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moss 2897 posts |
Dec 31, 2011, 09:47
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A cold New Year’s Eve seeps in, Walking along an unknown path, Confronted suddenly by giant arcs of ditch and bank Which draw the eye towards processions of stones. Rings within rings, Gauntly chiselled jewels bound by bracelets of mossy grass, Their ancient faces careworn from witnessing millennia - Sad, yet proud and wise, these forty ton leviathans. Echoes of long-forgotten rituals Intangible yet close, a sense of collective aim. Slowly we traverse the great circle, Latter-day invaders, unsure of their purpose. How much have we forgotten? Over two hundred generations - what is remembered?
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moss 2897 posts |
Jun 12, 2012, 11:24
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Looking for Welsh books this morning came across the following poem, it makes you cry and laugh at the same time. The stone in question comes from Pentre Ifan.. Near the cromlech lies my favourite. It’s fallen out with the others, left out of the circle, ditched in a damp hollow like a huge toad keeping its head down. Megalith, giant stone. Nobody knows it’s there, hidden in long grass cooling its bluestone bones, asleep under the sun, under the stars for four thousand years. So when I stroke it, I’m sure it’s the first time anyone gave it a friendly scratch for at least four millennia. I’m sure its stone heart is beating under my thumb. I’m sure it’s breathing. Gillian Clarke
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Edited Jun 13, 2012, 15:31
Jun 13, 2012, 15:30
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Nice find moss! Digging round in old TMA threads earlier, I came across this quote by Simon Denison - posted by morfe in 2004, and taken from an interview with Philip Gross that appeared in the October 1996 issue of British Archaeology - "It is, perhaps, surprising that so few poets have written about our feelings for the past." Apart from that ;-) the rest of the article is quite good, and includes poems from Gross’ A Game of Henge which are also in here somewhere.
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Edited Jun 23, 2012, 16:14
Jun 23, 2012, 16:11
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In their lichened, faceted faces we see our lineaments; in their solitariness, our loneliness, or our need to be alone; in their gregariousness, our congregational temper; in their alignment, our deviousness; in their poised mass, our fragility; in their rootedness, our deracination; in their age, our ephemerality; and in their naked outfacing of time and the elements, a valuable lesson in patient dissent Jan Morris Thanks to moss for that one.
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Jun 25, 2012, 21:25
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Re: The Ancient Stones of Wales by Chris Barber and John Godfrey Williams, the authors relate that - “Some of the secrets relating to our ancient pillar stones may have been known to the great Welsh mystical poet Henry Vaughan, who in his book of sacred poems published in 1650 and called Silex Scintillions has written a strange poem called Man. It has four verses of seven lines. Each and every verse has a peculiar reference to standing stones.” Apart from the often quoted 1215 'poem' by Laymond, describing Stonehenge, this one by Henry Vaughan might just be the oldest poem (in the true sense of the word) about megaliths. The last lines in the last verse might resonate a little. With stones (and stoneheads?) in mind Vaughn writes - Man is the shuttle, to whose winding quest And passage through these looms God order'd motion, but ordain'd no rest. The poem in full follows (thanks again to moss for pointing it out). Man Weighing the stedfastness and state Of some mean things which here below reside, Where birds, like watchful clocks, the noiseless date And intercourse of times divide, Where bees at night get home and hive, and flow'rs Early, as well as late, Rise with the sun and set in the same bow'rs ; I would—said I—my God would give The staidness of these things to man ! for these To His divine appointments ever cleave, And no new business breaks their peace ; The birds nor sow nor reap, yet sup and dine ; The flow'rs without clothes live, Yet Solomon was never dress'd so fine. Man hath still either toys, or care ; He hath no root, nor to one place is tied, But ever restless and irregular About this Earth doth run and ride. He knows he hath a home, but scarce knows where ; He says it is so far, That he hath quite forgot how to go there. He knocks at all doors, strays and roams, Nay, hath not so much wit as some stones have, Which in the darkest nights point to their homes, By some hid sense their Maker gave ; Man is the shuttle, to whose winding quest And passage through these looms God order'd motion, but ordain'd no rest. Henry Vaughan (1621-1695).
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Edited Jul 06, 2012, 12:32
Jul 06, 2012, 12:22
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Thanks again to moss for this one. Not sure of the title of the poem but it's from Soliloquies of a Chalk Giant by Jeremy Hooker. Chalk A memorial of its origins, chalk in barns and churches moulders in rain and damp; petrified creatures swim in its depths. It is domestic, with the homeliness of an ancient hearth exposed to the weather, pale with the ash of countless primeval fires. Here the plough grates on an urnfield, the green plover stands with crest erect on a royal mound. Chalk is the moon's stone; the skeleton is native to its soil. It looks anaemic, but has submerged the type-sites of successive cultures. Stone, bronze, iron; all are assimilated to its nature; and the hill-forts follow its curves. These, surely, are the works of giants; temples re-dedicated to the sky-god, spires fashioned for the lords of bowmen; Spoils of the worn idol, squat Venus of the mines. Druids leave their shops in the midsummer solstice; neophytes tread an antic measure to the antlered god. Men who trespass are soon absorbed, horns laid beside them in the ground. The burnt-out tank waits beside the barrow. The god is a graffito carved on the belly of the chalk, his savage gesture subdued by the stuff of his creation. He is taken up like a gaunt white doll by the round hills, wrapped around by the long pale hair of the fields. Jeremy Hooker
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Evergreen Dazed 1881 posts |
Aug 08, 2012, 11:35
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Archaeology - W. H. Auden The archaeologist's spade delves into dwellings vacancied long ago, unearthing evidence of life-ways no one would dream of leading now, concerning which he has not much to say that he can prove: the lucky man! Knowledge may have its purposes, but guessing is always more fun than knowing. We do know that Man, from fear or affection, has always graved His dead. What disastered a city, volcanic effusion, fluvial outrage, or a human horde, agog for slaves and glory, is visually patent, and we're pretty sure that, as soon as places were built, their rulers, though gluttoned on sex and blanded by flattery, must often have yawned. But do grain-pits signify a year of famine? Where a coin-series peters out, should we infer some major catastrophe? Maybe. Maybe. From murals and statues we get a glimpse of what the Old Ones bowed down to, but cannot conceit in what situations they blushed or shrugged their shoulders. Poets have learned us their myths, but just how did They take them? That's a stumper. When Norsemen heard thunder, did they seriously believe Thor was hammering? No, I'd say: I'd swear that men have always lounged in myths as Tall Stories, that their real earnest has been to grant excuses for ritual actions. Only in rites can we renounce our oddities and be truly entired. Not that all rites should be equally fonded: some are abominable. There's nothing the Crucified would like less than butchery to appease Him. CODA From Archaeology one moral, at least, may be drawn, to wit, that all our school text-books lie. What they call History is nothing to vaunt of, being made, as it is, by the criminal in us: goodness is timeless.
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Edited Sep 08, 2012, 18:48
Sep 08, 2012, 18:47
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Let no rude hand disturb this hallowed sod, Or move stones sacred to the Briton's god -- Avenging spirits o'er the place preside, And bold profaners evil will betide. Sons of the soil,--with faithful watch and ward, This holy precinct be it your's to guard. Rev. F. Kilvert First posted on TMA some 8 years ago! Couple more to follow...
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thesweetcheat 6216 posts |
Sep 08, 2012, 19:28
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Like that, although I guess as a vicar he was referring to, er, God as the Briton's God. Or perhaps he wasn't?
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Sep 08, 2012, 19:31
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thesweetcheat wrote: Like that, although I guess as a vicar he was referring to, er, God as the Briton's God. Or perhaps he wasn't? Dunno, though the 'sod' is almost certainly to be Silbury ;-)
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