The low dead hum of the west
Well I had a dream last night where I was in uproar and rage about the dullness of newspapers and how can we be reading this,no illumination,no megawatt nothing,dispassionate garbage and the feeling has trailed on all morning, suddenly all these earthly things seemed dulled out and deader than dead to me.
The heights I experience in my journeys can't be compared - ungovernable sounds,wide ranged things,great electricity of feeling,everything breaking your heart with its sacredness, suddenly the topside world seems a low dead hum.
And I thought I wanted to remain up here and lamented my path,that it wasn't usual.
Maybe I'm dying my secular worldly death like the mudang does,to be reborn divine as priestess. I don't know I was talking poetry too in my dream,and I long to write real woken poetry but for me it requires complete will of the gods to come upon you and say as they speak,I can't do much without their arrival.
Still I'm musing about poetry all morning and the spiritual practice of poetry,how to rise to the occasion while still wanting to be that sweet goddess of home and hearth.
Am I the only one who wants things more alive and open,who feels hedged in by formal rules,and formal words and painstaking reason that pacifies and murders passion.
I will leave you with a little welsh tale on the divine gift of poetry:
This vein of poetrie they called Awen, which in their language signifies rapture, or a poetic furore & (in truth) as many of them as I have conversed with are (as I may say) gifted or inspired with it.
I was told by a very sober, knowing person (now dead) that in his time, there was a young lad fatherless & motherless, soe very poor that he was forced to beg; butt att last was taken up by a rich man, that kept a great stock of sheep upon the mountains not far from the place where I now dwell who cloathed him & sent him into the mountains to keep his sheep. There in Summer time following the sheep & looking to their lambs, he fell into a deep sleep in which he dreamt, that he saw a beautifull young man with a garland of green leafs upon his head, & an hawk upon his fist: with a quiver full of Arrows att his back, coming towards him (whistling several measures or tunes all the way) att last lett the hawk fly att him, which (he dreamt) gott into his mouth & inward parts, & suddenly awaked in a great fear & consternation: butt possessed with such a vein, or gift of poetrie, that he left the sheep & went about the Countrey, making songs upon all occasions, and came to be the most famous Bard in all the Countrey in his time
The heights I experience in my journeys can't be compared - ungovernable sounds,wide ranged things,great electricity of feeling,everything breaking your heart with its sacredness, suddenly the topside world seems a low dead hum.
And I thought I wanted to remain up here and lamented my path,that it wasn't usual.
Maybe I'm dying my secular worldly death like the mudang does,to be reborn divine as priestess. I don't know I was talking poetry too in my dream,and I long to write real woken poetry but for me it requires complete will of the gods to come upon you and say as they speak,I can't do much without their arrival.
Still I'm musing about poetry all morning and the spiritual practice of poetry,how to rise to the occasion while still wanting to be that sweet goddess of home and hearth.
Am I the only one who wants things more alive and open,who feels hedged in by formal rules,and formal words and painstaking reason that pacifies and murders passion.
I will leave you with a little welsh tale on the divine gift of poetry:
This vein of poetrie they called Awen, which in their language signifies rapture, or a poetic furore & (in truth) as many of them as I have conversed with are (as I may say) gifted or inspired with it.
I was told by a very sober, knowing person (now dead) that in his time, there was a young lad fatherless & motherless, soe very poor that he was forced to beg; butt att last was taken up by a rich man, that kept a great stock of sheep upon the mountains not far from the place where I now dwell who cloathed him & sent him into the mountains to keep his sheep. There in Summer time following the sheep & looking to their lambs, he fell into a deep sleep in which he dreamt, that he saw a beautifull young man with a garland of green leafs upon his head, & an hawk upon his fist: with a quiver full of Arrows att his back, coming towards him (whistling several measures or tunes all the way) att last lett the hawk fly att him, which (he dreamt) gott into his mouth & inward parts, & suddenly awaked in a great fear & consternation: butt possessed with such a vein, or gift of poetrie, that he left the sheep & went about the Countrey, making songs upon all occasions, and came to be the most famous Bard in all the Countrey in his time
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