A short video showing the announcement of rules and the timing of the next Bardic competition in 2012.
The Mayor of Glastonbury was present, along with the town crier.
All posts by wizard
tales from the seven seas
Taut tomes
And vociferous volumes;
Tall tales
And magnificent epistles.
Each story unfolds
Both to the teller
And the recipient
In so many differing ways
And often,
That which may appear the same
Is so manifold in its manifestations
We would wonder
We were even on the same page…
Yet somehow, undercurrents of sense
And meaning and theme and denouements
Crash from turbulent and tepid tides
At once!
And all along myriad and multiple shores
The message comes in…
Just as it will go out again…
And these various waves
Of size and sound and writhing around
Envelope and succumb sense
And all the senses
To the point where
Losing each self
Means all’s not lost
As the swell will subside…
…Just as the void will rise
Once more.
© Tony Atkinson
MIND
Mind
You don’t hurt it
By doing in your brain
Lessed you should stress
Over
Slow-ing
Flowing flowing
S-low-ing
Flowingflowingflowing
Sl…
Owing
For all your life
Someone, something, summing
Up whole selves till
(nothing)
Gro-Wing
Showing sHOWing
GRRRR-Owing!
SHOWING! SHOWING! SHOWING!
(Shh)…
Over
And above duty
When ALL has become STILL
(Must be out of your)
Mind.
© Tony Atkinson, 2010
Nantosuelta
Here’s my tongue-in-cheek response to Wes’ Sucellus
which made me wonder what it would be like to be Sucellus’ partner, Nantosuelta. Sooo… A Celtic God and Goddess go on a first date –
Nantosuelta
When Sucellus first came to me, a mighty hammer hefted he
“Your symbol is a pallusy” I quipped, “unless you wield it expertly.”
He winked, I blinked. He stripped: bare as butter with a beard.
“Drink?” My patera, being wet, I proffered nicely, when shyly
he paused, “You’ll have to put down the bees,” he breathed.
“Why?” Queried I, “For my honey-drizzled hive provides remedy
for happenstances occurred by the raven ‘neath my left knee.”
He blinked, I winked. He bit his lip: bold as barley’s grizzled ears
“I have been down below, before!” He scored, ‘My olla stores my seed!”
Wildly he splashed his chest, libation, lubrication, all of mead
– and so wildly did we do the deed, that from us each rose galaxies.
********
patera – ‘a broad, shallow dish used for drinking, primarily in a ritual context such as a libation’
olla – ‘a round pot’
Solstice Fire
Solstice Fire
In deep waters of solstice
beneath the sun’s fire
you will bathe
Between lake velvet surface
and epiphany of sky
lay yourself wide,
like a calm sacrifice
float so precisely between worlds
on the hairline crack of
crepuscular dusk and star shattered night.
Our lady of the lake
will tend your flame
on this day of alchemical light.
Who will bathe with her?
Who will bathe with her?
You who wander barefoot, lonely;
wayfarers of Life’s innner sanctum
You who traverse the furthermost shores
of soul that won’t sleep
heart that won’t die
rising and fading with midsummer sun,
leaving and returing with the
turning of the wheel.
Step bone naked into her waters
lagoon blue and virginal
bathe until splayed
to love’s tender cosmology
and the scrutiny of stars
As her burning sun, globe of white-fire
hits the water, alchemising the deep
bathe and submurge in the sweet elixier
newborn emerge
baptised of face
And sing in new worlds,
dream lost horizons
cultivate this harvest of light –
paradise regained!
wholeness reclaimed!
The birth of the searchless,
the fruit of our earth’s quest.
The coming of age.
TWILIGHT ZONE
These are the lyrics to the song “Twilight Zone” which we played at the Gorsedh Final night. It is about how, as children, we think we can communicate telepathically with our closest friends and/or loved ones. Do we unlearn this sort of ability or did we never really have it in the first place? I have seen enough in my life to believe that children are psychic and receptive to extraordinary stimuli in ways that most adults never are…:
Even as I sit here
Yes, I hear, I hear you call
And even though I wonder why
It feels so wonderful;
Even though it sounds strange
I almost see the invisible
And even though we’re far apart
It’s not so impossible…
Chorus
SCREAM AND SHOUT –
JUST LET IT OUT –
I WANT THE WORLD TO KNOW!
SHOUT AND SCREAM
AND I WILL SEE YOU
IN THE TWILIGHT ZONE;
WE TOUCHED WHERE NO-ONE EVER TOUCHED BEFORE
AND NOW I KNOW
NO MATTER WHERE WE ARE,
WE’LL TOUCH THE STARS,
I’LL MEET YOU
IN THE TWILIGHT ZONE…
Even as we tumble
No-one else can hear us fall
And even though we’re screaming
We’re still barely audible;
Even if we’re dreaming
It’s still unexplainable
And even as we breathe
We share the unbelievable…
© Tony Atkinson
Lost Sisters
You maidens with thistle-down blown in your hair
Fiery-eyed sisters, travellers fair
Blown a long lonely distance, to lands strange and wide
Searching for happiness, seeking to hide
From a heart torn and troubled, from the justice of fools
From a life with no passion, where the chained spirit crawls
Pulled onward forever, by invisible thread
And the dreams of new wonders that dance in your head
Adventure may wait just beyond every hill
As you reach the next valley, it calls to you still
Or simply to roam on the mother’s green land
Without care or confinement by any man’s hand
To idly wander, to go and to come
To talk to the trees and to answer to none
To find the way back to original freedom
Eve walks all alone now, returning to Eden
So come my dear sisters, come tell me your tales
I’ll keep them all safe ’till the last sunbeam pales
‘Till the light fades and dies, on the very last day
Within me the myth of each sister shall stay
From these stories I’ll spin strands of wisdom to bind us
When our souls wander lost to connect and remind us
So come wandering hither and rest by my side
Round the warmth of my fire life’s hardships confide
Tell to me true of the journey’s unfolding
Speak softly of sadness you’re wearily holding
Tell gladly of sweet twists and turns in the path
Of happy encounters, and together we’ll laugh
Between every soul common threads we will see
And I’ll stroke your tired head, as it rests on my knee
And soon you will know that no fate need be feared
When you feel yourself one
With the Web of the Wyrd
Sucellus
He strikes well. Hard and keen and on the mark. The target responds accordingly: it reverberates. It is flattened. It crumbles. It moves. It dies. It comes to life.
Tomorrow, he has told us, he is going up with his dog to hit the peak of the mountain. He will take a sip from his saucer of mead, and then bend his knees as he raises his arms and his hammer over his head, until its peen rests on the slope behind him. The bristles of his beard will shiver in the air and under his breath, as he savours the taste of the liquor on his tongue. His dog’s tongue will pant, out of its mouth, on the mountainside.
And then he – Sucellus – will take a deep breath in, and an action that will start in that breath will move through his chest and his shoulders; will be sustained in his elbows and in the hammer itself, as it moves in a round arc to meet the mountain.
And the Earth will sing like a drum. And I don’t know what will happen then. It will flatten, it will crumble, it will move, it will die. It will come to life.
Bridie – the bright one
Bridie – the bright one
(written in Dearbhalie’s Awen)
In the beginning there was light and only light. True light. Peace that passeth all understanding. The burning heart of the father. All that was… was all that was… and all that ever could be. The light contained alpha and omega, up and down; in and out: father mother lover sister brother, truth forever and ever.
In one unseen moment, all that was desired to know itself. How desire arose in such luminosity, we will never know. Light deisred to look upon its own glory; to caress another as pure, as guilless, as brilliant… And so it split in two. And broke its own heart.
In that second; worlds aeons and universes came into being… realms beyond imagining. From the lightest dimensions of song and touch, of rainbow refracted dreaming dance – to the lowest hell relams of darkest debauched grasping at otherness… beasts and demons tearing flesh from one another in the insatiable quest for wholeness.
Only one remembered. Brigid; goddess of the sun. And she, also containing the cool waters and healing power of the moon. The one who could re-unite the fractured pieces: sooth and succour, inspire and inflame… and call the lost children home. So Brigid, on the back of her swan, in full knowing and awakening, her crown open to the crystaline essence of truth, went into the world. She was ll things to all people; maiden, mother, lover, friend, provocateur, instigator, crone. Comfort to the lonely. Fire to the weak. In her we would see our own true face reflected. But she would only come to the meak. Those willing to sacrifice selfish gain for freedom. Those with hearts pure enough to lie with then lamb.
So eons passed. Fires and wars ravaged the world. People fought and made love and made objects; built towers and banks and systems of governance…and tore them down again. And finally a few were tired. They became meak. They lay down in the field and stopped ploughing. They stopped their desparate struggle for more. They said: there must be another way. And they called upon Brigid. Luminescent she came on the wing of her diamond bright swan. So dazzling, they could not gaze upon her. And she said to them:
”You never left. For all that you felt you were parted from your god in heaven; that you fell from grace… and you called to him, and you cried for him. You never left.
Lay down your ploughts, sickles and scythes…stop trying. Lay down your arms, swords and whips and tanks; your burning bridges and falling towers. Surrender it all. Be as children. ”
And they fell before Bridged – the bright one- hearing what she said was true. And each skull cracked open, surrendering lotus petalled to the light of the swans wing. And each heart cracked open surrendering to the firey panacea of perfect life – the hearth – the centre of the being where all is reconciled.
And the sun and moon were joined in unison.
Otherness was banished.
And all sang together, one voice, in truth.
My first ever poem
This is my first ever poem, it was written when I was seven years old, in felt tip pen, on one page of an adventure gamebook called ‘Grail Quest: The Castle of Darkness’. This was the first book I ever bought for myself, it’s the kind of book where you role dice and fight monsters.
My justification for posting it here? Well, the books (they are a series) are set in a rather idiosyncratic version of Camelot and have more ‘Grail questing’ in them than I realised at the time; for example, although even back then I recognised Merlin, who is the reader’s guide to the magic world of the books, one of the recurring characters is Pellinore… In this particular book he’s encountered on the way in and out of the Castle in question. You carry a sword called Excalibur Junior, and your character lives just a couple of miles outside of Glastonbury. More about them here.
The recurring character who’s important here, though, is the Poetic Fiend. The Poetic Fiend is a friendly vampire who writes doggerel, and encourages ‘Pip’ (that’s the name you take as the quester) to write himself. A blank page headed “Pip’s Poem for the Fiend” gives the space to do it.
Anyway – with apologies for my faltering junior school spelling – here’s what I, as Pip, wrote for the Fiend; my first ever poem, written in a magical reworking of Camelot, under the watchful eye of a friendly vampire. Those who’ve seen my performances at the Open Gorsedds will note I appear to have been obsessed with birds from the start.
—
PIP’S POEM FOR THE FIEND
All my poems
I forgot
I could tell you
Cwite a lot
When I go
I’ll sae goodby
I’ll come back
When I see a bird fly.
—
For my efforts, the Fiend rewarded me with one gold coin, and told me to “spend it wisely, on some foolishness”.
The Power of Nine
Oh you maidens, numbered nine,
Who dance your way cross
Land and time: witches, sisters,
Oracles, shape-shifters.
What’s your wisdom?
What can you teach us?
Nine skerry-brides powered the mill,
Ground out the world
From the ice giant’s bones.
Nine sisters were nine mothers
To the hero Hiemidalir.
Nine Valkerie bring the brave to Valhalla,
As nine Morgana guide Arthur to Avalon.
There’s nine maiden mountains
And nine maiden wells,
Nine maidens painted on a cave in Cogal,
Nine witches of Caer Lyow,
Nine sisters of Mont Dol,
Nine ladies of Stanton Moor,
Nine maiden circles at Maldron,
Boskaden, Tregaseal, Waldron,
Nine druidesses of the Isle of Sien,
Nine who dance the Full Moon Rites,
Nine maenads and nine muses,
And then, with Cerridwen,
There’s nine whose breath kindles the fire
That heats the potion with the power to inspire
With Wisdom, Knowledge and Prophesy,
The initiate, willing to risk
All that they are in the name of truth.
In time, out of time, by time, through time,
Everywhere you look, you find them.
Thrice times three, trinity of trinities,
Over and again in myth and legend
These nine maidens weave their enchantment.
What’s their secret? What’s the mystery?
What do we learn from nine maidens’ histories?
Nine is the number of initiation.
Nine is the number of endings and beginnings.
Nine is the number of inspiration.
Nine is the number of transformation.
Nine moons to bring forth a babe.
Nine planets spinning round.
Nine dimensions to time.
Nine is the centre of all things.
Nine is the still point in the wind.
Eternally reoccurring,
Thrice time triple, nine-fold magical,
The power of three by the power of three
Can bind the world to our will.
Oh, you maidens who ever weave
In and out the fabric
Of time and place and story,
You nine whose sacred breath
Warms the cauldron of Cerridwen,
I stand before you now
Calling on your power.
I am a willing initiate
And I would drink
Of the cauldron of inspiration,
Of the potion of truth,
Open to the wisdom
Of those who’ve gone before.
I would know the nature of Awen,
Flowing of spirit,
Essence of life in motion.
Speak to me now.
Speak through me now.
Speak with the true voice of prophesy.
However we have called on you before
We have never needed you more.
“You have chosen this incarnation
To be part of the transformation
Of this sick ‘civilisation’,
Of an end to waste
And an end to greed
And the dawning understanding
Of what you truly need.
Listen to your hearts
Find the truth that’s beating there.
Open to your longing
For right living in the world.
Know that it is possible
For the point of power is now.
These are the most important things:
Hold your vision. Love with passion.
Speak your truth, and also listen.
Open to the dreams that call you
To a truer manifestation
Of the spirit of creation
And honouring of sacredness.”
It is time to own your power.
Heed the maidens’ message.
Eternally reoccurring,
Thrice times triple, nine-fold magical
The power of three by the power of three
Can bind the world to your will.
The Wheel of the Year
In response to Tim’s request, i am posting this in the correct place!
My piece on this year’s theme, ”12 Giants: The Glastonbury Zodiac”. The first half is poetry, the second half (beginning ”The Babe in the Boat…”) is a song.
The whole thing is called:
“The Wheel of the Year”
I stand before you as a Poet, first,
A Bard deform-ed through an eversion, not aversion, to verse,
I’m not the world’s worst!
And I’m bursting with discursive inner-healing for the hurts –
I have a feeling that it works…
It’s starting to dawn on me
What I’ve achieved
And even though part of me’s fairly relieved
The Fifth Bard of Glasstonb’ry’s
To be believed
The Western Star of Hesperus
Glows Golden Apples in Eve of Venus
The Fisher King’s Salmon Wisdom
Sprung forth from Ceridwen’s Cauldron
Sunlight on a Winter’s day
Crisply foretells that we’re well on the way
Starlight o’er a Blue Moon Tor
Lights up the night till it’s May once more
The Holly Queen and the Green Man
See Wheels turning, still, they stand
And the next revolution counts
Each to their own in equal amounts
The Bardic year of Ynys Witrin
Spanning two St. Dunstan’s Days
Harmonising Ancient Rhythms
In both new invention and paraphrase
Then my own personal journey
From the Isle of Death to the Isle of the Dead
Seascaped Thanet to Glastonbury’s Promontory
Finding Heartfelt Harmony and Healing for the Head
Am now become an Elder Bard!
And today – JUST TODAY! – am only half
Of the Current Chair
Am aware that there (somewhere!)
Is the next incumbent
Waiting to be chosen
But for now this moment
In time is frozen
So here at the end
Which is also the start
Both Silver and Gold
We are Bards of the Year of the Hallmark!
And whichever way we look, we know
That the Wheel of the Year is on show…
The Babe in the Boat
Holds the Key to the Temple
And Augurs the Return
Of the Once and Future King
Sail across the Moat
To the land of the Templar
Lessons can be learned
So drink it in
WHEN THE TIDE’S IN
THE STARS ARE REFLECTED
AS ABOVE, SO BELOW
WHEN THE TIDE’S OUT
THE MAP CAN BE INSPECTED
THE WHEEL OF THE YEAR IS ON SHOW
The Lady of the Lake
Reflects the constellations
Mapping out the stars
On the earth for all to see
Arthur on the wake
Well-read in incantations
Taliesin’s Words
In Company
Arianrhod’s Maze
Which contains the pilgrim’s Path
Hides the Silver Thread
So the Seeker finds they’re lost
Lapping are the Waves
Round the Measure of Math
The Isle of the Dead
Is starcrossed.
© Tony Atkinson 2011