This is a section of the dán díreach ('strict-straight verse') anamain ('glorious profit') praise poem by arch poetry professor and Ard Ollamh Eireann, Gofraidh Fionn Ó Dálaigh, (Godfrey Finn O'Daly).
Written when in the literary-legal service of the Earls of Desmond, composed in honour of Maurice Fitz Maurice Fitzgerald junior (Muiris Óg), the future short-lived second Earl of Desmond, and addressed directly to Edward III.
At whose court in Windsor castle Maurice Óg, the eldest son and heir of the third baron and first earl Maurice Fitzthomas Fitzgerald Sr., and his first wife, Margarete De Barry, was briefly fostered/hostaged; spending time learning the ways of a Hiberno-Norman aristocrat serving his king in Ireland.
Edwardian Old Irish expert and the poem's translator, Osborn Bergin, has dated the poem to between 1356, when the first earl, Maurice Fitz Thomas Fitzgerald, died and Maurice Óg succeeded him; and 1358, when the second earl, Maurice Óg, drowned crossing the Irish sea.
Maurice Óg was succeeded by his youngest half-brother, son of their shared father's third wife, Aveline Fitzmaurice, Gearóid Iarla, Gerald Fitzgerald Desmond the Poet earl.
Who leapfrogged his older brother, the eldest son of Aveline FitzMaurice, Nicholas Fitzmaurice Fitzgerald, who had been classified (in the language of the time) as an 'idiot'.
Gerald had a lot more luck in the hot seat than Maurice Jr., spending forty years in Limerick before snuffing out in 1398. Gerald's most famous poem is "Mairg adeir olc ris na mnáibh" ("Speak not ill of womenkind"). Legend has it he was a shapeshifter and got hitched in a diabolical union with the Tuatha Dé Danann and Munster earth goddess, Áine.
A throwback to the iron age practice, when the Kings of Munster married the sod itself. What truth there is in this, one can only speculate, but certainly he was the first of the Hiberno-Norman aristocracy to become a partially qualified literary Filí poet, writing poems in Gaelic and Norman French.
Indeed The Fitzgeralds of Desmond "Deas Mhumhain" - South Munster - were the immigrants who went most native with most gusto, and whom the phrase Hiberniores Hibernis ipsis - "more Irish than the Irish themselves" - sprung up around. Though this 350 year old dynasty rent apart in the Desmond Rebellions which kicked off the Tudor holocaust.
~
Áine was a granddaughter of Manannán mac Lir, the pyschopomp sea god and son of Lir, the oldest deity in Irish myth and ruler of the waves himself. And behind Lir therefore, a void of knowing. But we know the myth that sprung up around Gerald is that he sleeps beneath the horse shoe shaped Lough Gur, at the foot of Knockadoon Hill in county Limerick, and that one day he will return on a silver shod steed, to "save Ireland."
And water features prominently in the history of this once most romanticized, famed and august, now wholly forgotten clan of Geraldine aristocrats. That rose from being the hired muscle of an invading Strongbow's Norman army, through three barons, fifteen earls, and ten uninterrupted generations of brutal physical force politics; to end up Munster and Ireland's most culturally and politically influential and militarily powerful Medieval family.
A rum bunch and mixed bag, ranging from men of high culture, Lord Justices and Chief Treasurers dispensing judicious and stately wisdom that maintained the cultural peace and socially prosperous harmony, to nephew, uncle, and cousin-killing nihilists and victims wracked on the tide of their own ego, greed, hate, history, hubris, humanity, love, religion, and the whims of a wicked Queen whose own hired muscle hunted down and exterminated the final tragic, Gerald FitzGerald, the 15th Earl of Desmond.
Whose decapitated head was sent and spiked on London Bridge, his half a million Munster acres were escheated, and planted with, among others, the poet Edmund Spenser. Who wrote the epic verse which birthed modern English poetry, The Faerie Queene, in one of Desmond's castles at Kilcolmon. That he had bagged for himself as Secretary to Lord Grey's mission, and near silent witness to the extermination of this line by the understated two word 'rough work' Spenser recorded his fellow man of letters and mercenary, Walter Raleigh, eagerly set about during the Smerwick Massacre, that signaled the ignoble tragic turning point of the doomed Second Desmond Rebellion.
But back to water. Poet Gerald the third earl's son and successor, John Fitzgerald, the fourth earl, lasted only a year before drowning, according to the rolls, in Bel-atha-an-droiched, a place google gives no return for.
A 2000 year language, lost. Yet the ancient poetic knowledge and Coimgne, there still, on the pages time forgot, in black and white for all and any to possess who are interested and have the focus, thirst, grit and grá to will the words in letters struck lying scattered surely reanimated back to eternal life upon the modern electronic page.
Gofraidh Fionn Ó Dálaigh, died in 1387. He also experienced the heavy weight of profound spiritual tragedy; losing his own son, and writing a poem expressing inconsolable bereavement for his child, which appears in the seminal introductory lecture forwarding the book from which the Desmond praise poem also is taken. Irish Bardic Poetry: Texts And Translations.
First published in 1970, and with 66 poems residing between the pages.
The verses below make up the middle section of this long praise poem. The portion of it buttering up Edward III, in which the eminently educated courtly poet, Ó Dálaigh, likens Maurice Jr. to Lugh, the Tuatha Dé Danann god who was the son of Tuatha Dé Dannan father Cian and Formorian mother Ethniu (Enya)-; daughter of Balor; a pirate-raider whose stronghold was Tory island off the coast of Donegal, and who kept her locked in a tower after a druidic prophecy that he would die at the hands of his grandson.
Needless to say a long tale of his birth involving shenanigans with a stolen cow and Cian disguised and helped by the female druid Birog, dressed as a women, tricked his way in to the tower and got jiggy with Enya, who had seen no man except the one in her dreams, who was Cian, naturally, this being a completely mythical tale.
And when she gave birth, to triplets, Balor ordered they be slung in the sea, but Lugh was saved by druidess Birog and given to Manannan mac Lir, who passed him on to be reared by his foster mother Tailtiu, final queen of the Fir Bolg, a Connacht based outfit of gods and goddesses. And when it was time for him to become the star, as was written in his "dán", another name for Art and poetry, which carries a much deeper connotational valency, with a core meaning of "fate"; Lugh went to Tara, at Samhain.
Where he is turned away, as the door is closed for the night, and cannot be opened till daylight.
The doorkeeper says he can't come in, as they have "a man of your art" in there. But undeterred Lugh reels off a list of what he can do, the various arts, crafts and and skills he has. Still no dice. Until he asks, if any of the Tuatha De Dannan flock inside the walls of Tara, possess all the arts he has claimed to have.
And with that, Lugh jumps over the walls, thus negating the need for the door to be opened.
Basically, he was not going to be turned away, as he was the best and knew it was meant to be because of his dán his poetry, his fate. Written in the stars, the same as Balor's dán/poetry/fate was that he die at the hand of his grandson.
And it was Hubris that got Balor done, coz he stole the cow from Cian, and thus the reason why Cian was on Tory island dressed as a women in the first place. So if Balor had not been so greedy and covetous, he would not have written his own fate in that way.
And this tale, The Coming Of Lugh To Tara, is precised down by Ó Dálaigh, and we read in the line:
"The like of Maurice, who exalted bards, was Lugh Longhand"
The stock trick, of likening the subject of the praise to the ancient most noble and famed Irish gods. This particular Earl was not noted for anything so deserving of such extravagant praise, and would be dead by the age of twenty-three; but that was by the by.
The job of a poet in bardic-filidh Gaelic literary culture was a universe away from what the job of a poet is today; because their Tradition was linked unbroken to the living druids, and had been around for 2000 years by the time the Tudor monarchy pro-actively rent the island and all life on it apart.
Cromwell of course, who came less than fifty years after the death of Liz 1, being the antichrist figure in Ireland. A mentally ill person who believed he was some kind of messianic instrument - as his insane scribblings prove - and thus his policy of terror, scorched earth and famine, that Cromwell believed should be, and was, visited upon the Irish, as the will of what terrible God his poor deluded brain conjured during his bouts of clinical lunacy, commanding him to slaughter the Gaelic sinners, professing spiritual fealty to Rome and speaking a language he did not understand one word of and wished to only eradicate from the face of the earth.
But this was still 250 years away, and Ó Dálaigh was a cut above the average Ard Ollamh, one of the top three to have ever practiced in the whole 1200 years bardic-filidh poets' literary tradition.
~
It was no marvel that he did good, so excellent
was his training. No marvel men envied his fortune
so great was his gaiety. A merry tale will be found
with the skillful youth; so tall and bright, elegant
and white-footed; this leader of the fair host who
excelled in understanding, comeliness and success.
Who - in short - won all the varied excellences
with the excellence of his sweetness of voice.
His prize for valour, his prize for wisdom, for beauty
or generosity, were not granted to any heir of his age.
Strength in luck, luck with success, a modest heart,
understanding to keep him, curling tresses he had
gotten. When he was injured, the sod that
chanced to be under his white foot, certified it to be
the handsome brown haired prince. The planets
declared it to his curling hair.
~
The like of Maurice, who exalted bards, was Lugh
Longhand; equally great in knowledge was this
valiant compeer equal in sway. At the age of
Maurice, the earl's son, he delivered Banbha,
when he, the mighty tree of Bladhma, defeated
the race of the Formorians. At Eamhain in the east,
Lugh the darling of Tara beheld Tara - Rampart
of Té - when he reached it after searching the whole
earth. Lugh, champion of our choice, finds the door
closed: he goes to the smooth even-surfaced wall;
he strikes the knocker. "Where have you come from"
The doorkeeper said
"O young red-cheeked man; tall, smooth, strong
and bright?"
Answered Lugh, who sought nor shirked no fight
"I am a poet from Eamhain, of the Apple trees,
of swans and yew trees."
"It is not lawful for you" said the doorkeeper,
"to come to our good house. There is a man
of your art in our stronghold, bright and ruddy one.
The House of Miodhchuairt belongs at this time
to the sons of Ethliu; we must tell of the qualities
of the fair curved house. One of the qualities of the
House of Miodhchuairt, whose borders are smooth,
is that two of one craft are not admitted, fair
and furious one. So many are the arts
of the Tuatha Dé Dannan, bestowers of cloaks,
that you must bring to them an art they do not know."
"Among my arts - conceal it not to the company
beyond the gate - is leaping on a bubble without
breaking it. Go recount that. Snámh ós éttreóir,
arrying a vat on the ridges of the elbows;
these two arts are in my power; go declare it. Ask
whether there is one of the vigorous throng
that can outrun any steed on the fair soft green,
we promise a race. What i recount is here as an
extra beyond them, and in their own arts, none
is so expert as I. I speak not in anger."
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Patrick Kavanagh Celebration 2007
Upstairs in The Palace Bar - Saturday 8 September - and a mad great night of Inclusional collective affirmation, all poets from across the divide, from Paddy Finnegan to David Lordan, Galway to Cork.
Sweeney - Leinster finalist All Ireland Slam Championship 2007..
Dave Lordan - Patrick Kavanagh Winner 2005 - amazingly A1 Live.
Orla Martin - she speaks a superbly luscious language of verbal honey.
Fintan O'Higgins - filidh bardic stock. The O'Higgins dominated Irish letters in Connacht for 500 years, and he has it in his psychic dna, transmitted through the blood of his poet forebears, as much - but probably less - than his belief in the good of Poetry and the peace it can bring
Dr Jessica Peart - Maynooth English expert, brilliant work, and only been going a couple of years on the page, yet seriously gifted, in the most modern way of a highly intelligent mind - certainly in Boland territory, with in the capacity of her imagination that is simply and uniquely, herself.
On the corner of Fleet and Westmoreland Street' the spiritual home of irish writing since english took over and Irish hacks got delivering the rant and praise strangely mixed in some Yeatsean con-trick of smoke and mirror; still blent in the place English language can be suppressed to express a deeper, more human spirit, magic will happen.
And not only in the sense of the spirit of Love, but also for the capacity of taking on human sorrow, to offer as some faint hope, to oneself as others, the collective psyche of the irish poetic experience, connecting in the most terrible of beauty and such, but still, wo/manity first and the spark of wit, evident for all to see and experience.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
One of the most unknown poetic lore - containing the most complete and real poetic - is the four cycles of Irish myth, the mystical knowledge therein constituting what the druids called
On Coimgne - A spiritual term, whose eytmology is unknown but which stretches back and connects to flitting shadows in the cave Plato talks of as being the poetic omphalos of all verse.
Knowledge held in trust for the common mob, by their druidic betters, the Nemed (aristoi) status of the top dog lot, intellectual mandarins in an ancient culture, probably beyond the comprehension of modern wo/manity to grasp, such was it so all encompassingly different from what goes on today.
And this knowledge was effectively contained in the four cycles of Irish myth. The Fianna cycle, Historical cycle, Mythological and Ulster cycles. A compact myth pack where all the narratives are completely domestic, with the odd brython or pict making an appearance, but essentially the islands very own system equal to, and in some cases we can argue goes beyond, the graeco-roman system on which the modern English poetic tradition founded itself 400 years ago.
An imititive act of copying; unlike the goidelic lore; still purring like a bunch of kittens, in full working order, oiled and ready to be took on and used in the bardic sense of the word, to express whatever one wishes, any whim and it can convey still, the deepest of spiritual swirl within ones most secret inner self, in any spelling yer wunt.
For there is little awareness or understanding of this 1200 year tradition of gaelic writing, which began with the proto-old Irish ogam alphabet - based on Latin glyphs - around the 3C and which ended 1300 years later.
And by ratio, it has been dead - wrong word - for but a third of the time it existed; first murdered during the cultural holocaust the Tudor monarchy pro-actively rent upon the island and all life on it. cromwell being the antichrist, the man who believed he was some kind of messianic instrument - as his insane scribblings demonstrate - and thus a policy of total scorched earth and famine - cromwell believed - should be visited upon the Irish, as the will of what terrible God his poor deluded brain conjured during his lunacy, commanding him to slaughter these gaelic sinners, speaking a language he did not understand and wished to, only destroy.
And i do not wish to sound like an embittered racist who has the mind set
"I can't speak my language coz of them britz, british b.stards..i can't speak gaelic, coz of them britz, british b.stards, blah blah blah" - But i was tossed off the Guardian books blog at the weekend, for contravening their talk lore - rightly so - for being too windy, in effect, for being a poet and for writing in a register which sought to speak of Love. Daft perhaps, but my take is that poets have a responsibility to promote Love and peace, not war.. This was after a four month full on trolling exercise that saw my word count go up to 5000 a day, and i realsied in reptrospect that that was the final ascent to Anruth - Enobling stream level in the bardic tradition.
The editor, her drippy staff and i had been dancing a pretend game of poetical mindplay, and they outed themselves as cultural facists after four months of me working there as a troll seeking to speak only to promote a love for Literacy and not the marketing and spin of commercial activity a poet must engage in aside from the act of poetry.
And thus, was I tossed off her rag, for being too windy - rightly so - for contravening the talk lore there. I had 800 pages of sheer wind come out over four months and knew i was learning something at the time, as this is a natural occurence, the white hot tide of constant language-gushing out as we ascend to the next stage of our poetic attainment.
I knew what i was doing, even if some of the spacier stuff looked odd; and i do not mean in an aggressive or threatening way, just odd. This is because i am a poet, who is quite individual in my approach, though naturally I understand why they who conform to a normal consumerist, commercial notion the collective poetic brain defines as poetic identity, do so.
Basically now, the consensus is that a poet is someone who writes stuff they call poetry, publish it in a book and do a bit of moaning in the rags now and again, about how untalented most other people writing what they call poetry, are. The odd one being nice and human, but these, unfortunately, few and far between, in the sense of them being able to be happy to talk wo/manly and choose friends from the lower orders, date a bin man or dine in a canteen for drug addicts and the homeless on a regular basis, perhaps.
And thus after four months at work, effectively learning how to become a better journalist than the pros in the guardian, at the final, when i had out-faced the hacks, i got carrried away and probably said stuff that was too satirical and upset a drip or two, the moany ones who love writing in to complain to, someone, anyone, it doesn't matter, as long as the target of their culturally facist wangst stops spieling their dream on the page because drippy aint happy wiv 'em.
But another compelling reason, was after four months a bloke called Mr Bomber, who bombed in trolling two months ago, below the line, appeared above the line, plucked from the dregs of the commentating classes, and at this point an ossification and clearing of mental mist occured, as it collectively dawned on us long termers and heavy users of that board, that ..hold on..if Mr Bomber can go above the line, so can we.
And compounding this was Jo Ridgwell - bomber - his piece was effectively the manifesto for a loose collection of his dring and drug pals, only three of whom where personal freinds, the rest a rag bag sort of dissaffected writers unhappy at the no-chance they stood with normal publishing routes, and the manifesto for these writers, poets etc, was "F.ck You" I kid ye not.
And i ended up setting up a lit site and a few of the grandie mob came on board, which the ed did not like, stealing her thralls and getting them thinking of not being a muppet for others all the time.
And so i was cast out, banished, ComBod snipped me, and yet i managed to return under a different guise and posted within the limits, on an irish thread that turned into the usual book list; which - after 200 deposits - had no mention of this gaelic bardic past, the 1200 and more years of the native island language, on which the 200 years of english is thus spake.
For some reason ComBod lost the plot and totally excised any and all trace of my writing, leaving mesages of "deleted by ComMod as this poster mentions one who is no longer here", and several other bits of text that made it clear his head was completely done in and he was taking it very personal; acting like a wronged wo/man cutting up their ex-lovers clothes, scrubbing all trace of a chavvy oink who dared view this gaelic past.
Who had the cheek to point out that there was not one reference to the gaelic bardic culture, and sought to remedy it with a few lines from one of the most highly respected poets in the 1200 year tradition. Three times longer than the English poetic tradition and based - not on an imititive graeco-roman metrical lore - but a native one.
So, as i say an all, forgive me for bringing certain psychic baggage and sense of injustices to this forum, but it is within the broad scope of what i wish to address here today..
The literal meaning of On Coimgne, is elusive and not fully known, lost in the primordial spume of the oral tradition on the island where memory is queen, and the poets from this tradition, we can pretend to believe its trace is distilled into us at our conception.
The aul irish cod of it being our collective psychic dna, a way of out-facing the charge of being racist about poets from different cultures; though the truth is this island is one of the few places in the world who could get away with such a claim; or rather, the rest of the world will go along with our cod of being natural born poets.
A perfect piece of linguistic avoidance, of not getting bogged down in the contemporary PC side-show of shout and counter shout by thought cops and mind sheriffs seeking out potential wrong-thinkers, patrolling and bossing about in the madness of a divisive western culture based on the - essentially roman - Penal concept of a binary understanding; where the shades and grey subtleties of existential reality are ignored in favour of opting into a mediatised hygenic fiction that this is good that is bad, and even when one is believing they are doing things impulsed for and by love, as in the Love poet; some nasty troll chancers will try to point out why you are actually the devil for saying the most innocuous and harmless of utterances.
And thus the druids held the knowledge in trust for the people, this On Coimgne, and in reality, it meant learning the four cycles off by heart and the various meters that sprung up and were invented over the course of the tradition, and there is an old quote that has come down to us, believed to be of druidic origin, as it is used in conjuction with this slippery, grey, almost invisible On Coimgne word none can say for sure they know what it means.
S"he is no poet who does not synchronize and harmonize all the ancient knowledge."
And so poets from the island, the descendants of this mythic bunch of mad-heads, can learn from this neglected myth system, what knowledge the druids and fili held in the oral tradition, or at least attempt to learn of the On Coimgne, the four cycles. For as the saying goes that
S"he is no poet who does not synchronize and harmonize all the ancient knowledge." The On Coimgne effectively, the four myths. And whilst i wouldn't hold this as a truism or a must for the irish poet, what a larf it would be if someone actually did try to work, or rather, engage with the world as a poet on this one base premise?
And at this point, i have to admit i am addicted to irish myth, and the more i study the easier it gets to talk of poetry and verse with a certain knowledge few other poets possess, even though this myth system is supremely compact compared to the sprawl of european myth; ultimately all connected, as there was no sea and thus no narural boundary or terminus where european myth could safely be said to stop.
But the gaelic myth is not like that. It is all there on the pages time forgot and should one choose to try and re-connect, or just browse through with no intention but to pass an idle five minute, it is there, purring and ready to be took on; in around six years or so, should on possess the thirst and focus to take on the full of this knowledge, contained in a voluminous four cycles.
And it was only in the sixth year of study, once one had progressed from the fifth grade of Clio - ridgepole - to Anruth, or Enobling stream, one could practice publically for material reward. A great system to talk of poetry with, as it is a one founded by druids - the ultimate poets - and evolved along soley poetic lines.
1200 years uninterupted poetic culture, name me one poet from it Dave?
Exactly, mad and proof that the purest source of poetry, containing the most answers - or certainly as productive as any other - few poets practicing today are even aware of; preffering instead to make up and cobble their own from a mix and match of various cultures poetics.
But one can liken this collective ignorance to the metaphor of silence we need for true gravitas. For the really important things in life aren't "tidy yer bedroom", but the murdering of people and the killers to be the state. The cop in the street who kills ones brother, father, mother, sister, whoever, with everyone knowing and unable to do nada, whaddya say dave? Exactly, the worse the crime perpetrated by the state, the bigger the silence as the truth is supressed by the idiots who haven't copped on that life is much more civilised and enjoyable in the long run when people are straight with one another instead of seeking to be great all the time, to possess the arogance of a Great briton. And indeed it is only because they have stuff to hide, dishonest intent wrapped up in a christian ethos, as bush and blair did in Iraq ..that it's actually all your fault dave..the middle east..
But i digress, the fili/poet had to take on the full of it, and the whole thread, the entire history is there and can be read, understood, the lineage and pedigree, all there in black and white, with no missing portions, no centuries unaccounted for; right back to the ogam; invented by and used for 150-200 years during the time the druidic culture was crossing over to christianity and they devised a system of writing with an orthography all their own, based on the latin alphabet.
The annals state goidelic to be a mixed combination of the three best areas of langugae in greek, hebrew and another one which slips my mind. Clear and total myth, but this particular tale is very thorough and worthy of further inspection..but not now dave..not now..later, after we've got to know each other a bit better..
The detailed myth for its invention involving 72 scribes who were sent round recording the various langugaes that came to be after the tower at Babel collapsed and speech fragmented.
And so, what of the poet who has the dream, of being the poet according to the above quote? Indeed if followed to the letter this quote would exclude every poet who did not study their native myth.
But for the perfectionsist of verse, the prize one can plan to acquire in a pretty empty field where all other irish competitors are connected more to the graeco roman mythos, is ones very own universe, become as influential as Cromwell, but for Love dave, love...
And it is only now the bones of it have ossified in my mind, in my sixth year of full time 14 hour a day study, i know how to use it; as once one has their own personal myth kitty, one can say owt thee wunt, effectively, when we learn how to initial and upper the case of i and strike the most important glyph:
I
you is the writer.
But i suppose what i've learnt is that we all need a myth system, be it self created using 50's American cartoon lore or the four cycles. I prefer the cycles and after six years have took the skeleton of it on board; though it do be very daunting when my eyes first apprehended the ogam, and various names in the mythos.
Indeed, it excludes all but the highest of poetical minds and is a year - two really - before you even find you feet, such is the strangeness when first met, reconnection to a forgotten and criminally ignored tradition, that does hold answers for all poets, should they chose to gamble on finding poetic answers there.
Welcome to my gulag dave..Let me be your reader, please, all welcome.., the real irish bard..a plastic shaman, a pretend mick, an English git, british..b.stard, i can speak my language coz of the british gits, i hate me..just get chatting..everyone's bleeding resigning anyway. Ditch this board and come wiv me..
Rule no 1 - post something back, even if it's just one word.
Thank you very much, Love..peace go slag them hacks off
http://literaturelover.createforum.net/literaturelover.html
On Coimgne - A spiritual term, whose eytmology is unknown but which stretches back and connects to flitting shadows in the cave Plato talks of as being the poetic omphalos of all verse.
Knowledge held in trust for the common mob, by their druidic betters, the Nemed (aristoi) status of the top dog lot, intellectual mandarins in an ancient culture, probably beyond the comprehension of modern wo/manity to grasp, such was it so all encompassingly different from what goes on today.
And this knowledge was effectively contained in the four cycles of Irish myth. The Fianna cycle, Historical cycle, Mythological and Ulster cycles. A compact myth pack where all the narratives are completely domestic, with the odd brython or pict making an appearance, but essentially the islands very own system equal to, and in some cases we can argue goes beyond, the graeco-roman system on which the modern English poetic tradition founded itself 400 years ago.
An imititive act of copying; unlike the goidelic lore; still purring like a bunch of kittens, in full working order, oiled and ready to be took on and used in the bardic sense of the word, to express whatever one wishes, any whim and it can convey still, the deepest of spiritual swirl within ones most secret inner self, in any spelling yer wunt.
For there is little awareness or understanding of this 1200 year tradition of gaelic writing, which began with the proto-old Irish ogam alphabet - based on Latin glyphs - around the 3C and which ended 1300 years later.
And by ratio, it has been dead - wrong word - for but a third of the time it existed; first murdered during the cultural holocaust the Tudor monarchy pro-actively rent upon the island and all life on it. cromwell being the antichrist, the man who believed he was some kind of messianic instrument - as his insane scribblings demonstrate - and thus a policy of total scorched earth and famine - cromwell believed - should be visited upon the Irish, as the will of what terrible God his poor deluded brain conjured during his lunacy, commanding him to slaughter these gaelic sinners, speaking a language he did not understand and wished to, only destroy.
And i do not wish to sound like an embittered racist who has the mind set
"I can't speak my language coz of them britz, british b.stards..i can't speak gaelic, coz of them britz, british b.stards, blah blah blah" - But i was tossed off the Guardian books blog at the weekend, for contravening their talk lore - rightly so - for being too windy, in effect, for being a poet and for writing in a register which sought to speak of Love. Daft perhaps, but my take is that poets have a responsibility to promote Love and peace, not war.. This was after a four month full on trolling exercise that saw my word count go up to 5000 a day, and i realsied in reptrospect that that was the final ascent to Anruth - Enobling stream level in the bardic tradition.
The editor, her drippy staff and i had been dancing a pretend game of poetical mindplay, and they outed themselves as cultural facists after four months of me working there as a troll seeking to speak only to promote a love for Literacy and not the marketing and spin of commercial activity a poet must engage in aside from the act of poetry.
And thus, was I tossed off her rag, for being too windy - rightly so - for contravening the talk lore there. I had 800 pages of sheer wind come out over four months and knew i was learning something at the time, as this is a natural occurence, the white hot tide of constant language-gushing out as we ascend to the next stage of our poetic attainment.
I knew what i was doing, even if some of the spacier stuff looked odd; and i do not mean in an aggressive or threatening way, just odd. This is because i am a poet, who is quite individual in my approach, though naturally I understand why they who conform to a normal consumerist, commercial notion the collective poetic brain defines as poetic identity, do so.
Basically now, the consensus is that a poet is someone who writes stuff they call poetry, publish it in a book and do a bit of moaning in the rags now and again, about how untalented most other people writing what they call poetry, are. The odd one being nice and human, but these, unfortunately, few and far between, in the sense of them being able to be happy to talk wo/manly and choose friends from the lower orders, date a bin man or dine in a canteen for drug addicts and the homeless on a regular basis, perhaps.
And thus after four months at work, effectively learning how to become a better journalist than the pros in the guardian, at the final, when i had out-faced the hacks, i got carrried away and probably said stuff that was too satirical and upset a drip or two, the moany ones who love writing in to complain to, someone, anyone, it doesn't matter, as long as the target of their culturally facist wangst stops spieling their dream on the page because drippy aint happy wiv 'em.
But another compelling reason, was after four months a bloke called Mr Bomber, who bombed in trolling two months ago, below the line, appeared above the line, plucked from the dregs of the commentating classes, and at this point an ossification and clearing of mental mist occured, as it collectively dawned on us long termers and heavy users of that board, that ..hold on..if Mr Bomber can go above the line, so can we.
And compounding this was Jo Ridgwell - bomber - his piece was effectively the manifesto for a loose collection of his dring and drug pals, only three of whom where personal freinds, the rest a rag bag sort of dissaffected writers unhappy at the no-chance they stood with normal publishing routes, and the manifesto for these writers, poets etc, was "F.ck You" I kid ye not.
And i ended up setting up a lit site and a few of the grandie mob came on board, which the ed did not like, stealing her thralls and getting them thinking of not being a muppet for others all the time.
And so i was cast out, banished, ComBod snipped me, and yet i managed to return under a different guise and posted within the limits, on an irish thread that turned into the usual book list; which - after 200 deposits - had no mention of this gaelic bardic past, the 1200 and more years of the native island language, on which the 200 years of english is thus spake.
For some reason ComBod lost the plot and totally excised any and all trace of my writing, leaving mesages of "deleted by ComMod as this poster mentions one who is no longer here", and several other bits of text that made it clear his head was completely done in and he was taking it very personal; acting like a wronged wo/man cutting up their ex-lovers clothes, scrubbing all trace of a chavvy oink who dared view this gaelic past.
Who had the cheek to point out that there was not one reference to the gaelic bardic culture, and sought to remedy it with a few lines from one of the most highly respected poets in the 1200 year tradition. Three times longer than the English poetic tradition and based - not on an imititive graeco-roman metrical lore - but a native one.
So, as i say an all, forgive me for bringing certain psychic baggage and sense of injustices to this forum, but it is within the broad scope of what i wish to address here today..
The literal meaning of On Coimgne, is elusive and not fully known, lost in the primordial spume of the oral tradition on the island where memory is queen, and the poets from this tradition, we can pretend to believe its trace is distilled into us at our conception.
The aul irish cod of it being our collective psychic dna, a way of out-facing the charge of being racist about poets from different cultures; though the truth is this island is one of the few places in the world who could get away with such a claim; or rather, the rest of the world will go along with our cod of being natural born poets.
A perfect piece of linguistic avoidance, of not getting bogged down in the contemporary PC side-show of shout and counter shout by thought cops and mind sheriffs seeking out potential wrong-thinkers, patrolling and bossing about in the madness of a divisive western culture based on the - essentially roman - Penal concept of a binary understanding; where the shades and grey subtleties of existential reality are ignored in favour of opting into a mediatised hygenic fiction that this is good that is bad, and even when one is believing they are doing things impulsed for and by love, as in the Love poet; some nasty troll chancers will try to point out why you are actually the devil for saying the most innocuous and harmless of utterances.
And thus the druids held the knowledge in trust for the people, this On Coimgne, and in reality, it meant learning the four cycles off by heart and the various meters that sprung up and were invented over the course of the tradition, and there is an old quote that has come down to us, believed to be of druidic origin, as it is used in conjuction with this slippery, grey, almost invisible On Coimgne word none can say for sure they know what it means.
S"he is no poet who does not synchronize and harmonize all the ancient knowledge."
And so poets from the island, the descendants of this mythic bunch of mad-heads, can learn from this neglected myth system, what knowledge the druids and fili held in the oral tradition, or at least attempt to learn of the On Coimgne, the four cycles. For as the saying goes that
S"he is no poet who does not synchronize and harmonize all the ancient knowledge." The On Coimgne effectively, the four myths. And whilst i wouldn't hold this as a truism or a must for the irish poet, what a larf it would be if someone actually did try to work, or rather, engage with the world as a poet on this one base premise?
And at this point, i have to admit i am addicted to irish myth, and the more i study the easier it gets to talk of poetry and verse with a certain knowledge few other poets possess, even though this myth system is supremely compact compared to the sprawl of european myth; ultimately all connected, as there was no sea and thus no narural boundary or terminus where european myth could safely be said to stop.
But the gaelic myth is not like that. It is all there on the pages time forgot and should one choose to try and re-connect, or just browse through with no intention but to pass an idle five minute, it is there, purring and ready to be took on; in around six years or so, should on possess the thirst and focus to take on the full of this knowledge, contained in a voluminous four cycles.
And it was only in the sixth year of study, once one had progressed from the fifth grade of Clio - ridgepole - to Anruth, or Enobling stream, one could practice publically for material reward. A great system to talk of poetry with, as it is a one founded by druids - the ultimate poets - and evolved along soley poetic lines.
1200 years uninterupted poetic culture, name me one poet from it Dave?
Exactly, mad and proof that the purest source of poetry, containing the most answers - or certainly as productive as any other - few poets practicing today are even aware of; preffering instead to make up and cobble their own from a mix and match of various cultures poetics.
But one can liken this collective ignorance to the metaphor of silence we need for true gravitas. For the really important things in life aren't "tidy yer bedroom", but the murdering of people and the killers to be the state. The cop in the street who kills ones brother, father, mother, sister, whoever, with everyone knowing and unable to do nada, whaddya say dave? Exactly, the worse the crime perpetrated by the state, the bigger the silence as the truth is supressed by the idiots who haven't copped on that life is much more civilised and enjoyable in the long run when people are straight with one another instead of seeking to be great all the time, to possess the arogance of a Great briton. And indeed it is only because they have stuff to hide, dishonest intent wrapped up in a christian ethos, as bush and blair did in Iraq ..that it's actually all your fault dave..the middle east..
But i digress, the fili/poet had to take on the full of it, and the whole thread, the entire history is there and can be read, understood, the lineage and pedigree, all there in black and white, with no missing portions, no centuries unaccounted for; right back to the ogam; invented by and used for 150-200 years during the time the druidic culture was crossing over to christianity and they devised a system of writing with an orthography all their own, based on the latin alphabet.
The annals state goidelic to be a mixed combination of the three best areas of langugae in greek, hebrew and another one which slips my mind. Clear and total myth, but this particular tale is very thorough and worthy of further inspection..but not now dave..not now..later, after we've got to know each other a bit better..
The detailed myth for its invention involving 72 scribes who were sent round recording the various langugaes that came to be after the tower at Babel collapsed and speech fragmented.
And so, what of the poet who has the dream, of being the poet according to the above quote? Indeed if followed to the letter this quote would exclude every poet who did not study their native myth.
But for the perfectionsist of verse, the prize one can plan to acquire in a pretty empty field where all other irish competitors are connected more to the graeco roman mythos, is ones very own universe, become as influential as Cromwell, but for Love dave, love...
And it is only now the bones of it have ossified in my mind, in my sixth year of full time 14 hour a day study, i know how to use it; as once one has their own personal myth kitty, one can say owt thee wunt, effectively, when we learn how to initial and upper the case of i and strike the most important glyph:
I
you is the writer.
But i suppose what i've learnt is that we all need a myth system, be it self created using 50's American cartoon lore or the four cycles. I prefer the cycles and after six years have took the skeleton of it on board; though it do be very daunting when my eyes first apprehended the ogam, and various names in the mythos.
Indeed, it excludes all but the highest of poetical minds and is a year - two really - before you even find you feet, such is the strangeness when first met, reconnection to a forgotten and criminally ignored tradition, that does hold answers for all poets, should they chose to gamble on finding poetic answers there.
Welcome to my gulag dave..Let me be your reader, please, all welcome.., the real irish bard..a plastic shaman, a pretend mick, an English git, british..b.stard, i can speak my language coz of the british gits, i hate me..just get chatting..everyone's bleeding resigning anyway. Ditch this board and come wiv me..
Rule no 1 - post something back, even if it's just one word.
Thank you very much, Love..peace go slag them hacks off
http://literaturelover.createforum.net/literaturelover.html
Monday, August 06, 2007
"..the believer is no longer under the dominion and control of law, but under the dominion and controlling influence of grace. The believer has left the kingdom of spiritual fear for a kingdom of spiritual freedom. Saying that is enough to start a revolution!"
Stephen Davey
Hail the main bore!!
Greetings Literature lovers. Welcome to my gulag.
And for all my fellow competing colleagues who hate and wish a holocaust upon me, i apoligise for being rubbish in print, please go here. I hacked into the Pentagon slush fund account for some CIA work - deniable op fund. Just type in yer bank account number and 50,000 dollars gets transferred straight away, no questions asked, completely deniable to the crooks who put it there in the first place, coz it don't exist see, except in my universal ...blah blah tada yaah..
For your eye is apprehending - as one speaks -
www. irishpoetry.blogspot.com
I decree that all who like to read and talk of it in print, please feel free to c'mon and be as windy or silent as yer wunt, at the one all islands' talk-shop spoken of by such eminent verse experts and supremely self-important personages as Schmidt in the London Times, Ricks in the Telegraph, Carol Anne Duffy and Sharon Oldes in Hello, Roberto Potts in Guardian and Dan Gioa in Washington; as the most troll free of places with the most loving chat, and nea a ComBoddie about to be the drippy wan git stopping the flow, the natural Irish way of languid conversation, on books and writing.
Be you purely a reader or Stephen King, it makes no odds in the cyberspace nation of a million welcoming eyes; they who Love in the shack of pure Literacy an all, being contemporary; poetry apprehended and nea a man bag in sight with which to dip in and pull out a pen in order to record its happening, just the full on in yer face'ness of it, a nation of windbags, not listening, nea no never no more, but waiting for us to shut up so they can butt in..tell of its passing by them an all..fievin my dream..so c'mon in and be yerself Dear reader.
Being a new dictatorship based on Inclusion and nea fear - and thus silence - but true Free speech, on any and all news. Indeed the reason the press got hold of this site is because we broke the news about Brown, being in Iraq and all wiv george and that, and have writers posting from Guantanemo and Berlin. Putin's PA is secretly talking to me, of the next scoop, during medication time an all
http://literaturelover.createforum.net/literaturelover.html
Stephen Davey
Hail the main bore!!
Greetings Literature lovers. Welcome to my gulag.
And for all my fellow competing colleagues who hate and wish a holocaust upon me, i apoligise for being rubbish in print, please go here. I hacked into the Pentagon slush fund account for some CIA work - deniable op fund. Just type in yer bank account number and 50,000 dollars gets transferred straight away, no questions asked, completely deniable to the crooks who put it there in the first place, coz it don't exist see, except in my universal ...blah blah tada yaah..
For your eye is apprehending - as one speaks -
www. irishpoetry.blogspot.com
I decree that all who like to read and talk of it in print, please feel free to c'mon and be as windy or silent as yer wunt, at the one all islands' talk-shop spoken of by such eminent verse experts and supremely self-important personages as Schmidt in the London Times, Ricks in the Telegraph, Carol Anne Duffy and Sharon Oldes in Hello, Roberto Potts in Guardian and Dan Gioa in Washington; as the most troll free of places with the most loving chat, and nea a ComBoddie about to be the drippy wan git stopping the flow, the natural Irish way of languid conversation, on books and writing.
Be you purely a reader or Stephen King, it makes no odds in the cyberspace nation of a million welcoming eyes; they who Love in the shack of pure Literacy an all, being contemporary; poetry apprehended and nea a man bag in sight with which to dip in and pull out a pen in order to record its happening, just the full on in yer face'ness of it, a nation of windbags, not listening, nea no never no more, but waiting for us to shut up so they can butt in..tell of its passing by them an all..fievin my dream..so c'mon in and be yerself Dear reader.
Being a new dictatorship based on Inclusion and nea fear - and thus silence - but true Free speech, on any and all news. Indeed the reason the press got hold of this site is because we broke the news about Brown, being in Iraq and all wiv george and that, and have writers posting from Guantanemo and Berlin. Putin's PA is secretly talking to me, of the next scoop, during medication time an all
http://literaturelover.createforum.net/literaturelover.html
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Olé
Certainly we star, and when our trajectory and kink is traced,
when the heat of ones current and career-currency is such
as it is when entering the second mythosic phase, all prophets -
true dub souljahs - have when seriously messing about with
ancient myth kitties and such. we will be recorded on black
onyx, the plinth of all cognomen cased upper, nea lower like
some meff of verse kiddas..c'mon, nea never no more, all true
bores sing wiv me now, O let me be your reader, Ahern, ebda
blerté..olé, olé olé olé, get lost bog witchery broomstick breath,
nea the sidhe moves in phantasmagoria and shade, le market
purr as lé singer Sadé does dans le grandé..ta ta laaah..chime
on souljah dub prophet of the straight bowled knowledge from Tír na Og...
For the geasa tuten-kah-moon and the crazee gang, did not remember - the curse of a certain protaganist in a tale being outed, the story becoming spoken by printed voice alone, doing the work of projecting narrative an all..- what can it be but pure instinct..i love it when a plan comes together in the morning, napalm wounded window slats tap an acorn crop, black oil shines beyond a raven blue, look..phwoar..eye the silver fox, see the staggering stumbling wan heavily drinking;
and yet all thread of momento move there, tracing to him and the dodge in a perfect environment for which to practice ones drinking wiv a certain je nous say wha..found in dub only, the right to be a different shape, whatever bleeding colour one so desires, no racism when all the race is but a mass of spacers fighting in empty armchairs and all..best when dreaming, for whatever it is, that 1200 year connection, that edifice of gaelic letters, needs a fully certed lore wo/man, it is i who struck the glyph
I
you are moi amouré..leader..let me lay down rules in rann; i am not here in anger, i speak as a concerned bore, nosey and a bit lonely, wanting just to be the star, at any cost, any sacrifice and any betrayal, here at hq - imagination - a joke the buzz it is, a trail of ghosts, crossing over, c'mon in, please all speak and be..
when the heat of ones current and career-currency is such
as it is when entering the second mythosic phase, all prophets -
true dub souljahs - have when seriously messing about with
ancient myth kitties and such. we will be recorded on black
onyx, the plinth of all cognomen cased upper, nea lower like
some meff of verse kiddas..c'mon, nea never no more, all true
bores sing wiv me now, O let me be your reader, Ahern, ebda
blerté..olé, olé olé olé, get lost bog witchery broomstick breath,
nea the sidhe moves in phantasmagoria and shade, le market
purr as lé singer Sadé does dans le grandé..ta ta laaah..chime
on souljah dub prophet of the straight bowled knowledge from Tír na Og...
For the geasa tuten-kah-moon and the crazee gang, did not remember - the curse of a certain protaganist in a tale being outed, the story becoming spoken by printed voice alone, doing the work of projecting narrative an all..- what can it be but pure instinct..i love it when a plan comes together in the morning, napalm wounded window slats tap an acorn crop, black oil shines beyond a raven blue, look..phwoar..eye the silver fox, see the staggering stumbling wan heavily drinking;
and yet all thread of momento move there, tracing to him and the dodge in a perfect environment for which to practice ones drinking wiv a certain je nous say wha..found in dub only, the right to be a different shape, whatever bleeding colour one so desires, no racism when all the race is but a mass of spacers fighting in empty armchairs and all..best when dreaming, for whatever it is, that 1200 year connection, that edifice of gaelic letters, needs a fully certed lore wo/man, it is i who struck the glyph
I
you are moi amouré..leader..let me lay down rules in rann; i am not here in anger, i speak as a concerned bore, nosey and a bit lonely, wanting just to be the star, at any cost, any sacrifice and any betrayal, here at hq - imagination - a joke the buzz it is, a trail of ghosts, crossing over, c'mon in, please all speak and be..
Friday, August 03, 2007
Lead ahouy - spieling Dream
Let me be your reader; i bessech you all here today for the goodness that is bono Love; good, good loving..Bob sung and continues to in his uniquely spiritually irish country and western way of american expansion first lore, heard wiv the song when sung, in pure dub..mahn.
Expand my base of Love. please, i urge you vist and speak uncensored by time. Nea snip but a double gift of two coterminious threads,
Wanna waffle wiv yer gob in the vacuum?
..who do we choose, dearest reader of One love, one hug, we gotta harry that language bro..go wan and be on yer own sailor breathing in shadow and shade in ones native..english innit, peesey pie laah, so go lick the tree in a room full just being tree like, in littered garish faux aul D minus and piece of peace ohhmm'ing as only a wooden can.
So suck on the twig witchery bog breath, druidical space magi gather..literature, Love 3 sweeden O that night stan first appeared as saviour wiv a living legend, Robbo in full five year bus pass OAP back up mode, stood starring by cameras squeezing stan's hand; before he was hospitalised with another health fright, he once again, amazingly defied and sailed through - A1 living legend Mr robson; wiping our manager's imaginal arse..and yet nea, for we and bobby, robbo, bob rosbon he is mate, why eye, if it aint mah gee'ordie wan Roberto Cúchulainn, and i beat them 3 nothing scando sweede breateing turnips that raw spring night, April stars, slick sky, the roar of support keeping all there warm, in a friendly wan - and yet still - passion reversed and reserved, coyote like shyness, a diametric oppositional flux in perfect harmony, essentially itself, yerself; and being friendly an all, true national spirit of fair play appeared..phoof..just like that; 40 thousand witnesses; coopered to it,
Love... The next game, alas, bobby was needed to wipe stan down, after a drubbing we got by poorer opposition and staunton's golden glow disappeared in bitter recriminations, Keano sized slaggings and batterings in a continual and unceasing wave after wave of woe for the spirit of soccer on the island.
And when stan appeared pitchside, as manager, making it happen on the pitch by sheer belief alone, none nea more were wanting to believe, for the results and state of on pitch action, spoke far far louder than the Louth wan, getting it wrong; even uninventive soccer hacks slagged, wounding staunton at will, embarresing to read really, and tv interviews showing yer man under the cosh and in supreme personal turmoil, professionally, as saviour and flame of island soccer spiritual lore writing his own myth.
Alas; it went downhill, this geordie louth paradise of sir and partnership of stanley staunton avec roberto robson; taking on the hue and tenor - in the press - of true greek tradegy worthy of a laughably inventive armageddon myth; itself to appear in the next match, as Hera doing whatever it is she does to ramp up prophecy, her locks of woe in what three tri con of pure bollix beleif stan was having back then an all...
Coz stan was shown up for the chancer he bleeding was see; prophetic doom was voiced in the fecking Star, the Sun affirming how shit he was, how worthy of pure viciousness he was deserving, how professional soccer journalist jihadic windbags exhaled their green bile on this man of tender wan years being beaten racketeringly by these horrid mob of negative trollie gits.
Thus to fail stan had to be, and..hey, get real and sack the turnip breathing thick git, before michael barrymore nicks his job.
But then, a random and even more supremely divine intervention. the miracle everyone knew in their most secret of selves, who - it is clear now - collectively held similar pictures, within the immediate and central same border of dernier or some such natural tide-mark of anarchy this island has, and thus life in the psychic breath of her living wans; and stans professional armageddon within the pincers of fictional lore, at that time.. back then an all..when we was bludding in yer new wans..had a tough druidical call to it, a big ask; yet a printed sacrafice in the press; the stringing up of stan an all..afore the match.
The riling and back bitchery goss, spuming in byzantium labrinth, pro-begrduger nasities and yer wotist wans all gunked wiv hate an all..back in the day when it where fair go and game to play the man; no intention of kicking the ball, going for bone, a clean unlucky break, accidental wans..erm..a hem..was not the true Keano spirit, the defiance that goes beyond being pensioned out at the foot of a living soccer Legend from the most staunchly pro territorial bunch. thus doesn't it just be then, Stan staunton's Art - dan; sidhe it is..bleeding faeries pal..is all that keeps him sane..stanley in swan grace with apple and yew trees, an acorn and ridge pole,
the silver branch of an enobling stroll on the sand looking for clues to cement success in his future, but all stan found was an inebriated troll, flaming on the aul wounds, picking at scaps, wanting answers form Lugh himself..gadzooks stan; get a bleeding grip of the pisshead and toss him to the ground..who we are..one stan..one man, we gotta pretend we like the wan..playing shit innit..i love you stan...wot a tit..c'mon golden ballss..snigger..hey pack it in, stan is our leader in soccer lore, have some damn respect..cuisle on and hate but remeber we Love, stan..we thought you would turn up for the guard of honour, keot waiting by yer wans, to upset at the trauma of the drubbing to face the stewards silent inquiry that night i cannot forget, but no longer recall who beat us, prefer to forget the bhouys do stan...we Love; do you stan staunton?
And yet nea, but yet the soccer magus and prophet staunton from Drogheda was delivered a galactic intervention needed to rescue him off pitch. The human stan appeared; after a semi comatase drunken mentally ill person - in clear and supreme dire straits beyond the one that went beyond stan's - drew, not the bannana of an criminally amatuer virgin heist ending in failure; but a replica firearm; or airpistol...i dunno; but summat looking approximate enough when recklessly whipped out after several bottles of buckfastfor, to cause supreme a fright to send one bannanas on the beach when in immensely serious think.
And so, at work, out of office hours most certainly - but stan works pitchside see..injecting faith, whilst trying to shoulder an arm around the new blood; wans getting a right pasting in the home arena..cries of rubbish and such..not inspiring then. Yet the odd glimpse - the san marino game..stan. Love, we'll always have the san marino match; when we humilated them just for a psycho rite of blind faith, bonkers and went a trouncing these sporting good lookers in the first and full bloom of..stan..was Marino beautiful as the Formorian Balors who ended up back wiv the gals gracing the the page in rags, glend, sars and wotsit, wiv udder wans, Aoife and her croney young aul wan, the three of as/is in one triple protectional aspect of sheer sidhe and wind, dust and a handful of broken tongues, sounding suitably stupid, thus a poetical lyricist
I
struck the glyph stan..
you were confidence personified in chill April..force for Good, the cold a reminder of what ghosts them wooden-cups bowled at lansdowne, april four degrees, above or below, none know, but cold most certainly; the hot breath froze and red nose glowing, but the voice spoke volumes, sung the fields of athenry through a megaphone, that Muster Aine sidhe, her man yer wan was a a legend, central boudhran co-ordinating 50 drums, dr Yees wiv his megaphone at Lansdowne for the real game of Legend, Leinster chaps and Limerick dockers, there for a friendly - grudge - match of sheer stubborness, brutal logic of one for all or die trying; the one in the top five of any sport, the ye observing and turning life to Art.
And this fake piece of metallic armoury was wielded by the drunk, interupting within Mr staunton's personal space and national soccer lore - peace - when our leader do be pacing a shoreline in deep ponder, wondering what professional woe was to appear next in his war with the hacks.
And what did is the most so bizzare thing, that it was, effectively, a miracle of sorts. At the next press conference, about the ensuing game for which stan had been pacing about, for it were a day or two afore the actual existential kick off, the home game, after the fake gun; not banna - had been pulled on stan, by an irrate; not fan - but bewildered fellow citizen and lunatic - Stan was pissed off personally, and his deeper spirit, not only flickered, but thus, flamed.
As he actually couldn't give a toss about the personal trauma to himself of havinmg a pisshead wield an imitation arm in his space - man who pulled a fake gun on him - ..erm; actually i remember now, the gunman was bladdered on heavy proof liquors, a concoction of much booze; so stan properly copped onto that sharpo.
But either way, stan staunton wasn't arsed about himself; but his parents and family, as the press intrusion angle, of them not being relevant to a soccer match. And yet in a mad way, a good - bono - crazee sense of irrefutable logical irish way, life works ok; the island where memory is queen and royal flush busting, or at least check mating any other wan, yers aul wans a holding as sidhe, shee, tuatha de dannan..she..shh, sh - Love
Expand my base of Love. please, i urge you vist and speak uncensored by time. Nea snip but a double gift of two coterminious threads,
Wanna waffle wiv yer gob in the vacuum?
..who do we choose, dearest reader of One love, one hug, we gotta harry that language bro..go wan and be on yer own sailor breathing in shadow and shade in ones native..english innit, peesey pie laah, so go lick the tree in a room full just being tree like, in littered garish faux aul D minus and piece of peace ohhmm'ing as only a wooden can.
So suck on the twig witchery bog breath, druidical space magi gather..literature, Love 3 sweeden O that night stan first appeared as saviour wiv a living legend, Robbo in full five year bus pass OAP back up mode, stood starring by cameras squeezing stan's hand; before he was hospitalised with another health fright, he once again, amazingly defied and sailed through - A1 living legend Mr robson; wiping our manager's imaginal arse..and yet nea, for we and bobby, robbo, bob rosbon he is mate, why eye, if it aint mah gee'ordie wan Roberto Cúchulainn, and i beat them 3 nothing scando sweede breateing turnips that raw spring night, April stars, slick sky, the roar of support keeping all there warm, in a friendly wan - and yet still - passion reversed and reserved, coyote like shyness, a diametric oppositional flux in perfect harmony, essentially itself, yerself; and being friendly an all, true national spirit of fair play appeared..phoof..just like that; 40 thousand witnesses; coopered to it,
Love... The next game, alas, bobby was needed to wipe stan down, after a drubbing we got by poorer opposition and staunton's golden glow disappeared in bitter recriminations, Keano sized slaggings and batterings in a continual and unceasing wave after wave of woe for the spirit of soccer on the island.
And when stan appeared pitchside, as manager, making it happen on the pitch by sheer belief alone, none nea more were wanting to believe, for the results and state of on pitch action, spoke far far louder than the Louth wan, getting it wrong; even uninventive soccer hacks slagged, wounding staunton at will, embarresing to read really, and tv interviews showing yer man under the cosh and in supreme personal turmoil, professionally, as saviour and flame of island soccer spiritual lore writing his own myth.
Alas; it went downhill, this geordie louth paradise of sir and partnership of stanley staunton avec roberto robson; taking on the hue and tenor - in the press - of true greek tradegy worthy of a laughably inventive armageddon myth; itself to appear in the next match, as Hera doing whatever it is she does to ramp up prophecy, her locks of woe in what three tri con of pure bollix beleif stan was having back then an all...
Coz stan was shown up for the chancer he bleeding was see; prophetic doom was voiced in the fecking Star, the Sun affirming how shit he was, how worthy of pure viciousness he was deserving, how professional soccer journalist jihadic windbags exhaled their green bile on this man of tender wan years being beaten racketeringly by these horrid mob of negative trollie gits.
Thus to fail stan had to be, and..hey, get real and sack the turnip breathing thick git, before michael barrymore nicks his job.
But then, a random and even more supremely divine intervention. the miracle everyone knew in their most secret of selves, who - it is clear now - collectively held similar pictures, within the immediate and central same border of dernier or some such natural tide-mark of anarchy this island has, and thus life in the psychic breath of her living wans; and stans professional armageddon within the pincers of fictional lore, at that time.. back then an all..when we was bludding in yer new wans..had a tough druidical call to it, a big ask; yet a printed sacrafice in the press; the stringing up of stan an all..afore the match.
The riling and back bitchery goss, spuming in byzantium labrinth, pro-begrduger nasities and yer wotist wans all gunked wiv hate an all..back in the day when it where fair go and game to play the man; no intention of kicking the ball, going for bone, a clean unlucky break, accidental wans..erm..a hem..was not the true Keano spirit, the defiance that goes beyond being pensioned out at the foot of a living soccer Legend from the most staunchly pro territorial bunch. thus doesn't it just be then, Stan staunton's Art - dan; sidhe it is..bleeding faeries pal..is all that keeps him sane..stanley in swan grace with apple and yew trees, an acorn and ridge pole,
the silver branch of an enobling stroll on the sand looking for clues to cement success in his future, but all stan found was an inebriated troll, flaming on the aul wounds, picking at scaps, wanting answers form Lugh himself..gadzooks stan; get a bleeding grip of the pisshead and toss him to the ground..who we are..one stan..one man, we gotta pretend we like the wan..playing shit innit..i love you stan...wot a tit..c'mon golden ballss..snigger..hey pack it in, stan is our leader in soccer lore, have some damn respect..cuisle on and hate but remeber we Love, stan..we thought you would turn up for the guard of honour, keot waiting by yer wans, to upset at the trauma of the drubbing to face the stewards silent inquiry that night i cannot forget, but no longer recall who beat us, prefer to forget the bhouys do stan...we Love; do you stan staunton?
And yet nea, but yet the soccer magus and prophet staunton from Drogheda was delivered a galactic intervention needed to rescue him off pitch. The human stan appeared; after a semi comatase drunken mentally ill person - in clear and supreme dire straits beyond the one that went beyond stan's - drew, not the bannana of an criminally amatuer virgin heist ending in failure; but a replica firearm; or airpistol...i dunno; but summat looking approximate enough when recklessly whipped out after several bottles of buckfastfor, to cause supreme a fright to send one bannanas on the beach when in immensely serious think.
And so, at work, out of office hours most certainly - but stan works pitchside see..injecting faith, whilst trying to shoulder an arm around the new blood; wans getting a right pasting in the home arena..cries of rubbish and such..not inspiring then. Yet the odd glimpse - the san marino game..stan. Love, we'll always have the san marino match; when we humilated them just for a psycho rite of blind faith, bonkers and went a trouncing these sporting good lookers in the first and full bloom of..stan..was Marino beautiful as the Formorian Balors who ended up back wiv the gals gracing the the page in rags, glend, sars and wotsit, wiv udder wans, Aoife and her croney young aul wan, the three of as/is in one triple protectional aspect of sheer sidhe and wind, dust and a handful of broken tongues, sounding suitably stupid, thus a poetical lyricist
I
struck the glyph stan..
you were confidence personified in chill April..force for Good, the cold a reminder of what ghosts them wooden-cups bowled at lansdowne, april four degrees, above or below, none know, but cold most certainly; the hot breath froze and red nose glowing, but the voice spoke volumes, sung the fields of athenry through a megaphone, that Muster Aine sidhe, her man yer wan was a a legend, central boudhran co-ordinating 50 drums, dr Yees wiv his megaphone at Lansdowne for the real game of Legend, Leinster chaps and Limerick dockers, there for a friendly - grudge - match of sheer stubborness, brutal logic of one for all or die trying; the one in the top five of any sport, the ye observing and turning life to Art.
And this fake piece of metallic armoury was wielded by the drunk, interupting within Mr staunton's personal space and national soccer lore - peace - when our leader do be pacing a shoreline in deep ponder, wondering what professional woe was to appear next in his war with the hacks.
And what did is the most so bizzare thing, that it was, effectively, a miracle of sorts. At the next press conference, about the ensuing game for which stan had been pacing about, for it were a day or two afore the actual existential kick off, the home game, after the fake gun; not banna - had been pulled on stan, by an irrate; not fan - but bewildered fellow citizen and lunatic - Stan was pissed off personally, and his deeper spirit, not only flickered, but thus, flamed.
As he actually couldn't give a toss about the personal trauma to himself of havinmg a pisshead wield an imitation arm in his space - man who pulled a fake gun on him - ..erm; actually i remember now, the gunman was bladdered on heavy proof liquors, a concoction of much booze; so stan properly copped onto that sharpo.
But either way, stan staunton wasn't arsed about himself; but his parents and family, as the press intrusion angle, of them not being relevant to a soccer match. And yet in a mad way, a good - bono - crazee sense of irrefutable logical irish way, life works ok; the island where memory is queen and royal flush busting, or at least check mating any other wan, yers aul wans a holding as sidhe, shee, tuatha de dannan..she..shh, sh - Love
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Dream on and Spiel Bhouy
I have always been a voracious reader and in the formative years was lucky to have a sister 5 years older who is a book nut, and thus i imbibed the classics; as she was making up her own canon with a first class brain; now speaking three languages - lives in Rome and her kids speak yada yada yada. Too clever by half; but loadsa stuff that i have forgot, yet, as canons go, a pretty broad wan and perfect, as i only read them coz they were there.
So my eldest sister is responsible for me first reading in a neutral way - or rather - the selection of books was just "there" and - looking back - was perfect in every sense; as i didn't have to decide myself what to choose when starting out, and thus could then - and now - approach books impartially.
And whilst we begin with a healthy reverence coz we are "fans first" writers second; as we up our oeuvre - word count - this starts tipping, as we become as much writer as reader.
And to be a writer one need only strike one glyph.
I
You is the writer, essentially, and don't please disagree, even if you do. In print be proud. You have as much right as any writer, whoever they are and be. That's what we learn as we do it, that writing is a con - or trick of the mind - or rather; the registers and incredibly important gravitas critics try to muster up about individual books in the rags, of - decision - yea or nea - success or failure - is a con.
Because the literary worth of any book is rarely - either or - but more sophisticated than that; and honesty is the "voice" we try to "find" and out as a writer.
And as we crack on and get an oeuvre under our belt of experience, realise that - actually - it doesn't matter what life we have as a writer, as it is a state of mind first.
The "there" within only we alone have and uncover - or not. And it is the dig of word, word, write, one by one, which leads us to the inner "there", which is all writing is.
And I am here as a bore first and bores buzz off this affirmational discovery, when we get the hang and sense of writing. When the initial:
"oh no i am shit with nowt to say of interest" - wears off as we suss on that, actually i do have stuff to say, and - for me - it all began around the age of 14 - the most impressionable age for the mind, like the Ovid line about the mind being but warm wax melding to whatever form is there.
And the very first intellectual questioning was pondering the relationship between one and zero. Something and nothing. All night long i would ponder in sheer amazed going nowhere'ness. Being stoned without having to inhale.
And although i hadn't took in any philosophy, i think that 14 is a pretty fair mean average age when most minds first awake, questioning.
The initial wonderment which strikes with only the virgin bloom of truth, and most tender of times; although i do remember thinking i was a step ahead of others intellectually; as my sounding board was H, the brain-box of the year who has a ferocious intelligence and is now some engineering doctor in the corporate machine.
Hubris. But whatever it was, i launched over the lip into youth/adult-hood, full on and reckless.
Looking back now i was still the same in the head. No changes or fundamental intellectual u turns since then; always the same outlook and belief. A brief flirt with frank zappa was as whacko as i got; but the books i read is like knowing what song is on the piano as it plays, we learn this first.
Before we write knowingly, we believe never will we play it ourselves, be musical.
So we take on and in every note until our Love for literature spills over and we find a succession of messiahs in print. Me and H discussing Herman Hesse and Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance in the top field in the fourth and fifth year of high school.
Our fads as serial philanderers in the party of Literacy; true free lovers abandoning ourselves in the affirmational register of:
Yes, i read and loved it.
And getting windier, certitude, the unknowing next stage of actually getting a life in print.
We all love reading and - de facto logical - writing; and after we have been a reader for years and sport online here, we get a different take on the biz, just by writing ourselves in the bear pit of internet and wood pulp. And it is interesting to have this life in print, become a cheerleader and dictator of literate Love, in the best sense of a benign dictator who doesn't really boss, but our experience alone, outing here, in the new media.
The wealth of readership we have accrued, enough of a weight to make us believe we are the un-fake and real reader first. And the logical next step as we read - and after decades or nea of reading - is that we get the urge to talk in print about our love for these fictions and wotnot.
And so we talk, first off being ourselves as best we can, until a strange line/stage/level whatever is crossed/ascended whatever; and it is only after the act, and when in it, when we read back what we wrote, we realise that this first time thing happened.
The simple honest muse coming through after a few hundred thousand words of dig and imitation, we realise as we cotton on to the basics of the craft.
Coz when we start, all we can do is imitate what we have read, and if we have a library in our head, silent and uncommented on, it takes a while to find our feet and the true warmth of practice cheering us up no end as we sit alone armed with nought but a hard stare into space and dreams of Love and peace.
And we get loved up in print, or rather, we get honest in it, thinking...hey, i like this feeling of being real in print, me as i want to appear to others, as a reader of thousands of books it took me to get to this stage of talk.
And i apologise for any over-exuberance or weirdness that may stop the flow of craic, the call and return, online hurley it is, for me, trolling all day and i am learning to understand in a gang i realise now are just like me, in love with writing and reading as human beings.
And to try and make up for the daft posts i did dear reader, i want to ask we pretend for a mo.
We have to name a favourite book and talk about it.
Not why or owt like that, but just to get the ball and flow of talk rolling, coz it's only pretend see, so there are no rules but they we make up as we pretend. And though i am not expressing what i want, the fact that we only know each other in print, and time being the key to what trust is here after our two year suss of words and thus the outing here..mine is erm...top of the head it has to be; not yer fave, but when the first word/book title appears, just dive straight in and start gassing owt.
Coz its the swim, the process that i'm after, beauty and humanity with truth as we start to suss how to just be ourself in print.
So forget the amber light in the UK traffic control system. The "get ready" and prepare one.
In Ireland they don't have it, and this was the first thing i realised after a week, and it removes the chance of cocking up through over-preparedness. That one last tap of a pocket to check you have...whatever in there - for the hundredth time - in the very moment that the light goes red-amber; the two seconds that can trip you up.
You blowing it - not purposely, but nerves perhaps - the brief wait. And in Ireland it aint here. It's either or, no three way split of stop get ready go, but stop and go, that's it and it is almost an insignificance - but a very real difference it makes - this tiny thing that is nought but a mode, a method or idea essentially.
A mindset of "this is how it is," when it actually isn't a divine thing, but human mindset, and ermm..fave book in my mind now, all the Sven Hassel war novels. Obviously raw and war, not my real fave, but that's what came.
Any takers?
So my eldest sister is responsible for me first reading in a neutral way - or rather - the selection of books was just "there" and - looking back - was perfect in every sense; as i didn't have to decide myself what to choose when starting out, and thus could then - and now - approach books impartially.
And whilst we begin with a healthy reverence coz we are "fans first" writers second; as we up our oeuvre - word count - this starts tipping, as we become as much writer as reader.
And to be a writer one need only strike one glyph.
I
You is the writer, essentially, and don't please disagree, even if you do. In print be proud. You have as much right as any writer, whoever they are and be. That's what we learn as we do it, that writing is a con - or trick of the mind - or rather; the registers and incredibly important gravitas critics try to muster up about individual books in the rags, of - decision - yea or nea - success or failure - is a con.
Because the literary worth of any book is rarely - either or - but more sophisticated than that; and honesty is the "voice" we try to "find" and out as a writer.
And as we crack on and get an oeuvre under our belt of experience, realise that - actually - it doesn't matter what life we have as a writer, as it is a state of mind first.
The "there" within only we alone have and uncover - or not. And it is the dig of word, word, write, one by one, which leads us to the inner "there", which is all writing is.
And I am here as a bore first and bores buzz off this affirmational discovery, when we get the hang and sense of writing. When the initial:
"oh no i am shit with nowt to say of interest" - wears off as we suss on that, actually i do have stuff to say, and - for me - it all began around the age of 14 - the most impressionable age for the mind, like the Ovid line about the mind being but warm wax melding to whatever form is there.
And the very first intellectual questioning was pondering the relationship between one and zero. Something and nothing. All night long i would ponder in sheer amazed going nowhere'ness. Being stoned without having to inhale.
And although i hadn't took in any philosophy, i think that 14 is a pretty fair mean average age when most minds first awake, questioning.
The initial wonderment which strikes with only the virgin bloom of truth, and most tender of times; although i do remember thinking i was a step ahead of others intellectually; as my sounding board was H, the brain-box of the year who has a ferocious intelligence and is now some engineering doctor in the corporate machine.
Hubris. But whatever it was, i launched over the lip into youth/adult-hood, full on and reckless.
Looking back now i was still the same in the head. No changes or fundamental intellectual u turns since then; always the same outlook and belief. A brief flirt with frank zappa was as whacko as i got; but the books i read is like knowing what song is on the piano as it plays, we learn this first.
Before we write knowingly, we believe never will we play it ourselves, be musical.
So we take on and in every note until our Love for literature spills over and we find a succession of messiahs in print. Me and H discussing Herman Hesse and Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance in the top field in the fourth and fifth year of high school.
Our fads as serial philanderers in the party of Literacy; true free lovers abandoning ourselves in the affirmational register of:
Yes, i read and loved it.
And getting windier, certitude, the unknowing next stage of actually getting a life in print.
We all love reading and - de facto logical - writing; and after we have been a reader for years and sport online here, we get a different take on the biz, just by writing ourselves in the bear pit of internet and wood pulp. And it is interesting to have this life in print, become a cheerleader and dictator of literate Love, in the best sense of a benign dictator who doesn't really boss, but our experience alone, outing here, in the new media.
The wealth of readership we have accrued, enough of a weight to make us believe we are the un-fake and real reader first. And the logical next step as we read - and after decades or nea of reading - is that we get the urge to talk in print about our love for these fictions and wotnot.
And so we talk, first off being ourselves as best we can, until a strange line/stage/level whatever is crossed/ascended whatever; and it is only after the act, and when in it, when we read back what we wrote, we realise that this first time thing happened.
The simple honest muse coming through after a few hundred thousand words of dig and imitation, we realise as we cotton on to the basics of the craft.
Coz when we start, all we can do is imitate what we have read, and if we have a library in our head, silent and uncommented on, it takes a while to find our feet and the true warmth of practice cheering us up no end as we sit alone armed with nought but a hard stare into space and dreams of Love and peace.
And we get loved up in print, or rather, we get honest in it, thinking...hey, i like this feeling of being real in print, me as i want to appear to others, as a reader of thousands of books it took me to get to this stage of talk.
And i apologise for any over-exuberance or weirdness that may stop the flow of craic, the call and return, online hurley it is, for me, trolling all day and i am learning to understand in a gang i realise now are just like me, in love with writing and reading as human beings.
And to try and make up for the daft posts i did dear reader, i want to ask we pretend for a mo.
We have to name a favourite book and talk about it.
Not why or owt like that, but just to get the ball and flow of talk rolling, coz it's only pretend see, so there are no rules but they we make up as we pretend. And though i am not expressing what i want, the fact that we only know each other in print, and time being the key to what trust is here after our two year suss of words and thus the outing here..mine is erm...top of the head it has to be; not yer fave, but when the first word/book title appears, just dive straight in and start gassing owt.
Coz its the swim, the process that i'm after, beauty and humanity with truth as we start to suss how to just be ourself in print.
So forget the amber light in the UK traffic control system. The "get ready" and prepare one.
In Ireland they don't have it, and this was the first thing i realised after a week, and it removes the chance of cocking up through over-preparedness. That one last tap of a pocket to check you have...whatever in there - for the hundredth time - in the very moment that the light goes red-amber; the two seconds that can trip you up.
You blowing it - not purposely, but nerves perhaps - the brief wait. And in Ireland it aint here. It's either or, no three way split of stop get ready go, but stop and go, that's it and it is almost an insignificance - but a very real difference it makes - this tiny thing that is nought but a mode, a method or idea essentially.
A mindset of "this is how it is," when it actually isn't a divine thing, but human mindset, and ermm..fave book in my mind now, all the Sven Hassel war novels. Obviously raw and war, not my real fave, but that's what came.
Any takers?
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