Alongside the Grand Canyon, the Great Wall of China and Machu Picchu – so reported the site known as WalesOnline this morning.
We are not biased, but the whole of Wales should be a world site!
WELSH SLATE MINING IS IN MY PATERNAL D.N.A.
Welsh landmark nominated to become Unesco World Heritage site https://www.walesonline.co.uk/news/wales-news/welsh-landmark-nominated-become-unesco-17619325?utm_source=twitter.com&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=sharebar
As global leaders gather in Jerusalem …
Landscape with urn beings.
Conversations
from smoke mouth to smoke mouth.
They eat:
the madhouse-truffle, a slice
of unconcealed poetry,
found tongue and tooth.
A tear rolls back in its eye.
The orphaned, left
half of the scallop-
shell – they gave it to you,
then they bound you –
illuminates the space listening:
the clinker game against death
can begin.
“Landschaft” by Paul Celan and below the opening, repetitive, lines of his ‘Death Fugue’ …
Black milk of the morning we drink it evenings
we drink it at noon and at morning we drink it at night
we drink and we drink …
And these words:
I know, I know and you know, we knew, we did not know, we were here and not there, and occasionally, when only Nothingness stood between us, we found our way to each other.
In 1982 Jacques Derrida wrote: And near the end, at the bottom of the last page, it was as though you had signed with these words: “There are cinders there,” “Cinders there are.” I read, reread them, it was so simple, and yet I knew that I was not there; without waiting for me the phrase withdrew into its secret.
Into The Distance Muteness, afresh, roomy a house -: come, you should dwell there. Hours, fine-tuned like a curse: the asylum in sight. Sharper than ever the air remaining: you must breathe, breathe and be you.
Corn wave swarming with ravens. Which heaven’s blue? Below? Above? Later arrow, that sped out from the soul. Stronger whirring. Nearer glowing. Two worlds touching.
Good to hear Ann ap read it in the original German. Danke
Asked if it meant that someone in Wales was walking around completely immune to cancer, Prof Sewell said: “Possibly. This immune cell could be quite rare, or it could be that lots of people have this receptor but for some reason it is not activated. We just don’t know yet.”
Immune cell that kills most cancers discovered by accident by British scientists https://www.telegraph.co.uk/science/2020/01/20/immune-cell-kills-cancers-discovered-accident-british-scientists/?WT.mc_id=tmg_share_tw via @TelegraphSci
From ‘On Truth and Lie in an Extra-Moral Sense.’
Who Targeted Ukraine Airlines Flight 752? | Defend Democracy Press http://www.defenddemocracy.press/who-targeted-ukraine-airlines-flight-752/
They appeared on January 9th, in an Instagram account called ‘Rich Kids of Tehran‘. Quinn asks how the Rich Kids happened to be in “a low-income housing estate on the city’s outskirts [near the airport] at 6 a.m. on the morning of January 8th with cameras pointed at the right part of the sky in time to capture a missile hitting a Ukrainian passenger plane…?”
Have we been deceived yet again!
Nietzsche: Only through forgetfulness can man ever achieve the illusion of possessing a “truth”
Powerful, insightful words (on many levels) by Rilke from ‘Sonnets to Orpheus’ (1922) …
“In spite of all the farmer’s work and worry, he can’t reach down to where the seed is slowly transmuted into summer.
The earth bestows.”
Wrote William Blake, as he worked on his epic poem called Jerusalem or ‘Albion’ between 1804 -20.
I wonder what epic he would be working on if he lived today?
Jesus and his hero Los had to face the depredations of ” religion hid in war” (nothing really changes does it). People worshipped Satan disguised as ‘God,’ murdering Jesus and his message of forgiveness when they promoted war in his name.
The established churches were content to promote “war and princedom and victory.”
Blake’s response? “Their God I will not worship in their churches” … cries Los ...”O Sons we live not by wrath, by mercy alone we live.”
And in 1813 Shelley wrote in his ‘Queen Medb’ of a giant oak!
‘Thus have I stood, -through a wild waste of years
Struggling with whirlwinds of mad agony,
Yet peaceful, and serene, and self-enshrined,
Mocking my powerless tyrant’s horrible curse
With stubborn and unalterable will,
Even as a giant oak, which heaven’s fierce flame
Had scathèd in the wilderness, to stand
A monument of fadeless ruin there;
Yet peacefully and movelessly it braves
The midnight conflict of the wintry storm,
As in the sunlight’s calm it spreads
Its worn and withered arms on high
To meet the quiet of a summer’s noon …
And the fair oak, whose leafy dome affords
A temple where the vows of happy love
Are registered, are equal in thy sight;
No love, no hate thou cherishest; revenge
And favoritism, and worst desire of fame
Thou knowest not; all that the wide world contains
Are but thy passive instruments, and thou
Regard’st them all with an impartial eye,
Whose joy or pain thy nature cannot feel,
Because thou hast not human sense,
Because thou art not human mind …
A shrine is raised to thee …
If you will go down into yourself, under your surface personality you will find you have a great desire to drink life direct from the source, not out of bottle and bottled personal vessels …
Life from the source, unadulterated with the human taint …
The cool, cool truth of pure vitality pouring into the veins from the direct contact with the source. Uncontaminated by even the beginning of a lie …
And the passion of truth is the embrace between man and his god in the sheer coition of the life-flow, stark and unlying.
(from ‘The Primal Passions’ D H Lawrence b. 1885)
Osip Mandelstam (b. 1891) celebrates the primal passions in his ‘Silentium‘
She has not yet been born: she is music and word, and therefore the un-torn, fabric of what is stirred.
Silent the ocean breathes. Madly day’s glitter roams. Spray of pale lilac foams, in a bowl of grey-blue leaves.
May my lips rehearse the primordial silence, like a note of crystal clearness, sounding, pure from birth!
Stay as foam Aphrodite – Art – and return, Word, where music begins: and, fused with life’s origins, be ashamed heart, of heart!
The Fugitive Stag 