2010/06/30 Siren Song (Rev.)
Last night I read Dante’s masterpiece
Hell and Purgatory is precession based
discovered delightful scary pictures of him
passing robed skeletons on precipitous
mountain sides depicting travels in space
he describes the Circle of Hell as Mars’
red ring in the sky
Enjoyed piecemeal reading ‘Hamlet’s Mill’
online, as I read I delet to create a
single narrative line – the authors mention
too much detail; their contention that all
ancient fables, myths and legends were
based on astronomical observation
becomes a siren song leading me on
I used to abhor irrational behaviour
and cruel immorality of these stories’
murderous characters; finding a golden
thread manifest in texts is a wonderful
discovery, my interest piqued by Sitchin’s
literal interpretations of the Babylonian
clay tablets
Thirst for more information awakened to
become a stimulating game, I shall always
be a Pyramidiot before turning to scholarly
works, the fun of free imagination lends
interest to dry academic material by
juxtaposing alternate ideas against
cool, boring evidence
http: //www.believeallthings.com/4667/
hamlets-mill/ #ixzz0qGOvODKd
“Hamlet's Mill” - An essay on myth and the frame of time
GIORGIO de SANTILLANA & HERTHA von DECHEND
David R. Godine Publisher Boston 1977
poem by Margaret Alice
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Related quotes
New Charm
Long ago, almost forgotten in the winds of time
a wonderful story fired my mind: a kind, lovable
old soul preached how legends and myths told
of strange portents
A hero, sensitive and strong, was cast as Lodi,
the Spirit King who came down a mountain and
was met and helped by a young Prince to
establish a new reign of peace on earth
Ever since I have been searching for more such
imaginative themes to add to the lovely tapestry
these colourful strands weave in my mind, the
latest sparkles of silver and gold
Were added by an Internet author mentioning
the mythical Giorgio de Santillana & Hertha von
Dechend theory that characters of ancient myth
are to be identified with the planets
That gods are really stars - the characters and
adventures of mythology explain the balance
of power among stars and planets - this
enables me to read the wildly immoral
And totally improbable Cuneiform clay tablet
stories and myths of the ancients with new
enjoyment – without this focal point, these
myths and legends seemed
Just a waste, the impossible psychological
and physical prowess ascribed to the actors
made it seem like the ravings of madmen
without any redeeming features
But as allegories and symbols of heavenly orbs
all fall into place, enacting the tale of precession
and the cataclysms unleashed when these bodies
are struck by meteorites; undergoing
Inevitable polarity changes – suddenly these
stories acquired a new charm that delights…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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2010/08/07 Great Epic
Finished reading this version of The Mahabharata
must return to the beginning with insight regarding
the main character Yudhishthira -
son of Dharma, god of moral order and righteousness,
therefore Yudhishthira, eldest of the five godly Pandu
brothers, was honourable and virtuous
- and his enemy Duryodhana, eldest of a hundred Kuru brothers,
at his birth he brayed like a donkey and howled like a jackal while
wild winds blew and fires broke out
His father was warned Duryodhana would bring destruction to the
kingdom therefore he should be cast aside but he loved his son and
kept him alive; the end came about when
the hundred Kuru brothers made war against the five godly Pandu
brothers led by Yudhishthira, it is clear why De Santillana and Von
Dechend found a precession analogy
in this classic tale of men and gods and war: Mankind is represented
by the five godly Pandu brothers while the hundred Kuru brothers
represent the untamed forces of nature
unleashed through the Precession of the Equinoxes when the cycle
of 25 920 years reached completion, a new world age is ushered
in, chaos following in its wake
It is precipitate to jump to this conclusion, not having studied The
Mahabharata in depth, but a brilliant thread to follow in this grand
epic where so much is at stake
Ending on a high moral note - the Moral Order being victorious
after a cruel battle, revels are temporary, tribulation and pain are
fleeting, the story recommends:
Never go against the moral order out of fear or lust, foolishness
or rancour, anger or love; because the Moral Order, like our
eternal souls, will endure forevermore*
“The Mahabharata” retold by Vladimir Miltner, translated
by Stephen Finn, Treasure Press,1991 – * Quoted from
pp.242,243
“Hamlet’s Mill” Georgio De Santillana and Hertha Von Dechend
“Mahabharata” literally means “Great Epic of the Struggle between
the Bharata [dynasties]”
poem by Margaret Alice
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The King's Daughter
WE WERE ten maidens in the green corn,
Small red leaves in the mill-water:
Fairer maidens never were born,
Apples of gold for the king’s daughter.
We were ten maidens by a well-head,
Small white birds in the mill-water:
Sweeter maidens never were wed,
Rings of red for the king’s daughter.
The first to spin, the second to sing,
Seeds of wheat in the mill-water;
The third may was a goodly thing,
White bread and brown for the king’s daughter.
The fourth to sew and the fifth to play,
Fair green weed in the mill-water;
The sixth may was a goodly may,
White wine and red for the king’s daughter.
The seventh to woo, the eighth to wed,
Fair thin reeds in the mill-water;
The ninth had gold work on her head,
Honey in the comb for the king’s daughter.
The ninth had gold work round her hair,
Fallen flowers in the mill-water;
The tenth may was goodly and fair,
Golden gloves for the king’s daughter.
We were ten maidens in a field green,
Fallen fruit in the mill-water;
Fairer maidens never have been,
Golden sleeves for the king’s daughter.
By there comes the king’s young son,
A little wind in the mill-water;
“Out of ten maidens ye’ll grant me one,”
A crown of red for the king’s daughter.
“Out of ten mays ye’ll give me the best,”
A little rain in the mill-water;
A bed of yellow straw for all the rest,
A bed of gold for the king’s daughter.
He’s ta’en out the goodliest,
Rain that rains in the mill-water;
A comb of yellow shell for all the rest,
A comb of gold for the king’s daughter.
He’s made her bed to the goodliest,
Wind and hail in the mill-water;
A grass girdle for all the rest,
A girdle of arms for the king’s daughter.
He’s set his heart to the goodliest,
Snow that snows in the mill-water;
Nine little kisses for all the rest,
An hundredfold for the king’s daughter.
He’s ta’en his leave at the goodliest,
Broken boats in the mill-water;
Golden gifts for all the rest,
Sorrow of heart for the king’s daughter.
“Ye’ll make a grave for my fair body,”
Running rain in the mill-water;
“And ye’ll streek my brother at the side of me,”
The pains of hell for the king’s daughter.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Far Away
I learnt the universe is infinitely huge; not
confined to the Milky Way Galaxy as I had
read in Arthur Mee’s Children’s Encyclopaedia
when I was small - there are infinite galaxies;
a stupendous discovery that left me high
with excitement
I was enthralled by Vincent Gaddis’ Invisible
Horizons and The Secret Life Of Plants early
in life, later discovering Charles Fort and his
rains of fishes and strange footprints which
just added grist to my mill
Erich von Daniken and Zechariah Sitchin
destroyed all fear of a prosaic life; the small,
Calvinist world of my youth with pain and duty
was reduced to a miniscule part of this
wonderfully exciting inter-subjective
illusion
Reading about Atlantis, Lemuria, Mu and
ancients astronauts gives me infinite delight,
I became an instant a Pyramidiot on discovery
of Graham Hancock, Charles Bauval’s and
Wayne Herchel’s theories – and I keep
reading Charles von Berlitz’s books
I love the mystery of the disappearance of the
Marie Celeste, the lost fighter pilots and ships
in Bermuda’s green mist, enchanted by accounts
of the Philadelphia Experiment and explanations
of crew men in deep freeze
I am amazed by occult mediums introduced by
Arthur Findlay and Arthur Conan Doyle’s support
for attempts to probe consciousness surviving
physical life; and I ponder Peter Wilcock’s
hexagonal distribution of galaxy
structures
I enjoy reading about extraterrestrial contacts,
octaves of colours, sounds and forms, Mayan
prophecies, astrogenetics by Maurice Cotterel
and Lyall Watson explaining Chladni’s figures
making geometric patterns in sand, grounding
Dr Emoto’s ideas on water crystals
I am amazed by quantum physics, quarks and Many
World’s theory, adore the holographic universe, am
thrilled by pyramids being built without identifiable
technology, by OOPARTS and ziggurats and
ancient alien visitors from the stars –
- and I must live in a prosaic world of boredom, no
accomplishment and squashed dreams – thank
heaven, Terry Pratchett saves me from all this by
recording, expanding and embroidering the ideas
and theories I love
Presenting by mouth of his youthful characters,
combining mystery and fun, speculation and free
imagination in one heady mixture that sets my
imagination alight, takes me on spiritual flights,
far, far away from this little life…
(Good Omens, Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman,
Corgi Books,2006)
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Blind faith is not enough.
When I survey the sacred texts
and holy books of warring sects.
I must conclude they have been changed
edited and rearranged.
So that the truth they once contained
has been lost or so constrained
Although they claim to be the truth
there’s insufficient proof.
To say that this or that is true.
However much we may want to.
Some facts are true but well concealed
By churches who refuse to yield.
To share what knowledge they possess.
The truth it seems matters far less
than maintaining the status quo.
They are afraid and rightly so.
If it were proved they had repressed
the truth in their own interest,
to bolster their authority.
They’d lose all credibility.
The myths and legends may be true
I don’t believe, though some may do.
The powers that be still conceal
the evidence that could reveal.
The records have been tampered with.
What we are taught is mainly myth,
which has been altered frequently.
To suit the reigning powers that be.
To consolidate their control
Retaining power their only goal.
To dominate their fellow men
They twist the truth time and again..
Some few achieve epiphany.
They see with crystal clarity.
That God resides within us all
and he will answer if we call.
What need have we of clergymen
and their views of hell and heaven.
For answers you must look inside
To find the truth they seek to hide.
Sunday,20 June 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Intriguing Creations
Canvas sails of the windmill, secured to their whips,
Circle around on slow orbital trips.
No hurrying to speed the day’s hours away,
The winds hold them captive, they have to obey.
The blades catch the currents that travel along,
Turning continuously, powerful and strong.
Moving the mechanism of sprockets rotating,
Crushing the corn and then flour creating.
What a joy when you see one, they stand proud and tall.
A relic of times when the miller would haul
Jute sacks full of wheat, which he would then kibble,
In that dusty old place, where the mice came to nibble.
The Smock Mill, the Post Mill and the Tower Mill well knew,
The procedure of grinding the grain fine and true.
But these intriguing creations are now hard to find,
As the old time traditions are now left far behind.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Twa Sisters O' Binnorie
There were twa sisters sat in a bow'r;
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
A knight cam' there, a noble wooer,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
He courted the eldest wi' glove and ring,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
But he lo'ed the youngest aboon a' thing,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
The eldest she was vexed sair,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
And sair envìed her sister fair,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
Upon a morning fair and clear,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie !)
She cried upon her sister dear,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
`O sister, sister, tak' my hand,'
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
`And let's go down to the river-strand,'
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
She's ta'en her by the lily hand,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
And down they went to the river-strand
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
The youngest stood upon a stane,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
The eldest cam' and pushed her in,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
'O sister, sister, reach your hand!'
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
'And ye sall be heir o' half my land'--
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
'O sister, reach me but your glove!'
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
'And sweet William sall be your love'--
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
Till she cam' to the mouth o' yon mill-dam,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie
Out then cam' the miller's son
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
And saw the fair maid swimmin' in,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
'O father, father, draw your dam!'
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
'There's either a mermaid or a swan,'
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
The miller quickly drew the dam,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
And there he found a drown'd womàn,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
Round about her middle sma'
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
There went a gouden girdle bra'
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
All amang her yellow hair
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
A string o' pearls was twisted rare,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
On her fingers lily-white,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
The jewel-rings were shining bright,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
And by there cam' a harper fine,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
Harpèd to nobles when they dine,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
And when he looked that lady on,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
He sigh'd and made a heavy moan,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
He's ta'en three locks o' her yellow hair,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
And wi' them strung his harp sae rare,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
He went into her father's hall,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
And played his harp before them all,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
And sune the harp sang loud and clear,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
`Fareweel, my father and mither dear!'
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
And neist when the harp began to sing,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
'Twas 'Fareweel, sweetheart!' said the string,
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.
And then as plain as plain could be,
(Binnorie, O Binnorie!)
'There sits my sister wha drownèd me!
By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie.'
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Strange Mental Wavelengths
Page 286 of my book, highlighting in orange
and pink, writing down references to check
against research notes made long ago, now
tired of sitting still for so long - just reading -
Fixing the kitchen the only opportunity for
physical activity, could clean the floors but
this holds no interest, reading the history of
anthropology, palaeontology and geology
Especially astrology, moving from Hamlet's
Mill to Maurice Cotterel, I'm stuck on strange
mental wavelengths, disappointed that pre-
conceptions make people refuse to accept
New discoveries - history of man's scientific
development a story of selfish aggrandizement
and betrayal - yet the sweet allure of ideals
and dreams remains untouched within me
I keep my inner world safe from decadence
and cynicism by revisiting high visions, in-
doctrinating myself to follow the principles
in which we can only believe as long as
We keep repeating them to counter the
evidence of those who refuse to bring
about changes in the reality inherited
from previous creators
'From Atlantis to the Sphinx' by Colin
Wilson, Virgin Books 2000
pp 108 - 286
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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A Song Of The Seasons
Sing a song of Spring-time,
The world is going round,
Blown by the south wind:
Listen to its sound.
'Gurgle' goes the mill-wheel,
'Cluck' clucks the hen;
And it's O for a pretty girl
To kiss in the glen.
Sing a song of Summer,
The world is nearly still,
The mill-pond has gone to sleep,
And so has the mill.
Shall we go a-sailing,
Or shall we take a ride,
Or dream the afternoon away
Here, side by side?
Sing a song of Autumn,
The world is going back;
They glean in the corn-field,
And stamp on the stack.
Our boy, Charlie,
Tall, strong, and light:
He shoots all the day
And dances all the night.
Sing a song of Winter,
The world stops dead;
Under snowy coverlid
Flowers lie abed.
There's hunting for the young ones
And wine for the old,
And a sexton in the churchyard
Digging in the cold.
poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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Pieces Of The Night
(doug hopkins)
Is it any wonder that the stars just dont rush by
When youre only doin 60 through this oh-so-vacant night
But its lacking something big this time
What the hell did you expect to find
Aphrodite on a barstool by your side
Twelfth night we go
After something everyone should know
Somewhere in the distance out of sight...
Then I saw: gin mill rainfall
What do you remember if at all
Only pieces of the night...
And is it any wonder in the middle of the crowd
If you let your feet get trampled on
When the music is that loud
But you wanted to be where you are
But it looked much better from afar
A hillside in shadow
Between the people and the stars
Twelfth night we go
After something everyone should know
Somewhere in the distance out of sight...
Then I saw: gin mill rainfall
What do you remember if at all
Only pieces of the night...
It seems so distant
But still only half the night away
Where notions between your questions come too
Is it any wonder where
The pieces of the night have been...
song performed by by Gin Blossoms
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I have been taking my daily walk round the island, and visited the sugar mill and the threshing mill again.
quote by Fanny Kemble
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Letters
I was thinking of letters,
We all have a lot in our life
A few good - a few sad
But mostly run of the mill-
I suppose that's my fault
For writing to run of the mill people.
I've never had a letter
I really wanted
It might come one day
But then, it will be just too late,
And that's when I don't want it.
poem by Spike Milligan
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Just as radical heirs apparent are said to lay aside all inconvenient revolutionary opinions when they come to the throne, it was believed that Mr. Mill in Parliament would be an entirely different person from Mr. Mill in his study.
quote by Millicent Fawcett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Mr. Murray (Strahan, Tonson Lintot Of The Times)
Strahan, Tonson Lintot of the times,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,
My Murray.
To thee, with hope and terror dumb,
The unedged MS. authors come;
Thou printest all - and sellest some--
My Murray.
Upon thy table's baize so green
The last new Quarterly is seen,--
But where is thy new Magazine,
My Murray?
Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine
The works thou deemest most divine-
The 'Art of Cookery,' and mine,
My Murray.
Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist,
And Sermons, to thy mill bring grist;
And then thou hast the 'Navy List,'
My Murray.
And Heaven forbid I should conclude
Without 'the Board of Longitude,'
Although this narrow paper would,
My Murray.
Venice, March 25, 1818.
Awesome Dreams
It is a bit shocking,
to have a dream
that is nothing,
not spectacular,
not weird at all,
but just normal.
Like a narrative,
taken straight
and without
embellishments
or intriguing
and beguiling
or so scary
bits of action.
Last night
it was, again,
all about me.
I stood
and stared
upon the two,
I now shall call them
the darling buds
of Fay,
shyly revealed
behind the
Ponderosa Pines,
because the mill
had people close,
too close.
And I was frozen,
in space
and time,
a man made
of curare.
The freeze remained
in place
but blurry vision
changed
the image,
it went from boobs
to a big head,
emerging from
the birth canal
in silence.
The awe was
just the same.
Those awesome dreams.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Hamlet: If it assume my noble father's person, I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape and bid me hold my peace.
line from Hamlet by William Shakespeare (1599)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Beauty and Magic
Totally bemused I followed the raging debate
between Sitchin’s followers and his detractors,
I realise everybody has a place to be right in
quantum physics’ infinite universe, therefore
Impossible to choose between the claims of
veracity; I chose to use the only criterion that
has meaning - Feeling – how do Sitchin’s
theories make me feel in comparison with
The rendition of scholars claiming Tiamat a
real person and everything about cosmic
cataclysm just a myth by ignorants writing
poetic renditions for unknown purposes
Reading Zecharia Sitchin’s books make me
feel good - I have fun and am entertained
while the raging debate makes me feel
bad – even sad – that others feel
They should destroy the beautiful images he
created, pointing out flaws in every enchanting
creation he constructed from the same building
blocks used by his commentators to attack him
Learned scholars only manage to make previously
interesting things seem boring - when I look at the
shining images Sitchin created in my mind versus
the boring grey pictures drawn by his critics
I turn away from what they tote as reality and enjoy
the beauty of Sitchin’s surmises without bothering
to say anything about veracity – who cares when
Beauty and Magic are the only criteria?
1, Zecharia Sitchin – “Genesis Revisted”
2. Internet Debates
[A poet’s viewpoint differs from that of the pedantic
scholar and pedagogic instructor – I cannot accept
that being grey, boring and depressed is the right
way to survive life – I want to have fun, dream of
great things, sing a song, jump in the air, shout
and yodel and stick out my tongue at everything
that bores me to death! ]
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Of Being God by Talile Ali
swinging fist and punching clouds
kicking myself in the pants
bored as hell and quick to yell
wanting to have some romance
share some ideas with a friend
dancin in the park
running around the cumulous clouds
while filling up an ark
some say that i'm mysterious
all-knowing and aware
i want them to see me for what i am
why can't they just be fare
solutions are easy, problems are hard
conflicts are griss for the mill
discovering alternate ways to see
concluding that sometimes is a will
of being god, i sometime see
my mind a wondering show
always something new to see
wonders to behold
Copyright © 2009
poem by Talile Ali
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Ice-cold Refusal
Act of God Graham Phillips - a very academic
account, the first 200 pages are bone dry but
I forged on, set on reaching wonderful theories
about cataclysm & history, nearly did not make
it, getting buried under a dearth of facts, names,
funerary rites, conventional Egyptology
Ice-cold refusal to consider Graham Hancock
theories about pyramid age determined by
precipitation marks - all irrelevant, I'm only
guided by a need for the enthusiasm of the
inspired researcher but the first 200 pages
fail to touch the reader
After suffocating in a desert of words, names,
facts and conjectures, the author promises to
prove that the Egyptian events were the effect
of ancient cataclysms, I hope to reach this part
of the academic dissertation before losing my
mind in boring reams of facts
It's clear why maverick Zechariah Sitchin
is so much more interesting to read, especially
when one has no use for the ancient lore
in designing a dreamy life...
Act of God - Graham Phillips, Pan Books,1988
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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A Myriad Heroines
Tonight sheer ecstasy and bliss, first discovered Strictly
Come Dancing, I lose myself in those dancing heroines,
Vin Diesel in the movie XXX stole the show encouraging
the individual to make a difference, Wizards of Waverley
Place had Alex experience romance in a magical journal
I have many brilliant stories also, never featuring me, there
is a myriad heroines - based on the stories I loved when I
was a kid, books I like get assimilated into it - every noble
thought integrated in a kaleidoscope that encompasses
more than this universe, after this great Sunday night
I am convinced whatever sacrifice or endurance tomorrow
requires, I am safe in an inner bauble of wonderful dreams,
need not send my own self anywhere as an infinite number
of heroines can go all over the world to do the magnificent
things suggested by myths, parables and legends
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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