CELTIC BOAT #2
'TASHLIKH'
imaginary stories
Probably somewhere, sometime, in maybe just another lifetime I will find my way out of these shores. In my imaginary pictures of sunken ships, in my vivid dreams of drifting ships, melodies of pirates, sea travellers, ocean lovers, mermen, son of a bitches and crooks, one eye bastsrds, drunken smelly rifle owner, and everyone jilted by the waves of my Celtic sea, my An Mhuir Cheilteach where warmth has been my home. Suddenly I was the one to disappear, shunned as if I never existed.
Last time I was seen was when I was running barefoot on a cold evening Friday night. I ran so fast that my feet bled by the shells and stones. The closer bar had their music playing. I could hear it. But what I had felt and what I had heard only I could tell since no one could find me since that night. I was just like the sunken ships. But that wasn't the end. I'm here to tell the story.
Twice a year we gather together. Once before and once after winter. Timing was an important things but more than timing, heart prepared for a special occasion. And time has come.
Time has come to throw. A more ancient tradition of an ancient people from an Holy land where our savoir is born call it 'Tashlikh'.
This Tashlikh is where we send away to waters all that we need to send away. Here we burn.
I need to send my love. I need to send my pain. My unanswered prayers. Usually my message is put in a bottle in hope it'll be received somewhere sometime on another end. This time I wrapped it well with leaves and flowers and carried myself toward the fire but something bad stopped me. I bend, I ran into the water. The tide had caught me.
I'm a drifter as the tides.
Together with my past I fade
Into a mystery I sank and bled.
*
-Song of the Sea-
A great tempest rages on the Plain of Ler,
bold across its high borders
Wind has arisen, fierce winter has slain us;
it has come across the sea,
It has pierced us like a spear.
When the wind sets from the east,
the spirit of the wave is roused,
It desires to rush past us westward
to the land where sets the sun,
To the wild and broad green sea.
When the wind sets from the north,
it urges the dark fierce waves
Towards the southern world, surging
in strife against the wide sky,
Listening to the witching song.
When the wind sets from the west
across the salt sea of swift currents,
It desires to go past us eastward
towards the Sun-Tree,
Into the broad long-distant sea.
When the wind sets from the south
across the land of Saxons of mighty shields,
The wave strikes the Isle of Scit,
it surges up to the summit of Caladnet,
And pounds the grey-green mouth
of the Shannon.
The ocean is in flood, the sea is full,
delightful is the home of ships,
The wind whirls the sand around the estuary,
Swiftly the rudder cleaves the broad sea.
With mighty force the wave has tumbled
across each broad river-mouth,
Wind has come, white winter has slain us,
around Cantire, around the land of Alba,
Slieve-Dremon pours forth a full stream.
Son of the God the Father, with mighty hosts,
save me from the horror of fierce tempests!
Righteous Lord of the Feast, only save me from the horrid
blast, From Hell with furious tempest!
Song of the sea-
Rónán mac Colmáin was an Irish poet who died 707. Rónán is said to be the author of the poem Song of the Sea, however new evidence has shown that it might to date from the 11th-century. The mystery remains…
@ All Rights Reserved to me. Story of Celtic Boat is a fruit of my imagination and more to come. If you like it write and tell me.
Pictures from Pinterest. I do not own any of these pictures.
'TASHLIKH'
imaginary stories
Probably somewhere, sometime, in maybe just another lifetime I will find my way out of these shores. In my imaginary pictures of sunken ships, in my vivid dreams of drifting ships, melodies of pirates, sea travellers, ocean lovers, mermen, son of a bitches and crooks, one eye bastsrds, drunken smelly rifle owner, and everyone jilted by the waves of my Celtic sea, my An Mhuir Cheilteach where warmth has been my home. Suddenly I was the one to disappear, shunned as if I never existed.
Last time I was seen was when I was running barefoot on a cold evening Friday night. I ran so fast that my feet bled by the shells and stones. The closer bar had their music playing. I could hear it. But what I had felt and what I had heard only I could tell since no one could find me since that night. I was just like the sunken ships. But that wasn't the end. I'm here to tell the story.
Twice a year we gather together. Once before and once after winter. Timing was an important things but more than timing, heart prepared for a special occasion. And time has come.
Time has come to throw. A more ancient tradition of an ancient people from an Holy land where our savoir is born call it 'Tashlikh'.
This Tashlikh is where we send away to waters all that we need to send away. Here we burn.
I need to send my love. I need to send my pain. My unanswered prayers. Usually my message is put in a bottle in hope it'll be received somewhere sometime on another end. This time I wrapped it well with leaves and flowers and carried myself toward the fire but something bad stopped me. I bend, I ran into the water. The tide had caught me.
I'm a drifter as the tides.
Together with my past I fade
Into a mystery I sank and bled.
*
-Song of the Sea-
A great tempest rages on the Plain of Ler,
bold across its high borders
Wind has arisen, fierce winter has slain us;
it has come across the sea,
It has pierced us like a spear.
When the wind sets from the east,
the spirit of the wave is roused,
It desires to rush past us westward
to the land where sets the sun,
To the wild and broad green sea.
When the wind sets from the north,
it urges the dark fierce waves
Towards the southern world, surging
in strife against the wide sky,
Listening to the witching song.
When the wind sets from the west
across the salt sea of swift currents,
It desires to go past us eastward
towards the Sun-Tree,
Into the broad long-distant sea.
When the wind sets from the south
across the land of Saxons of mighty shields,
The wave strikes the Isle of Scit,
it surges up to the summit of Caladnet,
And pounds the grey-green mouth
of the Shannon.
The ocean is in flood, the sea is full,
delightful is the home of ships,
The wind whirls the sand around the estuary,
Swiftly the rudder cleaves the broad sea.
With mighty force the wave has tumbled
across each broad river-mouth,
Wind has come, white winter has slain us,
around Cantire, around the land of Alba,
Slieve-Dremon pours forth a full stream.
Son of the God the Father, with mighty hosts,
save me from the horror of fierce tempests!
Righteous Lord of the Feast, only save me from the horrid
blast, From Hell with furious tempest!
Song of the sea-
Rónán mac Colmáin was an Irish poet who died 707. Rónán is said to be the author of the poem Song of the Sea, however new evidence has shown that it might to date from the 11th-century. The mystery remains…
@ All Rights Reserved to me. Story of Celtic Boat is a fruit of my imagination and more to come. If you like it write and tell me.
Pictures from Pinterest. I do not own any of these pictures.
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