All posts by wizard

Welcoming our newest Ovate

It gives us great pleasure to announce the initiation of our first ovate Zoe Price at today’s Tor Fairfield Tree Circle ceremony. Thalia Brown and Lydia Lyte were also formally invested, joining Tim Hawthorn as Druids of Ynys Witrin.
Since 2005 we have initiated 102 Bards, of which 14 are elders (having held the bardic chair for a year and a day). About a third of this number regularly participate in community events.
A smaller group meets every month for study, discussion, mutual support and to plan further events.


Glastonbury is a nightmare
Avalon is a dream
The mirror mists with magic and myth
and tales of kings and queens.

Some say this is the planet's heart,
a chakra, one of only seven
Some say a temple of the stars
The land reflects a map of heaven

Here, so they say,
King Arthur lay beside his Guinevere.
Here they say a blossom bloomed
That came from Arimathea.

Glastonbury is a nightmare
Avalon is a dream
The mirror mists with magic and myth
and tales of kings and queens.

Before the Abbey was a church
not made by human hand
Twelve hermits met to mark the mass
The first church in this land.

An Abbey raised to the glory of God
torn down by lust and greed
Is now a sanctuary of peace
For a small entrance fee

Glastonbury is a nightmare
The holy thorn defaced
By those who do not understand 
the magic of this place.

Glastonbury is a nightmare
where juggernauts hold sway
The people squeezed against the wall
Out on the Chilkwell way

to where we see St Michael's tower,
a church by dragon's power struck down.
A pulse that beats across the Earth,
draws people in from miles around.

They come to dance, they come to pray
They come to hear the music play
Some come in search of mystic treasures
Some are pilgrims, some seek pleasure.

You can spot the wizards, they have pointy beards
You can spot the pixie people, they have pointy ears

Some come seeking arcane knowledge
Some seek an invisible college
And often those who come are changed
Some are blessed and some deranged

Where starlings murmur and bitterns boom
You may find a grail to sooth your wounds
Find nature's magic in this place
where myths and magic interlace.

Where dragons dance, the white and red
where Bridie spins a delicate thread
And maybe we're not all believers
but in this tapestry we're all weavers

And yes, there is much here to treasure
Right here, this room, these bards, our friends.
Mystic or not we share our breathing
Inspired by mysteries again.

If Glastonbury is a nightmare
and Avalon a dream
The mirror reflects our magic power
We all are kings and queens.

You all are Gods and Goddesses
(like everybody else)
I'm blessed enough to have some mead
I'll raise it now to your good health.

© Stephen Radford 2022


In Bardic voice I join our circle, one of many in a chain
Linking us to Bards of old, may their spirit our words sustain.
My job it is to tell a tale, to conjure from the flames
Of our flickering fire great heroes with glory to their names.

Our theme this night, the chaired Bard’s choice of test,
Is the legend of the immortal who loved us mortals best,
Who made of us makers, thinkers, creators in his image,
With fiery ingenuity our future to manage.

Our breath a flame, our very gaze an horizon,
We stride like giants this earth our mighty footprint lies on.
I would illuminate tonight with beams of verse
The titanic struggle between the best of man and worst.

Our elemental being was shaped by that fond incendiary,
Whose tricks on the gods landed him in quandary.
But while they would have had us four-footed, snuffling in the mire,
Legend says that twice he gifted us with fire.

Our culture, science and arts all arise from there,
From burning particles which like us feed on air.
We stared in cave or camp at white, yellow, orange, red.
The flame bit our brains, like visions, like horses in the head.

From cooking and a hearth rose human sensuality
Such comfort perhaps cut us off from animality
With time to sit and use the captious brain
Human inventiveness and a world of ideas were set in train.

So man became maker of marks, urging to pursue his line,
His tracks he left by wheel and forge, the metal and the mine.
Outgrowth and carapace now covered the Promethean clay
Of Iron John who feared his own tenderness, you might say.

Somehow we all got robbed of our birthright in nature to dwell,
The commons stolen from under us and work sent to hell.
The iron grip of industry ripped us from the land,
Into the maw of commerce we were pitched by Mammon’s hand.

To animate and generate, transform mere natural matter,
The glamour of such alchemy is a spell that didn’t shatter.
The march of progress on an anvil beats out time
Bronze age, Iron age, through to Nuclear age, heart of this rhyme.

For whereto has it brought us, this civilisation?
A knife-edge, a cliff-edge, from our own annihilation,
Where all that is beautiful in the human world
Seems to have a shadow around it cankerously curled.

Maths, music, medicine, astronomy and art,
Architecture, navigation, and of science the dark heart,
To what ends have these been twisted, sating artificial need?
Humankind’s bright, bold abilities made void by yawning greed.

Power-hungry leaders, of economies and armies flick the switches.
Under concrete, under shelling, the seed of hope scarce twitches.
Against this barrage, the world in oil, arms and money remade,
We consumers flick switches too, on battalions of gadgets arrayed.

Only the technological fix can ease our woes.
Natural, renewable, self-sufficient, small-scale? None of those.
And here in Somerset, Hinkley Point’s the way to doom.
By the holy carrot of jobs we’re driven its miasma to consume.

EDF ONR DCO EPR, an alphabet soup of toxicity,
Letters which brand us like cattle and fence us in with electricity.
Dead in the water of Bridgwater Bay the notion of public utility
Sold off and then subsidised, guess who foots the bill for so-called profitability.

They say, ‘We’re all about low carbon, we make the world cleaner and greener.
Our inspiration gives you a future, we’re as pure as the breath of Athena.’
Sweeteners and backhanders, energy bosses at the government table.
Consultation’s for the birds, their PR twitter a new Tower of Babel.

The pressure is on in a company town to take their radiant shilling,
Sucking crumbs from corporate finger, as subcontractors aim to make a killing.
While Ukippers winge about windfarms, the nuclear behemoth circles our boat.
And Hinkley buzzes and blazes like some nightmare carnival float.

Denatured, disenchanted, the sacred elements in there they fix,
Splitting, rearranging, rewriting nature’s old wise tricks.
Infecting, injecting the body of the land with radiation,
Laying waste docile populus, sick from vaccination.

To keep the lights on in Britain, have we put out our own?
To blight our grandchildren’s lives with dangers well-known.
Our faith is in Atomic Rod, not Church or Earth, intuition, spirit divine.
On flat-screen TV, The Blue Planet HD. Gone Fission says the sign.

Against nature we have bent our wits, oh! hubris improper.
Did even Pandora imagine what we might un-stopper?
Can the nuclear genie be put back in the steel and concrete jar?
Human paradigms remade, earthly paradise regained, by seeing far?

Corporations and their scientists life’s divinity blaspheme.
Economic necessity the wheel on which they break our dream.
Fire would be our attribute, so thought our benefactor,
But not even the gods saw the anti-worlds within the reactor.

Forces beyond our control, as thunder is heard to mutter.
Five miles down, they carve hell’s chamber and death in there they shutter.
What monstrous betrayal of the love our Mother Gaia bore,
Human folly punched in deep by iron fist to her core.

A fog of lies they spew, media mockery they orchestrate.
We’re naysayers, nimbys, tree-huggers, we hold hands, sing and demonstrate.
Effete vicars, bloodless twerps, dim nostalgics, kith of Ludd,
They say we want the world dragged back to primeval dark and mud.

Life’s tremulous sacred flame we act now to defend,
A task greater than that of our champion and fire-stealing friend.
Prometheus, you’ve been dishonoured by the race who won your trust.
Elemental you made us, out of sparks and rain and dust.

We are the stuff of cosmos and the heroes of the hour!
We shall stand tall and not before presumed consensus cower.
No man is god for all his power, that’s the moral of this tale.
Let’s remember our maker’s gentle hands, who loved us human-scale.

Flesh of clay, soul of fire, our perfection he built in.
Scientific improvement not required, just to see the light within.
May human clay give body to the spirit of the earth,
And sweet energy, of natural source, speak not death but birth.

Jeremy Bull, Beltane 2013

Invitation to compose for Glastonbury Harvest Show 2013

Dear Bards of Ynys Witrin,

As a recently ‘Elder-ed’ Bard of Ynys Witrin I’d like to make an open invitation for Bards to compose on the theme of ‘The Fruits of the Land’ to perform for this year’s Harvest Show on Saturday 14th September in Glastonbury.

Admittedly this is well in advance, but it means we will have time to incubate some good ideas…

As you know, The Harvest Show is an important community event bringing people together of all ages, from all sections of the local community who have a passion for growing, baking, brewing and preserving.

However, last year, numbers were a bit sparse when it came to the produce auction so we need some performer in song, story and/or verse to give the day a boost!

What better event to honour by putting our Bardic pens to paper?

Please email me on if you are interested.

Blessed Be,

Gerry x

Open Gorsedh 2013

Poster for PrometheusThis year’s contest for the Bardic Chair of Ynys Witrin was won by Lisa Goodwin. The crown was awarded jointly to Harmony Davies and Hugh le Provost; Richard Field won the fool’s prize for the second year running and the Tim Sebastion Memorial Trophy was awarded posthumously to Graham Coles. The standard of entries was higher than ever and the atmosphere for the Finals was electric.

We had a gorgeous Gorsedh ceremony on Sunday afternoon – the weather held off ominously overhead. It is with great sadness we remember the passing this year of Graham Coles, Glastonbury’s Town Crier and Honorary Bard and Nikki Dorakis, who provided valuable magical support in the initial setting up of the Gorsedh. Gerry performed her duties admirably, initiating seven new Bards and graduating to Elder herself. We would like to welcome Thalia Brown – *Lady of Avalon, Senga Skylark, Duncan Batey, Steve Astronaut, Lisa Goodwin, Jeremy Bull and Hugh le Provost as new members of the college. It was lovely to have the Mayor attending this year and it was a profoundly moving experience to welcome Geoffrey Ashe as an Honorary Bard. I shall treasure the look on his face for years to come! Thanks to Lydia Lyte (Swordbearer), Denise Michell (Elder Druid) and Shamus Joy (Herald) for holding the energy of the ceremony so gracefully. It was great to be able to chill out at the Buddleia Bar afterwards and ground the energy with some mouth-watering cheesecake!

Violet and the Toad.

All watch Violet in the lane,

Kissing Mister Toad again,

Does she think that we don’t know

Of how they carry on…?

Violet doesn’t understand –

The rumours, now, are out of hand,

Does she think that we don’t know

The secret of Mister Toad…?

Rumours here

And whispers there –

Violet shrinks ‘cause the Toad don’t care,

Does she think that we don’t know

She’s at his every whim…?

Now Violet comes to understand

This Toad plays only underhand,

Yet, still she thinks that we don’t know

The secret of Mister Toad…

He has warts upon his skin

And no one knows quite where he’s been,

And we don’t like him,

We dislike him,

We don’t like him very much  at all…

Maybe, Violet,

You could be my bride –

Stand for ever

Right here, by my side.

Maybe, Violet,

You could hold my hand,

But I know that you wouldn’t understand…

See a girl who lost her dreams –

Through the holes ripped in her seams,

Watch her pine her life away,

Since Mister Toad hopped away.

‘cause Mister Toad didn’t want to play –

Mister Toad just  hopped away…

A Star Came Falling.

And, just for a moment,

The world paused from turning,

Lost in the depths

Of a dark diamond sky,

Black August velvet –

Bestowing serenity,

And no one else saw them;

Just you there, and I…

I looked up for hope,

An end to the sorrow,

And a bright star came falling –

From Heavens on high,

I held your hand

And knew you were smiling,

No words broke that silence –

No sound, save your sigh…

And yet, still another,

Came down, silent, sailing,

A second wish granted

To send upon high,

And I still remember

The peace that we sought there,

Beneath russet Moon

And glittering sky…

So cherish these memories,

Burned now for ever,

Let them live in your heart –

There, never to die,

And remember the joy

Of those stars which came falling,

And those moments of magic,

For you, and for I.


And once again soft scented breezes
Caressed the perfection of morning,
Sighing from nowhere,
Heading anywhere – everywhere.
Rustling restless motions
Searching amidst the wild growth
Of the roadside
Dandelions; Poppies;
Burdocks; Teazle;
Long grasses,

And in far flung fields and around
An astounding blaze –
Yellow and gold
Snatched my breath,
Left me for a moment without.
What towering giants stood there,
Heads upturned towards azure sky,
And the blazing eye,
Far above…?

So tall and fair these massed ranks –
Swayed by sweet breath of summer,
Lost in a whispered conversation –
Hushed to all but themselves
They nodded and smiled
A mutual agreement
To silent sentiments
Only they could comprehend.

And then far away a sudden burst
Of birdsong, carrying down the breeze;
As though her very heart might break
If that melody were to stop
Before it reached Heaven above.
And I thought I understood
The nodding of those flowers
Growing all around.
And for an instant
I thought I knew
There was a God
And the world
Was at peace,

Fool’s Tower Fallen

Dazed and bewildered
Standing ‘pon stygian shores
Of midnight’s deepest myre,
Drowned in darkness,
There exists no sight;
No sound –
Seems no sense at all.
Nothing is fresh.
There is no life;
No breath –
Bereft even
Of welcome death.
Feels no sense at all.
Nothing thrives or grows – Under realm and reign
Of Nocturne’s fallen Darkling Prince.
Stillness of smothersome silence encroaches
‘pon everything around,
Leaving naught but slow fade
of human memory.
Wracked and ruined rubble –
Fallen; falling still,
From vaulten gilded firmaments filled
With beautiful, fire-fretted dreams of an ancient world –
Paradise long lost,
Where soft spreadling wings
Once bore a fool aloft –
With laughter, light,
All that went before –
A Tower for to build.

So look you…!
And cast your eyes not down.
Gaze thee ‘pon a tragic, benighted fool.
Look now –
And see him very well.
One who hoped – oft-times ventured
That his tower might reach the Moon,
’til he smote at its foundations,
Laying waste to all around
Paralysed and useless –
Fool’s tower hit the ground …

Now ’tis very dark here –
And I can’t find my way

The Trollimoste-Gumbell

The Trollimoste- Gumbell dids’t lumberode forth
To espy, whereupon he coulds’t fathom.
He perused a course of Westerly-North
’til he chanced on the Uppermost Lathom.

Oh dearest Lathom“, the Trollimoste said,
Pray what is the secret of greatness…?
And the Lathom replied –
In the Trollimoste’s head –
Sliced bread, and a penchant for lateness“.

The Trollimoste-Gumbell dids’t whiffle away
With a dose of Great-Ego-Inflatus,
And he said to himself
Therefore, to be great
I’ll eat bread and be known for me lateness“.

Several years passed –
Neither slowly nor fast,
And the Trollimoste kept to his vigil.
But no greatness became,
Nor fortune, nor fame,
Though he dids’t meets a Trollimoste-Girgil.

So once more our drear Trollimoste lumberade forth –
Great riddle forto unrathom,
He perused that old course –
One of Westerly-North
’til he chanced upon said Lathom.

Oh dearest Lathom“, the Trollimoste sighed,
Pray, why’m I not great, just like you…?”
And the Lathom replied
That’s b’cause I lied, 
But you took silly words at face value“.

And the moral to this sordiest tale…?
Don’t be like the Trollimoste-Gumbell.
When conversing whith Lathoms
– By word OR by tail –
Don’t try to be great
Just be


They asked me “was I ready?”


I, who have been beyond the nine keyless doors

beyond nine gates, nine veils,

beyond the mirthless, shining eye,

crept through the constricting labyrinths of earth,

gazed fearless through the skrying-cup of rebirth…


And now they hang me up

by one foot

from the dread and battling tree.

Pain, as

the hook of the heavens stretches me to the distant stars and

Hertha, below, reaches tenderly towards my skull.


No sister, I am not yours yet.


Alone I hang,

A shuddering bait for the Gods

so cold,

and now the

Queen is arriving.

Made of fracturing ice and the

still-coursing blood of her


Bring her on!

She is riding

and gaining behind me swinging her furs

hooves ricochet rock and thunder the howl of her dogs, her court

and company full-tilt screech and rage, stench of rotting pelts, thunder louder,


my empty stomach contracts

yellow-eyed wall of deafening dogs and hooves towards my hanging form in an impossibly straight line,

white their skin

and steel their teeth,

to rip me apart and

my soul and

they pass

straight through me,

racing on to the white horizon,

a hunting horn shrills


and they vanish.


Floating, empty

in my cocoon.

Swung and twisted by the winds of form.

Washed free by the rains of my heart,

Stung by the sunlight of shame.


Numb, the roar of rooks above.


As bait, I hang

a hollowed fruit impaled

by a black winter branch

As bait for the Gods,

my dead boy’s face.

As bait, I hang

the scent of bluebells and tears.

As bait for the Gods,

a golden crown.

As bait, I hang

my own heart beating, held in someone’s bloodied hands.

Myself to myself.


Light floods



Forms and forms take shape into


a language

a magic

a music


So many riches…

They cut me down

and birthed me back into the world

and then

they asked me ‘was I ready?’

I said for what?


The true initiation,

for that,

they said

was merely the trial.



be worthy of your gifts.

Open Gorsedh 2012

Initiaton Postergerry_the_bard 2012We’re thrilled to announce that Gerry Barnett won the 2012 contest for the Bardic Chair to become the 7th Bard of Ynys Witrin. The Crown went to Harmony and the Fool’s Hat was presented to Richard Field. The Judges decided to award the Tim Sebastion Memorial Trophy to Nathan Lewis Williams for his work in “the elevation of the word” and Tara was accepted as Younger Bard of Ynys Witrin for 2012.

The Circle of new members10 new Bards were initiated at the Open Gorsedh ceremony, so we welcome Richard Field, Denise Michell, Gerry Barnett, Lokabandu, Carol, Stuart Packer, Morag of he Moor, David Muir, Andy and Daygan into the fold. Honorary Bardships were also awarded to Pok and Graham Coles (The Town Crier of Glastonbury) in recognition of their unique contributions to the community.

The Chairing of the new bardWith 14 contenders in the Trials, this was the biggest contest we’ve held so far and the standard of the entries was phenomenal. Thank you to everyone who took part and contributed to making it happen!