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nigelswift 8112 posts |
Apr 18, 2009, 08:03
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It's hard to beat the best.... http://www.netpoets.com/classic/poems/009015.htm
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Edited Apr 19, 2009, 16:47
Apr 19, 2009, 16:40
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nigelswift wrote: Nice one. Can find no better picture to accompany it than the top one here - http://megalithicpoems.blogspot.com/ by Gideon Fidler (almost painted to fit the poem). Browning wrote his Love Among the Ruins in 1855 so Fidler (1856-1935) may well have been influenced by it. And Browning's, And that glory and that shame alike, the gold Bought and sold. an admonition, then and now perhaps, to those who seek, sell or even suggest that we should treat our heritage so.
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nigelswift 8112 posts |
Edited Apr 19, 2009, 17:24
Apr 19, 2009, 17:21
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Aye. Maybe it'll be rediscovered in the twenty second century and because of the words - Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe Long ago; Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame Struck them tame; And that glory and that shame alike, the gold Bought and sold. will be assumed to be a lament about Britain's "early twenty first century metal detecting era"... ;)
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nigelswift 8112 posts |
Apr 22, 2009, 06:50
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(Also occasionally ascribed to Shakespeare) ..... And when you die, I will erect a monument Upon the verdant plains of Salisbury, No king shall have so high a sepulchre, With pendulous stones that I wil hang by art, Where neither lime nor morter shalbe us'd, A dark enigma to the memory, For none shall have the power to number them....
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
May 10, 2009, 07:11
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Our curious cromlechs! Let no hand of man Destroy these stony prophets which the Lord Has placed upon the tarns and sounding downs With tones for distant ages. John Harris (1820-1884) See also http://www.labforculture.org/en/Users/Site-Users/Site-Members/Philip-Hosking/Philip-Hosking/John-Harris-Cornish-Poet-Dolcoath-Miner-and-Lay-Preacher
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nigelswift 8112 posts |
May 10, 2009, 08:05
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If the Lord placed them there who's going to go through TMA and correct everything?
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
May 10, 2009, 08:27
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Ach, hadn't though of that ;-)
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Zariadris 286 posts |
May 10, 2009, 18:19
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I : BACK Darkness, cave drip, earth womb we move slowly back to our origins the naked salute to the sun disc the obeisance to the antlered tree the lonely dance on the grass earth darkness clouded moon whirling arms they shuffle hair flying eyes flashing instep echoing one, two as bare heels, toe smite the earth II : SWEENY A wet silence. Wait under trees, muscles tense, ear lifted, eye alert. Lungs clear. A nest of senses stirring awake – human beast ! A bird lights : two claw prints. Two leaves shift : a small wind. Beneath, white rush of current, stone chattering between high banks. Occasional shrill of a bird, squirrel trampolining along a springy branch. Start a slow dance, lifting a foot, planting a heel to celebrate greenness, rain spatter on skin, the humid pull of the earth. The whole world turning in wet and silence, a damp mill wheel. III : THE DANCE In silence and isolation, the dance begins. No one is meant to watch, least of all yourself. Hands fall to the sides, the head lolls, empty, a broken stalk. The shoes fall away from the feet, the clothes peel away from the skin, body rags. The sight has slowly faded from your eyes, that sight of habit which sees nothing. Your ears buzz a little before they retreat to where the heart pulses, a soft drum. Then the dance begins, cleansing, healing. Through the bare forehead, along the bones of the feet, the earth begins to speak. One knee lifts rustily, then the other. Totally absent, you shuffle up and down, the purse of your loins striking against your thighs, sperm and urine oozing down your lower body like a gum. From where the legs join the rhythm spreads upwards – the branch of the penis lifting, the cage of the ribs whistling – to pass down the arms like electricity along a wire. On the skin moisture forms, a wet leaf or a windbreath light as a mayfly. In wet and darkness you are reborn, the rain falling on your face as it would on a mossy tree trunk, wet hair clinging to your skull like bark, your breath mingling with the exhalations of the earth, that eternal smell of humus and mould. IV : MESSAGE With a body heavy as earth she begins to speak; her words are dew, bright deadly to drink her hair the damp mare’s nest of the grass her arms, thighs, chance of a swaying branch her secret message, shaped by a wandering wind puts the eye of reason out; so novice, blind, ease your hand into the rot smelling crotch of a hollow tree, and find two pebbles of quartz protected by a spider’s web : her sunless breasts. V : SESKILGREEN A circle of stones surviving behind a guttery farmhouse, the capstone phallic in a thistly meadow : Seskilgreen Passage Grave. Cup, circle, triangle beating their secret dance (eyes, breasts, thighs of a still fragrant goddess). I came last in May to find the mound drowned in bluebells with a fearless wren hoarding speckled eggs in a stony crevice while cattle swayed sleepily under low branches lashing the ropes of their tails across the centuries. VI : FOR THE HILLMOTHER Hinge of silence creak for us Rose of darkness unfold for us Wood anemone sway for us Blue harebell bend to us Moist fern unfurl for us Springy moss uphold us Branch of pleasure lean on us Leaves of delight murmur for us Odorous wood breathe on us Evening dews pearl for us Freshet of ease flow for us Secret waterfall pour for us Hidden cleft speak to us Portal of delight inflame us Hill of motherhood wait for us Gate of birth open for us VII : THE HINGE STONE AND THE CROZIER I Praise the stone : flying from Wales, its blue grain grows light as a feather ! Pour the libation ! The tame serpent glides to the altar to lap the warm spiced milk. 2 As the first ray of the midsummer sun strikes through the arches the seething scales around the astronomer’s neck harden to the coils of a torque. 3 His vestments stiff with the dried blood of the victim, old Tallcrook advances singing & swaying his staff, which shrivels & curls : a serpent ascending a cross.
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Zariadris 286 posts |
May 10, 2009, 18:23
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For an illuminating discussion of this poem (along with similar themes in the works of Montague's Irish contemporaries) – a discussion which I am sure will prove inspiring to readers of this thread and the MA in general – please see pages 45 - 49 of the book “Medieval and Modern Ireland”, by Richard Wall, available on the web as a limited preview at Google Books: http://books.google.com/books?id=7e7RPI1pasoC&pg=PP16&dq=medieval+and+modern+ireland+richard+well Also, this article may be of interest as well, describing, in the last paragraph, a staging of the poem at the Seskilgreen passage grave in Tyrone: http://www.mythicalireland.com/ancientsites/news/samuel-beckett-drama-fourknocks.php
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
May 30, 2009, 10:34
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“And finally” Spat the sage, “When all these things are passed, when every trial and suffering is over, when at last you believe that you are finally free, then people of Erin, only then will the true depth of my spite take form, if it was the Fianna that upheld ye through your countless years of trial, if it was they and their descendents whose sacrifice finally set you free, then thus I will repay them for their foolish loyalty, what are these baubles of loyalty, this child’s talk of honor, those who in their hearts turn away from the truth and the childish innocence and naivety of the kings of Erin they will share with me the riches of the world, gold beyond any dream you have yet dared embrace, even if these riches are to be the bars of their prison, it is a gilded prison I give them, with such splendor as this what fool could possibly say, that the laughing voice of a happy river or the cool majesty of the stars is of more worth to them, for their crime of selfless loyalty this a bequeath the Fianna of Erin, their fortress of Rath Lugh shall be overthrown, though their stand be valiant none shall come to their aid, except the cream of the cream of the men of Ireland and their sons, and these too shall be cast aside by my minions like the dying jetsam on the unstoppable poisoned tide, this too I give them for their daring to defy, that their beloved Tara shall be cast low before the courts of lesser kings, and none but the few of the few will care enough to pick her up from the mud and serve to heal the dishonor intended for her, the white stones of the Dun Allen shall be cast low, and smashed will be transported where once they were the upholders of the pinnacle of virtue now they will be driven beneath the feet of my slaves, now they will be bound to the service of ever greater torments, now they will be nothing more than the stones of the road of toil, the foundation of the road to IKEA... The lady Caitlin spoke “you who would afflict my children, gloat at all that is base they have become, reveling in their supposed slavery, laughing as they learn to fear the sun. Will feel the hope of all your tyranny, as the proud nonchalant summer first feels the breath of autumn, time and again the clarion call will sound, and as it falls upon the ears of my children they will rise up in peace, every stone that sings with memory, every smashed site and tomb and barrow will spill forth it’s magics till they wash your evil from my land, and finally the dignity with which my children stood in every generation, will shine once more, and the light of that shining will be the spirit of peace, and this time last forever, I have faith in my children my love will never betray them, I know they will rise against you time and time again and so I have no fear." Come to the Hill of Allen in Kildare today for a guided tour and an afternoon of story telling. Meeting Point Car Park at Allen Church, Saturday 30th of May 2009 at 2pm. See also http://www.hillofallen.ie/ and http://heritageaction.wordpress.com/
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