Poetry
Gwyn ap Nudd and St. Collen
I thank you kind sirs and gentle ladies
For this opportunity
To retell for you the well-known story
Of St. Collen's famous victory.
How this old solider turned priest
Rid the land of all its demons,
Through the spell of water he called holy,
Banished Gwyn Ap Nudd entirely.
So let me know that you've heard tell of it?
And this is the story as you know it?
An old man mumbled prayers
And the king of the fairies disappeared.
An old man sprinkled water
And the fairy host were no longer there.
So if this is the story as you know it,
What I'd like to know is -: Do you believe it?
(Beware the tales that Christians tell,
The spells they weave of sin and hell.)
There's two sides to every story,
Another way to look at Collon's glory.
So let me tell you how it was -
Set the stage on which events unfolded.
Well first.... t'was mellowness of twilight,
Purple with day unfolding into night.
This Beltaine eve found the fairy hoards
Full of laughter, fun, merriment,
Gathering together, in majesty and finery.
All dressed in red and blue, blue and red:
Red for energy, blood, vitality,
Blue for sky, stillness, quiet.
Colours rich, royal and true,
Honouring the balancing of hues.
Tables covered with rich woven cloths,
Piled high with sumptuous and abundant food,
Crystal glasses filled with finest fairy mead,
Music sweet as singing brooks.
And all brimming with the excitement
That is this eve of Beltaine night.
Gwyn ap Nudd invited him, this Collen,
To join us in our feast and ritual of season.
He shuffled in, in his dark robes,
So unfittin' for the occasion. His awed eyes
Darted round the tapestries,
Depicting scenes of love
That matched the mood of Beltaine eve,
Took in the tables groaning under weight of food,
The golden plates and crystal glasses.
The happy fey, dancing, singing, laughing,
With the joy of the evening's enchantment.
Gwyn ap Nudd greeted him, as becomes a king,
Bade him join the feasting. Quivering he answered "Nay,
I will not touch the food of the fey"
And quaking more, let out a roar
"I know what the blue and red stand for!
Blue is the freezing smile of the devil.
Red - the burning fires of hell."
And so proceeded with mumbling words
And sprinkling water to cast his spells.
Leading to reports that all the fair folk vanished,
And Gwyn ap Nudd himself was banished.
Perhaps you've guessed? Perhaps you've sensed?
The spell he cast was on himself.
T'was a poor world he wanted,
That has no place for love and passion,
Joy, freedom, honouring of seasons,
But that was what he wished for.
So he couldn't see us, though we were still there.
He left us then to claim his triumph
Over Gwyn ap Nudd and the fairy host.
He was a fool. But what was that to us?
We didn't care! We'd a feast to enjoy,
Beltaine magic in the air, a night of dancing
Lasting through to morning's blessing.
But what triumph was this Christian curse
That tears you from your own heart's truth?
What victory was there in this
That rips you from the fabric of yourself?
Once you no longer know the land as holy,
Accept the lie of your divorce from nature,
The strand you weave in wyrd is broken.
And all is pain, loss, grief, suffering.
Yet you live ever within the invitation
To come and join the celebration!
Cast off the crippling of this Christian spell,
Be heathen, pagan, wild, free,
Embrace your earthy sensuality.
Find your place in sacred nature.
Revere again the land and seasons.
For we are here, we are here, we never disappeared.
In the glistening of the frost on moonlit hills: you can see us,
In the laughter of the silver streams: you can hear us.
In an avenue of silent trees: you can meet us,
In the passing of the clouds you can know us.
For we are here! We are here! We never disappeared.
Let your heart sing, let your feet dance,
Let your spirit soar and you will find us.
Own again the world of fey,
And Gwyn ap Nudd, its regent.
The stories we tell weave powerful spells.
Beware the tales that Christians tell.
Remember now, as I have shown you,
There's more than one side to every story.
The Power of Nine
Oh you maidens, numbered nine,
Who dance your way cross
Land and time: witches, sisters,
Oracles, shape-shifters.
What's your wisdom?
What can you teach us?
Nine skerry-brides powered the mill,
Ground out the world
From the ice giant's bones.
Nine sisters were nine mothers
To the hero Hiemidalir.
Nine Valkerie bring the brave to Valhalla,
As nine Morgana guide Arthur to Avalon.
There's nine maiden mountains
And nine maiden wells,
Nine maidens painted on a cave in Cogal,
Nine witches of Caer Lyow,
Nine sisters of Mont Dol,
Nine ladies of Stanton Moor,
Nine maiden circles at Maldron,
Boskaden, Tregaseal, Waldron,
Nine druidesses of the Isle of Sien,
Nine who dance the Full Moon Rites,
Nine maenads and nine muses,
And then, with Cerridwen,
There's nine whose breath kindles the fire
That heats the potion with the power to inspire
With Wisdom, Knowledge and Prophesy,
The initiate, willing to risk
All that they are in the name of truth.
In time, out of time, by time, through time,
Everywhere you look you find them.
Thrice times three, trinity of trinities,
Over and again in myth and legend
These nine maidens weave their enchantment.
What's their secret? What's the mystery?
What do we learn from nine maidens' histories?
Nine is the number of initiation.
Nine is the number of endings and beginnings.
Nine is the number of inspiration.
Nine is the number of transformation.
Nine moons to bring forth a babe.
Nine planets spinning round.
Nine dimensions to time.
Nine is the centre of all things.
Nine is the still point in the wind.
Eternally reoccurring,
Thrice time triple, nine-fold magical,
The power of three by the power of three
Can bind the world to our will.
Oh, you maidens who ever weave
In and out the fabric
Of time and place and story,
Guardians, in all your guises,
You nine whose sacred breath
Warms the cauldron of Cerridwen,
I stand before you now
Calling on your power.
I am a willing initiate
And I would drink
Of the cauldron of inspiration,
Of the potion of truth,
Open to the wisdom
Of those who've gone before.
I would know the nature of Awen,
Flowing of spirit,
Essence of life in motion.
Speak to me now.
Speak through me now.
Speak with the true voice of prophesy.
However we have called on you before
We have never needed you more.
'You have chosen this incarnation
To be part of the transformation,
Of this sick 'civilisation',
Of an end to waste
And an end to greed,
And the dawning understanding
Of what you truly need.
Listen to your hearts
Find the truth that's beating there.
Open to your longing
For right living in the world.
Know that it is possible
For the point of power is now.
These are the most important things:
Hold your vision. Love with passion.
Speak your truth, and also listen.
Open to the dreams that call you
To a truer manifestation
Of the spirit of creation
And honouring of sacredness.'
It is time to own your power.
Heed the maidens' message.
Eternally reoccurring,
Thrice times triple, nine-fold magical
The power of three by the power of three
Can bind the world to your will.
The Heart of Ireland
Skryne, Faughan, Lismullen, Tara,
Look around these hills of drama,
For if there is a heart to Ireland
It beats here, where we now stand.
Each ditch and mound, earthwork and embankment,
Tells its story of burial and settlement,
Worship of ancient Gods, of gatherings
Right back through time to the old High Kings.
Once a Royal City filled the whole of Gabhra
And vast timber temples formed the sanctuary of Tara.
Here fought our heroes from the time of the Fianna,
And Kings were crowned by the Tuathá de Danann
In the mound of Hostages, Duma na nGiall,
At the true stone of destiny, Lia Fáil,
Perfectly aligned with sunrise, Samhain and Imbolc,
And the full moon in honour of Lugh.
The very folds in the landscape hold our history
And beyond that, our myth and mystery.
This is home to the Goddess Maebh
Honoured here for thousands of years.
So standing here now, let's contemplate
What will be Ireland's fate,
If we build a road through the valley of Gabhra
And destroy the sacred sites round Tara?
What will the future say of us,
When we, in our turn, are ancestors
If we are responsible for the desecration
Of the most powerful symbol of our nation?
So lost are we to a sense of self,
We're intent on destroying our truest wealth.
For only a people who do not understand
Could so wound the heart of Ireland.
Or will we be the generation
Who refused to allow this violation?
Who fought to the end like our heroes before
Because we know what it is we're fighting for.
So our children's, children's children can stand
And look across this sacred land,
Feel its heartbeat, know its power,
Cos' we saved Tara in her darkest hour.
Speaking Stones
I have not spoken. I have not spoken of the voices,
Of voices I have heard; of secrets I am told;
Of the whispered mythologies of a thousand lives
Touched briefly in the womb-room
Where the voices come to break with me.
I have not spoken. Childvoices speak to me
Knowing the silence of stonelives.
Voices tripping up the stairs to what lies buried in bedrooms,
Children with sad silent eyes that whisper "I suffer".
I have not said what they said to me
Things they could not say,
Childvoice living their stonelives.
I have not spoken, not spoken of the women and men
Who have poured into me, their memory.
I do not know how to speak. I must protect
The voices that murmur "he said I could not say".
Grow stones inside of what you cannot say
Rather than have the world shatter
Into little pieces, fragmenting everything.
Sad, angry, low, hesitant,
Loud, huge, pained, shadowed,
All the voices I've ever heard live in me.
Yet I have not spoken.
I have not spoken of worlds where children
Are begged by their mother to murder;
Of little girls led by the hand
Into rooms where fathers rape them;
Of boys bloodily weeping into toilets
Afraid to let a sob escape them.
Oh I have not spoken.
I have not spoken of dark rooms
With lashing belts and stumbling alcoholic breaths;
Of waiting for hell to end in the coal bunker;
Of hanging by your leg outside a window
Until you submit to buggery by your tormentors;
Of a baby born dead of night's screaming,
That was by morning swallowed up by night's knowing,
Never again to be spoken.
I know too much of this dark world I have not spoken.
How do you soak up stories
Hold faith that speaking stones
Will heal them?
Stones swallowed so long ago
That live in throats waiting to be spoken.
I have taken this again and again
To our green mother, wept upon her breast
Begged for a road to walk,
For the strength to soak up tears
As she soaks up mine and never tires.
I have prayed, but I have not spoken.
For if I am to find a voice,
I want it to be a voice of beauty
That speaks of iridescent dreams,
A voice that honours,
A muse-given gift of wordnets
Capturing jewels of experience.
I have not spoken
Because I know such ugly things.
But in the learning of those ugly things,
I have seen beauty,
The healing light that glows around release.
I have witnessed magic
In those womb-rooms,
Where people birth themselves,
Are born into voices that live and laugh
And speak of other things.
They gave me the gift of their speaking courage,
These tellers of ugly things,
With new-washed tear-stained faces
Where joy shines as stoneselves are shed;
The petrified revive. The old world ends.
They leave me then.
Leave me their voices stumbling on their stories.
Leave me their choked pauses.
They are my voices now,
My whispered mythologies.
Each one goes
Just before the happy ending,
Leaving behind their gifts
Of speaking stones,
And the courage that has healed them.