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thesweetcheat 6216 posts |
Sep 08, 2012, 19:35
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Ha! Actually he may have been despairing of early walkers messing up the cairns on Hatterrall Ridge, since it was right above his head.
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thesweetcheat 6216 posts |
Sep 26, 2012, 22:36
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Not a poem and not really megalithic (Romans, sorry). But a song about, indirectly, archaeology, death and what we leave behind us. Also the fact that Postie's a (megalithic) gardener and his son is called Eric makes me think of TMA when i listen to it anyway. Eric The Gardener - lyrics: Neil Hannon Julius Cæsar came, saw, conquered, went away ’cause it rained here all the time Too many sniffs and colds Got up his Roman nose So he left it all behind for Eric the gardener to find Eric the gardener will find Eric the gardener Julius Cæsar knew that when his life was through Something of him would stay behind Not in a Roman tomb or in an Italian womb But buried deep in English slime For eric the gardener to find Eric the gardener will find Eric the gardener Julius cæsar sleeps soundly beneath your feet With the rest of human-kind Dig deep and dig some more Dig to the planet’s core Dig ’til you’ve gone out of your mind But all you will ever really find is Eric the gardener All you can ever hope to find is Eric the gardener http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FV-kiCEYKtU
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Oct 15, 2012, 16:29
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Not quite about stones (though it could be) but might resonate with some stoneheads :-) The lines... There are other places Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws ...could almost have been written for the site of Seahenge. If you came this way, Taking the route you would be likely to take From the place you would be likely to come from, If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges White again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness. It would be the same at the end of the journey, If you came at night like a broken king, If you came by day not knowing what you came for, It would be the same, when you leave the rough road And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for Is only a shell, a husk of meaning From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled If at all. Either you had no purpose Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured And is altered in fulfilment. There are other places Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws, Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city— But this is the nearest, in place and time, Now and in England. If you came this way, Taking any route, starting from anywhere, At any time or at any season, It would always be the same: you would have to put off Sense and notion. You are not here to verify, Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity Or carry report. You are here to kneel Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more Than an order of words, the conscious occupation Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying. And what the dead had no speech for, when living, They can tell you, being dead: the communication Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living. Here, the intersection of the timeless moment Is England and nowhere. Never and always. Rest here.
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Edited Nov 16, 2012, 13:27
Nov 16, 2012, 13:25
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We share premonitions, are governed by moons and novenas, sisters cooling our wrists in the stump of a Celtic water stoup. Not lust but long labouring absorbs her, mother of the ripening barley that swells and frets at its walls. Somewhere far away the Severn presses, alert at flood-tide. And everywhere rhythms are turning their little gold cogs, caught in her waterfalling energy. Thanks to moss for finding this one in her, The Presence of the Past by Jeremy Hooker (quoting from Clarke’s second book, Letter from a Far Country).
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Dec 20, 2012, 21:22
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'twas the night before solstice when all through the land not a stone stood standing not one to be found. The Druids and bards had all done their best but greedy developers made sure of the rest. Ancient stones were fired and set into walls while some lay silent under churches and halls. Ditches were filled and banks cut down and barrows were ploughed without even a frown. Once where the sun had shifted and shone now shadowy memories of stones long gone. Cold banks and ditches and barren wet holes were all that remained of the megaliths' souls. Trucks now thundered through circles once clear while builders and quarrymen smashed without fear. 'twas like seeing an oak cut down in its prime the terrible things done to our stones at that time. Then came a cry for the wise-ones to stand against the destruction of stones in our land. A gathering of minds known as stones.co.uk came to the rescue and into the fray! Yeah! There were Wallies and Norfolks and others untold standing firm against wreckers evil and bold. There were big stones and little stones all having their say but one in particular stood proud that day. Squonk! was his name standing true and sound and declaring to those both here and around that 'henges' and ditches and banks to be sure are part of our heritage and our hearts and much more! Yeah! Littlestone (with apologies to Clement C Moore) NB Squonk was the nicky for Chris Tweed - founder of the now long, most excellent, and now sadly defunct and missed Stones Mailing List. Wally was a highly respected contributor to the SML; so too was Andy Norfolk, now chairman of one of the Cornish heritage trusts. Happy winter solstice to one and all :-)
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Sanctuary 4670 posts |
Dec 20, 2012, 21:32
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Littlestone wrote: 'twas the night before solstice when all through the land not a stone stood standing not one to be found. The Druids and bards had all done their best but greedy developers made sure of the rest. Ancient stones were fired and set into walls while some lay silent under churches and halls. Ditches were filled and banks cut down and barrows were ploughed without even a frown. Once where the sun had shifted and shone now shadowy memories of stones long gone. Cold banks and ditches and barren wet holes were all that remained of the megaliths' souls. Trucks now thundered through circles once clear while builders and quarrymen smashed without fear. 'twas like seeing an oak cut down in its prime the terrible things done to our stones at that time. Then came a cry for the wise-ones to stand against the destruction of stones in our land. A gathering of minds known as stones.co.uk came to the rescue and into the fray! Yeah! There were Wallies and Norfolks and others untold standing firm against wreckers evil and bold. There were big stones and little stones all having their say but one in particular stood proud that day. Squonk! was his name standing true and sound and declaring to those both here and around that 'henges' and ditches and banks to be sure are part of our heritage and our hearts and much more! Yeah! Littlestone (with apologies to Clement C Moore) NB Squonk was the nicky for Chris Tweed - founder of the now long, most excellent, and now sadly defunct and missed Stones Mailing List. Wally was a highly respected contributor to the SML; so too was Andy Norfolk, now chairman of one of the Cornish heritage trusts. Happy winter solstice to one and all :-) Good one LS, just my kind of poem...one that rhymes and I can understand!
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Edited Mar 30, 2013, 22:23
Mar 30, 2013, 22:16
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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... Edward Thomas “Edward Thomas (1878-1917) was arguably the most accomplished and profound writer of English rural prose, with a unique poetic-prose style. His reputation rests almost entirely today on his poetry, the one hundred and forty four poems which he wrote in the last two years of his life, between December 1914 and December 1916. In January 1917 he embarked for France and the Battle of Arras in which he was killed on April 9th, 1917. “In this series of three programmes Matthew Oates will be travelling to Steep in Hampshire, where Thomas lived, and where he wrote his most famous works. Not far away in Coate near Swindon is the home of Richard Jefferies, whom inspired Thomas. In Gloucestershire, Thomas lived for a few short weeks in 1914 with the Dymock poets, here it is believed he began to reject prose for poetry under the influence of his great friend Robert Frost. The series ends by the Quantocks in Somerset, the scene of the great romantic nature partnership between Coleridge and Wordsworth.” More here.
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woolybaque 109 posts |
Edited Jul 16, 2013, 11:30
Jul 16, 2013, 11:16
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Nat wrote: Jerusalem by William Blake And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountains green And was the holy lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen And did the countenance divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills And was Jerusalem builded there Among those dark Satanic mills Bring me my bow (my bow) of burning gold Bring me my arrows of desire Bring me my spears o'clouds unfold Bring me my chariot of fire I will not cease from mental strife Nor shall my sword sleep in hand 'Til we have built Jerusalem In England's green and pleasant land Tis about Glastonbury and the view to the Tor, or that's what I've always been told and believed, am probably completely wrong! And it's probably not megalithic, so don't know why I've posted this! :o) Bearing in mind that any interpretation is subjective, here's mine: it's a questions and answer poem, so; And did those feet in ancient times Walk upon England's mountains green- Did christianity come to England? Answer - Yes And was the holy lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen - Bringing peace? Answer - Not so's you'd notice And did the countenance divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills - Showing understanding? Answer - Certainly not! And was Jerusalem builded there Among those dark Satanic mills - Is England better for it? Answer - No Bring me my bow (my bow) of burning gold Gold is found in EARTH Bring me my arrows of desire Arrows fly through AIR Bring me my spears o'clouds unfold Cloud's spears of rain are WATER Bring me my chariot of fire As stated A Call To Arms I will not cease from mental strife (as in that the more we learn, the less we know) Nor shall my sword sleep in hand (fighting vested ignorance) 'Til we have built Jerusalem (a good place!) In England's green and pleasant land
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Jul 16, 2013, 11:48
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In Jerusalem. The Emanation of The Giant Albion there’s the verse - In Dreams of Chastity & Moral Law I have Murdered Albion: Ah! In Stone-henge & on London Stone & in the Oak Groves of Malden I have Slain him in my Sleep with the Knife of the Druid O England. See also Milton here.
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woolybaque 109 posts |
Jul 17, 2013, 15:01
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the poem quoted, (commonly referred to as Jerusalem) opens the poem Milton, perhaps as formula for regaining paradise, so to speak. Our ancient megaliths had only comparatively recently become of any interest, but the perspicacious Blake would have understood that clues to the wisdom we had lost would reside in them. He certainly ends Jerusalem by stating that '...all Human Forms identified, living going forth & returning wearied Into the Planetary lives of Years Months Days & Hours..' which is the business of the megaliths.
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