On The Music Box: Shen - Outlines
It seems that my provider Bluehost.com had our dedicated IP number turned off, like forever… making it difficult for people to download the magazine… If you haven’t downloaded The new edition of The Invisible College yet… here is the link!
Beautiful here in Portland… Clouds fleeting overhead (well, starting to loom) coolish. I walked out this morning to the most astounding beauty… the garden almost roaring with delight, the robins flitting and the squirrels playing. We live in paradise, and yes the cup is half full.
On the Menu
Peters’ Picks - Tomorrow Never Knows (From The Las Vegas Cirque De Soliel show)
Fairy Help - The Phouka
Poetry: The Voice of Pierre de Ronsard
Have a beautiful one… if you cannot access the magazine, email: IC at earthrites.org change the at for a @ sign, take out the spaces.
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
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Peters’ Picks: Tomorrow Never Knows…
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Fairy Help - The Phouka
The Phouka is a friendly being, and often helps the farmer at his work if he is treated well and kindly. One day a farmer’s son was minding cattle in the field when something rushed past him like the wind; but he was not frightened, for he knew it was the Phouka on his way to the old mill by the moat where the fairies met every night. So he called out,” Phouka, Phouka! show me what you are like, and I’ll give you my big coat to keep you warm.” Then a young bull came to him lashing his tail like mad; but Phadrig threw the coat over him, and in a moment he was quiet as a lamb, and told the boy to come to the mill that night when the moon was up, and he would have good luck.
So Phadrig went, but saw nothing except sacks of corn all lying about on the ground, for the men had fallen asleep, and no work was done. Then he lay down also and slept, for he was very tired: and when he woke up early in time morning there was all the meal ground, though certainly the men had not done it, for they still slept. And this happened for three nights, after which Phadrig determined to keep awake and watch.
Now there was an old chest in the mill, and he crept into this to hide, and just looked through the keyhole to see what would happen. And exactly at midnight six little fellows came in, each, carrying a sack of corn upon his back; and after then came an old man in tattered rags of clothes, and he bade them turn the mill, and they turned and turned till all was ground.
Then Phadrig ran to tell his father, and the miller determined to watch, the next night with his son, and both together saw the same thing happen.
“Now,” said the farmer, “I see it is the Phouka’s work, and let him work if it pleases him, for the men are idle and lazy and only sleep. So I’ll pack the whole set off to-morrow, and leave the grinding of the corn to this excellent old Phouka.”
After this the farmer grew so rich that there was no end to his money, for he had no men to pay, and all his corn was ground without his spending a penny. Of course the people wondered much over his riches, but he never told them about the Phouka, or their curiosity would have spoiled the luck.
Now Phadrig went often to the mill and hid in the chest that he might watch the fairies at work; but he had great pity for the poor old Phouka in his tattered clothes, who yet directed everything and had hard work of it sometimes keeping the little Phoukas in order. So Phadrig, out of love and gratitude, bought a blue suit of cloth and silk and laid it one night on the floor of the mill just where the old Phouka always stood to give his orders to the little men, and then he crept into the chest to watch.
“How is this?” said the Phouka when he saw the clothes. “Are these for me? I shall be turned into a fine gentleman.”
And he put them on, and then began to walk up and down admiring himself. But suddenly he remembered the corn and went to grind as usual, then stopped and cried out–”No, no. No more work for me. Fine gentlemen don’t grind corn. I’ll go out and see a little of the world and show my fine clothes.” And he kicked away the old rags into a corner, and went out.
No corn was ground that night, nor the next, nor the next; all the little Phoukas ran away, and not a sound was heard in the mill. Then Phadrig grew very sorry for the loss of his old friend, and used to go out into the fields and call out, “Phouka, Phouka! come back to me. Let me see your face.” But the old Phouka never came back, and all his life long Phadrig never looked on the face of his friend again. However, the farmer had made so much money that he wanted no more help; and he sold the mill, and reared up Phadrig to be a great scholar and a gentleman, who had his own house and land and servants. And in time he married a beautiful lady, so beautiful that the people said she must be daughter to the king of the fairies.
A strange thing happened at the wedding, for when they all stood up to drink the bride’s health, Phadrig saw beside him a golden cup filled with wine. And no one knew how, the golden cup had come to his hand; but Phadrig guessed it was the Phouka’s gift, and he drank the wine without fear and made his bride drink also. And ever after their lives were happy and prosperous, and the golden cup was kept as a treasure in the family, and the descendants of Phadrig have it in their possession to this day.
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The Voice of Pierre de Ronsard
ODE À CASSANDRE - ODE TO CASSANDRA
Sweetheart let us together go and see
If this morning’s rose which opened up
Her crimson robe to Father Sun,
Has not this even shed the folds
Of her crimson dress and her damask cheek
With its colour so like your own.
Alas! Look - in how short a space
Sweetheart she has upon this place
Alas! Alas! let drop her beauty!
Oh Mother Nature harsh and strong
Since such a flower lasts scarce so long
As from the dawn to eventide.
So hear my words my own sweetheart
While your young days are in full bloom,
Gather the rosebuds of youth today -
Its fresh green newness will not stay -
As with this flower will come old age
To tarnish all your beauty.
—
Mignonne, allons voir si la rose
Qui ce matin avait déclose
Sa robe de pourpre au soleil,
A point perdu cette vesprée
Les plis de sa robe pourprée,
Et son teint au votre pareil.
Las! Voyez comme en peu despace,
Mignonne, elle a dessus la place,
Las, las ses beautéz laissé cheoir!
O vrayment marastre Nature,
Puisquune telle fleur ne dure
Que du matin jusques au soir!
Donc, si vous me croyez, mignonne,
Tandis que vostre âge fleuronne
En sa plus verte nouveauté,
Cueillez, cueillez vostre jeunesse:
Comme à ceste fleur, la vieillesse
Fera ternir vostre beauté.
——–
AVANT LE TEMPS TES TEMPES FLEURIRONT -
BEFORE ITS TIME YOUR BROW WILL BE IN BLOOM
‘Before its time your brow will be in bloom,
‘Your end will be defined by too few days,
‘Before the evening falls your day will fade,
‘Betrayed by hope your thoughts will perish soon.
‘Your lines will vanish - I shall not be moved,
‘In your collapse my destiny will hang.
‘For I was born to abuse the poets’ gang
‘And our descendants will but mock your mood.
‘You’ll be the laughing-stock of the common man,
‘You’ll build your castles on the shifting sands,
‘And useless are your paintings in the skies.’
Those were the words of the nymph who drives me mad,
When heaven, witness to the words she said,
With a well-aimed flash sent omens to my eyes.
–
‘Avant le temps tes tempes fleuriront,
‘De peu de jours ta fin sera bornée,
‘Avant le soir se clorra ta journée,
‘Trahis d’espoir tes pensers periront:
‘Sans me flechir tes escrits fletriront,
‘En ton desastre ira ma destinée,
‘Pour abuser les poètes je suis née,
‘De tes souspirs nos neveux se riront.
‘Tu seras fait du vulgaire la fable,
‘Tu bastiras sur l’incertain du sable,
‘Et vainement tu peindras dans les cieux.’
Ainsi disoit la Nymphe qui m’affolle,
Lorsque le ciel, tesmoin de sa parolle,
D’un dextre éclair fut presage à mes yeux.
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JE VOUS ENVOIE UN BOUQUET QUE MA MAIN -
I SEND YOU A BOUQUET THAT WITH MY HANDS
I send you a bouquet that with my hands
I have selected from these full-blown flowers:
If they had not been plucked in the evening hours,
Tomorrow they would all lie in the sand.
Let that be an example to you all:
Your charms, although they may be in full flower,
Will very soon be withered, dry and brown,
And like these blossoms, they will shortly fall.
For time speeds onward, time speeds on, my lady,
Alas! it’s we who must speed on, not time,
And soon we’ll be surrendered to the blade:
And these loves we are speaking of, so fine,
There’ll be no news of them when we are the past:
So love me now, so long your beauty lasts.
—
Je vous envoie un bouquet que ma main
Vient de trier de ces fleurs épanouies:
Qui ne les eut à ces vêpres cueillies,
Tombées à terre elles fussent demain.
Cela vous soit un exemple certain
Que vos beautés, bien qu’elles soient fleuries,
En peu de temps seront toutes flétries,
Et, comme fleurs, périront tout soudain.
Le temps s’en va, le temps s’en va ma Dame,
Las! le temps non, mais nous nous en allons,
Et tôt serons étendus sous la lame:
Et des amours desquelles nous parlons,
Quand serons morts, n’en sera plus nouvelle:
Donc, aimez-moi, cependant qu’êtes belle.
(Turner - Queen Mabs’ Cave)