Martin Shaw's Blog, page 6
May 10, 2021
Smoke Hole Sessions: new podcast series hosted by Martin Shaw
Smoke Hole Sessions:a new series of podcasts hosted by Martin Shaw Renowned storyteller and author Martin Shaw and book publishers Chelsea Green UK have teamed up to create a new long-form conversation podcast inspired by Shaw’s newest book Smoke Hole: Looking to the Wild in the Time of the Spyglass.
The ‘Smoke Hole Sessions’ is a series of vital conversations with inspirational writers, musicians, comedians, activists an...
April 29, 2021
New audio + literary festival appearances
Brand new audio:The Birth of OssianThe first portion of an ongoing work Adventures in the Deep Interior, from Martin Shaw and John Matthias, is now available as a downloadable MP3 audio.This is a new reading of the ancient Irish story The Birth of Ossian, recorded by the banks of the river Dart in Devon, far west of Britain.Adventures in the Deep Interior is a collaborative work: John a violinist (Radiohead/Coldcut), Martin a story...
March 31, 2021
Smoke Hole: Sneak preview video released
sneak preview video released
Dr Martin Shaw has recorded a short video from his Dartmoor cottage about his latest book Smoke Hole: Looking to the Wild in the Time of the SpyglassThe book, due to be released by Chelsea Green in May and available now for pre-order from Cista Mystica, was written over lockdown and gives us, says Martin, “a very ancient way of looking at a modern predicament, the situation we...
February 24, 2021
Letters to the Earth
Resurgence & Ecologist magazine review of Letters to the Earth (HarperCollins, 2020). Martin Shaw ‘startles us into re-examining the stories we tell ourselves’.
.fusion-body .fusion-builder-column-0{width:100% !important;margin-top : 0px;margin-bottom : 0px;}.fusion-builder-column-0 > .fusion-column-wrapper {padding-top : 0px !important;padding-right : 0px !important;margin-right : 1.92%;padding-bottom : 0px !important;padding-left : 0px !important;margin-left : 1.92%;}@media only screen and (max-width:1024px) {.fusion-body .fusion-builder-column-0{width:100% !important;order : 0;}.fusion-builder-column-0 > .fusion-column-wrapper {margin-right : 1.92%;margin-left : 1.92%;}}@media only screen and (max-width:640px) {.fusion-body .fusion-builder-column-0{width:100% !important;order : 0;}.fusion-builder-column-0 > .fusion-column-wrapper {margin-right : 1.92%;margin-left : 1.92%;}}.fusion-body .fusion-flex-container.fusion-builder-row-1{ padding-top : 0px;margin-top : 0px;padding-right : 0px;padding-bottom : 0px;margin-bottom : 0px;padding-left : 0px;}The post Letters to the Earth appeared first on Cista Mystica Press.
December 10, 2020
Wise Morning
Welsh from Traditional Verse, Seventeenth CenturyIt’s the erotic sap
which ripen the fields,
It’s the blood of poets
who’s souls got lost
in the paths of nature.Harmonies spill
from her welling crag,
sweet rhythms
she abandons
to us.In bright morning
the hearth smokes,
and its plumes are arms
Lifting up the mist.Listen to love affairs
erupt in the water
of the poplar grove,
wingless birds
abandoned in the grasses!The serenading trees
with their snapping and cracking –
the rough plains becoming
mountains of serenity –
they change;
but waters song
won’t quit.It’s a song that curls
with light,
loose with dreams
firm and soft,
one moment tame,
then full of sky.In the rosy bliss
of dawn
she is mist;
the moons honey
flowing from
buried stars.Is the holiness
of baptism
not god become water?
Glinting our heads
with the blood of grace?There’s a reason
Christ confirmed himself
in her.It’s the reason
stars rest in her depths,
the reason
why ample Venus
engendered herself in her breast.We drink love
when we drink water.This love
streams both
tame and divine,it’s the story of the
whole world,
the wily old tale
of her soul.She’s large with secrets –
from human mouths,
let’s be honest; we all kiss her
and she quenches our thirst.She’s a casket
of kisses
from the mouths of the dead,
captivated forever
with the sisters heart.Christ could have been
more direct with us:
confess yourself with water
told us to turn in
our fears – all that pain
and meanness,who better, brothers
to hand in our trouble
than to her who rises to the sky
draped in
sheaths of white.When we drink water
we become kids again,
and that’s no bad thing,
it’s a pure moment:our sorrows drift before us
in rose garlands,
our eyes consumed
by acres of gold.No one can ignore their destiny.
It’s the sweet water in which
we drench our souls.Nothing compares
with your sacred shores
if deep grief
has given us its wings.
which ripen the fields,
It’s the blood of poets
who’s souls got lost
in the paths of nature.Harmonies spill
from her welling crag,
sweet rhythms
she abandons
to us.In bright morning
the hearth smokes,
and its plumes are arms
Lifting up the mist.Listen to love affairs
erupt in the water
of the poplar grove,
wingless birds
abandoned in the grasses!The serenading trees
with their snapping and cracking –
the rough plains becoming
mountains of serenity –
they change;
but waters song
won’t quit.It’s a song that curls
with light,
loose with dreams
firm and soft,
one moment tame,
then full of sky.In the rosy bliss
of dawn
she is mist;
the moons honey
flowing from
buried stars.Is the holiness
of baptism
not god become water?
Glinting our heads
with the blood of grace?There’s a reason
Christ confirmed himself
in her.It’s the reason
stars rest in her depths,
the reason
why ample Venus
engendered herself in her breast.We drink love
when we drink water.This love
streams both
tame and divine,it’s the story of the
whole world,
the wily old tale
of her soul.She’s large with secrets –
from human mouths,
let’s be honest; we all kiss her
and she quenches our thirst.She’s a casket
of kisses
from the mouths of the dead,
captivated forever
with the sisters heart.Christ could have been
more direct with us:
confess yourself with water
told us to turn in
our fears – all that pain
and meanness,who better, brothers
to hand in our trouble
than to her who rises to the sky
draped in
sheaths of white.When we drink water
we become kids again,
and that’s no bad thing,
it’s a pure moment:our sorrows drift before us
in rose garlands,
our eyes consumed
by acres of gold.No one can ignore their destiny.
It’s the sweet water in which
we drench our souls.Nothing compares
with your sacred shores
if deep grief
has given us its wings.
The post Wise Morning appeared first on Cista Mystica Press.
Arthur’s Hidden Men
Welsh, Unknown, Tenth CenturyUnder snow-bent treesand by wintering fire,I rise and give praise;to Morfan, son of Tegid,so robust in his ugliness,no weapon dared strike himnot even in the battle of Camlan*,.as all thought he was servant to a demon.A river of hair roamed his face;moon yellow teeth;a cornered bull.He fought at Camlan,alongside Sandde Angel-Face,so handsome a manno spear came his wayas all thought he was servant to an angel.I send a voice in this ice-dark:to Henwas the Winged, son of Erim,Henbeddestr son of Erim,Scilti the Lightfooted, son of Erim.All three were wind and blur,Never taking a track when theycould gallop over a crest of trees,leap the grey mountain,skim the green stream.Their whole lives,not one rush was bent under their foot.My heart flushes toowith the name of Teithi the Old,son of Gwynham,whose coast-bold castlewas shouldered into sandby the teeth of the sea.Who came to Arthur,was gathered in, welcomed to table,but whose arm was swift to angera man not fit for peace and rest,and for that reasongrew sick with a gloom,that took him down.Ah, and Drem, son of Dremidydd,the Big Seer,his roaming vision loped from Celli Wig in Cornwall,to the black north of Penn Blathaonin ScotlandHe could spy one green budunder the hoare-frosta hundred miles away.He was firm with usefulness.Osla of the Big Knifethe one who placed his vast sheathed bladeacross any river that blocked Arthur’s path.a sterling bridgefor the army of the three kingdoms of Britain.I raise language toGilla Stag-Legthat one who leaptthree hundred acres inone swift bound.Lord, I rememberThe vast-bellied Erwm and Hir Atrwm,and how we would have to raidthree hundred townships just to feed them.They would feast steady till noon,and blaze up again at dusk,shaking their goblets.When they staggered to bed, they yanked off the headsof any wandering vermin,as if no chop had ever glazed their lips.They took the fat, they took the lean,
they took the hot, they took the cold,
they took the sour, they took the sweet,
they took the fresh, they took the salted.If I quiet now, I think I can hear them chomping still.Sol, Gwaddn Osol, and Gwaddn of the Bonfire,that riotous bunch,I raise the glass and remember –Gwallgoig too.Many a village is sleep-sore from his revels.Sugn, son of Sugnedudd,so plagued by heartburnthat he would suck up the oceanwith three hundred proud ships afloat,and gulp it down,till there was nothing but a dry stand.Beloved Cachamwri,Arthur’s own servant.With his terrible iron flail.who could take a barn –robust with thirty ploughs,and grind the cross beams and the posts,and the rafters,to nothing but oat-size crumbs on the floor,No friend of farmers.Gwefl, son of Gwastad,our true Grief Man;When in his blue dream,he would let his bottom lip fall to his belly,and the top he would fit over his headas a cap.A sorrowed mouth,– big enough for the world’s tears.Uchdryd of the Cross-Beard,who would wrap his bristly red beardclear over the fifty rafters of Arthur’s Hall,insulation for a sheep-white winter.Clust, son of Clustfeinad:even when we buried him,seven leagues under dark soil,he could hear an ant wanderfifty miles away, leaving its lair.Ah, Medr son of Medredydd,Gwiawan Cat’s Eye,Cynyr of the Beautiful Beard –Do you think we have forgotten you?Listen across the Crow River at my speech.Medr who could shoot a wrenright through its two legs,Gwiawan who could cut the lidfrom the eye of a gnat without hurting it.Cynyr, of whom it is rumoredgreat Cai is his son.And what of Cai?,Cai of the strange gifting.Nine nights and nine days he could lieunder the breathless waters,a moon-track on the sea bedNine nights and nine days he could livewithout sleepNo doctor could cure a sword-cutdelivered by Cai;He was a man of high skill,as tall as the wood’s highest tree when he chose.When caught by storm,such was his body’s heat,that a whole circle around him would remain dry.When frozen in the iron-numbgullies of Snowdon,we would gather closeround Cai to dry our kindling.Great ones, are you safely gathered in?Let wild fawnalways be at your bow.Let your white-bronze rings and broachesglow by the yellow candleLet the womenwith the dark river hairbe your companions.And I,with my few wintered logs,alone and old,on the snowy hillwith nothing leftbut my praise.
they took the hot, they took the cold,
they took the sour, they took the sweet,
they took the fresh, they took the salted.If I quiet now, I think I can hear them chomping still.Sol, Gwaddn Osol, and Gwaddn of the Bonfire,that riotous bunch,I raise the glass and remember –Gwallgoig too.Many a village is sleep-sore from his revels.Sugn, son of Sugnedudd,so plagued by heartburnthat he would suck up the oceanwith three hundred proud ships afloat,and gulp it down,till there was nothing but a dry stand.Beloved Cachamwri,Arthur’s own servant.With his terrible iron flail.who could take a barn –robust with thirty ploughs,and grind the cross beams and the posts,and the rafters,to nothing but oat-size crumbs on the floor,No friend of farmers.Gwefl, son of Gwastad,our true Grief Man;When in his blue dream,he would let his bottom lip fall to his belly,and the top he would fit over his headas a cap.A sorrowed mouth,– big enough for the world’s tears.Uchdryd of the Cross-Beard,who would wrap his bristly red beardclear over the fifty rafters of Arthur’s Hall,insulation for a sheep-white winter.Clust, son of Clustfeinad:even when we buried him,seven leagues under dark soil,he could hear an ant wanderfifty miles away, leaving its lair.Ah, Medr son of Medredydd,Gwiawan Cat’s Eye,Cynyr of the Beautiful Beard –Do you think we have forgotten you?Listen across the Crow River at my speech.Medr who could shoot a wrenright through its two legs,Gwiawan who could cut the lidfrom the eye of a gnat without hurting it.Cynyr, of whom it is rumoredgreat Cai is his son.And what of Cai?,Cai of the strange gifting.Nine nights and nine days he could lieunder the breathless waters,a moon-track on the sea bedNine nights and nine days he could livewithout sleepNo doctor could cure a sword-cutdelivered by Cai;He was a man of high skill,as tall as the wood’s highest tree when he chose.When caught by storm,such was his body’s heat,that a whole circle around him would remain dry.When frozen in the iron-numbgullies of Snowdon,we would gather closeround Cai to dry our kindling.Great ones, are you safely gathered in?Let wild fawnalways be at your bow.Let your white-bronze rings and broachesglow by the yellow candleLet the womenwith the dark river hairbe your companions.And I,with my few wintered logs,alone and old,on the snowy hillwith nothing leftbut my praise.
* Camlan is the site of Arthur’s final battle
The post Arthur’s Hidden Men appeared first on Cista Mystica Press.
Summer Madrigal
LorcaEstrella, you gypsy.
Crush your
red mouth
onto mine.
Below noon’s
bright gold,
i will bite that apple.In the greeness of
the olive grove,
high on the hill,
there is an ancient
Moorish tower.
The colour of your
peasant flesh
your peasant flesh,
which tastes of honey
and the dawn.You offer me in
your sunburnt body
divine food which
flowers the river bed,
and gives stars to the wind.Brown light –
why do you give me
full of love,
your lillied womanhood,
and the murmur of your breasts?Is it because of my body
full of sadness?
(oh my fumbling steps)
Did my song withered life
touch you with pity?How can it be that
you have settled for my laments
over the sweaty thighs
of a peasant Saint Christopher,
handsome, and slow in love?You are with me, Diana of pleasure.
You are Goddess of the Forest.
Your kisses smell of wheat
parched in summer sun.Confound my eyes
with your song,
let your hair fall down
solemn, like a
cloak of shadow
on the meadow.From your bloodied mouth,
Spit me a sky of love,
a dark star of pain
in its fleshy depths.My Andalucian horse –
my Pegasus,
is captured by your eyes;
his flight will be of desolation
when their light dims.I know you never loved me.
But i loved you –
for your
serious gaze,
like the lark loves a new day
if only for the dew.Estrella, you gypsy.
Bite your red mouth to mine.
Under a clear noon
let me ravage
that apple.
.fusion-button.button-1 {border-radius:2px;}Get the Book
Crush your
red mouth
onto mine.
Below noon’s
bright gold,
i will bite that apple.In the greeness of
the olive grove,
high on the hill,
there is an ancient
Moorish tower.
The colour of your
peasant flesh
your peasant flesh,
which tastes of honey
and the dawn.You offer me in
your sunburnt body
divine food which
flowers the river bed,
and gives stars to the wind.Brown light –
why do you give me
full of love,
your lillied womanhood,
and the murmur of your breasts?Is it because of my body
full of sadness?
(oh my fumbling steps)
Did my song withered life
touch you with pity?How can it be that
you have settled for my laments
over the sweaty thighs
of a peasant Saint Christopher,
handsome, and slow in love?You are with me, Diana of pleasure.
You are Goddess of the Forest.
Your kisses smell of wheat
parched in summer sun.Confound my eyes
with your song,
let your hair fall down
solemn, like a
cloak of shadow
on the meadow.From your bloodied mouth,
Spit me a sky of love,
a dark star of pain
in its fleshy depths.My Andalucian horse –
my Pegasus,
is captured by your eyes;
his flight will be of desolation
when their light dims.I know you never loved me.
But i loved you –
for your
serious gaze,
like the lark loves a new day
if only for the dew.Estrella, you gypsy.
Bite your red mouth to mine.
Under a clear noon
let me ravage
that apple.
.fusion-button.button-1 {border-radius:2px;}Get the BookThe post Summer Madrigal appeared first on Cista Mystica Press.
Morning
LorcaWaters song
can’t die.It’s the erotic sap
which ripen the fields,
It’s the blood of poets
who’s souls got lost
in the paths of nature.Harmonies spill
from her welling crag,
sweet rhythms
she abandons
to us.In bright morning
the hearth smokes,
and its plumes are arms
Lifting up the mist.Listen to love affairs
erupt in the water
of the poplar grove,
wingless birds
abandoned in the grasses!The serenading trees
with their snapping and cracking –
the rough plains becoming
mountains of serenity –
they change;
but waters song
won’t quit.It’s a song that curls
with light,
loose with dreams
firm and soft,
one moment tame,
then full of sky.In the rosy bliss
of dawn
she is mist;
the moons honey
flowing from
buried stars.Is the holiness
of baptism
not god become water?
Glinting our heads
with the blood of grace?There’s a reason
Christ confirmed himself
in her.It’s the reason
stars rest in her depths,
the reason
why ample Venus
engendered herself in her breast.We drink love
when we drink water.This love
streams both
tame and divine,it’s the story of the
whole world,
the wily old tale
of her soul.She’s large with secrets –
from human mouths,
let’s be honest; we all kiss her
and she quenches our thirst.She’s a casket
of kisses
from the mouths of the dead,
captivated forever
with the sisters heart.Christ could have been
more direct with us:
confess yourself with water
told us to turn in
our fears – all that pain
and meaness,who better, brothers
to hand in our trouble
than to her who rises to the sky
draped in
sheaths of white.When we drink water
we become kids again,
and that’s no bad thing,
it’s a pure moment:our sorrows drift before us
in rose garlands,
our eyes consumed
by acres of gold.No one can ignore their destiny.
It’s the sweet water in which
we drench our souls.Nothing compares
with your sacred shores
if deep grief
has given us its wings.
.fusion-button.button-2 {border-radius:2px;}Get the Book
can’t die.It’s the erotic sap
which ripen the fields,
It’s the blood of poets
who’s souls got lost
in the paths of nature.Harmonies spill
from her welling crag,
sweet rhythms
she abandons
to us.In bright morning
the hearth smokes,
and its plumes are arms
Lifting up the mist.Listen to love affairs
erupt in the water
of the poplar grove,
wingless birds
abandoned in the grasses!The serenading trees
with their snapping and cracking –
the rough plains becoming
mountains of serenity –
they change;
but waters song
won’t quit.It’s a song that curls
with light,
loose with dreams
firm and soft,
one moment tame,
then full of sky.In the rosy bliss
of dawn
she is mist;
the moons honey
flowing from
buried stars.Is the holiness
of baptism
not god become water?
Glinting our heads
with the blood of grace?There’s a reason
Christ confirmed himself
in her.It’s the reason
stars rest in her depths,
the reason
why ample Venus
engendered herself in her breast.We drink love
when we drink water.This love
streams both
tame and divine,it’s the story of the
whole world,
the wily old tale
of her soul.She’s large with secrets –
from human mouths,
let’s be honest; we all kiss her
and she quenches our thirst.She’s a casket
of kisses
from the mouths of the dead,
captivated forever
with the sisters heart.Christ could have been
more direct with us:
confess yourself with water
told us to turn in
our fears – all that pain
and meaness,who better, brothers
to hand in our trouble
than to her who rises to the sky
draped in
sheaths of white.When we drink water
we become kids again,
and that’s no bad thing,
it’s a pure moment:our sorrows drift before us
in rose garlands,
our eyes consumed
by acres of gold.No one can ignore their destiny.
It’s the sweet water in which
we drench our souls.Nothing compares
with your sacred shores
if deep grief
has given us its wings.
.fusion-button.button-2 {border-radius:2px;}Get the BookThe post Morning appeared first on Cista Mystica Press.
Riders on the Wolf
Dougald Hine (The Dark Mountain Project) book review, Riders on the Wolf, of Martin Shaw’s Wolferland.
The post Riders on the Wolf appeared first on Cista Mystica Press.
Booklist Cinderbiter Celtic Poems Review
“A bushy-bearded British storyteller and an American poet collaborate to make modern versions of a clutch of thrilling stories touched by the supernatural along with lyric poems of lament, complaint, and romance.”
Ray Olson, Booklist review of Cinderbiter: Celtic Poems by Martin Shaw and Tony Hoagland from Graywolf Press.
.fusion-body .fusion-builder-column-10{width:100% !important;margin-top : 0px;margin-bottom : 0px;}.fusion-builder-column-10 > .fusion-column-wrapper {padding-top : 0px !important;padding-right : 0px !important;margin-right : 1.92%;padding-bottom : 0px !important;padding-left : 0px !important;margin-left : 1.92%;}@media only screen and (max-width:1024px) {.fusion-body .fusion-builder-column-10{width:100% !important;order : 0;}.fusion-builder-column-10 > .fusion-column-wrapper {margin-right : 1.92%;margin-left : 1.92%;}}@media only screen and (max-width:640px) {.fusion-body .fusion-builder-column-10{width:100% !important;order : 0;}.fusion-builder-column-10 > .fusion-column-wrapper {margin-right : 1.92%;margin-left : 1.92%;}}.fusion-body .fusion-flex-container.fusion-builder-row-7{ padding-top : 0px;margin-top : 0px;padding-right : 0px;padding-bottom : 0px;margin-bottom : 0px;padding-left : 0px;}The post Booklist Cinderbiter Celtic Poems Review appeared first on Cista Mystica Press.
