Mongolian Sacred Chord?

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I heard there was a sacred chord that David played and it pleased the Lord.
Leonard Cohen, Hallelujah
And whenever the evil spirit from God came upon Saul, David took the lyre and played it with his hand, and Saul would be relieved and feel better, and the evil spirit would depart from him.
I Samuel 16:23
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Do eastern sacred chants have “chords” or is that a western concept?

I first ran across dual tone singing, a form of chant where two notes/overtones are sung at the same time by one person, on a CD that includes “The Sacred Chants of Tibetan Buddhism” sung by monks.   There are instruments playing at the same time, but whether it is a “chord” or a “cacophony” probably depends on your frame of reference; I find it soothing.

There are also Mongolian “throat singers” who sing dual tones. On the border between Mongolia and Russia, the Tuva throat singers sound like a two string instrument tones playing simultaneously with a third vocal tone. Throat singing is traditionally a male pursuit — I never knew the female voice was capable of producing dual tones, but here is a woman braving custom and breaking taboo.  The male throat singer with the accordion is also a rebel; under the soviet system, throat singing was also considered a form of dissent, along with shamanism and Buddhism. Not sure what to think of the accordion, but it doesn’t sound like  a traditionally Western tonal scale, likewise with the tuning of the autoharp (goats at 10:45).

This one is from Siberia — a duet with a two-stringed instrument (I am reminded of the bedouin rebaba) and vocals that sound almost like whistling.  In the background: some footage of Siberian ice fishing.

Here is  a very polished Tuvian singer, Kongar-ol Ondar on Letterman show with three-stringed instrument and playing what looks like chords that aren’t quite western (or do I hear a 7th?) but seem to resolve like western chords. Somewhere I saw that out of 100 Mongolians who go to the throat class, only 7 or 8 go on to actually study it. Something like our western chorus.

A Mongolian with a two-stringed instrument, one string is in unison with the voice and the other sounds like a drone, similar to the low note on bagpipes.  Again there is a sort of harmony that seems to resolve, but I’m not ready to call it a tonic.

From my favorite travel show, Ian Wright on Globetrekker (a British production, obviously): four musicians singing with stringed instruments sort of illustrates the problem of trying to define the question in terms of western music. Where we would look for chord progressions — the tonic, the fourth, the fifth, the minor third, (and if you will, for Leonard Cohen fans, the major lift) — they seem to be naming their sounds “steppe, mountains, river, forest, Gobi desert.”

I would also not think that just because there are not two notes playing simultaneously at a given time that no underlying “chord” exists. Imagine “Amazing Grace” sung a capella (Judy Collins 1970). Each note can only fit into a certain chord, or a certain set of chords, so you can hear in your mind’s eye (sheet music) the chord progression I, IV, I, V7, since the note “G” can only fit into a C-chord or a G-chord, but not a D7 chord, etc. Since I can basically sing in tune, and hear half tones and whole tones, but not quarter tones, I can’t imagine what they must be hearing in their mind’s eye (if that isn’t too mixed of a metaphor), but they must be hearing something.

Rumproast Behind Closed Doors-death to Lieberman

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“Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest (Thomas Becket) ?–King Henry II.
“Let us away, knights; this fellow will arise no more.”–King Henry’s knights.

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Rumproast’s infamous forum, the Rumper Room, may have disappeared, but thanks to technology like the Wayback Machine and Google Cache, nothing on the internet ever really disappears.   On a recent Cannonfire thread, Rumproast regular “Strangeappar8us” even hinted that it was just temporarily offline, not gone.

So why have they locked the doors?  What is going on in there that they don’t want the public to see? Using my Google-fu, I have discovered that Rumproast’s  latest targets are Sen. Joe Lieberman and Sen. Chuck Grassley of Iowa.  Here’s their latest attempt at witty repartee (image clickable) :

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“The fact that Ms. Coakley shares two things with me–a vagina and a vote for Hillary does not mean she is a proper representative.”

Color me confused.  Aren’t those the only two things that matter about a person?
Comment by sean on 01/20/10 at 09:30 PM

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Maybe we should take a page from the Tom Coburn playbook * and start praying for certain senators from states with Democratic governors to kick off really soon.

I’ll start the list—Chuck Grassley of Iowa.

(Note to lurkers: I’m kidding. Maybe.)

Comment by Oblomova on 01/20/10 at 09:39 PM
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Oh hey, can we curb-stomp** Lieberman now? Since the super majority thingie has gone bye-bye, we might as well. Sure would turn my frown upside down.

Comment by Betty Cracker on 01/20/10 at 10:22 PM
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Oh hey, can we curb-stomp Lieberman now?
Please God yes.  I have no idea what he cares about, but I hope someone figures it out (Goldman?  BCBS?), so we can tear it apart while he watches from his AEtna sinecure.

Seriously, though, Lieberman represents the new American dream—“I’ve got mine, bitches”—and there’s not much we can do but get our own and hope that he gets some hideous cancer.

Comment by sean on 01/20/10 at 10:55 PM

*Tom Coburn playbook : “‘What the American people ought to pray is that somebody can’t make the vote tonight,’ he said. ‘That’s what they ought to pray.’ It was difficult to escape the conclusion that Coburn was referring to the 92-year-old, wheelchair-bound Sen. Robert Byrd (D-W.V.) who has been in and out of hospitals and lay at home ailing.”

** Curb stomp. Urban dictionary: “Placing someones mouth on a curb, then repeatedly stomping and/or kicking the back of the person’s head, hard enough to detatch their jaws. Most people die from this experience, due to head, neck, or vertabrae injuries.”

Another Lorica: “Be Thou My Vision”

I’m still hoping to get back to my blogging break, but it seems I can’t resist writing one more thing.  In looking for recordings of St. Patrick’s Rune or “The Cry of the Deer”, which is part of the larger Lorica, I ran across a second Lorica, “Be Thou My Vision” sometimes attributed to St. Patrick and from that general era. [Image credit: a Roman lorica, photo by Matthias Kabel]

If you only have time to look at one of these videos, look at this one.  Roma Downey sings it in Irish then recites an unusual English translation:

Lyrics in modern Irish:

Bí Thusa ’mo shúile a Rí mhór na ndúil
Líon thusa mo bheatha mo chéadfaí ’s mo stuaim
Bí thusa i m’aigne gach oíche ’s gach lá
Im chodladh no im dhúiseacht, líon mé le do ghrá.
Bí thusa ’mo threorú i mbriathar ’s i mbeart
Fan thusa go deo liom is coinnigh mé ceart
Glac cúram mar Athair, is éist le mo ghuí
Is tabhair domsa áit cónaí istigh i do chroí.

The rest of the recordings I found have a distinct hymn quality.  I’ve posted the best of them.

Here it is from a BBC production in English with the lyrics on the screen, sung in the way only the British can make  “word” rhyme with “lord”:

And again with the Belfast Cathedral Youth Choir and a haunting flute arrangement:

If anyone isn’t tired of it in English yet, here is yet another version, this time a capella and sung by, wait for it,… Hutterites:

Now, finally we get down to the Irish version, from a young woman with a delightful Irish accent, but with a longish explanation at the beginning that could have been put in the written notes, but IMHO hearing her read the words is well worth wading through the rest. She reads the translations at 2:40, and sings at 4:10.

In English,

Be thou my vision Oh, Lord of my heart
Be all else but naught to me save that thou art
Thou my best thought by day or by night
Waking or sleeping, thy presence my light.

In Irish:

be my eyes o king of creation
fill my life with understanding and patience
will you be my mind every night and every day
sleeping or awake fill me with your love
will you be my guidance in my words and my actions
stay with me forever and keep me on the right path
as my father take care of me, listen to my prayers
and give me a place to live in your heart

Surprisingly enough, this hymn is the number three hit of Anglicans who were asked what they would most like to take with them on a desert island.  Even more surprisingly, St. Patrick’s Breastplate (Lorica) was first.

There are other tunes for the song, but “Slane” is the most popular, named after Slane Hill where St. Patrick was said to have lit an Easter fire in 433 in defiance of druids.  The lyrics were written later, in the eighth century, in Old Irish by Dallan Forgaill  and used as a lorica (a prayer of protection) by the Irish monastic tradition for many centuries before being set to music. The most popular English translation was done in 1905 by Mary E. Byrne (from Old Irish) and then the song was translated from English back into modern Irish by Hugh Duggan.

The Old Irish starts out:

Rop tú mo baile, a Choimdiu cride:
ní ní nech aile acht Rí secht nime.
Rop tú mo scrútain i l-ló ’s i n-aidche;
rop tú ad-chëar im chotlud caidche.

To be continued…

[image: lorica segmentata photo by Matthias Kabel]

`

Lorica

As an antidote to yesterday’s dipping in the cesspool of political scum, today I received an email (thanks, Catenea!) that sent me searching YouTube for the Lorica sung in Latin or French.  I didn’t find that, but I did find it in Gaelic.

Lyrics:

Críost liomsa, (Christ with me)
Críost romham, (Christ before me)
Agus Críost i mo chroí’se, (and Christ in my heart)
Críost os mo chionn’sa, (Christ above me)
Críost fúm, (Christ below me)
Agus Críost ar mo chroí’se. (and Christ on my heart)
Agus Críost i mo chroí. (and Christ in my heart)

…and in English, Sung by Rita Connolly, with a good part of it a capella:

Lyrics:

I arise today
through the strength of heaven.

Light of sun, radiance of moon,
splendor of fire, speed of lightning,
swiftness of wind, depth of the sea,
stability of earth, firmness of rock.

I arise today
through God’s strength to pilot me

God’s eye to look before me, God’s wisdom to guide me
God’s way to lie before me, God’s shield to protect me
From all who shall wish me ill,
Afar and a near, alone and in a multitude
Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body, and so…

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me,
Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise, Christ to shield me.
Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me;
Christ in the mouth of  everyone who speaks of me.

I arise today.

Here it is with three part harmony, vocalist is Lucy Bunce, backup is with Celtic instruments:

This poem, this Faedh Fiada is also spelled Faeth Fiada and even fOid Jiada. Other names for it include The Lorica of St. Patrick, St. Patrick’s Breastplate[Lúireach Pádraig], and Saint Patrick’s Rune (the “rune” is a shorter group of stanzas within the Lorica itself-I wrote about it here). It is also identified with the canticum Scotticum attributed to St. Patrick sometime before the ninth century. The text of this Irish hymn is in Atkinson’’s Liber Hymnorum; a full text in Old Irish and Latin, with notes in English, is available in Google books. A discussion of the available manuscripts is here.

Rumproast reprise

Just when I was starting to enjoy my little blogging vacation, I have gotten sucked back into the ugly vortex that is the political blogosphere. This time it is about a subject near and dear to my heart: internet anonymity. Everything worth saying about the subject has already been said here, at the Electronic Frontier Foundation:

Anonymous communications have an important place in our political and social discourse. The Supreme Court has ruled repeatedly that the right to anonymous free speech is protected by the First Amendment. A much-cited 1995 Supreme Court ruling in McIntyre v. Ohio Elections Commission reads:

Protections for anonymous speech are vital to democratic discourse. Allowing dissenters to shield their identities frees them to express critical, minority views . . . Anonymity is a shield from the tyranny of the majority. . . . It thus exemplifies the purpose behind the Bill of Rights, and of the First Amendment in particular: to protect unpopular individuals from retaliation . . . at the hand of an intolerant society.

The reason the subject of internet anonymity has come up now, is that a blog called Hillbuzz (I made some comments about them here in December) is claiming their anonymity has been compromised by Obama supporters at a website called Rumproast.  In turn the Obama supporters claim they are being harassed, but oddly enough, at the same time, they have freaked out and closed down their main forum. The main subject of discussion involves the identity of Rumproast blogger JohnD, who started a website called “stupidpumas” on WordPress, and later at stupidpumas.com and pumafail.com, and whether he has published real names and photos of anonymous persons.

At one point, “JohnD” invited me to “dialog” and brought all the Rumpsters along.   I have since removed all the Rumproast threads and aired out my blog, but the four letter words I had to put in my filter are still there. After the “dialog”, they also stalked me for ages at various blogs, discussing comments I had posted on non-political blogs at length on their forum and linking to a photograph they said was of me. One of them impersonated me at Pandagon; the Pandagon admin deleted the account of my stalker, but would not provide me with the IP of the person who did it.

I am not happy about the Rumproast visit to my clean and quiet blog.

While I don’t publish either real names or IP’s, I do link bloggers with their sock puppets. Here are the names JohnD has used on this website, commenting:

and on his own blog:

  • as “johnd” and “obotinchief”: Hanging it up (on this thread you also see johnd consumed in flames at the same time as TheBigotBasher rises from the ashes like a Phoenix, with nearly identical links given to stupidpumas.com and pumafail.com respectively.)
  • and the thread about outing economics professor Dakinikat.

UPDATE: Part of Rumproast proprietor Kevin’s narrative is that the excesses of the misogynist bullies that take refuge at his blog are outliers, not condoned or encouraged by him in any way. He lays out this position on his Hillbuzz FAQ post where he states, “…but I deleted the comment the minute I saw it and basically told TheBigotBasher to bugger off. I do not support, nor have I ever supported, the outing of people who blog or comment under aliases, regardless of what I personally think about them.”

Riiiiggghht.

Going back to “The Dialog” let’s take a look at another Rumproast regular, “Strangeappar8tus”, who has control of enough editing keys at the Rumproast to author his own posts. “Strange”, as he is nicknamed:

For anyone with enough morbid curiosity, the other posts here where “Strange” commented are

For diehard Rumproast sniffers I have also resurrected, hopefully for a very short time, some posts I wrote some time ago on a private, non-unsearchable test blog when it became clear members of Rumproast were stalking and impersonating me and posting photographs they said were of me. For those with the time to search defunct blogs with the Wayback Machine, some of the posts contain old links and screenshots of now-disappeared forum discussions.  I have also restored the Rumproast members’ all time search favorite, Farewell Strangelove, my tribute to the Strangeappar8us courtship which I found both so touching and so repugnant. We still have Paris, eh, Strange?

So is the current bru-ha-ha just about one rogue blogger, or is Rumproast an astroturf machine that regurgitates predigested talking points while spying on and trying to disrupt progressive non-misogynist bloggers?  Is the Rumproasters’ real goal to  “cut away from the herd” in their “neutralize and release” program, or was that just talk?   Has Rumproast achieved “plausible deniability”?  I sort of hope the Hillbuzz people can get to the bottom of it.

ANOTHER UPDATE:

It just occurred to me, when PumaPAC founder Murphy did a radio broadcast on the line with Jennihillary, the Rumproast regulars showed up en masse to comment on the radio stations blog.  Some of the comments were pretty over the top.    And unlike their Rumper Room forum, Rumproast doesn’t have the capability to scrub these blogs…yet.

Interview between Jenniforhillary and Darragh Murphy of Puma PAC on KPFT November 13,  2008:

Still fishin’

Wolf moon over Wolf Lake. With Mars above:

Technically the full moon was 23 hours ago, but I was in class, so here is Wolf Moon, the first full moon of the new year, rising over refineries on the Indiana side of Wolf Lake. I think the way the cloud rises then flattens out makes it look like a dinosaur.

Why is it called Wolf Lake?  And why are these “dog” footprints as large as my sneaker?

The moon is supposed to be at perigee, but it is depressingly dark.  Although it is twenty degrees or so, the snow cover is mostly gone, which cuts down on reflectivity.  I think there is a little mist over the moon, too. I have no tripod, so the photos were taken with the camera pressed firmly against a tree, rock, or fence post. The lightened background and the effects were done with Picasa 3, sorry it doesn’t do PNG, only JPG, so you see some squarish artifacts. Resizing for blog was done with Irfanview. Free programs all.

Here is a poem we were given to memorize in the 6th grade.  Actually we were given a choice between memorizing an insipid two page poem about animals for an A or a one page poem about a wolf for a B.   When it comes to sixth grade poetry , quantity must be the same as quality.  Everyone got the message and memorized the “A” poem, except for the top student in the class whose name was Barton (not Bart) who today is a German professor in Massachusetts. Barton memorized and recited both, ruining his straight A grades with one B just to make a point.  I also memorized the wolf poem, but didn’t tell anybody, which is how I can google it now.  I don’t care if it’s a children’s poem, I still like it.

The Wolf
Georgia Roberts Durston

When the pale moon hides and the wild wind wails,
And over the treetops the nighthawk sails,
The gray wolf sits on the world’s far rim
And howls: and it seems to comfort him.

The wolf is a lonely soul, you see,
No beast in the wood, nor bird in the tree,
But shuns his path; in the windy gloom
They give him plenty, and plenty of room.

So he sits with his long, lean face to the sky
Watching the ragged clouds go by.
There in the night, alone, apart,
Singing the song of his lone, wild heart.

Far away, on the world’s dark rim
He howls, and it seems to comfort him.

gone fishin’


Dusk at Wolf Lake. Freezing rain all day, but finally the temperature got one degree above freezing. Time for a walk. After two weeks with the flu (so much for flu shots), it’s good to get out. Looking north with the glow of Chicago on the left:

Looking east with the glow of Hammond on the right:

There are huge, I mean really huge, “dog” foot prints in the snow.

Last supper

No, not Leonardo da Vinci’s famous mural, and not my own last, last supper, although you can never know for sure, but a metaphor for putting yourself in the presence of virtual, or depending on what internet slang you use, “invisible” friends.  And also a sort of bowing out of writing new posts for the next couple of days, since I have a work project due this weekend, which will take a lot of time with “rubrics” and such.  It doesn’t pay all that much, but I have been told in glowing terms how good it will look on my resumé CV.

If you follow a blog for any length of time, sooner or later the babble disentangles itself into discrete human voices, humans which you will probably never shake hands or share a cup of coffee with, but people you have ended up spending some enjoyable hours with.  And yes, you would like to be in the same room with them, somehow.

I think my all time favorite discussion is here, in a thread with most of my favorite commenters, that turned into a recipe discussion about Welsh rabbit.  It was even more poignant because my personal life had taken a turn for the worse, and I was living between a place with no electricity and another place with no phone connection, charging my laptop daily in a storage area, packing by candlelight, trying to avoid the gang members upstairs who were running what turned out to be a meth lab, and trying to avoid my new landlord who turned out to be beating his pregnant wife.  In the midst of all of that, the internet was the only sane place to retreat to.  Suddenly one of the voices got me on his wavelength with “Don’t you also beat an egg into it, with a little worcestershire sauce and good sharp mustard? All poured steaming over a thick toast of grainy bread? Garnished with parsley and course-ground pepper?” I could touch the bread and smell the pepper. The voice was (and is) an axis on a rotating planet.

Virtual connection isn’t always enough though.  Sometimes I want a tangible reminder of the lively thoughts, something I can touch, before the inevitable hour those things retreat into the background.  I don’t have all the ingredients for the Welsh rabbit (or rarebit), but I do have some fresh rye bread, Jarlsberg cheese, and peppercorns.

And last night I picked up a new bottle of Australian port.

And of course, right next to the only supermarket in Chicago that carries Jarlsberg cheese and the only liquor  store in Chicago with Stone’s ginger wine is…Powell’s used bookstore. So I couldn’t resist a dead-tree version of some Valéry poems.  So far, I’m not that impressed with his famous “Le Cimetiere Marin” (although I like “That sea forever starting and restarting.” La mer, la mer, toujours recommencée!)… but “Les Pas“…oh, my! Echoes of Rumi who traveled to Damascus looking for Shems (who had probably met an untimely end), only to find Shems had been in his soul all along.

Is it any accident that it was bread and wine Jesus shared with his friends before his departure (a much older ceremony), telling them to do it “in remembrance of me”?  Of course he reappeared, but when he did, he was resurrected, changed, and no one recognized him at first.  Things end, summer dies and is resurrected, one door closes and another door opens.  And just as one ingests the communication elements  and “eats God”, perhaps becoming God?–as we choose our companions, virtual or otherwise,  we also choose who we want to become more like, whose values we are closest to, sometimes even whose mannerisms we will end up unconsciously copying or being copied by. When we touch bread and wine with our invisible friends, we are also touching those invisible qualities of our own we want to endure.  Well, this is getting way too metaphysical for me, where I am always out of my depth, so maybe I’ll just think of it more like Omar Khayyam’s “a loaf of bread, a jug of wine”.  Looking up the Rubaiyat now, I see it’s really ” a loaf of bread”, “a flask of wine”, and a “book of verse”, so it looks like I did the right ritual after all.

And now, as Robert Frost says, “I have promises to keep…”

Posted in Food. 4 Comments »

L’Abeille

L’Abeille (Paul Valéry) (The Bee)

À Francis de Miomandre.

Quelle, et si fine, et si mortelle,
Que soit ta pointe, blonde abeille,
Je n’ai, sur ma tendre corbeille,
Jeté qu’un songe de dentelle.

Pique du sein la gourde belle,
Sur qui l’Amour meurt ou sommeille,
Qu’un peu de moi-même vermeille,
Vienne à la chair ronde et rebelle !

J’ai grand besoin d’un prompt tourment :
Un mal vif et bien terminé
Vaut mieux qu’un supplice dormant !

Soit donc mon sens illuminé
Par cette infime alerte d’or
Sans qui l’Amour meurt ou s’endort !

Lionel Abel’s translation of Valéry’s “The Bee” (1922) here.

An excerpt:

Un mal vif et bien terminé
Vaut mieux qu’un supplice dormant !

A torment prompt and soon done with
Is better than one that sleeping lies.

Valéry’s later tours de force:  Le Cimetière Marin (French and English) and La Jeune Parque (in French).

Too funny: Google Translate renders Vaut mieux qu’un supplice dormant ! as “Punishment is better than sleep!” recalling the adhan call from the muzzein at dawn for the first prayer of the day: الصلاة خير من النوم “Al-salatu khayru min an-nawm” or “Prayer is better than sleep.”

Everything simple is false. Everything which is complex is unusable.
-Paul Valéry, Notre destin et les lettres, 1937

Posted in Poetry. 7 Comments »

The defiant word, the cutting word, the cold word

While chasing down St. Patrick’s Rune the other day, I ran into the “Song of Amergin“.  In Gaelic that’s Amhairghin or “Birth of song” from Lebor Gabála Érenn’s 11th century “Book of Invasions”. It’s a druid incantation claiming the land of Ireland for the “Men of Míl” from the Tuatha Dé Danann, who were either a faery clan or gods.   The poem is said to have many forms in both Gaelic and Welsh. For more references, here is an essay, comparing the poem with other historical sources, including the Welsh bard Taliesin.

A popular version (several Gaelic and English versions at this URL):

I am a stag of seven tines,
I am a wide flood on a plain,
I am a wind on the deep waters,
I am a shining tear of the sun,
I am a hawk on a cliff,
I am fair among flowers,
I am a god who sets the head afire with smoke.
I am a battle waging spear,
I am a salmon in the pool,
I am a hill of poetry,
I am a ruthless boar,
I am a threatening noise of the sea,
I am a wave of the sea,
Who but I knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen ?

In this version, the subject of each line leads into the next line:

1
I invoke the land of Ireland
Much-coursed be the fertile sea,
Fertile be the fruit-strewn mountain,
Fruit-strewn be the showery wood,
5
Showery be the river of water-falls,
Of water-falls be the lake of deep pools,
Deep-pooled be the hill-top well,
A well of tribes be the assembly,
An assembly of the kings be Tara,
10
Tara be the hill of the tribes,
The tribes of the sons of Mil,
Of Mil of the ships, the barks,
Let the lofty bark be Ireland
Lofty Ireland, darkly sung,
15
An incantation of great cunning;
The great cunning of the wives of Bres,
The wives of Bres of Buaigne;
The great lady Ireland,
Eremon hath conquered her,
20
Ir, Eber have invoked for her.
I invoke the land of Ireland.

I rather like this one:

I am the wind on the sea
I am the stormy wave
I am the sound of the ocean
I am the bull with seven horns
I am the hawk on the cliff face
I am the sun’s tear
I am the beautiful flower
I am the boar on the rampage
I am the salmon in the pool
I am the lake on the plain
I am the defiant word
I am the spear charging into battle
I am the god who put fire in your head
Who made the trails through stone mountains
Who knows the age of the moon
Who knows where the setting sun rests
Who took the cattle from the house of the warcrow
Who pleases the warcrow’s cattle
What bull, what god created the mountain skyline
The cutting word, the cold word

Sung in gaelic by Lisa Gerrard, lyrics below the embedded video:

Am gaeth i m-muir
Am tond trethan
Am fuaim mara
Am dam secht ndirend
Am séig i n-aill
Am dér gréne
Am cain lubai
Am torc ar gail
Am he i l-lind
Am loch i m-maig
Am brí a ndai
Am bri i fodb fras feochtu
Am dé delbas do chind codnu
Coiche nod gleith clochur slébe
Cia on co tagair aesa éscai
Cia du i l-laig fuiniud gréne
Cia beir buar o thig tethrach
Cia buar tethrach tibi
Cia dám, cia dé delbas faebru a ndind ailsiu
Cáinte im gai, cainte gaithe

Middle photo : the Atlantic Ocean looking south towards Boston.

Top photo : Mount Rushmore, the four presidents carved into the mountain at the Black Hills, South Dakota. Our landtaking legends, our leaders carved into the land, the land  carved out by their words. And the words of the incantation are : “This land is your land, this land is my land, from California to the New York Island, from the redwood forest, to the gulf stream water, this land was made for you and me. “* Instead of becoming the land, personifying the land to claim power, the land is at our feet for our disposal.

*compare “from Dan to Beersheba”

Posted in Poetry. 1 Comment »