The carving on this post is from the interior of a replica Iron Age roundhouse at Barbury Castle. Sadly the roundhouse was totally destroyed last year in a fire started by vandals.
Sunday, November 01, 2009
Sorley's Weather
Yet rest there, Shelley, on the sill,
For though the winds come frorely
I'm away to the rain-blown hill
And the ghost of Sorley.
Charles Hamilton Sorley 1895-1915
For though the winds come frorely
I'm away to the rain-blown hill
And the ghost of Sorley.
Charles Hamilton Sorley 1895-1915
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Let no hand of man
And if thou wilt make me an altar of stone, thou shalt not build it of hewn stone: for if thou lift up thy tool upon it, thou hast polluted it.
Exodus 20:25
Exodus 20:25
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Searching for a picture of the past
Cathedral, bank and ditch.
Four thousand years at least
of our hands upon the land.
And should a little gold glimmer in the ground
be picked and paraded and brought all about
to this and that or something other
gladly glimpsed and remembered of what went before
for more good gold in fleeting hands
clicking...
while both rewarding and offending.
The wakeful dreamer searching for a picture of the past
lays down his glossy pages
and considers the lost now discovered
and wonders at the wonder of it all...
LS
Four thousand years at least
of our hands upon the land.
And should a little gold glimmer in the ground
be picked and paraded and brought all about
to this and that or something other
gladly glimpsed and remembered of what went before
for more good gold in fleeting hands
clicking...
while both rewarding and offending.
The wakeful dreamer searching for a picture of the past
lays down his glossy pages
and considers the lost now discovered
and wonders at the wonder of it all...
LS
Thursday, October 01, 2009
Beth Pennard or The British Chieftain's Grave
The feet beneath the verdant glade
by Bards a narrow cist is made
yet ample to contain
Those listless limbs, in speed and force
Which rival'd once the fleetest horse,
Light bounding o'er the plain.
Now filled the hallowed cup of clay
Withdrew from Cromlech's summit grey
Last night procured in locks of wool,
Filled it with care and filled it full,
Such beverage suits etherial sprite
Ere it ascends to realms of light.
Place it contiguous to the head
And o'er its mouth a covering spread...
To a kind chief, who will revere
A chieftains relics buried here
One who with us delights to ken
The ancient works of Celtic man;
Who makes their labours by his own
Survive, when falls each magic stone,
or roaring midst the hills and groves,
View scenes which every Druid loves
The cup our benefactors hand...
John Skinner (1772 – 1839)
by Bards a narrow cist is made
yet ample to contain
Those listless limbs, in speed and force
Which rival'd once the fleetest horse,
Light bounding o'er the plain.
Now filled the hallowed cup of clay
Withdrew from Cromlech's summit grey
Last night procured in locks of wool,
Filled it with care and filled it full,
Such beverage suits etherial sprite
Ere it ascends to realms of light.
Place it contiguous to the head
And o'er its mouth a covering spread...
To a kind chief, who will revere
A chieftains relics buried here
One who with us delights to ken
The ancient works of Celtic man;
Who makes their labours by his own
Survive, when falls each magic stone,
or roaring midst the hills and groves,
View scenes which every Druid loves
The cup our benefactors hand...
John Skinner (1772 – 1839)
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides by James Boswell
Monday, 30th August 1773: Inverness, Fort Augustus.
About three miles beyond Inverness, we saw, just by the road, a very complete specimen of what is called a Druid's temple. There was a double circle, one of very large, the other of smaller stones. Dr Johnson justly observed, that, 'to go and see one druidical temple is only to see that it is nothing, for there is neither art nor power in it; and seeing one is quite enough'.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Life on the Chalk Downs
It is here men dig
and dive under the earth
to dream
like
moths
of who will be
the Winter King
Stones are set in rings of fire
spirals gaze up at the stars
wishing they were closer
Dense forests hide groves
tended by maidens
with limbs
carved
from moonstone
watching Crones
weave the destiny of kingdoms
from the wombs of mothers
writhing on sheepskins
in the dark corners of huts
While out on the chalk downs
eldest sons
with
swords raised
wait to see which of their fathers
will burst forth from the mound
© 2009 Persephone Vandegrift
and dive under the earth
to dream
like
moths
of who will be
the Winter King
Stones are set in rings of fire
spirals gaze up at the stars
wishing they were closer
Dense forests hide groves
tended by maidens
with limbs
carved
from moonstone
watching Crones
weave the destiny of kingdoms
from the wombs of mothers
writhing on sheepskins
in the dark corners of huts
While out on the chalk downs
eldest sons
with
swords raised
wait to see which of their fathers
will burst forth from the mound
© 2009 Persephone Vandegrift
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
A Turn at Tara
Press Release from Susan McKeown.
"The second Feis Teamhra: A Turn at Tara, which features performances by internationally-recognized Irish poets and musicians, will be held between 3 and 5 o’clock on August 30 2009 on the Hill of Tara. Those taking part are Michael Longley, Paul Muldoon, Susan McKeown, Laoise Kelly, and Aidan Brennan."
More here - http://heritageaction.wordpress.com/
Friday, August 07, 2009
Who treads upon the footmarks of his sires
Sarsen under the west buttress of the Church of St Nicholas, Fyfield, Wiltshire.
On the same occasion
Oh! gather whencesoe'er ye safely may
The help which slackening Pity requires;
Nor deem that he perforce must go astray
Who treads upon the footmarks of his sires.
Our churches, invariably perhaps, stand east and west, but 'why' is by few persons 'exactly' known; nor, that the degree of deviation from 'due' east often noticeable in the ancient ones was
determined, in each particular case, by the point in the horizon, at which the sun rose upon the day of the saint to whom the church was dedicated. These observances of our ancestors, and the causes of them, are the subject of the following stanzas.
WHEN in the antique age of bow and spear
And feudal rapine clothed with iron mail,
Came ministers of peace, intent to rear
The Mother Church in yon sequestered vale;
Then, to her Patron Saint a previous rite
Resounded with deep swell and solemn close,
Through unremitting vigils of the night,
Till from his couch the wished-for Sun uprose.
He rose, and straight--as by divine command,
They, who had waited for that sign to trace
Their work's foundation, gave with careful hand
To the high altar its determined place;
Mindful of Him who in the Orient born
There lived, and on the cross his life resigned,
And who, from out the regions of the morn,
Issuing in pomp, shall come to judge mankind.
So taught 'their' creed;--nor failed the eastern sky
'Mid these more awful feelings, to infuse
The sweet and natural hopes that shall not die,
Long as the sun his gladsome course renews.
For us hath such prelusive vigil ceased;
Yet still we plant, like men of elder days,
Our christian altar faithful to the east,
Whence the tall window drinks the morning rays;
That obvious emblem giving to the eye
Of meek devotion, which erewhile it gave,
That symbol of the dayspring from on high,
Triumphant o'er the darkness of the grave.
William Wordsworth
The help which slackening Pity requires;
Nor deem that he perforce must go astray
Who treads upon the footmarks of his sires.
Our churches, invariably perhaps, stand east and west, but 'why' is by few persons 'exactly' known; nor, that the degree of deviation from 'due' east often noticeable in the ancient ones was
determined, in each particular case, by the point in the horizon, at which the sun rose upon the day of the saint to whom the church was dedicated. These observances of our ancestors, and the causes of them, are the subject of the following stanzas.
WHEN in the antique age of bow and spear
And feudal rapine clothed with iron mail,
Came ministers of peace, intent to rear
The Mother Church in yon sequestered vale;
Then, to her Patron Saint a previous rite
Resounded with deep swell and solemn close,
Through unremitting vigils of the night,
Till from his couch the wished-for Sun uprose.
He rose, and straight--as by divine command,
They, who had waited for that sign to trace
Their work's foundation, gave with careful hand
To the high altar its determined place;
Mindful of Him who in the Orient born
There lived, and on the cross his life resigned,
And who, from out the regions of the morn,
Issuing in pomp, shall come to judge mankind.
So taught 'their' creed;--nor failed the eastern sky
'Mid these more awful feelings, to infuse
The sweet and natural hopes that shall not die,
Long as the sun his gladsome course renews.
For us hath such prelusive vigil ceased;
Yet still we plant, like men of elder days,
Our christian altar faithful to the east,
Whence the tall window drinks the morning rays;
That obvious emblem giving to the eye
Of meek devotion, which erewhile it gave,
That symbol of the dayspring from on high,
Triumphant o'er the darkness of the grave.
William Wordsworth
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
An unmoving pool of stone
Under a safe and ancient overhang
stony raindrops
spreading their unfathomable pattern
across the world
across the ages.
Dropped and patiently chipped away
in an unmoving pool of stone.
In an unresolved pond of another reality.
stony raindrops
spreading their unfathomable pattern
across the world
across the ages.
Dropped and patiently chipped away
in an unmoving pool of stone.
In an unresolved pond of another reality.
Sunday, July 05, 2009
What does this tell us?
Four years ago, when I first started this anthology of Megalithic Poems, a colleague warned that I'd be hard pressed to find even half a dozen on the theme of the megalithic structures and prehistoric sites of Britain, Ireland and the European continent. Three years on and there are now more than 200 poems here and an equal number of drawings, paintings, prints or photographs to accompany them.
The poems stretch over a period of some eight hundred years; from Laymon's poem, Brut, of 1215 describing Stonehenge (see the September 2005 archive) to poems written only a few months ago. What does this tell us? Well, perhaps that not only have these structures inspired poets like Blake and Wordsworth (as well as artists such as Constable and Turner) down through the ages but also that this marvellous, mysterious megalithic heritage of ours continues to inspire us even today.
At a time when so much of our heritage is at risk through development and mismanagement (Tara in Ireland for example, even Stonehenge and Avebury) perhaps these poems, and the images that accompany them, will continue to inspire those who would take time out from busy lives to visit and ponder upon this often overlooked aspect of our heritage. Not only that, hopefully this anthology will also act as a warning that these places, built by our forefathers millennia ago, are in constant need of our care and attention lest, after thousands of years having, "...brav'd the continual assaults of weather..." they are finally lost for all time through the greed, ignorance and insensitivity of the 21st century.
I hope you will find as much pleasure reading this anthology as I have taken in compiling it. Please click on the links above for further information on things megalithic, as well as websites with more pictures, musings and up-to-date news from some of the organizations dedicated to protecting our prehistoric heritage.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
A.jpg)
New Grange
The golden hill where long-forgotten kings
Keep lonely watch upon their feasting floor
Is silent now, the Dagda's harp no more
Makes sun and moon move to its murmurous
strings;
And never in the leafy star-led Springs
Will Caer and Aengus haunt the river
shore,
For deep beneath an ogham-carven door
Dust dulls the dew-white wonder of their
wings.
Yet one may linger loving the lost dream
The magic of the heart that cannot die,
Although the Rood destroy the quicken rods;
To him through earth and air and hollow
stream
Wild music winds, as two swans wheeling cry
Above the cromlech of the vanished gods.
Thomas Samuel Jones Jr (1882-1932)
Keep lonely watch upon their feasting floor
Is silent now, the Dagda's harp no more
Makes sun and moon move to its murmurous
strings;
And never in the leafy star-led Springs
Will Caer and Aengus haunt the river
shore,
For deep beneath an ogham-carven door
Dust dulls the dew-white wonder of their
wings.
Yet one may linger loving the lost dream
The magic of the heart that cannot die,
Although the Rood destroy the quicken rods;
To him through earth and air and hollow
stream
Wild music winds, as two swans wheeling cry
Above the cromlech of the vanished gods.
Thomas Samuel Jones Jr (1882-1932)
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