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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Edited May 31, 2010, 19:50
May 31, 2010, 19:37
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Not a poem (though written by a poet) it's close on and perhaps worth setting down on these pages (and thanks to moss for finding it). On every hand lies cromlech, camp, circle, hut and tumulus of the unwritten years. They are confused and mingled with the natural litter of a barren land. It is a silent Bedlam of history, a senseless cemetery or museum, amidst which we walk as animals must do when they see those valleys full of skeletons where their kind are said to go punctually to die. There are enough of the dead; they outnumber the living, and there those trite truths burst with life and drum upon the tympanum with ambiguous fatal voices. At the end of this many barrowed moor, yet not in it, there is a solitary circle of grey stones, where the cry of the past is less vociferous, less bewildering, than on the moor itself, but more intense. Nineteen tall, grey stones stand round a taller, pointed one that is heavily bowed, amidst long grass and bracken and furze. A track passes close by, but does not enter the circle; the grass is unbent except by the weight of its bloom. It bears a name that connects it with the assembling and rivalry of the bards of Britain. Here, under the sky, they met, leaning upon the stones, tall fair men of peace, but half warriors, whose songs could change ploughshares into sword. Here they met, and the growth of the grass, the perfection of the stones (except that one stoops as with age), and the silence, suggest that since the last bard left it, in robe of blue or white or green - the colours of sky and cloud and grass upon this fair day - the circle has been unmolested, and the law obeyed which forbade any but a bard to enter it... And the inscription on the chair of the bards of Beisgawen was "nothing is that is not for ever and ever" - these things and the blue sky, the white, cloudy hall of the sun, and the green bough and grass, hallowed the ancient stones, and clearer than any vision of tall bards in the morning of the world was the tranquil delight of being thus ' teased out of time' in the presence of this ancientness... Edward Thomas (1878-1917)
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thesweetcheat 6216 posts |
May 31, 2010, 21:22
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Two poems which form important parts of Susan Cooper's Dark is Rising Sequence. Neither are specifically megalithic, but the first refers to six signs, made from the principle elements of the prehistoric world: wood, bronze, iron, fire, water, stone. When the Dark comes rising, six shall turn it back; Three from the circle, three from the track; Wood, bronze, iron; water, fire, stone; Five will return, and one go alone. Iron for the birthday, bronze carried long; Wood from the burning, stone out of song; Fire in the candle-ring, water from the thaw; Six Signs the circle, and the grail gone before. Fire on the mountain shall find the harp of gold Played to wake the Sleepers, oldest of the old; Power from the green witch, lost beneath the sea; All shall find the light at last, silver on the tree. The second, from the brilliant The Grey King touches on folklore of Cader Idris (the Grey King of the title) and the Pendragon. It finishes with a lovely piece of Welsh: On the day of the dead, when the year too dies, Must the youngest open the oldest hills Through the door of the birds, where the breeze breaks. There fire shall fly from the raven boy, And the silver eyes that see the wind, And the light shall have the harp of gold. By the pleasant lake the Sleepers lie, On Cadfan’s Way where the kestrels call; Though grim from the Grey King shadows fall, Yet singing the golden harp shall guide To break their sleep and bid them ride. When light from the lost land shall return, Six Sleepers shall ride, six Signs shall burn, And where the midsummer tree grows tall By Pendragon’s sword the Dark shall fall. Y maent yr mynyddoedd yn canu, ac y mae’r arglwyddes yn dod.
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Jun 01, 2010, 03:46
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Very nice.
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Edited Jun 19, 2010, 15:19
Jun 19, 2010, 13:45
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Not a poem, put another beautiful piece of prose from the 18th century concerning Hatfield Barrow - perhaps of interest in light of the upcoming dig about to begin there. "... near the village of Marden, is a remarkable tumulus called Hatfield-barrow; the only work of the kind, I believe, to be found in this lowland vale, although so very frequent on the elevated downs on both sides. It stands in an enclosure, and is above the usual size, and nearly hemispherical; it is surrounded by a broad circular intrenchment, which, from being constantly supplied with water by innate springs, forms a sort of moat, which does not become dry even in the midst of summer; a circumstance I have never found attending any other barrow. In this water ditch, the Menyanthese trifoliata or bogbean, plentifully grows: a plant which I have not seen elsewhere in that neighbourhood. The whole of the barrow is at present ploughed over, and is said to be more fertile than the surrounding field. I have seen it clothed with wheat ready for the sickle; when the richness of colour, and the beautiful undulations of the corn, formed an object as pleasing as it was uncommon." From part of a letter written by James Norris Esq and dated 9 February 1798. Thanks to Rhiannon for her TMA entries on Marden Henge and Hatfield Barrow, and to Moss for her info on the six-week dig starting close to the village on June 28. More here.
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Jul 07, 2010, 19:40
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For fans of William Stukeley - The Druid
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Aug 01, 2010, 11:42
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Not a poem, but a lovely piece of prose. The rest is here - http://heritageaction.wordpress.com/2010/08/01/focus-on-bodowyr-anglesey/ "...the quartz hangs in droplets on the stones, like the drizzled water on the rails outside - the capstone itself, supported by three (of an original four) uprights, has the scaled contours of a peak in the massive mountain range that the chamber opens towards. Inside, on the surfaces to the rear of that eastern opening, but more ephemerally, suitably perhaps, sheep wool trails white and wispy, like the strands of an ancient beard." Gordon Kingston
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gjrk 370 posts |
Aug 01, 2010, 22:55
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Littlestone wrote: Not a poem, but a lovely piece of prose. The rest is here - http://heritageaction.wordpress.com/2010/08/01/focus-on-bodowyr-anglesey/ "...the quartz hangs in droplets on the stones, like the drizzled water on the rails outside - the capstone itself, supported by three (of an original four) uprights, has the scaled contours of a peak in the massive mountain range that the chamber opens towards. Inside, on the surfaces to the rear of that eastern opening, but more ephemerally, suitably perhaps, sheep wool trails white and wispy, like the strands of an ancient beard." Gordon Kingston (Ahem) shuffles... thanks very much :)
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Aug 07, 2010, 21:13
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Lines 19 and 20 specifically. Explanation for the poem here - http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2010/aug/07/royal-mail-county-addresses-plan The counties But I want to write to an Essex girl, greeting her warmly. But I want to write to a Shropshire lad, brave boy, home from the army, and I want to write to the Lincolnshire Poacher to hear of his hare and to an aunt in Bedfordshire who makes a wooden hill of her stair. But I want to post a rose to a Lancashire lass, red, I'll pick it, and I want to write to a Middlesex mate for tickets for cricket. But I want to write to the Ayrshire cheesemaker and his good cow and it is my duty to write to the Queen at Berkshire in praise of Slough. But I want to write to the National Poet of Wales at Ceredigion in celebration and I want to write to the Dorset Giant in admiration and I want to write to a widow in Rutland in commiseration and to the Inland Revenue in Yorkshire in desperation. But I want to write to my uncle in Clackmannanshire in his kilt and to my scrumptious cousin in Somerset with her cidery lilt. But I want to write to two ladies in Denbighshire, near Llangollen and I want to write to a laddie in Lanarkshire, Dear Lachlan … But I want to write to the Cheshire Cat, returning its smile. But I want to write the names of the Counties down for my own child and may they never be lost to her … all the birds of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire... Carol Ann Duffy
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gjrk 370 posts |
Edited Aug 29, 2010, 22:50
Aug 29, 2010, 11:21
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For me the two most memorable lines in the TMA book have always been these; "Atop Knap Hill I eat my snot For 'tis the only food I got" Magic. Driving north from Pewsey, for the first time (overloaded at a chipper), I saw what he was writing about... ‘Neath Adam’s Grave I push “large chips” down through my teeth and grasping lips... Didn’t Strabo state that ancients ate Their fathers’ bodies on a plate; And drank the fluid that now gets hid In a silver cup, under a silver lid? Somehow their presence is up here still; Watching me watching, on the hill.
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Aug 29, 2010, 16:47
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Nice one Mr g :-) And for something very, very special, listen (if/when available) to Norn But Not Forgotten: Sounds of Shetland ( http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00thpw1/Norn_But_Not_Forgotten_Sounds_of_Shetland/ ) where Kathleen Jamie explores the legacy of the Norn language among Shetland's poets. And yes, there is a poem of a Standing Stane in there, read in a dialect as close to Old English as you're ever likely to get (and can understand). Wonderful!
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