A magpie gave me two feathers today.
I stuck them in my hat.
When a bird in flight gives a gift of joy,
you can’t ask better than that.
Poetry
Kate Tempest !
A real Bard of our times
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p056cf3l/glastonbury-2017-kate-tempest#
Taking up the Path of the Bard, Part II
Creativity is the singing of the soul. When we create, we draw from the deepest parts of who we are and express ourselves to the world. The act of creation, the drawing forth and connecting to our inner selves, is the joy involved in creativity. Having something nice in the end, to me, seems like a bonus! I believe this act of channeling the awen is not only inherently spiritual, it is also part of what it means to be human. But to allow our souls to really sing, we have to grow comfortable with what we create, we have to set aside our judgement, and and to grow our skills as bards.
Last week, I explored what the bardic arts are, the cultural challenges associated with the bardic arts, and some ways community groups circumvent said challenges. We looked at the creative spirit of children, and how that spirit…
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Cultivating the Flow of Awen in our Lives
I shall sing of the awen, which
I shall obtain from the abyss
Through the awen, though it were mute
I know of its great impulses
I know when it minishes;
I know when it wells up;
I know when it flows;
I know when it overflows.
–Taliesin, “The Festival” from the Book of Taliesin, 13th century
What the poet Taliesin writes of is the “Awen”, a central principle in the druid tradition meaning “flowing inspiration” or “divine inspiration.” In ancient times, bards embraced the flow of Awen to be masters of memory, sound, and expression. The bardic path was a lifelong pursuit and vocation; bards would spending many years (by one Scottish account, 7 years[1]) learning the bardic arts which included the arts of memory, diction, rhyming, and composition.
The flowing of Awen isn’t just an experience, it is a magical and meditative process. Perhaps you’ve…
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Like a Bird
I struggled to keep a small bird alive.
The bird, tight beaked, was unwilling.
Now my mother lies curled,
The same as a bird,
Tired of this thing we call living.
If we let her go now she can open her wings,
the windows are open, flung wide.
I defend her souls right
To escape in the night
And fly into sweet oblivion.
Finding Hopeless, Maine
Finding Hopeless, Maine
Come in, dear traveller! I hear you are looking for directions. Yes ,yes, sit down. Now, you want to get to Hopeless, Maine. Are you sure? You’ve been warned about it, yes? The witches, the eldritch terrors, the night potatoes… Alright, alright, I can see that you are a stubborn and headstrong sort, who will not be dissuaded. Not even if I tell you that most people are desperately trying to come the other way? Well it was worth trying. Now let me think; directions to Hopeless Maine. Hmmmm.
Well there are a lot of different paths, yes, and they tend to shift. I can’t guarantee that you’ll arrive safely. Or arrive at all. So here, dear traveller, are three ways of getting to Hopeless Maine that will probably succeed. You have been warned…
1) Collect all of your best spoons, and lay them out in the…
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Goodbye Old House
It was a dark moonless night
when the clock struck noon
and the cat turned and looked at me twice.
She shot from the room
like a bursting balloon
waving her tail in the air.
(To be fair she had done it all week,
every night, but I hadn’t paid much attention.
I’m too tired out to much care).
The door-frames kept clicking,
the floorboards were creaking
and the clocks were all ticking too fast.
I followed the cat
(I’m adventurous like that)
and there, by the fire,
sat the family choir
smiling and telling their tales.
(I remembered their songs from before)
They were the old ones,
the aunts and the uncles,
who had lived long ago in the Valleys,
and no-one had told them
that they weren’t alive any more.
I wasn’t surprised.
Everyone dies, in their time,
But I knew this time wasn’t mine,
so I bowed myself out of the room
while they hummed a gentle old tune.
I knew beyond doubt
it was time I moved out
so I picked up the cat
and, smoothing her cares,
I tiptoed slowly downstairs.
We sat on the step
all night long, in the wet,
and I sang a new song in the rain.
I wished there had been a full moon
but when it’s time to move on…..
well, it’s time to move on, just the same.
There is no going back there again.
Old moon, new moon, half moon or sickle,
the removal van can’t come too soon for my liking.
No one should live in a sad mausoleum.
So I’m burning their boats, like a viking.
Lazy Warwickshire Day
away from the town
a short walk away
nothing to hear
but the hum of the bees
deep in the foxgloves
bending their stems
exploring their throats
close by the reeds
nothing to hear
but ripples
soft lapping
and the splash of a ducks wing
taking a dive
nothing to hear but the warbling note
of the bright eyed blackbird
stalking the worms
and sometimes a cuckoo
hid in the trees
nothing to see
but the dazzling gleam
of sunlight on water
blinding your eyes
and the bright flamed robin
where he stands in his rags
and the white glare of light
that falls on the swans back
as he glides, slow, serene,
from the deep shade of willows
and the light that flutters and winks
with the breeze
through the trembling leaves
nothing to see but green rolling hills
vanish to distance
a shimmering haze
it’s hot today on the banks of the Avon
it’s one of those lazy Warwickshire days
Footnote
Robin in Rags = Ragged Robin, a wild flower
The Garden Grove
When I started to plant the trees in my Grove two years ago I was not sure whether I would soon have to move house or not. I do have to move but it’s all planted and will just take time to grow. I hope it will be left in peace to do so. I wont see it but I know the apple and olive are worth anyone keeping so I hope they do. Woe betide anyone who kills the Hawthorn.
The only tree I planned to plant but hadn’t yet was a Rowan. By chance one came to me about three months ago. It’s a baby so I put it in a pot and now it’s on the window ledge in my new home. I will find it a safe spot outdoors later on.
The hawthorn I planted is not in the photos (out of respect for its privacy? or because it’s young and hidden? I don’t know – I just didn’t take a picture)
The Book of the Mountain
He was going away.
He was wearing that shabby old coat,
The one I still like.
His face partly hidden by the up-turned collar.
I was writing him a quick note,
About passageways and turnings,
To help him on his way.
His bag was all packed.
But as he was leaving
He paused in his tracks.
“I promised you a book,
I have it for you here.”
Ah, yes, I remembered.
I thought he would forget.
The Story of the Mountain.
I expected a paperback.
I expected regrets.
I was surprised by the book.
A thick tome with worn edges
From centuries of turning.
Bound in strong leather,
Warm to the touch
With a coat of fine dust.
I turned back the cover.
Its pages were sunken
Into a box,
Their crenelated edges
Emboldened with gold.
“I don’t want it back” he said
No need, where I’m going,
It’s yours now to keep.
Take good care of it though.
It’s The Story of the Mountain.
It’s old and it’s deep.”
The Dreaming Path 