NARATIVES AND TRADITIONS

NARATIVES AND TRADITIONS Martin Burke There are stories Dante –Beowulf – Irish tales This is something different

This precedes those others Is the first story of the world In the world before the world

You don’t believe me?

Then listen and judge

Green Door Editions No 3

There are poems and stories which need neither apology nor explanation for their retelling. The pleasure is in the telling. The pleasure is in the listening, the reading. Hence this book

Acknowledgements are due to the editors of Cervena Barva Press Liminal Pleasures Monomyth Where some of these pieces first appeared Copyright Š Martin Burke 2011

GILGAMESH There are stories Dante –Beowulf – Irish tales This is something different

This precedes those others Is the first story of the world In the world before the world

You don’t believe me?

Then listen and judge

The beginning?

What is the beginning?

It begins with words in mist In fire, in stone In the memory of a people entering history as myth

Listen –his name is Gilgamesh He is king and king of everything His name is his fame and his fame is everywhere

He knew everything and declared it to the world He knew the mysteries and all that was hidden He could relate the knowledge from before the flood He was fond of journeys –beyond the known and unknown He carved his name and story in stone

He is, you understand, superb in his person and actions And why shouldn’t he be?

Is he not two-thirds god and one-third man A trinity unto himself?

Such persons build cities –he built Uruk Intricate stone and several gates A wonder in a world full of wonders The foundations going deep into the earth And growing outward into the lives of his people Here he carves his story Here he makes sure that he is renowned for what he isA god, a king, a total man A force that has no equal in the world Forerunner of the remarkable The first living example of the superb in action

Yet he is not always superb in his dealings He can be cruel, he can oppress, He can be as sly as the snake and as mild as the dove He is, you understand, many things in one And not all of them likable Which is why in their distress the people cry out to Anu

“Help us, help us” they plead; “Send some deliverance.

Make all things right in the world and we will be grateful.

We will light the candles in the temples We will make the finest offerings at your altar But help us, help us, help us.”

And As sometimes happens God listens And grants what is asked For every force a counter-force For every imbalance a balance For every tip of the scales a tip in the opposite direction

Enkidu –wild and untamed The strength of dozens of beasts Subhuman to the human force Yet a rival to the king

This is what the gods create In reply to the prayer.

The people do not know this as yet But they will.

They will see marvellous things They will hear marvellous stories And so he is created Enkidu –marvellous man Seen by a woodsman’s son who tells his father What he has seen and told in turn To take a sacred prostitute from the temple To the forest to couple with him Who will then loose his strength, his wildness, his ways, Who will be no threat

Who can resist her?

Enkidue can’t, no man can, no man has For she is Shamhat and that is everything

He does not resist His sinks into the pit of lust and love and is lost Loses his powers and total wildness But gains a human understanding

This is the bargain he has unwittingly made This is what he has subjected himself to Now he is mortal in every sense

Yes, he weeps, tears that any man might weep For what he has lost and what he has gained And the desolation in between

“But I will take you to the city I will show you great things I will introduce you to the kingThe only man fit to be your friend�

All is not well in the kingdom of Gilgamesh’s mind Dreams trouble his nights and he cannot free himself of them Signs from out of the world appear in the worldA meteorite, an axe, and the people celebrate And he is forced to compete with both To test his strength against meteorite and axe To embrace them as he would a wife But all this does nothing.

Nothing is done that cannot be undone His arts are not enough for this contest He seeks the wisdom of his mother Who reads such signs Who is wise in interpretation and understanding

Who twists the cords of his dreams Into a meaningful rope that can be used “A great force has been let loose A new power has entered the world and takes the shape of a manEmbrace him as you would your wife and all will be well This is something that you can use�

The story continuesEnkidu learning the skills of men Enkidu learning the language of men Enkidu learning all that he can

Yes, forces are on the move Myth has entered history and will not be denied Action moves towards consequence The inevitable is about to happen

The dreams have passed The dark nights have faded And Gilgamesh is at rest

Now it is a festival Gilgamesh demands the right of prima nochta (You see where this is leading?

You see the sort of man we are dealing with here?)

The inevitable is about to happen Enkidu enters the city

When a force meets its equal There is either conflict or amity When a force meets its opposite

It must either subdue or accept its mirror self

But Enkidu will not bow down He will oppose He blocks the bridal room and forces the king to fight

There are myths within myths and stories within stories There are episodes within all stories which are stories in themselvesSuch is the way of this episode in which king and beast Face each other and fight

The one does not possess a skill that the other does not One is not more alert to movement and strategy than the other They are, as the chronicles record, the match and equal of each other

There can only be one conclusionDeath or friendship and they both know this And both want life more than they want death And so a pact is sealed between them A friendship that survives all the strategies of battle And they find each other good company

Unlikely pair and yet they are a pair That, perhaps, makes up the total man But the total man they form rests and grows lazy

They sleep long after dawn They drink through the night One by one the old delights grow hollow Until, in a moment’s flash of fire, Gilgamesh proposes a planThey will go to the cedar forest

And cut down all the trees!

It sounds simple but there is much involved Humbaba the terrible guardian of the forest Will need to be dispensed with Enkidu doubts this plan He know about the guardian of the forest And knows how terrible he is “Don’t do this” he urges “Pick some other plan. Don’t overreach yourself”

But the king is rash and will not listenAnd why should he?

Is he not part god and therefore not to be swayed by human advice?

What the answer was no one knows For here the story gets lost In the shadows of fire and time Much can be guessed or conjectured But who can say with certainty what then occurred?

I can’t, no one can, so leave it in the mist And take up the tale When the elders of the city (which city?)

Protest the king’s intention

But who can protest a king’s intention and plan?

Words come to nothing Protest is useless He will do as he pleases

There are prayers and pleas From god and mother But he will not listen

He is set on this course Nothing can divert it No, he will have his way And do what he intends to do Such is the resolve of Gilgamesh Such is his oath to heaven

The journey begins and the dreams begin -this is the way the god operatesDreams that trouble the soul of the king Dreams of meaning and meanings

But Enkidu tells him all will be well Yes, god will go with him on this journey Once again the king is blessed by fortune

Then another dream A dream in which (as the poet writes) The skies shout, earth heaves Then darkness and silence like death Then thunder in the east that comes near Then the floods over the earth and death from the skies The earth turning to withered ash

What this means is lost to us as so much is lost However let us assume it means good things That it signals the approach of the deity Into the affairs of men

More dreams follow More of the same and those that are different Yet each of them confirms his choice And so he goes forward with elation

You think caution should play a role here?

Kings are not cautious when fame is there for the taking No, they chance everything and everything seems right And there is no turning back

No, there is no turning back No, not even when fear comes upon him At the entrance to the forest This is a new experience Yet this is something he will not run from No, not even when Endiku fights with him Until a god, from the multiplicity of gods, intervenes And tells him to attack the one who is the true enemy

So they enter the forest This is always a dangerous thing to do but they do it The trees cannot resist their intention No, not even the great central tree of the beautiful forest The axe swings and the trees fall And there seems no end to it

Till the guardian, Humbaba, comes Come and challenges them to stop or to fight And Gilgamesh runs away in fear at the might of the guardian

“Come back! Come back” calls Enkidu “He is not so strong as we two are and beside, the gods are with us”

He feels taunted A servant calling on a king not to hide!

No, he will not hide, he will not stay away in the bushes He returns to the open place and the fight begins

Two against one –but what a one!

He has the strength and skill of many He is both subtle and direct He attacks, they fend him off, but he attacks again The fight assumes the proportions of an epic

Blow, counter blow Attack and attack again The direct movement and the deceptive movement Meant to confuse –and it does But even so it is two against one and the outcome is foreknown And is a conclusion that cannot be avoided

See then the conclusionHumbaba on his knees before the king Begging for his life and offering everything Gilgamesh hesitating but Enkidu shouting

Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!”

And Humbaba“I will die but you will die You will not know the peace of the world”

And then he dies – One swipe of the sword and his head falls off And this particular episode is ended as they carry off the trees To make a great gate for the city of Uruk

But victory has a price and he will pay it There is no escape from the fates the gods weave for men

Gilgamesh is splendid in his victory He dresses in the best finery He is the very epitome of a man that men admireAs does the goddess Ishtar Who come and offers herself only to be rejected by him

This is a mistake that a price will have to be paid for And so, in the words of the poet, Ishtar calls aloud to the sky-god Anu-

Father, let me have the Bull of Heaven To kill Gilgamesh and his city.

For if you do not grant me the Bull of Heaven, I will pull down the Gates of Hell itself, Crush the doorposts and flatten the door, And I will let the dead leave And let the dead roam the earth And they shall eat the living.

The dead will overwhelm all the living!

Anu agrees and the gift is given And a terrible desolation comes into the world The underworld opens The living are cast in The people call on king and god to help them

Again a battle Again the king and his friend against a terrible enemy

Again a victory But again the beginning of an end they do not foresee

Enkidu falls ill

Dreams trouble the compound of his restless sleep His is the price that gods have decided that must be paid For the death of the bull of heaven As through the horror and the haze he sees the house of the dead

The house where the dead dwell in total darkness, Where they drink dirt and eat stone, Where they wear feathers like birds, Where no light ever invades their everlasting darkness, Where the door and the lock of Hell is coated with thick dust.

Then sorrow, then weeping

Lamentations over the great city

The king in mourning and the people at prayer And he builds a monument to his friend This is what it has come to

But it comes to this alsoGilgamesh aware that he must also die That two parts god is not enough That all things will end and that he will end with them Yes, death will come and he will go with it Into the dark from which none have returned

How to escape this?

This is what he ponders This is what he sets his mind to solve And solve it he does in an audacious but simple wayHe will visit the only man and his wife

Who have been granted immortal life

Easier said than done They live at the end of the world Are known as the far-away Are guarded by giant scorpions And that is just the beginning

But he is nothing if not determined Single-minded in his purpose Prone to having his way Setting his mind on the outcome and not on the difficulties Even when the bad dream comes Even where there are warnings and signs that cannot be dismissed

Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!

All things must end All things must end

So he journeys Into the lands of far away and never Into the dark and secret places of the world Where the giant scorpions are Who tell him is journey is hopeless and less than that But who allow him to pass (this is the first miracle) And on and on he goes

And then another miracle –or is it a deception?

He enters a brilliant garden of gems Where every tree bears precious stones But even this does not stop him Nothing can stop him as he goes

Nothing hinders his mind from its destination

Neither can the tavern keeper who refuses to let him in Until he proves to her who he is (his fame is that great) And listens while she tells him of dangers and deceptions But even that will not sway him

There are stories within stories Mysteries within mysteries Matters that cannot be told no matter what is told Such is the episode of the ‘stone things’

What these are the story does not say except to say That they are necessary So speculate, give them a function and name In the privacy of your thought And let that carry you forward

For without these the ferryman cannot carry him to The longed-for place They are his means to cross the waters of death They are his passage and his right of passage And so without them another way will have to be found There is always another way No story ever offers only one conclusion or possibility No journey is ever fated to follow only one path “Cut down some trees and make a raft and punting poles And in this way cross the waters of death But beware, beware, to touch those waters brings instant death So beware, beware, beware”

Go with him now in all his loneliness and fear Go as he goes over the long and dangerous waters See what he see, feel what he feels, Let your sympathy embrace the journey and its purpose O yes, you also would outwit death if you could You would also escape the sentence of night and its darkness Gilgamesh is your brother in this acknowledge All he sees and endures Go with him as he goes Feel his heart pounding in your chest like a large drum Suffer his fears and travel with him Even though you will do so in silence

Everything seems unending until it ends And so even this ends –there on a shore Where a lone figure is waiting A figure who seems human and not at all fabulous

“Who are you?

Where do you come from?

What do you want?”

These are the questions history asks of every intruder And Gilgamesh answers with the story of his life

“I’ve come to find that which is most preciousLife without ending, immortal life, and there is one Who can give it to me” “And why should you want what you do not have?

What gives you this right?

Death is the inheritance of all Do not try to avoid it” And then he knows that this is the one

He has come to see But to see him old and human –not sky-born and blessed, A man like himselfThis is not what he expected “Expectation is a dangerous thingIt never comes alone, it comes with greed and envy And they are bad housemates But there is a goodness in you that moves me to speak And so I will tell you all you want to know

It was the gods who decided on the flood They met in the great city and swore an oath To keep their plan secret from every living thing But Ea, he who co-created humanity, Came to my house and told the walls and I heard what he said

He told the walls to build a boat as wide as it was long To fill it with gold and every living thing And this I did I closed the door behind me and did not know That I was opening and closing the door on history Then the clouds arrived, the black clouds of rain And the earth split open beneath them

The gods shook like beaten dogs, hiding in the far corners of heaven, Ishtar screamed and wailed: "The days of old have turned to stone: We have decided evil things in our Assembly!

Why did we decide those evil things in our Assembly?

Why did we decide to destroy our people?

We have only just now created our beloved humans; We now destroy them in the sea!"

All the gods wept and wailed along with her, All the gods sat trembling, and wept.

Seven days and seven nights of it Seven without pause or let-up Rain and flood and rain and flood Until at last light returned to the earth And then what did I see but that all men were turned to stone And so I cried for that desolation Cry! Cry! Cry! Cry! Cry for all that dies Cry! Cry! Cry! Cry! All things must end and die I had landed on a mountain And waited there for seven days and on the seventh day I released a dove from the boat, It flew off, but circled around and returned, For it could find no perch.

I then released a swallow from the boat, It flew off, but circled around and returned, For it could find no perch.

I then released a raven from the boat, It flew off, and the waters had receded: It eats, it scratches the ground, but it does not circle around and return.

I then sent out all the living things in every direction and sacrificed a sheep on that very spot.

The gods were amazed that I had escaped the flood And some were enraged at the breaking of their oath But Ea convinced them to be merciful And from that moment on they made us immortal And told us to live at the source of all the rivers But you want more than a story You want me to give what was given me

Well I’ll give it –on one condition That you stay awake for six days and seven nights” How simple, how luring this seems to the weary one Who agrees but falls instantly asleep And squanders what will be his only chance Doomed man this is your fate And you cannot escape it Death devours you and invades your soul This is your fate and you cannot escape it So you wake and cry His wailing wakes sorrow and compassion The immortal’s wife pleads with her husband Give him a consolation, make him young again He agrees and Gilgamesh agrees And is offered a plant at the oceans’ bottom Which will make him young again So he ties stones to his feet And sinks into the ocean Sees the plant and plucks it But does not use it What if it does not work?

What is this is another deception?

He will bring it back to his city and there Test it on an old man before he uses it on himself Doomed man You can do nothing to escape your fate For while you sleep a snake eats the plant (And this is the reason it sheds its skin) And leaves you in your desolation to cry out

So stand where he stands at the journeys end Outside his city where all began Where carved in stone is the story you have followed To this beginning There are stories Beginnings before the beginnings Ends that do not end their implications And I have told you this one This will endure, this will endure This will never end

After Troy -Books 1 to 6 of the Aeneid

a ship slips from a harbor & the future is born the past recedes, recedes

My song?

The aftermath of a city’s annihilation The search by one man for some peace in the world If peace is there to be found

Nothing of the City remains Everything is gone Even the foundations are blackened

(And the foundations of the mind also?)

This is the terrible truth The loss that cannot be made good

And so the ship sails to its fate Prophecy holding the hand at the tiller And the prow set towards the west

So who is he –this splendid one, this prince For clearly he is no commoner displaced from a shattered tradition

Not sky-born, not he, no, but earth weaned and beautiful The remaining pride of a race that has lost all pride

So move with him as he negotiates the waters of Greece Move with him into dangerous currents and underflows His hand on the tiller and the soul’s sail wind-full Hugging the wind, this way and that, this way and that But always to the west

The wind rising The sea growing fierce His little boat rotting at the seams And the first hail of harsh rain

Rain as the rain-god delights in his power The sea his ally and the wind a brother god’s full force

The small boat going this way and that way under dark clouds His hand on the tiller but not with enough strength Unanswered prayers and pleas

This way, this way, that way, that way – and which way is west?

Waves as tall as the walls of Troy were Sea-green and darkness The battering-ram of an exile’s fate Endless and endless Endless until a god says ‘enough’ And the wreck of a boat is beached on the sand But not yet in the prophesied place So, let us say it is a clear and splendid morning A soft after-wind and no storm at its force A prince wakes on a shore

To wake as the displaced one of the world Is to know a bitterness for which there is no equal Is to find yourself mocked by circumstance Is to doubt the god-given promises Yet this is what he wakes to Wakes to and wonders where he might be Anxious for the future and suspicious of the present

Poor king that would be of no man’s land This is the exact future you must face This the historical necessity A god’s roundabout way of fulfilling his word And that word was this That out of exile a homeland would come That the race would not be disowned in heaven but blessed on earth That peace would follow the nation’s course That peace and all the gifts it gives would be given That he would not go unremembered in the world

It is this bright elsewhere which holds him to his purpose This the guiding thought of his mind To which all other thoughts are bent

Yet heaven has plots and ploys Of which he knows nothing He must suffer He must endue But not every endurance is a pain to the heart

Take love for instanceAll delight in and suffer for it But the delight remains

And this is what heaven’s king Jupiter plots As much for amusement as out of necessity That necessity which carries history forward And marks the passage Aeneas must make

When a force meets its equal opposite When a mirror looks in a mirror and sees itself multiplied Then there can only be one outcome And that outcome is love

Love in the form of a Queen building a city For if he is an exile then so is she If he has endured then so has she If he must play his part then so must she And the part she plays is love

Love that has no precedent nor fitting expression Wild, untamed love That uproots That destroys That splices two stories into one But keeps them forever parted

They meet (The gods have worked this wonder They have worked others and will work more But for the moment this is more than enough) Their fates are twisted and inter-coiled Wherein one will fail and one will succeed And no one knows the better fate When love is so one-sided Tell me -she says- your story And I will listen for you have much to tell

I want to know ever fact I will make that story become my own I will add my verse to the poem of your life For that poem is not yet finished

The poem is not yet finishedThis he suspects but also knows That she -and she is beautifulCan play no meaningful role In the part that must unfold

And yet to speak of it To speak of home is a pleasing thing When you are the exile of the world

So he begins Slowly, hesitantly, unsure if he has words enough To tell her what must be told

A story is the past unfolding itself like a wave Upon the beach of the present It has its rhythms It has its needs And the one who tells it is secondary to this

He unfolds himself into that wave He becomes the persona of his own drama He follows that unfolding to the shoreline

What I have been What I have become A segment of a fable

Fragment of a wave within a wave Segment in turn of the greater story of which this is a part Wave within wave within wave The fable with its needs which we bend to A first, a second, a third unfolding And then its continuation in the world But I hesitate I do not know everything The wisdom and decision of the Gods outwits my brain I cannot pry into the auroral darkness of their intention And yet That Troy should fall and be destroyed -who can understand it?

Exile is epilogue and prologue But prologue to what?

Into what snare have I wandered?

What is the tale that is now beginning in the world?

At best I see the fragments of my life At best I see that some outcome will follow But what is that to be?

Surely there are meanings which only time will unfold Yet I am impatient The world burdens me with its infidelities I know no rest I have become what I have become I am less than the story I tell Though I tell it as best I can

(Now he is weeping the river of himself Now he is mortal in every sense)

But if the gods have wisdom –and they have Then what is there for me to complain about?

I am a servant and no more than that I claim no special precedence in this world Wisdom and the sable darkness of a god’s mindWho can pry there?

You can’t I can’t We can only obey The gods are gods and men are men And that is the relationship that will endure Yet if the gods endure then so have I A human weight, a human hope Abundance and plenty But all on the wrong side Is that then the totality of my fate – To be an exile?

To be cast upon the rough waters of the world?

To bring with me a memory of what is now no more?

To bear witness, all be it in the negative, To a life that weeps the river of what has come to be?

Questions I have questions but no answers And the only knowledge I possess Is the one that says all is not yet written Even though all is fore-written in the mind of god

Then silence Silence that she does not dare cross Yet she has already crossed it

Love has seen to that Love with the weight and motion of an atom has moved her She cannot defend herself She would comfort him if she could But who can give comfort against the decisions of the gods?

You can’t and she can’t And now, all be it in exile and separation, She is forever linked to him His fate is her fate She will endure

For love endures what only love can And she – oh she is in love

But if Troy was the beginning of my fate What is to be its end?

I cannot say The gods have a wisdom that men do not have And so I must find comfort in that

Love -she wants to cry- love will heal the wounds of time Let me comfort you Let my love absolve the pain you carry And that I also carry because of you But she does not speak Already he is lost to her and she knows this Love is her wound and there is no healing Love is the wound that marks her fate as she listens

Yet promises have been made and thanks offered I have obeyed the gods as is befitting in men And have offered the prescribed offerings Yet does this smoke rising to heaven become foul?

Are my gifts and devotions less than another’s?

I cannot say I have told you this story and could tell you more But my heart has no heart for the telling

Already she knows Already she knows that he will leave That nothing she can do or say will alter this She has no force to equal the force he pursues his life with She is also a casualty of Troy

Yes she thinks Your fate is my fate in the mirror that we are to one another You will not suffer anything that I do not Your exile is my exile and this city will not hold you The gods play with your life and they play with mine Though mine is not to be the outcome that will be yours They have given you exile from your own country And I am exiled from the country that is love

You will leave and I will remain This is the fate that cannot be avoided This is the fate decided in heaven And against that power what recourse have we?

The gods cherish obedience above all gifs And this is what must be offered The smoke of my offering will be pleasing to heaven But my heart will hold the scar

(Let me ask a timely questionDoes this exile prefigure the times we live in?

In this, in other words, a precedent that history repeats?

Daily and daily Mostly out of Africa The rotting ships of hope beach on the beaches The cargo is a human one with a desperate hope We are not Cartage yet still they come And bring with them a past that s not wanted I see them, children of the sun and the sun’s darkness, On streets in Spain and Belgium and France Selling their wares –crafts from a continent The romantic mind still imbues with folk appraisals But leaves the children desolate And what stories move their hearts?

Does some queen reside as the totem self They hope to find?

Does this foreshadow our life to come

For still they come – The lost and the crippled and the maimed And what is their return?

Voyages and flight The mind’s trusting hope in distant lands Yes, this is a familiar story And perhaps I have nothing to add but this observationA child on the streets of Granada Begging and begging and receiving so little, The hope shattered The dream gone sour Exile in a second exile from the self

What greater myth do they move in And what is to be our role?

Oh may that child find comfort and calm And a few pennies more for bread

Justice Justice and bread is the call of these times In which we listen or turn away And so condemn the nation that we are

Justice Justice and bread May this exile be ended May all things achieve a befitting calm)

But what befitting calm can her heart know?

She knows so little and she knows so much She knows that death has come in the shape of love And that there will be no escape

No escape No way out and no way back Love her doom Marked like the victim is marked with red ink In Baghdad and Darfur

Poor queen Poor lost sister of pain and death I might sing for you in this day’s calm But my song arrives too late

Too late, too late And after-thought of regret on the wind A song that sings to itself

Your love-song is a death-song Carried by the wind across the time That divides and unites us And red coals from your funeral fire Still smolder in my heart

That smoke rises into the air of Cartage He sees but misunderstands Your death goes unnoticed by the one for whom it is intended

Who has taken to the sea again Who leaves behind the story of his name To search the story of his name

A history entering history A song and story as admonition History separating from history again

As he beaches in Italy

Where the Sibyl is Where prophecy and clarity Move in a mixed babble That not everyone understands

Even so To weave the threads of her garbled speech Into the rope to bind the future with To make the knot of prophecy unwind Like a golden thread from and into the golden wall Of the future

This is what he has come this far for And will go further still if needs be For he needs to visit the under-world So as to consult his father

But And there is always a ‘but’ Prophecy and death are partners So what will be expected of him?

What rope and threads of the underworld link The living to the dead?

Others have gone where he would go And is he less than they?

Is he not also of royal blood Has he not a worthy name?

And then the sibyl began to speak

To go is easy But to return –that is the true difficulty Heaven has favoured a few on this journey But many have failed in the attempt So judge the longing in your heart And make no false calculation And then If longing and will strengthen your heart Begin the easy descent What you will see will surprise and not surprise you Woods and water bind that way And you will need to cross death’s terrible river But first you will come to it – The golden branch that you must pluck If pluck it you can Only this will give you safe passage and guidance And without it You will be lost among those you would gladly escape from That branch is your protection and sign That heaven grants you this privilege For as soon as one branch is torn off A second takes its place Yes, such miracles can occur even in that place For a goddess hold rightful sway there So do not question why you should do this But do it and be blessed

Blessed?

In hell on heaven’s errand?

If not there then where?

If not now –when?

Afraid, unafraid Going down, going down As cautious as he can be in that place As cautious as he is determined

Down and down Past deception and its root And the counterfeit claims Of other trees that call to him

Ignoring that Pressing on Down and down where the dead reside And the living refuse to enter

Until And it this fate or is this chance?

He sees the golden bough bright in a tree That he approaches

And then Heart pounding wildly The blood at full speed He grasps the glittering branch and prays That it will come away in his hand

It does As simple and as easy as that The branch comes away in his hand And he can proceed Ignoring the ante-chamber of hell Going down and down

Coming to the rive Seeing the boatman approach

Showing him the branch Breaking down all argument As to why he should not cross Then into the boat and crossing

Crossing the waters of ghosts and sleep On into death’s kingdom Past horror and deformations More human than he has ever been Afraid, unafraid, going down and down Past suffering and suffering Going down, going deeper Into hell and clutching the golden bough

Helpless and human and appalled

To visit the dead To walk among the ghosts and shades Of those you have known and loved Is no easy matter Yet this is what he must do to seek his father

To seek the fatherYou could write the history of the world By these words and nothing would be omitted From the total story To seek the father To seek a living voice amongst the silence Yes, this is the story of the world

He knows this and continues Continues as he must among the many who cry out for blood At seeing a living force amongst them And then finds him Yet when they seek to embrace does he realize That a ghost can have no truck with the living And that they are forever separated By being what they are Until death will have claimed them both

If the son weeps for the father Then the father weeps for the son

Even in hell the dead can weep And the living weep also

Is this what love has brought us to?

Is the father doomed to see the son And the son to see that father Without the comfort of an embrace?

Is my condition so appalling that you shrink from me Or is there some wisdom to our state?

Father, I have loved you and love you still Death cannot undo that and if it did I would fight against it And would not care if I would loose Death is like that It takes the living and our cares And turns them into immutable sorrow And so I’ve come for youWhat guidance remains in your mind that you can give For I need that guidance now

Old lands and new lands intertwine in my mind I cannot sort the past the future Even though the future has broken that past Into multiple pieces And so I collect the shattered pieces of my life And go on as if prophecy was about to fulfil its promised But so far –nothing Nothing but the sea and the wind Nothing but false hope and false starts The occasional kindness of strangers Which too soon turns to demands I cannot fulfil And therefore take to the sea again Now I have come to you And a god has allowed this So tell me what in your fine mind Is the course that I should take How can a ghost instruct the living Yet that is what I must do Well then If you have come this far You will go further still Prophecy in its convoluted way Will achieve through you Its own necessity For you are as necessary to the future As I have been to the past And that past and future meet in you You do not see this But I who see so little see this With that terrible clarity Particular to a ghost If that is your state Then that is your vision And I need that vision badly So do not hesitate Speak and I will listen

Out of necessity you have come And are necessary to the future You do not see this but I see it You do not see the end Of which this is the beginning The seed in the cave of timeI see it and see that you are equal to it And why shouldn’t you be?

Are you less than those who leave a mark Upon their time?

No, you are not less You are more than they and so that mark will endure Endure?

It will do more than endure It will expand and grow The root you plant and are in yourself Will prove to be the strong root of a city Don’t doubt this Others may doubt but you may not That city will rise Law will follow and fame will go where it goes So go back to the living I have said what I have said so find comfort in that Much will be asked and all will be given And the story take a form that has no equal In the past Cities rise and fall in the one weave of time A name endures for a moment but it endures You are equal to all that is expected of you Go pluck the golden thread of time And weave it to the timeless And then he was silent And there was nothing more to be said So he left him there and returned to the light And when he stepped back into the day

He felt renewed and refreshed As if old prophecies were stirring in his mind And stirring in the world he would inherit

BEOWULF shadows and mist silence and mist a name swivels on the tongue

To begin with the hero is inaccurate Begin with his opposite The one he must meet The one he will forever be named by Begin with time ripening to a specific purpose With events entering history at a critical moment Begin with Grendel Grendel: beast/man/beast Grendel: purpose-driven like no other Grendel: a law unto himself This is the one who names the hero for all time The one doomed from the beginning And yet this is not a minor role Oh no Not Grendel Not the man-beast as he broods in his lair Not as he plots the destruction he will bring Not as he delights in the prospect And he will bring destruction O yes Destruction and wanton despair To those who cannot fight him

But all this is in the future For the moment he plots and broods And yet what must he plot?

He will seek out and destroy He will avenge an old grief He will assuage his heart with blood And the rest is merely time waiting for Its appropriate moment Flash-forward now a little further inland There a king has his hall There he gathers his people about him There he waits not knowing he is waiting Just so Just so He plays dice and has women to occupy him He plays the part he is called upon to play History has named him king of this tribe And he is happy to comply This is Hrothgar Mark him well We will meet him again And if he is not the best of kings Then he is not the worst O no There are others worse at ruling than he He does his best and that proves enough For he is popular if not always respected The hero does not enter yet He plays his part elsewhere in another tale That has no bearing on this tale except to show That he is the one we will focus on Yet everything is preparatory

And so who can say with certainty Where something begins When so many beginnings are also endings And endings begin something else?

Back to our tale Think of it as night Think silence and mist and one lone sentry Half asleep beside a fire of pitch And the wind blowing west to east There is a certain stillness in the air A sense of expectation That even you in your chair reading this Can feel So let us return to the crucial moment The one in which Grendel makes his first appearance Among the Danes This is true history This is something that cannot be disputed This is one of those moments In which the future is decided Silence Smoke and flame in the mist Footsteps nearing and nearing The Danes asleep Silence Silence Silence And suddenly Grendel And suddenly everything changes Chaos Destruction

The mind’s implosionThese he wrecks upon the guard Then proceeds to the hall And Tearing the door from the sturdy hinges Enters the Dane’s lair Does the hero enter here?

Not yet Not yet All must flow to the tempo of time That has long been in preparation Meanwhile Grendel a whirlwind Grendel a force that has no match Grendel the destroyer Men resist but what can they resist?

How do you resist a fury of blood That has been long in coming?

They can’t and you can’t So think yourself lucky not to be there But to be reading this Mayhem Panic Fear and fear Blood and guts and limb parts everywhere Like the aftermath of a suicide bomber Moments?

Perhaps Perhaps longer Whatever All is shattered and the dead are everywhere And as quickly as he came he departs So quickly that they do not know

If a god or a troll has made this visitation Hrothgar can only lick his wounds And wonder why this doom has come For doom has come He knows that and knows This is the first but will not be the last In Grendel’s aftermath the women wail And the men burn in heathen fashion The bodies of the dead Heathen?

Yes, the world is carefully chosen For a new god has entered the world of the Danes And calls all custom thus A new god and an old doomThis is Hrothgar’s fate and circumstance And there is nothing he can do to avoid it He knows his doom stands on the cusp of two worlds But does not know what will happen Time is moving Events have entered history He is unsure where to look Poor man Poor king Poor luckless king facing two worldsWhat will be your judgement?

Or has judgement come upon you in ways That have no explanation?

He does not know He cannot say Much has been said and more will be said But they are just words in the wind

When the new god comes When time splits open like an egg And lets the divine enterWhat is there to be done?

When a new doom enters the world And conquers that world What allows you to pray At ancient altars and shrines?

He cannot say He will not say He does not know the words for this He does not know the words required Poor king Poor luckless king And twelve years of it before you So what do you say to the women’s wail And the glances of the men For you are king and must answer This need they place on you And the new god slowly conquers the old ones The ones they have lived by The ones that give their life its seasons and rhythms The king is unsure which way the wind blows One doom follows another A beast and a god This is what he must face Face and name Face and decide the fate of the tribe For in silence If not in accusation They are watching him and waiting

He does nothing Others make choices But he does not act Neither god nor beast can spur him to A definitive decision He hesitates And that is fatal Poor king Poor luckless king All that you do or say -though you do and say so littleAmounts to nothing and no avail Grendel returns again and again One by one the men embrace the new god from the east And the old world No longer offers the surety it once did Poor king Poor luckless king How will you survive And not turn to total unknowing As nightly -and you know this in advanceThe beast returns and claims those men Still left to you?

You can do nothing You can see nothing You are blind to the workings of history And nothing offers comfort The women do not please you The beer tastes bitter And daily the funeral rites

Follow with no let up nor end Yours is a thankless position Yours is a thankless moment and task You must hold the tribe together You must give it direction and purpose For twelve years you must do this And Each night The situation Worsens Poor king Poor luckless king Who would be you?

Not I as I read your tale And retell it in this fashion Not I among the gadgets of comfort Our world is littered with Though I also stand on the cusp of two worlds Old prophecies are coming to fruition What was promised now moves upon us We prove feeble to the day and its demands The world as we know it is unstable Even so I would not trade I would not trade my life for yours Each to his task And each to his time The cusp we stand on is the same And it is the same god who now calls across the centuries To assert his prerogatives Yes I understand

Understand and walk with you About the destruction the beast has brought to your hall You are king but what does that say?

You are king but what does that bring?

You are king but would rather be A hermit in a hiding place No Not with you Nor any in your time Would I change this place of mine Not with you or yours Would I seek to change My task and its specific demands But I wander Move from theme to theme At the bidding of the god who moves Across history I draw parallels Find similarities Find I understand your dilemma But you do not The world has a name that you do not know The logic of the moment escapes you There is a tempo to all things that you cannot master You are king But king of nothing And twelve years of it come and go There is no let up There is not a moment in which Grendel does not stalk your mind As he stalks your hall at his own will Which does not let up in its fury

For there is no end to his vengeance One, three, five or ten menThe number never appeases him And he returns for more Returns And returns Again Again Your tribe diminishing To the constant wailing of the women A doom that is unending And you have no answer In spite of your prayers And secret hope That something Something Will happen And something does Though you do not know this as yet But time has reached its first climax And is moving towards you With what only it can deliver Move with me now across the sea Move to the nearby land of those Friendly to Hrothgar Not feudal to his lordship But equal in friendship to him Are we dealing then with equals?

Not quite For there is among these others One who makes all the difference One who is fated to meet this doom One who is more than equal

To the expectations placed on him This is Beowulf Beowulf The very name still lingers on the tongue As it did then in hope and expectation Beowulf Bulwark against the barbarian hoards Beowulf Master of sword Beowulf Everything the people want him to be Yes We come to the hero The one who enters this tale At the appropriate moment The one the tale has been waiting for The one who will give it its name Beowulf His many adventures behind him His name a password down the length of the land His fame before him life a flag that all see flapping in the wind See him gnawing the remains of a bone See him modest about the fame that surrounds him See him as everything that you now want him to be See him gnawing the remain of a bone And turning in his mind The plea for help that has come to him From an old friend A plea that says Come to me, come to me A moment that pleases his sense of self One that he will not let pass

For no He cannot forgo this call Help has been called for and help will be given He will fulfill all expectations So see him again picking a crew To sail the boat to the land of the Danes A crew that willingly goes where he will go For where he goes fame follows The boat moves from the harbor to the open sea The crew sharpen their weapons A poet sings the new exploit into a song Already Before the conclusion It has entered the myth of the tribe And there is no dismissing it Does Grendel know this?

Does he suspect some ending he has not foreseen?

The tale does not tell and it does not matter Each must play his part in the fable And only the fable is real Landfall The boat ashore First contact with the Danes -these things happen in rapid successionTalking with all Getting a sense of the doom Beowulf unafraid His crew a little And the Danes delighted at his coming And some wondering if it will be enough

For will it be enough?

One hero against the beast that has killed so many?

One to test his strength against another one One drawn to one As if opposites were to unite In one terrible embrace You see the dilemma?

History and slaughter And no outcome foreknown?

Shift now the look you cast upon the past And cast it to the present See Iraq, Darfur, and Jerusalem See history move there And see the common slaughter See brother and brother Enemy and enemy Moving at a relentless pace No end to it And the logic of it The malignancy of Cain Which Grendel inherits in his bones Grendel Does he still stalk the halls of memory?

Is he the wanton force moving across The maps of the world?

As he now moves toward the hall again Unaware Unaware And perhaps the better for it?

Beowulf waits He can abide his time But can you in the halls of memory and time

As some man-beast moves through the page of your lives And into history?

And history moving And swirling into prophesy Into As David Jones would say The turbulence and beauty of the word Into these pages Into these lines Into the bell that marks the passage of time Marking Grendel as he moves Marking Beowulf as he waits Marking the silence on every border Be it Lebanon, Iraq or Darfur Grendel moving Beowulf waiting All things waiting in the silence of night That seems unending until it ends With Grendel at the door Then havoc Mayhem Panic and fear All these things in the one moment Mayhem Havoc Panic and fear This is the world of men But this is not Beowulf’s world This is the moment He has been waiting for This is the moment he has come for

And then he sees him His opposite and almost equal The one who names the days they live in This is critical For Grendel sees him also And in that one moment and look they know The other is the one that they will have to face Grendel balks A man without fear in his eye Or terror on his breath Is something new Beowulf balks This is more than he has bargained for The beast is more man and the man more beast Than he has been led to believe Yet which of them can disown himself at such a moment?

Neither can Neither does They move to meet in the circle they create Think If you think on other moments such as this If you think on other moments when the future meets the present Then you know the past is about to be created Agamemnon sails home for Greece And the future and the past are both created Gilgamesh meets the man of the forest And the past and future are written into the act Sweeney meets the saint of his doom And past and future are created So it with these two at this moment

They know this Or something like it For thy have no time to think The other stands before them and they must act And act at once And so it begins Blow Counter blow Move Counter move Strategy Cunning Wild movements Side-step to the right Side-step to the left Everything and anything That will give one an advantage over the other But there is no advantage Beowulf is cunning and well practiced in battle But Grendel Who does not possess craft Possess brute strength And that and his rage drives him forward But who is this one?

He does not smell like a Dane He does not yield an inch Who is he that they should fight?

Poor Grendel I pity you You are meeting the present And the future is being born And one of you will be assigned

To the past Blow Counter blow Skill against cunning Strategy against force And force following with no let up As they blows come again And again and again And Grendel must move back Back Back -this sensation is something newGiving up ground he thought was his Finding that he must fear this one who knows no fear A torrent in his own right A match he has not met before The past is collapsing All that he lived by is slowly vanishing Certainties no longer hold their truth Strength is not enough against the new cunning The old gods fail A shiver runs through Grendel And he knows what the outcome will be And does a shiver run through you as the past collapses again And the old truths vanish And nothing holding what it once held?

And suddenly Before your eyes You realize that they both fight before your eyes Alive in this time Naming this time Grendel and Beowulf as if they stepped out of history Into history

Into the time and space you occupy Into conclusions you cannot avoid All turbulence ringing in the world Like the clash of ancient weapons?

Grendel moving backwards Beowulf moving forward The hall a threshing floor And only one may survive it Forget those others in that place They watch but do not fight They are not part of this moment They are that audience history calls To witness critical acts But they do not engage As Beowulf Gaining strength instead of losing it Finds new power in his advantage And strikes And strikes And strikes And Grendel knows As he is forced back That he is receding into the past That Beowulf is the future he cannot outfight It is lost before it is lost He is not enduring and unending -only the fable is thatThis is a fumbled dance he cannot dance His doom and that of his world

Worlds have imploded on less than the blow of a sword Worlds have imploded at the mere mention of a name This is what is happening Perhaps those who watch do not see this But this is what is happening Grendel knows this and Beowulf suspects But as he strike and strike again He has only thoughts of death That blow When it comes Is not unique Is one of many And could have happened before now But now is the moment it happens Now Not before Not after But now Cutting the past from the future Grendel howls in unknown pain Beowulf stops and looks And sees the severed arm of his enemy And his enemy fleeing Into the dark of night Out into darkness Out into pain Back to the pool that gave him birth To die there alone and in silence There is a postscript to this tale A mother and her attempt at revenge But that is only an extension of the tale And tells us nothing new

Beowulf is fated Does he know what he has done?

O yes He knows Or at least suspects something of the future Others will come Other tales will be told Yet what will be told that will cancel this Even as some new Grendel comes To stalk the halls of our troubled minds And wreck an ancient havoc on this time As we in our time Witness death and decay But have no trophy hanging on the wall So what trophies hang In the walls of your mind And at what altars do you bow And mention a sacred name?

THE GATHERING From the Sumerian The people gathered by the mossy banks A beginning? This is not the beginning. The story is already ancient when we join it. We are intruders. Voyeurs of time and place –and yet we are hopeful. To take from tradition a lesson for the present –is not this the wish that drives us? We sit and we watch; we sit and we listen. The bones of a story is about to unfold.

Hear the words of Inana All listen and we listen. When the god, or any god from the manyness of gods, begins to speak creation halts its round and pays attention. Yes, we pay attention.

It is this that we long for –the old certainties of faith and recognition. The covenant binding heaven to earth and everything proportioned accordingly

A sudden cloud submerged the glade This is the weather of heaven which we no longer remember. Even so you must remember. You may not forget the solstice and the eclipse. The disk of the sun and the mirror of the moon. and earth shuddering at the call. The woods darken. The streams halt. Even the stones are filled with expectation

She paused to let her words take effect Before, long before they gave language to men, the gods were aware and cautious of what words could do. They recognised, and rightly so, that what was said and what was left unsaid was a powerful force. They used it sparingly. Not often, and so always to effect. This is what the oracle also does. Cryptic and dense. Not to be understood at first hearing. But to ripen like a fruit that clings to the branch until the first snow comes.

Stepping forward, she placed her spear on the ground This is of course a godly sign and as such a symbol of her authority. They do not mistake this for what it means. None can deny the implication. None can withstand the force of a gesture they have not the force to equal. She places the spear on the ground –and who will dispute her right to do this? None will and none have –except for a few foolish ones that history no longer mentions.

An, the leader of the council gathered there Clearly this is one who knows the wisdom and history of the tribe and so is authorized to speak on its behalf. He will not protest. He will not argue against divine right. Instead he will seek to create a middle ground where gods and men can meet. and if not on equal terms then at least with respect for the rights and prerogatives of the other

He turned to face the people A judgement has been given. Obedience must now be the befitting reply. The gods speak and men must obey. This is the way it has been. This is the way this will be.

To countermand the laws of the gods does not yet enter the human mind.

Centuries must pass before this comes to be and it as yet not even on the radar of the tribe. They listen, they obey. The gods are the gods and must be obeyed. A few clinch their teeth in protest but even they will obey.

A second of the Anuna spoke. and after the judgement the explanation of its justice. The story grows. The tribe listens. Already some poet is writing it down whilst the other scribes count the cost this will have on the tribe. It is the poet who achieves the better result. Merchants are necessary but poetry is the living magic of the tribe. Perhaps there are jealousies at this but again no one disturbs the traditions. What has been spoken passes into the generality of their minds.

A third stood. and does not speak! Mark this one well. He surely possesses some knowledge the tribe has not yet countenanced. He must surely be the forerunner of those who will eventually live without the laws of gods to guide them. Yet he is no destroyer.

He also plays a necessary part in the human and historical drama. He watches, he waits. Time will bend to his will given enough time and he is prepared to wait

And grimaced as if he carried a burden of great weight Yes, he carries a great weight. His is the guiding voice, the bright vision the tribe set so much by. He feels the responsibility and does not shrink from it though there are moments (not many and certainly not frequently) that he wishes it were otherwise. To talk to the gods demands a strength and resolve not given to every man. Sometimes he doubts that it has been given to him. And yet, and yet‌.

One by one, the elders of the Tribes of the Stones Acknowledge what has been said and resolve to write it into the fire of their minds.

Young men may protest but young men do not guide the tribe. They are the elders –who if they do not have wisdom they at least have experience and know what will befall if the tribe falls short of its duty. The listen, they agree. The new law will be put into effect

A bright-eyed young man Ah, so now we are meeting the future. This is the one who will one day give his name to the tribe. This is the one whose name, at present unknown and unimportant, will become the touchstone for the young of their fitness and rightness of mind. So it is he plays the humble part until his given moment will come. Look for him or don’t look for him. He does not need your sanction nor approval

An turned away towards the tranquil pool.

Clearly this is part of his priestly function. None other may enter it and speak the sacred words; none other may take on the vestments he now puts on. He enters the pool. He speaks the sacred words of greeting and supplication. The future is about to happen

Ninurta was sitting at his ease on a reed mat Mark him well. We will meet him again. This much is as assured as is his position within the tribe. Some like him, some dislike him, but do not do so openly. His caution is his wisdom. His long experience a treasure he dives into to extract solutions from. Yes, he has authority. He sees all but only acts when there is no other option.

The fire seemed to die down He knows what this means –the sign of the gods has been given in flame and he can read the flames. Yes, a battle, a war, skirmish after skirmish. This will happen.

This cannot be avoided. He does not rebel again this but plots the course he will take. He stares as the ashes. If only more had been given. If only promises were made but none has been made. There will be battle and he will fight. This is the only surety.

You, Antelope of Heaven He calls aloud to animal, god, and man. Adopt me as your chosen one in this fight and I will make the proper sacrifices at the appropriate time. But there is no reply.

Has his prayer been heard? Will his prayer be answered? Only time will tell and there is little time left.

Ninurta gave a great cry and can you hear it yet? Can you? Can you? Surely you can as you sit reading this in the comfort of your chair. The call echoes at solstice and eclipse. It enters the annals of winter and the torrid pages of summer. It breaks the placid afternoon of our lives. It enters in and cannot be dismissed. Now what will you do?

On that day, Ninurta rose and went to battle Think on what this means. It means the desolation of hell come to reside on earth.

It means that death, and the carrion bird, have ample fodder for their needs. Battle is terrible. It is unending until it ends and there seems no end to it. Yet see him.

Superb again the prerogatives of hell. A master swordsman. An adept at strategy and cunning

Many of the Tribes of the Stones Say this and you have said everything. Say this and you have counted the dead. Say this and you have said war. Say this and you need not say anything else.

The Anuna were organised Battle skills are a necessary and they were skilled in it. Some said this was a necessity. Others said that it was nothing less than joy. Than only in fighting could a man be tested and proved. Others shook their heads in submission. Whatever.

The skill was there and the skill was needed. Never more so perhaps for, as the annals say, this was a fierce battle

But, hero, do not turn again Fight when you must fight and rest when you can rest. This is the secret of battle.

The illusion of activity when at rest and the deception of movement concealing the true intention. The army is disciplined in this. It knows its orders and its movements. It will carry these out. It will not fail. No, failure will not be tolerated this day. The hero has his role and the army has its role. Both must be fulfilled

But Ninurta, very wise

What is the wisdom of battle? It is strategy, it is cunning. It is pretending to do one thing while you intent to do another. It is (as the wise one will later say) a rock falling on an egg. It is the shattering and the scattering. It is a disciplined army. It is the giving of respect to those who deserve it (yes, even among the enemies) and withholding it from those who don’t. War is an art that will later be written about.

For the moment the chaos of battle is everywhere.

Pressing his advantage Sometimes succeeding, sometime, failing, but always on the lookout for the next move

But Ninurta was not daunted Battle is a shifting tide. He knows this. He knows the flow and undertow. He knows its many moods. Yield when you must yield and it is no disgrace. At other times however‌.and the hero must know when both apply. Knowing this he knows everything there is to know. Knowing this he commands and issues orders.

He seems to be everywhere at once. A force from many directions. Pressing, pressing, pressing the enemy back; shattering and scattering; shattering what little remains

In the mountains The scattered ones assemble. Or try to for there is no unity amongst them at what to do next. A defeat, a retreat, a going home in disgrace. No booty, no prize, no tale to tell. Nothing that the poets will laud. Nothing that the singer will sing but the cold misery of their wretched state.

From this day forth History is written with a different script. By other scribes. By a story that will not be forgotten. History is given a new starting point. This is the mark time will take its mark from. This is the blessing of heaven for which they have prayed. On the calendar of victories this assumes mythic proportions

Ninurta studied the faces Young and old, living and the pallid face of the recently dead who have not yet departed fully into the underworld. What to say? He is not a maker of fine words.

He is not skilled in verse and poetry. Yet something must be said and he must be the one to say it.

Since you aided O yes, you aided. You aided and heaven aided and the one would not have been enough without the other. Heaven’s hand is upon all that we do. We seek, we implore and then wait in expectation. Today there was no waiting. Today all expectation was fulfilled. More than this need not be said but more will follow.

The poets will make you famous, as you deserve to be. We fought the good fight as brothers. Every man here is no less than that to me

Then, turning To the sacrificial altar (the priests had prepared it) he offered heaven a perfumed smoke as thanks and acknowledgement. All partook of the ceremony. None was excluded. The smoke moved over the living and the dead and all were blessed according to their state

Inana was well pleased How human the comely gods are in their needs and wants. Simple things –smoke and sacrifice, acknowledgement of their guiding role and all is well. No, they are not indifferent to our praise of them. They wait on us just as we wait on them. It’s a double role we both play. We are linked by smoke and sacrifice.

Raising her voice

Be attentive now, be attentive. When the gods are moved to speak to earth then earth must listen and learn. History is moved forward by such as this. We are prompted into the future and so our fate is written. Listen, be attentive. I cannot say this enough

After the war the Mountain lamented the loss of the Ebih Do not be surprised by this. If not in history then in a time of myth such things are possible. All things have a voice. Mountains speak, streams mummer in lonely voices and the tongue of stones is active. Why then should not the mountain lament? and do you hear its soft-spoken lamentation? Do you hear the call it raises to heaven on behalf of the dead. Listen, and listen carefully; out of time before time that voice emerges and joins its desolations to our own.

Inana heard all that was spoken by the lonely mountain She listens –but will she act? There is no guarantee that she will do so. The gods have a choice on hearing the cry of mountains and men but they do not always act.

Who can say why this is so? Is it a caprice on their part –or some form of justice for which we have no words of understanding? I cannot say and the myths do not explain this fact. For on this occasion the gods listen and reply.

Hero, she said, what now for the people of the mountain?

So, she will listen but not act. She will ask a question but make no demands. She recognises the rights of victory and does not seek to upset this balance. Judgement will be given but judgement will be given by men. This is the transition from godpower to manpower. This is the first separation of gods from men.

At her bidding Ninurta, the greatest of heroes So, she responds but does not act. Men will act and act according to justice or revenge –and perhaps the one will be disguised as the other. The hero knows this.

He knows what is being asked of him. He knows what precedent is being placed before him and that the choice he will make will set the standard for the future. He

is cautious but must decide. The future will be cast by how he casts the nets of his decision.

Anzud Bird, guardian of the Gates Watches and sees all. No, he will not interfere. He will not cross over the line between gods and men. This is an established law. This is the justice of the balance between the gods and men. Even so, he is moved to pity for the defeated and listens as some warriors, still battle-taut call for revenge and more blood.

and the bird replied What you do I will do. What you preserve I will preserve and what you disown I will disown. Be careful now. The fate you impose on others will be the fate I will impose on you. The judgements you make today will be the judgement you bring upon yourselves.

Ninurta was shocked when he heard these words Consequence has entered history. He knows what this means. He knows what this foreshadows. Caution will be best. No rash act. No hasty decision. Caution –a warrior must know when it is best to be cautious and this is just such a moment.

As Ninurta watched the bird drove its long beak into its side And said: Warriors will this blood be enough for you? Will this appease the hunger in your hearts?

So Ninurta did The very same –equalling a godly act with a human act that mirrored the sacrifice and pleasure of the gods. This is a bold move. This risks the balance between all things but is a risk he is willing to take and so as he did so he said: Bird, what you can do I can do. Men may be less that the gods but we are also a force to be counted in our own right

Inana was delighted He has proved himself to be no less that she guessed and predicted. There are murmurs of approval throughout heaven. Men are growing independent. A new balance is being established between heaven and earth and it is men who are making it. The gods know what this will lead to but for the moment they are satisfied.

However, Ninurta was not satisfied What bridge has been crossed over never to be re-crossed again? Is this the severance form the guidance of heaven and will there be greater separations to follow this one? It has been a cold but necessary decision. He has been called on to act and so he acted but did not act as he would have liked to. The gods have force this decision on him and so he had no choice. He wonders what the implications are for the future which this will bring

In the inner chambers of her temple The goddess has gone to the holy sanctuary. What her thoughts are no one knows.

Who can pry into the mind of a goddess? You can’t, I can’t. We can only watch and wait.

Inana then knew that she had no choice Identities are changing. The old ties are broken. Some new covenant is being established and she will have to obey it. Yes, even the gods must obey the laws of heaven. Even the gods can be punished by sanctions which they have established.

Come walk with me

Now the world is newly made. This is the beginning we have entered upon. This is the parting and the joining, the separation and the silence. New laws of balance are in force. New alliances are being forged. and will the men of earth forget the gods in heaven? Yes, they will forget and a new barrenness enter the world and the worlds

You are beyond your place, for here in the Dark World I am the authority and so the cosmos is divided. Men will have life and death. They will have two worlds. They will have sweetness and sorrow and the gods will not interfere. She shudders in the chamber. Is there a new coldness in heaven? Is there already indifference amongst the gods as to what will be the outcome? Men are not shivering –not yet at any rate. They have joy in their new found freedom but what that freedom will drive them towards they cannot as yet say. Prophecy? Yes, there should be prophesy but the oracles are silent in their grottoes. In the silence that is newly made and embracing all there is the first turning away from the traditions

And so it happened.

What had been joined was now broken. The old and the new. Freedom and freedom. The gods slightly bewildered by their own decisions and men gaining confidence that they could make their own decisions and that fate was no longer cast against them but that they could cast their own fate according to their desires There are other stories. There are other tales. Yet all tales tell the same tale and what I have told you -you could have told me. And perhaps you will. Perhaps there will yet be time before the final shattering for stories to be told. I have told you this tale and want to tell no other.

The shattering has come. We are a divided people. The gods are silent in their sanctuary.

GODODDIN There are warriors of whom songs are sung That company was composed of such men Yet not one in a hundred returned

Everything a warrior should be – that much and more Steady in battle – well-versed in strategy Yet he went into death like any other – Marro’s only son When aroused he was an eagle in its flight In battle he pressed hard and spared no one And so he kept his bargain to the letter Do not let his beauty deceive you He dresses in amber beads but this only matches his fury Or at least did until his shield was broken to bits While song lasts he will be praised – Hyfaidd Hir Who unleashed himself in battle until there was nothing left While song lasts he will be praised – as he is in this song Laughter when there should be laughter – harsh when needed They were both as the occasion demanded – and it demanded much Blades before death, death calling, men falling, men falling They were prepared – laughing – savage in battle And battle came – there was no laughter now As they slaughtered the war party of Rhaithfyw Men went to Catraeth – you can guess with what intention More than a hundredfold – choice warriors to a man Even so – or because of which - death confronted them

My art would be shamed if I did not praise them Their bright spears – their skill – their determination I lost a loved one in that battle – this is my elegy to his fame Dawn – with no fear in their heart - three hundred faced ten thousand The field seemed a pit of red blood but he held firm Fear having departed him as he faced the strong enemy’s troop They went to that fated town-land – they went with laughter Such was the assurance in their hearts there at Catreath Even so the blood flowed out – a fated conclave Yet even elegy must give way to rightful praise And rightful praise be given those who went to Cathraeth With savage blades which requested no truce Morning - a solitary man – hot for the fight Who took it upon himself to kill the Saxon whenever he could A courage that met its doom – yes - but one that will be remembered Champion – ardent yet prudent with a warrior’s wisdom Until battle called him to abandon everything and fight – Which he did with skill until he could do no more This story is one of unending death – but you know this Just as you know that drenched in blood many heroes lay The grief of which even the funeral rites could not appease He was first in all things – in battle – horse racing Skilful at games and skilful at all the necessary arts Yet this undid him for he was the last to retreat Before the grass covered Gwrfelling Fara’s grave He was the panicle of what a warrior should be Yet all his reaping came to nothing when death reaped him Three kings – the best of kings – examples to their kind

Fighting in battle as if they were one and their clansmen demanding Who amongst you is better than one of these three?

Shields splintered and shattered – this was the beginning Men followed him wherever he went – and he went where he pleased Even into the thick battle-mass where he slaughtered Athrwys and Affrel Let heaven rightfully bless you for not yielding as other might Breichiawl your fame was rightly earned and respected You were true to yourself and not every man can say that I am the subject of this lament – myself and two others Good men – true men – men to be trusted in battle Which was necessary seeing that we were all three soaked in blood Kinsman that he was his fame did me proud Equal to any situation – mead-hall or battle Even his enemies acknowledged the battle-skill and strength of Llif The hero turned back the enemy as if it were a simple matter And did not shirk from playing his full part Widows a plenty had cause to fear him before he died A shield in himself to many – he was many thing to his enemies But most of all a flame that seemed a living thing Until that is his blood flowed over his armour and he died Gwenabwy fab Gwen – it would be an error not to mention him He fulfilled his obligations to bards and common men And when death came it reaped what no man could equal That he was the best at everything was no surprise For he honoured custom as befitted a warrior of his stature And was as keen in the battle as he was at bard’s wit Relentless – a tide that overran all obstacles But well versed in those curtsies that all men honour As when in battle his race held him as their pride

Of Ceredig what can I say that you have not heard?

He seized fame by the scruff of its neck and made it his own Now let heaven reward what all men no longer can Neither with fear or hesitation did he hold the front line Breaking shields – his own shield being broken – fighting on So heaven received the one to whom honour is due And this one – you must know who I mean – this one Doing all that was expected of him – then doing more Cutting down famed ones who stood before him never to stand again And if these ones died then they did so in a marvellous way Cutting in battles as if battle was a harvest and they were reapers Who did not return to their own clan but likewise many another It was as if battle nourished their souls so good were they at it So it was that a loud wailing over their grave - a wailing Which in this rightly fashion is added to the sorrow of men They went as war demanded to the necessary place Led by one who did not shrink from the necessary duty of war A well-famed one who freely gave to altar and minstrel their due If he was famed in one art he was also famed in another His hall acclaimed and defended against all comers One who could give favours but who also, as needed, gave death With few exceptions he was as famous as any man and so was his hall Yet even to such a one – and to those like him – death duly came Weep then for him if you would weep for one worthy of your tears Brave and perhaps a mite reckless Cynon’s fame was justly deserved No one disputed his place at the table not his rank in the ranks of war And only death’s relentless malice was strong enough to cut him down Even to be in the shadow of one so well-famed was a blessing

A blessing also when the blades clashed in battle and helmets fell Until his own death came his was a name that many feared Eithinyn could enchant men with his courage into doing more He was a wonder in an age when wonders abounded He made his mark at the shield-wall though death called for its payment There where he was needed – there he was to be found Never yielding – never giving up what had been won What he defended survived him – as do these words of praise Up before the hawk was up – he attacked before dawn To what then can we compare him when there is nothing to compare Nor elegy enough that might hold a portion of the splendid man he was Excellent men – yet now they are reduced to a memory amongst us I am struck with grief – I cannot tell this as it should be told Nor make an adequate poem in which to excel so grievous a loss His mind busy with strategy he rushed to the front battle-line He was splendid – as splendid as you have heard and will hear of again None disputed his fame – but death could not be disputed either Not every feast is a happy occasion – death demands a mourning meal As we recall the one who fought with a pride in fighting that was unique Therefore let an unequalled mourning rise for the red corpse of Bradwen Will even the land mourn and refuse a harvest yield?

Surely this or something like this will come to pass because he died No – he did not come home – unless it be the grave is home of all One shouting Saxon – that was all and that was not much to begin with But when wattle followed they proved to be a swarm Nor will any who live on dare say that Cynhafal proved unfaithful Think of it – one man who was more than one man Gracious in all the needed arts which peace and war calls up He proved himself to be what he was - men were proud to stand with him

Maybe I am not the one who should sing this but if I do not who will Poets come and go at court – yet praise remains as a necessary thing If the dead are to be rightly remembered and their lives extolled Dark as iron - just as strong in purpose – bending to none He proved himself to be what we had heard of him – Cenan fab Llywarch His bright blade saved me – may this save him for heaven Some men gather shame like a shroud – this one gathered fame And rightly so – devoting his sword to his kinsmen – going forward Until he reached that point men do not know the destination of Not fearing to fail – not fearing- he walked the battle-hill And let loose all his pent up skill – equal this if you can But be prepared also to pay the price he was called on to pay The shame of battle is that you often lose the best Men such as Cynwal – though there were and are few men like him May the one who killed be called to account for this What another did he did – he fought as many – he killed as many So that his portion of fame and honour is no less than any man Though many tried to equal what he did but could not Ready? Yes he was read as the blade in its sharpness is ready No shame follows such a man and no shame did nor could it For he was everything that was expected of him – everything and more Warriors – have you seen them standing together That’s the way they stood – that’s the way they will be remembered By those whose kin and clansmen were slaughtered Acting as if guided by a single mind they advanced and advanced This was cause enough for grief in itself but it was not enough Not for those they slew – not for those wives made widows The first in many arts – the first in many skills – Rheiddun’s son

A joy to his brethren and a scourge to the Saxons What better than this can be said? It can’t – no matter what words I might use I know that grief – Mynddawg’s men – three hundred of them You would think a hundred would be enough but it wasn’t Of that three hundred not one man in a hundred returned Let me repeat the grief that wounds me – Mynddawg’s men Slaughtered and not in brightness but in terrible pain A tragic tale – no one returned – how did no one escape?

He was as splendid as any who had right to that name A fury in battle - tempered wisdom in the mead-hall Men as balanced as that are a rarity thus I praise him here He could be many things – killing and kindness were in his eyes He was called the foremost lord of the war-band A designation none could rightly challenge – nor did any seek to The songs composed for that war-band were as good as any composed Each man was given due honour – each many was given due booty They were splendid and had few equals – nor can my song rightly praise them Lifting his spear as he might a glass of shining wine He struck the shield wall – he struck it again – it gave way under him As all gave way who faced that one – Gwaednerth fab Llywri Surely he must have foreseen the outcome when he set himself against hostile spears Surely he saw this and surely he saw much else that would come to pass Surely he knew the price for such as this for sure as few men have he paid it Having won the praise of the bard it was an easy step to the praise of war There he also won praise again but this time also from his enemies There was none without weeping in his heart when they saw his blood stained men So roused were they that they sung war-songs without caution This was the beginning – more songs followed but also more battle

The one ebbing and abating as the other rose or subsided Seven days in a week – seven stages leading to death Men were seen waist-deep in blood – men were seen openly crying After that defeat there returned to his own land not one in a hundred He could –and he proved this often- break the shield-wall by himself He was also courteous – he was also grave but never without reason Qualities his enemies did not see when like a fury he came against them Ithael – rising early for battle – eager for it as few are eager for it Moving amongst his men – leading and following – charging Savage for slaughter – yet giving the dead the comfort of the rites There are not words nor descriptions enough to do him justice – Owain – graceful in all that he did – a master of battle arts Plunging headlong into the fight – not seeing that death was waiting But death is always waiting – it always has success Such as it had when he rode out with a war party Who paid to the earth the due ransom of armour and blood I sing but what of it when my song must end with death He was as beautiful as any man has the right to be Gwananhon – some song will remember you when I am forgotten His grey horse snorted – he was not in hiding like an outlaw He was no Johnny-come-lately to the ways of the tribe But was rooted in all the sacred traditions – those of life and of death Even his horse was dressed for war – bright reds blazoned them both They were ready – this was what they were born for and into Everything that followed took its natural course just as he knew it would Lord – patron – and more besides – he is rightly mourned He will not move amongst us again – he will not move From that conclave only a single dripping sword returned

Fierce to his enemies – loyal to his friend Many sought him out – for friendship or for battle honour Widows now tell how they failed If he was skilful – and he was – he was also lucky In one skirmish he took on nine heroes and slew them This cannot be said of many men but it can be rightly said of him Perhaps memory cannot hold everything but it can hold him It is rightly said that he excelled in battle but this tells you nothing No more than new leaves on a tree can tell you the whole of spring I must carry so many death-songs in my mind that I am weary The countryside mourns – men –and women- are silent Let those we mourn be welcomed by heaven’s plenty Men do not always do what is expected of them but he did it Fighting them off – pressing forward- going forward like a wave Until axes and blades fell upon him and made a foam that washed the sand If he was fated to live a warriors’ life then he was fated to die Which he did – fighting as a warrior should – standing firm Giving no ground until the ground of his mind collapsed under him One bitterness follows another – one bitterness is never alone So it is that I mourn one who many mourn –Gereint from the south Who brought us his skill – who died for our cause Ungrudging praise is due to Eldef who was as brave as any He led the charge – he did not retreat- he held his ground Yet what ground will hold against heaven’s will when time marks its appointment As relentless as a wave – and with the same profusion- was Hafal He could use a blade or make a song to celebrate the winter’s fire At what fire does he now rest? – may heaven’s land of plenty be his I doubt if any sorrow will ever equal this though many sorrows await me Fferfarch’s son – firm in battle – wise in the hall

His death a grief that wounds the tribe with an unending pain Three hundred – a host – a sufficiency – The more so since they were doomed from the beginning From which there came the tragedy of no one returning Three hundred dressed and armed for battle Three hundred guarding the hope of the tribe No return Not one to make an easy truce nor feign distress Not one to relent where other might but to press on He pressed on – leaving blood-red corpses behind him It cost him his life but rather that than dishonour He bowed before no one but his rightful king It cost him his life but that did not matter when duty was obeyed In the tangle of horses and men – in the swirl of dust and blood Gwaedberth was seen to hold his own in no small measure Something which cannot be said of every man that day Gododdin’s war-band – did you see them? - did you?

If so you saw the best of men and men at their best Who did not disgrace themselves nor their lord Wine mixes with blood – one story gets lost in another Yet nothing gets lost when the poet puts it on paper Such as has been done and right done in these and other pages You will know who I mean by these few facts – That he rose above others – that he cut many down That he won the rightful praise of those who went to Catraeth He did not look the part but he was the real thing A warrior in spite of grey hair – quick with a spear and a sword Henif fab Nwython – appearing suddenly on his stallion’s back

His fame preceded him and justly so Man – warrior – kinsman to warriors Adept at skills no man should be without Leading war-loving men he was as surefooted as a mountain goat But there was more to him that that – as his enemies found out When he shattered shields and laid a red spear before Eidin’s lord I saw him – saw him and have pleasure in that memory Excepting his enemies who he had diligent respect for Except that is until in battle he exercised all his many skills No he was not Arthur but almost was in several ways He proved worthy – he led noble men – he was generous A bulwark in himself against the barbarian hoards I praise him who stood firm – terrible in battle – but just also Just as you also know his name and respect it Let the poets attend their craft – men such as he must be remembered

SWEENEY

Histories?

Tales?

Intricacies woven from the threads of the fable that is endless and unending?

I have another to add to your hoard Sweeney Haughty Aloof Sure of the world he inhabits Arrogant to the point no man dares cross Cocky King and no man’s servant No matter who or what that man might be King of all and everything To the ninth position And then beyond that if needs be And sometimes the need is there Sometimes it isn’t Though he acts as if it always is Yes King And no takers for the position of rival For there are none He has seen to that Always alert Always on the look out Suspicious to a fault Finding fault

Punishing it Sure of the world Sure of himself Sure of the laws he frames and casts in his own name His own and no other Not to be bested No By no one and no one tries

He rules the kingdom of the land And the empire of men’s minds And that’s the way he likes it O yes Everything to his liking And nothing moving against his will For his will is everywhere and potent Sweeney A man of many facets Cunning and far seeing Content in the world he has fashioned To his own likeness Adept at all the kingly arts And a few more to boot Sweeney First citizen of the empire of his mind But all is change and changing Even he cannot hold back the tide Though he would do so if he could But he can’t No man can

Something is stirring in the world And he will have to respond And so the new god enters God from the east Claiming all the prerogatives of heaven And life and death at his command So, enter Ronan servant of that god Who is also haughty Who is also aloof And seeing this You see the inevitable march to the unavoidable moment Something that cannot be avoided Something that will not be avoided Both men bending their will To bend the other to that will Both men like stained brothers from the same nest Yet for all the similarities They could not be more different And in the difference lies the danger Danger?

O yes One must bend and one must yield The only question is Who? No, do not answer Allow time to come to fruition And bring with it what it will bring And allow yourself this moment to pause And ask what you would do In a similar situation?

Don’t answer Not yet at least Keep the answer close to your chest

And watch what will happen What will happen is what must happen There can be no avoiding it Sweeney and Ronan Fated to be linked Fated to be known by how they respond to each other Ronan Not to be crossed Cleric and saint but as tough as old boots Sweeney and Ronan Two magnets that attract and repel Sweeney and Ronan Two juggernauts on a collision course They meet and it does not go well Each recognises the other for what he is And each recognises that he cannot yield For if he will do so then all will be lost And nothing will ever be the same again The kingdom hangs in the balance History and the future are there to be written But who will write it?

Who indeed Which one will know the victory That is as yet undecided Which one will set the other a quandary That cannot be answered?

Sweeney and the saint Unequal parts of a critical moment When Misunderstanding running riot in the kingdom Sweeney utters his word

And the saint utters his And Sweeney is transformed into a bird Thereafter exiled from the world Believe this and believe nothing else Nothing else can be believed but this Only this is sure and certain in the world So see him Gaudy feathers and hobbling ways The voice of a crow and not of a thrush This is what the once-king has become He must make his home in the bushes He must feed on a few rancid berries He must hide and shuffle between hiding places Being vulnerable to the enemies of the air To have once been splendid and obeyed To have once been the word that was spoken in awe To have had his name as law These are the things he remembers This is the pain, this is the grief This is the harsh craw he lets out again and again But who listens to a bird?

Who suspects the twisted soul within?

Who dare challenge the power of the saint?

None dare Sweeney would dare but he can do nothing He hobbles from bush to bush He is cold in the winter nudity of trees And there is no rest in summer And none will change places with him

He has nothing to call on but his own emptiness Overpowering loneliness engulfing him Like a wave he forever runs from but cannot escape And no pity in the land to shelter him No one to listen to the grief of his mind None to suspect that he was once king King of everything But now king of the ditch If that can be called king King of the lonesome places where no pleasing voice Might call to him No one calls Time passes and no one calls And time passes slowly Slowly Slowly He must endure everything and then endure more than that He must outface the cold of winter And the ice that blights the berries Until the once-king is forced to scavenge In the mud and muck of the world Poor Sweeney the once-was What are you not prepared to repent of So as to regain something of your former state?

You call out for mercy You call again and again but there is no reply You must endure the fate that has been cast upon you And endure the indignity of birds No brightness in your world No sweetness in your world Nothing but exile that does not end

Even as you call again to god and man To bless your state And usher the old identities back O what do you weep for in the lonesome places of the world?

What do you long for most of all?

You are at the core of longing and that is your pain And that pain is never ending Nothing to comfort the broken pieces of your life Nothing to bind the heart with hope As you hobble about in the wind Who dreamt this fate?

Who cast the word that caused this pain?

You did You did and now must endure the payment and the price Winter follows winter And summer is no better There is no rest There is no peace And the solstice of summer Gives way again To the solstice of winter And time passes slowly in your heart Passes between remembrance and circumstance And what do you remember That might ease a little And if only for a little while The pain in your shattered heart?

To remember is to cause more pain The past is the past and this is the present And you are but incidental to history Shaping itself in that land that was once yours

But is no more Nothing and nothing facing you As you face into the arrows of the wind Blowing from November through to March And thereafter What now do you say to the sad condition of the world And your own place within it?

Sweeney the once-king Sweeney the proud Brought now to a nest of feathers and dung As your true resting place Rest if you can amid the cries of the world You are exiled from but see around you In ways that pierce the heart again and again Which is the way that history goes about its task Relentless and ruthless Moving from man to man And from man to bird And holding everything in-between As little worth Unless it serves its ends So what end do you serve There in a bush Gaudy and helpless And loneliness wrenching you heart?

Tell me as I sit here Where history comes again with claims And I must give the answer it demands Poor Sweeney

Poor king that once what What can you say to the day that is ours?

Speak now We are also battered by the harsh wind Blowing across the crags of our minds Eager to escape the penalty it threatens the world with And which we must answer with our creed I could tell you more But what more is there to say?

Everything has been said And there is nothing more to say Some versions say he regained his old life That his kingship was reinstated And that he embraced the god from the east But such versions are not to be trusted They are pretty endings Attached to a tale That has no happy ending No He hobbles into history And seeks the comfort of our lives There to ask a little mercy From the bitter wind that blows

IMMRAM Islands islands and voyage the deep abiding mystery of the ocean and your father is not your father your mother is not your mother this is a secret - this is well known so build a boat according to strict measurements take to the sea bring with you nothing but chosen companions no more and no less than this and the ocean is endless no landmark - no features and so “We can row against the wind and the water’s flow but what we cannot do is to row against the will of god so stop rowing, the boat will take us where it will� three days, three nights nothing but the endless sea moving in the given direction three days of hard rowing and then three, seven, ten more marvels on the islands of men of god of the sea-devil who moves there abandon one island after the other o this is not why you have come to the sea you have come with intention the sea makes no bargain with

though you would make every bargain move into that uncertain future island after island one with stones one with birds one with all the fears you carry with you or magic apples that slate the thirst or a house that grows into the clouds wealth that tempts one of the crew who pays the price and is turned into ashes the voyage calling you on and on and you respond hugging it, hugging it, this way and that hugging the waves when the waves rise high yet keeping your wits about you though there seems no safe road to you destination destination? what is a destination? it is a place that welcomes you with your own name where your fate is written in the stones you collect in a small pouch like a prophecy of hope but there are also other prophecies also none that are pleasing to hear events that cannot be denied nor avoided pilgrimages to the lairs of faith and doubt no matter the destination nor the marvels that await marvels the books tells of but which I will not repeat for we do not live in an age of pilgrimage and you would not believe me not even if I told you half of the islands visited resting then moving on new marvels and new dangers and always that skilful mind prying ever knot loose from its bind

this story goes on and on but now you know the core and knowing that know everything there is to know and so you can tell it to others when you return yet to what do you return but to yourself newly-found in water, air and fire this is written in stone and can be read by who has a mind to pry into delight and as long as stories are told in Ireland this one will be told

First Voyage Virtues abounded in two brothers They loved what heaven loved They avoided what heaven despised So, gathering their full effort, They entered onto the livid sea And set out for distant destinations Which brought with it every mystery That the heart and mind can hold And there seemed no end to this on the ocean No end, rowing and rowing Hunger and thirst like a crazed man in their minds Driving them onwards and onwards Until heaven and Christ took pity on them And delivered them to a certain place Where a limpid stream eased their pain Satisfied? Yes they were satisfied And nothing ever tasted so good

And nothing so like a victory “We have done enough and that is so little So let us do nothing now but wait for the will of heaven To bring us where it will We will not set ourselves against the ocean But let that bright-eyed king Guide us as he alone see’s fit” And in time they moved - this way, that way A course that was not of their making towards an island At whose centre a fence of great silver lay across its centre And harvested there, in plenty and in beauty, Gleams of brighter silver For it was the fishing-weir of that island Serving the hosts of god who were there Supplying every need and every want And leaving nothing of want on that island Guidance on such waters? Yes, there is guidance And the son of god makes it his business to be that guide And lead all according to the laws of purity To another island, but not a wholesome one For those who lived there (and there lived many) Had cat’s heads upon their human bodies From among which one warrior detached himself And, speaking in sweet Irish speech, moved To meet the brothers and welcome them ashore For he was without loathsomeness And of the finest appearance that could be imagined And spoke to them as if to a brother

Recounting one voyage after another Theirs and his own Offering advice and words that were seeped in wisdom “And of those who set out, and they were not the least Upon the famous men of Ireland, none now remain Except myself in this place Among those who killed my fellows Without a thought for they are without any conscience Being without any form of faith” And then he offered the best of food which the island had to offer And this they ate –each blessing the other, and with the kiss of peace Agreeing to depart until they would meet again in another world And then the wind took them again –onward and onward Towards an island in which stood a tree with beautiful birds Singing psalms to sooth the heart of that joyous congregation And the bird who led that choir had a golden form, silver wings, A voice that spoke aloud in psalms of praise the praise of god And the many mysteries before the making of creation Preaching the subtle facts of the godhead And of the purity of that virgin birth from that illustrious girl And then sang baptism, passion, and resurrection Yet when he told of fearful things (as must be told) Those birds beat their winds into exhaustion and blood flowed From them towards the verdict of that judgement And then, because Christ favoured them, miracle preceded miracle As a leaf, and it was as large as a sail, cover them and the birds said That it would be a prize offering on the altar of Colm Cille Where it still is – and the birds returned to their delightful psalms Something that enchanted the heart just to hear it

And something which the brothers would never forget As they were granted a peaceful sailing, a gentle crossing To the next island which was anything but peaceful With people who had dog’s head and horse’s hair Something not wholesome to see nor engage with As a cleric took pity on them and came forward With fish and wine and wheat and bright words Could anything be more strange? For he was everything A cleric should be even as in the fields of that island There worked a working-party with the heads of pigs upon them “What you see is not so strange as strangeness can be in the world Three song of the high king of Ireland are here – brothers In birth and blood-feuds, banished here for their atrocity “ And he wept and said other things, ‘recounting’ (his word) The tale and nature of their exile until the final judgement Of the damned and saved would be pronounced in the world But if there was weeping and exile on that journey There was also the blessings that were laid out for them Such as the island of Enoch and Elijah The door of which was the pure colour of a swan And there, befitting to what he knew of the world (and he knew much) Elijah sat ruminating on the blazing fire of judgement Who yet welcomed them and set the gospel before them And said “That which I see I say and that which I say I see Yet the Antichrist will declare an equal sermon So be on your guard – that is an hour of strong gathering And against that gathering you must be strong

For all will be gathered - the men of heaven The men of hell and the men of earth All in one terrifying and total triumph Christ will come - O Christ will come and strike down death And there, lake of water and a lake of fire, in which all will be cast And weighed and assayed and measured” And Enoch? they asked – it would be refreshing to see him “But you cannot for he is in a secret place and will remain so Until the battle of our martyrdom” Then once more to the little boat on which they set to sea A good wind blowing, no swelling waves and no rough passage As another island came into sight and was reached But what an island, a blessed island of the blessed king, A hundred doors about that house and about that house All covered in light was a priest at every door And all manner of blessedness awaiting them there Peace and rest and the minds full fortification against all exile For that it what it would ever be thereafter “Say to the men of Ireland that there is a reckoning That men without faith, men with fear, without battle scruples Will come and scour the land because they have been unfaithful They have neglected heaven and there is no greater crime Than wilfulness in this and they have been wilful And so heaven has made its binding judgement You have been long on the sea and have seen much Now your bright mouths must relate all that you have seen” Which is why this tale is told in this fashion That no sorrow may enter in and that death may not be rewarded.

Second Voyage She sang a strange music –that woman from unknown lands who entered Bran’s house though no one could say how she did this This is how it began. Bran went walking and heard a music. All day that music followed him about though he could not locate its source and so he fell asleep. When he awoke he broke a branch from a silver tree with white blossoms and brought this home with him. That’s when the strange woman appeared and sang There is an island distant from here The island of women Upheld by four pillars A splendid place, a plain and a ridge A place of many blossoms Where birds sing the cannon of praise And treachery is unknown Sorrow and death do not strike there Where sweet music and good wine are in plenty And beautiful things in beautiful array And death does not invade that place And neither does decay It is a land of music - a place of good poetry And that is not all Beyond that - o beyond that there are many islands And that is not all Hope will come into the world A great birth in a lowly place The king at whose command creation opens to the day Will open himself to the world as it is So that his will may forge a better age Therefore Bran, these words are intended for you More than for any other who hears them Make a voyage across the sea So as to reach that blessed island Then she move away into that wildness From which she had come And no one could say what or where that was

So he took to the sea with no delay Three groups of nine making up that company Two days, two nights, the one journey leading them on, Until Bran looked and saw a man in a chariot Riding over the sea to meet them Who was Mannannan the son of Lir who saw Bran And sang these verses There is music and there are islands I sing both and love both and find both pleasing History is opening before me and much will come to pass Which if I told you of it would astound you Yet you are a strong man You can row and set a good course to the west And your heart is clean enough to guide you there You will see what you will see You will achieve what you will achieve And not every man can say that Yes, history is moving and much will happen He will be without blemish, he will be pure, And though there will be sorrow there will be no sorrow So move on to the west The islands wait and you must go there Our differing fates will not disown us So Bran moved on, on and on and saw an island Which, as he neared it, a large host came into view Which gaped and laughed at him and so he sent One man ashore to talk with them He continued circling the island And every time his passed his kinsman He attempted to talk to him but the man would not talk He would only laugh like the others did For this was the island of joy No other went ashore but left him there to his given fate While the fateful boat moved on And moved and moved, over the water Sometimes with a good wind sometimes with no wind But always moving, always moving, towards O towards the island of women which at last came into view Come ashore, come ashore one cried out to him

But he would not And so she threw a ball of thread at him This he grasped in his palm and holding the other end The woman pulled the boat ashore And brought them to a large house where food and beds Were waiting for them and there they stayed Where several years seemed but one year And all good things were given them But even in plenty, even with every desire satisfied Homesickness can strike a wounded heart And this is what happened to one of the men Homesickness like that thirst that could not be appeased Or a hunger that could not be filled And so Bran relented and said that he would go Back to Ireland – which, on hearing this, the women said No good would come of it but go if you want to go Only take with you the man from the island of joy And do not touch the land that you will visit Then to the sea, then to the oars, then to the wind That brought them at a fair speed to Ireland Where a gathering was in progress and so the men asked Who it was that had come over the water I am Bran, son of Febal We do not know of such a one Though our stories contain the voyage of Bran Which is perhaps a tale that you know?

On hearing this one man left the boat and waded ashore But as soon as he touch the earth of Ireland He turned into a heap of ashes as though he had been on the earth For many hundreds of years Then Bran sang this verse He lifted his hand against old age Now only ashes will remain Then he told that people of his wonderings from the beginning of his voyage until his return to Ireland and it was all written down. After which he took once more to the sea and what his latter wanderings are no one can say