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: Ceridwen and Taliesin

This is a favorite dancing song of the three daughters.

By Damh The Bard.

Silver moonlight dances,
From the mist of Tegid’s shore,
A lady looks upon her son,
Like many times before,
A she touches his face,
Fingers wet with the tears falling.
Her daughter stands beside her,
The fairest in the land,
How her son became so cursed,
She cannot understand.
But this mother’s love is a strong,
As her heart is beating,
And she calls to the Earth,
And the Earth hears her calling.

High up in the mountains,
Dinas Afferaon stands tall,
All magic and all mysteries,
Are held within these walls,
So she walks to the door,
As she does the door it opens,
Teach to me the mystery,
Of the Cauldron’s Brew,
Let Utter Darkness give way to light,
And be reborn anew,
Then the Awen will shine,
From the brow of the Eagle of the Sea,
And all will know his name,
From this land to the People of the Sidhe.

The lady sets the cauldron’s fire,
Tended by the hand,
Of Gwion Bach the innocent,
And Morda the blind man,
Who reached out his hand,
Place more wood,
Keep the cauldron boiling.
Then Morda he fell asleep,
Alas he din’t see,
Wood upon wood was added,
The inferno was the key,
To unlock the doors,
Of the Awen’s greatest mystery,
Three drops, burning skin,
And it’s Gwion who gained the power to see.

The cauldron cracks, the poison creeps,
Slowly across the land,
To kill the horses of Garanhir,
by the lakeshore where they stand,
Drinking and not knowing their fate,
As a hare runs fast across the land.
Ceridwen, Ceridwen,
Lady of the Cauldron,
Come see what they have done!
Stolen your Cauldron’s power,
And betrayed your only son!
Eyes wide, lips curl,
Anger on your face!
Change your shape now, Lady!
Be the hound, begin the chase!

I shall be a running hare,
With sorrow and with mickle care,
Then I shall be a greyhound bitch,
And tear you from your skin!
Then I shall be a flying wren,
The King of Birds, the King of Men,
Then I shall be a falcon grey,
And tear you from your skin!
Then I shall be a salmon sleek,
Darting through a shallow creek,
Then I shall be an otter bitch,
And rest you from your skin!
I shall be a grain beneath the sun,
And you will never know which one,
Then I shall be a great black hen,
And take you deep within!

Now you may be forgiven to think,
My tale is over and down,
But nine moons later,
She gave birth to a son,
That she wanted to kill,
But she placed in a coracle on the sea.
Garanhir’s salmon weir,
A catch was guaranteed,
But on this day a baby boy,
Cried out to be freed,
A radiant brow,
Shining bright for all to plainly see.
Taliesin is your name,
The greatest Bard that this land will ever see!

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