Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Lonliness Of The Moon

They live in the lamplight of dusk
riven shade, releasing souls
from the stone of dolmen beds
Diarmuid and Gráinne stretched
out on when fleeing from Fionn.

We live as water, their lair’s
underground and we listen
to sea shells for sounds of their life
crowding in on us.

Now their memory is lost, dream
stealing and tossed by love,
bent by Manannán’s whim,
we steer the world, a spinning top
of life, the merry go round
they draw still, and watch
collecting in the ether, the air
of humanity’s ghost,
its shadow dissolving their light,
and our rough thought, swept
gentle in the grain of speech
a hue of Áine and Aengus Óg.

Stay upon our rock and set love
free, be gentle and kind
whilst remembering life
is precious, breathing invisibly
still, hear?

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Angelic Deer Cry

Strong is the power of ones light.
The spiritual armour of goodness
Resisting rulers' wicked wiles
And the cult of men in darkness.
Within us our beastial faith lies,
Learning of truth in the fearless
Charm composed to invoke divine
Defence against all manner of evil
And inscribed upon Saint Patricks
Breastplate. A loricae. The snippet
Below, in druidic protection meter.

"I arise today
Through the strength of heaven
Light of sun
Radiance of moon
Splendour of fire
Speed of lightening
Swiftness of wind
Depth of the sea
Stability of earth
Firmness of rock.

I arise today
Through God's strength to pilot me."

Peace we shod in the feet of faith
Standing in light with a shield
Of truth. Damnation we quench
By prayer. No devil fire awaits
Above; all wickedness is here
On earth. Salvation - in the end
Is down to us, flesh and sword,
The word our blood, and spirit
Gods writing it hear our belief.

Saturday, October 20, 2007

Cherish Mon Amis.

I recently read a book on Yeats. The Yeats We Knew, which are the texts of five Thomas Davis Lectures, first broadcast on RTE in 1965, as part of the centenary celebrations of his birth. These short memoirs in this 100 page slim book, give the reader a glimpse of the man behind the mask. And the impression we are left with is, he was a lonely man. He made it his business to strike the poetical pose, and really i am just riffing now as my energies are gone somewhat.

After a brief flood and flash,
lead the evening dance to a goal
he has

the verse king of Kilmainham, free
to sing, made reality a webbed light
of October mist withering in pale grey
cloud that dimmed to a soft cool
breeze, chilled as night drew in.

And the ghost of William Yeats said:

"Then what?"

Did the words he write solve any wrongs
or slights his loved ones suffered
as they fled? And what cold bed
of mourning found the arch beneath
which i awoke, dawned on heather,
left in rann, a rambling man waffling on,
head sieved to a million bits
as instructors came, speaking
of this and that to him?

Of how silence persecutes
a void of knowing calm
in setting sun, as a brief flash of solitary
life leaves us, all and one, all alone,
the ghosts who sit on Yeats's throne
and count the hours before morning
in moon lit mists that wax on wrongs
we suffer when the cold grey gun
- pulled to shoot a dream that blew
a brothers head wide open -
makes a splash for cameramen
who catch the brain seeping
as critics tell you of us, jangling on
and on, calling for the glow to spot,
shine upon one mind alone?

An audience anonymity dressed,
freedom dead so we can sing
of our concealed sex, saying,
what of it?

Tell the mob to name
what isn't in the hat and then, after
that, to rhyme the hours we have took
and speak, without a cursing call
or backward look, goodbye, adios,
the world released us mon amis,
to a vacuum of knowing, and the slow
sharp pull of bestowing one cloak
we made as humanity leaped in crawing
song. And men and women hiding
there, who believed in freedom once,
will ask, is it here to sing again?

Of course said A to B to C
we only wanted to be free
in our anonymity. What's our name,
tell us quick, let them keep invisible
irrelevance in heavy hints, our wish
in clever words revealed a sinning
truth kinking time, in wrought
thinning sloped grace of a moon
facing West.

They jangle on faery friends and sing
of what lies eloquence make behind
the grey eyes of a grey ghost
and the hooded caul of a thousand
broken lives left blowing in the laughter
of songs sung anonymously that sing
and strike the blow; tell us
of yourself, oh invisible host, again.

And really, it was a good read.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Shock and Bore

Someone asked what had happened to Peter Hitchens, the man who advocates genoicide for muslims, brother to Christopher the Daily Mail fascist, both of whom have made a life out of professional moaning.

What's happened to him?

I think he has detached from humanity. I saw him on the British TV programme, Question Time and he looked fighting fit, much more well scrubbed than his brother who was also on the same show. He struck me as very arrogant. A very "important" air about him. I haven't read any of his stuff, and so can only respond to him as an intellectual construct and printed entity. Detached from the real humanity of him, as i have only experienced Hitch via an electronic image, talking on a TV show to a crowd of people.

Many who asks questions, this is there moment in the spotlight. Imagine the tales of the audience, the bungled question say for one unused to public speaking. The tongue tied and shy and the unique individuals, all of them, just like Hitch and his bro. Hitch struck me as a very articulate person, and a great sense of conviction about what he said. That he believed what he was advocating, was the main point i got from this experience.

And reading the blog Rosen links to about Hitchen doing his warmonger act to a provincial American audience, was struck by how the writer also interpreted him in person. Basically saying that what he advocated was genocide of a billion people who have a faith in a fiction he trashes as such, but very unintelligently, and selfishly, i suspected, as what he promotes is linked to his own financial position.

The book he wrote, from what i gather, however clever the arguments in it, also promote what he is known for saying, which is to address what he sees as a problem which has not materially affected his own existence, with great physical force. I think he may have carved out a very well paid career for himself, as a man who causes controversy in order to benefit financially from the hoo ha.

A very selfish and ultimately unintelligent thing really, as he is basically advocating world war, just so he can fly round the world and feeling important as he winds up the masses. He doesn't advocate a solution to the problems his own mind alone puffs up - magnifying a threat and blowing it out of proportion, for the selfish reasons of making himself money, i suspect - and thus he displays supreme stupidity; as the ultimate logic of what he is saying, would cause his golden laying goose and jet set life to disappear, and it would be only then the daft git copped on.

When the financially lucrative rhetoric he espouses, talking in a very confrontational way and offending the fundamental sensibilities of a culture not his own, returned materially at its most terrible logic consequence, and forced the silly twit to live in the material conditions his stupidity seems intent on creating for others he does not know personally and who play no part in his life, except as the fictional fodder feeding his golden goose.

I would suggest we laugh at him, as there is nothing more effective than deflating the ego of a self important bore like this person..what's his name? Hitchens hitching his soul to the dark side we all have the hate of a fighting fit hack whose cause is getting cash, whose love is imperial, whose books sell by the shed load, feeding on a wave of fear and causing it to grow. One man, one dickhead who calls people stupid to their face when they ask him a question, as the linked article states. If one person calls another stupid, surely it means they too understand and are capable of stupidity?

A good rule of thumb is that anyone who flies round the world profiting from a rhetoric advocating genocide, making lots of lolly, insulated completely from the worlds they speak of, knowing them only as a specialist self righteous bore who passes through gathering evidence for his one sided crap arguments many find distasteful, the rule of thumb is these people are dangerous talkers doing it, not for a Love of humanity, but money. Speak of the daft git, but his arguments are rubbish and he has had a lifetime sat on his arse thinking in print, and anyone can sound reasonable and clever, if they find out how to.

The real responsibility a writer has once they have reached this state of eloquence, i believe, is to try and make the world a better place, not worse, and by the sounds of it, he wants muslims to suffer, so he can have a few quid. And so i hereby propose Hitchen be known from now on as the man who scratches for hate, itching sore points and if he really wants to help, to go and help as a charity worker in a third world country and get a dose of humanity, like right now, and give the thick cu.. a cutting quip, quick, hitch him to Love and forget the guy, man, male macho he a bricklayer, a carpenter, and artist of the flesh? No, so picture the thicko as a man in a dress, visualise it and laugh.

Call him an idiot sat on his arse for a living, aint he the clever dick, a sissy, a big girls blouse who hasn't got the courage to fight the physical battles his doom and gloom, but very financially lucrative texts call for. So what does that say?

He wants to be cock of the world, but is a coward who does it with a clever hating mind, as he feels physically inadequate, obviously. Silence the gob by seeing him for what he is. A prickle ickle dickie wickle boring git..we love you hitch, please, we beseech you, stop being such a miserable git, bluddy moaning all the time for cash, and surprise yourself and us by doing summat good for a change...learn Arabic and tell us then what you do know, i bet you bloody can't be arsed to speak of the muslim world in a language it understands instead of all this phoney baloney hack speak that is so last millennium man, aint you heard, humanity has been restored, should you choose to believe it.

I do and earn nowt from my pronouncements but the good feeling i get from working hard and not going for the easy kicking. We can all moan, but the true pros know the real gift is speaking of goodness, the .00001% who learn how to control their gobs and direct poetic goodness to come, with nought but the mind and a belief in whatever fiction it takes to float. Ascend, transcend the quotidian and reach the enobling stream, in order to lead by example..