In French it’s the “mise en rose”
hogsheads and firkins
I have written three versions of this word because it is very complicated to explain in 17 syllables.
ABRACADABRA – Ab’r achad ab’ra (Aramaic and/or Arabic origin
1.Concerning the bull
it’s the one and only one
a name for the sun
2. Used by magicians
to perform their magic tricks
a magical spell
3. A magical spell
inscribed on an amulet
to cure deadly ills
For those readers with a mind to do so, I hope you ask yourself the question: is there such a thing as magic? Sir James George Frazer in his book the Golden Bough thought so.
He explained that contagious and homeopathic magic (both generally referred to as sympathetic magic) were valid and practiced throughout the world in one form or another. This magic (these magics) basically formed the basis of our religions.
I have always wanted to throw the cat among the pigeons Ah yes! it’s a full moon.
Uluru Called my Name- a never-ending quest
Yesterday an old friend with whom I’d been at sea
Stopped by my digs to check, what land-lubbing had done to me.
We sat and talked for many hours, reliving sailing days.
Remembering high-seas and hurricanes and desert island cays.
We opened some bottles of Lindeman 45 and we reminisced.
We talked of opens seas and ocean swells and of the girls we missed.
And the time we sailed from Bremen, Our cook Helmut not the best
every day for seven weeks he put our taste buds to the test.
Seemanns Lapskaus, a most unpleasant dish
We often heaved it overboard if you get my drift.
I heard Uluru call my name and said I have to go.
But why right now I cannot say. I simply do not know.
Where to my friend asked as if he were in shock?
I’m off to watch the sun at the place they call Ayers Rock.
I closed my eyes and drifted off with dreamtime in my mind,
And with Matilda underarm I waltzed away, to see what I could find.
I walked for many weeks, just guided by the stars;
Miles away from Kingsgate, the Outback has no bars.
I camped by a Billabong as Patterson had done
It was already dawning and then I saw the sun
Changing Uluru’s colour; the reason why I came.
But gently carried on a breeze, I still could hear my name.
As we strolled through the garden, Mr. Graves pointed to a small walled recess. A pergola covered with Bougainvillea, stood over a bench, a wrought-iron arm chair and a matching round table. I say wrought-iron for want of a better word. All the furniture had a dull green patina.
But I digress.
G: Shall we sit awhile? After we had settled ourselves, he reached above his right shoulder and a bell sounded. Very soon a plumpish lady appeared.
G: Mrs. De Luna, I know you are busy preparing our evening comestibles, but please, bring a bottle of the Varela and a plate of sardines.
We sat in silence, enjoying the evening air. I could hear sounds of traffic in the town.
Graves waited until his housekeeper had served us before continuing.
G: As I was saying, I am really a poet. I have devoted a lot of my life to getting it right. Of course, not everybody agreed with me. But that’s life I suppose.
My mind wandered slightly. I found myself thinking could it be really true that I was sitting with someone who had had a love affair with Siegfried Sassoon.
Graves poured some more sherry commenting, “Not a bad stuff, this Varela. What do you think?”
Without waiting for my reply he continued.
G: I have a confession. I could not always sit here in the garden like this.
I was wondering, why ever not. But, before I had chance to voice what I was thinking he continued.
G: After the being wounded at the battle of the Somme, I could not stand strong odors of gas or even the scent of flowers. I feel better nowadays. I even like the sardines. Ha ha, he laughed, how about you?
Being something of a novice at this kind of life I thought that the sherry and sardines went well together; quite tasty in fact!
Sitting with Graves chatting like this, brought to mind the old saying: that when a wise man speaks it’s because he has something to say. When a foolish man peaks it’s because he has to say something. I held my tongue for fear of revealing my inadequacy chatting casually with such a man of learning.
Graves had been an officer in the Royal Welch Fusiliers and had had the title of honorary Welshman bestowed as a result of eating a leak before his assembled regiment on the feast of St. David, the patron saint of Wales. He wasn’t Welsh by birth. No, he was born in Wimbledon in Surrey about 10 miles south of the city of London. He was related in fact to a German noble family that went by the name of von Ranke. This fact got him into a lot of trouble during his school days; but that’s another story.
A gong sounded in the house.
G: Our dinner is ready. Let’s see what Mrs. De Luna has prepared today. I heard she was down at the fish market so we might be in for a treat.
We sat down to a splendid meal a chilled cucumber soup with bitter melon, Basque style fillet of sole, paella with clams and shrimp, chorizo, chicken and squid on a bed of saffron rice with diced Romano tomatoes. The tapas we had eaten in the garden had sharpened my appetite; I was hungry. The dishes were all arranged nicely in the center of the table. We were expected to help ourselves.
G: Here, try some of this. I think you’ll like it; goes well with the fish and the clams for that matter. It’s from Catalonia and has become one of my standbys when I have guests for dinner. I poured the wine and handed back the bottle.
As we spooned our soup I asked Graves what he meant by an historical grammar of poetic myth. He explained.
G: Many people tend to take poetry at face value and what’s more they miss the deeper meaning that the poet is conveying. This had a root back in medieval times when court poets were asked to entertain, by the re-telling of ancient stories, they purposely garbled most of their work. They did this for several reasons. Some of their stories contained secrets which they did their best to conceal. Also, many heresies were contained in their works for which they did not want the prying eyes or in this case ears of the burgeoning church to discover. You understand, much of their work had already survived the invasion of Ireland by the Vikings and what wasn’t burned or otherwise destroyed by the marauding Danes was both rare and precious. On top of this, the court poets regarded their masters as illiterate morons. They approached their work with caution however, in order not to bite the hand that fed them.
The garlic sauce accompanying the sole was light and did not overpower the fish is the slightest way.
G: So you see, there are questions which by now are probably long forgotten but for any one with the inclination to pursue a mystery they could start with some questions: Who cleft the devil’s foot? What secret was woven into the Gordian knot? Why did Jehovah create trees and grass before he created the sun moon and stars? Where will wisdom be found? The answers lie hidden in poetry. I’ve spent a life-time looking.
G: have some more of the paella Mrs. De Luna will be pleased.
Graves continued: You have to know that these court poets spent at last three years in apprenticeship learning several hundred traditional stories by heart and often as many as one hundred and fifty different cypher alphabets. They were indeed a very elite class of people. No wonder they held their illiterate masters in tacit contempt. The alphabets they mastered were not the simple ABC’s that we have nowadays. No sir, they included both finger and tree Oghams, which have long fallen into disuse.
The ancient bards brought all sorts of hidden knowledge with them in their travel from court to court. Then slowly as the years passed and Christianity took hold, sympathetic magic and pagan ceremonies were forgotten. Times changed.