Rolling on over golden fields of grain- sky blue haze casually drifts
across-spotted mottled cloud shadow
today, rolling on the wind- blowing down
the day flies a scrap of paper- swirling and circling overhead, riding the
breeze- it’s The April issue of The Caterpillar and it’s coming your way…..
fluttering cuckoo sparkling, interweaving is
rich and rhythm rumbles, pathos melifluous to grab the monochrome ear -Return of Charango.
A shower of birds – a cloud of cuckoos – larks
a-muzzy on a summer’s night –
Druidic starlings swirl, nature’s glory –
Nettles, hedgerows, brambles,under ivy old customs slumber – Saxon, Kelt,
Belgae, Dane and Windmill-Hill-Tilters ;Iberian Megalithic Cultures;Autochthonous
scions of spontaneous consciousness – under the hill they slumber – under the
hedge they linger – numbered no longer amongst the living, still they linger
and cling, biding – stirred by starling’s turbulence rippling down through the
old air – Souls don’t die-
Joni Mitchell –
Clouds
Doc Watson – The
Cuckoo
Holy Modal
Rounders – The Cuckoo
Rambling Jack
Elliot and Derrol Adams – The Cuckoo
We’re all gathered together here;we’re all a fam’ly! Let’s hear it for one of the most
important Latino bands in Machynlleth…..put your hands together, Brothers and Sisters - Let’s have a warm hand for
Cloud Cuckoo….
An old legend tells of a dark lady who stood
on a mountain-top and sang the World into being. At the foot of the mountain raged the dragons
of confusion. Their breath was like a
many-coloured river that wove and lapped and twined around the mountain, as
rainbow-ribbons around the maypole. The
dragon’s colourful breath brought consternation to the World, ensnaring and
entangling those who espied its chimeric vapours as ephemeral clouds of the
morning. These bewitching strands and
skeins of accordion, fiddle and decorative filigreed
arabesque masqueraded before the sky in the morning of the day, sinuously
snaking and swirling around as zephyrs that do to dance upon the air. But from above, from the mountain’s lofty and
far-sighted peak stood a dark woman who was the voice of song. She it was who sang the World and she it was
whose incanting primordial voice held
the loops of scattered colour, sound and zephyr, shaping them to fit her song,
her chanting monotone that now swoops, abandoning form and formality,
now chants in dark oneness. This was the voicefrom the Heart, from out of the trees,
in early morning, driving away the mists of confusion, in the morning of the
day, the day of the World, fresh, vibrant, viridian, dark, of power primal and
autochthonous. The voice from the
mountain levels out all illusion. Cate mute cate slute.
Doina
din Dolj – Maria Tanase
Check this one out: “Cate Mute Cate Slute” – Maria Tanase:
Like afabulousmechanical yurt-on-a-cart pulled by a hundred thousand gold-tipped elephantspullulating across the Carpathians it’s…..Like a glittering, audacious, crackling speckled black crow of many colours, it’s…… Reminiscent of many and many a wonderful and splendidthynge, melting ice gleaming in the
sun, golden
straws of
autumn stooks, thatch, pitchforks hitched to a bullock-cart, the Heart’s-blast of the Ages, the swooning, swooping, ululating, wobbling, tocking, galloping, clattering, syncopated, shuffling, ecstatic, Golden, dusky and coolsounds; the sounds of the people of Romania… MuzicaPolularaRomaneasca
Complete
with lyrics, here is a generous collection of the songs of Maria Tanase, courtesy of Virtual Romania. These mp3’s are well-worth checking out.:
To magnifypages of ‘The Caterpillar”, simply click on the image and open in a new tab, then you have the option to zoom in and see the detail……. (Don’t forget to check the Archives, at the top of the blog, to see previous issues of The
Caterpillar!)
A
large collection of
music from manytimes and places:
Ripples
in aether-mercury emanating from the alleys
of continuum consciousness in unprecedented time/matter/energy-configuration. Situation stable as Universe appears to have
always existed. More on this story as
events unreel.
In the vignette the lady sipped from a crystal
goblet, eighteenth century, whilst gazing through a lorgnette out of the
gleaming bubble glass firelit candlelight glow to blazing logfyres among warm
damask rococo imbroglios. Swarming the
beads of consciousness scientifically balance on the nose of the law. Hey, tickling the nose of reality, once
again. This is the immutable ‘way of the
particle’ which can but follow the tracks of the grand special cellular
game. Given aeons of rattling
progression we reach to the age of the courtly dance, the periwigged real of
quadrille quatroons on cantaloupe plattering coaches, at midnight, at the
striking of the clock, at the charming of the cat, at the bat’s brittle
screeching flight, under the moon, under the moon, in the trees, automatically,
as wings aflap in the dark, as hooves of carriage-wheels clack, upon the
highway of moon-scudding clouds rides the silk-emblazoned lorgnette-lady of the
crystally-space real, a forgotten path, a street in the town where you used to
live. “Must’a dreampt it!” he
mutters, yet strangely a curious tangent feeling creeps up over him as the beams
take effect and he’s transported back up to the other side - experience of actual consciousness now, for
you. So saith the tall-collared figure at the grande ball, the great tete-a-tete, the
lace-figured, dapper & dandy dithering gathering of glimmering and
beglittered aristos in archaic garb quaint.
The goblet in her hand threw back the scintilla of swirling honeyed
honeydew honeycombed light of a golden - - Raising now upon the sunny banks of
wakefulness bemused his glance falls upon the crabbed and gushing manuscript. {{{{{ Clarity of Perception |- entranced before
daybreak’s feathery fingers of rose-golden white dawn will waft and droft and
drift him up to the surface clear of the pond of slewth. * oh
but nonsense said the Ambassador; you
cannot possibly think such a
thing. But he could. ]]]]] &
the dripping of drips loudly outside in the quiet night of the street dripping
and the house clicking the clock ticking house floor-beams creaking and clicking
at night – torn up paper and semi-conscious ink transformations found
accidentally on the radio of the future – these things you tell of, you
vouchsafe to dream of, can never be- quoth the ambassador once again - energy
of the universe in his merry old eye! *So, under the alfluence of inkohol, old boys be’d a staggering and a
swaying home along old old country roads of Ireland (stout) and France (ye
wines) and the old life goes on – no electricity in them days of course – bla
blab la - and ink so many -crystal-jewels-of--perfect-miniature--spinning-orbitals-back-to-the-scatter-mosaic-bee-beads
-
Bartok:
6 Romanian Dances
Bartok
“From Island of Bali’ (Mikrokosmos)
Bartok
plays ‘6 Dances in Bulgarian Rhythm (Mikrokosmos)
Louis
Armstrong & his Hot Five; Yes I’m In
The Barrel
Check out my fiction ebook, The Horned Whale - available from all good ebook sites - The Horned Whale or An Morvil Kornek by Jeremy Schanche - ISBN: 9780993490910 - 175,710 words - $3.99 - Contains the mystery novel - The Kramvil, plus short stories, poetry and glossaries. Find out more at : http://yecaterpillar.blogspot.co.uk/2016/10/the-horned-whale-by-jeremy-schanche.html
Please also see these blogs:
https://haroldhempsteadcagedcrusader.wordpress.com/
https://savetheholyheadland.blogspot.co.uk/
Posts
