Tuesday, September 02, 2008

Mabon: The Beginning Of Everything

It's coming up to that wonderful time once more, the Autumn Equinox, another Pagan holy day stolen by the Christians and turned into Harvest Festival. Mabon was the son of Mordon, the Goddess of the earth, the Pagan festival celebrates his birth; and of course, this is John Keats' season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. Day and night are of equal measure. Here in the north, it's getting dark at 8pm and there is a freshness to the mornings, even though the afternoons can still turn your skin brown.

I love this sketch of Keats; it gives him a romantic intensity and reminds me of his awful tubercular death.

The coming of Autumn always brings out in me a deeply introspective side, the balance to the energy which we experience as we anticipate winter and all our rural collective memories tell us to fix the roof and fill the cellar with turnips, apples and potatoes. I still possess notebooks full of whimsy, produced by the season which all romantics love the most, because, as Patrick Keiller pointed out to me, it is the beginning of everything.

John Keats - To Autumn

I

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.


II

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.



III

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.



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Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Autumn Haiku 31



month of October
one haiku every day
thank you, and goodnight.


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Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Autumn Haiku 30



the warmth commandment:
pajamas, woollen blankets
thou shalt not duvet


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Monday, October 29, 2007

Autumn Haiku 29



in America
they speak with optimism
mouths full of junk food


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Sunday, October 28, 2007

Autumn Haiku 28



the season ending
regulation is normal
dissent is a must


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Saturday, October 27, 2007

Autumn Haiku 27



blogging from Boston
New England in the fall, a
tea-foating harbor


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Friday, October 26, 2007

Autumn Haiku 26



The United States,
home of the brave and the free;
still quite expensive.


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Thursday, October 25, 2007

Autumn Haiku 25



two before seven
the October date, that is
podcast, once again!


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Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Autumn Haiku 24



we left them too late
thoughts of this year's holiday
remote Swedish beach


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Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Autumn Haiku 23



reminiscences
projections and fantasies
nowhere in the now


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Monday, October 22, 2007

Autumn Haiku 22



you snog like a tart
mouth wide open, tongue hung out
shame you're just a dog...


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Sunday, October 21, 2007

Autumn Haiku 21



from tiny acorns
mighty oak trees grow.. an old
autumnal cliché!


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Saturday, October 20, 2007

Autumn Haiku 20



remember: my mum
got it all horribly wrong
when she said "i do"


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Friday, October 19, 2007

Autumn Haiku 19



an old friend once lost
to me is returned once more
Autumn into Spring


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Thursday, October 18, 2007

Autumn Haiku 18



walking Hampstead Heath
the distant city sirens
are rarely silent


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Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Autumn Haiku 17



bloody aftermath
hunting their own people as
the world looks elsewhere


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Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Autumn Haiku 16



sit still, do nothing
what better way to start a
miserable day?


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Monday, October 15, 2007

Autumn Haiku 15



my insomnia
keeping me awake again
hello, internet..


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Sunday, October 14, 2007

Autumn Haiku 14



this stone has a face
it says to me, "get outside
while the weather's good!"


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Saturday, October 13, 2007

Autumn Haiku 13



an electric bike
the transport of future kings
economical


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Friday, October 12, 2007

Autumn Haiku 12



we took the train to
Ramsgate, celebrating Eid
walked along the beach


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Thursday, October 11, 2007

Autumn Haiku 11



what a lot of fun
writing haiku ev’ry day
while i blog elsewhere





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Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Autumn Haiku 10



i lost my gold fish
part of me for nineteen years
end of an era


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Tuesday, October 09, 2007

Autumn Haiku 9



a rich pretty boy
pretending to give a shit :
David Cameron


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Monday, October 08, 2007

Autumn Haiku 8



blood-spattered pavement
chav girl said I was a freak
for photographing


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Sunday, October 07, 2007

Autumn Haiku 7



running round the park
fitness, a modern virtue
Sunday morning sex


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Saturday, October 06, 2007

Autumn Haiku 6



podcast twenty six
sixty minutes of music
how predictable..


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Friday, October 05, 2007

Autumn Haiku 5



five thirty a.m.
can't stop sneezing - allergy?
bollocks, it's a cold... !


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Thursday, October 04, 2007

Autumn Haiku 4



more pornography
the monks in Burma running
China buys their gas..


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Wednesday, October 03, 2007

Autumn Haiku 3



porridge for breakfast
a stomach full of warm oats
seventeen spoonfuls!


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Tuesday, October 02, 2007

Autumn Haiku 2



one forty each text
message, characters challenge
haiku, an art form


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Monday, October 01, 2007

Autumn Haiku 1



a leaf falls, golden
summer sun coats cold ground, it
makes its own way down


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Saturday, September 22, 2007

Mabon: The Beginning Of Everything

It's that wonderful time once more, the Autumn Equinox, another Pagan holy day stolen by the Christians and turned into Harvest Festival. Mabon was the son of Mordon, the Goddess of the earth, the Pagan festival celebrates his birth; and of course, this is John Keats' season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. Day and night are of equal measure. Here in the north, it's getting dark at 8pm and there is a freshness to the mornings, even though the afternoons can still turn your skin brown.

I love this sketch of Keats; it gives him a romantic intensity and reminds me of his awful tubercular death.

The coming of Autumn always brings out in me a deeply introspective side, the balance to the energy which we experience as we anticipate winter and all our rural collective memories tell us to fix the roof and fill the cellar with turnips, apples and potatoes. I still possess notebooks full of whimsy, produced by the season which all romantics love the most, because, as Patrick Keiller pointed out to me, it is the beginning of everything.

John Keats - To Autumn

I

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.


II

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.



III

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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