DeDanaan

Chains Of Fires
by Elsa Gidlow

Each dawn, kneeling before my hearth,
Placing stick, crossing stick
On dry eucalyptus bark
Now the larger boughs, the log
(With thanks to the tree for its life)
Touching the match, waiting for creeping flame.
I know myself linked by chains of fire
To every woman who has kept a hearth

In the resinous smoke
I smell hut and castle and cave,
Mansion and hovel.
See in the shifting flame my mother
And grandmothers out over the world
Time through, back to the Paleolithic
In rock shelters where flint struck first sparks
(Sparks aeons later alive on my hearth)
I see mothers, grandmothers back to beginnings,
Huddled beside holes in the earth
of igloo, tipi, cabin,
Guarding the magic no other being has learned,
Awed, reverent, before the sacred fire
Sharing live coals with the tribe.

For no one owns or can own fire,
it lends itself.
Every hearth-keeper has known this.
Hearth-less, lighting one candle in the dark
We know it today.
Fire lends itself,
Serving our life
Serving fire.

At Winter solstice, kindling new fire
With sparks of the old
From black coals of the old,
Seeing them glow again,
Shuddering with the mystery,
We know the terror of rebirth.
_________

Winter Solstice
21 Dec 2005
13:35 Eastern

The Dirge of the Four Cities
Poems and Dramas, Vol VII
by Fiona MacLeod (William Sharp)

“There are four cities that no mortal eye has seen but that the soul knows; these are Gorias, that is in the east; and Finias, that is in the south; and Murias, that is in the west; and Falias that is in the, north. And the symbol of Falias is the stone of death, which is crowned with Pale fire. And the symbol of Gorias is the dividing sword. And the symbol of Finias is a spear. And the symbol of Murias is a hollow that is filled with water and fading light.” - The Little Book of the Great Enchantment

“Wind comes from the spring star in the East; fire from the summer star in the South; water from the autumn star in the West; wisdom, silence and death from the star in the North.” - The Divine Adventure

The Dirge of the Four Cities

“The four cities of the world that was: the sunken city of Murias, and the city of Gorias, and the city of Finias, and the city of Falias.” - Ancient Gaelic Chronicle

Finias and Falias,
Where are they gone?
Does the wave hide Murias–
Does Gorias know the dawn?
Does not the wind wail
In the city of gems?
Do not the prows sail
Over fallen diadems
And spires of dim gold
And the pale palaces
Of Murias, whose tale was told
Ere the world was old?

Do women cry Alas! . . .
Beyond Finias?
Does the eagle pass
Seeing but her shadow on the grass
Where once was Falias:
And do her towers rise
Silent and lifeless to the frozen skies?
And do whispers and sighs
Fill the twilights of Finias
With love that has not grown cold
Since the days of old?

Hark to the tolling of bells
And the crying of wind!
The old spells
Time out of mind,
They are crying before me and behind!
I know now no more of my pain,
But am as the wandering rain
Or as the wind’s shadow on the grass
Beyond Finias of the Dark Rose:
Or, ‘mid the pinnacles and still snows
Of the Silence of Falias,
I go: or am as the wave that idly flows
Where the pale weed in songless thickets grows
Over the towers and fallen palaces
Where the Sea-city was,
The city of Murias.

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Vogons : Though not actually evil, the Vogons are thoroughly vile. Officious, bad-tempered, callous, rude, unpleasant. Vogons are extremely ugly, extremely officious, and generally not much fun to be around. They wouldn’t even lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public inquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled as fire lighters. It is hard to hitch lifts on Vogon ships - it is only made possible by the Dentrassi cooks employed by Vogon fleets. Vogons emerged from the seas of the planet Vogsphere, and gave up on evolving there and then. Only their stubbornness allowed them to survive.

They generally become bureaucrats in the galactic government. Their unpleasant demeanour makes them ideally suited to such employment. Vogons have dark green rubbery skin, waterproof enough to survive indefinitely at sea depths of down to a thousand feet with no ill effects. They have highly domed noses above small piggy foreheads. One such Vogon is Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz, of the Vogon Constructor fleet. Having destroyed the Earth in order to make way for a hyperspace bypass, he then proceded to read some of his poetry to two helpless victims. They write some of the worst poetry in the known universe.

An example:

O freddled gruntbuggly…
…thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee.
Groop I implore thee,
my foonting turlingdromes.
And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the gobberwards with my blurglecruncheon,
see if I don’t!

Poetry : Poetry, well written, can be a spiritually uplifting experience. Badly written, it can be an experience of buttock-clenching horror. Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem “Ode To A Small Lump of Green Putty I Found In My Armpit One Midsummer Morning” four of his audience died of internal hemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos is reported to have been “disappointed” by the poem’s reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his twelve-book epic entitled ‘My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles’ when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save life and civilization, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain. The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England, in the destruction of the planet Earth by the Vogons. It involved decaying swans.

Examples of good, if long, poetry can be heard on the planet of Golgafrincham, home to the great circling poets of Arium.

Stretching The Celtic Mind
by William Brendan McPhillips

Then was Fir Bolig not Neanderthal,
Heavy and groping stone to put on stone,
Building the outer limits of the call
To forge a world from blood and nerve and bone.

No others were as generous in claim
As Celts arriving on this Island were,
Giving the others who were here a name
And credit for their work and character.

These Celts were never ones to make the boast
Of first or last connection to the soil,
They landed like the ocean on the coast
Aware of continuity and toil.

Across the continent they came and spread
Their gospel of inclusion in the law
And recognized the living and the dead
Connected in the oat and oak and haw.

Their’s was an ever breaking from the mold
Of hierarchy in divine intent,
They would allow no god or king to hold
Them ransom to a savior to be sent.

A leader could be leader only when
The good was spread across the field and clan
And laws and gods were only worthy then
When good and right and peace and plenty ran.

They made their story from a tapestry
Of tales of others who were here before
And even still in telling history
Embraced the Norse and Norman to the core.

But having said all that on attitude,
They did embrace the new religion then
And when they did turned law to platitude
And never saw the union come again.

The point of such an over view is not
To wish the Christ, and all he brought, away,
But to remember underneath the lot
The living moment was the judgment day.

And always in the passing moment stood
The others who preceded us and gave
A sense of living for the common good
And not of heaven found beyond the grave.

Within the story, now unfolding, lies
This truth of ours in anthropology,
And bones and beads and rocks and ancient ties
Begin to prove our own mythology.

In stories told we give the mind a span
And know we set our future in the past,
But no one knows where Celtic lore began
Or why apocalypse was never cast.

We only know we came across the sea
And found the others who were here before
And after us came others making me
An heir to all of us and them and more.

And as there was no starting point begun,
Nor time when gods were only mine to hear,
Then when we do go out beyond the Sun
We’ll have Dé Danaan whispers in our ear.

- Written for and Dedicated to :
Pam McDermott (Áine MacDermot)
by W.B. McPhillips

The Cauldron of Poesy
by Amirgen White-knee

My true Cauldron of Incubation
It has been taken by the Gods from the mysteries of the elemental abyss
A fitting decision that ennobles one from one’s center
that pours forth a terrifying stream of speech from the mouth.

I am Amirgen White-knee
pale of substance, gray of hair,
accomplishing my incubation
in proper poetic forms
in diverse color.

The Gods do not apportion the same to everyone –
tipped, inverted, right-side-up;
no knowledge, half-knowledge, full-knowledge –
for Eber and Donn,
the making of fearful poetry,
vast, mighty draughts of death-spells
in active voice, in passive silence, in the neutral balance between,
in the proper construction of rhyme,
in this way it narrates the path and function of my cauldron.

I sing of the Cauldron of Wisdom
which bestows the merit of every art,
through which treasure increases,
which magnifies every common artisan,
which builds up a person through their gift.

I sing of the Cauldron of Motion
understanding grace,
accumulating knowledge
streaming poetic inspiration as milk from the breast,
it is the tide-water point of knowledge
union of sages
stream of sovereignty
glory of the lowly
mastery of words
swift understanding
reddening satire
craftsman of histories
cherishing pupils
looking after binding principles
distinguishing the intricacies of language
moving toward music
propagation of good wisdom
enriching nobility
ennobling non-nobles
exalting names
relating praises
through the working of law
comparing of ranks
pure weighing of nobility
with fair words of the wise
with streams of sages,
the noble brew in which is boiled
the true root of all knowledge
which bestows after duty
which is climbed after diligence
which poetic ecstasy sets in motion
which joy turns
which is revealed through sorrow;
it is lasting power
undiminishing protection
I sing of the Cauldron of Motion

The Cauldron of Motion
bestows, is bestowed
extends, is extended
nourishes, is nourished
magnifies, is magnified
invokes, is invoked
sings, is sung
preserves, is preserved
arranges, is arranged
supports, is supported.

Good is the well of measuring
good is the dwelling of speech
good is the confluence of power
which builds up strength.

It is greater than every domain
it is better than every inheritance,
it brings one to knowledge
adventuring away from ignorance.