All posts by wizard

Caer Sidhe

Let us extol the illustrious deeds
Of rough brow’d giants and knights on proud steeds
Questing the Grail.

Across the land named Summer they ride
To reach the shores of these twelve hides
That never paid Geld.

King Arviragus granted to Joseph,
Uncle of Jesus, freedom from sherriffs
And royal judges.

Arrogant Tudors took Somerset’s plums
And gave them to those with oversized thumbs;
Their loyal drudges.

Through aerial photos and recent research,
They’ve found some strange shapes in these ancient earthworks
And an old ditch.

Was it laid out in some mystical path
By Sumerian ancients? Well you may laugh …
But not too much.

Did light-line ley forces lay out the landscape
To form in courses of meaningful shape?
Or was it all planned?

It’s too good to be true, too big to be seen
And what on earth can all these pictures mean?
Who understands?

Castle of Wonders, if giants you seek
Then follow the hunter to where dragons sleep
And dreams are made.

Before the Briton with brave cultured hand
Albion’s giants this realm did command.
Not all were slain.

So listen while I tell you a story
Of giants and bean-stalks, the whole jack-a-nory
In the form of a song.

It won’t take a moment, well, maybe twelve minutes,
One for each giant and then we’ll be finished.
It won’t take long.

Came over the bridge from Ivythorn ridge
A beautiful deer, with no sound.
The white dogs of death all panting for breath
Burst through, red-eared, with one bound.
And now we begin, with the Nephilim,
As the Hooded One bends his bow.
He aims past the hounds and beyond the bounds
Of all we can be and know.

Breathe to become, newly burst through the boundaries.
Blazing brow be reborn, boldly blossom in the dawn!
Feel the bliss, be as one. Discipline wins the marathon.
She is bright as the moon, sweeps all bare with her broom.

The lady glides o’er the rippling sea
On the Polden’s western side.
The cradle wind blew the sea-chest of Lugh
And Taliesin’s hide.
The wind will whip King Solomon’s ship
That Pedrog and Bridget brought
Across the languid grey lagoon
To landfall at Dundon Fort.

Laugh for your life, let the wind be your lullaby,
Lilting over the lake, linger long in its wake.
Look, listen, leap, little gold do we ever keep;
Listen, learn, it’s your turn to leave more than you take.

To enter the gate of the royal estate
Needs knowledge of natures nine.
Mananan’s domain, the wind and the rain
And the infinite stormy brine.
The naked knight is called on to fight
And arms, once denied, are sought.
Mighty Titans this very night
Will feel the knife and sword.

Tree trunk align with the spine of the universe.
Roots drink deep from the earth, like starlight your leaves shine!
Hanging all in between what you do and you really mean
Are the keys to the Tree of Life’s great mystery.

Venerable Bran sheds a tear in the sun
For the raven whose fate is foresworn.
The foolish march hare flees to Somerton Fayre
As the fawn and calf are born.
Mountainous Bran, with a fleet on each arm,
Whose force-field would fail if disclosed.
Valiant Lugh, Fomorians slew,
With one stone was Balor deposed.

Float, flutter, fly, face the fear of the day you die.
Pierce the veil, break the gaol, to the victor the tale!
Vindication will come, though the vain may confuse the dumb,
follow fools, you will fall; trust your heart, you will rule them all.

The Wimble Toot witch lives just down the ditch
In a tumble-down past Teifi’s Bend.
She puts up a fight to our surly knight
But he overcomes her in the end.
The spider she spins and silver swans swim
As he studies her secret arts:
The right use of shield; to ride in the field;
And how to strike straight to the heart.

Set aside space for the sacred in everything,
The soothing of sorrows, the suffering’s done.
Sleep, sweet soul, soft the soil nourished for swelling.
Soon the seed that was sown will be grown in the spring-time sun!

Fair is Olwen ferch Yspaddaden
Our hero’s golden-haired prize.
From owl-borne dreams, her prince she has seen
With a raven’s wakeful eyes.
The greatest quest has yet to test
Our hero’s perfidious heart.
Sings the white dove of unselfish love
For without it you’d better not start.

High on a hill is the home of my family.
With hedgerows hemmed in, I am haunted by dreams.
I hear the harp playing heavenly harmonies.
You shall have honey to feed the haughty May Queen.

By Lydford Green, the lightning struck tree
Will point us to the Grail.
Mordred aggrieved did treachery lead
And double death did he deal.
Where Monarch’s Way cuts the Roman road through
The sacred barge set sail.
Pendragon was borne to Avalon’s shores
His damage for to heal.

Do you dare to dive in to the darkness so dizzying?
Deal with despair and the demons you bear?
Drink the nectar divine from the depths of imagining;
Make truth your devotion and open the door to your dreams!

Here’s a tale of two tribes who both knew the truth,
But told it to different tunes:
The one side would hum to the tone of the sun;
The other the timbre of moon.
The Baltonsborough team, in temper so mean,
Attacked the next terrified town.
This troublesome mob on sharp thistles trod
And tangled in thorns, turned around.

Let’s call a truce and take stock of life’s treasury,
temper the steel with the teachings we learn.
The straight and the thin only lead us to misery,
For the truth sometimes twists, but mostly it tends to turn.

On West Pennard Hill the cauldron is filled
And poetry’s nine senses made.
The salmon prevails in Avalon’s vale
Beneath the orchards’ shade.
The unicorn cools its feet in the pools
By the coppice on the shore.
Cocky Jack quick strikes out with his stick
And Cormoran is no more.

Take care to choose consciously like a King or Queen,
Concepts and knowledge in wisdom’s control.
For the cauldron cooks not for the cowardly warrior
But the chalice will serve those who serve the creator of all.

Out of the fog come Gog and Magog,
The gate-keepers of the mound.
The phoenix emerged from grammarye’s urge
And the magic of Merlin’s gown.
Peredur vanquished madness and might
To achieve this penultimate quest
And was that night with marvellous sight
In meditation blessed.

Merry meet, merry part, may you all mingle merrily,
Many mouths may you feed with your manna and mead.
As the moon shimmers down, silver crowning the meadow-fields
Man and woman embrace the impermanence of mortality.

As you may have guessed, there’s one final quest
Against a gargantuan hog.
The bristling boar with threatening roar
Is brought down by Greid’s grey dog.
Billy goats pitch on perilous bridge
And gore the hobgoblin full sore;
His body they throw to the quagmire below
Then shave off his head to be sure!

Gird your loins, take the stage, play the game, gracefully engage.
Though the struggle be grim, truth and goodness must win.
For the greedy will fail and the underdog will prevail
For only the guileless are within grasp of the Grail.

The owl and the goose return to the shore
Of Walton Hill once more,
To wait for the running of the deer
And the light of the mid-winter’s dawn.
Embattling trees encircle Caer Sidhe
For a reckoning of the score.
Some lingering thrall for the sea’s roaring call
Heralds the end of our tour.

Let the bells ring! Now it’s time for us all to sing
One final refrain to this riddling rhyme
And the reason for this astronomical journeying
Is to wait for the hunter to rise again over the ridge.

Oh Albion! What have we done?
To our daughters and noble sons?

Open Gorsedh 2011

This year’s theme was “Twelve Giants: The Glastonbury Zodiac”. Carly Roberts was chosen to be the sixth Bard of Ynyswitrin on St Dunstan’s day 2011. Tim Hall won the Crown and Oshia Drury was awarded the Tim Sebastion Memorial Trophy in recognition of her musical service to the community. Molly was installed as this year’s Younger Bard.

This means Tony Atkinson now joins the ranks of the Elder Bards. This year we admitted eight new Bards into the Order at the Annual Open Gorsedh ceremony.

  • Cat Watling
  • Jana Runnalls
  • Kat Brown :: TSMT 2010.
  • Carly Roberts :: Bardic Chair 2011.

Thanks to everyone who came and made this such a strong and inspiring event!

around the zodiac with my shapeshifting spirit guide

again, just posting this in the correct place now…my winning piece from last year – (back when i was GlastoBard MMX)  !!!

<< around the zodiac with my shapeshifting spirit guide >>

 

I saw a noble Holy man

Through Michael’s tower, atop the Tor…

This Hopi showed me such Shamanic plans

Translucently, from way beyond the door –

“Just as a True Brave is a Chief

The Light have their own motif”

(He sang), “Course, what’s truly beyond belief

Is despite their many and varied Beliefs

Not one of them really Believes they believe…

If one wishes to learn how to fly

They should first be grounded.”

As we landed at Wick Hollow

His lesson was how language can fly

Both off the page and to the ear:

 

Well heard, then, The Word is infernally blurred

It’s internally skewed

Yet, in turn, is ETERNALLY LOUD!

 

And, floating, (above, beyond, across)

Is something sadly lost

(Not a freefall drop in the ocean of plop!)

 

Only cosense can ‘co-pilot’ quiet compliance

To coping, collective, co-operative, conscious –

Not the con science of conscience but the Up Wards of upwards.

***********************************************************************************

 

Appearing, once again, my Guide

Invoked in me Mindchemistry

Such as to summon up

The Silver Tongue and the Blarney Stone.

He stood by me now as a Leprechaun

But forthwith… Shapeshifted… into a Pixie…

“To see from above with detachment

Means first to sight from below.

What’s directly around you should astound you

Outside your insides”, he Piped, anext the Holy Thorn:

 

I’ve drunk Willy Wonka’s lifting drink in dreams

I sat up in my body, half-grounded, half ‘midst the astral plains

But i’ll fly at prescription and outrageous discrimination.

 

I’ve seen his outrage lift, as clouds disseminate with bluesky thinking

I’ve felt her tiniest footfall brush, flicked, windswept, such flyaway hair!

I’ve known our love to elevate such that it emanates around and between.

 

*********************************************************************************************

 

I turned to the Mahatma

(As he now showed himself)

– My Aether Guru smiled

Without moving his face.

“Take me to the next Level?” I inquired,

But realised here we were

And from between the Abbey Columns

We Stargated into the Portal

To Receive the Lore of Language

Elevated by subtlety:

 

The Cwn Annwn curs

(Those most Hellish hounds)

Appear, at first, to fly Valkyrie-like

 

In stealth and ravaging lurch

They savage and scavenge for wounds

Each on opposite battlefields, purest unalikes

 

But both Gwyn Ap Nudd’s sanguinest pack at work

And Odin’s noble soldier slakers, ‘twixt otherhoods,

Soar and swoop, detect, select, glide, quite alike.

 

*****************************************************************

 

Now Black Hawk stood before me,

Imploring me under his wing;

Perched, we were, on Gog and Magog in turn.

Up with the Lark, Lucid Dreaming,

Vision came upon me,

Projected on-the-wing from my Flight Attendant,

It was Suggested:

 

There’ll be Bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover,

There be Dragons and ‘Ell ’Ounds o’er Glaznbry Tor!

Where a man can emerge, Phoenixlike, at Winter Solstice –

A Somerian becoming a Phoenician!

Eaches’ flight, both from and to the Holy Apple Isle

Landed them HERE!

Where Bards trade and perform before

The finest fellow Bards,

Artists, Musicians, Magicians,

Healers, Actors and Dancers.

 

****************************************************************************

 

Just then, as I Scried, I Espied

My Companion and Muse

Was no man at all and Revealed

The True I.D. of this Paraglider

Was none other than Bridie, who sighed:

“The Sylph, at once Sylvan and Silver and Sylfaen,

Like Modron and Morgan and Magdelene;

The Maiden, the Woman, the Crone

Are the Daughter, Lover and Mother.”

And here, on her Mound,

I felt at one with the Earth and the World –

Rose again from her Womb

To hear Her Symphonise:

 

 

A Bard must take Wing,

They must Thrust with sheer Guts

And Lift through selfless soliloquy…

Float over hopeless with hopeful mot-justes…

Soar with inspired integrity…

And beat their metaphorical wings with Flapful Intensity…

Casting their words to the Heavens to Boost

The Air of their carefully pared-down panache…

Forsooth, seeking proof of what Appears to Hover over us

(Not Clouded or Blurred)

Till what’s onerous is feathered to (no more than) alas.

 

***********************************************************************************

 

We Circled now, between the White and Red Springs

And came to rest at Chalice Well.

My Guardian Angel, though nowhere to be seen,

Was right beside me all the while!

Her presence felt, her voice in my head simply said:

 

There are many Flightpaths to the same Knowledge;

Flight is merely a Launch without a Path.

In order to achieve Flight

The Bard must Consider

The Properties of their Words –

Levels of Thrust and Application…

The Balance of Lift and Drag…

Their Planform, both Aspect Ratio and Wing Loading…

That they may Ascend to Descend…

Sideslip and Whiffle…

Till all their Apparel

Is Knitted together like the Barbules of a Feather.

 

***************************************************************************

 

Fleeting in a Fly-past, over the Levels,

Rushing across Airways and riding Airwaves.

We saw Wells and Cheddar, Pilton and Ebbor,

Cadbury, Dundon and Burrowbridge.

“What does MAN want from Flight

But to See and Be Above?

COARSENING Nature’s plight

Devolves and Disenvolves us

– The Forceful Might

Wills His Will”,

Said the Goddess Sprite.

“This has always been Felt around Glastonbury –

Since Ynys Witrin and the Fair Avalon of Albion”.

Then, to our great delight,

We saw something more:

 

In Days of Yore ALL Bards would look to Birds

For Portents, signs from High Above this earth,

So what (ON Earth) have present Bards to Learn?

 

 

Look to the Skies!

A Murmuration of Starlings fell out of the Sky

At Coxley and murmur no MORE…

Volcanic Ash Clouds

Prevented the take-off of all flights

By a BloodRed Sunset, threatening something MORE…

Don’t tell the Bees!

Their number is in serious decline

Workers and Drones Swarm to the Queen till MORE…becomes less.

 

Jenny Wren, the King of Birds,

Perched on Golden Eagle’s Wings,

Once above the highest clouds,

Flew Higher than the weary one.

 

Will We, as Onenation, TAKE flight

To emerge, Phoenix-like, again, on the Other Side

Of what the Mayans described and Prophecised?

 

I check the Pilot Light –

Still Burns, But Shines in Our Eyes…

Yet, yes, we can still be

Ski Jumpers, Freefallers, Street Surfers,

Base Jumpers, Free Runners, High Divers,

Trapeze Artists, Wirewalkers and Glider Pilots.

 

 

 

But MAN has gone beyond the sky,

Infiltrated the atmosphere

And Wished upon a Star to be as Earth…

So I looked again to the Birds

For some Words which would Inspire Insight…

 

Herons clutch a stone in their claw

To prevent them, when dropping-off, from plummeting…

Hummingbirds hang, half-hiding magnificent industry

Through seemingly effortless stillness…

Hawks pierce with their allseeing eyes

But only strike when the time is right…

 

Alone, atop the Tor again,

I realise now I have always known

That when a Bard lets fly

We can either take flight

Or get in Formation!

 

 

© Tony Atkinson,  2010,  Fifth Chaired Bard of Ynys Witrin or Glastonbury or Avalon

Open Gorsedh 2010

Flight Poster The theme for 2010 was “Flight”

New members of the Bardic College:

  • Stuart Carr
  • Vanda Lloyd
  • Phil Stretch :: Crown 2010.
  • Harmony Davies :: Crown 2012 and 2013.
  • Michael Malik
  • Pok :: Honorary Bard.
  • Alison Hall :: Regular Judge.
  • Amber le Faye Moon :: Lady of Avalon 2010.

Declan Millar became our first Younger Bard; Kat Brown was awarded the Tim Sebastion Memorial Trophy; Phil Stretch got the Crown and Tony Atkinson was chosen to become the fifth Bard of Ynys Witrin.

The Great Global Gowk-Hunt

This was my 2009 entry for the Open Gorsedd on the theme “All that Glisters is Not Gold”. I almost certainly pronounced quite a few of these names quite wrongly, so apologies for any wincing this might have provoked at the time. In particular I was glad to think I was the only one who’d remember my attempt to get my mouth round the name of the Sidhichean when David Muir made effortless mention of them in his story in the trials this year.

====

The Great Global Gowk-Hunt

When people talk about “fool’s gold”, they don’t just mean gold. It means anything that we can desire, and it means anything that can seduce us into believing it is that thing which we desire.

So a chair can be a kind of fool’s gold. So can bread rolls. So can a bird.

The cuckoo is a bird that first hatches in a nest that was built by birds that are not cuckoos and who are not its own parents. They then fool their adoptive parents into raising them as their own, and systematically dispose of each and every one of their would-be siblings by pushing the other chicks, one by one, out of the nest to their doom.

They are chirping changelings.

In Scotland, one name they have for the cuckoo is a “gowk”, and there’s an April Fool’s tradition up there called “hunting the gowk”. The game is that you give the person you want to fool a message, written down and folded over on a piece of paper, and you ask them to deliver it to a friend of yours but not to read. Your messenger is “the gowk”. When the message gets there, your friend opens up the paper and reads it and the message on it reads,

“Never laugh, never smile, Hunt the gowk another mile”.

Then he knows to get a new piece of paper, write the same message on that one, fold it over, and give it back to the poor fool with instructions to take this message on to yet another friend – and so on, until the gowk’s been hunted all over town.

There’s also traditionally a second day of foolish festivities in Scotland, on April 2nd. This one involves ‘rear-related jokes’, such as pinning messages onto people’s bottoms.

There is a group of fairies in Scotland called the Sidhichean (SHEE-ichan). And there’s a restaurant in Melbourne, Australia called The Cuckoo. And there’s reason to think that the Sidhichean might have played a great big game of Hunt the Gowk with all of the world’s divine tricksters, and chaos gods, and great wise fools, which resulted in the events that took place outside that restaurant in Melbourne on April 1st 2007.

It’s hard not to think, that on April 1st 2007, a little Scottish fairy Sidhichean might have wanted to have a little tricksy fun, and might just have decided on that day to flit over the North Sea to Scandinavia, and whisper in the Norse god Loki’s ear, “hunt the gowk”!

And it’s hard not to think that Loki, getting the game and wanting as ever to play, might have turned himself into a mare, and galloped down through North-Eastern Europe to the Slavic lands where he found mighty Veles and whinnied in Veles’ ear, “hunt the gowk”!

And that Veles went down to North Caucasia to whisper to Sosruko “hunt the gowk”!, and that Sosruko crossed the Black Sea to Greece and found powerful Eris and whispered in her ear “hunt the gowk”!, and that she must have gone West across Europe, spreading strife wherever she went, and whispered it to San Martin Txiki in the Basque woods, and that he travelled down through every woodland in Spain and in Morroco, and that on the West African coast he told little spider Anansi “hunt the gowk’!

And then – because we’re only halfway there – it’s hard not to think that Anansi might have spun his web halfway across Africa on April 1st 2007 to tell the Yoruban trickster Eshu “hunt the gowk’!, or that Eshu could have made his way along his roads and over his crossroads, with his hat black on one side and red on the other side, the rest of the way across Africa to Egypt, and told the mighty Egyptian Set, with his strange finny ears “hunt the gowk’!

And Set must then have found Yam in Syria making Chaos in a river, who flowed upstream to Old Persia where he babbled ‘hunt the gowk’ to the Arabian wise fool Nasreddin, who rode backwards on his donkey to India and told laughing Krishna, who bent down and boomed it at the Chinese monkey-king Sun Wukong, who bound a thousand miles South to the Philippines in a single somersault and told lazy Juan Tamad “hunt the gowk’!, who just about bothered to tell the little Indonesian mouse-deer Kantjil “hunt the gowk’!, who scurried all the way finally to the North coast of Australia, and there told the old Aboriginal trickster Bamapana “hunt the gowk’! who took him at his word, and made his way South to Melbourne, to the restaurant I told you about earlier.

The Cuckoo was Australia’s first Smorgasbord restaurant and is home to the world’s largest free-standing cuckoo clock. They have yodelling there as often as possible, and Father Christmas visits in June and July.

But in the reason it’s hard not to think that the trickster gods might have been involved in the events which took place at the Cuckoo Restaurant on April 1st 2007, and that Bamapana wasn’t there infesting things with his chaotic magic, is that the events that took place at the Cuckoo restaurant on April 1st 2007 were as follows – and this, my friends – is a true story.

On April 1st 2007, the Cuckoo restaurant in Melbourne was approached by a pair of people with the intention of robbing it. One of the robbers was called Donna Hayes and the other was Benjamin Jorgensen. Benjamin had a sawn-off shotgun.

As Benjamin and Donna approached the restaurant, so they saw the manager of the Cuckoo emerge with the takings – about $30,000 worth of cash. And they apprehended him and told him to hand it over.

But what the manager of the Cuckoo knew, and they didn’t, was that the bag was not, in fact, full of notes and coins, but $5 worth of bread rolls. And knowing this, and knowing the significance of the calendar date, the manager of the Cuckoo assumed that the man brandishing the sawn-off shotgun at him and demanding that he hand his bag of bread rolls over was joking, and he laughed it off.

Donna and Benjamin, meanwhile believing the bag to be full of huge amounts of cash, insisted, and duly the bread rolls were handed over, in the course of which Benjamin accidentally shot Donna in the arse.

They then ran as best they could, but in their confusion and stress, they picked out a car that was not their getaway car, a car which they frantically failed to open until such time as they were apprehended by what may well have been laughing policemen.

Now you can’t tell me that at a place called the Cuckoo, on April Fool’s Day, that a pair of robbers running to the wrong car with a bag of bread rolls and one shooting each other in the bum in the process is just a coincidence – and that someone with a bit of magic in them wasn’t hunting the gowk that day.

But it’s important to remember that for all the fools we’ve seen, we’re the biggest fools of all if we laugh too hard at the hapless gowks with the shotgun, because a bread roll at the right time is a wonderful thing – and no matter how much gold you’ve got in your pocket, it won’t do you any good to eat it.

All that glitters is not gold

Have you heard of the tales of ‘glamourie’?

Long since practiced by ‘the sidhe’ and still practiced by ‘he’ or ‘she’

In this fair town of Glastonbury?

 

Beware the ‘glamourie’!

Gwynn up Nudd invited a Christian monk to see

His faerie halls and banquets of great revelry

But holy water he did throw upon Gwynns parade of pomp and show,

Left Gwynn abandoned on the Tor through wind and snow.

 

Strange masked face at the ball,

For nothing is ever at all what you think you see,

Watch out for ‘pixie trickery!’

 

Glastonbury draws ‘cosmic cadets,’

‘kaleidoscopic travellers,’

pagan princesses’ and ‘psychadelic faeries ‘(to name but a few).

 

Let us not forget to live in honour by stone,sea,leaf and tree..

What glitters most dances upon the sea,

In a droplet of dew lives aworld of endless possibility,

What glitters most are the waves of your soul,

Beating against your heart-shore to make you whole…

 

So do not be bought by these trinkets of a false spirituality,

Watch the mindless beaurocracy fall,

Replace it with something more beautiful,more natural,more magical.……

 

Share the ‘nectar of inspiration,’

Smoke that ‘pipe of peace,’

May the greed and destruction come to cease!

For you see all that glitters isn’t truly gold…

 

Be warned of ‘the glamourie’,

Don’t get burnt like the moth travelling to the light,

Be ,instead in your gold of pure delight..

Reach, ever-reaching back to stone, sea, leaf and tree..

Go beyond, far beyond ‘the glamourie’.

 

Dive into this moment, it’s already here!

Live a life of freedom, without the fear,

(Say the wise ones of today and yesteryear.)

 

Fill yourself with that golden light of you

In your own golden light be true.

To be me is far beyond ‘the glamourie’.

 

For we are the harmony, the harmony  is us,

It lives in the lovers first and last embrace,

In our most silent ‘heart space’.

For you do not need ‘the glamourie,’

just ….

b r e a t h e ….

For the gold…

the real gold….

the true gold is …..

to have a heart of gold…..

 

(Finalist  poem in 2009 Bardic Finals of Ynys Witrin)

9° = 2° Magus

one of eleven pieces from my entry for the 2009 gorsedh (deputy bard year!) double acrostic in golden triads of olde english bang-bang-bang-crash style

9° = 2° Magus

THE CATACLYSMIC CROW’S ORIGINS
OUTLAST OLDER, OUTMODED NONPAREIL
NATURAL NESTLINGS’ NECROMANTIC TREMBLE

YAWNINGLY YOUTHFUL, THEY YEARN FOR AMORE
AS SYMMETRICAL SWAN SWEETHEARTS TRIP
THE LIGHT LAMPTASTIC, LUMINATING, YELLOW

KINGFISHER, KITSCH KIPPERTIE, IGUANA
INTIMATE INCANDESCENCE, ILLUMINATORY NAVEL
NOW PEACOCKS’ PATTERN PUZZLE’S GIVEN A KICK

SINCE UNIONS, AS UNICORNS, ARE UNIQUE IN EACH OUTCOME
OR CO-ADEPTS CAN CRYSTALLISE NONGENDER
NEEDLINGS, THOUGH, MUST NURTURE THE NUANCES OF THE SCARAB

CRIMSONLY, THE CONCUBUS CLIMBS DOWN FROM HIS REGALIA
REAUDITING THE AURICLE, THE AUGURAL ”HE ART” AND ”E AR”
AS PELICANS PLUNDER THEIR OWN PLUMAGE FOR THEIR CHILD

BE A PHAROS TO THE PHAOROAH OF REPHOENIXED EGO
EMBRYO ENHALOES THE ERSTWHILE ALOOF
AS SHAPESHIFTERS SHUN RETRIBU-SHUN! BEAMINGLY

RECALCITRANT CERRIDWEN’S CAULDRON FOR TALIESIN
TWINNED TEMERITY TO THE TWICEBORN’S HUMILITY
HOW THE SHININGBROW SHIMMERS AS SHOWTIME RESOUNDS

MY OWN MONKEY MISCHIEF IN ITS OVERFLOW
OUTWHEELS THE OUROBORUS, AS ONENESS TO ALL NUCLEI –
NON-SEQUITURS’ NONSENSICAL NON-ENTITY IS MISS-MAINTENANT

KEY TO THE KINGDOM OF KINDOM IS THE ELIXIR
EACH GOLDHAWK IS GOADING HOW GOLDEN’S THEIR YOGI
YIELDING FROM THE YOKING OF YINYANG, BECAME! (KNOWN)

© Tony Atkinson

Open Gorsedh 2009

All that glisters posterThe Bardic Chair was contested in 2009 by several local poets, storytellers and musicians, with opening heats at Glastonbury Assembly Rooms, each contestant performing for up to 15 minutes on the given theme, chosen by the outgoing Bard.

Dearbhaile BradleyDearbhaile calling upon the Awen to open proceedings.

All that glisters is not gold

The Open Gorsedd attracted many outstanding performers and entertainers as well as visiting Bards and Druids from other orders. Entries were based on the theme – “All that glisters is not gold”.


The Contenders

Amanda GazidisAmanda made a powerful debut

Daru McAleeceDaru shocked and cajoled us with his poetic storytelling

David ReakesDavid warmed our hearts with his piece Little Golden Children EstebanEsteban sang a selection of exquisite songs Tony AtkinsonTony defied the laws of grammarye with 9° = 2° Magus Wes WhiteWes entertained us with his “The Great Global Gowk-Hunt”


The Entertainment

Bryan

Badly Housebound Girl Badly Housebound Girl

Nathan Nathan Lewis Williams

Pete Pete

Stevie P Steve Potier

and Willow Willow Seeger

New Members and Initiates of the Bardic College:

  • Wes White
  • Johanna van Fessem
  • Sheena Johnstone :: Lady of Avalon (2008)
  • Seano

Deliberations and Prizes

Judges deliberateThe panel deliberates …

TheoTheo announces the judges’ decision

Jo Waterworth receiving the TSMTDearbhaile and TSMTJo Waterworth wins the Tim Sebastion trophy


The Chairing

Tim and Silver BranchDavid ReakesTim explains the origins of Glastonbury’s Silver Branch

After a long and difficult discussion, the judges chose to chair David Reakes as the new Bard of Ynyswitrin and install Tony Atkinson as his deputy.

Photos: Barnaby J Hodges

The Gorsedh Circle

2009

I entered two poems in 2009 on the theme of “All that glisters is not gold”. Here they both are:

Crystallization

 

Now don’t get me wrong, I love where I live,

But something about it has started to give.

I’m not one for biting the hand that feeds me,

But I think this town’s got a little bit greedy.

Something is rotten in Glastonburg, something is rank and smelly,

Or, to put it another way, there’s a dark Glast-underbelly.

And at the risk of getting all down on yo’ asses:

Mammon stalks Avalon with backstage passes

To all the emporia on the High Street,

Putting everything sacred through a till and a spread sheet.

Plastic effigies of the Green Man,

Piles of ceramic camper vans,

Shamanic talismans (made in Bristol),

Sandals and candles and crystals and crystals!

Yes I know, we’re the good guys, and we have to keep earning,

There’s no shame asking folk to mix spending with learning.

But there comes a point when enough is enough,

Do we need thirty shops selling all the same stuff?

Our High Street is still the best in the land

With the useful, the quirky the grubby and the grand

All rubbing shoulders in the huge melting pot

That is Glastonbury High Street. But it’s losing the plot.

Avalon shoes, Theo Ginn’s menswear,

Stationers, florists, Millers hardware:

All of these shops have lately been lost,

And if we’re not careful we’ll soon count the cost

Of our very own brand of homogenisation,

Where shop after shop offers no variation,

Not through Globalisation  –

But Crystallization!

I’ve seen a future, dismal and dark,

Where this whole town’s one big Crystallized Theme Park,

With no Starbucks, Gap or KFC,

Just Glastucky Fried Ethnicity.

Will the pet shop or Dickets join the ranks of the dead?

Or, heaven forfend, Burns the Bread?

(Though you can stuff the Banks, the greedy barbarians,

And the Butchers too cos I’m vegetarian.)

None will be spared, all are devoured,

As the town is re-branded Alton(ative) Towers.

And no single shop deserves any blame

Cos they’re all fantastic… but they’re all just the same!

Diversity is the spice of life,

So let’s keep our shopping as free from strife

As choosing our food at a picnic al fresco.

Oh, and one other thing: say “No” to Tesco’s!

So don’t get me wrong, I love where I live,

But something about it has started to give.

And I’ll end with a warning, if I may be so bold,

And say: All that Glasto’s may not be gold.

Little Golden Children

 

I am life, I am laughter,

I am breath and warmth and youth.

I am princess, I am daughter,

I am strength and love and truth.

I am running through the garden,

Past the fountains, past the vines,

Running headlong to my father

Brimming joy in heart and mind.

I ignore the court and courtiers,

With their business grand and great,

I am princess, I am daughter

And my father king awaits.

Never once have I awoken

Without greeting him like this,

Nothing uttered, nothing spoken

Just a celebration kiss.

As I near I see him standing,

Staring at his outstretched hands,

Mouth agape and eyes demanding

To be told. To understand.

But it’s such a glorious morning,

And I’m young and fleet and bold!

I ignore these tiny warnings,

I ignore the gleam of gold.

Golden food on golden table,

Golden bough on golden tree

Should have stopped me were they able

But momentum carries me

To my father’s warm embraces

And I’m there before he knows,

But there’s horror on the faces

Of the courtiers as we close.

And I hear a cry of anguish,

And I see my father’s pain

Showing torment beyond language,

Even as I start to change.

Time slows

Fingers tingle

Flesh glows

Blood mingles

Thickens

Sickens

This deadly

Alchemy

Re-arranging me

Feeling strange in me

Claiming me

Staining me

Stealing through me

Metal surges

Metal urges

Purges all feeling and thought

I am tempered and taught

Solid and wrought

Modified, commodified

Sold and bought

My heart beat broken, stolen,

One last metallic breath.

Silence is golden,

And so is death.

I am lifeless, I am slaughter,

I am breathless, cold and old.

I was princess, I was daughter,

Now I’m priceless, worthless gold.

Open Gorsedh 2008

The theme for 2008 was “The Spirit of Trees”.

New members:

  • Stella Joy
  • Moyra Lynch
  • Amanda Gazidis
  • Daru McAleece :: Bard of the Borders.
  • Karen Smith
  • Nathan Lewis Williams :: Nathan has been one of the main organisers of Gorsedh events since the Order’s inception in 2005.

Theo Simon was awarded the Tim Sebastian Memorial Trophy, David Reakes won the Crown and Ash the Rhymer snatched the chair with a dazzling performance.

Open Gorsedh 2007

2007′s Open Gorsedd was organised in conjunction with the “Megalithomania” conference, which was also being held on the same weekend at the Assembly Rooms. Our thanks go to the Megalithomania team for helping to promote the Open Gorsedd along with the conference. It was with the greatest of sadness that this year’s proceedings had to be conducted without the presence of Tim Sebastion, former Archdruid of Caer Baddon and prime catalyst in the re-establishment of the Bardic Chairs of Albion, who died earlier in the year. This event became quite a moving memorial to his vision.

Nine Maidens

Tim HallWith the theme having been announced by Tim Hall , residing Bard of Glastonbury 05-07, as “Nine Maidens”, the competition was opened to ten contestants each performing for up to fifteen minutes and being judged on the following qualities : Inspiration; originality; working with the audience; presence; emotive appeal; spontaneity; artistry/craft; wisdom and/or foolishness and of course, relevance to the theme.

Judging the ContestThese qualities certainly were in evidence on Tuesday night, creating quite a task for the five judges, Tony Thomson, Denny Michell, Oshia Drury, Thalia Brown and Taruna Das, who had to choose six finalists from amongst them for the final on Saturday night.

Merlin of the WoodsFirst to take the stage was Merlin of the Woods, with his beautiful nine part symphony of the Tale of Nine Maidens. As he spoke his story unfolded, he sang his words and played his lute, and the magic of the evening immediately came to life. A true minstrel and storyteller in our midst, really, one thought the evening couldn’t get much better.

Ezmerelda SangerEzmerelda Sanger, an artist who entered the competition as a result of a broken arm, came up with a wonderful performance, the story beginning with the virgin Mary, who gives birth to hope, and then wended her magical way, to bring us up to date with the birth of her own daughter. Her impersonation of Margaret Thatcher being a particularly funny and unexpected note in this gem of a piece.

CraigCraig presented a forthright interpretation of the nine-fold theme with his own brand of high performance poetry.

Marco CoppenhagenMarco Koppenhagen gave us a whimsical, bittersweet folksong and a rather humorous treatment of the theme.

Dearbhaile BradleyDearbhaile Bradley,who originally had thought the theme to be the number nine, had clearly researched her subject thoroughly and as a result brought to the Gorsedd a most thoughtful piece of poetry, “The Power of Nine,” full of power, stunningly written, and delivered with a passion that had the entire audience hooked.

David ReakesDavid Reakes, the Fiddler; told his tale in the style of the Pied Piper, disturbing, original, brilliant. The tale of a wedding, the guests transfixed by a spell, they danced till they became stone. Unfinished was his tale on Tuesday, but still remarkable enough to get him through to the final, we had to wait in anticipation to hear the end of his story.

Tony AtkinsonTony Atkinson took the theme of Nine Maidens to a genuinely Bardic level, creating his poem “999” with nine verses, nine lines to each verse and nine syllables to each line. His tale of classical allusion was a remarkable structural achievement.

MichaelaMichaela, a true Bard in the making, has clearly worked really hard on her performing skills since entering last year, and brought us a ballad of the maidens, alluringly sung and accompanied by Merlin, a beguiling performance.

John JohnsonJohn Johnson’s contribution seemed a little ill-prepared, although pleasant enough, it didn’t really touch on the given theme.

Rohini 2007The evening of profound entertainment was wonderfully wrapped up for us by Rohini, who unfortunately had not realized there was a theme for the competition , but was still kind enough to entertain us with his talking drum and his beautiful words. He began with a Sanskrit invocation which then led into a song of three parts. The first part tells us how the sound of nature inspires the song writer, the second of the appreciation of mother earth and the nurturing and shelter she gives us, and finally in the third part talks of the spiritual world, that as we roam the physical world we are each making our personal journey to our spiritual world. This piece was possibly not quite what the judges were asking for, but nevertheless a fine reminder of what we were doing there and a fitting end to the evening.

Tony ThompsonWe were back to the Assembly Rooms on Thursday for open mike night where artists who did not wish to enter the competition were invited to take to the stage. We were treated to a wealth of talent which included more from the fabulous Tim Hall, still the chaired Bard,performing alone as well as with the uber talented Oshia Drury, who also performed solo this evening. Beautiful guitar playing from Tony Thompson, bespoke guitar maker and chair of judges, the deeply haunting sounds of Brian’s vocal improvisation. Kevan, the third Bard of Bath, treated us to his version of the story if Taliesin’s birth. A memorable experience and an honour to be present.


Gorsedh Circle 2007The traditional open air Gorsedd ceremony was held at the Fairfields on Glastonbury Tor and four new Bards: Merlin of the Woods; Ezmerelda Sanger; Craig and Bryan Holder were given the Awen initiation and admitted to the order. We remembered Tim Sebastion and gave thanks for his life and closed with the cry for peace, then the newly initiated bards along with the Elder Bards and the judges made their way back to the Assembly Rooms for the final heat.


We were again treated to the six finalists performing their entries, starting off with more wonderful songs from Tim on this, his final evening as chaired bard.

Guest performances included:

Ash MandrakeAsh Mandrake, Bard of Caer Baddon (Bath);

Kevan Manwaring reading the Brown BookKevan Manwaring;

MarkMark Lindsey Earley, Bard of Caer Wyse (Exeter);

and Bryan Holder, demonstrating the art of the Awenyddion.

After much deliberation the judges returned with the verdict being eloquently pronounced by the leader of the panel, Tony Thompson.

Nathan TSMT 2007The Tim Sebastian Memorial Trophy was awarded to Stevie P. and received by Nathan Williams in his absence.

Merlin receives the crownThe Deputy Bard’s Crown was awarded to Merlin.

Dearbhaile Bradleyand Dearbhaile Bradley won the Chair
All hail the Bard!

Story: Jo Raphael
Photos: Barnaby J Hodges & Jo Raphael

The Ravens

I am the white hawk of the May;
I am the son of a distant host.
Keeping the lighthouse in my sights
on the horizon, I circle lowest;
making my way from the coast.

I was with the most high
where the harmonies collide;
I have heard the perpetual song
that springs up from deep inside;

I have seen the crystal tower
and flown it round about;
I have danced with pixie folks
therein, so have no doubt;

I have studied nineteen cycles
of Gwydion’s castle turning;
I have learned, if I’ve learned anything at all,
that nothing isn’t worth the learning;

I have been known to have dreams
so strong they wake me up;
I have thought of so many reasonable schemes
that it overfills my cup;

My laugh is like a gravel path
and my work for the ministry of the patently bleedin’ daft
has become worse than a blessing in blank verse
so I’ll try to keep it terse:

With clever words and cunning hand
I contrive to harmonise the verses bland,
but I am just a placeholder for someone greater matched,
for I have much to study before I am fully hatched.

I guess it’s up to you,
dear Judges and Contenders too.
You shall sit on a chair of gold
if you would boldly bare your soul
and contend this seat with your words bewitching
to become the Bard of Ynyswitrin.


For the winter now has passed away,
we greet the growing green beneath our feet
and the silver shining moon above, grins upon thy street.
For the summer sun has vanquished
greyness, pain and thawed the sleet
and the Ravens of the battlefield still scream over meat.

More yellow is her hair than the flower of broom
and her skin it is whiter than foam;
Grander than an anenome are her hands
and swifter than hawk’s eyes her glance;
Snowier than the breast of a white swan her glands
and redder than roses her cheek;
She sucks on her fingers and wriggles her toes
and trefoils spring green up beneath her feet
and the Ravens of the battlefield still scream after their meat.

White owl of wisdom, O where have you been?
The dappled light shines on your jewellry so fine,
did you ride out to visit the Queen?
White owl of wisdom, O what have you done?
Enveloped by green, soft we fade so serene,
have you hidden the land from the sun?

For the boys they have been out fighting again.
Every year it happens, exactly the same,
for they glory in the crash of the breaking of spears,
with no sense of fear, it’s clear
that for them it’s only a game.

Well …

Frankly I’m afraid that this frequent fraternal feuding
for the feminine favours of our faerie flower maiden
is confessedly fairly futile but features fully in the
fantasy folk format that we fervently profess to follow.

Furthermore …

How shall we find the freedom to love as we choose?
Without the essence of the story loose the plot cracks
appear that it never got us nowhere near the muse
and probably only serves to confuse … quite a lot,
for the Ravens care not for the reds or for the blues.

Meanwhile …

Another supermarket goes up on the edge of town,
brownfield development more trees go down.
I’ve heard all the lines in this production,
leeches hanging on by suction,
nepotism, bribery and corruption,
and the sound of the Raven’s war cry erupts.

Shopkeepers shake their heads,
blame the junkies, blame the dreads.
Blame anyone but the real cause,
councillors twisting up the laws.
Quick! Better get an injunction!
Nepotism! Bribery! Corruption!
The Ravens of war shred the corpse with their claws.

Kids hanging out with nothing to do,
brought up on the promise of packing shoes
and renting out a room with no view. Well,
they’re all leaving town once they’ve finished school.

And the local wannabe tory wife is flaunting Foxy’s locks
and Turkey Lurkey, half alive, is banging up his lonely works.
You’d better run, run Reynard run. You’d better run for your life,
for there’s a sky full of Ravens all screaming for blood and for strife.


Three and twenty members of staff
browned their noses in the dark.
Four and twenty minus one,
who climbed right to the topmost
Silver Branch and sung out his heart
in praise of the rising sun,
and hoped that it would return
and that lighter times would come.

How can you be so small?
when the world needs you to give your all?
How can we be so small?
when the world needs us to give our all?

What happened to the socialists
who made so great a boast?
And all you new-age tories
and you hungry hippy ghosts?
For the red and blue shall fade away,
leaving only green upon the cold, wan hillside,
it may seem like waking from a dream,
but it’s going to happen, there and here,
you reckless loon, have faith not fear,
for the light will surely come.

Nightwing, nightwing,
I heard you sing till morning light.
Nightwing, nightwing,
guide us safely through the night.

Join the free discussion and share the ritual ration
while we’re waiting for the light to return
I’m calling on the Big Walkers, calling on the Standing Stoners,
waiting for the light to return.


The new moon
slithers in the sky;
blinking of an eye.

High above the trees
he sits and reads;
turning over new leaves.

Check the spiral pattern
as it cycles through the year;
Ain’t it funny how heart-drops
are shaped exactly like a tear?

Little joy; rising through the bark.
Precious boy; hiding from the dark.
Cover me with your gentle leaves,
wrap your branches round me as I breathe
around my heart and on my sleeve,
until it’s time, I do believe,
that the light has come.

/|\

Copyright 2006 Tim Hall
License http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.5/