The room was cleared. They had not bothered to replace the boards. Despite all efforts no cause for the mysterious tapping could be found. Some just thought it was mice, others beetles helping the slow process of decay. But I know different, trapped within these walls but with no voice to tell.
Monthly Archives: Jun 2017
Try reading to yourself or others the poems referred to here without a lilt by intuitive Gallic influence and you will see and feel the power within the words referred to. An excellent recommendation.
If you are interested in Irish mythology and you haven’t read the early poetry of W.B. Yeats, you really should. Through his early volumes of poetry such as The Rose and The Wind Among The Reeds he re-invented Irish mythology, making it more accessible to anyone who could read.
There is an animism to his early poetry – he brings the natural landscape to life better than any other ‘Celtic Twilight’ poet. There is also danger. His Sidhe or Danann are amoral creatures and there is the suggestion that if you hang out with them too much you run the risk of going insane.
And there is the sheer escapism of his poetry at this stage. Or maybe escapism is the wrong word. Transcendentalism might be more accurate. The early Yeats sees art as separate from reality. It exists in its own transcendent realm and this is reflected strongly in…
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the mirror reflects
the dark thoughts harboured within
the eyes of the beast
yet no reflection is seen
unless the dark Lord allows
A mirror would not
harbour major surprises
for those who were blind
all that remains
when the flame of love burns low
are embers and ash
The warm West wind
whining as it weaves it’s way
around the woven wire
watch the birds feathers fluff and
bristle, softly complaining
Chantellion is sitting in front of her loom with her back to the central hearth, where a pile of glowing embers barely give enough light to see. Her woollen cloak covers her long greying hair and is open at the front allowing her bare arms to protrude. Hunched forward uncomfortably on a low, wooden, three-legged stool,she lets her fingers run down the fine threads stretched horizontally in neat, evenly spaced rows across the frame, lingering on each one as if to test it’s quality. At her feet in what seems a haphazard pattern, stand large skeins of coloured rough yarn. Varying in size and hue she has placed each one carefully within reach of her outstretched fingers knowing which to choose even in the gloom. She is alone and sits rocking back and forth to a slow rhythm only she can hear, whilst humming almost imperceptibly a low tune that her own mother taught her. Long gone are the days when Chantellion was considered to have a sweet singing voice and she knows that if she raised her voice she herself would be disappointed at the change wrought by the years of sitting in smoke filled rooms. Memories of her younger self appear in her mind and she smiles, satisfied that with these memories will come others and she will be ready to pick up the threads ready to start weaving her picture stories. This is how her family’s traditional tales are told. Not by word of mouth around the blazing fire in the evening where they may suffer distortion by exaggeration and faded memory. This only leads to arguments and ill feeling. Through her loom the tales she tells in woven pictures can be read by all and know the truth. This is her task, as chronicler, entrusted to her, like her mother and grandmother before and soon will be entrusted to her own daughter for that is their way.
The spawn of Darkness
eager to please their Master
arose from the Deep