Song of November

I guess this is what happens when you read 400+ pages of Kipling in two days and think about hunting season....

Hunter’s moon—full of light,

shining amber, radiant bright!

Wheat fields glow the ghostly hue;

whitetails graze in the midnight dew.

Here they low (nocturnal beasts),

shunning daybreak for protected feasts.  

Antlers glisten, no light to bleach

far away from the hunter’s fatal reach.

Secluded revelry, hidden dance—

frolic in moonbeams, autumn romance!

Carefree courting here begun

and ended ‘fore the rise of sun.  

When the blue-grey morn does peek

‘neath the horizon,  salmon pink,

they slip and melt into the shade

and their visage hastily fade.

Brethren hunters, stir not then

for the cold will burn the skin;

all your effort will be in vain

if last night the moon did reign.

Sharpen knives and oil the gun,

bide thy time until set of sun.

If then the lunar face is new

tomorrow’s hunt will be more true.

Song of the Whippoorwill

A poem of nature and folklore---of me, really!



As I lay fighting the descent of sleep,
A voice, like soothing waters begins to weep.
A dapple grey with mottled wing,
Nature’s own lullaby so sweetly sings
The lament of summer and lofty things,
Like time.

Echoes from my country home,
What spirit roams these woods
And brings to me this enchanting psalm,
Which June alone provides?
I roust and wake and seek her song,
In dew and darkness dwell,
What can this fowl of holler and crick,
mean to raise the frail?

A well worn path I trod and search,
My prying eyes can’t find
This soulful and beguiling bird
Whom flies o’er hill and dale.
Come forth to me,
O Guard of Night,
Whom nature’s secrets keep!
What in thy voice,
Thy riveting tune,
Doth wake me from the deep?

I wouldst not cage thee,
For my own gain,
But suffice to behold thy grace.
Why dost thy fly from oak to pine
The nocturn air to taste?

From on high,
A flittering glance,
A leaf cast by the wind---
Or twas some angel passing by
In haste, abrupt, descend?
Not leaf nor seraph,
But holy fowl,
alights on yonder post,
I kneel to it to hear its plight,
How Will gave up the Ghost.

It speaks to me,
From ages past,
A sage beyond the years:
“Thou shouldst not rise,
with haggard eyes,
in dusk I come to call--
let all men know,
that moons may wane and cities fall,
but nature has no fears".

To really appreciate this poem you have to listen to a Whippoorwill for a bit:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXnnfg1CepE

How beautiful!

My Addiction

I admit, I am addicted. There is nothing like the sound of a fast-paced Celtic tune to get the blood pumping! I have always loved listening to Bluegrass, but when you hear the original version of the tunes of the motherland it really stirs something in you. I am talking about listening to a song that makes you want to run, dance and fight at the same time. There are very few songs that are able to strike that chord. The two that I know best come from the Irish and Scottish traditions. One is about rambling and life in general, while the other is of the Jacobite repertoire.

If you need a bit of energy in your day may I present to you the best kick possible:

Rocky Road to Dublin, The Dubliners


Donald McGillavry, Silly Wizard

Ye Jacobites by name! Give an ear!

One of my favorite pleasures is Scottish culture; its tales, history, Scots dialect, and in particular its music. One of the most popular themes within Scottish music is that of Jacobitism and "Bonnie" Prince Charlie. The Jacobite Uprisings provided fertile ground for the green shoots of musical outpouring to spring forth. For that I am grateful. However, while the nostalgia and romanticism of of the Young Pretender and the massacre on Culloden Moor are undeniable, the historical facts of the conflict are less obvious.

On the surface, the conflict is often portrayed as one of England vs. Scotland. This is historical hogwash and has absolutely no credibility. The Treaty of Union was already in place, and Great Britain was here to stay, despite any opposition. Truthfully, the conflict was between the houses of Hanover and Stuart. Ah, the Stuarts! What a noble name! What a distinguished tartan! What a MISERABLE heir! I know what you are thinking, "How could he!?", but stick with me here. The historical truth (See How the Scots Created the Modern World, a wonderful book) is that Charles Edward Stuart was a pathetic leader. His insistence on the military action of his followers against impossible odds, after exhaustive marches, lead to their ultimate massacre. What did he do? He went to France, and essentially drank himself to death (he was an alcoholic even during the revolution). But really, the Jacobite Revolutions, even deeper down, were about Protestants versus Catholics. This brings to mind an interesting connection. Long has society though of Ireland as the home turf 0f the Protestant/Catholic blood-feud, but in fact, such conflict had a long and storied history in Scotland.

From Kate Beaton's "Hark, A Vagrant!", copyrighted, with my censor for suitability:
http://www.harkavagrant.com/index.php?id=12



Why then, are we constantly immersed in verse relating to the Jacobites? Certainly, the tale of Flora MacDonald, who disguised Charlie as her handmaiden and traveled to the Isle of Skye makes for an interesting story. But, beyond that, what have we? An unrealistic drunkard who led hapless followers to their death? No, I think that would be doing a great discredit. I believe the reason that we have wonderful tunes like "Skye Boat Song" and "Will Ye No' Come Back Again" is the fact that since then the Scots have been desperate for a real leader who provides both symbolic and descriptive representation. This, coupled with the sheer fact that Charlie's men gave their last full measure of devotion for the cause is more than enough to spur any songwriter to romanticize.

Regardless, the sheer power and pride of the lamentations of such tunes will forever be a part of me, and I'll always be a Jacobite at heart.

From "Skye Boat Song":

Many's the lad, fought on that day,
Well the claymore could wield,
When the night came, silently lay
Dead in Culloden's field.
Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that's born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.

Burned are their homes, exile and death
Scatter the loyal men;
Yet e'er the sword cool in the sheath
Charlie will come again.
Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that's born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.