Poesie: From The Battle of the Trees

The word ‘poetry’ also derives from the Greek ‘poiein’, which has the same meaning as the Sanskrit root ‘kri’, whence comes ‘karma’.

This is also why the sacred books are written in rhythmic language, clearly making of them something altogether different from mere ‘poems’ in the purely profane sense, which the anti-traditional bias of the modern ‘critics’ would have them be; and besides, in its origins poetry was by no means the vain ‘literature’ which it has become owing to a degeneration resulting from the downward march of the human cycle, and it had a truly sacred character.  Traces of this can be found as late as Western classical antiquity, where poetry was still called the ‘language of the Gods’, an expression equivalent to those we have indicated, since the Gods, that is, the ‘Devas’, are, like the angels, representations of higher states.  (The Sanskrit ‘Deva’ and the Latin ‘Deus’ are but one and the same word.)

~ René Guénon: Symbols of Sacred Science

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Indifferent bards pretend,
They pretend a monstrous beast,
With a hundred heads,
And a grievous combat
At the root of the tongue.
And another fight there is
At the back of the head.
(…)
There shall be a black darkness,
There shall be a shaking of the mountain,
There shall be a purifying furnace,
There shall first be a great wave,
And when the shout shall be heard –
Putting forth new leaves are the tops of the beech,
Changing form and being renewed from a whithered state;
Entangled are the tops of the oak.

From: ‘The Battle of the Trees’, translation by D.W. Nash, a Victorian author who also wrote ‘Taliesin or The Bards and Druids of Britain’; quoted after Robert Graves: ‘The White Goddess’

 

MUSIC: The Hills They Are Hollow

Good mandolin tune

The girls love this one, and while I suspect Damh the Bard played a bouzouki on this tune a mandolin works very well also.

One friend I used to play music with would ask:  “What gear ya got er in?”

It’s in the key of D.

DAMH THE BARD

The Hills They Are Hollow Lyrics

As I walk upon this green land,
This land that love,
I see figures of chalk,
Carved into the hillsides above.
Cerne Abbas a man so proud,
And the Long Man opens wide the gates of his world,
And invites you to step inside.
(Chorus)

And the hills they are hollow and home to the Fey,
Who dance on Midsummer’s Eve,
Some people don’t understand when I say,
These are the things I believe.
These are the tings I believe.

There is an old circle of stones,
That stands on the moor,
Every moss-covered face,
Tells the secrets of ancient lore.
The Tors stand as guardians,
Witnesses to the Rites of Nature’s Gods,
Of Darkness and of Light.

Let’s sing of the mystery,
Of Sacred Land,
See the shapes in the corn,
Made by invisible hands,
Secrets of the Pagan Ways,
Lie all around,
Written upon the Earth,
In rock and Sacred Mound!

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