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Bonnyclabber and Crab Apples

28/11/2019

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I've been working fairly intensely with a body of stories about Manannán mac Lir which are sometimes called O'Donnell's Kern. More folklore than mythology, this kind of story about Manannán has always fascinated me. People call them "trickster tales", but that category has always felt a bit too offhand for my liking. I might call them teaching tales, because there is surely a lesson in them, and that lesson is an important one in Celtic culture: that of hospitality.

You can read the stories for yourself. They are in Lady Gregory's Gods and Fighting Men under the heading "Manannán at Play", and in Standish O'Grady's Silva Gadelica as "O'Donnell's Kern". A wonderful, and quite different version from Islay turns up in J. F. Campbell's Popular Tales of the West Highlands as "The Slim, Swarthy Champion." As if that isn't enough, I'm currently working on a retelling of them on my YouTube channel. [Update: Here's the video.]

As usual, I have fallen in love with my subject, and as sometimes happens, that led to a poem. It's full of obscure references to the tales, but I will leave you to hunt them down for yourself. You don't even need to leave the comfort of your seat. All those books I mentioned, above, are in the public domain and kicking around on the internet.

Bonnyclabber and Crab Apples

I who was hunting with fair Fionn
I who received tribute on Barrule
I who cast off my shimmering cloak
Going about the raths and duns
Paddling from Man to Kintyre
And from Kintyre to green Islay
Rathlin to the seat of Red Hugh

The bodach went seeking crowdie
Hospitality without pride
I never looked for prominence
My tongue was sweet and learned
The voice of my harp beguiling
The son of the earl knew the sweet
The Mac an Iarla knew the sour

From high Knock Áine I vanished
I was a rainstorm on a plain
A healer to the MacEochaid
A cattle raider in Sligo
Until I came to O’Kelly
Twenty marks I got for their taunts
And lulled them into their slumber

With the puddle water leaking
From my shoes I walked to Leinster
Tired I was seeking a mead cup
Their clanging strings offended me
The bloody day they had of me
Bonnyclabber and crab apples
The feast of Manannán mac Lir



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In Praise of Celtic Gods

28/10/2019

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I am looking forward passionately to teaching this upcoming course about the beautiful Celtic gods and goddesses, and their mystical, magical stories. I wanted to write something, to say how much I love them - the deities and their stories. Well, this is that something. The teaching, of course, will be more coherent.



If I begin, it will be with Brigid.


Did my journey start with Her? Saint or goddess, Bride, or Brighid, or Bridget – for all Her wide appeal, She’s a slippery one. Hardly featuring in the old texts at all, She has only the faintest of mythology as a goddess. Much more as Saint Brigid of Kildare, of course. (There are fourteen other St. Brigids in Ireland– but never mind!) Shall we speak of Brigando, and Brigantia? Shall we return to the keening mother of Ruadhán, to the goddess of poetry and smithcraft? Goddess-saint of healing wells.

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St. Brigid's Well, Loch Dearg, Co Donegal - Louise Price
Old gods like Bel, or Belenos, who may or may not be Beli Mawr, have no story left at all. It sounds like a good bet to honour Him at Beltane, but that is only a guess. Like Don, and Lir, and Anu, there is nothing remaining of their stories. They are merely the first in lists. A distant point of origin. So how is it that we can still sometimes feel them?

Lugh, who was once Lugos in Gaul and Iberia, but it is in Ireland that His story is so rich. Hero, foster-son. Son of both the Tuatha De Danann and the Fomorians. Lugh, who killed his own grandfather in battle. The many-skilled one, leader of a skilled people. He returned to father Cú Chulainn in a dream, and returned again to confirm the sovereignty of Conn of the Hundred Battles. Or so they say. He may somehow be Lleu. Their stories are different but nothing is impossible here.
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photo - S Pakhrin
Nothing is impossible and nothing is forgotten, as they say. It’s just a bit kaleidoscopic. Fragmenting and re-forming into beautiful, light shattered images, which your soul immediately recognises, while your mind rebels at the strangeness, and you reach out for something solid to hold onto.

These were the first deities I knew, and they were hard to know, partly because I had no point of reference. No sense of how or where to read their stories or not-stories, I went forward, mostly blindly, for years. It’s a wonder I didn’t lose interest completely, but even the thread of their names, an occasional sense of their presence was something.

They are woven gently through the landscape of their homelands. Don’t only look for them in the stone circles and under dolmens – you can find them all over. Go to any path that follows running water. Between two hills with beautiful curves, or in a hazel copse. Tread the same path repeatedly, and the very energy raised by your footsteps will awaken them. Or so it was for me.
 
These are the gods who went into the hollow hills. They receded into the very atoms of the hollows of nature. They are in the here-not-here. They are right beside you.
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Tumulus de Poulguen, Brittany
And their stories are a thread along which they travel. Along which so much is communicated, is transmitted.  A thread along which they feel their way toward us – into our time, and along which we find our way through the dark to Them. When we speak their names and tell their stories – when we think about them, they glow a little brighter, become more solidly here. They have more agency in our world again.

I began to find their stories. Mostly the tangled web of Irish stories, and from this emerged Manannán mac Lir, the beautiful, wise, generous god of the sea. He may be named for the Isle of Man or the island may be named for Him. He must, somehow, be one with Manawydan fab Llyr – son of Beli Mawr, second husband of Rhiannon. It’s just that we don’t know how they are one.

Do not enter the realm of the Celtic gods if you want black and white answers. There are no certainties here. They are mist. They are sunbeams. They will not get their stories straight in order to reassure you. It’s all hide and seek through a maze of texts, manuscripts, and recensions. Genealogies that go in circles, and cognates that don’t quite work. Ducks that don’t walk like ducks, and swans that may be princesses.

Don’t get me wrong. Scholarship is rewarding here. Just temper it with patience, and with mysticism. Allow imagination. Give it all time. You can’t know it quickly, no matter how high an achiever you think you are.

The next I encountered was Epona. Having been shepherded along for years by the three or four I’ve mentioned, I was playing it pretty casual. Epona began to show up, letting me know this was real. Glorious Epona, horse goddess.

When I was pointed to Rhiannon, I knew they were not the same. Rhiannon, who they say, linguistically, might once have been Rigantona, if there ever was a Rigantona. And Teyron – who may have been Tigernonos. But Rhiannon and Teyrnon are enough, surely? But, oh, the Mabinogi! I have learned so much, keeping that under my pillow – a copy in every room of my house.

So much makes sense now. I can almost lay the cards out straight sometimes. Almost. I think back to that encounter I had with Mabon. I get in touch with Maponos. “Divine sons of divine mothers,” they say to me in slightly out-of-synch stereo. I’m fine with that. I’ve been under the earth, seen the prison. I understand the healing there, and the importance of setting it free.

I hear from Macha. Macha of the many Machas. Queens, warrior women, land goddesses – swift, shining ones. Macha of the triple Morrigan (although exactly which three of the four …). Macha, horse goddess, who is not Rhiannon, who is not Epona. I see them travelling together more and more, these days. Herd mothers. Mare mothers. Horse queens.

Macha is looking over my shoulder. Reminding me that we have things to do. Mabon wants us to unblock the healing springs. To unblock the dammed up door to the gods. The door of myth. There is help, and healing, and wisdom behind that door!
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St. Brigid's Well, Brideswell Big, Co Wexford - Goreymurphy
There is always more. Ogmios. Who, they say, linguistically, cannot quite have become Ogma. God of poetry and eloquence. God of strength and writing, and a sunny countenance. He leads his followers by silver chains from his golden tongue to their enchanted ears. They follow him willingly, as I follow this misty path – preferring beauty to logic, every time.

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Of Oracles, Wonder and Inspiration

24/7/2013

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With Lughnasadh nearly here, I thought I would share this piece which I originally published on facebook in March 2012.

Some thoughts on the coming of Lugh.

I've just been reading a wonderful retelling of the Irish story "The Coming of Lugh" by Ella Young. Myths often contain a passage of "wonder" which particularly moves me. This story has such a passage, but first, let me set the scene.

The Irish sea god Manannán mac Lir, whom you may remember from my post on The Voyage of Bran, takes the young god Lugh to Tir na nOg (The Land of Youth) for his upbringing. Here  -

He raced the waves along the strand; he gathered apples sweeter than honey from trees with crimson blossoms: and wonderful birds came to play with him. Mananaun's daughter, Niav, took him, through woods where there were milk-white deer with horns of gold, and blackmaned lions and spotted panthers, and unicorns that shone like silver, and strange beasts that no one ever heard of; and all the animals were glad to see him, and he played with them and called them by their names.
Meanwhile, back in Ireland, the people of the land, the Tuatha De Danaan, were having a hard time of it. They were subjugated to the not-so-nice Fomorians, and Nuada, the king of the De Danaan, was unable to defeat the Fomorians in any decisive way. Things dragged on, with Ireland constantly at war. Manannán knew this because he'd been putting on his cloak of invisibility and checking up on things at night.

When Lugh came of age, Manannán gave him a magical sword, and Lugh decided to head back to Ireland and see what he could do to straighten things out. Of course, when he got there, nobody knew who he was, so he had a little trouble getting into Nuada's castle. Through a dialogue of boasts and challenges, he was finally admitted, and proceeded to best Nuada at chess and other games.

Seeing Lugh's many talents, Nuada then asked him to play the harp -

"I see a kingly harp within reach of your hand," said Lugh.

"That is the harp of the Dagda. No one can bring music from that harp but himself. When he plays on it, the four Seasons--Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter- pass over the earth."

"I will play on it," said Lugh.

The harp was given to him.

Lugh played the music of joy, and outside the dun the birds began to sing as though it were morning and wonderful crimson flowers sprang through the grass--flowers that trembled with delight and swayed and touched each other with a delicate faery ringing as of silver bells. Inside the dun a subtle sweetness of laughter filled the hearts of every one: it seemed to them that they had never known gladness till that night.

Lugh played the music of sorrow. The wind moaned outside, and where the grass and flowers had been there was a dark sea of moving waters. The De Danaans within the dun bowed their heads on their hands and wept, and they had never wept for any grief.

Lugh played the music of peace, and outside there fell silently a strange snow. Flake by flake it settled on the earth and changed to starry dew. Flake by flake the quiet of the Land of the Silver Fleece settled in the hearts and minds of Nuada and his people: they closed their eyes and slept, each in his seat.
snow, pheasants, evening light
Photo by Shelley Newton-Carter

Lugh put the harp from him and stole out of the dun. The snow was still falling outside. It settled on his dark cloak and shone like silver scales; it settled on the thick curls of his hair and shone like jewelled fire; it filled the night about him with white radiance. He went back to his companions.

The sun had risen in the sky when the De Danaans awoke in Nuada's dun. They were light-hearted and joyous and it seemed to them that they had dreamed overnight a strange, beautiful dream.

"The Fomorians have not taken the sun out of the sky," said Nuada. "Let us go to the Hill of Usna and send to our scattered comrades that we may make a stand against our enemies."
aturally, Lugh and Nuada were able to defeat the Fomorians in short order after this. So what changed everything so suddenly? I think it was the inspiration of beauty. The "strange beautiful dream" that Lugh's playing had induced, the inspiration of the beauty of nature hadn't just intoxicated Nuada and his men, it had inspired them. They hadn't so much fallen into a dream as been awakened. Joy, sorrow, and ultimately peace, inspired them. The snow, here a symbol of peace, which physically settles upon Lugh's hair and cloak, that fills the night with radiance. Pure inspiration.

Music, art, symbolism and nature are potent magic. When we are asleep, sometimes it is the dream that truly wakes us. Particularly when the sleep feels like being stuck, as Nuada was. An oracle reading is just one way to dream yourself awake. You might prefer to read a myth, go into nature or experience music or art. All are potent.

At this point in the story, Lugh was Nuada's oracle. Yet he never said "Go, fight the Fomorians, and this time you will win!" Instead he sang of joy, and sorrow and peace. When each man awoke the next day, he knew what to do. And so they all showed up for the battle. The battle they could not win before. Of course, Lugh and the army of Tir na nOg showed up, too. How could they not? They were the embodiment of the inspiration the De Danaan awoke with that morning. For there are three parts to inspiration - there is the dream, then the awakening, and finally the doing. The inspiration of the oracle is in all three.

To arrange a reading, or ask a question, you can send me a message via the form at the bottom of this page.


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A Song, a Story, the Sea

3/7/2013

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Growing up, as I did, in landlocked Colorado, the sea was not so much a mystery to me, as an object of no meaning whatsoever. I never even saw it until I was in my twenties and moved to California. However, when I was about twelve years old a musician called Donovan Leitch came across my radar and his music moved me intensely, and still does so today. In 1968 I bought his double album A Gift From a Flower to a Garden. One LP was acoustic and one electric. The acoustic one spoke deeply to me, and most of the songs on it were about the sea - or more precisely the seaside. Starfish, crabs, gulls and assorted wandering humans inhabited the lyrics in a way that made this environment real and interesting to me for the first time.
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Donovan Leitch

I awoke this morning with a song from that LP in my head. What struck me was how like Manannán, as he appears in his trickster guise, the tinker character is. Manannán who can be recognised by the water sloshing from his shoes as he walks on dry land. I knew he was familiar from somewhere. Maybe I first met him in this song!

You can read about some of Manannán's fun and games in Lady Gregory's "God's and Fighting Men" Part I Book IV: Manannan at Play or listen to an adaptation of it by the folks at The Celtic Myth Podshow in The Raggedy Man

If you enjoyed this post, you might like The Beach

Mythology

A chapbook collection containing the allegorical tale The Story Shawl, a poem about Macha entitled Approaching the House of Cruinniuc, and a long essay called The Beach.


Size 8.5" x 5.5"


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Visions in meditation part 2 - Manannán

22/1/2013

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The sea is ever-changing.

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Introduction
This is the second of three visions I had in meditation. To read more about how this came to be, you can read the introduction to part 1. While I don't really see this as poetry, it just flowed in this format.
I sit in my room
The room is framed with magic
The window set about
With shells, with starfish
Through it I see the sea
Sitting beside it, I hear the sea
But the sea is distant
A thousand miles or more

"Come out to play!"
Manannán is calling me
"Come out to play!"
I know He is the trickster

"No trick," he says
"There is a door.
Go into the next room and see."
And there is a door
I open it to solid water
Which does not spill

Through the open doorway
I enter the water and swim
I know what it is to be a selkie
The water perfectly cool
I swim
I know the speed of a dolphin
And Manannán rides on my back

Not the stately Storm King
Of beard and robes
He is something other
Suggestion of beard
Green hide
Webbed feet
He is something ancient
Entirely other

And I see
He rides the dolphins
And the great fishes
He loves this!
And the smaller fish
His "little lambs"

And I understand
That this
This is why He is God of the Sea
Because in this life
This underwater life
Where He knows
The pleasure of speed
The pleasure of travel
He will protect
His fast steeds
His little lambs

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artist: Helen Rich







manannan mac lir
"This," He tells me
"Is part of you
For your land
Was once under the sea
Now you mourn
Salt without water
The bleached bones"

And I see
When He rises from the water
He becomes that robed
And bearded Father
On His sacred island
He is thus

And now He shows me
How His waters will rise
And the earth will be whole
And the land will recede
And the people of the land
Will turn on one another
And thus reduce their numbers
And the earth will be whole
But never the same
For the sea is ever-changing


under the sea
artist: Osnat Tzadok

Out of this vision , in my "rational" mind I think more and more how foolish we are, how inflated in our sense of our abilities to think that we can "protect" Gaia from our kind. And if we're honest, we don't do it for Her, we are just trying to preserve our real estate, our playground, things we feel sentimental about, our way of life.

There is not one thing we have made which did not come from the earth - the concrete and glass, the rusting metal. We ripped it all from her breast, and when we push too far, a great change will come. Our plastic and trash and destruction will somehow be re-shaped as nothing more than strange deposits of minerals and organic material, and what is left of our race, if anything - will we be as the Fomorians or as the Tuatha Dé Danann? Or maybe Manannán's children this time?
As I typed this from my handwritten notes just now, I also remembered that Manannán is the trickster, killing and re-animating the men of the fortress to make a point, as if it's nothing.
Continue to part 3...
Here are some tales of Manannán in His role as trickster-teacher.

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The Voyage of Bran and the Joy of Illusion

30/10/2012

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Manannán mac Lir - a great master of illusion has much to teach us!

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Yesterday evening I listened to an amazing recording by the poet, musician and story teller Robin Williamson. His telling of  The Voyage of Bran. (His rendering of the poetry is better than Meyer's which I have quoted below, since it's in the public domain.) Within this tale is an extraordinary passage illustrating aspects of illusion and perceived reality, as only poetry can. Bran and his men are crossing the sea in their coracle (a light boat) when they encounter Manannán mac Lir (God of the Sea) driving toward them over the water in his chariot. He describes to Bran their surroundings, which, although they are looking on one another and conversing, is entirely different than the view which Bran and his men see from their boat.

Bran deems it a marvellous beauty
In his coracle across the clear sea:
While to me in my chariot from afar
It is a flowery plain on which he rides about.

Sea-horses glisten in summer
As far as Bran has stretched his glance:
Rivers pour forth a stream of honey
In the land of Manannán mac Lir.

Speckled salmon leap from the womb
Of the white sea, on which thou lookest:
They are calves, they are coloured lambs
With friendliness, without harm for the other.

Along the top of a wood has swum
Thy coracle across ridges,
There is a wood of beautiful fruit
Under the prow of thy little skiff.

Bran and Manannan
The Voyage of Bran from a tapestry by Terry Dunne
I  found this passage very exciting. Imagine these two "realities" coexisting in the same time and place! Where one individual sails on water, the other drives his chariot across a beautiful landscape. So how is this possible? Which is the true reality? Neither or both. Reality is perceived. Does this make it illusion? Perhaps, but if so, illusion is strong enough to support a boat full of men. Strong enough to support a horse and chariot. As I listened to Robin Williamson describe this illusion-reality riddle I found myself laughing. Filled with joy and wonder.

How frightened we are to loose our grip on our perceived reality! How fearful of finding our coracle aground, or of drowning ourselves in our chariot. So careful are we to hold fast to the mundane, repetitive din and jostle we call reality, that we rarely glimpse the other realities that lie amongst it. The other realities we may also touch, and know - in silence, in nature, in simple awareness, in moments of thoughtless being. Some would argue that most of us are asleep when we believe we are awake and "living". We are sleepwalking through a reality made up of digital images, shopping, competition, empty talk and short term gratification; when all the while another reality of nature, oneness, and quiet knowing also surrounds us.  

For me, moments of glimpsing the riddle of illusion and reality are often the most illuminating and also the most fun. I am always refreshed when I am plunged into that which lies beyond the mundane. When I am reminded that the grinding "reality" that describes my current struggle is only as fluid or as solid as belief makes it.

This is part of why I find joy in using my cards. As I stand in my boat and ponder the image before me, I am always delighted to see things differently. How easily I am shown that

"There is a wood of beautiful fruit
Under the prow of my little skiff."


where I thought there was only water. This is the joy of the riddle, of the illusion and the moment of insight. Words like "meditation", "divination" and "enlightenment" sound so heavy and serious. Like hard work, or something slightly perilous from which we might not find the way back. More often they are the best parts of life. Burdens are lifted from us and we become light and happy.

Manannán mac Lir offered the purest of gifts to Bran that day on the sea. The playful joy of the riddle of reality and illusion. Is this just a metaphysical plaything? A glittering but useless toy? Well, as things worked out for Bran, he was not going to be able to safely land his coracle on Erin again. In some versions of the story, he meets his end after doing so, but in the oldest versions, we are told that it is one of Bran's men, Nechtán, who is "overcome with homesickness" and upon stepping from the coracle onto the shore, crumbles to ash (for in what seemed a few months journeying, they had been away for many hundreds of years). So it seems to me that the insights given to Bran by Manannán mac Lir will have strengthened him against both homesickness and helped him to see that the sea which might now be his permanent home was also a land of fruit, forests and green pastures. Something he would not otherwise have guessed.

Again, this is part of the riddle of reading cards, or gaining wisdom from nature, myth or any other well of wisdom. An insight here, a reassurance there and sometimes a moment of joy and wonder that changes everything.

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Quotes based on the Kuno Meyer translation of 1895 which is available at this link - http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/vob/vob02.htm

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