Wendy Howe

Presence

A string of dust drops
from the corner of the ceiling
in to the small room below ---

first still, then stirred softly
into motion
by a woman's breath.

Her respiration is warm
thickening with sorrow
while the white thread glistens.

Floss untwisted from the fine tatting
of a spider's craft,
it swings back and forth
widening the square pocket of air...

Wendy Howe

~

I began this as an extemporised riff as a result of responding to *how did the Susan Howe day go?* inquiry by Geraldine Monk on the British Irish poets list, and got

"the day began with an address by s/he to the many gender neutral minds,constructed with thought alone, there to direct their celebratory and affirmational force, toward the work of this wonderfully well known guild member, who lets face it, when the sheep and goats get sorted in latter times by the children of our childrens childrens children in the next century..."

and it struck me to speak of a far less known, yet equally worthy poet who also shares Susan Howe's surname:

Wendy Howe.

Wendy Howe is a NY state english teacher and computer teacher who i first came across around the time i discovered GM's work, and impressed me equally. There was a site with about 60 or so poems of hers there (though i think she has since removed it) and i spent two days reading them, feeling i had found a true trove of classy verbal gear, and what struck me was the simple lyric Horacean construction.


I wrote to her she told me she had been writing since she was 15, so -- 30 yrs at it -- and far ahead of my eye in experience.

What clinched it critically, that this was poetry of a proof in the top 10 percent of contemporary practitioners, was that the site of these poems, wasa bit like the old BBC Get Writing one, and as each poem was added, timed and dated (the sixty were posted over three or four yrs i think) it drew what were cleartly sincere comments from ppl who were not poets and just simple appreciators of this deft evocative lyric voice.

We had a brief exchange of e mails over a few weeks and she sent me her six point Poetic outlining how she approaches the art of writing verse..

~

Though Elizabeth's Bishop and Dickenson, are seperated by two or three poetgenerations (D dying 25 yrs before B was born in 1911), these are the two the mind yokes into an Image underlining a metaphor of two career trajectories: one (Bishop) conducted at the time with lots of chatter, interest, awards and wide recognition, such as Howe, Susan has...whilst Wendy Howe, is the emily dickinson parallel, and below is her six point composition poetic..


~


*Thank you so much for the time and consideration you
have invested in reading and contemplating my poetry.

I was very touched by the beautiful poem you write
about my verse on your Blog site. What lovely words
and imagery.

And I am most grateful for you bringing
my work to the attention of others, especially other
blog sites and some editors. I am a very modest person
who feels that my poetry has substantial, artistic
merit; Yet, I am always striving to perfect and hone
my skills. It's an on-going process and my poetry
(writing styles, voice, technique) evolves as I evolve
intellectually and spiritually.

....your courage in journeying to Ireland to become a full time poet: I
think takes a lot of determination and love of the craft, itself.

Ireland is a place that inspires and fosters poets and their work. I think
it draws people to its artistic and scenic climate because of the
myth, the song, and the struggle that has defined the history of Ireland.
Perhaps, that's why poets may be able to thrive in Dublin and receive the
audience, respect and recognition they deserve.*

(obviously wendy doesn't practice in the warm pool of crocodiles, as JP Dunleavy
terms it here)

*You asked me about technique or a method of sanity to
my writing. I have been composing poetry for over 27
years. Presently, I am 42. I started writing verse in
my early adolescence. At that point, it was all about
me and my struggle to understand life and my place in
the universe. However, as I aged and became a
teacher and mature poet, I developed some values that
have always guided my work and defined its thematic
essence.

(1) I always write with the reader or the observer in
mind. I try to make my images, my allusions and my
messages accessible to people's sense of familiarity.
In other words, I strive to employ words, metaphors
and ideas that people have experienced or encountered
in everyday life. For example, I would not use
references to tv shows, personalities, brand names
that are typically American and only understood by an
American audience. I want to be understood by all readers.

(2) I try never to weigh down my sentences with
multisyllabic words. I simplify my verse and use the
smaller words. Also, I avoid placing too many modifiers
in front of my nouns. Too many adjectives clutter the idea,
take away from the clean lines of the poetic symmetry.

(3) I always wait for inspiration to come to me
randomly. A poem (for me) must happen spontaneously
or it sounds too contrived. I go through periods of writer's
block because of this concept but it's worth waiting
for a good idea to come in the end.

(4) Sometimes, a glimpse of nature, a scrap of conversation
with a friend, a headline in the newspaper or reading
another line from a poem, sparks an idea, an image.

I always write these quick flashes of inspiration down
in a notebook. They can be developed into poems sometime
in the future.

(5) I am not afraid to leave a poem unfinished.
Sometimes I will start a poem and struggle with it for
days. At this point, I leave it and come back when I
feel I am equipped to complete it. And by length of
abandonment, I mean anywhere from a week to even a
year. There are three poems I have left up in the air
for a year each and then returned in another year to
complete them. Some people say how can this be done
when the writer loses her continuity of thought or
original intent over a prolonged absence from the text.
I feel the poet can bring new perspective and insight
especially if he or she has been away from the
troublesome verse for awhile. A break always gives
the mind a chance to rest and re-invests its frame of
reference with new energy and stimuli. Those traits
can help to re-shape a half-finished poem and perhaps,
lead it in a stronger direction.

(6) Always trust your gut instincts and imagination. I
have learned to be myself and trust what sounds right
to me. After all who knows my own self or thought
process better than I do.

I am sorry if this sounds too didactic but I tend to
define my methods in list form. And yet, I must say
have no perfect or set formula for writing a poem. I
mostly follow an idea and develop it into a storyline
or an observation.

I always try to keep my details and images unified. If I start with sea
imagery, I stay within that context. If I use a bird, fire or water as my
main source of meaning, my images and actions feed of that idea. I also
love history and often find creative inspiration in the situations and
challenges of people who faced great adversity or achieved something of
worth in the past. It's hard to define how I write but I work at it with
perseverance and imaginative diversity.

Below are two links that describe my poetic working habits better. The first
is an in...

----

Well, for now I have rambled on far too long. Again,
Kevin, thank you so much for all your enthusiasm and
kindness. I deeply appreciate it. I hope I have
answered your question about my writing habits to a
satisfactory degree. You know it's difficult for
writers, artists or even musicians I think to define
their own work and the impact it has. At least, it's
difficult for me and I probably should not speak for
anyone else.

I do have to run but hope this has helped you
understand my technique as a writer and my approach to
poetry. And I agree, Baraka is stunning. His work is
intense and powerful. I came across him in graduate
school and found his work riveting and unique. I
enjoyed reading that link to the interview. Thanks for
sharing it.

Best regards

Wendy

~

this is a link to two of her poems

a mice slate ard ri: literary dogging and BB

Hacks being appalled at the Taste their rivals display, was de rigeur online last week, and guardian books bloke editor...brave chief literary dogger Claire Armistead, a deluded mother of two, gave a heartfelt plea and plammy dressing down to all the anonymous ppl who say appalling things, trying to convince this misty fictional bunch paranoia creates, to change their ways, and stop saying stuff they

...know in their heart of hearts they shouldn't"


her neo communist convictions and brave handling of a persecution complex, affiliating in plastic tenors with -- what used to be called -- the working Class: and this is the dizzy moo'er and intellectual demonstrating her tragically genuine proofs of not being the brightest; not like yah..like if

"you're a number on a Home Office deportation list it isn't. Not if you're waiting to be allocated a council house." like me yah, or rather, my cleaner who i am basing my next volume of poems around, speaking, if not her voice, using the experience of being privileged enough to have Magztanyah working for me...and when i say working, that makes it sound as if i am a typical lower to mid middle Class, status, pecking order, rep, slot and Honour, award, prize, Judge obsessed grader of others not *we* Royal wannabes more than creative writer, and mother expectant of bauble, cbe, and oh, not having any real exciting mental activity going on in my own head, go for the second hand approach, of speaking up on behalf of the oppressed people, for you my Public audience.


Before i started working on the blokes bog, in sacred pooh HQ, for the GU lagtic federation of untalented fabstazi broods of foaming vixens, who speak up on behalf of they who need humanitarian and civilising verbal assistance in order to make me feel good about myself -- in the absence of real Intellectual fireworks and any long term Poetic critical construction, framework on, from and within which a writer can pontificate, appalled at the Taste of others...


...recently Armistead revealed she targeted an anonymous writer who contributed to an in house (failed) publication on the hell of being a mum to teenagers, by checking what info she had against maps of and narrowing down the mother of nightmare teens the Guardian love to fpcus on so the leader writers can strike the fuax marxist pose in print, detach for a day of ranting the world to rights...and the literary editor armistead, set about trying to physically locate her, wanting only to speak to this total stranger (who it turned out had made up her diary, sensationalised her account) face to face...which in another context, fellow doggers at the lamp post, can contextualise, as stalking -- appallingly tacky and seemingly ignorant of all irony her Taste displays --- and with no fundamental grasp of reality, this trash lit bore's never gonna staple on...i fear.


Read yah, her type of finkin, their commentator's truth, adepts in a Higher intellectual Artistic stazi of disgruntled rich idlers,

"..you know, it is all very well and good ranting, on what one perceives as injustices -- in the case of this lightweight thinker's immensely convoluted metaphors reliant on ephemeral knowledge of fleeting pointless fellow colleague-ranters' names, pointless fellow shoe ins on the bb, from common room to idle dogging on the blogg, as part of a brave new deluded class of pretend Intellectuals, who are only truly interesting, when not competing in the good aul jolly dogging.



Shirley Dent, Toynbee, Fiona Looney, Carol Malone, Anne Robinson, Hell Clinton, all Woman i do not need to read to know, are overpaid gobs spouting negative bollix, and after yrs of daily practice telling their silent void what is good for it, the polly Public which exists in one hack head alone, and prior to the net, not a voice of reason, but a singular human being, with an opinion on everything, often vicious, like the two H's younger and elder, both horrid, whingey gits, what do they do? are they fortune tellers, what's their track record as a prophet?



Public, thats Us ppl, each Unique and the gift of the net, one can learn in a way unique and in which one need not sacrifice the s/he principle, that We are all single Minds, alone and it is Hope which leads to optimism, which leads to confidence, which leads to belief, freedom democracy, all the Good civilisation...


...but ranting away as this, is a self fulfilling prophecy. If a writer only ever moans in print, after a few yrs, well, peter hitch, any number of vicious vixens, the Malones, the horrid totally bad natured cackler in the irish (yah) daily Mail whose mugshot alone tells us she revels in being a vicious, trully disgruntled professional Mum, dogging trash lit Opinion, bunches of ppl who all have good jobs that pay very well and take expensive jaunts, travel around the place in nice motors, and moan about everything in their life..


i live in a bedsit and am very very happy, on state bens, and i do not moan with the bile and bitterness these broomstick users hagging in print do...it's dead easy, write unhappy, stay unhappy, write happy, get happier until you are so far above the whiner/s one can but dance in comedic light and Human warmth, the quality s/he can aim for, as equal as s/he can go for the absence of it, fifty fifty, our Will controls what appears in print and if it is always about how Bad the world is coz some middle aged looks obsessed dreary Woman as professional construct


s/he trapped in female flesh, rants how some millionaire younger rival in the physical appearance dept, should be gassed and tortured for setting the wrong example to the bitter old bags parish of *young* ppl, as if s/he the Looney, Fiona doing all but showing her nickers and stripping off in rage, is the worlds foremost expert on everything from celebrity shopping and regular first class travel and holidaying advice, to going totally green in that particular kind of hack way, which says, do as i say, not as i do, as i am more humanly Important than ooh yah you, graded intellectually by an overpaid droning blokey pro career Woman in psychic drag...

utter trolls,

gra agus Pax dans siochainn

Hell Joan DNA

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..

Yewah

At the core of this blog, is a very perplexing question, asked in a language that challenges any potential responder to the full.

If the person holding strong faith in God, wishing to share it here; how far could they articulate before their religious views were deemed too dangerous for the reader/s?

Is it possible to speak of God in all but the most superficial sense online?

~

I have donned the name of God, in order to assist in the search for greater coherency on this eternal psychological state.

Some say now, God is dead, that we are just a collection of flesh, blood and bone and consciousness a bio-technical electrical state, pointing to the metaphor of the computer.

The material state of our body itself, based on a binary system of directional logic that progresses forward, through either-or gates, and a brain itself, the Intelligence where woman is man and vice versa, fifty fifty: the Mind god edging toward artificial intelligence, programmed by our own natural, cosmic, God given one.

Thus, if a person from 1500, through some glitch in the fabric of time and eternity, through unknown reasons of how, ended up 508 years ahead in the future, wandering down the Strand in central London, or times square NY say: surely they would believe the very devils of magic were all around them, and throwing him or herself into a state of total mental disintegration perhaps, begging God to make it all stop.

How could one begin to explain that the moving pictures drenching them, surrounding the natives, unaware of how the tv and advertising Images control our behavior and all but living ghosts to the Tudor time traveler, whose mind would need more than a lifetime to make purchase on the realities behind these, are simple, plain truths of the physical IT world.

One in which IT defines us, a society reliant on information and quantum technologies and which would collapse as the time traveler's Mind, in their tentative first exploration into this, lets face it, almost as to be effectively, unanswerable conundrum on the reality of God.

And in the opposite direction, if we were to enter a lift in the Pentagon, and exiting find ourself in 1500, facing a placid Piscataway tribe citizen, 146 years behind the first imperial proprietor of the District of Columbia, Cecilius Calvert, --- private owner of a stretch of real estate inhabited for thousands of yrs the English king Charles one, decided to allow call be Maryland (as a colony for catholics, currently under the spiritual squeeze from puritans, quakers and trad prodestant faiths) --- and knowing the only chance of taking it single handedly is to whip out the gizmos and gadgets that are part and parcel of global existence today, the locals would consider them magical objects; not the simple logical things they are.

Faith.

i think this is the basis of the fabric of reality, and God is like the binary state/s, of being a singular duality, something which is alone and with its opposite, both at once. A time dependent state of continual choices, either or, at all levels of life. From molecular to global, from the emptiest of heads filled only with hate, mass murders on the hands, conscience, both or none, maybe i am over reaching, after all, this is only a simple blog piece and not the object for one's deepest musings in print, on the subject of God.

God, in the few religions i know very little of, it seems, is a state of being, an order of fate, which the believers know through the words of the men (it was 99% men) who God spoke directly to, telling them to write down whatever it was they did; just like God is talking to me (only joking) ....prophets or charlatans, it doesn't really matter now, as the exact texts the many religions are founded on, are more weapons in games of rhetoric between interested parties, concerned enough to bring us the words of whatever God they claim to speak for, the one true one, naturally.

~

We are told by the publically religious, what God wants us to do and why, with varying degrees in the sincerity of belief, depending on what impulses a preacher to talk, usually a lot and at length, in their vocational career of spreading a Word via spiritual tenets of the God they claim to speak for.

Love and peace

traditionally.

Even non-bardic heads buried sand-like and ignorant - the straw wo/men of our bunch - stubbornly count time within; spell a game between what was behind, in front and yet to come, somewhere between these three states of imagination, where a truth of letters and two linguistic realities lie.

Few aware of the filidh/poets tradition -- though all filidh when bardcraft was practiced -- know as solidly as do not the hordes of contemporary practitioners, the fully nuanced particulars of this ancient verbal craft.


The twelve hundred centuries in which the art of this tradition existed in print, composed by numberless bardic poets whose base level of training (in comparison to today) is - to all but a handful - entirely unknown; contain keys to unlocking this fascinating verbal system, based on a sophisticated, intuited set of principles divined by speculatively casting into mirrored pools, for a poetic knowledge, returned via reflecting the essence of reality, in textual attempts which bear the imprimatur of oneself.


Communicating effectively in print and person on bardic matters, is a complex and entirely speculative discourse from which we lead ourself into a unique web of self-made literate sensibility and process, with which the poet practices blind - in effect - attempting to mark out his and her datums, constructing what level plane s/he can project onto, slowly at first, the stuff of our mental doings, and if lucky, decant some real strain of ourself into verse, on a printed page

But before we have our plane a sheened smooth surface of reflection at the well of Self, musing on whatever our instinct lead us to, we must first launch headlong into the unknown, as a total fraud, imitating what fake it is we think we should be to enter a fictional citadel of Literature and literacy an absence of intellectual self-worth and paranoia creates.

At first we are fearful of a poetic grading device imagined others calibrate our minuscule measure of natural ability with. And devoid of experience, we look to the mind/s of these imagined others constructed from a questioning, self-testing force within, and our placebo-hacker against whom one pits and measures what it is we do, forms before us.

Failure on a grander scale than what amounts to the imagined rival/s who puncture our dream and rent one's confidence asunder. The practicing cynics whose game is donning a clever mask of poet troll manqué, devoted to issuing solemn, sombre sermons in tones of high gravitas and hieratic airs woven to bluff the poorer scholar/s with a sharper wit.


Adopt a pose in which the pretended position -- that intellectual inheritance is a question of birth and not the democratic application -- advocates our intelligence and the imagination, creating with instinct alone, print in this ultra-conservative tradition of druidic precedent and principles ordered by a society's entirely civil legal system, in a way even our most skillful would need several lifetimes to fully crack and understand, in the original and ultimate impulsing idiolect and pattern of things our sworn source adheres upon.

Few contemporary poets emerge from this tradition (ultimately rooting in the Ogham alphabet), to reconnect and practice the somewhat incomprehensible rules which - for all but a few members in the guild - appear odd and illogical.

The writers ludicrously attached to this form -- offering scant return to our lovers and trolls competing in the contemporary quick thrust poetic tank of virtual bruisers (on the surface) -- attempt to compose a plea wrought wholly from love, measuring our progress in the challenge-of-self-against Self, yielding in a demonstrable process whose charted arc of knowledge, in a hopefully straightforward and logical narrative; course into the pave of forms and potential proofs proven (or in a state of proving) speculatively - to oneself - and provide perceptions within that convey one's inner-provincial strain to the exterior, universal audience, in the sense of one's poetic sounding the manner of our own essential note.

The rhyming period of always fifty 50 splits, eternity's second minute, hour ad infintum makes until re-waking, births again in any measure the key intelligence time creates, armed with only forgotten doors into modernism of yore today and now; beacons the tomorrow of our collective will our thought being in the fabric reality, can spell...

Trams heaving up West Street.

The extra weight of an ice-cream
Bank Holiday and flecks of blood
Bubbling from the night before

Like some petulant brolly-less kid

Caught in a downpour, stalling
Invisibly at the Swim Inn awning
A bus door opened as the breeze

Hurried past and began to move

At last again the sudden fleeing
Head against a single pulsing blur
Quick begins to move and traffic

Against the shop window glass

Streaming past into distant streets
Like rain sputtered routes, gathered
Watching spent under a step-rest

A sun pulling as the bus trundles

blessing a journey without ticket
Marlboro and the Zippo cloud
End round a cup, hands for cover.

S/he

A bardic return to ignorance - after a while in the woods hunting for clues to the poetic art - has left empty a scabbard-skein within, sheathing some analytical instrument which calibrates every step took as we make our way along whatever path life and love delivers us.

The nuts and bolts of language are…to paraphrase a secluded device upon which the finite balance resting hidden, staying even, remotely arranging the cross-wires fading meshed and one's connection to...


“An exterior source of four joys, whose cause is interior meaning”


...teasing itself out on the mirror within, delineating reflection/s and leading light to a singular template, armed with only the one, split to two halves; then held behind an object to replicate an infinite number spiraling back perhaps - or in a straight line; the glass tilted just so and an eye measured 'n smiling at the show of it - a shifting linguistic count of painting and picture, sifting through the invisible state.

Reality, half unreal, half a yearn for cash, and spirituality's guerdon, the recompense for effort poured into bringing before our eyes, a creative proof.

The he and she from cricket begat a cracked venture of crockery and two paths leading into neologism spun through the dream machine of sleep last night, and nights past, ever captured, in the most sensible of linguistic arithmetic experienced; dreaming just before sleep ended 'n consciousness calling; awoke wisdom of the vanishing-only trace of what remaining -- like a self made machine assembled by study and nature -- strung sophisticated and delivering keys to the divination which uncovers a core nut of knowledge, the artist of jumbled bunch letters, collapsed into a heap of meaningless phenome and verbal bites.

Whatever the rites to attainment the mind makes up, the god/s he and she (perhaps – perhaps not)

Shed empty and turned inside out
By a rational process of time

The play-pen and pal lapping around the borders of our own conundrum, puzzle of what is this 50/50, one to one ratio humanity forever builds the edifice he and she, all of us, each blade or leaf, stalk and stem, fish, fowl, plant and inanimate being, s/he the world itself a grain and globe on which animal man and woman; spool out doing whatever it is that fill our days..

Some are lucky, others less so, many, not at all, but we who are literate and can read, afford to believe our life a burden for the vastness of choice; should try and touch the hem of god/s he and she.

Move away from the diatribes of bile and distress we visit on others in print, and seek to create stability of mind, the equilibrium and neutrality of thought a specter of the other/s mind raised to face our own, asked or unwanted interplay of stranger/s (never as cut and dried as the two sides think) coincidence and the naming of God.

Rustling farm dig sniff
utterly iambic, trochee
sea/s lipped and DG kip
L hair bee gad verily


it's wand, go'er open r
elm of a fictional pie
crawling to a science,


Bohm sear st. eve n's
nuts and bolts, believe
and thus, the knowing o



hems tune, see wy into
an Ogham alphabet, per
Oxcam and ford Un i-vers
it yoidelic Galphabet cl
assed telling Q-Celt, ohm


B L F(v)S N

H D T C Q

M G Ng(v)Z R.

A O U E I


...the strange sight above is a very boring area of re-search, yet very rewarding for the driven, addicted or plain person holding a some times tattered dream with which to cheer one's Leader/s he and she,


strange a yeats or ovid could come good when the bearla filidh sound came and drew a noo sé gower editorial proof/s of the (s) yah, in flue of a beh 'ad eel of some


....so the bearla filidh means...language of the poets. bearla language, filidh plural of fili -- poet -- quo raw sat ewe versing wonderfully X yiz ir landed bow, cohm, diddlee 'ed fools ghost/s here i jack klaxon liambical moon nee ow poetry id is the 50/50 question of whom one is 'n not the hilarity of free hugs and vacuous emoticohm, cool, doon does my mils ey yah pupil ranting at the rails of in-just ice, nawn warm blod fitz school of noo droll trolly throttling massive bulls on the oink for jippers, R 'otto-wailer soil under bumming thriambickle crace craw of summat aw rarver


Feda (let ter)


Y in the above sez
NY
GN
NG

what this meant was a bit complicated to the rayl ale king/s he and she prolled in yah ha ka ka kan not doo, they say

now over ovid, love a flue of images
.


The Ogham (Ohm) alphabet, written originally
along the centerline a star vid ever tically


bottom op pot pically yal gon a den oo stave
warked with am line central The consonantal


corresponding, fifteen letters, to letters


B.L.F(V).S.N.
H.D.T.C.Q.
M.G.Ng(Y).Z.R.
A.O.U.E.I.

diphthongs
AO.OI.UI.IO.AE.


originally consisted of 20 letters, as Q-Celtic Ogham, and later expanded to 25 per Macalister; Ogham ollamh and classic alphabet used by Goidels, on mainland Eu rope how i-grated from the alin and tos mout heast erritain, bout 200 ears priory tot, Gaul Belgic invasion/s introduced a revved up P-Celt, noo a ha ha ka ka klaxonic blakean eliotic rev of verb and re-heard, herded thralls and all welcome, dear readers, let the lead be roc tee h'alpha bet, come forv fourth century bc



(400 -- 600bc alphabet Brynmor-Jones and Rhys


F feda: voiced fricative
F stands for V, whereas


the double-letter FF
ands stfor het vuno iced


consonantal Ogham bet alf
irc as/is reserved pin


sever al-tones inscription
wound found North, in wail


South whale attack gossip
Wales totty tacked, racket


stacking completely island
Isle of Man, Scotland delic

i-ogam alphabet, the hoany
moo gossip rumour: Sun-face


alphabet as the reflection
rarver fetching blue print


pure unadulterated fun kid/s
playing in the chime, stage,


hooked on vidz, rhyming marn,
totally indo videz of roodz


'n feck full time future/s h
ah skill hUath ka ka kah shee


lamb contendor for a contrary
mob full of time custom airing


number consuming scam, life lap
yap ay pay up, lap at my pulpit



coz the planet of sea marn, sun
o'er and... like i know whorra


iamb actually feckin duz yah,
like am i effin rung and rit in


as in do cop me doc spook er, o'
er the directoary arl bored


sci-fi wattage Walt dear chap,
old chum, bummies, aint sin yiz,


fan the fat target/s he and she
lube roanin a rim and git fist


fingz King, ho ho ha ha, demon
strafe *you* whorl first, fore


most that is..ho hu ha no no,
erm, a flippin wummin, if yer


must noo, i came from outer
planetary rhyme zoos, crowded



overt rant and whinge-free peo
please, wonderfully in tune



chime and for the death of mils,
ta, sound lah, did yer sea,


swelling ebb and flowing tide,
natural the occurence if an eye


st. evens gets right as per cert
i aint a specific location, LA


say marhm, yoh, droodz, we lohmm
to Nem e-ton, a take your clothes


hands, wake up in a puddle, wake
up in a ruddy bluddy fight yah..



cozzer, coz 'as, coss o she were
hurin foh her moh 'n yah, suckin


sum one ooh dunt giv a foggy coz
thaze too biz like living dreams


readers, mates, the wen waze
will their be freedom to appear




deeper, in a shallow air, oh i
lurve the smell when i'm a troll


king wiv jamus, nowt fun is-as
missus doh, the failed clown,


and thus failing greaves
and breathing moves
to make beleive


eternally verse is lit living
by the ghost/s imilarity odds

for even/s and odd he and she
we, met in 'orn..


50/50 soh, pro the am iz ooh
we is yah, ow yay ow yah ooh


yum, heading off the folk move
away, ilk off moo, moany et tu


do, a comment is free pit of L
absent and the tallaght plague



ground like heath, the ghost
tipped comment, free is/as


it owned a while the strobe
on the waltzers, of course,


before the fictional science
cohm on 'n i escape into dead



droolidiotic ficker; trendy
the gaffes and gap gaps one


wore indoors, occasionaly,
as the nerdy type and have



known far more pointless bores
than my very failed safe self,



an utter outrageous person
practices exile and on DLA,


moany cash, yo ladeez, line
up and bendy boy, cohm, cohm


fecking cohm lard on Zen list
opined i am big and bickle

trochee the core fork off
the éigse star aged rant


of a PoF took one over the line,
and the whole edifice collapse,


due to one single provable point
of neo metrical significance


only officially interesting
squares who troll detached
and have mastered the mistress


Art thou me of feck off firing toe path

nah -- feck off the poetry stage, i am
a bore wiv a proven record of gerrin
talked a boot mah parish, which is all



noo, as i am justly making up, shh...it
is the result of a seven year one way

train of studious slog and now, i am
the worlds foremost AS stress is,


a living lore, as it was Merlin apppy,
my ate fair Sir making me suck and be


scum, until i tuv-waxy droll froogle
minded dozzers, but not you lam a score


ing ad lang raw choppings of it off WaR
WaR Oh what a horrid WaR, lurve, lurve,


Emit-o con the stupid English it's hit
hit and naw 500 yrs later, Kilcolman


cast le mown hay eye, yah, a dream
eight nomens, and fair playa at comment


s free, spinning loser-top, the failure
versed success; reverse in between toss



the airs of lying graces, spacey racy
fab, yer noo, intow letcher boo ho ho ho


ka ka kah..alphabetic addictional in-sane
brained to lurve Benders/s mate/s all


rarver, ooh fow sand dans le and dan eces,
poetry is the super natural decapitation,


of the final head in one today, F in sea,
English, that's me, Bohola, may o'er three


master sons, squat, able bothie dwellers,
in scarisbrick fields on the west lancs


dead eye plain straight spud, swede, beet
root muckers, mate/s he and she air through



the vwee leader/s and of gab, end of Fab?

MY GARDEN


I thought it a summer twilight,
this green pool of light,


flowers brightly swimming
and all alight, a snail kiss


the skin caught dipping,
some day-curved tripper


worn muddy, who made nudists
frolic in a frog-dipped oasis


bees dizzy in a hum spinning
a broken twig for a drum


noised drone in trusty tune
and perfumed herbs


from potted moons.


No charge for bird-bath covered
gatecrashing parties of sparrows


mid-flight, and fighting mynahs
incredible cackle


an incredible waffle.

       ~~

It may not have been Goa
nor the garden gate


where birdling caterers


- with tasty insect crates
here in the arabian oasis,


where a shy hedgehog hides
as sly as i spy and pry -


       wait
         ~

A Certain Garden Spoke


"Strange it is how a fountain
of images, like the rush of a comet.


rocket from the bottom of our
imagination, as if never it lay


burrowed; but were having us on
       as a lark."


       ~~


And then like children
into a garden, we ran


forgotten in its lost
golden sand and search


for toy, book, or friend
where once we missed


the straggly end
of a tired meadow below:


this show suddenly still.
pretty and hoping


for darkness to shroud
its talons around us


like a curtain of mist
and graciously surrender


that which we shoulder
in tearaway affection.


       ~~


Blissful our garden
as you follow its echo


"Come in, come in",


     our garden says


"Back to your honeyed
days and all raisin-ed


       for a party.."


..where already, our
hands wait to catch


the rusted knob once
more: will remember how


to bow light-sorrow, dust
from the hollow of a vast

sea of many books looking
safe as yummy tea and


pluck a sad flower-stalk
rooting beneath the bower


       oak.

     ~

Susan Abraham

HON. N. JOAKS

                               O Amergin swirl:
                               Tír na nÓg: all
                knowing power: otherworldly force:
Segias: grind hazel nuts to knowledge: swill       
pour in the cauldron straight sound: verse Noaks: switch
    wit: light up the cast of love as night falls -
Joy
  Albard, Dawn and John – they who all
              comedy tossers yearning to score
          bulls-eye every arrow throw straight for. Light
of craic, twinkle; glitter in the well: find
what joke will laugh Blue Peter real, arrive
              unannounced
                 weave art
                    work
                     and cut this daft dream
          in a cloth of one liner: stitch the breeze
quip; nail John’s breath on paper to breathe
consciously at titter, jape or guffaw
gushing with free flow in the debacle.

Froth an episode, brim over and fall
the way wind blows when a turtle dove
cooing flies from the mind of a bard,
shifts shape to a circus clown tamer and bawls

"Hey you
     funny farm gob slops
                     light-heart bores
              free druid-pawns and playthings of love: wish
           only for permanent triples on boards
        your sticks hit giggling bulls and thud in
      double top all day long to tickle love
from the stream of gags flowing between you".

Come lah
bull minstrel clown, mimic speech through
scrumping fruit beyond the comedic eye
where flow master of ceremonies - Noaks

fellow and one time action man show
babbles:

"When it was Blue Peter,
not like it is now
with kids
who don’t know what they're doing".

Circus slop swishing spray tame sea
motion smooth a stir of whirling liquid
through splatter massed splodges of telly:

tilt the lingo; flutter dovely music
flap, ruffle, spread your wings and limbs
crawl, soar free and jangle from his dome

              "...with real papier mache; not like it
is now, the microwave stuff you scramble to life through
    radiation".

  Whack out licks
    that lived then
      and live now:

     "...I was jumping out of a plane one week
    sticking empty bog rolls together the next
  dashing round the studio after elephant waste
and mucking in. Star of the whole hoo ha..."

John
before kids replaced you
and juiced up the models

"..you can’t put a price on..."

from buckaroo centres where tiddley-winks
still hold, reckoning their toggable taggle
and balancing laughter you and your colleagues
had when at giggle

peck this needle from the shiny gutter
commune with our entourage of party fawns
living le joi de vie.

Dove
become a pigeon
suggest,
hint of a scuffle at heaven’s gate.

GABHAIL IV

The constant rolling dice that never fall
stack up the chips of our existence
and some days we’re so lucky

- the search seeming easy with reward
with blessings in abundance -

we forget the golden rule
that everything’s decided in between
the heartbeat of the moment.

That reality is one long gamble
with final odds fixed by divine order
of old gods;

and seizing for knowledge one will
never fully grasp, yields understanding

like those clocks ticking in the heavens
yield an understanding
of when the time is right to wake us
for a brief spell by their measured call

before dissolving as if by magic
in the blinking of an eye
the constant rolling dice that never fall

POV OTD XXI C - MMVIII Weather Rex

Sprung from Rome via France, we came
to Kernow first. The foot of Prydain

Fawr, a frozen island of twenty four
Pretani Brython speaking pre-literate

kingdoms there, before the great penal
Claudian army came with Atrebates'

King Verica who fled from Silchester
àfter Catuvellauni Epaticcus took

his tribal land Ver's father seized
when Julius Ceaser's mind fooled

itself in a wind Mark Anthony sped
under: slapped the cliff and shed

crocodile tears beneath when green
sea lapped; and facing an imploding

red roman tide of imperial death
to the East: papered on spring-wed

blows, a pot of hospitality all those
racing, writing and reciting, WaR-ring

sideboard-strategist know-alls knew

a tent

flapping the jealousy of Epaticcus
venting icy raging blasts - star struck

Hypoborean island mixtured sleet
and ice:

always it has been flappy: two, three
generations and all returns to same

the framing utterly unchanged, quo
irrevocable - grandchildren wedded

to inventions and inversed soul, green
non-existent foundation-fluxed lingo

springing lies to accumulate and thaw
in learning to ignore a throw of fictional

faith and tantrums Roman thinkers
looking westward for hearing their

there lore as truth arisen throw

as if the ghost (s/he speaking through
us with a honey-kissing tongue moving

our mouth-streams to the original
boundary of fictional beauty-recoquo)

who arose arias and still does:

spring the English American freedom
of being bezzie pals conquering

the world of all its ills and, the great
rat-egg double feckin luvin it Larhn

den hand-gum being cool, wiggly
on da rood of a god given verse god/s

give and we got: extemporisation
living lingo, freedom s/he controls in us,

each unique quotidian speech - all four
seasons in a single vista when farthest

West - unbelievable in the mind of a lamb
Alba ba ionic wind and invisible weather

shee women return: to all who travel
under ground and move through ether

as wind airing breath springing eternal,
blue-shirted daily mail good aul Ossie

mosleying mostly to Jordan's unfortunate
dream being born a pink pony princess,

sounding trill proselytizer/s who arose
in eenie meanie miney mo

Mister Authorial Dough Boob

rose under the dawning thing under

water

a can and branches barely
glowing floating bloody cultural chains

cherisher/s of nothing we neither hear
nor heed, but act and talk: horrifically

of what s/he wore criminally trivial
and/or reasonably mortal belief s/he is

answering prayer of flowers returned
in a well of time at the foot of Flower

Mouth-rock profusely woven silver
strands of Clonakilty dreamers, three

quarter Connacht's words spamming
at work in early unfair 20C springs:

spying a post no eye deleted before

- ice completely depleted, we air -

from forum to forum , over-spy eyed
in the sharp clip of clarity caught over

here

when shiva is there
Shiva is here;

everywhere far beneath jumping
into space apportioning Moirae

space reversed
space spare

spare space freeing forward weaving
back and weft : into returning air

earth

and everywhere a tick in equine locks
the wind whipped turf in creels of bog

s/he is and we have been: are hosting

boasting moderator/s posting carved
air etched good - ordered springing

in a current along one electric seer
logged in - seered and surfaced

the end-name talisman of this shade's

edifice

who lives in the other world beyond
consciousness or ken of many; and most

know not her brand of words leave
shimmering , bob fixed and turn psychic

air: extracting from space the sheer self
trick of ghostly desires lulled, floating

through an open thought-door straight
struck, spliced mainline in softly

- some say non-existent -

pictures plucked from Tír na nÓg

cormarant perched on the foundation
base of O'Connell Street bridge pulling

fish from green water as neon-struck
rust-cans float by:

come escape and stomp sodden belief
underfoot; web in frozen crushed fish

towering above trout, let gut-logic
mangle in a looking glass, then conjure

woman married four times who cured
gout-limp in Clare's bleak mid-winter.

. white witch herbalist living in Feakle
piston-sleek mind unhindered wrapped

weighted and who read an empty blue
bottle reflecting light: our minds will

steer absurdly straight this track
sense depicted, and you will

- twenty yards from the Q Bar
ten feet below the Liffey tide-mark -

reveal a world lit by Faha's Biddy Early.

. unopen the door again, is ajar Artless
maze imagined through which we your

dream - what are we here to host - flit
from form to ingenious form quick

& beautifully seizing a basket drained
full with petals held by a womb above

the day below instinct carelessly
scattered, faint honed mourning

thinning away, the thought before us.

The video below won the best political video in the youtube awards, and has had one and three quarter million views.

In this multi-media visual and textually poetic: Clash of the Civilisations, which illuminates by highlighting the similarities between humanity, the juxtopistion of images, combined with text, works very well, and demonstrates the power of the individual to effect change armed with only intelligence and compassion, which on this of all days, is one we could well ponder on believing as the creed and dogma of love and peace..

..draw a rational pattern, make sense of the mindless realties s/he assembles by media driven, sales and pitch, one liner hooks, no trick to low, to stuck up, posh, scum, scanger and nun, all of us in it together, from beginning to boundaries end, life leading us eventually to a cross-road across one more maxim from the mouth of a mersey ó bhéal, s/he detached in enobling airs and inward grace/s manifesting bloom of a goodness expressed in person and print.

grá agus síocháin.

O

Happy St Patricks day.

Suitcase Tina - Utica Sestina (write-through)

A long-boned boy gliding in rain

beneath the rise or fall, any weather
in the city he'd sometimes sight

rolling in at the river bend, clock
and lightly the years he faced alone,

locked passing tense into the tall
tethered tracks impaled by falling

rain. A loner running the hail green
face, present sense this tense ticked,

each busy hand passing an empty store
window of absence Dad glanced at;

groceries amassed and many white washed
facts faced by a dad who cannot change

his mind, running miles, varying in pace
and others behind others in his mind,

the clock ticked. He knew the miles
father, the way his knee used to slow

at the store counter, his pals who’d tab
with him, run up tabs with him;

they never fell beneath a broken sage
displayed the memory escaping bent

in failure, to mend the broken self
themselves, rent beneath a broken clock

time held still yet drew no light from.
Store a night of memory away in it

running neither towards nor in retreat
but with a river's rhythmical defiance,

time chosen cool clean and falling, air
the world we can not bend eternal, cool

hearted word the water tock cleaned
so a harmless trickster no-nice father

knew, neither stood nor fell, but
chose an exile place. Mere it is

this son who saw the years wend
in failure, yet never broke, dumb

one's defiant faith in the clock ticked,
elsewhere the trick that out did time,

runs father.

~

After spending the last two months working at the write-through form, the out come is i am getting quicker at doing it.

It is much harder than writing in meter, or rather, it is as challenging as writing the most difficult metrical pieces, as the "rules" of these two forms, though at opposite ends of the compositional spectrum, are perfectly complimentary as we are exercising at a similar psychic pitch when shuffling the original texts for a write-through, into something else. I am learning at a deep level, though am still to close to the process to articulate it intellectually. Going by experience, in a few months i will be laying out this phase in the oeuvre. But the one salient fact is, we can only plod on.

This is the original text, taken from a ten star ablemuse poster:

Here

You read strangely wound letters in the
noble

dead silence of a deep dumb worth we
wrote

in pulsations of faith and flash'd doubts
dwelling

where each of the letters had scriven well
those

leaves that kept an alphabet mess defiantly
a tree

of unbroken branches the hidden tongue
spoke

strange in words silently: the chroi - love
vapour

defying the cry and defining our changed
bark

the cow bard whirring in a thought snare
otherworldly

words keenly sought along the track to a
source

of suggestive force you made words with
enobling

letters wound in the line all seek as one

and you read strangely

~

The day one often remembers, when from sleep
we first awoke and found ourselves reposed
under a shade of flowers, wondering if here
a distant murmuring sound of water composed
our soul-touched star reflecting on a moonlit
sea: nothing hard or rough but sweet beneath
the tranquil sky; Manannán mac Lír, foaming
horse-water deity riding his plain,
the ancient mist of mythical man, four square
his white wave hoof shod wet in sodden feet
of sand and sea grain counting many
the snow flake lit upon a shore line during
winter storms our voyage sets out to overcome,
galloping free from that we doze out through,
to the star reflecting on a moonlit sea.
~
Wet deity in a drop of meadow dew in May

our inner spring of time the grass-stone
hail-blade tramples under horses' hoof:
Manannán mac Lír, son of the seas' reflection
in tranquil lunar moonlight, the reversing

words that roar clear, rowing to a stone
the Land of Women crying for love sight,
you wash in a hundred sounds of music sung
- Manannán - beneath a foaming sky water,
horse of four hooves wave-shod, trodden
white sea of grain count and sand flake,
lined in the hoof-light: Manannán mac Lír
stir the sea like it is your blood.
~
Bring a silver apple branch from Emhain's
far island, in an ocean to the west of us
Manannán horses circle, fair Son of Lír;
delight of a plain eye host of chariot racing
on the white silver steed South beyond
Imagination, blossoming bird in tree lore
of common delight: gently spell a shining
voice, colour the cloud-music sung in tir
na og and work where we got drunk and stayed
that way: the night waking soundless
at four
soundless
at three
two
soundless
at
one
and
aquamairne orb of lunar-lit will; be Manannán mac Lír
stir
time's curtain winding left round a land
of purple leaf-lit myth
edge connecting tree light lovers unloved and empty
in te grass of heaven
laid smooth below a green bank,
look

into the clear smooth lake that seems
soul-bent sky within a shape
passing among us
and them
sometimes
wanting to speak and not speak of sidhe dreams
vanished
into their nut-reality resting in our demense
now;
speak the unspeakable
impase.
~
No keening or treachery here, eternity
the familiar tilled land of music striking
all ear without death grief sickness: sorrow
or weakness, but faith that is a sign
of Emhain's uncommon wonder, in silver wet
rain drops caressing the turtle shell,

pure ocean cliff in a warm sunrise hosting
weather-sport racing over eternal eastern
plains where the game of death and ebbing
tide do not come coloured in an overcoming
wave to crush the stór and grá in our still
well, silver blood, sometimes lighting
an army of three times fifty far off islands
beyond imagination
we sometimes
it happens
impose impossible odds on
the siege-bound hung in a carving behind
the mask of relief returning goodness
raked from hell tower hall razed counter
when walking as the well sprite your water
lacquers gold, our daemon Boann decorated
sympathetically: head obverse and swollen

strain of Neith's tale and the heads Dementer
demand we deliver in an acorn brooch
measured in patterned wetness, sometimes
blossoming under our window,
wood and hidden hill of letters all decaying
spelling
as it happens, good friend,
sometimes
when it happens
you
the friend in a friendship passed and gone
in the day spent lost among them at a holy well.

. in the nemetons of cyberville, where various Mystery rites of the very many Mysteries celebrating life, are practiced by lovers of wisdom too numerous to fully list here, the sage Pythagoras of Samos, occupies a unique position.

His intellect was exercised throughout his life and is credited for bringing ancient practical solar knowledge to greece; not only from Egypt, where he studied for 22 years, initially gaining admittance to the nemeton at Diospolis after a forty day fast; but Persia, after the king of Persia, Cambyses II, invaded Egypt in 525BC and Pythagoras, relocated to Babylon and became his prisoner.

Our ancient sage, already schooled to Ard Ollamh level in the Egyptian Mysteries, from which the theorem commonly bearing his name was first committed to print, 12-1500 years before in 2000–1786 BC, outfaced reality by effortlessly adapting into taking full advantage of his new situation and spent his 12 years in Babylon becoming adept in the Chaldean Mysteries, initiated by Magi who taught this already very learned man to refine his practice of ancient solar knowledge and become first among principles in the ancient greek canon, on which our globally-european centric culture under-thrumbs its otherworldly flame, and the axiomatic elevation of Pythagoras to a primary serious spirit of the real multi-knowledge-template disciplining the full of his mind in purring prayer to self via mathmatical route, rote and root to the most ancient of mysteries i am unable to speak of due to contractual obligations with macmillan, ian macmillan, Don Patterson's Fiona Sampson and shadow-mask for Aristotle of course.

Ay oop, its ian, the po-mo tome maestro of long winded dot to dot address and cat sat on the mat of light settled in an argument between the Pythagoras that got turned away from the Egyptian Schools for presenting his credentials of a wise vessel of flesh and blood, as an unfasted geek with a gift for being clever in the head alone and the Pythagoras after his forty day fast entry exam who had learned the first principle of poetry Amergin articulates in the Cauldron of Poesy piece:

"Where is the root of poetry in a person; in the body or in the soul?"

Prior to his entry into the ancient wisdom grove where knowledge and religion were indivisibly bound, Pythagoras thought at 20, when he first set forth to Egypt after spending his earliest intellectual awakening and training years on Samos, studying under the philosopher Pherekydes and later, immmediately prior to his arrival in the earliest home of solar knowledge which built pyramids, two years studying math and astronomy in Miletus with Thales, and his pupil Anaximander, Pythagoras was not allowed in because all neophytes into the mystery rites had to undergo a 40 day fast, which our protagonist could not see the logic of, dismissing the basis of the druidic code with a contemptuous:

"I have come for knowledge, not any sort of discipline."

At that age, that talent, he was like Milton, a clever young man, but one who had not learned the most fundamental physical lesson philosophy offers the prospective bore: and which Amergin poses and answers in such a way as to suggest he too was the keeper of an ancient mathematically based musical code, of which Pythagoras is the most well known example of in the European tradition. And Amergin responds to the rhetorical question posed by an omnipotent narrator who does not intrude and remaining outside of the piece, our anonymous authorial voice speaking for the 7C caste of filidh which had displaced, after an executive cull, the swollen druidic bunch of the 5C, when Ionian culdean Columcille from Derry, expertly handled the, then very sensitive issue which affected the whole of Fodhla.

A surfeit of pre-literate pagan holy men practicing rites we know next to nothing of, but which were based on a practical solar knowledge which gaelic culture had from it's earliest dawn. We need only look at the Palace of the Boyne, home of Dagda and later his son Ogma, who won it in a quibble, a form of words cutely concocted which weight in favour of the magician doing the diddling out of; to apprehend Newgrange passage mound in it's thoroughly bewitching majestic stone self understated grace; this artifice of rock living as it did when first built 5000 year back, before the theorem of Pythagoras had first been written on the codex by the first pyramid builders, is a sight worthy of dream proven before one's eyes.

In a bend of the Boyne a native code and ancient template for initiate adepts to concot their poetic with, raise the roof still weather proof 5000 years later with this knowledge of migrating souls in the tetra dimensional stance of morality, four square and all the combinations squared, circled light in the whole question:

What is Poetry?

And so when we ask where the seat over the root of the ancient knowledge lies, Amergin's flawless poem cryptically addresses this, by logically surmising the options and returning what is in effect, silence, as it does not answer in an either or state, but one in which a sense of the multi-communicational, the wisdom of axiomatic principles, the inner knowing sense of what befits and the well of segais really, the home within we all have and, to the inheritors of the mystic mumbo jumbo mobs we spectacularly fail to drone on like, communicating adept via a logical mathematical rail and rule whose system is but the one motif spiraling shadows above and behind the mask Pythagoras spoke of in riddles for the initiated and so after his fast, spake thus:

"You were right and I was wrong, because then my whole standpoint was intellectual. Through this purification, my center of being has changed. Before this training I could only understand through the intellect, through the head. Now I can feel. Now truth is not a concept to me, but a life.

Through Vibration comes Motion" -

Pythagoras

"They say it is in the soul, for the body does nothing without the soul." -

Amergin

"Through Motion comes Color" -

Pythagoras

Others say it is in the body where the arts are learned, passed through the bodies of our ancestors."


Through Color comes Tone" -


It is said by practicing artists, that the "seat of what remains over the root of poetry; and the good knowledge in every person's ancestry comes not into everyone, but comes into every other person."

This means only every other person will inherit the poetry gene, which is 50%. work it out..riddle me this:

is poetry work@home in verbal placements Pythagoras asked us to consider in the riddle:

"step not over a balance" - do not be greedy

A

"What then is the root of poetry and every other wisdom?"

P

PA - reversing the math, geometry axiom, the dimension we do not see now we are fully hypnotised and at mercy of the face on TV telling us what to believe, we confused asking, what is it, making form, this thing called verse - turning - in latin, referring to the turnings of a neatly ploughed field. poetry wrought in quantities of a sound poetic of four measures..Ogma, the celtic god of poetry, has its etymological root in ogmius, a farming deity whose name also lent itself to the turning of Gaulish fields, in that invisible empire, whose silence is at the heart of what Pyhthagoras tried to get across as being the one which only the studious application of one's mind to the existing templates of morality we engineer to assist in the cause of our enobling, seeking one's potential in the most directly mathmatical metrical route of measuring what it is we create with body, soul and intellect, a tripartite dimension and really, beware of going down to the woods in barnsley tonight, for your in for a big surprise, if you go dogging in s yorkshire tonight, you may encounter a bespectacled bard making crazee guy progs man, of ian dogging for the verb..

A O U E I

The original alphabet, which Graves concocts his ultimately highly flawed sprawling White Goddess tome with; is called Ogam.

It is named after the Tuatha De Dannan (people of the goddess Danu) god Ogma, son of Dagda, the chief deity of this mythological race, who were the sixth and penultimate race of supernatural beings to "take" the island as documented in the Lebor Gabála Érenn - The Book of the Takings of Ireland.

These were only in possession of the island for 300 years or so, before the final takers, the Milesians, who the founding bardic poet, Amergin, was the druid of, came and took it from them and banished the Tuatha De Dannan to beneath the hills and into the Sidhe mounds (phonetic 'shee'), where they became the sidhe or faeries of folklore.

This is an alphabet of originally 20 and later, post 8C twenty five letters, unique to Brythonic (now welsh) and Gaelic culture.

The alphabet was divided into four families or aicmes, of five letters, and each aicme took the name of it's first letter, and all the letters related to various trees. This is why it is called the tree alphabet. Ireland at the time of its invention was covered in trees. The sequence of this alphabet is:

B L F S N - H D T C Q - M G Ng Z R - A O U E I

You will notice that this is not in the roman order, and by analysing the arrangement we can discover the mathmatical formula the druids came up with to create ogam.
If we lay out the letters in their roman order we get 18 and the sounds V, pronounced as an F and Ng, were then tacked onto the end, so:

A B C D E G H I L M N O Q R S T U Z F Ng

What they did was separate out the vowels and group them into broad and slender, in the order:

A O U E I - this is the fourth and final sequence in the ogam alphabet and is called Aicme Ailme (original meaning of ailme unknown).

We then take out the early Irish names for the numerals one to five: H (huath) D (da) T (tri) C (cethair) Q (quic)

H D T C Q - this is the second family called: Aicme hÚatha (original meaning unknown)
This leaves us ten letters:

B G L M N R S Z F Ng

From this group we take every second letter, beginning with the B, giving us:

B L N S F - the first family: aicme beith/birch

The five letters left: G M R Z Ng, are then re-ordered, beginning with M, the letter in the middle at position 10 in the original group of twenty, and create the sequence working backwards.
This gives us the third family, aicme Muin (neck):

M G NG Z R

~

The three consonantal aicme/sets of letters, are then arranged in alphabetical order, the first letter in each group dictating where the aicme is placed, so aicme beith B goes first, then aicme hÚatha H, second, aicme muin M third and the vowels to end it. Thus giving the final order

B L N S F - H D T C Q - M G NG Z R - A O U E I

This cryptographic process seems perfectly in keeping with the Bardic love of mystery and concealment.

~

Each letter in the four aicme, has three kennings associated with them, preserved in three Bríatharogaim (word-ogam) lists, dating to the Old Irish period 5-7C, which can be viewed here

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Br%C3%ADatharogam

goD

Parisa is a blog buddy whose enthusiasm for the Mossbawn magus, seamus Heaney, i share as he is simply the best around, in person and print. At any time there is usually one about the place setting the tempo, and he who needs no introduction or naming - nameless sidhe of Kavanagh and yeats - one who lives it as, i think is fair to suggest, the one most likely to garner the appellation of contemporary Bard from across the board away from his Home here.

However on home turf, many will not concur with what others elsewhere accept unquestioningly; that this man alone is bog-touched by Ogma and Erc, Amergin and the unknown homeric work, the Eternal:

"unity of being"

an anonymous concept yeats dreamed up in the socio-psychic blueprint he wrote for himself as point and guider, universal coda invoking craic with noght but his Imagination. Like Hopkins did with the "inscape" system; much less well known, though just as relevant a Poetic, to him as in an audience the size of Yeats; heaney a class act who broke the mould, and in my opinion, set it straighter than ever it was before. For the first time we had an educated "native" irish voice in the collective bog-sense yeats could never share as heaney does, nor elucidate; because it is that of a class yeats went on about in his own personal mumbo-jumbo to self, the "peasant".

Heaney is the rarest and first of breeds, the real thing, poet teacher sourced in the one incontrovertible source of a pure strain in the native appearance. Heaney's face itself the contributing guarantee of his poetic pass to a singular celtic world yeats was never part of; being the fruit of planter stock who only had a few generations to invent himself with. Heaney, you can tell by the look of him, his people have been on this island far longer than the souls who contributed to silly willy's mob of aristocracy counterpointing the Dream ireland Heaney's immesne gift equals and, imho, surpasses, certainly in the critical prose i found/find practical help with, as colleague of he who needs no naming. Mr famous points out in his essay on Yeats, first "native" english writing bard who reconnected in the modern era and wrote, for the first time, an English language poetry which set out a stall so exotic and strange to, what until then had been the native English speaking palette; back then, in the crossover of centuries of era, time whose tableaux of spirits sing, included Ez Pound, who sought Bill out with a pathological fervor bordering on the tedius, perfectly poetic and True to ez in 1912 when he and Will fenced in Stone Cottage oxford, and ez was amanuensis after acknowledging WB the real Butler being not quite the God some think as know not Silly willy as well as maude gonne did, and who all the rest of the craking gang back then when everyone was at it, being mystic.

As one career sazzy carol rumens sagely informs us, our classical learning worlds of poetic outcome are a billion zillion light years distant from what the kids jangle on in pm and text today and attemot not to pass as the contemporary Poetic; particularly in the potential future star of all things Prophetic in words maybe, i dunno, but i do suppose what it is, is that he who shall remain nameless, is the first native poet who beat the Bloomsbury bores at their own game on his terms and proves himself right as he writes earning a rhyme tu-whitt tu-wooing in the woods searching for clues to who he is armed only with a pen and scholarly scrupulousness practiced since he began as the eldest of nine from Mossbawn farm, Castledawson, Anahorish and borders in tongues of order and governance so finely nuanced only the full erudition an innate poet transliterates in Form, style and all sorts of important self-made rules of engagement with this mystic Art some purport to practice, with varying degrees of success and I imagine at first when he who shall remain nameless in the Group kicked it all off with Longley, Mahon and co up the North, first shairng their Dream in an expert metricist mob of young academic Irishmen, aided by perhaps one of the finest technical critters, Philip Hobsbaum; whose prose proves he knows his feet i think; and his protege's prose, when i first read it, is unsurpassed by any other critical voice his peers have practiced writing in.

He is at number one in prose, poetry and person. There can be only one and it is him, on top with the full four cycles memorised i bet, washing through the troubles he found his way of speaking through in tounges of order governing his notion of selfhood as that younger man, the first "native" one whose Unity of Being yeats banged on about but failed to articulate in print in the way heaney so effortlessly achieves. Heaney's Dream has risen as far and lit as bright Yeats, and with much less shiny song and dance of "moi" than Yeats goes in for.

Yeats always wanted and got it all and heaney too perhaps, but in connection to a Dream they shared as the two poets - one born only months after the other left in bleakest winter on the cusp of war he predicted perhaps as the crawling beast of diabolical abode - with Kavanagh in the trinity just on his way into a Palace Bar and the few disastrously short sojourns, not only to his second home of Fleet Street in Dublin where the Palace Bar still dominates for all writers in Dublin practicing today who are serious about Poetry; but also as contender in one across the water in London, whose mystic spirit yeats will was bark and bole with AE; back in the day they were doing 24 hour a day visionary things; AE - Yeats's personal mystic, Kavanagh a long lean middle path, had to wait for the bay sweater, till the Bell recognition of his greatness came close to a posthumous conferral of a shadowy laurel appellation Kanavanagh at least crowned himself with, and many others i suspect - if not all or most at least perhaps, have in their mind's eye as the sheer live act of pure poetic class barrier one erects, be it bardic or not, sufi or less cerebral.

Heaney tells an interesting tale in his immediate post Nobel period, on a TV show in America; to an efficient male honoring yer man as the undisputed king of Poetry almost, certainly he was riding at the highest point and effectively got the Bay Crown, and in reply to a question asked of him, about when did he start thinking of himself as a poet; he said this event happened as he enrolled his son at primary school in wicklow, when he was knocking forty, and where he had gone to write verse that was having a go at doing its own bog-won thing away from his county omphalos, Derry forst and last, in a republic, as the woodkern thinking of what term to instruct a headmaster filling his sons details in register.

What appellation his own Self used in relation to his person as both thinker and flesh, and mr heaney was thinking along the lines of stating he was a writer or college professor, but the man recording the event put fili (which in English translates as "poet") without asking him what he did for a do; and from that moment on Heaney decided he'd been bestowed an appellation only colleagues have the power to collectively confer on one, and thus is a reason Heaney is the name most non pro's know and agree on as the constant one real thing; poet, because he is the real thing, Sweeney astray inhabiting a myth of his own mind first and last, proving it in the decades spent being himself as a reputation of number one; in at the top and good grew up around him as he worked in verse here and there, when insanity surrounded his peers of the Imagination, he held firm and spoke fair in a body and collection of verse which brought the Dream and unity of being closer to the silence and stay apart one killer barb from mandy motion delivers - not - in a green passport and non-toast to M's chimera of Queen fictional others used in their effort to co-opt him in to the status quo of Great british nomenclature back then, topic of chat in deepest seventies UK lore, as he toiled here feeling the ace none ask to see, as the truth just is, that he is ace itself, his person and Mind in physical event, life written by none but the eldest of nine children two ordinary country people from Derry birthed, who got by on learning as the first of a wave or generation who were afforded the prize of education.

I myself understand this need to be the first with a real chance, where others do not deny one's basic right to belong to an Irish state of mind and not some cod con neo stazi attempt of the non thinking britz who say we cannot be ourselves, You are the mirage alive in Britain, ireland mate..you wha? do as we the State alone instructs one to tell or one will not be included in our mob of headhunting magi looking for the real Irish poets and the gang. So what of it? Yes, certainly there are many excellent poets here who work well when left alone to: "transform into sow, mare, bitch, vixen, she-ass, weasel, serpent, owl, she-wolf, tigress, mermaid, or loathsome hag" as we are told by david the Phoenician expert who is a phonetic mist itself to be fair to another blog pal, misharialadwani, here on the rock of C theories and connections made, thank you very much..