June 13, 2011 in Poetry
Mind
You don’t hurt it
By doing in your brain
Lessed you should stress
Over
Slow-ing
Flowing flowing
S-low-ing
Flowingflowingflowing
Sl…
Owing
For all your life
Someone, something, summing
Up whole selves till
(nothing)
Gro-Wing
Showing sHOWing
GRRRR-Owing!
SHOWING! SHOWING! SHOWING!
(Shh)…
Over
And above duty
When ALL has become STILL
(Must be out of your)
Mind.
© Tony Atkinson, 2010
by Kali Roberts
June 13, 2011 in Prose
Solstice Fire
In deep waters of solstice
beneath the sun’s fire
you will bathe
Between lake velvet surface
and epiphany of sky
lay yourself wide,
like a calm sacrifice
float so precisely between worlds
on the hairline crack of
crepuscular dusk and star shattered night.
Our lady of the lake
will tend your flame
on this day of alchemical light.
Who will bathe with her?
Who will bathe with her?
You who wander barefoot, lonely;
wayfarers of Life’s innner sanctum
You who traverse the furthermost shores
of soul that won’t sleep
heart that won’t die
rising and fading with midsummer sun,
leaving and returing with the
turning of the wheel.
Step bone naked into her waters
lagoon blue and virginal
bathe until splayed
to love’s tender cosmology
and the scrutiny of stars
As her burning sun, globe of white-fire
hits the water, alchemising the deep
bathe and submurge in the sweet elixier
newborn emerge
baptised of face
And sing in new worlds,
dream lost horizons
cultivate this harvest of light -
paradise regained!
wholeness reclaimed!
The birth of the searchless,
the fruit of our earth’s quest.
The coming of age.
June 7, 2011 in Poetry, Twelve Giants
These are the lyrics to the song “Twilight Zone” which we played at the Gorsedh Final night. It is about how, as children, we think we can communicate telepathically with our closest friends and/or loved ones. Do we unlearn this sort of ability or did we never really have it in the first place? I have seen enough in my life to believe that children are psychic and receptive to extraordinary stimuli in ways that most adults never are…:
Even as I sit here
Yes, I hear, I hear you call
And even though I wonder why
It feels so wonderful;
Even though it sounds strange
I almost see the invisible
And even though we’re far apart
It’s not so impossible…
Chorus
SCREAM AND SHOUT -
JUST LET IT OUT -
I WANT THE WORLD TO KNOW!
SHOUT AND SCREAM
AND I WILL SEE YOU
IN THE TWILIGHT ZONE;
WE TOUCHED WHERE NO-ONE EVER TOUCHED BEFORE
AND NOW I KNOW
NO MATTER WHERE WE ARE,
WE’LL TOUCH THE STARS,
I’LL MEET YOU
IN THE TWILIGHT ZONE…
Even as we tumble
No-one else can hear us fall
And even though we’re screaming
We’re still barely audible;
Even if we’re dreaming
It’s still unexplainable
And even as we breathe
We share the unbelievable…
© Tony Atkinson
June 1, 2011 in Poetry
You maidens with thistle-down blown in your hair
Fiery-eyed sisters, travellers fair
Blown a long lonely distance, to lands strange and wide
Searching for happiness, seeking to hide
From a heart torn and troubled, from the justice of fools
From a life with no passion, where the chained spirit crawls
Pulled onward forever, by invisible thread
And the dreams of new wonders that dance in your head
Adventure may wait just beyond every hill
As you reach the next valley, it calls to you still
Or simply to roam on the mother’s green land
Without care or confinement by any man’s hand
To idly wander, to go and to come
To talk to the trees and to answer to none
To find the way back to original freedom
Eve walks all alone now, returning to Eden
So come my dear sisters, come tell me your tales
I’ll keep them all safe ’till the last sunbeam pales
‘Till the light fades and dies, on the very last day
Within me the myth of each sister shall stay
From these stories I’ll spin strands of wisdom to bind us
When our souls wander lost to connect and remind us
So come wandering hither and rest by my side
Round the warmth of my fire life’s hardships confide
Tell to me true of the journey’s unfolding
Speak softly of sadness you’re wearily holding
Tell gladly of sweet twists and turns in the path
Of happy encounters, and together we’ll laugh
Between every soul common threads we will see
And I’ll stroke your tired head, as it rests on my knee
And soon you will know that no fate need be feared
When you feel yourself one
With the Web of the Wyrd
by tim hall
June 1, 2011 in Wisdom
In Glastonbury we celebrate the eight modern seasonal festivals, consisting of the two solstices, equinoxes and four cross-quarter days. The precise dates of these festivals, particularly the cross-quarters are constantly under discussion, some people prefer to synchronise them with lunar phases or hold celebrations exactly six and a half weeks apart. This means that in actual practice, the festivals tend to go on for about a week and Winter Solstice extends into the Christmas period with the main events being held on the closest weekend to these dates.
Beltaine and Samhain are the oldest divisions of the year, being the times when cattle were moved between summer and winter pastures. The ancient Celts split the year into three parts originally with the introduction of Imbolc to celebrate the lambing season. Lughnásadh was a later development as the agricultural harvest increased in importance. The Solstices were not observed until Dark Age times and the Equinoxes are likely to be a relatively modern invention to complete the wheel. Each clan would have its own private variation on the names of the festivals, which would be passed on as part of their hereditary knowledge.
The table below lists the Celtic language names for these festivals. The modern Wiccan terms were introduced by Aidan Kelly in the 1970s, the modern Druidic ones were dreamed up by Iolo Morgannwg in the late 19th century. The extinct Gaulish terms are reconstructed from information in the Coligny Calendar and as such are highly speculative. Additions and corrections from native speakers of these languages are welcomed.
| Date | Modern Wiccan | Modern Druidic | Welsh (Cymraeg) | Cornish (Kernewek) | Breton (Brezhoneg) | Gaulish | Old Irish | Modern Irish (Gaeilge) | Modern Scottish (Gàidhlig) | Manx (Gaelg / Gailck) |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Dec 21st/22nd | Yule | Alban Arthan | Calan Gaeaf | Montol | Goursav-heol Goanv | Deuriuos | Cuidle | |||
| Feb 2nd | Imbolc | Gwyl Ffraed / Gwyl Olau / Gwyl Mair Dechrau’r Gwanwyn / y Canhwyllau | Gouel Varia ar Goulou | Ogronia | Imbolg / Oimelc | |||||
| Mar 20th | Ostara | Alban Eilir | Canol y Gwanwyn | Kehesnos Gwaynten | Goursav-heol Hanv | Earrach | ||||
| Apr 30th – May 1st | Beltane | Calan Mai / Cyntefin | Cala Me | Kala-Mae | Giamonia | Beltain / Beltene | Bealtaine | Bealltainn / Bealtuinn | Boaltinn / Boaldyn | |
| June 21st / 24th | Litha / Midsummer | Alban Heruin / Alban Hefin | Gwyl Ifan / Gwyl Canol yr Haf | Golowan / Metheven | Golowan / Gouel Sant-Yann | Medio-saminos | Samradh | |||
| July 31st – Aug 2nd | Lughnasadh | Gwyl Awst | Aedrinia | Lughnasa / Lughnasad / Lughnassadh | Lá Lúnasa | Lùnastal | ||||
| Sept 21st | Mabon | Alban Elfed | Gwyl Fihangel / Gwyl Canol yr Hydref | Guldize / Gooldize / Goeldheys | Gouel Sant-Mikael | Foghar | ||||
| Oct 31st | Samhain | Nos Galan Gaeaf / Hollantide | Nos Galan Gwafand / Calan Gwaf (Allantide) | Kala-Goanv | Trinouxtion Samonii | Samain / Samuin / Samfuin | Samhain | Samhuinn | Sauin |
In addition to these dates, we also celebrate:
by Wes White
June 1, 2011 in All that Glisters, Prose
This was my 2009 entry for the Open Gorsedd on the theme “All that Glisters is Not Gold”. I almost certainly pronounced quite a few of these names quite wrongly, so apologies for any wincing this might have provoked at the time. In particular I was glad to think I was the only one who’d remember my attempt to get my mouth round the name of the Sidhichean when David Muir made effortless mention of them in his story in the trials this year.
====
The Great Global Gowk-Hunt
When people talk about “fool’s gold”, they don’t just mean gold. It means anything that we can desire, and it means anything that can seduce us into believing it is that thing which we desire.
So a chair can be a kind of fool’s gold. So can bread rolls. So can a bird.
The cuckoo is a bird that first hatches in a nest that was built by birds that are not cuckoos and who are not its own parents. They then fool their adoptive parents into raising them as their own, and systematically dispose of each and every one of their would-be siblings by pushing the other chicks, one by one, out of the nest to their doom.
They are chirping changelings.
In Scotland, one name they have for the cuckoo is a “gowk”, and there’s an April Fool’s tradition up there called “hunting the gowk”. The game is that you give the person you want to fool a message, written down and folded over on a piece of paper, and you ask them to deliver it to a friend of yours but not to read. Your messenger is “the gowk”. When the message gets there, your friend opens up the paper and reads it and the message on it reads,
“Never laugh, never smile, Hunt the gowk another mile”.
Then he knows to get a new piece of paper, write the same message on that one, fold it over, and give it back to the poor fool with instructions to take this message on to yet another friend – and so on, until the gowk’s been hunted all over town.
There’s also traditionally a second day of foolish festivities in Scotland, on April 2nd. This one involves ‘rear-related jokes’, such as pinning messages onto people’s bottoms.
There is a group of fairies in Scotland called the Sidhichean (SHEE-ichan). And there’s a restaurant in Melbourne, Australia called The Cuckoo. And there’s reason to think that the Sidhichean might have played a great big game of Hunt the Gowk with all of the world’s divine tricksters, and chaos gods, and great wise fools, which resulted in the events that took place outside that restaurant in Melbourne on April 1st 2007.
It’s hard not to think, that on April 1st 2007, a little Scottish fairy Sidhichean might have wanted to have a little tricksy fun, and might just have decided on that day to flit over the North Sea to Scandinavia, and whisper in the Norse god Loki’s ear, “hunt the gowk”!
And it’s hard not to think that Loki, getting the game and wanting as ever to play, might have turned himself into a mare, and galloped down through North-Eastern Europe to the Slavic lands where he found mighty Veles and whinnied in Veles’ ear, “hunt the gowk”!
And that Veles went down to North Caucasia to whisper to Sosruko “hunt the gowk”!, and that Sosruko crossed the Black Sea to Greece and found powerful Eris and whispered in her ear “hunt the gowk”!, and that she must have gone West across Europe, spreading strife wherever she went, and whispered it to San Martin Txiki in the Basque woods, and that he travelled down through every woodland in Spain and in Morroco, and that on the West African coast he told little spider Anansi “hunt the gowk’!
And then – because we’re only halfway there – it’s hard not to think that Anansi might have spun his web halfway across Africa on April 1st 2007 to tell the Yoruban trickster Eshu “hunt the gowk’!, or that Eshu could have made his way along his roads and over his crossroads, with his hat black on one side and red on the other side, the rest of the way across Africa to Egypt, and told the mighty Egyptian Set, with his strange finny ears “hunt the gowk’!
And Set must then have found Yam in Syria making Chaos in a river, who flowed upstream to Old Persia where he babbled ‘hunt the gowk’ to the Arabian wise fool Nasreddin, who rode backwards on his donkey to India and told laughing Krishna, who bent down and boomed it at the Chinese monkey-king Sun Wukong, who bound a thousand miles South to the Philippines in a single somersault and told lazy Juan Tamad “hunt the gowk’!, who just about bothered to tell the little Indonesian mouse-deer Kantjil “hunt the gowk’!, who scurried all the way finally to the North coast of Australia, and there told the old Aboriginal trickster Bamapana “hunt the gowk’! who took him at his word, and made his way South to Melbourne, to the restaurant I told you about earlier.
The Cuckoo was Australia’s first Smorgasbord restaurant and is home to the world’s largest free-standing cuckoo clock. They have yodelling there as often as possible, and Father Christmas visits in June and July.
But in the reason it’s hard not to think that the trickster gods might have been involved in the events which took place at the Cuckoo Restaurant on April 1st 2007, and that Bamapana wasn’t there infesting things with his chaotic magic, is that the events that took place at the Cuckoo restaurant on April 1st 2007 were as follows – and this, my friends – is a true story.
On April 1st 2007, the Cuckoo restaurant in Melbourne was approached by a pair of people with the intention of robbing it. One of the robbers was called Donna Hayes and the other was Benjamin Jorgensen. Benjamin had a sawn-off shotgun.
As Benjamin and Donna approached the restaurant, so they saw the manager of the Cuckoo emerge with the takings – about $30,000 worth of cash. And they apprehended him and told him to hand it over.
But what the manager of the Cuckoo knew, and they didn’t, was that the bag was not, in fact, full of notes and coins, but $5 worth of bread rolls. And knowing this, and knowing the significance of the calendar date, the manager of the Cuckoo assumed that the man brandishing the sawn-off shotgun at him and demanding that he hand his bag of bread rolls over was joking, and he laughed it off.
Donna and Benjamin, meanwhile believing the bag to be full of huge amounts of cash, insisted, and duly the bread rolls were handed over, in the course of which Benjamin accidentally shot Donna in the arse.
They then ran as best they could, but in their confusion and stress, they picked out a car that was not their getaway car, a car which they frantically failed to open until such time as they were apprehended by what may well have been laughing policemen.
Now you can’t tell me that at a place called the Cuckoo, on April Fool’s Day, that a pair of robbers running to the wrong car with a bag of bread rolls and one shooting each other in the bum in the process is just a coincidence – and that someone with a bit of magic in them wasn’t hunting the gowk that day.
But it’s important to remember that for all the fools we’ve seen, we’re the biggest fools of all if we laugh too hard at the hapless gowks with the shotgun, because a bread roll at the right time is a wonderful thing – and no matter how much gold you’ve got in your pocket, it won’t do you any good to eat it.
June 1, 2011 in Flight, Poetry
again, just posting this in the correct place now…my winning piece from last year – (back when i was GlastoBard MMX) !!!
<< around the zodiac with my shapeshifting spirit guide >>
I saw a noble Holy man
Through Michael’s tower, atop the Tor…
This Hopi showed me such Shamanic plans
Translucently, from way beyond the door –
“Just as a True Brave is a Chief
The Light have their own motif”
(He sang), “Course, what’s truly beyond belief
Is despite their many and varied Beliefs
Not one of them really Believes they believe…
If one wishes to learn how to fly
They should first be grounded.”
As we landed at Wick Hollow
His lesson was how language can fly
Both off the page and to the ear:
Well heard, then, The Word is infernally blurred
It’s internally skewed
Yet, in turn, is ETERNALLY LOUD!
And, floating, (above, beyond, across)
Is something sadly lost
(Not a freefall drop in the ocean of plop!)
Only cosense can ‘co-pilot’ quiet compliance
To coping, collective, co-operative, conscious -
Not the con science of conscience but the Up Wards of upwards.
***********************************************************************************
Appearing, once again, my Guide
Invoked in me Mindchemistry
Such as to summon up
The Silver Tongue and the Blarney Stone.
He stood by me now as a Leprechaun
But forthwith… Shapeshifted… into a Pixie…
“To see from above with detachment
Means first to sight from below.
What’s directly around you should astound you
Outside your insides”, he Piped, anext the Holy Thorn:
I’ve drunk Willy Wonka’s lifting drink in dreams
I sat up in my body, half-grounded, half ‘midst the astral plains
But i’ll fly at prescription and outrageous discrimination.
I’ve seen his outrage lift, as clouds disseminate with bluesky thinking
I’ve felt her tiniest footfall brush, flicked, windswept, such flyaway hair!
I’ve known our love to elevate such that it emanates around and between.
*********************************************************************************************
I turned to the Mahatma
(As he now showed himself)
- My Aether Guru smiled
Without moving his face.
“Take me to the next Level?” I inquired,
But realised here we were
And from between the Abbey Columns
We Stargated into the Portal
To Receive the Lore of Language
Elevated by subtlety:
The Cwn Annwn curs
(Those most Hellish hounds)
Appear, at first, to fly Valkyrie-like
In stealth and ravaging lurch
They savage and scavenge for wounds
Each on opposite battlefields, purest unalikes
But both Gwyn Ap Nudd’s sanguinest pack at work
And Odin’s noble soldier slakers, ‘twixt otherhoods,
Soar and swoop, detect, select, glide, quite alike.
*****************************************************************
Now Black Hawk stood before me,
Imploring me under his wing;
Perched, we were, on Gog and Magog in turn.
Up with the Lark, Lucid Dreaming,
Vision came upon me,
Projected on-the-wing from my Flight Attendant,
It was Suggested:
There’ll be Bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover,
There be Dragons and ‘Ell ’Ounds o’er Glaznbry Tor!
Where a man can emerge, Phoenixlike, at Winter Solstice –
A Somerian becoming a Phoenician!
Eaches’ flight, both from and to the Holy Apple Isle
Landed them HERE!
Where Bards trade and perform before
The finest fellow Bards,
Artists, Musicians, Magicians,
Healers, Actors and Dancers.
****************************************************************************
Just then, as I Scried, I Espied
My Companion and Muse
Was no man at all and Revealed
The True I.D. of this Paraglider
Was none other than Bridie, who sighed:
“The Sylph, at once Sylvan and Silver and Sylfaen,
Like Modron and Morgan and Magdelene;
The Maiden, the Woman, the Crone
Are the Daughter, Lover and Mother.”
And here, on her Mound,
I felt at one with the Earth and the World –
Rose again from her Womb
To hear Her Symphonise:
A Bard must take Wing,
They must Thrust with sheer Guts
And Lift through selfless soliloquy…
Float over hopeless with hopeful mot-justes…
Soar with inspired integrity…
And beat their metaphorical wings with Flapful Intensity…
Casting their words to the Heavens to Boost
The Air of their carefully pared-down panache…
Forsooth, seeking proof of what Appears to Hover over us
(Not Clouded or Blurred)
Till what’s onerous is feathered to (no more than) alas.
***********************************************************************************
We Circled now, between the White and Red Springs
And came to rest at Chalice Well.
My Guardian Angel, though nowhere to be seen,
Was right beside me all the while!
Her presence felt, her voice in my head simply said:
There are many Flightpaths to the same Knowledge;
Flight is merely a Launch without a Path.
In order to achieve Flight
The Bard must Consider
The Properties of their Words -
Levels of Thrust and Application…
The Balance of Lift and Drag…
Their Planform, both Aspect Ratio and Wing Loading…
That they may Ascend to Descend…
Sideslip and Whiffle…
Till all their Apparel
Is Knitted together like the Barbules of a Feather.
***************************************************************************
Fleeting in a Fly-past, over the Levels,
Rushing across Airways and riding Airwaves.
We saw Wells and Cheddar, Pilton and Ebbor,
Cadbury, Dundon and Burrowbridge.
“What does MAN want from Flight
But to See and Be Above?
COARSENING Nature’s plight
Devolves and Disenvolves us
- The Forceful Might
Wills His Will”,
Said the Goddess Sprite.
“This has always been Felt around Glastonbury –
Since Ynys Witrin and the Fair Avalon of Albion”.
Then, to our great delight,
We saw something more:
In Days of Yore ALL Bards would look to Birds
For Portents, signs from High Above this earth,
So what (ON Earth) have present Bards to Learn?
Look to the Skies!
A Murmuration of Starlings fell out of the Sky
At Coxley and murmur no MORE…
Volcanic Ash Clouds
Prevented the take-off of all flights
By a BloodRed Sunset, threatening something MORE…
Don’t tell the Bees!
Their number is in serious decline
Workers and Drones Swarm to the Queen till MORE…becomes less.
Jenny Wren, the King of Birds,
Perched on Golden Eagle’s Wings,
Once above the highest clouds,
Flew Higher than the weary one.
Will We, as Onenation, TAKE flight
To emerge, Phoenix-like, again, on the Other Side
Of what the Mayans described and Prophecised?
I check the Pilot Light –
Still Burns, But Shines in Our Eyes…
Yet, yes, we can still be
Ski Jumpers, Freefallers, Street Surfers,
Base Jumpers, Free Runners, High Divers,
Trapeze Artists, Wirewalkers and Glider Pilots.
But MAN has gone beyond the sky,
Infiltrated the atmosphere
And Wished upon a Star to be as Earth…
So I looked again to the Birds
For some Words which would Inspire Insight…
Herons clutch a stone in their claw
To prevent them, when dropping-off, from plummeting…
Hummingbirds hang, half-hiding magnificent industry
Through seemingly effortless stillness…
Hawks pierce with their allseeing eyes
But only strike when the time is right…
Alone, atop the Tor again,
I realise now I have always known
That when a Bard lets fly
We can either take flight
Or get in Formation!
© Tony Atkinson, 2010, Fifth Chaired Bard of Ynys Witrin or Glastonbury or Avalon
June 1, 2011 in Poetry, Twelve Giants
In response to Tim’s request, i am posting this in the correct place!
My piece on this year’s theme, ”12 Giants: The Glastonbury Zodiac”. The first half is poetry, the second half (beginning ”The Babe in the Boat…”) is a song.
The whole thing is called:
“The Wheel of the Year”
I stand before you as a Poet, first,
A Bard deform-ed through an eversion, not aversion, to verse,
I’m not the world’s worst!
And I’m bursting with discursive inner-healing for the hurts –
I have a feeling that it works…
It’s starting to dawn on me
What I’ve achieved
And even though part of me’s fairly relieved
The Fifth Bard of Glasstonb’ry’s
To be believed
The Western Star of Hesperus
Glows Golden Apples in Eve of Venus
The Fisher King’s Salmon Wisdom
Sprung forth from Ceridwen’s Cauldron
Sunlight on a Winter’s day
Crisply foretells that we’re well on the way
Starlight o’er a Blue Moon Tor
Lights up the night till it’s May once more
The Holly Queen and the Green Man
See Wheels turning, still, they stand
And the next revolution counts
Each to their own in equal amounts
The Bardic year of Ynys Witrin
Spanning two St. Dunstan’s Days
Harmonising Ancient Rhythms
In both new invention and paraphrase
Then my own personal journey
From the Isle of Death to the Isle of the Dead
Seascaped Thanet to Glastonbury’s Promontory
Finding Heartfelt Harmony and Healing for the Head
Am now become an Elder Bard!
And today – JUST TODAY! – am only half
Of the Current Chair
Am aware that there (somewhere!)
Is the next incumbent
Waiting to be chosen
But for now this moment
In time is frozen
So here at the end
Which is also the start
Both Silver and Gold
We are Bards of the Year of the Hallmark!
And whichever way we look, we know
That the Wheel of the Year is on show…
The Babe in the Boat
Holds the Key to the Temple
And Augurs the Return
Of the Once and Future King
Sail across the Moat
To the land of the Templar
Lessons can be learned
So drink it in
WHEN THE TIDE’S IN
THE STARS ARE REFLECTED
AS ABOVE, SO BELOW
WHEN THE TIDE’S OUT
THE MAP CAN BE INSPECTED
THE WHEEL OF THE YEAR IS ON SHOW
The Lady of the Lake
Reflects the constellations
Mapping out the stars
On the earth for all to see
Arthur on the wake
Well-read in incantations
Taliesin’s Words
In Company
Arianrhod’s Maze
Which contains the pilgrim’s Path
Hides the Silver Thread
So the Seeker finds they’re lost
Lapping are the Waves
Round the Measure of Math
The Isle of the Dead
Is starcrossed.
© Tony Atkinson 2011
by tim hall
June 1, 2011 in Gwyn ap Nudd, Poetry
I am the white hawk of the May;
I am the son of a distant host.
Keeping the lighthouse in my sights
on the horizon, I circle lowest;
making my way from the coast.
I was with the most high
where the harmonies collide;
I have heard the perpetual song
that springs up from deep inside;
I have seen the crystal tower
and flown it round about;
I have danced with pixie folks
therein, so have no doubt;
I have studied nineteen cycles
of Gwydion’s castle turning;
I have learned, if I’ve learned anything at all,
that nothing isn’t worth the learning;
I have been known to have dreams
so strong they wake me up;
I have thought of so many reasonable schemes
that it overfills my cup;
My laugh is like a gravel path
and my work for the ministry of the patently bleedin’ daft
has become worse than a blessing in blank verse
so I’ll try to keep it terse:
With clever words and cunning hand
I contrive to harmonise the verses bland,
but I am just a placeholder for someone greater matched,
for I have much to study before I am fully hatched.
I guess it’s up to you,
dear Judges and Contenders too.
You shall sit on a chair of gold
if you would boldly bare your soul
and contend this seat with your words bewitching
to become the Bard of Ynyswitrin.
For the winter now has passed away,
we greet the growing green beneath our feet
and the silver shining moon above, grins upon thy street.
For the summer sun has vanquished
greyness, pain and thawed the sleet
and the Ravens of the battlefield still scream over meat.
More yellow is her hair than the flower of broom
and her skin it is whiter than foam;
Grander than an anenome are her hands
and swifter than hawk’s eyes her glance;
Snowier than the breast of a white swan her glands
and redder than roses her cheek;
She sucks on her fingers and wriggles her toes
and trefoils spring green up beneath her feet
and the Ravens of the battlefield still scream after their meat.
White owl of wisdom, O where have you been?
The dappled light shines on your jewellry so fine,
did you ride out to visit the Queen?
White owl of wisdom, O what have you done?
Enveloped by green, soft we fade so serene,
have you hidden the land from the sun?
For the boys they have been out fighting again.
Every year it happens, exactly the same,
for they glory in the crash of the breaking of spears,
with no sense of fear, it’s clear
that for them it’s only a game.
Well …
Frankly I’m afraid that this frequent fraternal feuding
for the feminine favours of our faerie flower maiden
is confessedly fairly futile but features fully in the
fantasy folk format that we fervently profess to follow.
Furthermore …
How shall we find the freedom to love as we choose?
Without the essence of the story loose the plot cracks
appear that it never got us nowhere near the muse
and probably only serves to confuse … quite a lot,
for the Ravens care not for the reds or for the blues.
Meanwhile …
Another supermarket goes up on the edge of town,
brownfield development more trees go down.
I’ve heard all the lines in this production,
leeches hanging on by suction,
nepotism, bribery and corruption,
and the sound of the Raven’s war cry erupts.
Shopkeepers shake their heads,
blame the junkies, blame the dreads.
Blame anyone but the real cause,
councillors twisting up the laws.
Quick! Better get an injunction!
Nepotism! Bribery! Corruption!
The Ravens of war shred the corpse with their claws.
Kids hanging out with nothing to do,
brought up on the promise of packing shoes
and renting out a room with no view. Well,
they’re all leaving town once they’ve finished school.
And the local wannabe tory wife is flaunting Foxy’s locks
and Turkey Lurkey, half alive, is banging up his lonely works.
You’d better run, run Reynard run. You’d better run for your life,
for there’s a sky full of Ravens all screaming for blood and for strife.
Three and twenty members of staff
browned their noses in the dark.
Four and twenty minus one,
who climbed right to the topmost
Silver Branch and sung out his heart
in praise of the rising sun,
and hoped that it would return
and that lighter times would come.
How can you be so small?
when the world needs you to give your all?
How can we be so small?
when the world needs us to give our all?
What happened to the socialists
who made so great a boast?
And all you new-age tories
and you hungry hippy ghosts?
For the red and blue shall fade away,
leaving only green upon the cold, wan hillside,
it may seem like waking from a dream,
but it’s going to happen, there and here,
you reckless loon, have faith not fear,
for the light will surely come.
Nightwing, nightwing,
I heard you sing till morning light.
Nightwing, nightwing,
guide us safely through the night.
Join the free discussion and share the ritual ration
while we’re waiting for the light to return
I’m calling on the Big Walkers, calling on the Standing Stoners,
waiting for the light to return.
The new moon
slithers in the sky;
blinking of an eye.
High above the trees
he sits and reads;
turning over new leaves.
Check the spiral pattern
as it cycles through the year;
Ain’t it funny how heart-drops
are shaped exactly like a tear?
Little joy; rising through the bark.
Precious boy; hiding from the dark.
Cover me with your gentle leaves,
wrap your branches round me as I breathe
around my heart and on my sleeve,
until it’s time, I do believe,
that the light has come.
/|\
Copyright 2006 Tim Hall
License http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.5/
by tim hall
June 1, 2011 in All that Glisters, Events
The Bardic Chair was contested in 2009 by several local poets, storytellers and musicians, with opening heats at Glastonbury Assembly Rooms, each contestant performing for up to 15 minutes on the given theme, chosen by the outgoing Bard.
Dearbhaile calling upon the Awen to open proceedings.
The Open Gorsedd attracted many outstanding performers and entertainers as well as visiting Bards and Druids from other orders. Entries were based on the theme - “All that glisters is not gold”.
Amanda made a powerful debut
Daru shocked and cajoled us with his poetic storytelling
David warmed our hearts with his piece Little Golden Children 
Esteban sang a selection of exquisite songs 
Tony defied the laws of grammarye with 9° = 2° Magus 
Wes entertained us with his “The Great Global Gowk-Hunt”
Bryan
Badly Housebound Girl
Nathan 
Pete 
Stevie P 
Willow
The panel deliberates …
Theo announces the judges’ decision 
Rewarding the runners-up 
Jo Waterworth wins the Tim Sebastion trophy
Tim explains the origins of Glastonbury’s Silver Branch
After a long and difficult discussion, the judges chose to chairDavid Reakes as the new Bard of Ynyswitrin and install Tony Atkinson as his deputy.
Photos: Barnaby J Hodges
by tim hall
June 1, 2011 in Events, Nine Maidens
2007′s Open Gorsedd was organised in conjunction with the “Megalithomania” conference, which was also being held on the same weekend at the Assembly Rooms. Our thanks go to the Megalithomania team for helping to promote the Open Gorsedd along with the conference. It was with the greatest of sadness that this year’s proceedings had to be conducted without the presence of Tim Sebastion, former Archdruid of Caer Baddon and prime catalyst in the re-establishment of the Bardic Chairs of Albion, who died earlier in the year. This event became quite a moving memorial to his vision.
With the theme having been announced by Tim Hall , residing Bard of Glastonbury 05-07, as “Nine Maidens”, the competition was opened to ten contestants each performing for up to fifteen minutes and being judged on the following qualities : Inspiration; originality; working with the audience; presence; emotive appeal; spontaneity; artistry/craft; wisdom and/or foolishness and of course, relevance to the theme.
These qualities certainly were in evidence on Tuesday night, creating quite a task for the five judges, Tony Thomson, Denny Michell, Oshia Drury, Thalia Brown and Krishna Tim, who had to choose six finalists from amongst them for the final on Saturday night.
First to take the stage was Merlin of the Woods, with his beautiful nine part symphony of the Tale of Nine Maidens. As he spoke his story unfolded, he sang his words and played his lute, and the magic of the evening immediately came to life. A true minstrel and storyteller in our midst, really, one thought the evening couldn’t get much better.
Ezmerelda Sanger, an artist who entered the competition as a result of a broken arm, came up with a wonderful performance, the story beginning with the virgin Mary, who gives birth to hope, and then wended her magical way, to bring us up to date with the birth of her own daughter. Her impersonation of Margaret Thatcher being a particularly funny and unexpected note in this gem of a piece.
Craig presented a forthright interpretation of the nine-fold theme with his own brand of high performance poetry.
Marco Koppenhagen gave us a whimsical, bittersweet folksong and a rather humorous treatment of the theme.
Dearbhaile Bradley,who originally had thought the theme to be the number nine, had clearly researched her subject thoroughly and as a result brought to the Gorsedd a most thoughtful piece of poetry, “The Power of Nine,†full of power, stunningly written, and delivered with a passion that had the entire audience hooked.
David Reakes, the Fiddler; told his tale in the style of the Pied Piper, disturbing, original, brilliant. The tale of a wedding, the guests transfixed by a spell, they danced till they became stone. Unfinished was his tale on Tuesday, but still remarkable enough to get him through to the final, we had to wait in anticipation to hear the end of his story.
Tony Atkinson took the theme of Nine Maidens to a genuinely Bardic level, creating his poem “999†with nine verses, nine lines to each verse and nine syllables to each line. His tale of classical allusion was a remarkable structural achievement.
Michaela, a true Bard in the making, has clearly worked really hard on her performing skills since entering last year, and brought us a ballad of the maidens, alluringly sung and accompanied by Merlin, a beguiling performance.
John Johnson’s contribution seemed a little ill-prepared, although pleasant enough, it didn’t really touch on the given theme.
The evening of profound entertainment was wonderfully wrapped up for us by Rohini, who unfortunately had not realized there was a theme for the competition , but was still kind enough to entertain us with his talking drum and his beautiful words. He began with a Sanskrit invocation which then led into a song of three parts. The first part tells us how the sound of nature inspires the song writer, the second of the appreciation of mother earth and the nurturing and shelter she gives us, and finally in the third part talks of the spiritual world, that as we roam the physical world we are each making our personal journey to our spiritual world. This piece was possibly not quite what the judges were asking for, but nevertheless a fine reminder of what we were doing there and a fitting end to the evening.
We were back to the Assembly Rooms on Thursday for open mike night where artists who did not wish to enter the competition were invited to take to the stage. We were treated to a wealth of talent which included more from the fabulous Tim Hall, still the chaired Bard,performing alone as well as with the uber talented Oshia Drury, who also performed solo this evening. Beautiful guitar playing from Tony Thompson, bespoke guitar maker and chair of judges, the deeply haunting sounds of Brian’s vocal improvisation. Kevan, the third Bard of Bath, treated us to his version of the story if Taliesin’s birth. A memorable experience and an honour to be present.
The traditional open air Gorsedd ceremony was held at the Fairfields on Glastonbury Tor and four new Bards: Merlin of the Woods; Ezmerelda Sanger; Craig and Bryan Holder were given the Awen initiation and admitted to the order. We remembered Tim Sebastion and gave thanks for his life and closed with the cry for peace, then the newly initiated bards along with the Elder Bards and the judges made their way back to the Assembly Rooms for the final heat. We were again treated to the six finalists performing their entries, starting off with more wonderful songs from Tim on this, his final evening as chaired bard.
Guest performances included:
Ash Mandrake, Bard of Caer Baddon (Bath);
Kevan Manwaring;
Mark, Bard of Caer Wisca (Exeter);
and Bryan Holder, demonstrating the art of the Awenyddion.
After much deliberation the judges returned with the verdict being eloquently pronounced by the leader of the panel, Tony Thompson.
The Tim Sebastian Memorial Trophy was awarded to Stevie P. and received by Nathan Williams in his absence.
The Deputy Bard’s Crown was awarded to Merlin.
and Dearbhaile Bradley won the Chair
All hail the Bard!
Story: Jo Raphael
Photos: Barnaby J Hodges & Jo Raphael
by tim hall
June 1, 2011 in Events, Gwyn ap Nudd
The Open Gorsedd of the Bards of Ynys Wytrin was held on Saint Dunstan’s Day, the 19th of May, with a preliminary round on the 17th. Entrants were invited to contest for the Chair with its current incumbent, Tim Hall. The theme specified was ‘Gwyn ap Nudd, the King of the Fairies’.
A panel of judges was recruited from the Glastonbury cultural Establishment, consisting of Jo Waterworth, Sonia Guinnessy, Oshia Drury, Tony Thompson and Matt Tweed. The Bardic Council is deeply obliged to the judges, who took on this onerous task generously and, in some cases, at short notice.
The preliminary round was held at the Glastonbury Assembly Rooms, which provided both their usual high standard of informal comfort and two of their permanent staff, Paul Perry and Liz Gilbert, as MCs.
After an introductory song from Tim, the twelve candidates were invited to perform. Each was allowed fifteen minutes, at the end of which a timekeeper would, if necessary, sound a gong. The order of performance was determined by drawing names from a hat.
Jamuna, a well-known local bard, delivered a complex and carefully-timed recitation on the specified theme, its quietly hypnotic verse-forms accentuated by the accompaniment of his Mbira, a small Central African instrument resembling a hand-played musical box.
Tony Atkinson, new to the Gorsedd, introduced a note of classical rigour by reciting four sonnets of his own composition upon the theme, being one for each of the four Seasons, and, as a technical tour-de-force, each representing one of four classical sonnet forms (Tony adds the Wordsworthian form to the usual three).
Bryan Holder performed a most unusual (and untitled) work which he describes only as ‘sound and motion’; essentially a vocal tone-poem or song without words, in which his voice, interacting with the room acoustic as he moved slowly around the whole venue, produced quite unprecedented effects.
David Reakes recited a finely-crafted satirical ballad, using a carefully-chosen verse-form and contriving not only to follow the prescribed traditional theme but also to send up the whole Glastonbury magickal scene; his line ‘It makes all the people wear crystals, and purple’ reduced some of the audience to tears of laughter.
Michaela, by far the most gorgeously-attired bard of the evening, accompanied herself on a Native American medicine-drum and performed two quite different chant-sequences, demonstrating the potentials of her instrument, her voice and the dramatic language in which she works.
Brian Conquer, a bard of long standing, firmly maintained tradition by avoiding modern, experimental forms and delivering a ‘proper’ acoustic-guitar-accompanied, singer-songwriter’s ballad, his kindly voice and gently humorous lyrics providing a fine start to the proceedings.
Derabhaile Bradley performed an impassioned poem on the theme of the banishing of Gwyn ap Nudd and his courtiers from a hilltop by former Abbot of Glastonbury, St Collen. This poet did a fine job of showing how with early Christian myths like this there are ‘two sides to every story’.
Willow, a bard of great experience, delivered an intense and demanding dramatic recitation in a free-verse form, its force and power greatly enhanced by his voice, upon the theme; he then returned to a lighter note with a ballad, accompanying himself on the octave mandola.
John Johnson, possibly the youngest candidate, stuck to traditional ways and delivered a fine ballad, accompanying himself on the acoustic guitar, his style being refreshingly light and informal.
At this point the judges retired, to consider a short-list of six candidates who would proceed to the final. During their absence, a number of fine entertainers who, for various reasons, were unable to contest the Chair, generously gave of their time and talent.
Pok, the Bard of the Loyal Arthurian Warband, delivered an exquisite recitation in which he combined what seemed to be the verse-forms of Chaucerian Middle English with word-forms and phonetic values reminiscent of Anglo-Saxon or even Old Norse, without sacrificing for a moment the comprehensibility of the modern English in which, in fact, he works. This spectacular piece, which few but he could deliver, remains unpublished, though there are hopes that the artist may in the future allow publication.
Haylee, who is 10, and who had not, it seems, arrived with the intention of taking part, confidently took the floor to declaim a poem in eight parts, relating to the eight major Celtic festivals, which she had written entirely during the course of the evening. This impressive standard of creativity and drive surprised many older and more experienced bards.
Emma Harper, widely-known singer/songwriter, was able to find time in her busy schedule to perform several of her impassioned and heartfelt songs. Kev the Poet, of the LAW, and Singing Horse, who recites in the Lakota language and had travelled all the way from Oregon, also provided excellent entertainment.
On the judges’ return, it was announced that Willow, Dearbhaile Bradley, Michaela, David Reakes, Tony Atkinson and Jamuna were to be the six finalists.
The final round was held at the White Spring, the Guardians of which most generously allowed the use of this unique, and only recently restored, sacred space for this purpose. The Bardic Council, somewhat surprised at the numbers of people who attended, would like to thank the Guardians for their patience with and tolerance of a much larger audience than was expected, and to confirm that next year’s final will, in the light of this, be held at the Assembly Rooms in order to accommodate more people comfortably.
Before proceeding to the White Spring, a Gorsedd circle was held in the Fairfield (beneath the Tor). All of the candidate Bards, members of the Bardic Council and many of the audience attended. Dignitaries present included the Maenarch of Avalon, the Faerie Queene of the Glastonbury Outer Order of Druids, and Mr. Tim Sebastian, Archdruid of the Secular Order of Druids, present in his capacity of Elder Bard of Caer Badon. As part of this ceremony fourteen of the candidates and the Council accepted formal initiation by the Chaired Bard of Ynys Wytrin.
The artists appearing in the final did not alter their performances significantly from those given in the preliminary round, though it was clear that the latter had been substantially polished during the intervening days. Denny Price acted as MC, managing as well as did the performers the White Spring’s strongly ecclesiastical architecture and acoustic.
By the end of the finalists’ performances so many people had come to listen that there was nowhere left at the White Spring to which the judges could retire; accordingly they retired to a private house. The audience were then treated to a repetition of Pok’s fine recitation; Pixi, the famous Glastonbury singer/songwriter, arrived and, despite an unfamiliar guitar, produced a fine rendition of some of his memorable folk repertoire.
Sarah Curtis, lead singer with folk band Savernake, performed a beautiful song written specially for Mayday. Entitled ‘Bear and Swan’, the lyrics had no specific reference to the ‘King of the Faeries’, but the image of the banishing of the darkness by the light was perfect for the time of year.
Theo, from ‘Seize the Day’ sang one of the band’s more mystical numbers, ‘Child of the Universe’ and Nathan Williams, a local musician and teacher who also gave many hours of his professional time to the task of organising the Gorsedd, delivered in both Welsh and English ‘Propaganda’r Prydydd’, translated as ‘The Poet’s Propaganda’, by R.Williams Parry, a sonnet on the qualities of a true Bard, and sang ‘Woven are the Ways’, a song from Penmaenmawr; Merlin also performed a lengthy incantation to the Goddess Bridgit (or Brigit, or Bridie, or Her other names).
Eventually the judges returned, looking somewhat worn, and amid a frenzy of excitement it was announced that Tim Hall’s tenure as Chaired Bard of Ynys Wytrin was to continue; none of the candidates were judged to have exceeded the standard of Tim’s winning performance.
The formal Chairing then took place. Denny Price and Oshia Drury robed the re-Chaired Bard then the Silver Branch was presented by Shamus Joy as Honorary Grand Bard on behalf of the late Richie Bond and representing the lineage of Bards of Ynyswitrin, Tim Sebastien then completed Tim’s formal initiation as Grand Bard with the presentation and recitation of the Qualification of the Bards, following which Tim played the winning song, ‘The Ravens‘, as an encore.
The event being officially over, the informal entertainers once again took the floor, Pixi forming an impromptu duo with Helen Tucker, a fine local folk violinist; the entertainment did not stop until the venue finally closed.
The Bardic Council are deeply gratified with the response to the Open Gorsedd and once again would like to thank everyone whose time, effort and talent went into making it such a fine event. We all look forward to next year’s Gorsedd, which we hope will be even bigger and even better.
Thanks to the industry of Nathan Lewis Williams we have audio recorings of many of the contenders and performers available.
