My Blog

The Chief Seattle Speech

Rywyn — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 02:22:55 GMT

The Seattle Speech How can we buy or sell the sky, the warmth of land? The idea is strange to us. If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can we buy them? Every part of this Earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every clearing and humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my people. The sap which courses through the tress carries the memories of the Red Man. The Whiteman's dead forget the country of their birth when they go to walk among their stars. Our dead never forget this beautiful Earth, for it is the Mother of the Red Man. We are part of the Earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters; the deer, the horse, the great Eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices in the meadows, the body heat of the pony, and man---all belong to the same family. So, when the Great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land, he asks much of us. The Great Chief sends word that he will reserve us a place so that we can live comfortably to ourselves. He will be our father and we will be his children. So, we will consider your offer to buy our land. But it will not be easy. For this land is acred to us. This shining water that moves on the streams and rivers is not just water but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you the land, you must remember that it is sacred, and you must teach your children that it is sacred and that each ghostly reflection in the clear water of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people. The water's murmur is the voice of my father's father. The rivers are our brothers, they quench our thirst. The rivers carry our canoes and feed our children. If we sell you our land, you must remember and teach your children, that the rivers are our brothers and yours, and you must henceforth give the rivers the kindness you would give any brother. We know that the White Man does not understand our ways. One portion of land is the same to him as the next, for he is a stranger who comes in the night and takes from the land whatever he needs. The Earthy is not his brother but his enemy, and when he has conquered it, he moves on. He leaves his father's grave behind, and he does not care. He kidnaps from his children and does not care. His father's grave, and his children's birthright are forgotten. He treats his mother, the Earth, and his brother, the sky, as things to be bought, plundered, sold like sheep or bright beads. His appetite will devour the Earth and leave behind only a desert. I do not know. Our ways are different than your ways. The sight of your cities pains the eyes of the Red man. There is not quiet place in the White Man's cities. No place to hear the unfurling of leaves in spring or the rustle of the insects wings. The clatter only seems to insult the ears. And what is there to life if a mn cannot hear the lonely cry of the Whippoorwill or the arguements of the frong around the pond at night? I am a Redman and do not understand. The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of a pond and the smell of the wind itself, cleaned by a midday rain, or scented with pinon pine. The air is precious to the Red man for all things share the same breath; the beast, the tree, the man, they all share the same breath. The White man does not seem to notice the air he breathes. Like a man dying for many days he is numb to the stench. But if we sell you our land, you must remember that the air is precious to us, that the air shares it's spirit with all the life it supports. The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also receives his last sigh. And if we sell you our land, you must keep it apart and sacred as a place where even White men can go and taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow's flowers. So we will consider your offer to buy our land. If we decide to accept, I will make one condition: the White man must treat the beasts of this land as his brothers. I am a savage and do not understand any other way. I have seen a thousand rotting buffaloes on the prairie, left by the White men who shot them from a passing train. I am a savage and do not understand how the smoking iron horse can be made more important than the buffalo that we kill only to stay alive. What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, man would die from a great loneliness of the spirit. For whatever happens to the beasts soon happens to man. All things are connected. You must teach your children that the ground beneath their feet is the ashes of our grandfathers. So that they will respect the land, tell your children tha the Earth is rich with the lives of our kin. Teach your children that the Earth is our mother. Whatever befalls the Earth befalls the sons of the Earth. If men spitt upon the ground, they spit upon themselves. This we know: the Earth does not belong to man; man belongs to Earth. This we know. All things are connected like the blood which unites one family. All things are connected. Even the White man, whose God walks and talks with him as friend to friend cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers afterall. We shall se. One thing we know which the White man may one day discover is that our God is the same God. You may think now that you own him as you wish to own our land but you cannot. He is the God of man, and his compassion is equal for the Red man and the White. The Earth is precious to Him, and to harm the Earth is to heap contempt on its creator. The Whites too shall pass; perhaps sooner than all the other tribes. Contaminate your bed and you will one night suffocate in your own waste. But in your perishing you will shine brightly fired by the strength of the God who brought you to this land and for some special purpose gave you dominion over this land and over the Red man. That destiny is a mystery to us, for we do not understand when the Buffalo are all slaughtered, the wild horses are tamed, the secret corners of the forest heavy with the scent of many men and the view of the ripe hills are blotted by talking wire. Where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the Eagle? Gone. The end of the living and the beginning. My way is not a better Way, merely another Way. Chief See-at-la, 1851

Oh Faere Queen!

Rywyn — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 22:15:46 GMT

.Faere Queen! You, your mind, and your poetry Oh how I love thee and wish to be closer to hear your whispers However far darkstar, straycat, fearnot I've no leash no cage nor lost pages This age is in trust of us to do what we must This mystery of magick , not mayhem Is to be seen in this winter green Come hither Faere Queen and read to me As child, a man, and friend to be... Blend these seasons one in three To revel and reveal these three in one This earth this moon and sun, Through air and water mix and measure To counsel in the arts of fire Held within this hardened stone We shall mix in breath and bone ...

Please sign this petition : http://www.thepetitionsite.com/1/free-tibet-2008

Rywyn — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 22:01:38 GMT

http://www.thepetitionsite.com/1/free-tibet-2008 Please read and sign and repost this petition asking China to free the Tibetan political prisoners before the Olympic games. thank you.

Twilight - Flames and Memories - Rywyn's tales - 1999

Rywyn — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 07:37:55 GMT

I borrowed faith! from a golden waife a pixie by profession she had learnt it quick from a deer tick who swore she needed protection. I chose belief ! because it sounded neat like waves upon the ocean but it put me to sleep and now I am in deep corralled by the sirens poisons. I learnt to forget! after all of these tests They taught me to hate and regret... the pubs and schools and juvenile rules Twas more than enough to set Us up to fall against the walls but whisper in the seigning. When justice is a must Who's truth can we trust? When the tyrant's jaw is taming Training us to look afar but they can't tell us who we are or what really happened back in the past In their wars and machines our families screams escaped through flames as they washed our brains in the course of Spain and Gaul. So we raised up our sails heading for Wales seeking refuge in faere green halls And in those hills those secret soft hills Queen Niana did there abide. And I took it in stride to make her my bride and in Twilight we now reside.... and in Twilight we now reside. Twas in midnights iron gardens we laid down to rust our eyes exiles walking labrynths when the moon was once alive... But that was long ago and later I will tell the tale. Yours is the story I'll tell tonight if you'll pass a mug of hot ale. thank you now! This will bring to old man winter Summer smiles wishing I could travel long to that mountain pale I heard snow nymphs there who hide in crystalline dreams whispering when men come near that nothing is as it seems Nothing is ever as it seems Where there is false safety You'll need dangerous means Do not go hiding out in religious dreams. For paralyzed you will feel anger Yet reacting only severs The old ways from the never Spoken truths they lie - oh backwards ever clever ah- this reminds me of another night but your mother remembers better... Yes my children, my beautiful twins, This day was prophesized on yesterwinds ... When our ancestors claimt secret love of the grail , the sword , and gaels- Yet frosty mists cloud those pathways where once your spirits sailed... Yet no thing is further than yesterday and tomorrow may be fairer - So I place my bets in secrecy and hide you in this manor. Fore though many of us have awoken we are afraid and have not spoken of this tyranny of hearts afrozen our rights given away like tokens who needs this tale more? you of many tomorrows? Or the ghosts in city's shadows? In silence from the gallows and promises from the shallows I can't rest this song in sorrow fore this voice– its only borrowed Like feathers on a kite For beauty, not in spite for this son still shines bright in the mourning of the night. And tell me child of your recent dreams you awaken very shaken- and often with a scream. Yes mother I am shaken. For this tree I now hold onto has proven overtaken, by an enemy long forgotten I have awoken to a problem what has this world begotten? I cannot forget my dreams! -Though you may not remember- What it is that was long ago severed By a wizard dark and clever on a night so wild with peril that the sea caught us in error returning us to his laeir by a song so sweet with terror that no child dare remember. his true name of course was Kender. and we shall get out of this the better For he who hates finds fire and he who wakes may tire of this story- so aspire to wander on those trails leading to desire living long in liberty! Mortals tears and fears carry such awful gravitys... So mother what say you ? Is there hope in your prayers or firmness in decrees of will? shall I stay or fly from this quiver? If I go - a quest is close - and I can't promise a single letter and if i stay – I would study the most and only be a scholar. What say you?! You must find your power It is hidden in a flower Growing in the tower that is guarding what is true this can not be stolen or ever seen its in shadows you must lean fore this game is dangerous as it seems your intent its also the means to acquire all that of dreams Imagine now those hills of green Deep in Paladin's Kingdom 'tween what is ever faere and clean your purity is chance to free so turn not from this enemy but stand in strength as oaken tree lit by cobalt calmly scree your visions on eternity For nothing less is asked of thee child of spring turn and see It is destiny your gravity So with joy may you return to me but now I bid you turn and flee your twin is jealous and will murder thee if not quick you cross that sea So with torches hot and wind blown dark I left upon this secret ark. From silence spake my Captain stark We shall run these waves like flaming stars till we reach that shore of ours till that hour I bid you rest promising safety and my best If its Purity that is your test May your heart dream clean May your heart dream best., So in my cabin I did pray mind exhausted did soon lay closing my eyes on yesterday like flames her voice around me play you must find your power its hidden in a flower growing in the tower that is guarding what is true this can not be stolen or ever seen its in shadows you must lean this dream is dangerous as it seems your intent is also the means to acquire all that of dreams Imagine now those hill of green Deep in Paladin's Kingdom 'tween.

Rywyn's poem 'Faeryled Starbred' from 1995

Rywyn — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 07:02:05 GMT

faery led – star bred - all awaken by the moon- how so often we've denied our self's golden boons- would you? could you? Now allow - Relaxing into a cat's meow... Curling warmly travel slow the past is present when the futures bows are drawn across the stryngs of tyme dancing we melt to gravitys sublime.... faery led star bred allwaken bythemoon a silver lamp fills the wells below a counters head and windows grow passing trees - silent with snow she had flowing sight raising out till a voice singing low through bubbling breezes waves aglow she had wings of diamonds indigo skin a heart of gold and a soul to win sighing the jester allowed a tear a tear through now and here and there wishes true the stars are clear that passions actions are soul stairs passions actions are soulstairs! faeryled starbred allwaken by thee moon how so often we deny our selfs golden boons

Once upon a Dream - poem from Rywyn 2001

Rywyn — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 07:01:00 GMT

Once upon a dream – i seemed to leave and in leaving seemed to die... but in dying found life - and in life my wife – my wife seeming to dream.

American Detox - a poem from Rywyn - 2007

Rywyn — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 06:59:33 GMT

american detox - Rywyn 2007 though i miss you and your affections your corruptness makes filth of my dreams and sludge from my systems, afflictions in misconceptions misrepresentations not enough left for us to pick up – the pieces are all broken your winners always chosen your children always hopin and promises fallen broken awoken hearts avision as we realize this vision's chosen us... and i ask - who are you to look away from us? Who are you? -Rywyn 2007

Kerouacs encounter with the 'Fairy Glees' - from Jan 5th 1948 - excerpted from his journals - Wind Blown World

Rywyn — Fri, 07 Mar 2008 07:24:26 GMT

Monday Jan. 5th – My first big workday of 1948– from Jack Kerouac's Journal Windblown World And one more thing: during the night I lay down on my bed to muse (the dreamy musings that cushion the shock of cerebral creation): and all of a sudden I sensed the presence of all kinds of gleeful, little things around me, felt it so powerfully that the “gleeful little things” became almost real, corporeal, moth-shapes, whole swirls and hosts of them, all around me, I felt like Gulliver, with little things dancing gleefully all over me and around me, and more interesting: it seemed that these 'fairy glees' of our life were amazed with me because I had discovered them, because I had “turned my head and seen them,” and in the simplicity of their little hearts, were pleased with me, loved me, danced around me, 'their champion and king,' were happy because I had seen them. And I just lay there grinning and enjoying their presence & homage. It was one of the loveliest and most poetic of fancies: and one more thing: I believe in these little things, I believe they exist, but only at certain wonderful gleeful moments. If I were an Irish poet, a Celtic bard, I think I'd concentrate exclusively on these little 'fairy glees' of my heart.

NOTES ON THE DESPAIR OF 'THINKING MEN' - Kerouac 1948

Rywyn — Thu, 21 Feb 2008 08:48:30 GMT

nOTES ON THE DESPAIR OF 'THINKING MEN' This is not another tirade from me against the poor unhappy intelligentsia, not a tirade against that in myself which coincides with their mail-order horror. [multilevelhorror] The 'Thinking-men', a phrase I actually heard three times in the past two days, means another level of men who are more or less independant in their views, with the emphasis on personal real knowledge. Iadmire these thinknig men. I have observed their notions. Some of them - (this is really about Harold Huescher) I) They Admire the 'folk', the people, but their admiration is almost condescending: - They see 'Patterns' instead of tableaus among the people; They notice their vigor as a kind of anthrolpological-economic phenomena - in other words, their admiration is partly an admiration of themselves for being so observant of the people and their 'ways.' Think of all the terms - 'Folkways' , 'Working-classes', Lower Economic Groups,' and so on, all the braintrust terms which never take blood , music , and grace into account. Their Understanding is strictly Olympian, naturalistic, aloof, academical, sparse, 'factually objective', etc. - and never participant or meek-knowing. I think the key is music and poetry: The "Thinking Man" goes to the opera - but he knows nothing of inner singing, the thing that makes, say, the Puerto Rican what he is in Espan Harlem: and he reads Melville or Shakespeare or Wolfe, but he knows naught of the living grace of people in their own moment-of-self, that is - he cannot penetrate the poetry of a face, a figure, a laugh and sense that Selfhood there (he only senses his own, and then studied, borrowed evaluation of theirs.) this is pretty vague due to hurried terminology - 2) More importantly , the modern man, in his emphasis on despair, seems to have a knack for posing his own fears without challenging them. He seemsto think only to the point of defeat, and does not go on from there to any sort of a fight. He seems to enjoy unsolveable dilemmas, which are not challenged, again - a kind of private mental masochism, a secret personal drama of knowing joylessness. (History may be a drama of attitudes.) The Thinking man does not act on his judgements , but lets them ride into space and disappear. He paralyzes his actions. He Loves Defeat. What he really deep-down thinks I can't find out, he won't tell me. He is not serious enough with me to ever tell me. He loves to be subtle and play little conventional games. He is 'amused' by the 'cream of the jest' of this world, defeat, but that I can't believe. He discourages gravity , seriousness, quick judgement, swift decision, impulsiveness, immediate hope. He's been slapped down and 'it won't happen again.' He smiles at his own sympathy and humanity, as if it were a weakness, a fear, a caviling with the facts of 'tough-mindedness'. He does no longer plan ... He rides like a chip on the river and prefers not to plod in a line of his own. Incidentally, I think he is very deeply lazy, in a mental sense. He is honest. He is a good man. But he is uprooted from his people, has to become a 'thinking man', and has to give up hope. It is not he who has built the bridges. The people did that, the boys from the people who learned to build bridges without thinking Why the river should be crossed, or What was beyond.

Kerouacs memory of Tamalpais

Rywyn — Thu, 21 Feb 2008 08:47:08 GMT

In California there is a grassy mountainside I know where cattle graze in full view of a Pacific vista. These CAttle can see the blue Pacific on a late afternoon when the sun turns dark gold, and the wall of gray fog moving in on the horizon far away over the water, and the Yerba Buena hills of San Francisco jewelled andd ivoried and emeralded with city, and the Bay, and the great Bridge, and Mt. Tamalpais gilded vastly in the late light, and the Sausalitos and the far Oaklands and El Cerritos across the Bay, and beautiful flowers at their hooves. The air cools, the Pacific sighs, the sun recedes to Japan, 'Frisco and Alcatraz become bright with lights, the grass smells warm and exfoliate in the cool air, darkness produces itself in the whole immense roundabout world, and the cattle stand there awaiting the mournful night of windswept fog, and foghorns in the Bay below, and the occasional precious stars that shine through the fog-gaps at midnight. These beasts feed on glory up there. Below, in the morning, the valley rings with heedless sounds, but the cattle are silent.

Oh Faere Queen

Rywyn — Sun, 30 Dec 2007 00:18:07 GMT

... you and your mind and your poetry I love and I wish to be closer to hear you ... however far darkstar straycat, fearnot i have no leash no cage nor lost pages this age is in trust of us to do what we must and the mystery of magick not mayhem is to be seen in this winter green come hither faere queen and read to me a child a man and friend to be... blend these seasons 1 in 3 to revel and reveal these 3 in 1 this earth this moon and sun, through air and water mix and measure to counsel in the arts of fire held within this hardened stone we shall mix in breath and bone ...

Happy New Year 2all

Rywyn — Sat, 29 Dec 2007 05:49:04 GMT

Well - Looks like I have moved to Louisiana - my mom lives here - and I am tired of California ready for some new inspiration and old spirits... feels good to be back yea