Below are the 3 most recent journal entries recorded in Room, room, brave gallants all...'s LiveJournal:

Thursday, March 23rd, 2006
9:59 pm	They arrive like two sprouts from the earth, forming from stone into flesh. She holds him on her lap, kneeling in what appears to be an overgrown ruin of an ancient stone structire: a castle or fortress. Their two comparatively tine forms are at the base of an immense stone. Perhaps it was once carved into beautiful stairs, but they are worn and rounded by immense age. Age beyond counting. And upon the stone lies a toppled throne, hints of gold still visible beneath the cobwebs, under the fallen branches. A cloth sprawls beneath and around it, once emerald, now tattered grey-green. And at one corner, a hint of bone white. An eerie reminder of what took place here. This is her field of victory. Behind the branches and the fallen throne are six tall pillars, almost bodies, holding six long swords. They do not move, but each has a bright red sash around its neck and waist. The wind whispers through the immense oaks all around them. Close by, hinted at by the scent of musk and an echo of a horn, the Hunt is passing. A stag stands near her ruin, scenting the wind. (19 Comments |Comment on this)
6:56 pm	Having died, swung outside in, I walked the bonehouse of our sin. From tip of toe to knoll of skull, delving the clay among old steeps, my brainpan moaned, my legbones whistled, whines came wailing over tholing hollows: roots were hard against my feet. I stumbled, scrambled over bonerings, over kneeknob, over shin, slid the lank of rick and ricket, trod the link of broken fingers, ran with maggots in the marrow and smelt the mouldy rug of hair. I clambered, hobbled, reft and riven, cracked with rack of rib and riddle, clinging tittering on the roof where, in a blab and wraithly gibbering, gusty litter crucked and crumbled, duffed and muffled in the hearded dust! She is dancing, dancing. Dancing in the scent of red blossoms, the delicate buds of pale yellow-green, the sharp air in the branches. Rise up, rise up, springtime. Rise up, wake up, the sun is high and the clouds are ready to rain. The air is still cold, the ground still blanketed with slushy snow, the lake still sheathed in ice. But the air smells of promiose, the unmistakable scent of green. Deepening by the second, spreading out, and for all she's worth, Room dances. (19 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, January 7th, 2006
6:21 pm	"Mummers' Fool" by Morris Cox FORWARD THE Fool of the traditional Morris Dance, Sword Dance and Folk Play still found in parts of England & on the Continent, was not always a fool. It could well have been because earlier beliefs were driven under- ground that he thought fit to dress and be- have as he did. Thus by appearing to make fun of what he held sacred, supported by characters who often disguised not only their faces but their real names and funct- ions, something of his message was able magically to survive. Not that the modern Morris Fool is necessarily aware of this interpretation or that he would accept it if he were. The Morris/Sword Dance & Mummers' Play of Today offer simply a spectacle of dance skill with comic relief, and comic drama. The former differs from true folk dancing though it may now be regarded as such. Both are relics of pagan ritual con- cerned with fertility and the continuity of the seasons. Information on all this is readily acces- sible. The poem which follows, with its setting, is an attempt to recapture imagin- atively something of the subjective exper- ience of an original ""serious Fool"", or pag- an officiant, as he passed through the var- ious stages of the rite which involved his ""death"" and ""resurrection"". HIS DEATH HAVING died, swung outside in, I walked the bonehouse of our sin. From tip of toe to knoll of skull, delving the clay among old steeps, my brainpan moaned, my legbones whistled, whines came wailing over tholing hollows: roots were hard against my feet. I stumbled, scrambled over bonerings, over kneeknob, over shin, slid the lank of rick and ricket, trod the link of broken fingers, ran with maggots in the marrow and smelt the mouldy rug of hair. I clambered, hobbled, reft and riven, cracked with rack of rib and riddle, clinging tittering on the roof where, in a blab and wraithly gibbering, gusty litter crucked and crumbled, duffed and muffled in the hearded dust! HIS BURIAL There I hung between earth and heaven, lifting, floating in the sullen mood, hidden in a maze and dizzy wombing, poked and wary, toom and gidden, under the wind where the weave is, so slim a lie down under slum, so soft a wriggle, a little welter of whipple and heave, a little whelm, flimsy in a film of fine foam rocking, soft rolling, so blissfully sleeping, dreaming the doom and whying the when in winkle curl, in whelken screw! before the gristle, before the frame is, freighting and wriggling in the swoom of water - seep and slimy whirling that wash and dree their wanion tide: where I felt the stir between wench & wink, when in the dark flood an eye opened and red lips lifted and a mouth gupped and teeth gleamed in the floory mere: where I felt the sweve between stream & strumpet where lulled the wildness of thwarted hunger, in lovely sweetness between wist and weeping that sighed and sucked their wash of sleep: where I felt the leap of want and wanton that took to madness in the tail, that thrust and stung and stirred the mudlift and filled the mouth with mick and dung: where I, the bagget, fleamed the wombworld, fishing the flow of needy flesh, while wistfully wrapped my poor wraith wept through-wind-laced at the door, waiting! HIS NEW BEING THEN behold! I knew Being & understood Body: I knew Body and understood Bearing. I knew Bearing and understood Bending. Something on end is the beginning of a Bend! I stood firm, strung as a bow, and knew my Bent since I knew my Bond. The longlasting of a Bond is a Band. the wholeness of a Band is a Bond. the fullness of a Bond is a Bundle. I knew my Bundle when I found my Bent! Thus by knowing Bending I found Bearing, by knowing Bearing I found Body, and by knowing Body I found Being. HIS NEW BIRTH MY mother wept as she sat on her chair. ""He died an old man with hoary hair!"" My mother sobbed as she lay on her bed. ""I quicken anew with a man that was dead!"" My mother screamed as she heaved on the floor. ""I bring forth a bairn that was buried before!"" HIS NEW COAT AND now my coat, my pretty green coat, look how well my pretty coat fits! over goosepimples where the cold creeps furling a noselength over the fold, slinking over skin, the fell of flesh, the ripple over ribs, the frith under bosom, hale over belly, tight under thigh, wave without wrinkle, sleek without slack, over the axle of the shoulders, over the fallow of limb and link, high along headland, snug in the haven, over the bladebones, down over hinterland, over the dunes where gathering stormlings thunder the rumpbole, threaten the boom! HIS WORD THOUGHT buds in the steady brood with nod and shake of yea and nay, for truly the Name is under the nose with ""snip, snap, snout"" to tell it out! In brotherhood of lung and lip the breath blows and the liss comes, lifting the lief and laden wind, the warm wind and the lew-warm through the leet and through the throatball, along the tongue, against the teeth, hale and hollow in the mouth, to lilt the song-speech from our lips! Alas! that ill should come of this. The endless wordstream of this world so gabbles and yells about our ears the One is split and split again, thralled and bawded, withered & weakened- since men are taught and men are threatened, their skullpans crammed with cribs and bits to feed the chatter of their jaws! But blessed is he that spells the Whole, whose word comes runely out of the deeps: and blessed is he that spells the All, his word comes loving out of the light. Who knows the spell that builds or shatters, rathes or withers, heals or kills, he wimbles the midst of wit and wed and taps the truth of nave and knowing! HIS GOING FORTH And now we dance another year and tread the life we hold most dear. I go under gold with its silver twin looking for a door that will let me in: a rain of light in a moated flood with an iron quick that will heal the blood: a neb, a lift, a sweet lissing, a dearling maid that is sweet for kissing. It may be late or it may be soon, I shall lay me down in the midst of the moon: as I cut off a finger and kindle a son my God bless the bed that I lie on! (Comment on this)