Blood and the Moon
Blessed be this place,
More blessed still this tower;
A bloody, arrogant power
Rose out of the race
Uttering, mastering it,
Rose like these walls from these
Storm-beaten cottages --
In mockery I have set
A powerful emblem up,
And sing it rhyme upon rhyme
In mockery of a time
Half dead at the top.
This is the opening part I of VI in the fifth poem of a 1933 volume: The Winding Stair and Other Poems, by the daddy of the lot, mister BY liam of the ancient race of mask made oath bound guild citizens of a sacred and profane that comes from our s/he of the me and U2, the Mind -- all of us, bono fawns gamboling through Time: *rhyming and timing* -- as founding godfather slam poet from the unique Mulligan school of Marty: marty muligan from Mullingar, puts the biz of being Live at work.
The three other parts, are an eloquent rant about how the then contemporary poets of the Yeat's generation, were -- half dead at the top -- and pine for a totally fictitious state from this noted sidhe seeker, mister BY doing the faeries' work.
When he wrote it, he was in his last decade of life, and a lifetime of mystical exploration and self-making on the supernatural plane/s where he sought for evidence of God, had been distilled into his book, *The Vision*, in which the learning of 50 yrs had been decanted.
Liam Yeats was the son of a man whose own father was a priest, and who trained as a barrister before opting to go with his heart, Painting.
He rebelled against his own father (wby's grandad), rejecting the absolutism Men of the cloth often preach, and though he was not commercially successful, he was happier painting than prosecuting and defending for far more cash than his creative Self could compete with.
So mister Yeats's himself was reared by a man who'd rebelled against his own upbringing by a priest; and thus - if John Yeats's, the father of by far our most bardic trained of all 20C poet's - if his own father couldn't persuade him the god of the church of ireland was all around us, this indicates ...what?
Liam Y: was just a mad head who wasn't messing about his faery lover/s -- the sidhe of s/he in you, me, everybody, the Mind, intelligence, we all have one, and no one is better than any other, we are all human first, the rest is just speculation, conjecture and conversation positing theories whose Truth cannot be ascertained, as the truth is, s/he is all around us in the airs of John B and a keen goodness in the faeries of Yeats contemplation,
..golden dawn initiate who made their own masque and knew what manque scop plastic tank tops, went abba fabtastic in the wholly here and yah...yah, R culture, Concrete poetry, it is according to Liam slotting in triskle and triad --- The wisdom of Trinities and tuatha de danann ghosts, sidhe troop hosts and shadows in caves drawing fear from the natives loving Fodhla within their spiritual culture bestowed by the s/he of a unique pool of ppl, expressing the individuals right to believe in whatever God/s spiritual exploration leads a faith to found itself
upon... oh yah..never will the ship of Majesty steer to mister Stearns like boors, plastic English ppl's devoid of Life idea of hell, the s/he of a tic toc mocking veneer at high alters of the faith unworked, natural not, no sidhe in the you of me Us and at you 2, yah --- again..
the highest lingo bearla filidh singing, s/he and We the poet ppl sing in, our Mind the goddess queen of memory, two state/s of you, us, we and them a minority in the geo-physical theatre/s of State and Mind/s, suffrage and masons, worn leathered tan light weathered in orange glow, their capo drawn shades an eye, balding gentlemen, large bloke/s bashing for cash: comment is free in the Union of one another, our dream of unity, of being top con, only the poetical space between each moment to moment sequentially passing from the here to then: tells of what oath bound sworn Lovers of the sidhe there know of Abraham, Amergin and Don's triad, Eber and Eremon, four of twenty four bro's: took it from Pythagorean druids of the Tuatha De Danann..
...all unreal, unknown human connection to God states of mind man makes to justify penal rhetoric: for the punishing of native/s being themself...God around all on the planet differs from place to place, the Earth itself one stone holding all the waves of time and occurence that ever broke, washed lightly in Brython or bullying tudor english, the era of english linguistic Genius, and periods of bloodletting -- shelter, and One light after the last collaps of a European empire stacked with expensively educated and well payed leaders of a two speed trough. The Irish saints and scholars untouched by imperial cons not Connacta, Uliad nor An Mhuman.
And the scapegoaters wanting to blame us, for what? a Truth being happier, clever and eloquent rather than angry, ranting and really, moan in print and stay unhappy, outface the position of the protagonist opposite andenjoy distilling higher proofs of clear reason, poetry, what is it good for, absolutely nothing but to be remembered after the authors have signed off inhaling the air that powers verbal objects of eloquent beauty, a biographical score card of full honest innings, no bending to the faux cheps and gels, in our memory..
And it matters not if we are stephen Hawkings or GW deniers loving mister B's wars for all the nightly reasons of feeling safe with an Image, a mask and imagination, the wit to use it for the sidhe gods and Noh theatrical traditions, which never surrender to plassies without real bhard training..
gra agus siochainn..