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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Oct 12, 2009, 21:07
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Is there a plan to publish an Anthology of Megalithic Poems somewhere, with just the poetry? There's been an offer from a publisher to do that Branwen but as long as new additions (old and new) keep coming in we're reluctant to close the door, as it were, with a book. The Meg Poems idea was first started as a forum thread on The Stones Mailing List in 2004 and then on TMA in March 2005. The Megalithic Poems blog was subsequently launched on the 21st September 2005. Our first poem and perhaps the oldest (1215) on things megalithic is by Layamon describing Stonehenge and beginning - The stones are great And magic power they have - http://megalithicpoems.blogspot.com/2005/09/layamons-poem-brut-of-1215-describing.html Indeed the stones are great, and certainly have had the power to capture the imagination of poets and artists throughout the centuries. Since 2005 we've added many more poems and images on the megalithic theme in the hope that they'll become a useful resource for those interested in the poetry, art and the history of our megalithic past - none of which would be here, or on the blog, without the remarkable efforts and creativity of those who have written about megaliths or portrayed them in their work - not forgetting of course those who originally conceived and built those amazing structures!
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Branwen 824 posts |
Edited Oct 12, 2009, 21:37
Oct 12, 2009, 21:31
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I dont know if I remember this one right, I heard it when I was little in the Borders, and think it's by Harold Boulton (but only because I think I heard it when I was choosing one of his to memorise. I chose a different poem though). I don't remember the title either, sorry. It might be anonymous but collected by Boulton, he did that a lot. Probably a variation on Dead stones or Ancestor Stones or something. Out on the wild and windy moor, I feel love's presence near. I hear his whispers, wild and dour, Where only the stones can hear. Within the henge I hear his name. I hear it still, as swift I flee. "Can true love play a truant's game? Come back, come back, to me". There beneath the standing stone, A love that calls me home. "Lay aside thy flesh and bone And rest ye in the loam". Three times three I fled the hill. Three times yet, returned. Each time the whispers drew me in. Each time I fled, a'feared. I am the haunted woman, yet. I roam the haunted moor. I've lain beneath the fairy stone, But heard the voice, no more.
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Edited Oct 23, 2009, 11:37
Oct 23, 2009, 01:05
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Sukeley's prose, once again, has a rhythm about it that verges on the poetic (read Wordsworth). Lines re-spaced... nothing more. Thus - "At Winterburn-basset, a little north of Abury, in a field north-west of the church, upon elevated ground, is a double circle of stones concentric, 60 cubits diameter. Many of the stones have late been carried away. West of it is a single, broad, flat, and high stone, standing by itself. And about as far northward from the circle, in a ploughed field, is a barrow set round with, or rather compos'd of large stones. I take this double circle to have been a family chapel, as we may call it, to an archdruid dwelling near thereabouts, whilst Abury was his cathedral."* * William Stukeley: Abury, a Temple of the British Druids
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dodge one 1242 posts |
Oct 23, 2009, 01:45
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Here's my contribution to the thread. Hope it's not already here. I didn't have the stamina to check the entire thread. MERLIN AND THE GLEAM by ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON I. O YOUNG Mariner, You from the haven Under the sea-cliff, You that are watching The gray Magician With eyes of wonder, I am Merlin, And I am dying, I am Merlin Who follow The Gleam. II. Mighty the Wizard Who found me at sunrise Sleeping, and woke me And learn'd me Magic! Great the Master, And sweet the Magic, When over the valley, In early summers, Over the mountain, On human faces, And all around me, Moving to melody, Floated The Gleam. III. Once at the croak of a Raven who crost it, A barbarous people, Blind to the magic, And deaf to the melody, Snarl'd at and cursed me. A demon vext me, The light retreated, The landskip darken'd, The melody deaden'd, The Master whisper'd "Follow The Gleam." IV. Then to the melody, Over a wilderness Gliding, and glancing at Elf of the woodland, Gnome of the cavern, Griffin and Giant, And dancing of Fairies In desolate hollows, And wraiths of the mountain, And rolling of dragons By warble of water, Or cataract music Of falling torrents, Flitted The Gleam. V. Down from the mountain And over the level, And streaming and shining on Silent river, Silvery willow, Pasture and plowland, Horses and oxen, Innocent maidens, Garrulous children, Homestead and harvest, Reaper and gleaner, And rough-ruddy faces Of lowly labour, Slided The Gleam.-- VI. Then, with a melody Stronger and statelier, Led me at length To the city and palace Of Arthur the king; Touch'd at the golden Cross of the churches, Flash'd on the Tournament, Flicker'd and bicker'd From helmet to helmet, And last on the forehead Of Arthur the blameless Rested The Gleam. VII. Clouds and darkness Closed upon Camelot; Arthur had vanish'd I knew not whither, The king who loved me, And cannot die; For out of the darkness Silent and slowly The Gleam, that had waned to a wintry glimmer On icy fallow And faded forest, Drew to the valley Named of the shadow, And slowly brightening Out of the glimmer, And slowly moving again to a melody Yearningly tender, Fell on the shadow, No longer a shadow, But clothed with The Gleam. VIII. And broader and brighter The Gleam flying onward, Wed to the melody, Sang thro' the world; And slower and fainter, Old and weary, But eager to follow, I saw, whenever In passing it glanced upon Hamlet or city, That under the Crosses The dead man's garden, The mortal hillock, Would break into blossom; And so to the land's Last limit I came-- And can no longer, But die rejoicing, For thro' the Magic Of Him the Mighty, Who taught me in childhood, There on the border Of boundless Ocean, And all but in Heaven Hovers The Gleam. IX. Not of the sunlight, Not of the moonlight, Not of the starlight! O young Mariner, Down to the haven, Call your companions, Launch your vessel, And crowd your canvas, And, ere it vanishes Over the margin, After it, follow it, Follow The Gleam.
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Branwen 824 posts |
Oct 25, 2009, 14:18
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These two poems might be a bit off topic. Jet jewellery has been found in many bronze age burial excavations, and I carve reproductions using jet. The romans found a thriving jet carving industry here when they came. Its easier to carve than wood, though brittle and liable to break if you do any delicate carving. Pliny and Bede describe its early uses, but I prefer the following two poets, who have summed up very differently:- This first poem, written by Marbode, the Bishop of Rennes, captures the received opinion of medieval times, which harks back to Pliny and Bede:- JET Lycia her jet in medicine commends; But chiefest, that which distant Britain sends; Black light and polished, to itself it draws If warmed by friction near adjacent straws. Though quenched by oil, its smouldering embers raise Sprinkled by water, a still fiercer blaze; It cures the dropsy, shaky teeth are fixed Washed with the powder'd stone in water mixed. The female womb its piercing fumes relieve, Nor epilepsy can this test deceive; From its deep hole it lures the viper fell, And chases away the powers of hell; It heals the swelling plagues that gnaw the heart, And baffles spells and magic's noxious art. This by the wise and surest test is styled Of virgin purity by lust defiled. Three days in water steeped, the draught bestows Ease to the pregnant womb in travail's throes.' A JET RING SENT THOU art not so black as my heart, Nor half so brittle as her heart, thou art ; What would'st thou say ? shall both our properties by thee be spoke, —Nothing more endless, nothing sooner broke? Marriage rings are not of this stuff ; Oh, why should ought less precious, or less tough Figure our loves ? except in thy name thou have bid it say, "—I'm cheap, and nought but fashion ; fling me away." Yet stay with me since thou art come, Circle this finger's top, which didst her thumb ; Be justly proud, and gladly safe, that thou dost dwell with me ; She that, O ! broke her faith, would soon break thee. Donne, John. 1896
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Oct 25, 2009, 22:24
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Though quenched by oil, its smouldering embers raise Sprinkled by water, a still fiercer blaze; It cures the dropsy, shaky teeth are fixed Washed with the powder'd stone in water mixed. Thanks. And once again, Layamon describing Stonehenge - Men that are sick Fare to that stone And they wash that stone And with that water bathe away their sickness There are few things in life more important than a long and healthy one; therein, perhaps, lies the key.
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Branwen 824 posts |
Oct 26, 2009, 19:42
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its that stone dust ingestion thing all over again, seeing it all over the place! I've ingested lots of jet dust, maybe I'll live a long life...
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Oct 26, 2009, 20:32
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I've ingested lots of jet dust, maybe I'll live a long life... Longer I hope than thousands of London Underground users. There's a rumour that the older Underground trains had brakepads made/composed of asbestos. Over decades the asbestos dust from these brakepads has been deposited on the walls of the Underground tunnels - this is then blasted through to passengers waiting at stations every time a train approaches. Bringing the issue (sort of) back on topic, it's said that the standard of Genghis Khan could never be burnt (rumour has it that it was woven from threads of asbestos :-)
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Branwen 824 posts |
Edited Nov 06, 2009, 23:04
Nov 06, 2009, 23:03
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Just the last part ......... They turned their horse-heads round about, Rode back a day and twain : And a* the rivers they rode upon The devil rode at their rein. The third castle they came to, It was the castle of Hermitage ; There is nae man may break the sides of it, Though the stanes therein are great of age. " whatten a may is yonder may, That looks like ony flower? " " yon is my very love, Marjorie, Was borne out of my bower." The bower Lady Marjorie was in, It had neither white cloths nor red, There were nae rushes to the bower floors, And nae pillows to the bed. " will ye come down but a very little, For God's sake or for me? Or will ye kiss me a very little, But six poor kissess and three? " She's leaned hersell to that window, For sorrow she couldna stand ; She's bound her body by that window, With iron at her hand. She's sworn by tree and by tree's leaf, By aits and rye and corn, " Gin ye hadna come the night," she says, " I had been but dead the morn." She's kissed him under the bower-bar Nine goodly times and ten ; And forth is come that keen wizard In the middest of his men. And forth is come that foul wizard, God give him a curse and care! Says " The life is one time sweet to have And the death is three times sair." Forth is come that strong wizard, God give him a heavy day! Says " ye shall have joy of your leman's body When April cometh after May." Between the hill and the wan water In fields that were full sweet, There was riding and running together, And many a man gat red-shod feet. Between the wa's and the Hermitage water, In ways that were waxen red There was cleaving of caps and shearing of jack, And many a good man was there dead. They have taken that strong wizard To bind him by the hands : The links of aim brast off his body Like splints of bursten birken wands. And they have taken that keen wizard To bind him by the hause-bane ; The links of aim brast off his body As blossom that is burst wi' rain. And they have taken that foul wizard To bind him by the feet : The links of aim brast off his body As berries that are burst with heat. They have putten fire upon his flesh, For nae fire wad it shrink : They have cast en his body in the wan well-head, For nae water wad it sink. Up then gat the fiend Borolallie Bade them give ower and let be : " Between warld's fire and warld's water He gat a gift of me ; Till fire came out of wan water, There's nane shall gar him dee." " A rede, a rede, thou foul Borolallie, A good rede out of hand ; Shall we be wroken of Lord Soulis By water or by land? Or shall we be wroken a great way off, Or even whereas we stand? " And up it spak him, foul Borolallie, Between the tree and the leaf o* the tree ; " Ye maunna be wroken of Lord Soulis By land neither by sea ; Between red fire and wan water Weel wroken ye shall be." And up it spak him, foul Borolallie, Between Lord Soulis and them a' : " Ye maunna be wroken of Lord Soulis Betwixen house and ha' ; But ye maun take him to the Ninestane rigs And take his life awa.' " They have take him to the Ninestane rigs His foul body to slay ; Between the whins and the whinstanes He had a weary way. They have taken him to the Ninestane rigs His foul body to spill : Between the green broom and the yellow He gat a bitter ill. They had a sair cast with his foul body, There was nae man wist what to do ; " And gin his body were weel sodden, Weel sodden and suppit in brool " And out is spak him, foul Borolallie, Says " whatten a coiPs this coil? Ye'll mak a fire on the Ninestane rigs, For a pot thereon to boil." And out it spak him, foul Borolallie, Says " whatten a din's this din? Ye'll boil his body within the brass, The brass to boil him in." They boiled his body on the Ninestane rigs That wizard mickle of lear ; They have sodden the bones of his body, To be their better cheer. They buried his bones on the Ninestane rigs But the flesh was a* clean gane ; There was great joy in a* that border That Lord Soulis was well slain.
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baza 1308 posts |
Nov 09, 2009, 20:26
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What can we say of the song of the ley - Sounding so faintly, and so far away? Echoing hauntingly over the land - Ever elusive, yet ever at hand. Song of the joys and the sorrows of earth, Singing of death, yet constant rebirth - The face of the ley may change over time, But the song of the ley is eternal, sublime. Life in its fulness, and death with its pang, Love of the mother, and carnivore's fang - Life in entirety, darkness and light, Song of all gentleness, song of all might. Earth is the Mother, and Earth is the Force - Earth of all life the umbilical Source - Earth is the Cycle, as night follows day, And the song of the Earth is the song of the ley. Mountains and continents, oceans and seas - Hurricane, earthquake and soft summer breeze - Song of all being, to time without end, Song of all songs the ultimate blend. Taking, transforming the crude works of man - Weaving them into its intricate plan - Whether the knowledge be little or great The song of the ley makes the crooked way straight. Jimmy Goddard
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