Fall #midnighthaiku

Petals paint the grass

Pink pathways for blushing brides

Spring embraces fall

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Treasuring Poetry with Robbie Cheadle at Writing to be Read…and a review of Life Lines

Reblogged from Kaye Lynne Booth’s Writing to be Read, where Robbie Cheadle invited me to take part in her Treasuring Poetry series, where she also shared her review of my book, Life Lines…

Treasuring Poetry

Today, I am delighted to welcome author, poet and amazing blogger, Sue Vincent, to Writing to be Read as my April guest for Treasuring Poetry.

Sue shares a lot of her own poetry on her blog, Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo. Sue also has an amazingly poetic dog, Ani, who has a few books in her own right. This is a link to Sue’s latest Ani link: https://scvincent.com/2020/04/23/the-small-dog-on-guard/.

Sue also writes some more serious poetry and other books which you can find along the right had side of her blog.

Take it away, Sue.

Sue Vincent’s thoughts on poetry

I honestly couldn’t choose a single poem. It all depends on the mood I am in for I love poetry, quite literally, from the sublime to the ridiculous. It is a love affair that started early, with Dr Seuss, Robert Louis Stevenson and Marriott Edgar. It was probably Edgar who inspired my love of history, for after learning his irreverent verses, you really had to get the true story. For example, the Magna Carta is possibly the most important document in English history and one of the earliest legal assertions of human rights. The story as I first learned it from Marriott Edgar had King John signing his name by dipping his pen in the jam and concludes with a verse that is possibly more apt today that it has ever been:

And it’s through that there Magna Charter,
As were signed by the Barons of old,
That in England to-day we can do what we like,
So long as we do what we’re told.

Magna Carta by Marriott Edgar

If I had to choose a single work, it would be the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, a series of quatrains written a thousand years ago in Persia. My mother gave me a small, cloth-bound volume that her father had given to her many years earlier. He had carried the book when he fought in the jungles of Burma during the war, so the book itself meant a lot to me and travelled everywhere in my handbag so I would always have something to read. The book began to disintegrate at around the time a digital version could be had. It is now safe at home… and the Rubaiyat was the first thing I ever downloaded.

Continue reading at Writing to be Read

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Dyprith ~ Jules #writephoto

Dyprith
(sub-title) Annual Mid Summer New Moon Walking Myth
(a fictional tale and haibun with solo renga)

It was an annual ritual to have the Dyprith walk the street in the new moon of summer. Lots were drawn to see who was to be the demon. And who was to be the hooded hero that set its costume ablaze. Out of thirteen the hero drew the longest straw and the Dyprith the shortest. But neither told any of the others who would be who.

Continue reading at Jules Pens Some Gems

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Riddles of the Night: Raven’s Nest

Continuing the story of a Silent Eye workshop in Derbyshire, in December 2017. Parts One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven and Twelve can be found by clicking the highlighted links.

Our final site was to be a stone circle high on the moors, but first, we had to get there, and the journey can be as interesting as the destination. We walked the ‘long way’ up to the moor, rather than climbing the short, steep slope that would have taken us to the circle in minutes. There were a few reasons for that, but mainly it was so that our companions, who had not visited the site before, could see it within the context of its landscape, because that is the only way it can really be understood.

The longer route takes you around the bottom edge of the moor, following a path whose age is indeterminate. It is what you might call the natural route across the moor, the path of least resistance, especially if you do not know what lies ahead.

We have often found at these ancient circles that they sit in a landscape where a stream divides the habitations of the living from the ‘lands of the dead’ where the cairns and circles are found. We have also found that the paths leading into the sites from a distance seem to follow the course of the water on the ‘dead’ side and this circle is no exception. They never run directly to the ritual sites, always skirting them at a distance. There would be practical reasons for being close to water, but why on the opposite side of the stream from the settlements? Was it a matter of respect for the living? Or was it so that travellers came into the tribal lands under the watchful eyes of the ancestors, treading sacred ground?

We pointed out where the settlement might have been, across the water, as we passed beneath the trees. We also discussed Pointy Stone Theory which had first come into being at this site. Pointy Stone Theory (as opposed to the Ubiquitous Pointy Stone Theory which lends significance to every pointy stone) came about on an early visit. My companion had taken the high path, while I took the lower route. The first thing you see on this stretch of moor is a triangular stone against the horizon. If you head for the stone, you come out on the ridge within yards of the circle.

But, if our theories about the trackways were correct, no stranger would want to come that close. How then did they navigate across these vast and seemingly empty moorlands? Following the lower path, it was noted that seemingly random boulders presented a single triangular face…if you followed the route. Deviate from the path and that face was lost. So far, it seems to work, leading you close, but not too close, to the ancient sites.

Our forefathers worked with the land on a vast scale. Whole hills have been shaped, and indeed built, to serve their needs and beliefs. Sites such as Stonehenge and Avebury, though best known to us for their very visible stones, cover great swathes of land with interconnected monuments. A simple and necessary thing like a navigation system is not beyond the bounds of possibility.

By the time we had demonstrated our PST, we were at the foot of the long, steep climb up to the moor beside a winter stream. Turning back at the top, we followed the track to the Outlier… a prominent stone from which an average height man of the Bronze Age would have been able to get a first glimpse of the stone circle.

But, before reaching the stones, there was something else to see. A huge bed of rock perches on the edge of the moor, seeming to shadow the shape of the distant landscape, although you must lay on the mossy earth to see it clearly. This phenomenon is usually known as mirroring, but as Stuart had pointed out a while ago, a mirror image reverses what it reflects… these features in the landscape recreate the horizon in miniature.

The same phenomenon can be observed on the tallest of the stones of the circle. Its contours shadow the form of Win Hill. From this point, at Samhain and Imbolc, the setting sun appears to roll down the contour of the hill itself.

It would seem as if our ancestors, observing the movements of planetary bodies, chose or shaped their sacred stones to echo the topography of the land, recreating features of the wider world in miniature. This would suggest that their rituals involved sympathetic magic, where working within the microcosm they had created, the cosmic forces of the macrocosm could be harnessed or directed.

Within this ancient and sacred space, we shared a simple meditation, sending light radiating out, joining the sacred centres of this land as nodes of light, and then beyond to the wider world, continuing the work we have been doing for the past few years. It is as if the land itself has taught us what it is… what to do… and what it needs from us.

We had also found over the past year that many groups and individuals are, quite independently, working in the same way with land, stone and crystal. In oddly fortuitous circumstances, we have met and been made aware of each other, as if we too are ‘dots’ being joined together in a vast network of those who serve the Light.

And that brought us back, full circle to the questions we had pondered at the beginning of the weekend. What is it that causes this breadcrumb trail to be left for the curious to find? What prompts unconnected groups and individuals to set their hand to the same task? What did the ancients have in common with the Templars and their spiritual kin, the Freemasons? We all have the land itself in common… all the time… but we seldom pay attention to its whisperings. But when the Underground Stream resurfaces as a fountain of inspiration, there are always those who are willing to drink from the well.

There were many questions unanswered…all we had hoped to do was sow the seeds of thought. Much more was discussed than has, purely because of space, made it onto these pages… and many more ‘breadcrumbs’ would lead us deeper into our quest for answers. But that is another story, outside of the bounds of the workshop.

We had one final stone to show our companions… the Raven Stone after which we privately name the site, the Raven’s Nest. Oddly enough, given our preoccupation with the dragon-lines, and serpent symbolism, this is one of only two places we have seen snakes. Quite symbolic when you consider the reptilian nature of birds… and the esoteric convention that sees the symbols of winged creatures as representing a ‘higher’ arc of spiritual evolution.

By the time we came down from the moor, the afternoon had almost gone and we were obliged to take leave of our companions who had a long way to go. We repaired to a local inn for a late lunch, before taking the long way back into Sheffield, over the moors, as the day ended with a final grace.

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Eve ~ Willow Willers #writephoto

The new ways held no power or worth

The life was draining out of the earth

So people reached out for the old ways

Love of Gia, the wisdom of bygone days

Continue reading at  willowdot21

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Blinded by the Light…

*

… So, we return to the quest.

And turn shining eyes to the south.

Not that we ever left it, yet the churches had definitely ‘fallen off-line’…

Until Skipton.

Until one particular stained-glass window in Skipton.

It is tempting to think that later traditions lose much that is essential to preceding ones.

Continue reading at The Silent Eye

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All Hallows Eve ~ Brian F. Kirkham #writephoto

The wicker man had a party

before the angels landed

The wicker man was worried

he thought he’d be reprimanded

See opposite the church ,

he’d built a great wood pyre

Continue reading at  The Inkwell

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Silver Hand

Silver Hand

His father murdered for a throne, his own life under threat,

He lost a crown to envy and so he would not forget

His sword hand they had cut from him, so knight he could not be;

They took his left foot also, that the child might never flee.

A foot of bronze they fashioned and a hand of silver too

But as the child grew older, then magic metal grew.

Alarmed they had him kidnapped and his jailer took his head.

Yet climbing from the castle wall the jailer’s son fell dead.

The jailer journeyed onward, soon exhausted, grieving still,

Till, nigh to death and sick with thirst, he rested on the hill,

He recognised his faulty heart and wailed about the deed

That took his own son’s life as well, and now he was in need;

“Take up your staff,” said Melor’s head, “And in earth let it stand.”

The jailer did and water bubbled up beneath his hand.

The wondrous head fell silent as the jailer drank the stream

Above him branches bearing fruit as if within a dream.

Yet, once refreshed, his greed renewed, he sought out his reward

And took poor Melor’s severed head and gave it to his lord.

The King, delighted, gave all land that he could find…

They later found the jailer on the hill he owned… struck blind.

*

The poem above was written for the ‘gazetteer’ in one of our books, Doomsday: Scions of Albion. The idea for the gazetteer started when we were writing The Initiate… we wanted readers to be able to find the places mentioned in the book, but did not wish to create a dry-as-dust travel guide. The poems left clues, riddles, that a bit of judicious Googling could solve.

By the time we wrote Scions of Albion, we had expanded on that idea and were not just writing about places, but exploring ideas, myths and legends. The poem tells the story of St Melor as it is told in Cornwall.

The ‘official’ version, if there is such a thing where the mediaeval saints are concerned,  says that Melor was a Breton, probably a prince, whose uncle wanted the throne. Dissuaded from murdering the child, he cut off the hand and foot, replacing them with metal ones, and sent the child to the monastery in Quimper, where the metal limbs began to miraculously grow and function. The usurping uncle later changed his mind and ordered the child’s guardian to decapitate him… which he did, only to die himself three days later.

The Cornish legend is rather more colourful and it was this we chose to use. David Nash Ford gives a detailed account of the saint’s Cornish legend on his website, Early British Kingdoms. We could not help making the connection with the Irish myth of Nuada Airgetlám, Nuada Silver-hand, some of whose symbolism we had explored in Doomsday: The Aetheling Thing.

There are so many connections between the old tales of Brittany and the ancient lands of Albion that it is practically impossible to say where they first began. And I wonder if it really matters when the stories are not necessarily about history, but are there to open our eyes, minds and hearts to the possibility of truths that transcend mere facts.

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Nightmare ~ Aseem Rastogi #writephoto

It neither looked human like nor anything like she had seen before. She began running as fast as she could. But it ran faster and faster. Just as she thought that this was the end, a group of men with flaming torches came running towards the monster. And then, she woke up with a start.

Reblogged from Aseem Rastogi at Transition of Thoughts

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Simple #midnighthaiku

Joy in simple things

Wind-blown hair and sun-warmed skin

Making memories

*

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