Can you hear the strings vibrating?
It is the sound of someone’s heart
of someone who loves but can’t wait
the remaining seconds before the next kiss
Can you hear that wonderful sound?
Believe, it’s me, dreaming
of you holding in your hands, the harp of life
The strings are vibrating with a passion, with the love
If the sound had smell, it would be the smell of love
the scent of a rose, which comes from you
in the garden of life
where you are the most beautiful flower
Do not deny you love me, I can feel it
in the tenderness of your hands
In your body, like the sound of the harp playing
Sweetness, is to be embraced in your burning kisses
Listening to the harp and your poetry under the moonlight
The day will have more light, I see it eventually (in my dreams)
Listen to the strings vibrating, shaking the body as it comes and goes
As the bee and flower, honey sucking the sweetness the garden possesses.
From which races, I am, was and will be?
Which colors and creeds, which luck?
How many lives lived and will live?
Died and will die of how many deaths?
How many loves and dreams and hopes
How much faith, how much pain
was I Mom or Dad, of how many children?
how many torments, and horrors?
How many children have I cried, in so many wars?
How many children have I raised and was happy?
How many bodies, how many waters, how many lands
did I touch, kissed, love and was root?
And how many times yet, to give me?
How many lives still to be reborn?
How many mouths, yet to be kissed?
How many deaths, yet to die?
Yet, conformed, I sing the song
The march, the mission, the pain that screams
And I got butterflies by my side
Made, like me, of Love and Land! …
One day, I lived a divine life
I lived among Gods, all around and inside me,
but this life proved to be too easy to a complex mind,
So, I went down, to live a less real life, but,
Arriving there, I found an enchanted life,
not so visible, but enchanted,
I lived among unicorns and fairies, in the midst of forests and rivers.
But that life was too ethereal for a body as physical as mine.
So, I walked … to live a less magical life, but more palpable.
Arriving there, I found a house of great splendor,
a palace, but magical,
I lived among kings and princesses, inside great halls and festivals,
But this life, was too cold for a warm heart.
So, I danced … to live a less noble life, but more palpable.
Arriving there, I found a battle field,
where I could feel the cold war and the heat of the bodies,
I lived among heroes and traitors, in the midst of swords and spears,
But this life, was too gray for someone with hope.
So, I run… to live a less heroic life, but more palpable.
Then I found the “hut”
Simple, where the moon shone silver, and the smells were as the feelings within me,
I lived between the divine love and the cold war,
however, this life proved in its colours and pain that my love and difficulties were worth to be experienced.
So, I died … the arms of the one I love
to live more real, magical, noble, heroic and divine life.
To continue our Romance posts (and I am holding my fingers not to write about Shakespeare), I thought I should say something about Tristan and Iseult. Which is another very famous romance/ tragedy, which was very well explored by the media, and people tend to forget. Not me though….
Tristan and Iseult’s conflict of love and loyalty is one of the classic tales of Western literature; in the Arthurian tradition, their tragic trajectory rivals and complements that of Lancelot and Guinevere.
The legend of Tristan and Iseult is an influential romance and tragedy, retold in numerous sources with as many variations. The tragic story is of the adulterous love between the Cornish knight Tristan (Tristram) and the Irish princess Iseult (Isolde, Yseult, etc.). The narrative predates and most likely influenced the Arthurian romance of Lancelot and Guinevere.
There are two main traditions of the Tristan legend. The early tradition comprised the French romances of two poets from the second half of the twelfth century, Thomas of Britain and Béroul. Their sources could be traced back to the original, archetypal Celtic romance. Later traditions come from the Prose Tristan (c. 1240), which was markedly different from the earlier tales written by Thomas and Béroul. The Prose Tristan became the common medieval tale of Tristan and Iseult that would provide the background for the writings of Sir Thomas Malory, the English author, who wrote Le Morte d’Arthur (c. 1469).
The story and character of Tristan vary from poet to poet. Even the spelling of his name varies a great deal, although “Tristan” is the most popular spelling. Most versions of the Tristan story follow the same general outline.
In English, after being mostly ignored for about three centuries, there was a renaissance of original Arthurian literature, mostly narrative verse, in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Tristan material in this revival included Alfred Tennyson’s The Last Tournament, one of his Idylls of the King; Matthew Arnold’s Tristram and Iseult; and Algernon Swinburne’s epic poem Tristram of Lyonesse. After World War II most Tristan texts were in the form of prose novels or short stories.
The basic story is one of mis-directed love: Tristan, the heroic nephew of King Mark of Cornwall, is sent to Ireland to escort the Irish king’s daughter, the beautiful Iseult, to Cornwall to become his uncle’s bride. In most versions, it is during the return voyage that Tristan and Iseult accidentally consume a love potion (meant to ensure Iseult’s happiness with Mark) together, and fall in love. Because Iseult’s engagement to Mark cannot be broken, she marries the king despite her love for Tristan, and the two lovers spend the rest of their lives attempting to satisfy their desire for each other without revealing that desire to Mark and the Cornish court.
If you would like to read one of the versions of this story, you can download the e-book here and also, if you like to read Tennyson’s Idylls of the Kingyou can download the ebook here
The story, as Romeo and Juliet, has caught attention of the media many times along the last century and has also been adapted into film many times. The earliest is probably the 1909 French film Tristan et Yseult, an early, silent version of the story and the most recent Tristan film is 2006′s Tristan & Isolde, produced by Tony Scott and Ridley Scott, written by Dean Georgaris, directed by Kevin Reynolds, and starring James Franco and Sophia Myles.
And let’s not forget the Pre-Raphaelites also loved this theme, as you can see in some of the paintings bellow: CLICK TO SEE THE FULL PAINTING
We can’t deny stories may guide our lives in ways we can’t explain, and I have to confess, the one that have been following me for a long time, is not a very happy one, but I find in it some elements that make my life magical and inspiring… so,if I could choose a poem/ fairytale, as a favourite, I would choose:
“The Lady of Shalott”, which is a Victorian ballad by the English poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892). The poem talks about the Arthurian subject based on medieval sources. What is it about? (Especially for those too lazy to read a good poem!)
The Lady of Shalott lives in an island castle in a river, which flows to Camelot, but the local farmers know little about her.
She seems to be a magical and Her business is to look at the world outside her castle through a mirror, and to weave what she sees into a tapestry/loom. She is forbidden by the magic to look at the outside world directly.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
The farmers who live near her island hear her singing and know who she is, but they never see her.
The Lady sees ordinary people, loving couples, and knights in pairs reflected in her mirror.
One day, she sees the reflection of Sir Lancelot riding alone. Although she knows that it is forbidden, in love, she looks out the window at him.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn’d like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot
The mirror brakes, the tapestry flies off on the wind, and the Lady feels the power of her curse.
Out flew the web and floated wide-
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.
An autumn storm suddenly arises. The lady leaves her castle, finds a boat, writes her name on it, gets into the boat, sets it adrift, and sings her death song as she drifts down the river to Camelot. The locals find the boat and the body, realize whom she is, and are saddened. Lancelot, in Love, prays that God will have mercy on her soul.
Lord Alfred Tennyson’s Inspiration
This is one of Tennyson’s most popular poems. The story of the Lady of Shalott is a version of “Elaine the fair maid of Astolat”, from Thomas Malory’s Morte d’Arthur. Elaine’s naive love for Lancelot was unrequited. She died of a broken heart (committed suicide). Her dead body (with a suicide note between her hands) was floated down the Thames to Camelot.
Some late authors wrote about her, or inspired in Tennyson’s poem, such as, Agatha Christie that wrote a Miss Marple mystery entitled “The Mirror Crack’d From Side to Side”.
Other forms of art were inspired by it, like, The Pre-Raphaelites Brotherhood painters. Where a good example is Waterhouse who made three separate paintings of “The Lady of Shalott”. I have a copy of one of them hanging above my bed… LONG STORY!) CLICK TO ENLARGE
Even in a modern world, we have the exquisite work of Loreena Mckennitt in the following song:
and finally:
THE POEM
The Lady of Shalott – 1842 version
“On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro’ the field the road runs by
To many-tower’d Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow veil’d,
Slide the heavy barges trail’d
By slow horses; and unhail’d
The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower’d Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, ” ‘Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott.”
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower’d Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
“I am half sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel’d
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon’d baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn’d like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro’ the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;
On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow’d
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
“Tirra lirra,” by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look’d down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower’d Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river’s dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance –
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right –
The leaves upon her falling light –
Thro’ the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn’d to tower’d Camelot.
For ere she reach’d upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, “She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.”
This was a very long weekend, since I didn’t work on Friday and it was followed by a Holiday on Monday. Everything was supposed to be perfect, except for the fact that I was in a place I didn’t want to be, and apparently alone. (Even though there were some people walking around).
In these moments I always tend to think “how could people live apart from their loved ones in ancient times?”, I think it was not easy, imagine your beloved travelled… It used to take days, months, if not years, and no internet, nor phone! Letters could take ages. I would never be able to live in such anxiety.
I think I would adopt desperate measures just like any other Heroine from famous romances.
Yes, I bet you thought of Romeo and Juliet, or maybe going a bit further Tristan and Iseult. But I want to go EVEN further… I always think of the Lady of Shalott and Lancelot, or the Celtic Myth of Deirdre.
Deirdre or Derdriu is the most tragic heroine in Irish mythology and pointed to be the inspiration to many other modern love stories (including Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet).
Deirdre was the daughter of the royal storyteller Fedlimid mac Daill. When she was born, Cathbad the druid prophesied that she would be the most beautiful woman in land, and that kings and lords would go to war over her, and Ulster’s three greatest warriors would be forced into exile because of her.
Conchobar mac Nessa, king of Ulster, decided to hide Deirdre in a place only Leabharcham, an old woman would know, so he could marry her when she was old enough. However, she fell in love with Naoise, a handsome young warrior, hunter and singer, who was accompanied by his two brothers—the sons of Uisnech. He and his brother run away to Scotland, but wherever they went the local king would try to kill Naoise and his brothers so he could have Deirdre. Eventually they ended up on a remote island, where Conchobar tracked them down.
He sent Fergus mac Róich to them with a message of safe conduct home, but on the way back to Emain Macha Fergus was waylaid, forced by his personal geis (a kind of curse) to accept any offer of hospitality. He sent them on to Emain Macha with his son to protect them. After they had arrived, Conchobar sent Leabharcham to spy on Deirdre, to see whether or not she had lost her beauty in her long years of travel.
Leabharcham, trying still to protect Deirdre from a marriage to Conchobar, told him she had lost all her beauty. However, Conchobar had sent another spy, Trendhorn, who told him that Deirdre was as beautiful as ever. The next day, Naoise and his brothers, Ardan and Ainle, faced Conchobar, aided by a few Red Branch Knights, before Conchobar evoked their oath of loyalty to him and had Deirdre dragged to his side. At this point, Éogan mac Durthacht threw a spear, killing Naoise, and his brothers were killed shortly after.
Frustrated by Deirdre’s lack of love for him, Conchobar offered her to Éogan mac Durthacht, the man who’d murdered Naoise.
She committed suicide by leaning out of her chariot and dashing her head against a rock. In some versions of the story, she died of grief.
The End
Well, I am certainly not going to jump out of the bus, but I have to admit she was quite brave to do that.
Although it’s a very ancient myth, this story inspired many authors such as Yeats to write plays about it.
There are four plays based on Deirdre’s story: George William Russell’s Deirdre (1902), William Butler Yeats’ Deirdre (1907), J.M. Synge’s Deirdre of the Sorrows (1910), and Vincent Woods’ A Cry from Heaven (2005). There are also two books: Deirdre (1923) by James Stephens and The Celts (1988) by Elona Malterre.
But if you would like to take a look into the complete story, here are some very good versions:
Have you ever met someone, and from that first moment you knew there was something special about them?
When a friendship was formed quickly and easily, and from the start you felt like this person knew you better than anyone ever could. You may have just met an Anam Cara.
Anam Cara is the Gaelic term for a soul friend. It is much more than just a regular friendship – the Anam Cara friendship is deep and transcendent. An Anam Cara knows your thoughts, your feelings, your past and your present sometimes better than you do.
The meaning of Anam cara is Soul Friend – Anam = Soul and Cara = Friend. An Anam cara offers spiritual direction. This includes the invitation to the awakening of your emotional body/mind/soul.
At one time or another we have all felt lonely or isolated. We have all had times were we felt misunderstood; standing on the outside looking in, just longing to belong. The Anam Cara eases that feeling of loneliness and isolation. Our Anam Cara understands us at a deep, spiritual level, and reminds us that we are never alone. They provide shelter from the storm and a light in the darkest of places.
Our Anam Cara is not necessarily our spouse, or partner (though they can be). Frequently our Anam Cara fills the role of a best friend and confidant. An Anam Cara may be a life time friend, who appears to us in childhood and stays with us throughout the years. Or they may appear later in life to accompany us on our journey. They may stay for years, or go out with the tide. However long they stay, their presence is a gift and a blessing.
And just as we are blessed by this relationship, so they are blessed too, because we, also, are an Anam Cara.
A Friendship Blessing
From the book “Anam Cara” By John O’Donohue
May you be blessed with good friends.
May you learn to be a good friend to yourself.
May you be able to journey to that place in your soul where there is great love, warmth, feeling, and forgiveness.
May this change you.
May it transfigure that which is negative, distant, or cold in you.
May you be brought in to the real passion, kinship, and affinity of belonging.
May you treasure your friends.
May you be good to them and may you be there for them;
May they bring you all the blessings, challenges, truth, and light that you need for your journey.
May you never be isolated.
May you always be in the gentle nest of belonging with your anam cara.
This Poem is about a word that only exists in Portuguese. So, before reading the poem, let´s learn a little bit of Portuguese. (Promise it will be fun )
To start with, saudade has been translated into English as to miss. But this simple verb cannot cover the inherent meanings of a word with the strength of all language’s forms: verb, noun, and adjective all succumb to the larger feeling of saudade.
To have saudades (the verb, ter saudades), is the act of feeling, it’s to long for something, to remember or be remembered, to be needed or to need, to miss or to be missed. And saudade is a feminine word often used in the plural to designate the state of missing someone or something, a lifetime, a memory. You cannot just have saudades of someone. It covers the feeling of missing that which never was, the All and the Nothing, all that no longer is, that could have been, that passed away, those silences that we have lost or no longer see or experience.
One does not underestimate the word by applying it to every single side of life. Because saudade is inherent in us, the fact of being Brazilian and speak Portuguese forces us to have saudades. And we have them without noticing, and without worrying about the allied feelings: the pain, the sadness, the loneliness, the suffering, the nostalgia.
Aline Martins - Paranapiacaba-Brazil- Winter 2008
People say: if you have memories, you will never die of loneliness
I say: if you see the world through the heart´s eyes,
You will live to feel, doesn´t matter what.
And in this incessant dialogue between reason, feeling and heart …
lives a word, dear by some, for others … not much.
Saudade,
mysterious word, made up of much more than letters and feelings.
Did the person who invented Saudade know how many feelings
existed in a simple word?
Saudade,
Does saudades exist to rhyme with hope, or perhaps happiness?
…If Saudade really existed to walk along happiness, it wouldn´t be Saudade, it would be reality.
Saudade,
Does not reflect the sunset without you.
Does not reflect our laughter, or our endless conversations through the night.
Does not reflect the empty house, nor reflects my dreams.
Saudade,
Ungrateful word, which describes nothing,
Does not speak of tenderness, does not speak of care, does not talk about you …
Does not reflect your smile, not even your face, how you feel or what you see.
Saudade,
Simple word, sometimes in the plural, deserved a meaning for each consonant and vowel,
so we could describe its infinite feelings, and explanations, which sometimes hurt me so bad.
Saudade,
I prefer thinking it rhymes with love, dreaming, or returning
Or
Is it an eternal longing?
Aline Saudades Martins
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