National Poetry Day. I can't let it pass unacknowledged. This is a poem I'm liking at the moment.

AEGEAN
(Maria Luisa Spaziani)

This music has lasted since the world began.
A rock was born among the waters
while tiny waves chatted in a soft universal tongue.
The shell of a sea-turtle
would not have foretold the guitar.
Your music has always risen to the sky,
green taproot, Mother Sea,
first of all firsts. You enfold us,
nurturing us with music -threat,
fable, hypnosis, lullaby, roar,
omen, myth,
little agonies
of grit, of wreckages, of joys -

(translator, Beverly Allen)

... and the original -

EGEO

Dal principio del mondo dura questa musica.
Nacque fra acque sasso,
chiacchieravano ondine in morbido esperanto.
Non avrebbe previsto la chittara
un guscio di testuggine marina.
Da sempre sale al cielo la tua musica,
verde radice prima, mamma-mare,
prima di tutti i prima. Ci aviluppi
nutrendoci di musica - minaccia,
favola, ipnosi, ninnananna, rombo,
presagio, mito,
piccolo agonie
di graniglie, relitti, di allegrie -

I especially like the line about a 'morbido esperanto'.

Last year I posted a piece that referred to the mysterious Voynich Manuscript.
Now I learn that a publisher has purchased the right to publish a limited run of the MS. More information here.
The carbon dating of the MS to between 1404 and 1435 rules out the possibility that the alchemist John Dee (1527-1609) "the Welsh Wizard" was the author, with or without associates such as Edward Kelley "d'Imany" (born 1555). I admit to disappointment that it can't be connected to such intriguing individuals.
Much more on the Voynich Manuscript can be found here.

"The Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming.

"I don't mean to sound naive and think everybody will come round if they are spoken to nicely, but I think a lot of people who say these nasty things are lonely or drunk and they feel powerless. Social media makes claims it can't deliver on - you're going to be in touch with the Prime Minister! Well, the Prime Minister doesn't read your tweets. But there are some very nasty people out there."
(Mary Beard)

Oh, their mothers are so proud of them.

Every little hurts, as someone once said.

GIORDANO BRUNO
(Edwin Morgan)

innumerable worlds and worlds unmade,
half-made, the universe immense, displayed,
half-hidden, hidden, infinite, arrayed

with lights or lying back in hungry black
till knots unknot and darkest packs unpack
and pouring creatures run through every crack:

oh yes they do! why should we think it dead,
that vast ubiquitous flicker overhead?
The staff of life may not be only bread!

Why would the lord of life confine his writ
to this one ball of water, flesh, and grit?
You say it's special? Ah but transcending it

are specks we see, and specks we cannot see
but must imagine, in that immensity.
It is reason sets imagination free.

Configurations still unfigurable,
visions and visitations still invisible,
powers to come, still impermissible -

these give the slip to my incarceration.
Chains and a cell are but one suffering station.
Multiple worlds need multiple incarnation.

- But earthly powers were called for, and were shown.
There is a sequence when the torch is thrown:
smoke, screams, a little ash and bone.

I was puzzling over the meaning of the last verse, until I remembered that Bruno was burned at the stake for heresy. I'm sure that the first two lines are Bruno's. I'll try to confirm this.

I copied this charm from a book of Highland (Gaelic) verse in translation. This particular translation is by Alexander Carmichael and was reported as being from his "Carmina Gadelica", but I have yet to find it there.

KEPPOCH CHARM STONE INVOCATION

Let me dip thee in the water,
Thou yellow, beautiful gem of power!
In water of purest wave,
Which pure was kept by Bridget.

In the name of the Apostles twelve,
In the name of Mary, Virgin of virtues,
And in the name of the High Trinity,
And all the shining angels,
A blessing on the gem,
A blessing on the water, and
A healing of bodily ailments to each suffering creature.

This charm is of interest to me because the same practice of charming away illness with a stone is reported in the kirk session records in the parish where my family was living at the time. I quote the records here, spelling unchanged, emphasis added.

“John Young, in the Valleyfield, delated for charming, summoned, called, and appearing, interrogated as to his charming, declared as follows—viz., that being some time ago called to cure a certain sick person, he used these words: ‘ Little thing hath wronged thee, nothing can mend thee but Father, Son, and Holie Ghost, all three, and our sweet Lady. In etemitie let never wax, but away to the waine, as the dew goes of yeard and stane. I seek help to this distressed person in thy name.’ He likewise acknowledged that he used the same words in curing of a woman in the Blaire, who was for years thereafter weell; and that by the same words he cured Robert Bruce in the Shyres miln,—and the disease these persons had, he said, was a splen, which he siemed to the session to understand as of a disease put upon them through envy and splen. And being interrogat if he used any gestures or postures whiles he was pronouncing these words, he could not deny but that first he rubbed his own hand upon a bare stone, and rubbed the breast, stroaking it 3 times, of the person affected, and siemed to say that he prescribed the use of some herbs to the patient. The session did unanimously conclude him guilty of charming; whereupon being again called, the minister did endeavor to hold out the evill of his way, telling him that his cures were not effected without the help of the devill, and not only to forbear the same in tyme comming, but to mourn before God, and to seek mercie through Christ for using of the divel's prescriptions, and that the witches and warlocks used God's words and made mention of the name of God and Christ in theire services; and he being removed, the session did think fit to advise with the presbetrie how to carrie with him.”
28 August 1693.

(from David Beveridge, "Culross and Tulliallan", vol.ii, p.19)

Some other examples of curing stones and associations (?) with Celtic saints.

Alexander the Great, the plonky who conquered the world.

WINE
(Raymond Carver)

Reading a life of Alexander the Great, Alexander
whose rough father, Philip, hired Aristotle to tutor
the young scion and warrior, to put some polish
on his smooth shoulders. Alexander who, later
on the campaign trail into Persia, carried a copy of
The Iliad in a velvet-lined box, he loved that book so
much. He loved to fight and drink, too.
I came to that place in the life where Alexander, after
a long night of carousing, a wine-drunk (the worst kind of drunk–
hangovers you don't forget), threw the first brand
to start a fire that burned Persepolis, capital of the Persian Empire
(ancient even in Alexander's day).
Razed it right to the ground. Later, of course,
next morning–maybe even while the fire roared–he was
remorseful. But nothing like the remorse felt
the next evening when, during a disagreement that turned ugly
and, on Alexander's part, overbearing, his face flushed
from too many bowls of uncut wine, Alexander rose drunkenly to his feet,
grabbed a spear and drove it through the breast
of his friend, Cletus, who'd saved his life at Granicus.
For three days Alexander mourned. Wept. Refused food. "Refused
to see to his bodily needs." He even promised
to give up wine forever.
(I've heard such promises and the lamentations that go with them.)
Needless to say, life for the army came to a full stop
as Alexander gave himself over to his grief.
But at the end of those three days, the fearsome heat
beginning to take its toll on the body of his dead friend,
Alexander was persuaded to take action. Pulling himself together
and leaving his tent, he took out his copy of Homer, untied it,
began to turn the pages. Finally he gave orders that the funeral
rites described for Patroklos be followed to the letter:
he wanted Cletus to have the biggest possible send-off.
And when the pyre was burning and the bowls of wine were
passed his way during the ceremony? Of course, what do you
think? Alexander drank his fill and passed
out. He had to be carried to his tent. He had to be lifted, to be put
into his bed.

"Carol Ann Dunn was born and raised in Liverpool but has lived in Leeds for over 30 years, working as a teacher and trainer across West Yorkshire. A singer of both traditional and choral music, she began writing poetry and ballads on a course at Maddy Prior's Stones Barn and does so on subjects that are important to her, such as this one."

All the above and the following lifted from the Morning Star.

THEY'LL NEVER WALK ALONE
(Carol Ann Dunn)

The fans had come to Sheffield
To see their idols play,
Their chants were loud but happy
On that fatal April day.

The fans were all excited,
convinced their team would win;
Police had packed them tighter
And ever tighter in.

The crush grew suffocating
And fans soon realised
A tragedy was happening
Before their very eyes.

Though pressed against the railings
Like cattle in a pound,
Some fans were helping others
Climb out to safer ground;

Though they could hardly breathe,
They hoisted children high,
Passed them along to safety
Then stayed behind to die.

Police would blame them later:
‘The fans were drunk’ they lied;
That rag the Sun abused as scum
The innocent who died.

The inquest (well, the first one)
Claimed ‘Accidental Death’;
An insult on an injury
That took away our breath.

Now Merseyside united,
The red side with the blue;
As purple as a bruise,
One colour from the two.

Through all their bruising battles
They were bloodied but unbowed;
They brought us a new unity,
They did our city proud;

They showed us our true colours
These loved ones of the dead,
To find some kind of peace of mind,
To help put pain to bed.

Will we walk with these families,
Now that the end’s in sight
For justice for the ninety six?
Will we? Too fucking right.

SULTAN
(Nizar Qabbani)

If I were promised safety,
if I could meet the Sultan
I would say to him: O my lord the Sultan!
my cloak has been torn by your ravenous dogs,
your spies are following me all the time.
Their eyes
their noses
their feet are chasing me
like destiny, like fate
They interrogate my wife
and write down all the names of my friends.
O Sultan!
Because I dare to approach your deaf walls,
because I tried to reveal my sadness and
tribulation,
I was beaten with my shoes.
O my lord the Sultan!
you have lost the war twice
because half our people
has no tongue.

"Burt's Letters from the North of Scotland" published 1754 though written 1726.
I'm reading a reprint of this work at the moment, and something I read had me puzzled -

"The Irish Tongue was, I may say lately, universal in many Parts of the Lowlands; and I have heard it from several in Edinburgh, that, before the Union, it was the Language of the Shire of Fife, although that County be separated from the Capital only by the Frith [sic] of Forth, an Arm of the Sea, which from thence is but seven Miles over; and as proof they told me, after that Event (the Union) it be became one Condition of an Indenture, when a Youth of either Sex was to be bound on the Edinburgh side of the Water, that the Apprentice should be taught the English Tongue."

The political Union of England and Scotland took place in 1707. I find it hard to believe that the population of the whole of Fife, or even much of Fife was Gaelic speaking at that time. There may have been some Gaelic speakers in remote districts, but that is all I'm willing to accept until presented with further evidence.

I lifted this from Chris H's blog, as I threatened to do. The search to identify the author goes on. My old grandad, Edward McGinn, was one of these men, usually getting passed over because he refused to buy a day's work with a "backhander". Many of the stevedores who hired the dockers had a pub or a shebeen where men had to go for a start, and were expected to cough up for a pint while they waited. At the end of the working day it was back to the boozer to collect the day's earnings, and, of course, sup a couple of pints to "slake the dust".
This poem is reckoned to be from c.1910.

A DAY'S WORK AT THE DOCKS
(George Milligan)

Before the great world’s noises break
the stillness overhead,
For toiling life begins the strife –
The day’s grim fight for bread.
Where Mersey’s mighty greyhounds speak
The wealth or England’s stocks,
Stand, mute and meek, the men that seek
A Day’s Work at the Docks.

Behold them now – a motley throng,
Men drawn from every grade:
Pale, florid, puny – weak and strong,
All by one impulse swayed.
One impulse – bread; one impulse – work!
How hope at each heart knocks
As mute and meek, they crush to seek
A day’s work at the docks.

‘Stand back! Stand back!’ A hoarse voice storms,
With curses muttered lower,
The straining ring of human forms
But closes in the more.
Well fed, you foremen scarce can know
How want the judgement mocks,
When, mute and meek, men eager seek
A day’s work at the docks.

Idris Davies' poetry has featured onthese pages before, and, no doubt, will again.
Gwalia means 'Wales', Gwalia Deserta is the name of a collection of Davies' poems.

GWALIA DESERTA VIII
(Idris Davies)

Do you remember 1926? That summer of soups and speeches,
The sunlight on the idle wheels and the deserted crossings,
And the laughter and the cursing in the moonlight streets?
Do you remember 1926? The slogans and the penny concerts,
The jazz-bands and the moorland picnics,
And the slanderous tongues of famous cities?
Do you remember 1926? The great dream and the swift disaster,
The fanatic and the traitor, and more than all,
The bravery of the simple, faithful folk?
‘Ay, ay, we remember 1926,’ said Dai and Shinkin,
As they stood on the kerb in Charing Cross Road,
“And we shall remember 1926 until our blood is dry.”

A friend posted this poem and it inspired me to initiate a poetry season. The poem was published in 1921.
Does Siegfried Sassoon need an introduction? Suffice to say that he was from a privileged background, but was radicalised by his experiences in World War 1. What he witnessed confirmed the German general's estimation of the British Army as "lions led by donkeys".


THE CASE FOR THE MINERS
Siegfried Sassoon

Something goes wrong with my synthetic brain
When I defend the Strikers and explain
My reasons for not blackguarding the Miners.
" What do you know? " exclaim my fellow-diners
(Peeling their plovers' eggs or lifting glasses
Of mellowed Chateau Rentier from the table),
" What do you know about the working classes?"

I strive to hold my own; but I'm unable
To state the case succinctly. Indistinctly
I mumble about World-Emancipation,
Standards of Living, Nationalization
Of Industry; until they get me tangled
In superficial details; goad me on
To unconvincing vagueness. When we've wrangled
From soup to savoury, my temper's gone.

" Why should a miner earn six pounds a week?
Leisure! They'd only spend it in a bar!
Standard of life! You'll never teach them Greek,
Or make them more contented than they are!"
That's how my port-flushed friends discuss the Strike.
And that's the reason why I shout and splutter.
And that's the reason why I'd almost like
To see them hawking matches in the gutter.

The Book of Deer is a ninth century work created by the monks of Deer Abbey in Aberdeenshire. It is written mainly in Latin, the language of religion and of learning.
There are, however, some passages in the book of a secular nature written in the Gaelic language, the vernacular of Scotland north of the Forth and Clyde at the time. The image above shows Latin and Gaelic on the same page.
My interest in the Gaelic texts stems from my resentment of the English author Samuel Johnson, on account of his arrogant dismissal of Highland culture and his refusal to accept the possibility of the existence of written works in Gaelic.
The Book of Deer is a Latin work, admittedly, but the presence in its pages of written Gaelic notes signals the Highland Gaels' capability of producing a work in their mother tongue.
Other works were written and bound in book form at a much later date, but they were in existence at the time of Johnson's claim that no book in Gaelic could be produced for his inspection. Unfortunately, no one attempted to call his bluff, and it was a bluff.

(The Red Book of Clanranald, early 18th century)

Johnson's refusal to recognise a Highland culture and, admittedly sparse, literary output was a result of his antipathy towards the Scottish author, James Macpherson.
MacPherson had published a work, a bestseller, called Ossian, which he claimed was a translation of an old literary work in Gaelic written by an ancient bard named Ossian. Ossian was translated into other European languages and influenced many continental authors, including Johann von Goethe. It is credited with giving birth to the romantic movement in the arts.
Now none of this sat well with the English for several reasons, not least political. Since the suppression of Jacobitism, Gaelic was portrayed as the language of benighted savages, Highlanders and Irish Gaels. Johnson himself had claimed that the Scottish Gaels had no real language, but communicated in a series of grunts. A Gaelic literary revival, with an attendant lifting of the morale of the downtrodden Gaels was not something that the political class of the United Kingdom was prepared to countenance.
Fortunately Literary yes-men like the Tory Johnson were happy to go on the attack for King and Country.
MacPherson's claims were investigated and his weak spot was uncovered - the fabulous ancient book. There was no book.
MacPherson had toured the Highland collecting ancient poems, songs and stories that had been passed down orally for hundreds of years. There were also manuscripts to be pored over, but most of the written material was fairly recent. No ancient books or manuscripts were found, or were there to be found. "Produce the book!" was Johnson's cry, and the only weapon in his possession. But it was enough to finish MacPherson, who became known as "the forger".
Meanwhile elsewhere, the book was a roaring success and none of the controversy surrounding its origin had any effect. Ossian, in its Italian translation was said to be Napoleon's bedside reading.

It did have an effect on educated Irishmen and Scots to whom the stories told in Ossian had a familiar ring. They had heard of Ossian (Oisín), Oscar, and Fingal (Fionn Mac Cumhaill). Darthula was their Deirdre of the Sorrows, Temora, was the residence of High Kings, Tara, or Teamhra.
They believed that the verses and songs passed down to them were corrupted versions of the original Ossian, which must therefore exist. They went in search of the book and failed to find it. But they did discover a wealth of material, and initiated a study of the language, literature, history and traditions of old Gaeldom that led eventually to what became known as the Gaelic Revival. From this cultural nationalism sprang the political nationalism that led to a bilingual Irish Republic, and the continuing campaign for Scottish independence.

"A director of HSBC, Rona Fairhead, also heads the BBC Trust, which governs the BBC. But Fairhead’s appointment seemed to go against the whole idea of "trust": While working in the HSBC risk department, Fairhead was responsible for overseeing the department that enabled drug gangs and terrorists to launder millions of pounds. Fairhead continues to receive a salary of over half a million pounds from HSBC, along with the shares she holds in the bank – all of which amounts to far more than the sizable salary she already gets from the broadcasting corporation. Fairhead has denied all accusations that her dual roles helped influence any BBC content.

Really, the corruption is breathtaking.

Bias, Bullshit, Conspiracy.


Tory Spin Doctor