality of the ordinary citizens of the time.

Something very special!!!!

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I was writing at night

Everything was quiet

I heard a cat /somewhere around and nothing more

Because people sleep in silence

I love to practice the sacred art of writing

There is much wisdom within the silence and we become wise and powerful when we

understand it

The Man that speaks too much will lose himself outside

The Man that speaks too few will loose himself inside

That was when I saw her

Walking in silence

The wind was combing her hair

Her hair is dark like the night

She seemed to flow as she walked

Our eyes met

She said nothing

She is so beautiful but she doesn’t know

Her house is next to mine

I hear her sisters putting her down

They can only laugh and scream like annoying birds

Your eyes are deep

Don’t listen to them

You are wise woman

Your steps are beauty

You are beautiful outside

You are beautiful inside

I hope to tell her this one day

Yes I will tell her this one day

I could write you a song everyday.

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“My daughter was born today

She is beautiful like her mother/ what a perfect child

Her lips are blood red and her eyes are grey like the sacred waters

My house will rejoice with her laughter every day

And fall into sadness with her tears

My life is complete now

I will work with more passion

And walk with a smile even when times are bad

When she grows she will turn out to be as lovely as her mother/

wiser than her father

And she will be loved

I can’t spend much time without looking at her/ lovely flower

May her spirit be strong to face the greatness of life

May the gods bless her every moment

I have never cried since childhood

Until today”

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Here is to a day of beauty, and compassion.

Gwyllm


June 10, 2005
by gwyllm
0 comments

LINK-O-RAMA !!!

Yes indeed, Link-O-Rama! More links than you can shake a stick at. A long poem at the end to dance in your imagination with.

Ready for the weekend?

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Speak Klingon?

Qapla’! Hospital seeks Klingon speaker

PORTLAND, Oregon (AP) — Position Available: Interpreter, must be fluent in Klingon.

The language created for the “Star Trek” TV series and movies is one of about 55 needed by the office that treats mental health patients in metropolitan Multnomah County.

“We have to provide information in all the languages our clients speak,” said Jerry Jelusich, a procurement specialist for the county Department of Human Services, which serves about 60,000 mental health clients.

Although created for works of fiction, Klingon was designed to have a consistent grammar, syntax and vocabulary.

And now Multnomah County research has found that many people — and not just fans — consider it a complete language.

“There are some cases where we’ve had mental health patients where this was all they would speak,” said the county’s purchasing administrator, Franna Hathaway.

County officials said that obligates them to respond with a Klingon-English interpreter, putting the language of starship Enterprise officer Worf and other Klingon characters on a par with common languages such as Russian and Vietnamese, and less common tongues including Dari and Tongan.

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The Truth about Nessie!

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Your in on this, right?

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Alien thinking

Not many scientists are prepared to take tales of alien abduction seriously, but John Mack, a Harvard professor who was killed in a road accident in north London last year, did. Ten years on from a row which nearly lost him his job, hundreds of people who claim they were abducted still revere him.

Professor John E Mack was an eminent Harvard psychiatrist, psychoanalyst and Pulitzer Prize winner whose clinical work had focused on explorations of dreams, nightmares and adolescent suicide.

Then, in 1990, he turned the academic community upside down because he wanted to publish his research in which he said that people who claimed they had been abducted by aliens, were not crazy at all. Their experiences, he said, were genuine.

More at Link…

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Smithsonian commits creationism gaffe

THERE is egg on management faces at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington DC over the screening of a creationist film in one of its museums.

The Smithsonian is the largest museum complex in the world and describes itself as “America’s museum”. It rents out the 565-seat Baird Auditorium at its National Museum of Natural History for events ranging from scientific conferences to concerts. But “events of a religious or partisan political nature” are banned.

Nothing amiss was spotted when a public-relations firm booked the room for 23 June for the Discovery Institute, a pro-creationist think tank in Seattle. The event is an invitation-only showing of The Privileged Planet, described as a “scientific documentary” that ponders “purpose within cosmic evolution”.

Scientists say that it advocates creationism, and have berated the Smithsonian for allowing itself to be listed as a co-sponsor – standard practice on all hosted events. On 1 June, the museum admitted its error, saying the film “is not consistent with the mission of the Smithsonian Institution’s scientific research”. It has not cancelled the screening, but has refused the $16,000 fee and withdrawn co-sponsorship.

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A mystery….

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I gotta get this!

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Where we have arrived at in Amerika…

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And now, for something completely different.

enough of the links already! hey!

How about a nice poem?









THE VOYAGE OF BRAN



To the Land of the Living

It was fifty quatrains the woman from unknown lands sang on the floor of the house to

Bran son of Febal, when the royal house was full of kings,

who knew not whence the woman had come, since the ramparts were closed.



This is the beginning of the story. One day,

in the neighbourhood of his stronghold,

Bran went about alone, when he heard music behind him.

As often as he looked back, ’twas still behind him the music was.

At last he fell asleep at the music, such was its sweetness.

When he awoke from his sleep,

he saw close by him a branch of silver with white blossoms,

nor was it easy to distinguish its bloom from that branch.

Then Bran took the branch in his hand to his royal house.

When the hosts were in the royal house,

they saw a woman in strange raiment on the floor of the house. ‘

Twas then she sang the fifty quatrains to Bran,

while the host heard her, and all beheld the woman.

And she said:

‘A branch of the apple-tree from Emain

I bring, like those one knows;

Twigs of white silver are on it,

Crystal brows with blossoms.

‘ There is a distant isle,

Around which sea-horses glisten:

A fair course against the white-swelling surge,

Four feet uphold it.

‘A delight of the eyes, a glorious range,

Is the plain on which the hosts hold games:

Coracle contends against chariot

In southern Mag Findargat.

‘Feet of white bronze under it

Glittering through beautiful ages.

Lovely land throughout the world’s age,

On which the many blossoms drop.



‘An ancient tree there is with blossoms,

On which birds call to the Hours.

‘Tis in harmony it is their wont

To call together every Hour.

‘Splendours of every colour glisten

Throughout the gentle-voiced plains.

Joy is known, ranked around music,

In southern Mag Argatné



‘Unknown is wailing or treachery

In the familiar cultivated land,

There is nothing rough or harsh,

But sweet music striking on the ear.

‘Without grief, without sorrow, without death,

Without any sickness, without debility,

That is the sign of Emain –

Uncommon is an equal marvel.



‘A beauty of a wondrous land,

Whose aspects are lovely,

Whose view is a fair country,

Incomparable is its haze.

‘Then if Aircthech is seen,

On which dragonstones and crystals drop

The sea washes the wave against the land,

Hair of crystal drops from its mane.



‘Wealth, treasures of every hue,

Are in Ciuin, a beauty of freshness,

Listening to sweet music,

Drinking the best of wine.

‘Golden chariots in Mag Réin,

Rising with the tide to the sun,

Chariots of silver in Mag Mon,

And of bronze without blemish.



‘Yellow golden steeds are on the sward there,

Other steeds with crimson hue,

Others with wool upon their backs

Of the hue of heaven all-blue.

‘At sunrise there will come

A fair man illumining level lands;

He rides upon the fair sea-washed plain,

He stirs the ocean till it is blood.





‘A host will come across the clear sea,

To the land they show their rowing;

Then they row to the conspicuous stone,

From which arise a hundred strains.

‘It sings a strain unto the host

Through long ages, it is not sad,

lts music swells with choruses of hundreds-

They look for neither decay nor death.



‘Many-shaped Emne by the sea,

Whether it be near, whether it be far,

In which are many thousands of motley women,

Which the clear sea encircles.

‘If he has heard the voice of the music,

The chorus of the little birds from Imchiuin,

A small band of women will come from a height

To the plain of sport in which he is.



‘There will come happiness with health

To the land against which laughter peals,

Into Imchiuin at every season

Will come everlasting joy.

‘It is a day of lasting weather

That showers silver on the lands,

A pure-white cliff on the range of the sea,

Which from the sun receives its heat.



‘The host race along Mag Mon,

A beautiful game, not feeble,

In the variegated land over a mass of beauty

They look for neither decay nor death.

‘Listening to music at night,

And going into Ildathach,

A variegated land, splendour on a diadem of beauty,

Whence the white cloud glistens.





‘There are thrice fifty distant isles

In the ocean to the west of us;

Larger than Erin twice

Is each of them, or thrice.

‘A great birth will come after ages,

That will not be in a lofty place,

The son of a woman whose mate will not be known,

He will seize the rule of the many thousands.



‘A rule without beginning, without end,

He has created the world so that it is perfect,

Whose are earth and sea,

Woe to him that shall be under His unwill!

‘Tis He that made the heavens,

Happy he that has a white heart,

He will purify hosts under pure water,

‘Tis He that will heal your sicknesses.



‘Not to all of you is my speech,

Though its great marvel has been made known:

Let Bran hear from the crowd of the world

What of wisdom has been told to him.

‘Do not fall on a bed of sloth,

Let not thy intoxication overcome thee,

Begin a voyage across the clear sea,

If perchance thou mayst reach the land of women.



Thereupon the woman went from them,

while they knew not whither she went.

And she took her branch with her.

The branch sprang from Bran’s hand into the hand of the woman,

nor was there strength in Bran’s hand to hold the branch.

Then on the morrow Bran went upon the sea.

The number of his men was three companies of nine.

One of his foster-brothers and mates was set over each of the three companies of nine.

When he had been at sea two days and two nights,

he saw a man in a chariot coming towards him over the sea.

That man also sang thirty other quatrains to him,

and made himself known to him,

and said that he was Manannan the son of Ler,

and said that it was upon him to go to Ireland after long ages,

and that a son would be bom to him,

even Mongan son of Fiachna-that was the name which would be upon him.

So he sang these thirty quatrains to him:

‘Bran deems it a marvellous beauty

In his coracle across the clear sea:

While to me in my chariot from afar

It is a flowery plain on which he rides about.

‘What is a clear sea

For the prowed skiff in which Bran is,

That is a happy plain with profusion of flowers

To me from the chariot of two wheels.

‘Bran sees the number of waves beating across the clear sea:

I myself see in Mag Mon

Red-headed flowers without fault.

‘Sea-horses glisten in summer

As far as Bran has stretched his glance:

Rivers pour forth a stream of honey

In the land of Manannan son of Ler.

‘The sheen of the main, on which thou art,

The white hue of the sea, on which thou rowest about,

Yellow and azure are spread out,

It is land, and is not rough.

‘Speckled salmon leap from the womb

Of the white sea, on which thou lookest:

They are calves, they are coloured lambs

With friendliness, without mutual slaughter.

‘Though (but) one chariot-rider is seen

In Mag Mell of many flowers,

There are many steeds on its surface,

Though them thou seest not.

‘The size of the plain, the number of the host,

Colours glisten with pure glory,

A fair stream of silver, cloths of gold,

Afford a welcome with all abundance.

‘A beautiful game, most delightful,

They play (sitting) at the luxurious wine,

Men and gentle women under a bush,

Without sin, without crime.

‘Along the top of a wood has swum

Thy coracle across ridges,

There is a wood of beautiful fruit

Under the prow of thy little skiff.

‘A wood with blossom and fruit,

On which is the vine’s veritable fragrance,

A wood without decay, without defect,

On which are leaves of golden hue.

‘We are from the beginning of creation

Without old age, without consummation of earth,

Hence we expect not that there should be frailty,

The sin has not come to us.

‘An evil day when the Serpent went

To the father to his city!

She has perverted the times in this world,

So that there came decay which was not original.

‘By greed and lust he has slain us,

Through which he has ruined his noble race:

The withered body has gone to the fold of torment,

And everlasting abode of torture.

‘It is a law of pride in this world

To believe in the creatures, to forget God,

Overthrow by diseases, and old age,

Destruction of the soul through deception.

‘A noble salvation will come

From the King who has created us,

A white law will come over seas,

Besides being God, He will be man.

‘This shape, he on whom thou lookest,

Will come to thy parts;

‘Tis mine to journey to her house,

To the woman in Line-mag.

‘For it is Moninnan, the son of Ler,

From the chariot in the shape of a man,

Of his progeny will be a very short while

A fair man in a body of white clay.

‘Monann, the descendant of Ler, will be

A vigorous bed-fellow to Caintigern:

He shall be called to his son in the beautiful world,

Fiachna will acknowledge him as his son.

‘He will delight the company of every fairy-knoll,

He will be the darling of every goodly land,

He will make known secrets-a course of wisdom-

In the world, without being feared.

‘He will be in the shape of every beast,

Both on the azure sea and on land,

He will be a dragon before hosts at the onset,

He will be a wolf of every great forest.

‘He will be a stag with horns of silver

In the land where chariots are driven,

He will be a speckled salmon in a full pool,

He will be a seal, he will be a fair-white swan.

‘He will be throughout long ages

An hundred years in fair kingship,

He will cut down battalions,-a lasting grave-

He will redden fields, a wheel around the track.

‘It will be about kings with a champion

That he will be known as a valiant hero,

Into the strongholds of a land on a height

I shall send an appointed end from Islay.

‘High shall I place him with princes,

He will be overcome by a son of error;

Moninnan, the son of Ler,

Will be his father, his tutor.

‘He will be-his time will be short-

Fifty years in this world:

A dragonstone from the sea will kill him

In the fight at Senlabor.

‘He will ask a drink from Loch Ló,

While he looks at the stream of blood,

The white host will take him under a wheel of clouds

To the gathering where there is no sorrow.

‘Steadily then let Bran row,

Not far to the Land of Women,

Emne with many hues of hospitality

Thou wilt reach before the setting of the sun.’

Thereupon Bran went from him. And he saw an island.

He rows round about it, and a large host was gaping and laughing.

They were all looking at Bran and his people,

but would not stay to converse with them.

They continued to give forth gusts of laughter at them.

Bran sent one of his people on the island.

He ranged himself with the others,

and was gaping at them like the other men of the island.

He kept rowing round about the island.

Whenever his man came past Bran,

his comrades would address him.

But he would not converse with them,

but would only look at them and gape at them.

The name of this island is the Island of Joy.

Thereupon they left him there.

It was not long thereafter when they reached the Land of Women.

They saw the leader of the women at the port.

Said the chief of the women: ‘Come hither on and,

O Bran son of Febal! Welcome is thy advent!’

Bran did not venture to go on shore.

The woman throws a ball of thread to Bran straight over his face.

Bran put his hand on the ball, which clave to his palm.

The thread of the ball was in the woman’s hand,

and she pulled the coracle towards the port.

Thereupon they went into a large house,

in which was a bed for every couple, even thrice nine beds.

The food that was put on every dish vanished not from them.

It seemed a year to them that they were there

,-it chanced to be many years.

No savour was wanting to them.

Home-sickness seized one of them, even Nechtan the son of Collbran.

His kindred kept praying Bran that he should go to Ireland with him.

The woman said to them their going would make them rue.

However, they went,

and the woman said that none of them should touch the land,

and that they should visit and take with them the man whom they had left in the Island of Joy.

Then they went until they arrived at a gathering at Srub Brain.

The men asked of them who it was came over the sea.

Said Bran: ‘I am Bran the son of Febal,’ saith he.

However, the other saith: ‘We do not know such a one,

though the Voyage of Bran is in our ancient stories.’

The man leaps from them out of the coracle.

As soon as he touched the earth of Ireland,

forthwith he was a heap of ashes,

as though he had been in the earth for many hundred years.

‘Twas then that Bran sang this quatrain:

‘For Collbran’s son, great was the folly

To lift his hand against age,

Without any one casting a wave of pure water

Over Nechtan, Collbran’s son.’

Thereupon,

to the people of the gathering Bran told all his wanderings from the beginning until that time.

And he wrote these quatrains in Ogam, and then bade them farewell.

And from that hour his wanderings are not known.

———————————————

One of my favourite Lyricist had an attempt at it on an album. Here with great brevity, is Brendan Perry’s (DCD) Lyrics…









Voyage of Bran

(Brendan Perry)

Father father

Can you tell me

Where the hours go

Where time flows ?

It is written in the stars

Upon the milky way

That we must burn bright

Before we fade away ?

Mother mother

Can you tell me

Where the fire goes

When the flames cease ?

From the ashes to the astral plain

Where the setting sun meets the sea, Brendan

I live by the river

Where the old gods still dream

Of inner communion

With the open sea

Through the eye of the hunter

In search of a prey

Neither beast nor human

In my philosophy

If you don’t recognise me

Well it’s simply because

I’ve outgrown these old clothes

Time to move on

For you and I will outlive

The masks life gave us

When this shadowplay comes

To a close

——————————-

And on that note dear reader, I bid you a wonderful weekend. Parties, rain, and a frenzy of painting (for an exhibit in a couple of weeks) I hope this finds you with beauty all about.



Cheers,

Gwyllm




June 9, 2005
by gwyllm
0 comments

To The Garden of the World…

Sources… sources…. I am always looking for them. They give me joy. Here is a source, (though not the only source) of modern American Paganism…. After Whitman, all else follows. Just an opinion… (Apologies to those who would dispute this idea, you are most welcome to your opinion and you can always comment below)

Much to read this time around. I strive for brevity, but keep on turning more up along the way….

Enjoy!

———————–







To the Garden the World


To the garden, the world, anew ascending,

Potent mates, daughters, sons, preluding,

The love, the life of their bodies, meaning and being,

Curious, here behold my resurrection, after slumber;

The revolving cycles, in their wide sweep, have brought me again,

Amorous, mature—all beautiful to me—all wondrous;

My limbs, and the quivering fire that ever plays through them, for reasons, most wondrous;

Existing, I peer and penetrate still,

Content with the present—content with the past,

By my side, or back of me, Eve following,

Or in front, and I following her just the same.

————————-



Toads from on High..

Frogs rain down on Serbia

Traffic came to a halt and locals fled inside after thousands of frogs fell from the sky onto a Serbian village.

Residents in Odzaci told local daily Blic they thought the world was coming to an end.

Aleksandar Ciric said: “I saw all these small frogs just start raining down. There were thousands of them.”

Another villager, Caja Jovanovic, added: “This huge ‘cloud’ seemed to come out of nowhere and its shape and colour looked very strange.

“We were all wondering what it was when suddenly frogs started to fall from the sky. I thought maybe a plane carrying frogs had exploded in midair.”

But climatology expert Slavisa Ignjatovic said there was a simple scientific explanation for the incident.

He said: “A whirlwind has sucked up the frogs from a lake, the sea or some other body of water somewhere else and carried them along to Odzaci where they have fallen to the ground. It is a recognised scientific phenomenon.”

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Natural genius and persecution

The high intelligence of Ashkenazi Jews may be a result of their persecuted past

The idea that some ethnic groups may, on average, be more intelligent than others is one of those hypotheses that dare not speak its name. But Gregory Cochran, a noted scientific iconoclast, is prepared to say it anyway. He is that rare bird, a scientist who works independently of any institution. He helped popularise the idea that some diseases not previously thought to have a bacterial cause were actually infections, which ruffled many scientific feathers when it was first suggested. And more controversially still, he has suggested that homosexuality is caused by an infection.

Even he, however, might tremble at the thought of what he is about to do. Together with Jason Hardy and Henry Harpending, of the University of Utah, he is publishing, in a forthcoming edition of the Journal of Biosocial Science, a paper which not only suggests that one group of humanity is more intelligent than the others, but explains the process that has brought this about. The group in question are Ashkenazi Jews. The process is natural selection.

Full Story at site…

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Why is this news worthy? Maybe they should come to our local gatherings if just 100 naked dancing women makes the headlines…..


Excellent Read….

————————————

How do I love thee? Which of the nine ways?

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THE ECSTASY

by John Donne








WHERE, like a pillow on a bed,

A pregnant bank swell’d up, to rest

The violet’s reclining head,

Sat we two, one another’s best.

Our hands were firmly cemented

By a fast balm, which thence did spring ;

Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread

Our eyes upon one double string.

So to engraft our hands, as yet

Was all the means to make us one ;

And pictures in our eyes to get

Was all our propagation.

As, ‘twixt two equal armies, Fate

Suspends uncertain victory,

Our souls—which to advance their state,

Were gone out—hung ‘twixt her and me.

And whilst our souls negotiate there,

We like sepulchral statues lay ;

All day, the same our postures were,

And we said nothing, all the day.

If any, so by love refined,

That he soul’s language understood,

And by good love were grown all mind,

Within convenient distance stood,

He—though he knew not which soul spake,

Because both meant, both spake the same—

Might thence a new concoction take,

And part far purer than he came.

This ecstasy doth unperplex

(We said) and tell us what we love ;

We see by this, it was not sex ;

We see, we saw not, what did move :

But as all several souls contain

Mixture of things they know not what,

Love these mix’d souls doth mix again,

And makes both one, each this, and that.

A single violet transplant,

The strength, the colour, and the size—

All which before was poor and scant—

Redoubles still, and multiplies.

When love with one another so

Interanimates two souls,

That abler soul, which thence doth flow,

Defects of loneliness controls.

We then, who are this new soul, know,

Of what we are composed, and made,

For th’ atomies of which we grow

Are souls, whom no change can invade.

But, O alas ! so long, so far,

Our bodies why do we forbear?

They are ours, though not we ; we are

Th’ intelligences, they the spheres.

We owe them thanks, because they thus

Did us, to us, at first convey,

Yielded their senses’ force to us,

Nor are dross to us, but allay.

On man heaven’s influence works not so,

But that it first imprints the air ;

For soul into the soul may flow,

Though it to body first repair.

As our blood labours to beget

Spirits, as like souls as it can ;

Because such fingers need to knit

That subtle knot, which makes us man ;

So must pure lovers’ souls descend

To affections, and to faculties,

Which sense may reach and apprehend,

Else a great prince in prison lies.

To our bodies turn we then, that so

Weak men on love reveal’d may look ;

Love’s mysteries in souls do grow,

But yet the body is his book.

And if some lover, such as we,

Have heard this dialogue of one,

Let him still mark us, he shall see

Small change when we’re to bodies gone.

————————————–

It starts with a garden, and ends with one. Paradise can be achieved. No more flaming swords, or the curse of duality…. at least for now.

Enjoy the day!

Gwyllm

June 8, 2005
by gwyllm
0 comments

My Bohemian Life….

My Bohemian Life (Fantasy)…. Arthur Rimbaud…







I went off with my hands in my torn coat pockets ;

My overcoat too was becoming ideal ;

I travelled beneath the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal ;

Oh dear me! what marvellous loves I dreamed of !

My only pair of breeches had a big whole in them.

– Stargazing Tom Thumb, I sowed rhymes along my way.

My tavern was at the Sign of the Great Bear.

– My stars in the sky rustled softly.

And I listened to them, sitting on the road-sides

On those pleasant September evenings while I felt drops

Of dew on my forehead like vigorous wine ;

And while, rhyming among the fantastical shadows,

I plucked like the strings of a lyre the elastics

Of my tattered boots, one foot close to my heart !

————

“If we don’t believe in freedom of expression for

people we despise, we don’t believe in it at all.”

-Noam Chomsky




ORIONS’ IMAGE…







Orion’s Image

The New World equivalent of the Gizeh pyramids may well be Teotihuacan, even in as much detail that its layout also mimics astronomical information, even that of Orion’s Belt.

The citadel of Teotihuacan, just outside of Mexico City, is one of the most famous sites constructed by our ancestors. It bloomed between 300 and 600 AD and covered 20 square km (7.7 square miles), once holding a population of 200,000. The name means “place of the gods” or “where men were transformed into gods”, a name given by the Aztecs. It has lead to speculation that the structures were thus constructed by extra-terrestrial beings, or giants – if only because the central focus of the complex is a series of pyramids: the Pyramid of the Moon and the Pyramid of the Sun, whom together with the Temple of Quetzalcoatl, are the axis along which the city developed itself.

The actual central axis is the “Avenue of the Dead”, running from the plaza in front of Pyramid of the Moon past the two other features, and beyond, originally 4 km long. It was named Avenue of the Dead because of archaeological discoveries alongside it. Still, the name may betray a mythical aspect, as Stansbury Hagar suggested that the Avenue may be a representation of the Milky Way – normally seen as a Way of the Soul.

Hagat stated that the entire complex was a map of heaven: “It reproduced on earth a supposed celestial plan of the sky world where dwelt the deities and spirits of the dead.” His conclusions were in line with those of Hugh Harleston Jr., who mapped the complex in the 1960s and 1970s and believed that the entire complex was a precise scale-model of the solar system.

More at site….

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Tibetan Buddhist Monks do it better than You….

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As if we didn’t know this already…

Living in the USA…

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Yeah, this will get up someones nose, like, sorry. Anyway, with reports going back 1600 years, we now have this. I have been watching this develop for the last couple of months… comments?

Nessie Returns!

What Big Teeth You Have Grandma…..











——————————————

Doing your part for the Orwellian future?

“If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face–for ever.”

–from Nineteen Eighty-Four

Uncle Sam Wants You for the War on Drugs


——————————————-







Faun’s Head

Arthr Rimbaud…

Among the foliage, green casket flecked with gold,

In the uncertain foliage that blossoms

With gorgeous flowers where sleeps the kiss,

Vivid and bursting through the sumptuous tapestry,

A startled faun shows his two eyes

And bites the crimson flowers with his white teeth.

Stained and ensanguined like mellow wine

His mouth bursts out in laughter beneath the branches.

And when he has fled – like a squirrel -

His laughter still vibrates on every leaf

And you can see, startled by a bullfinch

The Golden Kiss of the Wood, gathering itself together again

—————————————–



Happy Birthday to Clark, a Happy Belated Birthday to my sister Rebecca, and a wonderful day to you all!

Gwyllm

——————————————–

June 6, 2005
by gwyllm
0 comments

VALIS



Tuesday. Another day and here we are again. 8o]

Monday brought disappointment with the high courts ruling on Cannabis for Medicine… Aiy-ye-ye-ye-ye-ye-ye!!!! what are these people thinking of? My head spins at the constant stupidity and cultural war games that continue on. Well, I guess it is going to be a long slog after all, as it has been a slog for the last 68 or so years with this plant. Will it ever get a fair shake in this country? Will the war against Cognitive Liberty ever cease?

Give me a hint, please…

As I type this, I am hearing the radio talking about the melt-down in Bolivia. The world can change. I think we should all take a lesson from our Sisters and Brothers elsewhere. They have put themselves up against the wheel, and yes, it does move with enough pressure. Let’s hear it for Brazil and Venezuela as well, okay?

————-

So I am looking at this reflection in the mirror, which has a different name… Though I think he speaks to all of us especially in these times, Philip K. Dick. I read his “Man in the High Tower” back in the 70’s, along with all types of his short stories in various publications. I stumbled on the wonderful illustrated comix by R. Crumb (Mr. Natural!) about PKD’s spiritual crisis that started in 1974 and which continued up to his death. It seems he had an appointment with Elijah… This is an amazing piece, and it will take you away from the blog for awhile, but come back after bookmarking this page. I promise you, it will be worth it…

click the link…..

Philip K. Dick











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Yep, Rumi finally makes an appearance here. So much good stuff from this man. One could study his works for a lifetime. This section is dedicated to the Sufis’ who were killed this weekend practicing their art and love in Iraq.





“I am only the house of your beloved,

not the beloved herself:

true love is for the treasure,

not for the coffer that contains it.”

The real beloved is that one who is unique,

who is your beginning and your end.

When you find that one,

you’ll no longer expect anything else:

that is both the manifest and the mystery.

That one is the lord of states of feeling,

dependent on none;

month and year are slaves to that moon.

When he bids the “state,”

it does His bidding;

when that one wills, bodies become spirit.

——-

Separation from companions is unwise

Treading the path without light is unwise

If the throne and scepter have been your prize

Descent from prince to pauper is unwise.

For Beloved, the you in you is disguise

To focus on the you in you is unwise.

If once to heavenly abundance you rise

Desperation and impotence is unwise.

Hear the thief’s greedy and fearful cries

Fraudulent deception too is unwise.

Able-body, chains & shackles unties

Idleness of such a body is unwise.

Your foothold gone, your soul freely flies

Wingless & featherless flight is unwise;

Given wings, reach only for Godly skies

Flying away from God’s Will is unwise.

To you, phoenix, demise is mere lies

Phoenix running from fire is unwise.









—————————-

I will readily admit that I am media driven in many ways. Take Cinema as an example, and Japanese Samuari Movies to be exact. Toshiro Mifune is the operating Icon for this particular meme… Well, watching Toshiro has always been a joy. (Ever see “Redbeard”? Samurai as Doctor… a very tasty film, but I digress) Toshiro’s acting got me interested in a particular character in the 1600’s, the classic age of the Samurai. Musashi Miyamoto. Quite the character, and a writer as well. This is a part of his

The Book of 5 Rings

The Book of the Void

Just an excerpt, and I am sure it is familiar to many of course….







The Ni To Ichi Way of strategy is recorded in this the Book of the Void.

What is called the spirit of the void is where there is nothing. It is not included in man’s knowledge. Of course the void is nothingness. By knowing things that exist, you can know that which does not exist. That is the void.

People in this world look at things mistakenly, and think that what they do not understand must be the void. This is not the true void. It is bewilderment.

In the Way of strategy, also, those who study as warriors think that whatever they cannot understand in their craft is the void. This is not the true void.

To attain the Way of strategy as a warrior you must study fully other martial arts and not deviate even a little from the Way of the warrior. With your spirit settled, accumulate practice day by day, and hour by hour. Polish the twofold spirit heart and mind, and sharpen the twofold gaze perception and sight. When your spirit is not in the least clouded, when the clouds of bewilderment clear away, there is the true void.

Until you realise the true Way, whether in Buddhism or in common sense, you may think that things are correct and in order. However, if we look at things objectively, from the viewpoint of laws of the world, we see various doctrines departing from the true Way. Know well this spirit, and with forthrightness as the foundation and the true spirit as the Way. Enact strategy broadly, correctly and openly.

Then you will come to think of things in a wide sense and, taking the void as the Way, you will see the Way as void.

In the void is virtue, and no evil. Wisdom has existence, principle has existence, the Way has existence, spirit is nothingness.



Twelfth day of the fifth month, second year of Shoho (1645)

———————————————

Upper Norwood, 1984. Working on my cherished Ford Anglia, 1966. The last handmade Ford ever produced. If man ever fell in love with vehicle, I did with this one. We ranged all over Britain in this little beauty for quite awhile. Drunken adventures coming back from the Ring of Bells up on the Moor in Devon, to searching out Hillforts in Sussex…



Brought it back to the US, where it died an ignoble death, but it saw Big Sur first, oh yes. Long gone, and still greatly missed.









I hope the day treats you well. Remember to take a moment today, and breathe deep and meditate on the beauty of it all….



Cheers,

Gwyllm

___________________________________

June 3, 2005
by gwyllm
0 comments

Reflections from the cups….

On Tea and Poetry. Both are linked in my mind. Tea goes well with Haiku and Koan, a natural as some would say….

On one of the sources of Poetry in my life… from Canada.

Read on, Dear Reader, read on.

G

(This is dedicated to William Benz….)

I first became conscious of William at the Salvia Conference at Breitenbush in 1999. A large guy, passionate and totally shaking it. I watched him talking to people with a high end enthusiam not often seen. I never got to talk to him, until we met at a local store months later. I mentioned the Salvia Conference, and off he went like a shot, 90′ miles an hour talking about that marvelous plant.

Soon, he was visiting on a regular basis, from his North Portland home. During this time I discovered that he had been in on the early foundings of the Zen Center in San Francisco. He also introduced me to tea in a way that I had never experienced. He often did the Tea Ceremony for us, and I thank him for that kindness.

I see him rarely now, as he has fallen in love with the charming Maria, and now lives with her somewhere near Reed College.

He has a kind heart, and an enthusiasm that is wonderful to see.

William, if you read these, this one is for you…

Gwyllm

————









Reflections from the Cups of the Tea Masters…

Tea Stories: Reflections from the cups of the Tea Masters

It was in Buddhist temples that tea drinking particularly flourished and spread. Tea is invigorating, and there is a direct expression of clarity that it calls forth. Clarity, and even giddiness, or delight. Tea helps to invigorate long meditations. There are two types of obstacles to meditation that tea might lend help to for a meditator: boredom and breakthrough. In truth, these two obstacles can be related, they can even be one and the same. When you stop chasing thoughts, the habitual mind has nothing much to entertain itself with. For some people and during some times, this can manifest as tiredness, the mind just tries to shut down the senses. Tea helps to bring more attentiveness to a state of dullness. Likewise, the experience of breakthrough in a meditation can be like an experience on a kind of plateau where nothing seems to be going on and the sense of desolation can bring dullness or sluggishness. In these situations, tea can bring sharpness to persist until the threshold has been passed through.

Anything that we eat or drink becomes part of us. Not just part of our bodies, but also part of our mind, part of how we experience our lives. This is why eating and drinking meditations are practiced in Buddhist Temples. When we notice what is going on, when we notice what we are doing, we can bring intention to the path of meditation and change begins to work with us to bring us to an expression of completeness we have never experienced before. So as we look closely at the logistics of what is happening, we can find in the ritual of tea drinking the dance of the elements, the coming together of everything we know in our world as a celebration of abundance, clarity, joy and wonder.

Sugiki Fusai’s student asked for something to remind him of his teacher’s instructions. After some thought, Fusai took a piece of burning charcoal from the firepit, placed it in a small incense brazier, and handed it to his pupil, saying, “I have nothing else to offer you, but take this home, put it in your hearth and keep it burning by performing chanoyu morning and evening. If you can keep this up, you will understand all I have taught you.” (The Tea Ceremony Tokyo: Kodansha Int’l. 1973 p. 92)

We are responsible for keeping the fire of gentle awareness burning everywhere in our lives. We are the ones who have inherited deep wonder from all of those who have taught us how to love and dream. This fire awakens the tea in our hearts and brings the power of infusion into the evanescence of our flowing experiences. When the fire finds the balanced bowl of our spaciousness and presence, our space and earth, we find the mystery of tea is no different than the mystery we are.

My real dwelling

has no pillars

and no roof either

so rain cannot soak it

and wind cannot blow it down!

(Ikkyu, Wild Ways, p.28)

In the Book of Tea written in 1600 by So Shuno, the author states that while a certain conservatism is necessary, the ceremony should not lack in originality or become stiff and static. (The Tea Ceremony p.90)

As formalized and stark as the Japanese style of Tea Ceremony appears, the Japanese tea ceremony depends not only on traditional art but creativity, hataraki, without which it becomes dull and prosaic. Hataraki is the flowing of the stream that bubbles and washes through us if we only abandon ourselves to feeling the flow.

In the Record of Yamanoue Soji in which this creativity is known as sakubun there are two sides to chanoyu: the observation of tradition and the employment of creativity. (The Tea Ceremony, p.15)

We are a ceaseless creative event. The ritual is never finally codified, never finished. We must bring everything we are to what we do, and when we do this, we become living poetry.

Takeno Joo, a monk of the 15th century, used to say preparing tea was an “unique opportunity of a lifetime,” in praise of the art. (The Tea Ceremony, )

One story tells that tea was discovered in 2737 BCE by Shen-Nung, the legendary plant doctor who could test scores of poisons in his own body in a single day and find antidotes for each of them. The great doctor was boiling water to make his dinner when some tea leaves were blown into the kettle by the wind. He drank the infusion, felt refreshed and invigorated, and recognized the plant’s sublime virtues.

Shen-Nung was a Taoist sage, though long before Lao Tzu or Chuang Tzu had articulated Taoist philosophy. The ancient Taoist sages were plant people. Taoist emphasis on individuality and freedom contrasted with the Confucian ideals of heirarchy and duty (though Confucians might term them “harmony” and “tradition”). Confucianism was stronger in northern China, Taoism in the south, and the south was the land of tea. And it was in southern China that Taoism–with its emphasis on emptiness and the yin–was most assimilated into Buddhism as Ch’an (Zen in Japanese). P48-9

It is the balance of openness and the desire to see the wildness of the wilds reflected in the expression of the mind that brings the Taoist sages to the heart of harmony, to the heart of the mirror, where the outer and inner worlds reflect with endless perfection.

The Ch’an sect made tea drinking a part of their ritual. They offered tea to the Buddha, and shared tea from a passed cup. Pai-chang, the early T’ang teacher who instituted the distinctive nonheirarchical organizational structure that first defined Ch’an as an indepenedent sect, was said to have included rules regarding tea drinking. Pai-chang broke with Buddhist tradition and made farming and other work a regular part of monastic practice. “A day without work is a day without eating,” Pai-chang (called Hyakujo in Japanese) also gave some thought to the law of cause and effect, and is perhaps best known for once giving a full Buddhist funeral for the body of a fox.

(Pharmako(Poiea), pp.49-50)

The wisdom of the knowledge of cause and effect is one of the foundations of Buddhist meditation. On the one hand, monasteries had great incentive in growing tea, as their consumption would cost money to supply. On the other hand, the process of working fields brings these lessons home in a practical and experiential way to anyone who is willing to participate in the expression of this earth’s bounty. Tea farms at monasteries bring the teachings into the soil, and the results of bringing intention to what we do always yields a sweetness that is surprisingly palatable.

According to Taoists, tea relieves fatigue, delights the soul, strengthens the will, and repairs the eyesight. Tea was an essential ingredient in the Elixir of Immortality.

“In our common parlance we speak of the man “with no tea” in him, when he is insusceptible to the serio-comic interests of the personal drama. Again we stigmatize the untamed aesthete who, regardless of the mundane tragedy, runs riot in the springtide of emancipated emotions, as one “with too much tea” in him.

(Okakura Kakuzo, Book of Tea)

The idea that the serving tea could be a spiritual path in Japan came from the contact between a few key masters of the 14th century: Murata Shuko, Master Joshu and Master Ikkyu. Master Joshu, a Tea Master and Zen priest, was famous for his invariable response to three of his students questions with the reply, “Have a cup of tea.” Murata Shuko was a student of the great poet and iconoclastic Zen master Ikkyu (1394-1481). Ikkyu encouraged Shuko’s intrest in tea, believing that tea could be used as “skillful means” on the Buddhist path, and presented Shuko with a valuable scroll of calligraphy by the Ch’an master Yuan-wu as a certification of his attainment.

Once Ikkyu asked Shuko, “What is the essence of tea-drinking?”

Shuko said, “It is Eisai’s Quiet Mind of Tea-drinking.”

Ikkyu said, “What about Joshu’s tea?”

Shuko was silent and at last Ikkyu served him a cup of tea.

As Shuko lifted the cup to his lips, Ikkyu shouted “Katsu!” and smashed it with his iron nyoi (a Buddhist ceremonial rod). Shuko bowed deeply.

Ikkyu spoke to him, “What are you like when you have no intention of taking tea?”

Without an answer, Shuko got up and walked toward the door.

“Stop.” Ikkyu shouted, “What are you like when you’ve taken tea?”

“The willow is green,” Shuko replied, “the rose is red.”

Ikkyu then smiled broadly.

“The Present is the moving Infinity, the legitimate sphere of the relative. Relativity seeks Adjustment; adjustment is Art.” Okakura Kakuzo, The Book of Tea “Thus,” as Dale Pendell writes, “the tarot card of tea is Temperance.”

Temperance in the Rider Waite deck is symbolized by an angel, the Angel Gabriel, pouring liquid from one cup to another. The flow of any liquid can be understood as the expression of evanescence or impermanence, or as Pendell notes, “adjustment.” A river and a waterfall all demonstrate this through the incessant and constant change present in their flowing.

Rain, hail, snow and ice:

all separate

but when they fall

they become the same water

of the valley stream.

(Ikkyu, Wild Ways, p. 115)

Likewise, tea in the Gong Fu style Chinese Tea Ceremony is poured from the “father” teapot to the teapot of the “son.” This is the nature of transmission, and the expression of balance within the expression of movement. Where there is perception of movement there is an expression of duality, for nothing can move if there is nothing to perceive. If there is nothing to perceive, there is nothing to be distinguished, in such a state duality cannot exist. The enlightened expression of movement is the activity of compassion or love as the movement emanates from a state of ecstatic perfection to a state of embodied perfection.

Untrammeled and free for 30 years

Crazy cloud practices his own brand of Zen.

A hundred flavors of spice my simple fare:

Thin gruel and twig tea are part of the True

Transmission.

(Ikkyu In Thanks for a gift of shoyu, p. 35)

Ikkyu called himself “Crazy Cloud.” In one sense, he is calling to mind his evanescence as a human being, as fall of thoughts plunging into the ages, as a sage proclaiming the evaporation of sages, bubbles, drips on wet pages. Crazy because the wind blows everywhere, blows us everywhere, these winds of changes. Wetness follows the light, sends us dancing across stages.

If chunks of rock

can serve as a memento

to the dead,

a better headstone

would be a tea mortar.

(Ikkyu, Wild Ways, p.107)



I watched a cloud

as I sang to the dakini of air

and mist of my prayer rose

to meet her lips.

I sang a song

to the dakini of space

and she dropped her skin like a gown

kissed my breath,

dancing

in the throat of my song.

The great Tea Masters that have gone before, like the Buddha, have left us with echoes of their heartbeat’s horizon. Those fortunate enough to see them face to face have tasted their tea in words and in silence, in the ineffable space of tasting what cannot be caught with words and phrases.

Writing something

To leave behind

Is yet another kind of dream:

When I awaken I know that

There will be no one to read it.

(Ikkyu, Wild Ways, p. 127)







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The first Poet I read was Homer. I was 8 years old, and I fell in love with words and phrases from a dead man, who had been gone some 2800 years. I eventually washed up on the shores of the Americas, and found Robert Frost, Edgar Allan Poe, Allen Ginsberg, and then: Leonard Cohen.

Whereas people said Dylan wrote like a poet, Cohen “was” a poet. I still have the original book that I bought when I was 17 years old. I had to travel some 200 miles to buy it, at City Lights… (bless you Lawrence!) Much of my early poetry was in homage to his style. I think one could find worse to emulate. Anyway, he still reads well after all these years, and I still enjoy his music. He turned 70 last year, and he is still moving people, as a poet should.

Hope you enjoy these…





Beneath My Hands (In my hands, your small breasts …”) from “The Spice-Box of Earth”

Beneath my hands

your small breasts

are the upturned bellies

of breathing fallen sparrows.

Wherever you move

I hear the sounds of closing wings

of falling wings.

I am speechless

because you have fallen beside me

because your eyelashes

are the spines of tiny fragile animals.

I dread the time

when your mouth

begins to call me hunter.

When you call me close

to tell me

your body is not beautiful

I want to summon

the eyes and hidden mouths

of stone and light and water

to testify against you.

I want them

to surrender before you

the trembling rhyme of your face

from their deep caskets.

When you call me close

to tell me

your body is not beautiful

I want my body and my hands

to be pools

for your looking and laughing.

——————-

Celebration

When you kneel below me

and in both your hands

hold my manhood like a sceptre,

When you wrap your tongue

about the amber jewel

and urge my blessing.

I understand those Roman girls

who danced around a shaft of stone

and kissed it till the stone was warm.

Kneel, love, a thousand feet below me,

so far I can barely see your mouth and hands

perform the ceremony,

Kneel till I topple to your back

with a groan, like those gods on the roof

that Samson pulled down.

Leonard Cohen









Have a brilliant day, may beauty find you where ever you roam!

Gwyllm

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June 3, 2005
by gwyllm
0 comments

Sunflower Sutra…

I could tell you tales, but for now… I will indulge my fancy and let Allen do the talking. I met him once, when I was young… and that my friends is a long time ago.

Here is to poets, and bards…

Thank You Allen, for the gift of Poesy…

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Sunflower Sutra…



I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and

sat down under the huge shade of a Southern

Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the

box house hills and cry.

Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron

pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts

of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, sur-

rounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of

machinery.

The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun

sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that

stream, no hermit in those mounts, just our-

selves rheumy-eyed and hungover like old bums

on the riverbank, tired and wily.

Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray

shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting

dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust–

–I rushed up enchanted–it was my first sunflower,

memories of Blake–my visions–Harlem

and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes

Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black

treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the

poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel

knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck

and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the

past–

and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset,

crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog

and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye–

corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like

a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face,

soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sun-

rays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried

wire spiderweb,

leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures

from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster

fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,

Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O

my soul, I loved you then!

The grime was no man’s grime but death and human

locomotives,

all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad

skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black

mis’ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuber-

ance of artificial worse-than-dirt–industrial–

modern–all that civilization spotting your

crazy golden crown–

and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless

eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the

home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar

bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards

of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely

tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what

more could I name, the smoked ashes of some

cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the

milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs

& sphincters of dynamos–all these

entangled in your mummied roots–and you there

standing before me in the sunset, all your glory

in your form!

A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent

lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye

to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited

grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden

monthly breeze!

How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your

grime, while you cursed the heavens of the rail-

road and your flower soul?

Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a

flower? when did you look at your skin and

decide you were an impotent dirty old locomo-

tive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and

shade of a once powerful mad American locomo-

tive?

You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a

sunflower!

And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me

not!

So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck

it at my side like a scepter,

and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack’s soul

too, and anyone who’ll listen,

–We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not our dread

bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we’re all

beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we’re bles-

sed by our own seed & golden hairy naked ac-

complishment-bodies growing into mad black

formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our

eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive

riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sit-

down vision.

Berkeley, 1955

———

First Party At Ken Kesey’s With Hell’s Angels

Cool black night thru redwoods

cars parked outside in shade

behind the gate, stars dim above

the ravine, a fire burning by the side

porch and a few tired souls hunched over

in black leather jackets. In the huge

wooden house, a yellow chandelier

at 3 A.M. the blast of loudspeakers

hi-fi Rolling Stones Ray Charles Beatles

Jumping Joe Jackson and twenty youths

dancing to the vibration thru the floor,

a little weed in the bathroom, girls in scarlet

tights, one muscular smooth skinned man

sweating dancing for hours, beer cans

bent littering the yard, a hanged man

sculpture dangling from a high creek branch,

children sleeping softly in their bedroom bunks.

And 4 police cars parked outside the painted

gate, red lights revolving in the leaves.

December 1965

———-

Michael McClure/Bobby D/Allen G… 1965







Although Ginsberg was a staunch proponent of the movement to legalize pot, he strongly opposed (in his later years) the use of drugs that alienated the user from the body and from other people. He was greatly disturbed for example by Bob Dylan’s rampant cocaine snorting during their tour together.

Ginsberg immortalized the thought by penning:

Nobody saves Amercia by sniffing cocaine

Jiggling yr knees blankeyed in the rain

When it snows in yr nose you catch cold in yr brain

——————–

Have a Sweet One!

Gwyllm

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