Wise Morning

Welsh from Traditional Verse, Seventeenth Century It’s the erotic sap which ripen the fields, It’s the blood of poets who’s souls got lost­­­­­ in the paths of nature. Harmonies spill from her welling crag, sweet rhythms she abandons to us. In bright morning the hearth smokes, and its plumes are arms Lifting up the mist. Listen to love affairs erupt in the water of the poplar grove, wingless birds abandoned in the grasses! The serenading trees with their snapping and cracking – the rough plains becoming mountains

Wise Morning2020-12-10T18:55:19+00:00

Arthur’s Hidden Men

Welsh, Unknown, Tenth Century Under snow-bent trees and by wintering fire, I rise and give praise; to Morfan, son of Tegid, so robust in his ugliness, no weapon dared strike him not even in the battle of Camlan*,. as all thought he was servant to a demon. A river of hair roamed his face; moon yellow teeth; a cornered bull. He fought at Camlan, alongside Sandde Angel-Face, so handsome a man no spear came his way as all thought he was servant to an angel. I send

Arthur’s Hidden Men2020-12-10T18:55:31+00:00

Summer Madrigal

Lorca Estrella, you gypsy. Crush your red mouth onto mine. Below noon’s bright gold, i will bite that apple. In the greeness of the olive grove, high on the hill, there is an ancient Moorish tower. The colour of your peasant flesh your peasant flesh, which tastes of honey and the dawn. You offer me in your sunburnt body divine food which flowers the river bed, and gives stars to the wind. Brown light – why do you give me full of love, your lillied womanhood, and

Summer Madrigal2020-12-10T18:52:27+00:00

Morning

Lorca Waters song can’t die. It’s the erotic sap which ripen the fields, It’s the blood of poets who’s souls got lost­­­­­ in the paths of nature. Harmonies spill from her welling crag, sweet rhythms she abandons to us. In bright morning the hearth smokes, and its plumes are arms Lifting up the mist. Listen to love affairs erupt in the water of the poplar grove, wingless birds abandoned in the grasses! The serenading trees with their snapping and cracking – the rough plains becoming mountains of

Morning2020-12-10T18:52:33+00:00
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