Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Celtic fiddle and guitar - the Lonely Crags

from the 1984 Celtic show Children of the Storm the compositions and arrangements of Andrew Hennessey and Colin Dawson - performed at the Edinburgh International Fringe Festival, Crown Folk Club, EUFSS's Lady Glenorchy Church crypt. The youtube Link

Friday, March 02, 2012

The Quest for the Tower of the Winds

Here is an excerpt from the Quest for the Tower of the Winds - written in the days I was still seeking my path towards Christ. This is a piece on chaos and robotics and the eternal love and peace of Heaven. Taken from the poetry collection SHORES OF THE DREAMING RAINBOW [on Lulu.com]


What is substantial has but a part to play
in the ephemeral season of the soul –
and would I could journey through the snow
or lie gazing in a meadow of flowers.
I would say more on silent winter –
that the stars of springtime might, from the headlands of space,

illumine the path through the spring
to the warm sunrise of summer.
And if what is not substantial is a handicap,
a poor relation of need, then I may worry not,
for all my cares will vanish
if trouble does not persist.
And that the fire of my spirit
blazes full in the bitter cold of the winter solstice –
I shall say 'gather round'
the full horror of life I wish to vanquish - if but for a moment ..
And my flame shall say -
Fear not for I have stood in the raging wind of hells teeth
And faced the might of Titans
With a sling and a pebble
And were the pathway full of pebbles, I will go on
For it is nearly Dawn.
And when I, like the Fool
shall stand at last on the lip of the chasm of birth,
I shall take my leap
to find that world contained
in the enchanted Tower of the Winds.
The Barbarian has a hope, and so that he forgets it,
the apples of Eden are made into Cider,
But so that we fulfil this, we repeat it to ourselves
for we have no mind with which to remember.
The fruits of knowledge, the reams of information
Must either to Hell be taken, or the Heaven sent.
For their workings
seem beyond the scope of mere mortality
to understand.
And there, with our ships despatched to heaven or hell,
our Lottery ticket bought,
our minds again full of the solstice and the equinox
shall we again assume the handicap of barbarism
'Stead of the evils of civilisation ?
or is there a Real Hope ?
The futile grasp of the wisest of Elders
in watching the slaughter of each epoch
must decide: What is the best way to die –
for there is the crux of the matter.
If our ships return from Heaven,

they will bring us the machines
to maintain our world in the rightness of decency,
quenching even the most avaricious of thirst with free gifts –
from a dedicated matrix of machinery –
But, if our ships from Hell return,
then the day of the robot and the slave
shall like the reaper, scythe the resistance of the organic,
and chain the spirit
in an electronically fabricated eternity.
And even for the briefest of incarnations,
the tomb of the machine is no place to die.

The seer shall part our clouds with the voice of wisdom –
shall this information be our master - or our slave.
If our master - then we shall become as hard as crystal,
as cold as the cold void –
the thief of the organic breath - petrifier of the heart.
Slaves of Greater Empires than a mere Barbarian tribe
wait to capture this wild bird called man
in a mesh of alien steel and intelligent device.
Oh that my journey begins –

for I will travel through that desert of information
to find the jewels that lie hidden in the dust,
And I shall take them to the roof of the World,
The Tower of the Winds - and then -
We shall see what we shall see.
I have studied History, Hermit - my heritage, our birthright -
I have a mind to say that this Barbarian idea is a hoax .......
Here is history Hermit -

It is summer, and corn like the mellow gold
of newborn suns
rustles in the wind that blows
from across the ocean,
and poppies the symbol of slumber,
their red splash
marks the passing of a soul
against the painted blue of the Madonna's Mantle –

Holy Child, thy birth marks the dawn,
and your teardrops, the silver of the Novas
in the eternal cycle of life,

as the starfields likewise nurture their crops of gold,
the womb of the martyr,
the fight of a prayer.
Find this crop ready to eat,
the thresher is pounding, the scythe is pure,
the bread is whole, the dwelling is ready
and the butterfly sips the nectar –
a gift of spring - a gift of winter, a gift of Being.
Now Barbarian is the toil of belief wholesome
without the curse of the black banner of war,
and the axe, silver-whetted over the time of snow,
ready to fell timber - can also defend hope.
Glory is the power of thy childlike mind
and fool become predator
wills to build a safer dwelling
in which to protect his fears.
And thus goes the lesson of History, Hermit,