Crann Mor Feirm: Celtic Thoughts

Autumnal Equinox

Mon, 24 Sep 2007 19:06:54 GMT

Lugh and Morrigan,

Sustain my balance,

Light and Darkness,

Order, Chaos

Life and Death.

Rg 9/23/07

The Voyage of Bran

Tue, 11 Sep 2007 19:00:35 GMT

I bring a branch of Emain's apple tree,

alike in form to those you know.

Twigs of white silver upon it grow

and buds of crystal blossom fair to see.

There is an island far beyond this land,

around which glisten white sea-horses.

Against its shores they flow their white courses,

upon four pillars strong that island stands.

An ancient tree there is in flower,

whereon bright birds each hour call.

In sweetest harmony they all

combine to sing the passing of each hour.

No sorrow known, nor grieving there,

no sickness, death or suffering.

Such is the life of fair Emain,

a life that in this world is all too rare.

A host then comes across the shining sea

and row their craft most skilfully to land,

to where the shining stones in circles stand,

from which arise a music sweet and free.

Through ages long unto the gathered throng

they sing a song that sorrow never stained;

a hundred voices, all in chorus reigned,

in praise of life and life's eternal song.

Emain of many shapes beside the sea,

whether it be far or it be near,

women in bright colours wander here,

surrounded by the clear and shining sea.

And if you hear the sweet voice of the stones

and the songbirds of the Peaceful Land,

those women will walk close at hand;

no one who comes need walk alone.

Irish Traditional 8th Century

The Fiddler of Dooney

Sun, 19 Aug 2007 17:46:23 GMT

When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,

Folk dance like a wave of the sea;

My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,

My brother in Mocharabuiee.

I passed my brother and cousin:

They read in their books of prayer;

I read in my book of songs

I bought at the Sligo fair.

When we come at the end of time

To Peter sitting in state,

He will smile on the three old spirits,

But call me first through the gate;

For the good are always the merry,

Save by an evil chance,

And the merry love the fiddle,

And the merry love to dance:

And when the folk there spy me,

They will all come up to me,

With "Here is the fiddler of Dooney!"

And dance like a wave of the sea.

W.B Yeats

The Hills of the Heart

Sun, 05 Aug 2007 01:37:45 GMT

In the hollows of quiet places we may meet,

the quiet places where is neither moon nor sun,

but only the lights of amber and pale gold

that comes from the Hills of the Heart.

There, listen at times,

there you will call,

and I hear.

There will I whisper,

and that whisper will come to you,

as dew is gathered into the grass,

at the rising of the moon.

Fiona MacLeod

Three Most Powerful Divinations

Mon, 28 May 2007 23:33:44 GMT

The three most powerful divinations are by fire,

by water, and by clay.

These are the three great powers:

the power that ascends, which is fire;

the power that falls, which is water;

and the power that lies level on the earth,

and has the mystery of the dead,

which is clay.

Irish Triad

Beltaine

Sun, 06 May 2007 12:35:29 GMT

The first day of May has for centuries been celebrated by Celtic peoples as the beginning of Summer. "Beltaine" (pronounced Byeltinya) is a special celebration of the return of plant and animal life to its full force, inspired by the returning of the full life of the sun. Following is a ancient Irish verse describing the season of Beltaine.

May day! Delightful day!

Bright colors play the vale along,

Now wakes at morning's slender ray

Wild and gay the blackbird's song.

Now comes the bird of dusty hue,

The loud cuckoo, the summer-lover;

Branchy trees are thick with leaves;

The bitter, evil time is over...

Loaded bees with puny power

Goodly flower-harvest win;

Cattle roam with muddy flanks;

Busy ants go out and in.

Through the wild harp of the wood

Making music roars the gale-

Now it settles without motion,

On the ocean sleeps the sail.

Men grow mighty in the May,

Proud and gay the maidens grow;

Fair is every wooded heights;

Fair and bright the plain below...

Loudly carols the lark on high,

Small and shy his tireless lay,

Singing in wildest, merriest mood,

Delicate-hued, delightful May.

Irish, Ninth Century

Merlyn In Calydon

Tue, 24 Apr 2007 23:27:43 GMT

If you sit still long enough

on the forest floor,

the universe will approach you

like a shy animal.

Breathe softly and don't move:

If encouraged it will nuzzle your open hand.

Open more!

Open your heart your head your soul

all doors all bars

that catch and trap and bind

the wild and dreaming beast

that sleeps

in you.

Mara Freeman

The Tree of Plenty

Sun, 15 Apr 2007 14:12:11 GMT

A tree of gold on the field free from battle,

its crown reached the cloudy welkin;

thence the music of the men of the world

was heard from the tree's crown.

Whenever the violent wind would beat

on the soft fresh foliage of the tree

there would be vast plenty, O men!

of its fruits on the soil of the earth.

Every fruit the hosts would choose,

from east, from south, and from north,

like the flood-tide of the lazy sea,

would come from the top of that one tree.

Irish, Twelfth Century

Spring Blessing

Sun, 15 Apr 2007 14:06:12 GMT

Good luck to the hoof and horn

Good luck to the flock and fleece

Good luck to the growers of corn

With blessings of plenty and peace!