Tag Archives: Winter Solstice

Smooring the Hearth

Solstice Sunset

Resisting night’s gravity

I rise to the Heavens,

clay on boots,

dusk at my heels,

slipping up to the

lonely grove on the brow,

where a year ago,

we planted a circle of hope.

Now I stand alone

in silent vigil.

Aurora of the day

sliding away, behind

Rodborough’s bear shoulders.

It is a satisfying death –

a great actor’s swansong.

A star born for this moment.

The lights fade, and, on cue,

another nova.

No desecrating ruckus

at a stone circle is needed

to mark this annual valediction – leave

the vandals to their

trilithon abuse and stoned selfies.

I have no need of the Am-dram

of dodgy rituals,

the posturing of ill-cast hierophants.

My gaze is for the sun alone.

Quietly, I say goodbye.


Burning News

The old year

is an empty grate,

solstice-black and cold

as a spurned lover’s heart.

Waiting to be filled with

kindling – scrunched news,

or the celebrity tittle-tattle

that passes for it

these days,

fat splinters of shattered tree,

glottal stops of coal,

black bile of angry mines,

the simmering earth

beneath our feet. Its fury

on slow-burn. The fuse of

ancient forests sizzle.

Coal scuttle, clatter and clinker.

With the rasp of a match,

paper curls, catching flame –

spreading like hungry gossip.

Inflammatory rumours

blaze into headlines of fire,

snagging our gaze.

We try to turn away,

but too late.

We’re hypnotized.

Smooring the Hearth

The clock ticks towards

the midnight chimes.

The sands of the year drain away.

Sip your anaesthetic,

reflect upon all that has gone,

the deeds un/done, the words un/said.

Bank the fire down, my friend,

before going to bed.

The memories glow and fade

like the coal, slow time

locked in its fossil heart.

Each a dream, once cherished,

come morn, a pail of dust

to be scattered on the dormant earth.

The day a squall of rain,

the nights come as fast.

The solsticed sun instructs us

to hiatus, to put down our tools.

Endless struggle, surrender arms,

as the Christmas ceasefire commences.

For a while we no longer

have to be anything.

Merely drop down into our being.

It is okay, friend, we can stop buying.

We can stop pretending to be nice,

so desperate to be loved back,

to be popular. For surely,

this is the measure of success.

That, and how much you own.

What you can show off to visitors,

the guests guessing your soul

from what’s on your shelves.

Shallow the depths of society’s

criteria. As though our lives

are no more than a lifestyle magazine,

a trending meme.

The fire dies down,

and what is discarded

slips through the bars of the grate.

Leaving the sine qua non of embers –

the truth only found

at the eleventh hour,

say, on the eve of execution,

when we face the cold, naked fact

of our mortality, our swift sparrow-flight

the length of a mead-hall.

Yet still, we bank the fire down –
thanking the warmth and light it has

bestowed, its borrowed grace –

in the hope that come dawn,

the last star can rekindle

our wintering king,

before it winks out

vanishing with the night.

Poems copyright Kevan Manwaring 2014

Ten Years After

NEW YEAR

1st January 2010

winter sun on sun dial - KM

Across the world last night billions of people were celebrating New Year’s Eve – one of the very few global celebrations. Although several calendars co-exist – Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Mayan – the start of the Gregorian new year as is commonly accepted by clocks, businesses, governments, computer systems, etc, is hard to ignore. Ten years ago people were panicking about what became known as the Millennium Bug, or Y2K, which vanished like scotch mist on the 1st January 2000 – like so many WMDs. This was tied in with millennial anxiety – whipped up by the media and world religions. The world didn’t end. Computers didn’t crash. Planes didn’t fall out of the sky. Legions didn’t die in hospitals. The world carried on. Our millennium fears seemed ill-founded. We can laugh at all the worry about Y2K – looking back, ten years on, it seems so ludicrous (it shows how much we swallow what the media whips up – how much we buy into the culture of fear). If only we know what lay around the corner. The charnel pyres of CJD or Mad Cow Disease, as it commonly became known, were bad enough – with whole sections of the countryside off-limits, like some awful Quatermass Experiment scenario, but this was trumped by the inconceivable atrocity of 9/11. This earth-shattering event stamped its indelible mark on the decade, and we’re still feeling the shockwaves now. Yet, even after such a moment – when the world seemed to stand still in horror – life has gone on … and this decade, however dire it has been at times (and it’s hard to imagine it being any worse – wars raging, global financial meltdown, climate change, peak oil), has flown by. It’s hard to believe it really – ten years ago I was standing on Glastonbury Tor, guiding people up and down the spiral of light (777 lanterns dedicated to peace, spiralling around the hill); and all over the world people were doing extraordinary things to celebrate the new millennium – even then, there was dispute, some saying the new millennium didn’t start until 2001. It’s like those who don’t like to celebrate NYE, because for them the winter solstice or samhain is … I know what they mean, and intellectually I can agree – but surely, anything that brings people together in celebration – family and friends, old and new – is got to be good. Any excuse for a party. To step off the wheel. Dance. Make merry. Watch fireworks. Sing together. Greet strangers warmly. Reforge connections. Rather than ‘business as usual’ – what the world certainly does not need right now, is ‘business as usual’. We need to stop, take stock, and resolve to lead better lives, create a better world. It is only a collective act of will. Twenty years ago, the will of those maintaining the Berlin Wall relented and it toppled. Two hundred years ago, slavery was abolished. All it takes is a change – a shift in the collective will. We are more powerful than we imagine – as Nelson Mandela once said. We create time and we can bend it to our whims – create national holidays, two minute silences, and so forth. We can choose to create quality time for our loved ones and we can create quality time for the world.

We can make this decade what we want it to be. We could stop the wars tomorrow. We could stop destroying the only planet we have. We could be kinder to each other. Forgive old grudges. Melt all the guns and decommission all the warheads and mines. We could make all transport run on green fuel. Stop building nuclear power stations and start building wind, wave and sun farms. Create works of great beauty rather than that which makes a quick buck. Favour the well-made and the meaningful rather than the shoddy and the trivial. Consume less. Love more. Live well and die happy.

the winter road - KM

Millennium Grove and Time Capsule

3rd January 2010

I decided, on a whim, to visit the Millennium Grove I planted with friends on 22 December, 1999. It was a beautiful cold clear day – deep blue skies and sunlight like cream – and wanting to make the most of the precious few hours of daylight, I had originally planned to go up Solsbury Hill, but when I rode up Solsbury Lane my way was blocked by a van well and truly stuck, askew on the road, skidding on the ice, wedged in the narrow lane. The road was dicey – with the double-peril of gravel and patches of ice – and so I turned back, but at the bottom I decided to go left, rather than right, and follow the lane along St Catherine’s Valley and come back along Bannerdown Hill. It was too beautiful a day to go home early.

It was a joy to be riding along the winding lane, through the deepening vale of St Catherine’s, past cosy farmhouses, golden in the low sun. By the time I reached the bottom of Rocks East Woodland – my destination – the track was all but iced over and I had to be bold to traverse it on the bike. I took it real steady and only nearly lost it as I had to cross a whole sheet of ice going up a hill, which needed some revs. Hairy! Heart in mouth, I kept the bike upright and made it to the tarmac on the other side. Relieved, I rode the couple of hundred yards to the carpark of the Rocks East Woodland educational centre – empty for once (no one in their right mind would come out on a day like today).

I have been coming here, to this ‘100 acre wood’ at the head at St Catherine’s Valley, where the three counties of Wiltshire, Somerset and Gloucestershire meet, since ’96 or ’97 – after I read about it in the local newspaper in an article that compared it to something out of Tolkien’s opus. (And today just so happens to be Tolkien’s birthday – last year I had a Tolkien Birthday party, getting my friends to read out the radio drama, The Rabbit Room). I fell in love with the place – the old man in the tree, the sculpture trail, the grotto, the witch in the woods, the valley of the rocks, the old coach road and billy goat bridge – and started to visit frequently. At the time I was living in the centre of the city, and so it was a much needed sanctuary away from the madding crowd. I got to know the owner, Tony Philips OBE – an old soldier, local independent councillor of nearly sixty years’ service, district president of the Wiltshire West Scouts, and a real-life Man who Planted Trees – even then, in his seventies, he seemed ancient, weathered and tough like an old oak, but he would be down in the woods every day, working. He was a forester first and foremost – he loved his woods, practically lived in them – and he was for me, the old man of the woods. At first I wanted to keep the place a secret – but it was too special not to share, and so I started to take friends up there and guide them around. I must have introduced hundreds of people to it… Over time, a trust was built up and I was allowed and then asked to put on events there and contribute to the wood creatively. I put on eco-arts events, like the Lost Forest Festival in 1998 or the WildWood Camp in 200? In my year as Bard of Bath, 98-99, I was ‘in residence’, running monthly events there – readings, gathering. I started a poetry trail, which still remains. I lived there for the summer in a tent, throughout one of the last beautiful summers for sometime. I painted backdrops for the Rocks annual flower show display, which one prizes. And for the millennium, I decided to do something more permanent – a Celtic Tree Wheel, which was co-devised with artist and priestess Sheila Broun. We got different people to sponsor a tree and we planted 13 native hardwoods in a circle with an apple tree in the middle. This was planted at the turn of the solstice, 22nd December, 1999 – on the eve of the new millennium, so it became known as the millennium grove. The idea was to have a natural calendar – one tree per lunar month. Working with the appropriate tree each month, one could work one’s way around the wheel. We had created, like our ancestors, a sacred space in which to mark sacred time. I initiated a series of ‘moots ‘ there on the sunday nearest the full moon. We started with a healthy crowd at Imbolc, but by the late summer, I was going up there by myself and I lost heart in it. I kept visiting when I could, seeing how the trees were getting on, occasionally organising working parties to do maintenance on the grove. A beech overshadowed the grove initially – which meant the trees in its shade didn’t take – but when the offending limb was taken down, and the dead trees replanted, the grove became established, and has grown healthily ever since. The local druid, Tim Sebastion, suggested a turf-maze, which we created in a clearing just down from the grove, starting it on May Day. A mum and a young girl was present – the girl was called Fey, and so Tim called the miz-maze, ‘Fey’s Maze’. When Tim sadly died at Imbolc 2007 we planted an oak tree for him, by the maze, putting in some of his ashes. We did the same for my poet friend Simon Miles, honorary bard of Bath – and the grove has become something of a memorial now for those no longer with us. Tony instigated an avenue of redwoods, each of which is dedicated to a loved one – more often than not no longer around – and so the woodland has become increasingly a memorial woodland. A place to remember lost loved ones.

And so it was with bitter irony today that when I turned up and bumped into Philip, who was looking after the place, that he informed me that Tony had passed away in the summer (while gardening on 22nd June – perhaps suitably for this real life Oak King). I knew he was old and half-expected to hear something each time I’ve been up over the last couple of years. He was in his eighties, but he was tough as nails, and still kept working down in the woods. Yet still it was a shock – horrible news on a bitter day. The sad thing was many of his friends and colleagues were not informed – there was no memorial service for him. But he will not be forgotten. I will think of him every time I visit. He made these woods what they are – buying the place when it was in a mess and painstakingly restoring the gardens in the woods and sensitively managing it. Rocks East is a working wood – timber and firewood is the main income – but it has one of the best campsites around and some good trails and resources for school-children. The centre is low, timbered and blends in the woodland well, nestled in a little ampitheatre, its roof covered in moss and lichen. The place isn’t overmanaged – the campsite doesn’t have the usual eyesore plugins. The facilities are a little ramshackle, but that’s part of its charm. It is a pretty unique place and we’ve held some pretty unique events there – a druid/maori camp, for instance – thanks to the open-mindedness and pioneering spirit of Tony Philips. He was one of a kind. I remember him saying he was instigating things, like the redwood avenue, that he would not see the culmination of. Unlike many around today – he did not leave the Earth impoverished by his impact, but enriched. He has left a legacy – at Rocks East and at Broker’s Wood, the other wood he owned – for future generations to enjoy. Through the beautiful green spaces he created, the ‘old man of the woods’ will live on.

One of the many glowing tributes that appeared on the local newspaper website, following the announcement, sums up the general feeling: ‘Heaven’s garden however will bloom just that little bit brighter now.’

This sad news made my visit to the millennium grove even more poignant. It was touching to be there ten years on from when we planted it – some no longer with us, but the trees planted in their names provide a positive living memorial. Death is part of the natural cycle of things – and standing their in a ‘naked’ wood on a freezing winter’s day, this hard truth was driven home … but there is the reassuring fact that … life goes on. There is the promise of Spring, of rebirth. I noticed some trees even had buds on them, tiny slithers – like pen nibs dipped in ink, waiting to write the book of the year.

I walked back up – it was starting to get dark and I had to go while some light still remained, and before the roads froze over. I past the two yurts where the woodsman and his wife dwell. Smoke curled invitingly from the chimney of one. To most, living in such a place in winter would seem insane, but they are designed for cold climates.

I talked briefly with Philip, who was looking after the place by himself. We discussed the possibility of doing something for Tony at the woods in the warmer months – plant a tree (although the whole wood is his memorial), have a gathering of remembrance … something. I left determined to not let Tony fade away.

I set off, turning right at Hunter’s Hall, where an infamous murder took place (caused by a nasty highwayman), onto the Fosseway – then stopped briefly at the Three Shire’s Stone, the remains of a cromlech, moved from its original position – although that couldn’t have been very far as the four stones – three uprights and a cap stone – are massive and must weigh several tonnes. Not far from here, on a snowy day at the turn of the millennium (the same day I came up to collect the trees for the grove I believe), I came and buried a time capsule. It was a comforting thought to know it was still there – some kind of continuity. The sun was setting in the west – a bloody yoke pierced on a pollarded stump, oozing its load over the horizon. I thought of Tim (who gave a talk here, at one of my events) and Tony – and wished them both peace in the Summerlands.

death and rebirth at midwinter - Stoney Littleton long barrow, solstice, Dec 09 - KM

Bardic Yuletide

Yuletide Gathering at the Cauldron, Dec '09

Yuletide Gathering

19th December

Although I am not a Christian (but not un- or anti-) and Christmas means little to me in terms of its specific religious symbolism I can appreciate the wider mythic meta-tropes at work in narratives about the return of the light in the depths of winter – be it in the form of an avatar, sun king, solar deity, or simply the sun itself – and I enjoy Yuletide with all its festive trimmings. I love the holly and the ivy, the mistletoe, the tree, the candles, the wassailing, the rosy-cheeks of the carol singers, the shining eyes of the children and most of all – the gathering around the hearth and connecting with loved ones. Beyond all the consumerism and emotional blackmail (the Scrooge story hauled out every year to make curmudgeonly humbugs buckle) this is ultimately what the season is all about, as encoded in the message that is often forgotten in the stressful run-up to the big day: Peace on Earth and Goodwill to all Mankind. A message often drowned out in the endless partying, the booze-ups and bust-ups, the relentless television and shopping frenzy. Yet I decided to try and ‘do my bit’ and acquit myself socially by opening my doors to friends last night for my Yuletide Gathering.

I spent the day preparing the house – cleaning, decorating (with holly and ivy I had gathered outside), making food, sorting out music and so forth. It was quite relaxing – especially the cooking: nothing elaborate, just a vegetable winter stew, mulled wine and mince pies. Once the fairy lights were up and I had hung the mistletoe and lit the candles and some frankincense and myrrh, I felt I had created a lovely Christmassy ambience. All I needed now were some guests … I guess I shouldn’t have expected anyone to turn up on time, but when it was 7.30pm and still no one had arrived I was starting to feel a little anxious … the nasty goblin in my head telling me ‘you don’t have any friends, nobody likes you!’ – then I heard footsteps and they all started to arrive. Suddenly the party was happening!

I served up goblets of mulled wine as folk arrived – wrapped up on a chilly night (it did try to snow earlier; and the country is beset with wintry conditions – flurries of flakes on the tracks!) and offered them some stew. Folk brought offerings and soon the kitchen surfaces were overflowing. After the majority of the guests had arrived and made themselves comfortable I asked for some peace to start a session of sharing – beginning with a poem about stillness, to tie in with the time of year. I talked briefly about how the solstice means stillness: the atmosphere changed, became ‘sacred’ – just through the simple act of going round in a circle and sharing. People offered poems, songs, anecdotes. There was a poem in Icelandic by my friend Svanur and a song in Korean by Jin (a government-censored protest song about ‘dew’). I ended the first session by getting everyone to read out a verse of Carol Anne Duffy’s poem, The Twelve Days of Christmas, from the Radio Times – very topical and amusing in places. It allowed those who didn’t have a chance to join in.

Later, I asked people to sit round once more to share the meadhorn – an ‘old tradition’ of mine, which actually has precedents dating back to the Dark Ages. It’s mentioned in Beowulf and in the 13th Century a custom was observed that involved toasting ‘Wassail!’ and replying ‘drink hail!’ before passing on the wassail bowl/meadhorn – with a kiss. Everyone joined in this with gusto – the first time, folk were a little embarrassed and came out with relatively trivial toasts, a little glib or silly. The second time it got a little bit more authentic, and the third time, folk were being far more genuine. It worked its simple magic. A powerful but effective way to create sacred space.

And then the partying started in earnest – whether it was the mead, or the tension release, but suddenly, dramatically the atmosphere changed to something far more merrier than before. Songs were sung and everyone joined in – corny Christmas carols, but good fun. There was some Icelandic blues (!) from Svanur and other ‘campfire classics’ like the Pete Seeger song, ‘Where Have All the Flowers Gone?’ It turned out to be truly great night. There was the perfect amount of people there, and a good mix. Everyone seemed to get on and didn’t seem to want to leave…

The best sign of a good night is the atmosphere of the room afterwards. There was a lovely warm glow. Good vibes. Everyone was said goodbye with hugs and kisses. There wasn’t too much to clear up – the worst was tidied away, the washing up left til morning. It was late. Went to bed in good spirits and awoke with fond memories. – and a head not too fuzzy, considering. A good fry-up and a walk in the winter sun and I was feeling on top of the world.

Changing of the Bards

20th December

Jack Dean, the 14th Bard of Bath

On Sunday night I went along to the annual contest for the Bardic Chair, this year held at ‘Back to Mine’, a nightclub – another first! Each bard gets to stamp their identity on it. Master Duncan, 13th Bard of Bath, being our youngest to date (until tonight!) has appealed to a younger demographic with his hiphop style and topical lyrics. Tonight he pulled out all the stops to create an entertaining night blending poetry, music and dance.

The dancefloor ‘well’ was transformed into a grove with Christmas trees from the farm of one of Duncan’s contacts. Birdsong was piped through the PA, creating an effect very similar to my Garden of Awen, started two months before… Ah, well – a sign of flattery I suppose. The first half consisted of a cabaret of various acts: a powerful singer-guitarist; a rapper; a flamenco guitarist; and a rather raunchy dance troupe called Nice-as-Pie.

swansong - Master Duncan, 13th Bard of Bath. Final performance as Bard

After the break, MC Duncan performed a couple of his poems as his final performance as Bard of Bath, before the contestants were called up. A coin was tossed and called. ‘Tails never fails’, said Jack Dean, and sure enough it was, though Duncan thought it was ‘heads’! Perhaps he had a suspicion that it would have been easier on Dave Selby, the other act, because Jack’s blistering tour-de-force was a hard act to follow. Not wanting in ambition, he interpreted the theme, ‘The Last B—-‘, in a Biblical sense, telling us he was going to do a version of the Bible! Although this wasn’t strictly the case, he did cover the history of the universe up until 2012, ending in a kind of armageddon – the finale being an ‘8 Mile’ rap battle between Jesus and Jack! Funny and technically impressive, as he performed over his backing track in perfect time.

The other contestant, Dave Selby, had a tough job following that, but soldiered on like a trooper. Although hampered by a Withnailian weakness, he entertained the crowd with a grim fairy tale delivered in a louche Dave Allen style. Quite distinctive! He made people laugh, and it help make it a contest – and should be applauded for his contribution.

Throughout the performances, Richard Carder, chief druid, held his hands over his ears, sitting next to the other two judges, like one of the three wise monkeys (hear no evil). The effect was unintentionally hilarious.

While the judges deliberated the dancers came on – like a pared down Pan’s People – doing very well in such a small space!

Then finally the judges returned and Master Duncan announced the winner – milking it for dramatic effect, X-Factor style – no surprise to hear it was Jack! He was called up, stumbling over a stool (life is full of unintentionally comic moments, don’t you find?) Duncan handed over the robes and Jack performed a poem, receiving a warm round of applause. He was clearly a popular choice.

Then the Bards of Bath present were called up – which I wasn’t keen to do, being ‘off duty’ and because the ceremony is so naff. We stood in a circle, held hands and Richard half-heartedly took us through the Druid Vow (x2) and an awen (x1). It seemed ludicrous in that setting, but has become ‘tradition’. Lords know what the crowd there thought of it all! The day after we perform a proper inauguration ceremony at the Circus – noon on the solstice: this is the time for ritual, not a night-club. It was a very poor attempt to create sacred space, and I suggested to Richard the next day that we skip this element.

Miranda, who embroidered the Bardic robes and Chair backing, said to me it had lost its spirit – no mention of the solstice, or what it all means. A fair point. Tim, its much-missed founder, had a knack of relating to widely different audiences. Richard, who took over as Chief Druid, should have gone up at the start and introduced things, put it into context, but he was late arriving. I wonder how many people who came along that night realised what it was all about…? In hindsight I could have done some leaflets to place on the tables – a little background about the Bardic Chair, or had my Book of the Bardic Chair on sale… (if I hadn’t been stupidly busy over the last few days). Still, it was a ‘successful’ night – a good atmosphere, some great performances, and a promising new bard. Whether we like it or not, the Bardic Chair has a life of its own now – and looks like it will continue, in one form or another – with new blood revitalising it every year. And since the next generation are our future, garnering their interest is essential for the Bardic Tradition’s vitality and longevity.

If Dr Who can have a young actor fill the role (Matt Smith hailing from my old home town, Northampton) then perhaps we can too! As with the super-annuated Timelord, the subsequent inheritor’s of the title, have become increasingly younger (like Merlin, or Benjamin Button, living in reverse). Our annual ‘changing of the bards’ has become as much a part of the modern Yuletide celebrations (in Bath) as RTD’s rebooted Who has on Christmas Day telly – but of course, our entertainment is live, grassroots and community-focused. Long may it continue.

As I left it started to snow.

***

Jack Dean, the new bard, and Master Duncan, outgoing bard

The following day – the ‘official’ solstice – a small group of us gathered in the Circus in the centre of Bath to hold our traditional winter solstice ceremony and inauguration of the new bard. It was freezing and icy underfoot as I made my way (carefully) to the Circus, through the crowds of Christmas shoppers. I got there at noon to find Richard the druid and the two bards, outgoing and new. That was it. We were joined by Thommie Gillow, the 12th Bard, her wee bab and a couple of her friends from Cardiff. So, our small and merry band set to work. Richard led the ceremony of ‘Alban Arthuan’, as modern druids like to call it, and kept it mercifully brief. We used scripts, which isn’t my preference, but they helped since most of the participants had little experience in such things, but they all joined in in good spirits. We called the quarters: I had to call the east, my usual (Richard didn’t even ask, knowing that’s my preference – although on such a chilly day, calling the fire in the south would have been a better option!). We recited the Gorsedd Prayer and did an awen. Jack was welcomed to the Gorsedd and asked to perform a poem. Master Duncan also shared one. Halfway through the ceremony, Thommie suddenly dashed off, as though filled too full of awen – a traffic warden had spotted her car! She caught him just in time, but had to move it. All the while, her little toddler never made a sound but just stood there, with enormous gloves on, looking astonished (the default look of toddlers). Richard brought the ceremony to a brisk end … I suggested three cheers for the new bard (although in the cold, it came out as ‘three chairs’!). I took a couple of photographs for the press release and archives and then we separated, leaving only Richard and I to decamp to the Chequers for some much-needed refuelling… It’s been a Bard Day’s Night!

Sulyen Caradon, Druid of Caer Badon

***

And the bardism does not end there – tonight is the tenth anniversary of the Bath Storytelling Circle, which should be a special evening. I am going to be one of the three hosts, as one of the organisers of the circle (along with Anthony, its founder, and David, its current ‘chair’). There should be a feast of fine storytelling, poetry and song … what better way to spend the longest night of the year?

The oral tradition is very much alive in Bath … but don’t tell anyone I told you so ;0)

Winter Solstice poem

Solstice Sunset at Stoney Littleton

Solstice Sunset at Stoney Littleton

Here’s a poem I wrote after witnessing winter solstice at Stoney Littleton long barrow three years ago.

 

 

Kevan

Follow the Sun Road Home

 

Awakening to a dreaming world,

The road winding,

The mist rising,

Shadows in the valleys,

Ancient shapes in the land.

 

Crossing the faerie bridge with a kiss,

The brook running deep and clear,

Climbing through fields wet with tears,

To the slumbering barrow on the hill,

The door to the Otherworld is there still.

 

Follow the sun road home

Called by the song of the Sidhe.

Follow the sun road home,

Over the westering sea –

Beyond this world of bones

To the place where the spirit is free.

 

Within the chambered tomb

We wait for the crack of dawn.

Within the dripping darkness

We wait to be reborn.

 

In the stillness and the silence

We listen to our forefathers.

Before the horn of solstice blows

We heed the heartbeat of the mother.

 

Then we feel the thrill of Earth’s quickening.

The gathered hold their breath,

Gaze through the grey –

Wordlessly praying for

A Grail for the sickening.

 

Chorus

 

A  swift kestrel takes wing

The new sun has risen.

Friends depart and wheels turn –

May we meet over the

horizon.

 

Follow the sun road home,

Follow the sun road home.

Down the hollow lanes,

And shining leys,

Following the sun road home.

 

Winter Solstice, 21st December 2005  Kevan Manwaring

Solstice Celebrations

Solstice Sunrise

Solstice Sunrise

22nd December

After a busy week, tying up loose ends and completing projects – last classes, admin, the first draft of my radio drama, The Rabbit Room – a flurry of seasonal celebrations this weekend, from which I’m still recovering!

Saturday, Helen (8th Bard of Bath) and her partner, John the blacksmith, held a gathering at their new shared house over at Southstoke, a large house on the edge of Bath owned by Phil and Jenny. There’s about 8 living in this ‘unintentional community’, which has a green ethos as it’s bedrock. Helen read from her new children’s book, Hope and the Magic Martian, plus a couple of her poems by candlelight, and then there were open floor spots. I did a couple – my mistletoe poem (‘All heal’) and ‘Follow the sun road home’, which I wrote after visiting the nearby long barrow at Stoney Littleton on 21st December 2005. Jay Ramsay was also present and performed some of his profound, heart-felt poems. We also had a good heart-to-heart. And it was lovely to connect with Helen and John again – it’s been quite a while, although I saw Helen at ‘Dancing for the Earth’ late November. As with Jay, Helen is completely committed to her path – and performs with absolute conviction. A woman of integrity and talent.

As of happens this time of year there was more than one party happening on the same night, and I wanted to pop into Kim and Phil’s later – but the taxi driver had some trouble finding me, out in the sticks, due to being misdirected by his office. He finally caught up with me as I hiked along the road back to ‘civilisation’. I made it to the second party, high above Bath on Richmond Place at about 11.30pm! Although folk were surprised to see me, the party was still very much in full swing and it was nice to see folk. I didn’t stay too long as I was seriously flagging by this point, and there was alot to do the next day…

As was glad I had done the bulk of preparation for my solstice celebration the day before, as I woke a little late and a little delicate! Still, I managed to give the place a quick clean and have everything ready for when guests would arrive after the solstice ceremony in the Circus, which I dashed to. Here we publicly declared ‘in the eye of the sun’, Master Duncan as the new Bard of Bath, and celebrated the turning of the wheel with a good ceremony from Sulyen Richard Caradon and his partner, Misha, former Ovate of Bath. There was only eight of us but we did the works, and it felt good – especially as the sun came out in the middle of David’s story, right on cue! Hearing Master Duncan perform one of his poems which started ‘There’s too many poets…!’ was great as well – his voice booming around the three crescents of the Circus. I wonder if Nicolas Cage was listening in?

Afterwards, I swiftly made my way back to flat, joined almost straight away by Richard, Misha, Lizzie and Mairead – and so the party began! It was a relaxed afternoon affair – which was just as well after the night before! There was a lovely atmosphere created as folk gathered around my hearth and shared stories, songs and poems on light, rebirth, renewal and winter in general. Mairead led us in some singing ’rounds’. Sheila sang some beautiful Gaelic carols. Richard shared his ‘green song’. Svanur arrived later to share with us an Icelandic tale, which was a treat. Also had Mika, a Finnish research student and his wife, Maarit, present – so with all our ‘tales from the North’ we had a distinctly Arctic feel. Anthony told the amusing story of how the bear lost its tale, and his partner, Kirsty, shared her own funny story. I asked a couple of people to recite SpringFall, my bardic chair winning poem, (10 years old!) and David and Misha kindly obliged. It was a real thrill to hear it being performed by other voices for the first time. It was designed for two actors, a man and a woman, and was originally performed by myself and Emily at ‘Enchanted Wood’, Walcot Chapel, Summer 98. I have just produced a tenth anniversary edition of the booklet, and today was the launch. In the spirit of MR James, I read out the previously unpublished ghost story, ‘Taking the Waters’, from the new edition. All I needed was a smoking jacket!

The gathering slowly wound down by about 7 or 8, which was my intent. The final stragglers left and I cleared up the aftermath – well worth the mess! It was great to have a gathering at the Cauldron again – I haven’t felt like it since last Twelfth Night (my Dad dying five days after). It was wonderful for the house to be filled with awen and good cheer again – the lovely warm atmosphere in the room after everyone had departed was a clear sign it had been a successful event, as was my own ‘warm feeling. Forging such memories fill one’s heart.

After a dark, difficult year in many ways, for many of us – it really felt like a rekindling of the light.

I felt so fired up afterwards, that I typed out my old mummers’ play, The Head of Winter, also performed ten years ago at the first Bardic Festival of Bath in a commedia dell arte style by local friends – it had been hand-written back then and needed tidying up. Having worked on drama for stage, screen and radio lately I found it easy to lick it into shape. The next morning I posted it on the Silver Branch forum – offering my merry contribution for midwinter amusement.

All Heal

 

Between the earth and the stars

it hangs like a threat

of love,

a promise of bliss.

White bubbles to

burst on your lips like a kiss.

 

This is old druid magic, ancient fertility

 rite in your living room,

live in front of plasma screen.

Raise a glass to the golden bough,

to Baldur’s bane,

Aeneas’ passport to Hades and back.

 

On oak and lime and apple

how the mistletoe glows

like a swarm of green bees,

berries of awen waiting

for the glint of sickle

in the virgin midwinter sun.

 

 

Kevan Manwaring

Christmas Eve 2006