The Library of Lost Interests, 3

1967

Opening boxes of old books saved from our flooded basement, it’s a return to the past, a return to what used to interest me. This includes beekeeping, honey bees, dowsing, divination, psychic healing, Biblical prophecy, British-Israelites,  The holy bible, King James Version, the Great Year, remote viewing, and  various ancient texts. It is all an infiltration into consciousness, flirtations, amusements, hangovers, expressions of absurdity, delirium, a hullabaloo that came and went but is still a part of my inner being.                

Even back in the 1970s I read about biblical prophecy, what crack pots said would be our future, but these many years later the crack pots are still crack pots but their prophecies are the same, not revised, not changed, and they are happening as predicted. What I refer to, specifically, is a prophesied authoritarian and oppressive government; politicians come bearing gifts but the population will pay for whatever is offered—we’re already no longer free men and free women—and it is a very frightening dystopian future we are facing. Looked at this way, there is no political right wing and left wing; one side may be more benign than the other, but in either case there is still the loss of freedom, there is only the question as to how many of your rights and freedoms will be lost. All governments give you some dust with one hand and, with sleight of hand agility, they take from you what they want. You won’t get back what government has taken from you; they reach into your soul and pull out your inner being, like a rabbit from a hat. In other words, there is only who will oppress you more than the other and who will leave you alone. I want to be left alone. 

I still have many books on beekeeping, I learned the craft from two friends, RR Skinner and George Johnston. I used to go to the Miner Institute, in Chazy, New York State, with George for all day classes on beekeeping; these two men—Reg and George, living on different continents—were mentors. I love the honey bee and I love observing them, being near them, these industrious bees who wish no one harm, who spend their days collecting pollen and nectar from wild asters and other flowers, and without them our crops would not be pollinated and we would eventually perish. By the end of summer they have worn out their wings which are visibly frayed and old.

What still maintains my interest? It is family history, gardening, and walking, that’s what’s left in old age. Here are some other books (saved from our flooded basement) that I enjoyed reading, books by the British writer T.C. Lethbridge. I bought some of these books in London, UK, in the mid-1980s; Lethbridge is one of those peculiar thinkers—he held prominence at Cambridge University (for thirty years Director of Excavations for the Cambridge Antiquarian Society and for the Cambridge University Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology)—an original thinker who couldn’t be contained by narrow thinking and who found his audience outside of the establishment. Lethbridge might be classified as an eccentric but he is also a model for original thinking, and there are few like him. It’s good to have people like T.C. Lethbridge, they have integrity and expand our idea of how to live in this society, they make life more interesting, and they are not politicians, they mean no harm. Here is Lethbridge on the educational system:

Many (poets) seem to be able to slip from one layer of the mind to the next without any difficulty. But then to be a real poet you have to sit and think. Few people nowadays have time to do this and would have to go on the dole if they tried to do it. It is the old story of Mary and Martha all over again, over and over again. Martha has no time to spare for thinking about anything of real importance. Our whole educational system is designed to produce Marthas. Mary made time to sit and think about what everything meant. So when she met someone who really knew something, she was able to listen and understand. This may be a parable, or it may be fact, it does not matter which; but the more facts educationalists try to cram into the heads of children, the fewer real thinkers they will produce. 

               --T.C. Lethbridge, A Step in the Dark, p. 127

1965

1972

1969

1976

1980

A few notes:

--My poem, "The Great Year", is on the Internet Archive; it can also be found mentioned on this blog, https://stephenmorrisseyblog.blogspot.com/2011/05/great-year.html

--I suggest reading the King James' version of the bible; despite what some people say, that it is difficult because of apparently archaic language, it is actually not hard to read at all. You will not be disappointed.  

The Great Year: The Age of Aquarius, c. 2000 - 4000 A.D.

The Age of Aquarius


(c. 2000 - 4000 A.D.)

the world felt itself
at the beginning
of a great change
            --W.B. Yeats

Odysseus took out
Cyclopes' single eye
and for his deed
betrayed himself to louts
and thugs,
ten years in exile and travail.
Is this the dawning
of the Age of Aquarius?
We know the future
less well than ourselves,
ourselves hardly at all.
Like Odysseus we search for home:
waking on board ship to waves
slapping the bow and stern;
moonlight is silver
across foreign waters'
surface. Written on the ship
or starship
the name "Aquarius".
We think of brave Odysseus then
and know the sea,
know the stars and space
calling us with celestial music,
sounds we hear
late at night, when
darkness enfolds us in mystery.
In each port the gurus and gods
have gone, no more Christs
or Buddhas, only fanatics,
eyes on fire with millennial fever.
Still, wherever a harbour or farm
exists we find a home--
this awakens nostalgia
for the homes we had,
exiles and outsiders
on the earth.
Our world is ancient
as giant turtles
or redwood trees,
where electric current
is the new river of life and blood,
making the earth one port,
one living being
in cosmic outer space

The Great Year: The Age of Pisces, c. 100 B.C. - 2000 A.D.

The Age of Pisces

(c. 100 B.C. - 2000 A.D.)

Fish surrounded me
when I was a child,
even my mother's arms felt
wet and cold; I could taste
salt on my lips
and lay with eyes closed
and knew the world
was an alien place.
I was surrounded by fish
all of them with
faces resembling
mother, father,
wife, mother-in-law,
they were sharks, piranha,
salmon, cod, pickerel;
they swam
upstream in my veins
finding a pool of warm
liquid in my heart
where they flung themselves
violently--
what heartache they caused!
At night I prayed
to God, as though this life
would never end,
my prayers were
the sound of water running
in a river until
giant boulders
are worn smooth. Soon
I, too, went to sea
and became a fisherman;
in my small cabin
cluttered with books,
a copy of the Vinland
Map spread across
my desk, and over my bed
was an icon of Christ
in whose arms
I rested; His eyes
followed me
as I moved from one
corner of my cabin
to the next, sometimes
His lips moved
shaping something
resembling a smile,
and I could hear Him
speak, in ancient Aramaic,
words I could not
understand;
I threw sardines
to a school
of dolphins
that swam beside
my ship, then
caressed their sides,
their eyes filled
with compassion.
The sea
is a cathedral
whose ceiling
is the stars
and whose floor
the blue water--
sun or moon reflected
it is a mosaic
of silver tiles,
the kind seen
in Roman palaces,
dolphins frozen
in the ceramic waves.

The Great Year: The Age of Aries, c. 2400 - 100 B.C.

13 March 2010 

The Age of Aries

(c. 2400 B.C. - 100 B.C.)

The moon
blood red,
not with
harvest, but
like the earth,
with blood;
peaceful men
became warriors:
battering rams
at the gates.
In the night sky
Mars is near
the horizon,
the same sky
on land
as on the sea
where Odysseus
sailed;
someone asks,
"how could the goddess
not depart?"
Clouds
gathered
across the moon,
only a white circle
distant
almost disappeared
from the sky--
the sun, too,
is hidden
and everywhere
men leave home
to wander
and impose
their will.

The Great Year: The Age of Taurus, c. 4550 - 2400 B.C.

13 March 2010

The Age of Taurus

(c. 4550 - 2400 B.C.)

The bull silent
in an ochre coloured
field, genitals hanging;
the shadow
in moonlight
of one
whose body was a man's,
whose head was a bull's--
he fed on human flesh,
his image inhabits
every mirror--
our passions
are too great.
We each
have one song,
a chorus
repeating
our need for love;
oh, I am consumed
with betrayal
and darkness,
inhabiting
a labyrinth
and waiting
for my executioner
who even now
I hear trying to walk
silently around a corner
with a club and knife.

The Great Year: The Age of Gemini, c. 6480 - 4550 B.C.

Montreal, 1852

The Age of Gemini


(6480 - 4550 B.C.)

When Adam and Eve
left the Garden
the journey began,
and so we find ourselves
always searching--
our memories
held together
by darkness,
tawdry rope
grown weak, unravelling,
and unkind.
Somewhere a garden
exists, but it,
too, is a memory;
our fall
is endured
alone.
We have invented
the Wheel of Life,
erected sacred pillars,
know gods in Heaven
and gods in the Underworld.
We are centaurs,
half man half
horse, half
divine and still
we are wounded;
why can we heal
others but not
ourselves?
I fell asleep
and woke at middle age,
so many years spent
in deepening sleep
until released
as though the ground opened
beneath my feet
and nothing was ever
the same.
Betrayal and grief,
love and compassion,
now I am someone
I never was
before, one
with the soul's
wounding.

The Great Year: The Age of Cancer, c. 8640 - 6480 B.C.

13 March 2010

The Age of Cancer

(c. 8640 - 6480 B.C.)

We do not live
in caves, we visit
them as holy places--
each seed planted
is a new beginning,
and this is our desire:
the moon, the first
seed, erotic and glowing
in the night sky;
who could not be in awe
seeing the full moon--
stars disappear
and our homes
cast shadows
across the path
to the edge
of a forest or
the ocean's shore--
we visit caves
as sanctuaries
returning us
to what is lost:
a cave, the moon,
a woman's womb.
Floods cleanse
the land,
the soul
that watery element.
We place water
in bowls, seeds
in woven baskets,
the dead in graves,
live in settlements,
count seeds, trade
amulets, bracelets,
necklaces, female figurines
the size of your thumb--
the grave a container
for men, women, children;
bones with patterns scratched
on them, bodies positioned
in the earth containing them.

The Great Year: The Age of Leo, c. 10,800 - 8,640 B.C.

Age of Leo

(c. 10,800 - 8640 B.C.)

A lion is born
in the heart,
he walks at night
enters dreams,
and in our throats
when we wake
we seem to hear
growls, roars.
This is not
a time for prayer
or worship
of any god,
but knowing
an inner light
illuminating
consciousness,
as the sun
moves across fields,
mountains, lakes,
from morning rising
to evening sunset.
Here is the birth
of Apollo, somewhere
else Dionysus is born,
somewhere else again
Hermes and Osiris.
This golden age
when we found
light above our
heads, within
our souls;
and always
a lion waiting
in the distance.

The Great Year: Age of Virgo, c. 13,000 - 10,800 B.C.

September 2016

The Age of Virgo

(c. 13,000 - 10,800 B.C.)

The months begin
and are like winter,
always longer than expected:
five months of winter, so you
long for it to end;
consider it
a time of rest and quiescence,
a time to turn inward:
add drawings to earth walls
white as fields--
grass brown in the cold,
and then disappearing beneath
more snow;
fields that are
austere,
the soul's condition
in winter.
The moon
cold and white
as earth,
it is also woman
round and open
unfolding secrets
of existence, repetition
of birth and death,
seasons, tides,
sunlight and moonlight,
planting crops,
bears hibernating
in caves, snakes
in a crevice,
deer's antlers
on the forests' floor:
this is the time
of silence, of
the soul's gestation--
at night
we see stars
moving in the sky.

The Great Year

01 01 2017

I have always been concerned, perhaps obsessed, by time. I have been a diarist since January 1965. Some of my first poems were about the transience of time. How could they have not been when I was preoccupied with death and failure? I have written an extensive history of my family, going back to the early 1800s. I have written "A Short History of the Irish in Montreal" and other poems that I group into the category of history, time, the years. Since the mid-1980s I have written poems on individual years. I look at my life and think there is more that has been done than will be done in the future. The expiry date is not far off. It is time to do the important work of life, the mission of writing and what it means, the vision of art. There is chronological time, emotional time, and cosmic time. This poem, then, deals in cosmic time.

The poems that follow, "The Great Year," were first published at The Astrology Guild website (probably now defunct) and in my selected poems, Mapping the Soul (1998):

(http://www.astrologyguild.com/thegreatyear.htm).

The Great Year

In our present day, when this same planet, Earth, rocking slowly on its axis in its course around the sun, is about to pass out of astrological range of the zodiacal sign of the Fish (Pisces) into that of the Water Bearer (Aquarius), it does indeed seem that a fundamental transformation of the historical conditions of its inhabiting humanity is in prospect.

                                            --Joseph Campbell
                                            The Inner Reaches of Outer Space (1986)

These poems celebrate the Great Year, a period of time that lasts 25,868 years during which Earth passes through the twelve zodiacal signs, and the Great Months, each lasting approximately 2,500 solar years. Poetry, like astrology and mythology, is the language of the unconscious mind, dreams, symbolism, irrationality and intuition.                                                  --Stephen Morrissey, 2002

Age of Virgo - c. 13000 - 10800 B.C.Age of Leo - c. 10800 - 8640 B.C.Age of Cancer - c. 8640 - 6480 B.C.Age of Gemini- c. 6480 - 4550 B.C.Age of Taurus- c. 4550 - 2400 B.C.Age of Aries- c. 2400 B.C. - 100 B.C.Age of Pisces- c. 100 B.C. - 2000 A.DAge of Aquarius- c. 2000 - 4000 A.D.