Enchanted Britain

 

There is someone who knows - 

Which sorrow it is

That is better than joy.

Adjacent to my weekend treat of a lavender latte from my neighborhood Concord Coffee, I dipped my toes into the new translation (and ended up reading the whole thing) of The Book of Taliesin, translated by the Welsh poets Gwyneth Lewis and Rowan Williams (former Archbishop of Canterbury). This book is a collection of the ancient poems, passed down for generations and centuries mostly written in the 13th century from the 6th century. It is story and Celtic history from Wales and inspiration for a lot of literary and creative history up to our current century. 

I really enjoyed reading this book of ancient Welch poetry that I haven't experienced before:

Do librarians know

Whence night and floods flow?

How they are laid low?

Where does night flee from dawn

So it can't be seen?

Taliesin is a poet, seer, shape-shifter, bard, holding the memory of battles in Britain. This stanza could have been inserted into my new book Selador: The Secret Paths. It is amazing to me as I read words recounted from the 6th century in the 13th century how they somehow resonate with my little tale being told today in my creative imagination. How is it that these ancient words can describe elements that I explore in my own creative story? It says to me that the ancient tales are within us, as humans before us also explored creatively the big questions of life and philosophized. My own words build upon the bones of those who came before me. They pondered the questions of the unknown, just like we do. I am a tiny piece of that here in the 21st century. Here I am to ask questions, maybe not answerable, but that can be explored through story.

So what I do in my small way is what the writers did in these texts over the course of 700 years, as writers put these myths together from oral traditions. Before there was writing there was memory and oral story telling. Writing and the codex became a way to pass down the stories, and our memories shifted away from holding the whole of a story in intangible ways. None of us today is a bard - one assigned to remember the tales and history of a people. It is all in books. So, we have to seek it out and see through the eyes and stories in written format of the ancient Celtic people.

What joy it is to discover this collection of poems. It is new to me, but like the other myths of countries (for example, the Icelandic Prose Edda and Poetic Edda or the Finnish Kalevala) this collection tells the myths of the Welsh - northern England, and Scottish lowlands in stories and myths of their place. I will let these words swim around in my imagination.

The Lord who will make us - drunk with delight.

I'm a cell, I'm a splinter - I'm a shape-shifter,

A library of song, - a sanctuary for the reader.

I love wooded slopes, - I love warm shelters,

I love real poets - who don't buy reputations.

I don't love those - who live by argument,

And mockers of poetry - will merit no wealth.