Meanderings of the Muse

Heaven and Hell

2012-02-13T01:31:00.000-08:00

William Blake's
The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

Rintrah roars & shakes his fires in the burden'd air;
Hungry clouds swag on the deep.

Once meek, and in a perilous path,
The just man kept his course along
The vale of death.
Roses are planted where thorns grow,
And on the barren heath
Sing the honey bees.

Then the perilous path was planted:
And a river and a spring
On every cliff and tomb:
And on the bleached bones
Red clay brought forth.

Till the villain left the paths of ease,
To walk in perilous paths, and drive
The just man into barren climes.

Now the sneaking serpent walks
In mild humility,
And the just man rages in the wilds
Where lions roam.

Rintrah roars & shakes his fires in the burden'd air;
Hungry clouds swag on the deep.

PROVERBS OF HELL
(Plate 7 )

In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.
Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.
The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by Incapacity.
He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence.
The cut worm forgives the plow.
Dip him in the river who loves water.

A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees.
He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.
Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
The busy bee has no time for sorrow.
The hours of folly are measur'd by the clock, but of wisdom: no clock can measure.

All wholsom food is caught without a net or a trap.
Bring out number weight & measure in a year of dearth.
No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.
A dead body, revenges not injuries.
The most sublime act is to set another before you.
If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.
Folly is the cloke of knavery.
Shame is Prides cloke.

PROVERBS OF HELL
(Plate 8 )

Prisons are built with stones of Law, Brothels with bricks of Religion.
The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.
The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.
The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.
The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps.
The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword, are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man.
The fox condemns the trap, not himself.
Joys impregnate. Sorrows bring forth.
Let man wear the fell of the lion, woman the fleece of the sheep.
The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.
The selfish smiling fool, & the sullen frowning fool, shall be both thought wise, that they may be a rod.
What is now proved was once, only imagin'd.
The rat, the mouse, the fox, the rabbit: watch the roots; the lion, the tyger, the horse, the elephant, watch the fruits.
The cistern contains; the fountain overflows.
One thought, fills immensity.
Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you.
Every thing possible to be believ'd is an image of truth.
The eagle never lost so much time, as when he submitted to learn of the crow.

PROVERBS OF HELL
(Plate 9)

The fox provides for himself, but God provides for the lion.
Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night.
He who has suffer'd you to impose on him knows you.
As the plow follows words, so God rewards prayers.
The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.
Expect poison from the standing water.
You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.
Listen to the fools reproach! it is a kingly title!
The eyes of fire, the nostrils of air, the mouth of water, the beard of earth.
The weak in courage is strong in cunning.
The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow, nor the lion, the horse, how he shall take his prey.
The thankful reciever bears a plentiful harvest.
If others had not been foolish, we should be so.
The soul of sweet delight, can never be defil'd.
When thou seest an Eagle, thou seest a portion of Genius, lift up thy head!
As the catterpiller chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs on, so the priest lays his curse on the fairest joys.
To create a little flower is the labour of ages.
Damn, braces: Bless relaxes.
The best wine is the oldest, the best water the newest.
Prayers plow not! Praises reap not!
Joys laugh not! Sorrows weep not!

PROVERBS OF HELL
(Plate 10)

The head Sublime, the heart Pathos, the genitals Beauty, the hands & feet Proportion.
As the air to a bird of the sea to a fish, so is contempt to the contemptible.
The crow wish'd every thing was black, the owl, that every thing was white.
Exuberance is Beauty.
If the lion was advised by the fox, he would be cunning.
Improvement makes strait roads, but the crooked roads without Improvement, are roads of Genius.
Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.
Where man is not nature is barren.
Truth can never be told so as to be understood, and not be believ'd.
Enough! or Too much!

http://www.gailgastfield.com/mhh/mhh.html

Time: Shifting Seasons

2012-01-18T11:20:00.000-08:00

In Prose and Verse:

"The cycle of nature—the progress from seed to fruition to dying-off and then renewal in the spring—was mirrored in the wild fields and the cultivated garden alike, while the fragility of harvest—the possible interruption of the cycle by drought, wind, or other natural calamities— established the pattern of how humans understood the workings of the cosmos. The oldest of surviving sacred stories have their roots in the garden and reflect how humanity sought to understand the changeable patterns of their world and, at the same time, to imagine a world no longer subject to change.

Peg Streep

"It is better to have lived one day as a tiger than a thousand years as a sheep."
Tibetan saying

"To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else."
Emily Dickinson

"There is an appointed time for everything.
And there is a time for every event under heaven -
A time to give birth, and a time to die;
A time to plant and a time to uproot what is planted."

Ecclesiastes, 3:1-2

"Have you ever noticed a tree standing naked against the sky,
How beautiful it is?
All its branches are outlined, and in its nakedness
There is a poem, there is a song.
Every leaf is gone and it is waiting for the spring.
When the spring comes, it again fills the tree with
The music of many leaves,
Which in due season fall and are blown away.
And this is the way of life."

Krishnamurti

"Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing."

Omar Khayyám

"For eternally and always there is only one now, one and the same now; the present is the only thing that has no end."

Erwin Schrodinger

"Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all."

Stanley Horowitz

This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never all dried at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor is ever rising. Eternal sunrise, eternal sunset, eternal dawn and glowing, on sea and continues and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls."

John Muir

"The day is of infinite length for him who knows how to appreciate and use it."

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

"Four seasons fill the measure of the year; there are four seasons in the minds of men."

John Keats

"Time is a brisk wind, for each hour it brings something new... but who can understand and measure its sharp breath, its mystery and its design?"

Paracelsus

"Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set; but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!"

John Milton

"The whole life of man is but a point of time; let us enjoy it."

Plutarch

"Time discovers truth.
Time heals what reason cannot."

Seneca

Original and beautiful artworks are copyright and courtesy of Victoria MacLeod at http://www.victoriamacleod.co.uk/

The Snow Queen

2012-01-04T14:33:00.000-08:00

The Snow Queen

A Summary of this Classic Tale:

An evil "troll," "actually the devil himself",^[1] makes a magic mirror that has the power to distort the appearance of things reflected in it. It fails to reflect all the good and beautiful aspects of people and things while it magnifies all the bad and ugly aspects so that they look even worse than they really are. The devil teaches a "devil school," and the devil and his pupils delight in taking the mirror throughout the world to distort everyone and everything. They enjoy how the mirror makes the loveliest landscapes look like "boiled spinach." They then want to carry the mirror into heaven with the idea of making fools of the angels and God, but the higher they lift it, the more the mirror grins and shakes with delight. It shakes so much that it slips from their grasp and falls back to earth where it shatters into billions of pieces — some no larger than a grain of sand. These splinters are blown around and get into people's hearts and eyes, making their hearts frozen like blocks of ice and their eyes like the troll-mirror itself, only seeing the bad and ugly in people and things.

Years later, a little boy, Kay, and a little girl, Gerda, live next door to each other in the garrets of buildings with adjoining roofs in a large city. One could get from Kay's to Gerda's home just by stepping over the gutters of each building. The two families grow vegetables and roses in window boxes placed on the gutters. Kay and Gerda have a window-box garden to play in, and they become devoted in love to each other as playmates.

Kay's grandmother tells the children about the Snow Queen, who is ruler over the snowflakes that look like bees — that is why they are called "snow bees." As bees have a queen, so do the snow bees, and she is seen where the snowflakes cluster the most. Looking out of his frosted window, Kay, one winter, sees the Snow Queen, who beckons him to come with her. Kay draws back in fear from the window.

By the following spring, Gerda has learned a song that she sings to Kay: Where the roses deck the flowery vale, there, infant Jesus thee we hail! Because roses adorn the window box garden, Gerda is always reminded of her love for Kay by the sight of roses.

It was on a pleasant summer's day that splinters of the troll-mirror get into Kay's heart and eyes while he and Gerda are looking at a picture book in their window-box garden. Kay's personality changes: he becomes cruel and aggressive. He destroys their window-box garden, he makes fun of his grandmother, and he no longer cares about Gerda, since all of them now appear bad and ugly to him. The only beautiful and perfect things to him now are the tiny snowflakes that he sees through a magnifying glass.

The following winter he goes out with his sled to the market square and hitches it—as was the custom of those playing in the snowy square—to a curious white sleigh carriage, driven by the Snow Queen, who appears as a woman in a white fur-coat. Outside the city she shows herself to Kay and takes him into her sleigh. She kisses him only twice: once to numb him from the cold, and the second time to cause him to forget about Gerda and his family. She does not kiss him a third time as that would kill him. Kay is then taken to the Snow Queen's palace on Spitsbergen, near the North Pole where he is contented to live due to the splinters of the troll-mirror in his heart and eyes.

The people of the city get the idea that Kay has been drowned in the river nearby, but Gerda, who is heartbroken at Kay's disappearance, goes out to look for him. She questions everyone and everything about Kay's whereabouts. Gerda offers her new red shoes to the river in exchange for Kay; by not taking the gift at first, the river seems to let her know that Kay is not drowned. Gerda next visits an old sorceress, who wants Gerda to stay with her forever.

She causes Gerda to forget all about her friend and, knowing that the sight of roses will remind Gerda of Kay, the sorceress causes all the roses in her garden to sink beneath the earth. At the home of the old sorceress, a rosebush raised from below the ground by Gerda's warm tears tells her that Kay is not among the dead, all of whom it could see while it was under the earth. Gerda flees from the old woman's beautiful garden of eternal summer and meets a crow, who tells her that Kay was in the princess's palace. She subsequently goes to the palace and meets the princess and her prince, who appears very similar to Kay. Gerda tells them her story and they help by providing warm clothes and a beautiful coach. While traveling in the coach Gerda is captured by robbers and brought to their castle, where she is befriended by a little robber girl, whose pet doves tell her that they had seen Kay when he was carried away by the Snow Queen in the direction of Lapland. The captive reindeer, Bae, tells her that he knows how to get to Lapland since it is his home.

The robber girl, then, frees Gerda and the reindeer to travel north to the Snow Queen's palace. They make two stops: first at the Lapp woman's home and then at the Finn woman's home. The Finn woman tells the reindeer that the secret of Gerda's unique power to save Kay is in her sweet and innocent child's heart:

“

I can give her no greater power than she has already," said the woman; "don't you see how strong that is? How men and animals are obliged to serve her, and how well she has got through the world, barefooted as she is. She cannot receive any power from me greater than she now has, which consists in her own purity and innocence of heart. If she cannot herself obtain access to the Snow Queen, and remove the glass fragments from little Kay, we can do nothing to help her ...^[2]

”

When Gerda gets to the Snow Queen's palace, she is first halted by the snowflakes which guard it. The only thing that overcomes them is Gerda's praying the Lord's Prayer, which causes her breath to take the shape of angels, who resist the snowflakes and allow Gerda to enter the palace. Gerda finds Kay alone and almost immobile on the frozen lake, which the Snow Queen calls the "Mirror of Reason" on which her throne sits. Gerda finds Kay engaged in the task that the Snow Queen gave him: he must use pieces of ice as components of a Chinese puzzle to form characters and words. If he is able to form the word "eternity" (Danish: Evigheden) the Snow Queen will release him from her power and give him a pair of skates. Gerda finds him, runs up to him, and weeps warm tears on him, which melt his heart, burning away the troll-mirror splinter in it.

Kay bursts into tears, dislodging the splinter from his eye. Gerda kisses Kay a few times, and he becomes cheerful and healthy again, with sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks: he is saved by the power of Gerda's love. He and Gerda dance around on the lake of ice so joyously that the splinters of ice Kay has been playing with are caught up into the dance. When the splinters tire of dancing they fall down to spell the very word Kay was trying to spell, "eternity." Even if the Snow Queen were to return, she would be obliged to free Kay. Kay and Gerda then leave the Snow Queen's domain with the help of the reindeer, the Finn woman, and the Lapp woman. They meet the robber girl after they have crossed the line of vegetation, and from there they walk back to their home, "the big city." They find that all is the same at home, but they have changed! They are now grown up, and they are delighted to see that it is summertime.

text copyright of :

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Snow_Queen

four photographs copyright of Shani Oates

all other images copyright of:

danlea3.blogspot.com

childhoodreading.com

culturemouse.blogspot.com

beautifulcentury.blogspot.com

The Holly and the Ivy

2011-12-18T07:50:00.000-08:00

1. Green grow’th the holly
So doth the ivy
Though winter blasts blow na’er so high
Green grow’th the holly

2. Gay are the flowers
Hedgerows and ploughlands
The days grow longer in the sun
Soft fall the showers

3. Full gold the harvest
Grain for thy labor
With God must work for daily bread
Else, man, thou starvest

4. Fast fall the shed leaves
Russet and yellow
But resting buds are smug and safe
Where swung the dead leaves

5. Green grow’th the holly
So doth the ivy
The God of life can never die
Hope! Saith the holly

Musing the Muse

2011-11-24T12:07:00.000-08:00

And it came to pass that within the Silence arose Thought, a movement of Nous within the Limitless Depth, alone and awake within the Silence and the Nous rose up from the Depth creating movement within it.

And this is the First Mystery whereby the Nous of the All came forth and stirred the Depth and the Silence.

And Nous was naked and perfect, unbound, unbegotten, unborn. Being the Nous of the Eternal, the Father, she carried within herself the All, and the All was the Light within her and she was thereby the enclosing Darkness of being, the womb and mother of all that was to be. So it was in the Beginning.

Fragments from the Book of the Coiled Dragon, 130-133

"And Desire said, 'I did not see you go down, yet now I see you go up. So why do you lie since you belong to me?'
     "The soul answered, 'I saw you. You did not see me nor did you know me. You (mis)took the garment (I wore) for my (true) self. And you did not recognize me.'
     "After it had said these things, it left rejoicing greatly.
     "Again, it came to the third Power, which is called 'Ignorance.' [It] examined the soul closely, saying, 'Where are you going? You are bound by wickedness. Indeed you are bound! Do not judge!'
     "And the soul said, 'Why do you judge me, since I have not passed judgement? I have been bound, but I have not bound (anything). They did not recognize me, but I have recognized that the universe is to be dissolved, both the things of earth and those of heaven.'
     "When the soul had brought the third Power to naught, it went upward and saw the fourth Power. It had seven forms. The first form is darkness; the second is desire; the third is ignorance; the fourth is zeal for death; the fifth is the realm of the flesh; the sixth is the foolish wisdom of the flesh; the seventh is the wisdom of the wrathful person.

These are the seven Powers of Wrath.

"They interrogated the soul, 'Where are you coming from, human-killer, and where are you going, space-conqueror?'
"The soul replied, saying, 'What binds me has been slain, and what surrounds me has been destroyed, and my desire has been brought to an end, and ignorance has died. In a [wor]ld, I was set loose from a world [an]d in a type, from a type which is above, and (from) the chain of forgetfulness which exists in time. From this hour on, for the time of the due season of the aeon, I will receive rest i[n] silence.' "

The Gospel of Mary Magdalene

Death is Life, for none would be without death
And Sacrifice; it is I who dies, I who am Sacrificed
If you hold the four winds in your hand, I am with you
For Day is but the Eye of the storm of Night
And I rule over all that is in Darkness.

The Book of Night

Images copyright of:

1 - spirithouse.yolasite.com

2 - http://people.tribe.net/beba9cb8-38da-4244-be43-539005705390/blog/53488459-b4ea-40ac-aec2-350306b36351

3 - evelynrodriguez.typepad.com

The Wild Hunt

2011-11-04T14:50:00.000-07:00

Åsgårdsreien

(The Wild Hunt)

Loudly through air at night they haste,
An uproar on wild black horses!
As a storm the wild crowds travel by
With nothing but clouds for foothold.
Over the valleys, the woods and meadows -
Through darkness and weather, they never heed.
The traveler throws himself frightened to ground.
Listen... what clamor! It's the forces of Asgard!

Thor, the strong one, his hammer high,
Stands tall in his rig, in front of the pack.
He strikes his shield and hot red flames
Light up the nightly raid at the scene.
Horns blow, and an awesome noise
From bells and riding gear resounds.
Then the pack roars loudly and people listen
With rising fear in their quaking homes.

The Wild Hunt of Asgard raids the county
Whilst fall and winter at stormy nights.
But it favors to travel at Yuletide...
They feast with trolls and giants;
they closely ride by meadow and path
And pass the fearful nation.
Then, - take care farmer! Keep all in order!
As the wild hunt of Asgard may visit your home!

With the beer working in your lodge
Awaking the heathen Yule-tradition...
And fire from the fireplace shines
on swinging knives and crazy eyes,
Then a sudden shiver goes through the party,
Then sound the nightly black riders' clamor...
Then the walls crack and the glasses dance;
the Armies of Asgard surround the building!

There was a wedding at Oevre Flage
Three holy Yule-days to the end.
Among the maids there were none like the bride
And no rival to the groom among men.
There was a glow to the shining hall
from set tables and expensive metal,
There was a treasure, the rumor says,
Of copper on walls and silver on tables.

And merrily sounded the drums and fiddles
as the groom was steadily dancing
leading his bride among young men and women -
Then the Halling-dance easily rumbled!
To the Dancer's forceful moves and jumps
the Maiden would swing like a pendulum,
Then floated the noise and the music together
And the hall would thunder from vigor and delight.

The third night, -when the beer was consumed
through all the holidays - by old and young,
Then thirst in the party was stopped,
But the men were drunken and slow.
Our bride wore her crown...
It was time for the bowl to be sent round the table
And the toastmaster demanded silence
with a knock on the table, - and started his speech.

Then charging in on the benched circle
the widely infamous Seim's Berserks,
Their eyes were rolling dark and wild
On their foreheads they had scars from fighting.
They leaped over the floor of the hall,
-Yes! It was the brothers Grim and Wolf!
Grim, who was recently turned down by the bride
Came there himself, - and he was not invited.

The sleepy guests got up shaking

And had little desire for fighting.
Every raving man who raised his fist
Was grabbed by the chest and thrown aside.
The groom placed his mug down on the table
Stepped up on the bench and asked for peace.
But the brothers already took out their knives,
- It was the groom's life it was all about.

Then women gathered into a crowd
and formed a guard for the man in danger;
sheltered behind tables and benches,
They stood closed in at the Bench of Honor.
The eldest woman in their circle
removed her headwear, revealed her gray hair
and gave the groom the name of her son,
Embraced him and sat him on her knee.

But the brothers wouldn't listen to women's plea -
Attacked forward over tables and benches
and divided the women with wildness-
Now every thought of peace was forgotten...
They grabbed their victim and dragged him along
To the door of the hall and out through it.
It came to a cruel fight in the yard,
And the guests followed in wild disorder.

They rushed out there with candles and torches,
‘Cause over the landscape the darkness reigned.
They saw the groom standing tall and strong,
As now he was strengthened by winter air.
He used his knife for cutting and slashing -
So he gave back what they offered him.
The three of them formed an ugly triangle,
And none would let go of the others.

Then, -all of a sudden Grim fell over!
With blood running like streams from his chest.
Then even harder the other two wrestled
And held each other’s backs in a grip.
In the end the groom was laid to the ground,
With the knife on it’s way to his throat...
But then Wolf held back and stood like a drunk,
And trembled and shook like a leaf.

As through the air in the dark came a thunder,
- a howling horde on ferocious horses,
It raced over woods to the wedding house,
Intended to visit the bloody performance.

Then horns blew, and an awesome noise
From bells and riding-gear resounded.
Now it was close - it came over the hill -
There was an outcry: The wild hunt of Asgard!

There was a tempest in Heaven and Earth,
That hurled a horror in every heart,
It blasted along in growing circles,
It punched with wings and grabbed with arms.
Then Wolf was dragged away by his hair,
thrown up in the air and taken away,
Yes, taken away over woods and mountains,
He was never seen or heard of again.

When tumults were over at the horror scene,
lay Grim from his death pains coiled up,

But the groom was escorted inside from the snow
And placed on a bunk in the guestroom.
His head was shaking, his blood was pouring;
he was pending a while between life and death,
But he was nursed and well taken care of,
so by spring he had healed from it all.

Now he sits there, - aged and well respected,
He can gather his offspring around the fire,
now he often tells stories in the circle
And shortens time for the young and the old.
It was like that last Yule-night too,
When the youth shouted, "Tell us, tell us!"
His eyes in flames as he was looking back...
And then he recalled his wedding days.

Johan Sebastian Welhaven (1807-1873

The Wild Huntsman
THY rest was deep at the slumberer's hour
If thou didst not hear the blast
Of the savage horn, from the mountain-tower,
As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass'd,
And the roar of the stormy chase went by,
Through the dark unquiet sky!

The stag sprung up from his mossy bed
When he caught the piercing sounds,
And the oak-boughs crash'd to his antler'd head
As he flew from the viewless hounds;
And the falcon soar'd from her craggy height,
Away through the rushing night!

The banner shook on its ancient hold,
And the pine in its desert-place,
As the cloud and tempest onward roll'd
With the din of the trampling race;
And the glens were fill'd with the laugh and shout,
And the bugle, ringing out!

From the chieftain's hand the wine-cup fell,
At the castle's festive board,
And a sudden pause came o'er the swell
Of the harp's triumphal chord;
And the Minnesinger's∗ thrilling lay
In the hall died fast away.

The convent's chanted rite was stay'd,
And the hermit dropp'd his beads,
And a trembling ran through the forest-shade,
At the neigh of the phantom steeds,
And the church-bells peal'd to the rocking blast
As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass'd.

The storm hath swept with the chase away,
There is stillness in the sky,
But the mother looks on her son to-day,
With a troubled heart and eye,
And the maiden's brow hath a shade of care
Midst the gleam of her golden hair!

The Rhine flows bright, but its waves ere long
Must hear a voice of war,
And a clash of spears our hills among,
And a trumpet from afar;
And the brave on a bloody turf must lie,
For the Huntsman hath gone by!

Mrs. Felicia Dorothea Browne Hemans, 1793-1835

images courtesy of wikicommons

Dia De Los Muertos

2011-10-26T03:10:00.000-07:00

Celebrations honouring the dead are prevalent among many ancient cultures, sharing similar religious commonalities, sadly lacking in modern European religiosity. During a pilgrimage to Mexico I was privileged to witness and participate in the ‘Dia de los Muertos’ held November 1st –2nd each year throughout Hispanic America. Originally it would have been celebrated in the Aztec month of ‘Miccailhuitontli,’ roughly equivalent to the Gregorian months of July/August. Naturally, the colonising Spanish prohibited this festival and moved the greatly sanitised theme to November, supplanting it by their own Feasts for All Saints and All Souls. Despite the obvious Catholic overlays, this festival remains primarily Mesoamerican, revealing many indigenous celebrations of death and ancestry.

Preparations begin in early October with the cleaning and repairing of family tombs. When festivities finally get underway, the 1st of November is dedicated to ‘los angelitos’, the little angels: the souls of departed children. Flowers and candles adorn the gravesides as the family hold their evening vigil, storytelling and singing until dawn. Native Creation accounts maintain a frequency of stories relating to the first human couple as the ancestors of mankind. These are honoured today in the tales told to their descendants during the ‘Dia de los Muertos’ celebrations. As dusk falls, the 2nd of November is dedicated to ‘Los Muertos’ the dead adults to whom food, tequila and cigarettes are offered alongside ritualistic flowers of the dead -‘cempazuchitl’ (marigolds) whose perfume blends perfectly with copal, burnt upon graves and altars throughout Mexico. Mariachi bands accompany masked dancers, whose grinning skeletal faces gleefully mock death in this ceremony that celebrates our mortality as a beginning rather than an end of life. This evocative pageant to Death expresses intense devotion and veneration of Death itself whose final deliverance is deemed to come almost as a saviour from the toils of life. Fireworks and folklore drama full of sexual innuendo complete the carnival atmosphere. Children pull playfully on skeletal marionettes of death, the stark reality of which parallels every day. There is no Catholic duality here, no fear of death, just a dynamic unity in opposition.

Colour pre-dominates the scene as fire and candles illuminate the night glowing orange, the colour of the flower of death. Fruits, costumes and masks appear in abundance decorating the doorways of shops and houses everywhere. It is still believed that flowers given as sacrificial offerings are at the behest of Quetzalcoatl who instructed his people to give only these and butterflies in lieu of human flesh. Upon entering the many Cemeteries throughout Mexico, everyone is offered steaming bowls of rich, dark hot chocolate and ‘pan de muertos’ (bread of the dead), which is a shared consumption between the living and the dead. After blessings, these ‘dumb’ suppers are removed from ‘offrendas’ (private altars) for the public in what anthropologists recognise as the ancient tribal activity of ‘re-distributive’ feasting.

Spectacular, imposing shrines line the quadrangle of tombs, dedicated to past dignitaries and revered members of the community. Constructed of arched reeds and sheaves of corn, the shrines are adorned with garlands of tangerines and flowers. Water too is set out to slake the insatiable thirst of the dead. Immense national pride and civic prowess among competing teams guarantees a magnificent display, mindful of disqualification for the introduction of foreign elements i.e. pumpkins and cauldrons.

Candles illuminate photographs of all persons honoured and are often accompanied by ‘Calaveras,’ poignant yet satirical eulogies extolling pertinent virtues and vices of the deceased. Delicate lacy paper patterns of figures and symbols relating to death also decorate these shrines in honour and remembrance of intricate paper hats worn by ‘Mictlantecuhtli’ the Aztec Lord of death (synonymous with the Mayan ‘Ah Puch’). Marzipan and candied fruits sit among sugar and amaranth skulls, symbols of the gods of death, highlighted with red and black spots, redolent of putrefaction, convincingly depicted in decorative coloured icings. Hundreds of years ago, during the months of ‘Panquetzaliztli’ (approx November) and ‘Toxcatl’ (approx April), amaranth seeds of the ‘huala’ plant were finely ground and mixed with blood and honey to form a stiff dough. Shaped into deific skeletal figurines, primarily of ‘Tezcatlipoca,’ but also ‘Huitzilopochtli’, they were hung high upon the Xocolli tree and worshipped. Finally, they were taken down and consumed by ‘tecuelo’ (meaning quite literally - god eaten) participants, a ceremony with such a startling similarity to the Eucharist, it was suppressed by Spanish missionaries.

Pulque, a milky alcohol, likened to the mothers’ milk, fermented from the sap of the maguey (Agave) cactus, is still consumed as a ceremonial drink in place of ritually revered traditional hallucinogenics such as datura and morning glory. Magnificent sand ‘rugs’ decorate the stone slabs of the courtyard satirically portraying skeletal brides, bandits, dancers and musicians: death here, is a welcome inevitability. Included in these intricate designs are the images of butterflies and humming-birds, reflecting the Aztec belief in the immortal soul returning from the Underworld, now visually celebrated in the Autumnal return of the monarch butterfly in from Canada and the USA. For the Aztecs, the Underworld, though fraught with trials and tribulations was no Catholic Hell. After a harrowing journey and judgement, Mictlan was the final destination of nine levels in the Land of the Dead with many Classic funerary pyramids constructed of nine levels reflecting this.

Laying to the West, Xibalba, the Land of the Dead could also be entered through caves and bodies of water known as ‘cenotes’, sacred water cisterns, places of ritual sacrifice to the Lord and Lady of Death - ‘Mictlantecuhtli’ and ‘Mictecacihuatl.’ Bodies were buried with grave goods of Jade beads, food and chocolate to be offered as payment upon reaching ‘Mictlan’, the final level of the wandering soul.

People reflect and embody regenerative process and so death is perceived as a cyclical symbiosis, from which life evolves. Moreover, the regenerative life cycle is connected to that of the maize, which is seen to spring from the ground nine days after the seed is planted. Mirrored in the emergence of life from the nine fleshless realms of ‘Xibalba,’ death was thus viewed as a descent into the world of spirit.

Skeletons as powerful symbols for new life are depicted in many art forms, more commonly as masks where skeletal faces are drawn back to reveal the fully fleshed life latent within. Bones, like seeds are cyclical; hence life comes from death and is not to be feared. Complex cosmologies emerged woven around the life giving maize, life from the earth and the fertilization of blood spilled upon it by the first couple and the creator gods. Ancestor worship in Meso-America is celebrated in Classic Mayan art, filled with scenes of priests and rulers offering back their blood and other sacrifices to the honoured dead.

Paralleling these ancient concepts clearly evidenced within ‘Dia de los Muertos’ celebrations is the recent rise in popularity of the ‘Cult of Santisima Muerte’ (Saint Death) who has subsumed the role of ‘Mictecacihuatl,’ the Aztec Lady of Death. As a robed female skeleton she is unashamedly called upon for all kinds of material comfort - in life. Reflecting the rise in neo-pagan/Hispanic syntheses over recent years, various commonalities prevail. Candle magic and colour correspondences dictate votive offerings for use in ‘requests’ to her; cloaks worn may for example, be black for power and vengeance, or red for affairs of the heart. Household shrines to her are lit daily with relevant flowers, food, water, tobacco and even where necessary, liquor. An evening kiss secures her good favour and fortune throughout the night. Her popularity is fast exceeding even that of the Virgin of Guadalupe in Mexico City, with thousands buying water and holy incense dedicated to her, though she is not, of course, recognised by the Catholic Church. There is even an annual ceremony for worshippers to celebrate her birthday.

Its depth and poignancy provides an insight into our real heritage as human beings, from mysteries of our creation to the power of death, reflecting a faint gnostic perspective. In a spiritually blanched society such as ours it, I think that sometimes in order to understand what we are doing here and where it is taking us, we have to remember the immortal words of Robert Cochrane that: ‘all ritual is prayer.’

Text extracted from Chpt - Dia de los Muertos: Tubelo's Green Fire by Shani Oates.

All photos credit and copyright of Shani Oates.

The White Poppy

2011-10-10T04:14:00.000-07:00

The White Poppy.

By Kenneth Grahame [1859-1932]

A riot of scarlet on gold, the red poppy of our native fields tosses
heavy tresses with gipsy abandon; her sister of the sea-shore is
golden, a yellow blossom that loves the keen salt savour of the spray.
Of another hue is the poppy of history, of romance, of the muse. White
as the stark death-shroud, pallid as the cheeks of that queen of a
silent land whose temples she languorously crowns, ghost-like beside
her fuller-blooded kin, she droops dream-laden, Papaver somniferum,
the poppy of the magic juice of oblivion. In the royal plenitude of
summer, the scarlet blooms will sometimes seem but a red cry from
earth in memory of the many dews of battle that have drenched these
acres in years gone by, for little end but that these same ``bubbles
of blood'' might glow to-day; the yellow flower does but hint of the
gold that has dashed a thousand wrecks at her feet around these
shores: for happier suggestion we must turn to her of the pallid
petals, our white Lady of Consolation. Fitting hue to typify the
crowning blessing of forgetfulness! Too often the sable robes of night
dissemble sleeplessness, remorse, regret, self-questioning. Let black,
then, rather stand for hideous memory: white for blessed blank
oblivion, happiest gift of the gods! For who, indeed, can say that the
record of his life is not crowded with failure and mistake, stained
with its petty cruelties of youth, its meannesses and follies of later
years, all which storm and clamour incessantly at the gates of memory,
refusing to be shut out? Leave us alone, O gods, to remember our
felicities, our successes: only aid us, ye who recall no gifts, aptly and

discreetly to forget.

Discreetly, we say; for it is a tactful forgetfulness that makes for
happiness. In the minor matter, for instance, of small money
obligations, that shortness of memory which the school of Professors
Panurge and Falstaff rashly praises, may often betray into some
unfortunate allusion or reference to the subject which shall pain the
delicate feelings of the obliger; or, if he be of coarser clay, shall
lead him in his anger to express himself with unseemliness, and
thereby to do violence to his mental tranquillity, in which alone, as
Marcus Aurelius teacheth, lieth the perfection of moral character.
This is to be a stumbling-block and an offence against the brethren.
It is better to keep just memory enough to avoid such hidden rocks and
shoals; in which thing Mr Swiveller is our great exemplar, whose
mental map of London was a chart wherein every creditor was carefully

‘buoyed.’

The wise man prays, we are told, for a good digestion: let us add to
the prayer -- and a bad memory. Truly we are sometimes tempted to
think that we are the only ones cursed with this corroding canker. Our
friends, we can swear, have all, without exception, atrocious
memories; why is ours alone so hideously vital? Yet this isolation
must be imaginary; for even as we engage in this selfish moan for help
in our own petty case, we are moved to add a word for certain others
who, meaning no ill, unthinkingly go about to add to humanity's
already heavy load of suffering. How much needless misery is caused in
this world by the reckless ``recollections'' of dramatic and other
celebrities? You gods, in lending ear to our prayer, remember too,
above all other sorts and conditions of men, these our poor

erring brothers and sisters, the sometime sommités of Mummerdom!

Moments there are, it is true, when this traitor spirit tricks you:
when some subtle scent, some broken notes of an old song, nay, even
some touch of a fresher air on your cheeks at night -- a breath of
``le vent qui vient à travers la montagne'' -- have power to ravish,
to catch you back to the blissful days when you trod the one authentic
Paradise. Moments only, alas! Then the evil crowd rushes in again,
howls in the sacred grove, tramples down and defiles the happy garden;
and once more you cry to Our Lady of Sleep, crowned of the white
poppy. And you envy your dog who, for full discharge of a present
benefaction having wagged you a hearty, expressive tail, will then
pursue it gently round the hearth-rug till, in restful coil, half-dozen
diurnal sleeps being in truth a royal amnesty.

But whose the hand that shall reach us the herb of healing? Perdita
blesses every guest at the shearing with a handful of blossom; but
this gift is not to be asked of her whose best wish to her friends is
``grace and remembrance.'' The fair Ophelia, rather: nay, for as a
nursling she hugs her grief, and for her the memory of the past is a
``sorrow's crown of sorrow.'' What flowers are these her pale hand
offers? ``There's pansies, that's for thoughts!''For me rather, O
dear Ophelia, the white poppy of forgetfulness.

images at wikicommons

http://www.online-literature.com/grahame/3060/

MICHAELMAS

2011-09-22T05:24:00.000-07:00

Michaelmas

About the time of Michael's feast
And all his angels,
There comes a word to man and beast
By dark evangels.

Then hearing what the wild things say
To one another,
Those creatures first born of our gray
Mysterious Mother,

The greatness of the world's unrest
Steals through our pulses;
Our own life takes a meaning guessed
From the torn dulse's.

The draft and set of deep sea-tides
Swirling and flowing,
Bears every filmy flake that rides,
Grandly unknowing.

The sunlight listens; thin and fine
The crickets whistle;
And floating midges fill the shine
Like a seeding thistle.

The hawkbit flies his golden flag
From rocky pasture,
Bidding his legions never lag
Through morning's vasture.

Soon we shall see the red vines ramp
Through forest borders,
And Indian summer breaking camp
To silent orders.

The glossy chestnuts swell and burst
Their prickly houses
Agog at news which reached them first
In sap's carouses.

The long noons turn the ribstons red,
The pippins yellow;
The wild duck from his reedy bed
Summons his fellow.

The robins keep the underbrush
Songless and wary,
As though they feared some frostier hush
Might bid them tarry;

Perhaps in the great North they heard
Of silence falling
Upon the world without a word,
White and appalling.

The ash-tree and the lady-fern,
In russet frondage,
Proclaim 'tis time for our return
To vagabondage.

All summer idle have we kept;
But on a morning,
Where the blue hazy mountains slept,
A scarlet warning

Disturbs our day-dream with a start;
A leaf turns over;
And every earthling is at heart
Once more a rover.

All winter we shall toil and plod,
Eating and drinking;
But now's the little time when God
Sets folk to thinking.

"Consider," says the quiet sun,
"How far I wander;
Yet when had I not time on one
More flower to squander?"

"Consider," says the restless tide,
"My endless labor;
Yet when was I content beside
My nearest neighbor?"

So wander-lust to wander-lure,
As seed to season,
Must rise and wend, possessed and sure
In sweet unreason.

For doorstone and repose are good,
And kind is duty;
But joy is in the solitude
With shy-heart beauty.

And Truth is one whose ways are meek
Beyond foretelling;
And far his journey who would seek
Her lowly dwelling.

She leads him by a thousand heights,
Lonelily faring,
With sunrise and with eagle flights
To mate his daring.

For her he fronts a vaster fog
Than Leif of yore did,
Voyaging for continents no log
Has yet recorded.

He travels by a polar star,
Now bright, now hidden,
For a free land, though rest be far
And roads forbidden,

Till on a day with sweet coarse bread
And wine she stays him,
Then in a cool and narrow bed
To slumber lays him.

So we are hers. And, fellows mine
Of fin and feather,
By shady wood and shadowy brine,
When comes the weather

For migrants to be moving on,
By lost indenture
You flock and gather and are gone:
The old adventure!

I too have my unwritten date,
My gypsy presage;
And on the brink of fall I wait
The darkling message.

The sign, from prying eyes concealed,
Is yet how flagrant!
Here's ragged-robin in the field,
A simple vagrant.

William Bliss Carman

(April 15, 1861 – June 8, 1929

'Canada's poet laureate’ [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bliss_Carman]

All images courtesy of wikicommons.

Tamerlane

2011-09-07T14:03:00.000-07:00

Tamerlane

by Edgar Allan Poe

Kind solace in a dying hour!

Such, father, is not (now) my theme-

I will not madly deem that power

Of Earth may shrive me of the sin

Unearthly pride hath revell'd in-

I have no time to dote or dream:

You call it hope- that fire of fire!

It is but agony of desire:

If I can hope- Oh God! I can-

Its fount is holier- more divine-

I would not call thee fool, old man,

But such is not a gift of thine.

Know thou the secret of a spirit

Bow'd from its wild pride into shame.

O yearning heart! I did inherit

Thy withering portion with the fame,

The searing glory which hath shone

Amid the jewels of my throne,

Halo of Hell! and with a pain

Not Hell shall make me fear again-

O craving heart, for the lost flowers

And sunshine of my summer hours!

The undying voice of that dead time,

With its interminable chime,

Rings, in the spirit of a spell,

Upon thy emptiness- a knell.

I have not always been as now:

The fever'd diadem on my brow

I claim'd and won usurpingly-

Hath not the same fierce heirdom given

Rome to the Caesar- this to me?

The heritage of a kingly mind,

And a proud spirit which hath striven

Triumphantly with human kind.

On mountain soil I first drew life:

The mists of the Taglay have shed

Nightly their dews upon my head,

And, I believe, the winged strife

And tumult of the headlong air

Have nestled in my very hair.

So late from Heaven- that dew- it fell

(Mid dreams of an unholy night)

Upon me with the touch of Hell,

While the red flashing of the light

From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er

Appeared to my half-closing eye

The pageantry of monarchy,

And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar

Came hurriedly upon me, telling

Of human battle, where my voice,

My own voice, silly child!- was swelling

(O! how my spirit would rejoice,

And leap within me at the cry)

The battle-cry of Victory!

The rain came down upon my head

Unshelter'd- and the heavy wind

Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.

It was but man, I thought, who shed

Laurels upon me: and the rush-

The torrent of the chilly air

Gurgled within my ear the crush

Of empires- with the captive's prayer-

The hum of suitors- and the tone

Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.

My passions, from that hapless hour,

Usurp'd a tyranny which men

Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power,

My innate nature- be it so:

But father, there liv'd one who, then,

Then- in my boyhood- when their fire

Burn'd with a still intenser glow,

(For passion must, with youth, expire)

E'en then who knew this iron heart

In woman's weakness had a part.

I have no words- alas!- to tell

The loveliness of loving well!

Nor would I now attempt to trace

The more than beauty of a face

Whose lineaments, upon my mind,

Are- shadows on th' unstable wind:

Thus I remember having dwelt

Some page of early lore upon,

With loitering eye, till I have felt

The letters- with their meaning- melt

To fantasies- with none.

O, she was worthy of all love!

Love- as in infancy was mine-

'Twas such as angel minds above

Might envy; her young heart the shrine

On which my every hope and thought

Were incense- then a goodly gift,

For they were childish and upright-

Pure- as her young example taught:

Why did I leave it, and, adrift,

Trust to the fire within, for light?

We grew in age- and love- together,

Roaming the forest, and the wild;

My breast her shield in wintry weather-

And when the friendly sunshine smil'd,

And she would mark the opening skies,

I saw no Heaven- but in her eyes.

Young Love's first lesson is- the heart:

For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,

When, from our little cares apart,

And laughing at her girlish wiles,

I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,

And pour my spirit out in tears-

There was no need to speak the rest-

No need to quiet any fears

Of her- who ask'd no reason why,

But turn'd on me her quiet eye!

Yet more than worthy of the love

My spirit struggled with, and strove,

When, on the mountain peak, alone,

Ambition lent it a new tone-

I had no being- but in thee:

The world, and all it did contain

In the earth- the air- the sea-

Its joy- its little lot of pain

That was new pleasure- the ideal,

Dim vanities of dreams by night-

And dimmer nothings which were real-

(Shadows- and a more shadowy light!)

Parted upon their misty wings,

And, so, confusedly, became

Thine image, and- a name- a name!

Two separate- yet most intimate things.

I was ambitious- have you known

The passion, father? You have not:

A cottager, I mark'd a throne

Of half the world as all my own,

And murmur'd at such lowly lot-

But, just like any other dream,

Upon the vapour of the dew

My own had past, did not the beam

Of beauty which did while it thro'

The minute- the hour- the day- oppress

My mind with double loveliness.

We walk'd together on the crown

Of a high mountain which look'd down

Afar from its proud natural towers

Of rock and forest, on the hills-

The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers,

And shouting with a thousand rills.

I spoke to her of power and pride,

But mystically- in such guise

That she might deem it nought beside

The moment's converse; in her eyes

I read, perhaps too carelessly-

A mingled feeling with my own-

The flush on her bright cheek, to me

Seem'd to become a queenly throne

Too well that I should let it be

Light in the wilderness alone.

I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then,

And donn'd a visionary crown-

Yet it was not that Fantasy

Had thrown her mantle over me-

But that, among the rabble- men,

Lion ambition is chained down-

And crouches to a keeper's hand-

Not so in deserts where the grand-

The wild- the terrible conspire

With their own breath to fan his fire.

Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!

Is not she queen of Earth? her pride

Above all cities? in her hand

Their destinies? in all beside

Of glory which the world hath known

Stands she not nobly and alone?

Falling- her veriest stepping-stone

Shall form the pedestal of a throne-

And who her sovereign? Timour- he

Whom the astonished people saw

Striding o'er empires haughtily

A diadem'd outlaw!

O, human love! thou spirit given

On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!

Which fall'st into the soul like rain

Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain,

And, failing in thy power to bless,

But leav'st the heart a wilderness!

Idea! which bindest life around

With music of so strange a sound,

And beauty of so wild a birth-

Farewell! for I have won the Earth.

When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see

No cliff beyond him in the sky,

His pinions were bent droopingly-

And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye.

'Twas sunset: when the sun will part

There comes a sullenness of heart

To him who still would look upon

The glory of the summer sun.

That soul will hate the ev'ning mist,

So often lovely, and will list

To the sound of the coming darkness (known

To those whose spirits hearken) as one

Who, in a dream of night, would fly

But cannot from a danger nigh.

What tho' the moon- the white moon

Shed all the splendour of her noon,

Her smile is chilly, and her beam,

In that time of dreariness, will seem

(So like you gather in your breath)

A portrait taken after death.

And boyhood is a summer sun

Whose waning is the dreariest one-

For all we live to know is known,

And all we seek to keep hath flown-

Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall

With the noon-day beauty- which is all.

I reach'd my home- my home no more

For all had flown who made it so.

I pass'd from out its mossy door,

And, tho' my tread was soft and low,

A voice came from the threshold stone

Of one whom I had earlier known-

O, I defy thee, Hell, to show

On beds of fire that burn below,

A humbler heart- a deeper woe.

Father, I firmly do believe-

I know- for Death, who comes for me

From regions of the blest afar,

Where there is nothing to deceive,

Hath left his iron gate ajar,

And rays of truth you cannot see

Are flashing thro' Eternity-

I do believe that Eblis hath

A snare in every human path-

Else how, when in the holy grove

I wandered of the idol, Love,

Who daily scents his snowy wings

With incense of burnt offerings

From the most unpolluted things,

Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven

Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven,

No mote may shun- no tiniest fly-

The lightning of his eagle eye-

How was it that Ambition crept,

Unseen, amid the revels there,

Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt

In the tangles of Love's very hair?

http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/poe/tamerlane.html

photo credits copyright: shani oates

Inanna, Queen of the Heavens, Earth and the Seas

2011-08-24T07:39:00.000-07:00

ISHTAR'S MIDNIGHT COURTSHIP IN THE PALACE OF IZDUBAR.

As Samas' car sank in the glowing west,
And Sin the moon-god forth had come full drest
For starry dance across the glistening skies,
The sound of work for man on earth now dies,
And all betake themselves to sweet repose.
The silver light of Sin above bright flows,
And floods the figures on the painted walls,
O'er sculptured lions, softly, lightly falls;
Like grim and silent watch-dogs at the door
They stand; in marble check their leaping roar.
The King within his chamber went his way,
Upon his golden jewelled couch he lay.
The silken scarlet canopy was hung
In graceful drapery and loosely clung

Around his couch, and purple damask cloths
Embroidered with rare skill, preserved from moths
By rich perfumes, to the carved lintel clung
In graceful folds; thus o'er the entrance hung.

Queen Ishtar softly comes, and o'er his dreams
A mystic spell she draws, until it seems
While half awake he lies, that she is yet
Close nestling in his arms, as he had met
Her in the wood, and with her there reclined,
While her soft arms around him were entwined.
Thus while he sleeps she hovers o'er his bed
With throbbing heart, and close inclines her head
Until her lips near touch the sleeping King's,
But daring not to kiss.
She love thus brings,

His couch the Heavenly Queen of Love now graces,
And on his breast her glorious head she places;

Embracing him, she softly through her lips
And his, the sweetest earthly nectar sips,
While he in sleep lies murmuring of love,
And she in blissful ecstasy doth move.
Her lips to his, she wildly places there,
Until to him it seems a fond nightmare.

And thus, against his will, she fondly takes
What he her shall deny when he awakes,
The stolen kisses both the lovers thrill:
Unquenched her warm desire would kiss him still,
But his hot blood now warms him in his dream
Which is much more to him than it doth seem;
And clasping her within convulsing arms,
Receives a thrill that all his nerves alarms,
And wakes him from the dreams she had instilled.
"What means this fantasy that hath me filled,
And spirit form that o'er my pillow leans;
I wonder what this fragrant incense means?
Oh, tush! 'tis but an idle, wildering dream,
But how delightful, joyous it did seem!
Her beauteous form it had, its breath perfume;
Do spirit forms such loveliness assume?"

The goddess yet dares not her form reveal,
And quickly she herself doth now conceal
Behind the damask curtains at the door.
When he awoke, sprang to the chamber floor,
As his own maid the queen herself transforms,
Says entering in haste:
"What wild alarms Thee, Sar?"

and then demure awaits reply,
In doubt to hear or to his bosom fly.
"My maid art thou? 'Tis well, for I have dreamed
Of spirits, as a Zi-ru fair it seemed."

Text: TABLET II--COLUMN I

http://www.sacred-texts.com/ane/iai/iai08.htm

Image 2: Photo credit copyright Shani Oates

Images 1,3 &4, Wikicommons & http://proteusinstitute.com/attachments/Image/inanna/The_Lovers__Dumuzi___Inanna.jpg

Phanes - the Lightbringer

2011-07-31T05:47:00.000-07:00

Phanes

I invoke Protogonus, of a double nature, great, wandering through the ether,
Egg-born, rejoicing in thy golden wings,
Having the countenance of a bull, the procreator of the blessed gods and mortal men,
The renowned Light, the far-celebrated Ericepæus,
Ineffable, occult, impetuous, all-glittering strength;
Who scatterest the twilight clouds of darkness from the eyes,
And roamest throughout the world upon the flight of thy wings,
Who bringest forth the pure and brilliant light, wherefore I invoke thee as Phanes,
As Priapus the king, and as dazzling fountain of splendour.
Come, then, blessed being, full of wisdom and generation, come in joy
To thy sacred, ever-varying mystery. Be present with the Priests of thy Orgies.

Chaos was generated first, and then
The wide-bosomed Earth, the ever stable seat of all
The Immortals that inhabit the snowy peaks of Olympus,
And the dark aerial Tartarus in the depths of the permeable Earth,
And Eros, the fairest of the immortal Gods,
That relaxes the strength of all, both gods and men,
And subjugates the mind and the sage will in their breasts.
From Chaos were generated Erebus and black Night,
And from Night again were generated Ether and Day,
Whom she brought forth, having conceived from the embrace of Erebus.
And Earth first produced the starry Heaven equal to herself,
That it might inclose all things around herself.

(Theog. v. 116.)

Within the Orphic mysteries, Nyx, a black-winged spirit rose from the emptiness of the Void of Khaos to lay the silver cosmic egg containing the golden winged spirit of love - Eros, also known as Phanes the Revealer, whose radiant beauty illuminated the earth. Nyx, primal Mother Night, within her dark starry realm also birthed the Fates, the Furies, the sperids, and Nemesis. To the ancients, Phanes thus represented the bearer of ‘Light’ of gnosis drawn from the dark void of ignorance. On the physical mundane realms, this was deemed visible in the light and power of the Sun. (Shani Oates copyright - ‘Tubelo's Green Fire’)

In short, that to the power of the Sun is to be referred the control and supremacy of all things, is indicated by the theologists, who make it evident in the mysteries by the following short invocation:

“Oh, all-ruling Sun, Spirit of the world, Power of the world, Light of the world”

(Macrob. Sat. lib. i. c. 23.)

The Egyptian alchemist Zosimos of Panopolis interpreted Adam as Thouth:"the First Man who is Thouth among us" is named Adam, "with a name borrowed from the tongue of Angels," by the Chaldeans...."Thus it is that the sensual Adam is named Thouth according to external patterning. As for the man who is inside Adam, the spiritual man, he has simultaneously a personal and a universal name...His Universal name is Phos (light).

First was Chaos and Night, and black Erebus and vast Tartarus;
And there was neither Earth, nor Air, nor Heaven: but in the boundless bosoms of Erebus.
Night, with her black wings, first produced an aerial egg,
From which, at the completed time, sprang forth the lovely Eros,
Glittering with golden wings upon his back, like the swift whirlwinds.
But embracing the dark-winged Chaos in the vast Tartarus.
He begot our race (the birds),2 and first brought us to light.
The race of the Immortals was not, till Eros mingled all things together;
But when the elements were mixed one with another, Heaven was produced, and Ocean,
And Earth, and the imperishable race of all the blessed Gods.

(Aristop. Aves. 698.—Suid. v. Chaos.)

First (I have sung) the vast necessity of ancient Chaos,
And Cronus, who in the boundless tracts brought forth
The Ether, and the sp lendid and glorious Eros of a two-fold nature,
The illustrious father of night, existing from eternity.
Whom men call Phanes, for he first appeared.
I have sung the birth of powerful Brimo (Hecate), and the unhallowed deeds
Of the earth-born (giants), who showered down from heaven
Their blood, the lamentable seed of generation, from when sprung
The race of mortals, who inhabit the boundless earth for ever.

(Arg. v. 12.)

First I sung the obscurity of ancient Chaos,
How the Elements were ordered, and the Heaven reduced to bound;
And the generation of the wide-bosomed Earth, and the depth of the Sea,
And Eros (Love) the most ancient, self-perfecting, and of manifold design;
How he generated all things, and parted them from one another.
And I have sung of Cronus so miserably undone, and how the kingdom
Of the blessed Immortals descended to the thunder-loving Zeus.

(Arg. 419.)

The theologist places around him the heads of a ram, a bull, a lion, and a dragon, and assigns him first both the male and female sex. To him also the wings are first given. Orpheus has the following theological speculation in allusion to Phanes. Therefore the first God bears with himself the heads of animals, many and single, of a bull, of a serpent, and of a fierce lion, and they sprung from the primeval egg in which the animal is seminally contained.

(Proc. in Tim.)

Text:

From: http://www.sacred-texts.com/cla/af/af10.htm ‘orphic fragments’

Images:

http://www.thesirenssound.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/Light-Bearer-Lapsus.jpg

http://amazingdata.com/mediadata5/Image/luciferflipped_amazingdata_20090715203212.jpg

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/70/Lucifer_Liege_Luc_Viatour.jpg

http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zyg2V3FIfuk/SbFT5lWSdPI/AAAAAAAABI0/wzokIMj1HAE/s400/Franz+Stuck+-+Lucifer.jpg

http://images.arcadja.com/calvi_pietro-lucifero_lucifer~300~10000_20070628_L07230_23.jpg

http://www.theoi.com/image/img_phanes.jpg

(Algris Uzdavinys)

The Garden of Eros

2011-07-10T13:30:00.000-07:00

The Garden Of Eros

It is full summer now, the heart of June;
Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir
Upon the upland meadow where too soon
Rich autumn time, the season's usurer,
Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,
And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.

Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,
That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on
To vex the rose with jealousy, and still
The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,
And like a strayed and wandering reveller
Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June's messenger

The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,
One pale narcissus loiters fearfully
Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid
Of their own loveliness some violets lie
That will not look the gold sun in the face
For fear of too much splendour, - ah! methinks it is a place

Which should be trodden by Persephone
When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!
Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!
The hidden secret of eternal bliss
Known to the Grecian here a man might find,
Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.

There are the flowers which mourning Herakles
Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine,
Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze
Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine,
That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,
And lilac lady's-smock, - but let them bloom alone, and leave

Yon spired hollyhock red-crocketed
To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,
Its little bellringer, go seek instead
Some other pleasaunce; the anemone
That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl
Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl

Their painted wings beside it, - bid it pine
In pale virginity; the winter snow
Will suit it better than those lips of thine
Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go
And pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone,
Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own.

The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus
So dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweet
Whiter than Juno's throat and odorous
As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet
Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar
For any dappled fawn, - pluck these, and those fond flowers which
are

Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon
Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis,
That morning star which does not dread the sun,
And budding marjoram which but to kiss
Would sweeten Cytheraea's lips and make
Adonis jealous, - these for thy head, - and for thy girdle take

Yon curving spray of purple clematis
Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King,
And foxgloves with their nodding chalices,
But that one narciss which the startled Spring
Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard
In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer's bird,

Ah! leave it for a subtle memory
Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,
When April laughed between her tears to see
The early primrose with shy footsteps run
From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,
Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmering
gold.

Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet
As thou thyself, my soul's idolatry!
And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet
Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,
For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride
And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied.

And I will cut a reed by yonder spring
And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan
Wonder what young intruder dares to sing
In these still haunts, where never foot of man
Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy
The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.

And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears
Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan,
And why the hapless nightingale forbears
To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone
When the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast,
And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east.

And I will sing how sad Proserpina
Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed,
And lure the silver-breasted Helena
Back from the lotus meadows of the dead,
So shalt thou see that awful loveliness
For which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in war's abyss!

And then I'll pipe to thee that Grecian tale
How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion,
And hidden in a grey and misty veil
Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun
Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase
Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace.

And if my flute can breathe sweet melody,
We may behold Her face who long ago
Dwelt among men by the AEgean sea,
And whose sad house with pillaged portico
And friezeless wall and columns toppled down
Looms o'er the ruins of that fair and violet cinctured town.

Spirit of Beauty! tarry still awhile,
They are not dead, thine ancient votaries;
Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile
Is better than a thousand victories,
Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo
Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few

Who for thy sake would give their manlihood
And consecrate their being; I at least
Have done so, made thy lips my daily food,
And in thy temples found a goodlier feast
Than this starved age can give me, spite of all
Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical.

Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows,
The woods of white Colonos are not here,
On our bleak hills the olive never blows,
No simple priest conducts his lowing steer
Up the steep marble way, nor through the town
Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown.

Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best,
Whose very name should be a memory
To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest
Beneath the Roman walls, and melody
Still mourns her sweetest lyre; none can play
The lute of Adonais: with his lips Song passed away.

Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left
One silver voice to sing his threnody,
But ah! too soon of it we were bereft
When on that riven night and stormy sea
Panthea claimed her singer as her own,
And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk
alone,

Save for that fiery heart, that morning star
Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye
Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war
The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy
Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring
The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing,

And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,
And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot
In passionless and fierce virginity
Hunting the tusked boar, his honied lute
Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,
And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.

And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,
And sung the Galilaean's requiem,
That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine
He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him
Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,
And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror.

Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,
It is not quenched the torch of poesy,
The star that shook above the Eastern hill
Holds unassailed its argent armoury
From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight -
O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night,

Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer's child,
Dear heritor of Spenser's tuneful reed,
With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled
The weary soul of man in troublous need,
And from the far and flowerless fields of ice
Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise.

We know them all, Gudrun the strong men's bride,
Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,
How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,
And what enchantment held the king in thrall
When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers
That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours,

Long listless summer hours when the noon
Being enamoured of a damask rose
Forgets to journey westward, till the moon
The pale usurper of its tribute grows
From a thin sickle to a silver shield
And chides its loitering car - how oft, in some cool grassy field

Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,
At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come
Almost before the blackbird finds a mate
And overstay the swallow, and the hum
Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,
Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,

And through their unreal woes and mimic pain
Wept for myself, and so was purified,
And in their simple mirth grew glad again;
For as I sailed upon that pictured tide
The strength and splendour of the storm was mine
Without the storm's red ruin, for the singer is divine;

The little laugh of water falling down
Is not so musical, the clammy gold
Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town
Has less of sweetness in it, and the old
Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady
Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.

Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile!

Although the cheating merchants of the mart

With iron roads profane our lovely isle,

And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,

Ay! though the crowded factories beget

The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!

For One at least there is, - He bears his name
From Dante and the seraph Gabriel, -
Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame
To light thine altar; He too loves thee well,
Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien's snare,
And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,

Loves thee so well, that all the World for him
A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear,
And Sorrow take a purple diadem,
Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair
Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be
Even in anguish beautiful; - such is the empery

Which Painters hold, and such the heritage
This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess,
Being a better mirror of his age
In all his pity, love, and weariness,
Than those who can but copy common things,
And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.

But they are few, and all romance has flown,
And men can prophesy about the sun,
And lecture on his arrows - how, alone,
Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,
How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,
And that no more 'mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head.

Methinks these new Actaeons boast too soon
That they have spied on beauty; what if we
Have analysed the rainbow, robbed the moon
Of her most ancient, chastest mystery,
Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope
Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope!

What profit if this scientific age
Burst through our gates with all its retinue
Of modern miracles! Can it assuage
One lover's breaking heart? what can it do
To make one life more beautiful, one day
More godlike in its period? but now the Age of Clay

Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth
Hath borne again a noisy progeny
Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth
Hurls them against the august hierarchy
Which sat upon Olympus; to the Dust
They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must

Repair for judgment; let them, if they can,
From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance,
Create the new Ideal rule for man!
Methinks that was not my inheritance;
For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul
Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal.

Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away
Her visage from the God, and Hecate's boat
Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day
Blew all its torches out: I did not note
The waning hours, to young Endymions
Time's palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns!

Mark how the yellow iris wearily
Leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed
By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly,
Who, like a blue vein on a girl's white wrist,
Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night,
Which 'gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath the light.
Come let us go, against the pallid shield
Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam,
The corncrake nested in the unmown field
Answers its mate, across the misty stream
On fitful wing the startled curlews fly,
And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh,

Scatters the pearled dew from off the grass,
In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun,
Who soon in gilded panoply will pass
Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion
Hung in the burning east: see, the red rim
O'ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of him

Already the shrill lark is out of sight,
Flooding with waves of song this silent dell, -
Ah! there is something more in that bird's flight
Than could be tested in a crucible! -
But the air freshens, let us go, why soon
The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of June!

poem by Oscar Wilde

photo credits copyright of shani oates

except for 'Cupid's Hunting Fields' by E. Burne-Jones.

Kali-Ma

2011-06-27T05:15:00.000-07:00

KALI-MA

Kali is the divine qutub; erect upon the inert corpse of Shiva, She generates the impulse of life, of the manifest moment; Mother of the gods. Consort of Lord Shiva, who dances the Universe into being. Order from Chaos.

The universe descends from the eternal void, the infernal Absu. 1

“Kali, also known as Kalika, is the Hindu goddess associated with eternal energy. The name Kali means "black" but has, by folk etymology, come to mean "force of time (kala)." Kali is today considered the goddess of time and change. Although sometimes presented as dark and violent, her earliest incarnation as a figure of annihilation still has some influence. More complex Tantric beliefs sometimes extend her role so far as to be the "ultimate reality" or Brahman. She is also revered as Bhavatarini (literally "redeemer of the universe").”2

Why is Mother Kali so radiantly black?

Because she is so powerful,
that even mentioning her name destroys delusion.
Because she is so beautiful,
Lord Shiva, Conqueror of death,
lies blissfully vanquished,
beneath the red soled feet.
There are subtle hues of blackness,
But her bright complexion
is the mystery that is utterly black,
overwhelmingly black, wonderfully black.
When she awakens in the lotus shrine
within the heart's secret cave,
her blackness becomes the mystic illumination
that causes the twelve petal blossom there
to glow more intensely than golden embers.
Her lovely form is the incomparable
Kali- black blacker than the King of Death.
Whoever gazes upon this radiant blackness falls eternally in love
and feels no attraction to any other,
discovering everywhere only her.
This poet sighs deeply,
"Where is this brilliant lady, this black light beyond luminosity?
Though I have never seen her, simply hearing her name,
the mind becomes absorbed completely in her astonishing reality.

Om Kali! Om Kali! Om Kali!3

O longing mind,

consecrate your being to pure love.
Turn every thought to Goddess Tara.
She will bear you tenderly across the raging sea
of separation and individuality.

Be utterly dedicated to her reality.
Cry aloud Ma Kali, Ma Kali.
Know that she can clarify
the inconceivable maze of relativity.
To hope for assistance and guidance through this world
from wealth, relatives, and religious rites
provides no profound solution.
Have you forgotten that everyone is lost?

Where are you now? Why are you travelling?
This cosmos is the strange theatre where souls act,
wearing various costumes and disguises.
This intricate play of transparent energy
is initiated, sustained, and dissolved by Kali,
who is the dream power of Absolute Reality.
At this very moment, you are resting
on the vast lap of Mother's cosmic dream
that you misperceive
as the narrow prison of suffering.
Why abandon the kingdom of awareness
to obsession with self and disdain for others,
to hollow passion and abject clinging?
You are creating a disease without a remedy.
The brief day of your earthly life is almost over.
Meditate now on beautiful Black Tara.
She is seated upon the jewel island of essence
in the transparent sea of ultimacy.

This poet sings drunkenly:
"Tara! Tara! Tara!
Your name is ambrosia.
May all beings enter the secret sanctuary
through this name,
tasting your unique sweetness,
self-luminous awareness."4

NOTES: 1 - shani oates

2 - ferrebeekeeper.wordpress.com

3.- Ramprasad Sen

Version by: Lex Hixon From Mother of the Universe "Visions of the Goddess and Tantric Hymns of Enlightenment"

4. - by: Ramprasad Sen

Version: Lex Hixon from "Mother of the Universe"

Images:

www.parascientifica.com

http://indiagoddess.blogspot.com/2010/10/kali-mantra-ma-kaali-mantra-goddessali.html

http://www.ferrebeekeeper.wordpress.com/