Woodland Bard

Could There Ever Be Loneliness If ... I stopped to watch a blackbird listen For a twitch and wriggle from the next morsel To be pecked and pulled from the ground. I watch the last leaves fall from trees That will now stand naked and quiet for awhile, Weaving new life from the soil To weave love again during the next Spring A cat appears also hunting For the next creature or uneaten morsel to chew. A cat not aware of who was slaughtered On the other side of the world, Or called back to the womb through natural disaster. A cat present, every step a new beginning. Every brushing against a rugged bark, A rain dewed grass blade, or my leg, is a new sensation. Is loneliness a longing reflecting on past sensations? Is loneliness a fear of not fulfilling a longing? What if we trust what we see, smell, hear, touch and taste? Could there ever be loneliness during those moments? John Willmott aka Woodland Bard (anyone remember the Facebook hoax of the above lad?

Sorting through old pics today ... Green Man at Boyle Abbey, that I think vanished during renovations, replaced with a new stone with a so called replica floral design, and Sheela na Gig at Boyle Abbey that many say is not a Sheela na gig, and that is still there.

I have double the content needed for ‘Bathing With The Sheela’, so now the cropping and editing down will commence ... but this will not be the cover photo ...

It has boggled me how the incredible diversity of oral languages presented to scribes at Irish monastic scriptoriums could be archived down into maybe one language? There must have been a lot of ‘that’ll do’ during traslation by these scribes. I imagine them fumbling through their own scrabble collection of letter symbols and sounds, trying to fit oral sounds of the varied native Ghael languages, into their own limited language. Scripting, and any later writing systems to date,  could never be an archive of our consciousness,  our ‘magic thinking’. Oral stories from inspiration trying to communicate unconscious sources, is greatly reduced by the oral languages, and reduced further by these ancient scribers, the writers. Trying to be objective, through writing is lifeless and is a false reality about our reactions. To be honest and subjective we still convert oral passion into a controlled archive. As writers, we convert narration into a controlled instrument. Anyone read

When people visit Ireland, especially for Pilgrimage purposes, there are many questions about the mainly ruined relics from the Monastic community age, from 5th to 10th centuries. This seems to have been a time of devotion to a singular quest of translating local folklore into a Biblical and Christian distribution quest. I have even been asked  “what date did Ireland convert  from Pagan to Christianity?”.  My answer could be a whole book, but for short my reply is usually, “it hasn’t really happened yet”. To me, those early Monastic communities were a kind of industrial revolution of that Early Medieval time. They were big business. They set themselves up on what were trade routes of the time, so that they could set up tolls and get a slice of the trade. The heart of these Monastic communities were their campuses of learning, the universities of the time. These schools introduced ‘scribing’ to Ireland. Scribing became a better and easier way to archive information than t

There seems to come a time when many people reach a level of awareness about themselves and others and then live with love and inner security for the rest of their lives. There are still challenging days,  ... but shadows have been worked with and now lived with comfortably. Such people seem to be like wise elders and we become eager to be mentored by them. Unfortunately, there are also many elder men, and it seems a greater proportion than women, that seem totally lost and angry with their lives. There’s a strong leaning on “the world really owes me a lot”, especially if living with a lot of aches and pains. I thought about that during the 3 months of pain From an infection I have just had. My reaction was, this is what I have, what shall I do with it? So I got into sound and it went away when I surrounded myself with composing. Meanwhile in hospital ... other men were pondering on  how it was not fair  ...and the pain and illness was not owed to them. A lot of

Who are these mythical women Coupled to images of death, and disorder, The witch, the hag, the bean sidhe? Who spreads messages claiming that These witchy women are evil conductors of destruction Who throw cloaks of darkness upon us to drain our breath? They are the spell branding words of alchemists, I believe. The self appointed masters of single purpose, Enchanting fear to feed their lust for genocidal order. Alchemists who extract love to be able to exist, And for their own spells to create items that sparkle. But they cannot share back the extracted love they entrap … BrídeÓg, of blossoming, fruiting, harvesting, is born, And regeneration happens infinitely in cycles that spiral So that love can be constant, and dissolve it’s entrapment. Woodland Bard event dates Please support our Labyrinth Gardens work as a Patron from a dollar, a euro, a month ... Become a Patron!

With Imbolc passed I am at the end of this season’s hibernated  “creative incubation” Within the Power Of Myth by Joseph Campbell he wrote ... “You must have a room, or a certain hour or so a day, where you don’t know what was in the newspapers that morning, you don’t know who your friends are, you don’t know what you owe anybody, you don’t know what anybody owes to you. This is a place where you can simply experience and bring forth what you are and what you might be. This is the place of creative incubation. At first you may find that nothing happens there. But if you have a sacred place and use it, something eventually will happen”. Creative incubation will not go away because this in an important intent of the Tree Labyrinth here at Carrowcrory . I and others will enjoy our moments of incubation there. It is imagination revealed and journaled that sparks what I write and compose through the Samhain to Imbolc time. I believe that creative incubation charges love, id

Because I live in Ireland I am often asked Have I seen fairies. Yes says I, ... and they are invisible Describe one, I am then asked. Ok, first you need a pool of water. It seems that the holy spring wells are best for this. Stare into the water and wait awhile. The fairy fae will then appear And it may surprise you. No image of youth as you count The engraved lines across the fae’s brow. It’s darkened face lightens to grey, Shocked to see you, mouth open, As if to swallow you, No words are spoken. Wait awhile, the fae's mouth will slowly close, And a fae's smile will embrace you With warmth of a rising sun. You will discover you also smile back. Say hello, and hear an echo of hello bounce back. You may wave to offer a fellowship of friendship, And the wave back to you is not from a dainty hand, But of one mature and hardened from labour just as your's is. They say, that if the wise fae of the pool Rises to you  from its realm of bubblin

Through my previous article, ‘Bathing In Our Faluchtra Pool’ I questioned living according to different contrasts of light and dark through our lives. For this feature I am thinking a step forward, or step back, but of a realm we perhaps carry with us at all times. The more present we we are the more active this reality seems to be. It is the spaceless, timeless, genderless, unconditional realm of the Great Mystery.  The Great Mystery transcends any illusion of individuality and separation we carry to care for and sustain our individual vessels carrying life. I am thinking of the Great Mystery as also being a holder and communicator of a ‘Collective Compassion’. I love apples, and especially their folklore of symbolism. My favourite being that when we bite into a juicy crispy apple that fragrant zest up our noses enchants us into that timeless realm. I always believe this is the moment to cast a prayer or ask for a wish while we have crossed that veil for a moment. I was

I have rebooted a translation from a Gaelic poem by Eoghan Rua Ó Súilleabháin from the 18th century, a time when the Penal Laws were cruelly glued onto the native population to create degradation and deprivation of their culture, poetry, stories, language, and faith. My re-write of that translation here celebrates the vibrant freedom of poetic and story voice we enjoy today, at least through Ireland. To me this is a respectful freedom of following the faith that calls us, and freedom of voice and story whether we were born here or not Plus, a last line that is a slight change from a Robin Williams line ... Escaped from My trouble! My lament! My torment! That caused me to be in want. Returned to the land that once again Is free for the voices of prophets and poets, And the scholars and wise people. Poems composed, and stories told With pleasure, and wit, as well as memories, Lively music of sorrow, then of joy, Dream-escape harp-playing, In tranquil spaces Courtes