Friday, August 31, 2012

the innet quest
to determine how likable
as if this space
would be different
equipped with a switch

why is it so hard
to know the difference
between followers and following
thousands now and forever
crawling over every bit

Two Minstrels' Rune Medley

MASTERED by desire impulsive,
By a mighty inward urging,
I am ready now for singing,
Ready to begin the chanting
Of our nation's ancient folk-song
Handed down from by-gone ages.

In my mouth the words are melting,
From my lips the tones are gliding,
From my tongue they wish to hasten;
When my willing teeth are parted,
When my ready mouth is opened,
Songs of ancient wit and wisdom.

There are many other legends,
Incantations that were taught me,
That I found along the wayside,
Gathered in the fragrant copses,
Blown me from the forest branches,
Culled among the plumes of pine-trees,
Scented from the vines and flowers,
Whispered to me as I followed

Flocks in land of honeyed meadows,
Over hillocks green and golden,
After sable-haired Murikki,
And the many-colored Kimmo.

Many runes the cold has told me,
Many lays the rain has brought me,
Other songs the winds have sung me;
Many birds from many forests,
Oft have sung me lays n concord
Waves of sea, and ocean billows,
Music from the many waters.

Music from the whole creation,
Oft have been my guide and master.
Sentences the trees created,
Rolled together into bundles,
Moved them to my ancient dwelling.

On the sledges to my cottage,
Tied them to my garret rafters,
Hung them on my dwelling-portals,
Laid them in a chest of boxes.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel,
Passed his years in full contentment,
On the meadows of Wainola,
On the plains of Kalevala,
Singing ever wondrous legends,
Songs of ancient wit and wisdom.
Chanting one day, then a second,
Singing in the dusk of evening,
Singing till the dawn of morning,
Now the tales of old-time heroes,
Tales of ages long forgotten.

Now the legends of creation,
Once familiar to the children,
By our children sung no longer,
Sung in part by many heroes.
In these mournful days of evil,
Evil days our race befallen.

Far and wide the story travelled,
Far away men spread the knowledge
Of the chanting of the hero,
Of the song of Wainamoinen.

Still the minstrel sings enchantment,
Sings his sword with golden handle,
Sings it into gleam of lightning,
Hangs it in the sky above him.

Sings his cross-bow, gaily painted,
To a rainbow o'er the ocean;
Sings his quick and feathered arrows
Into hawks and screaming eagles.

Sings his dog with bended muzzle,
Into block of stone beside him;
Sings his cap from off his forehead,
Sings it into wreaths of vapor.
From his hands he sings his gauntlets
Into rushes on the waters;
Sings his vesture, purple-colored,
Into white clouds in the heavens;
Sings his girdle, set with jewels,
Into twinkling stars around him.

"Aino, beauty of the Northland,
Wear not, lovely maid, for others,
Only wear for me, sweet maiden,
Golden cross upon thy bosom,
Shining pearls upon thy shoulders;
Bind for me thine auburn tresses,
Wear for me thy golden braidlets."

Thus the maiden quickly answered:
"Not for thee and not for others,
Hang I from my neck the crosslet.

Deck my hair with silken ribbons;
Need no more the many trinkets
Brought to me by ship or shallop;
Sooner wear the simplest raiment.
Feed upon the barley bread-crust,
Dwell forever with my mother
In the cabin with my father."

Then she threw the gold cross from her,
Tore the jewels from her fingers,
Quickly loosed her shining necklace,
Quick untied her silken ribbons,
Cast them all away indignant
Into forest ferns and flowers.

Thereupon the maiden, Aino,
Hastened to her mother's cottage.

Loudly does the pine-tree answer:
"All the ships that have been fashioned
From my body are unworthy;
I am full of imperfections,
Cannot give thee needed timber.

Wherewithal to build thy vessel;
Ravens live within my branches,
Build their nests and hatch their younglings
Three times in my trunk in summer."
Sampsa leaves the lofty pine-tree,
Wanders onward, onward, onward,
To the woods of gladsome summer,
Where an oak-tree comes to meet him.

In circumference, three fathoms,
And the oak he thus addresses:
"Ancient oak-tree, will thy body
Furnish wood to build a vessel?

Build a boat for Wainamoinen,
Master-boat for the magician,
Wisest of the wisdom-singers?"

Thus the oak replies to Sampsa:
"I for thee will gladly furnish
Wood to build the hero's vessel;
I am tall, and sound, and hardy,
Have no flaws within my body.

Three times in the months of summer,
In the warmest of the seasons,
Does the sun dwell in my tree-top,
On my trunk the moonlight glimmers,
In my branches sings the cuckoo,
In my top her nestlings slumber."

Quick he changes his complexion,
Changes too his form and feature,
Slips into another body;
Like a serpent in a circle,
Rolls black-dyed upon the waters;
Like a snake among the willows,
Crawls he like a worm of magic,
Like an adder through the grasses,

Through the coal-black stream of death-land,
Through a thousand nets of copper
Interlaced with threads of iron,
From the kingdom of Tuoni,
From the castles of Manala.
Mana's son, the wicked wizard,
With his iron-pointed fingers,
In the early morning hastens
To his thousand nets of copper,
Set within the Tuoni river,
Finds therein a countless number
Of the death-stream fish and serpents.

Elias Lonnrot

Thursday, August 30, 2012

if you open up
you see everything at once

you have twisted toolmaking
into a way of thinking
all information
is available
another way
not inside or
some magical room

no edges
no limit
no thing else
and the closer
you approach that
the more in peace

this summer morning

Friday, August 17, 2012

One day when I had been walking solitarily abroad and was come home, I was wrapped up in love so that I could not but admire the greatness of love. While I was in that condition, it was opened unto me by the eternal light and I saw clearly therein that all these troubles were good for me.
When at any time my condition was veiled, my secret was stayed firm and hope underneath held me as an anchor in the bottom of the sea and anchored my unmortal soul, causing it to swim above the sea, the world, where all the raging waves, foul weather, tempests are.
As the light appeared, all appeared that is out of the light: darkness, death, all was manifest and seen in the light.
After this, a pure fire appeared in me then discerning came into me by which I did discern my own thoughts, groans, and sighs and what it was that veiled me and what it was that opened me.
Now was I come through the flaming sword into the Paradise. All things were new and gave another smell unto me than before beyond what words can utter. I knew nothing being renewed up into the state of Adam which he was in before he fell.
It was shewed me how all things had their names given them according to their nature and virtue. And I was at a stand in my mind whether I should practice physic for the good of mankind, seeing the nature and virtues of the creatures.
But I was immediately taken to see into another more steadfast state than Adam's.
Great things and wonderful depths beyond what can by words be declared, the hidden unity in the Eternal Being.

george fox
civil beyond all forms of breeding

Thursday, August 16, 2012

and when she lifted her legs it was as if
she wanted to balance the moon  on her toes to keep it from falling
but I knew all along it was the black cloud that needed to stay in place
and so in that county where I was once and now and will be before I was
where I spoke the words holy  holy holy Lord God Almighty all the earth
is full of Thy glory where the whistling swans ride the backs of the white
horses of the river where the boxcars and skiffs are full
of drunken troubadours where once I did lay awhile longer the pavane
of whippoorwills while the pall bearers are strutting in the ceremonies
of my sleep the passing bell nodding like a snake charmer all far
past way deep behind the woods down the  road where I saw that lightning bug
in  the country where my  dreams are like bark
peeled off by lightning  I was with her the girl  with black  hair
while the wolf had the moon by the throat
I said I love you in  the field of honor
and she  was like a colt
and she was water I  held in  my hands
and she was the canoe I worked through the river
ans she was the flash at two-thirty in the morning of  the suicidal knife
and she was  a fire of pine cones who ran like a deer
and she was a butterfly that lit on the float of  my  pole
and she was  the night herself
she was the cape I drew over my body

frank stanford