Lemurian Gypsy Camp

Long long ago, we came
from the land of the lotus
and the laughing elephant God.

We saw no borders,
or in truth, we ignored them,
through mountain passes and lonely roads;
the stars our roof, the grass our beds.

Northwards we spread,
Growing the tribes,
picking up strays
Who followed us and needed to belong.

They chose to be like us,
to become one with the people of the road.

We are Rom, zigani, travellers,
our names are as many as our pathways.

We are the Travelling People.

The Crossroads Dance always took place on a Sunday, after Church – the reasoning being that everyone will meet at the crossroads anyway, on their way home.

The dusty road was no good for dancing, so a couple of burly farm workers would haul a barn door (or in some places, a floor would be made and kept for the purpose) to the crossroads and lay it down for a dance floor.

Word would go out, and the gypsies would be there, hawking their wares, as well as fiddle players, dancers and bodhran and pipe players from all around the area.

Young gosheens would roost in the trees around the crossroads, where they could watch the fun. Families would bring picnics and lay out their tablecloths in the nearby fields or on the grass verge. If there were travelling showmen in the area you might even see a set of swinging boats or a merry-go-round.

The dance would start as soon as the first musician got there, because the fiddler, piper or bodhran player couldn’t wait to get the rhythm going.

In Ireland, talent is not the main requirement if you want to sing, dance or play. As Dominic Behan (the folk singing brother of writer Brendan Behan) said, “In Ireland, everyone sings, whether they can or not.” Enthusiasm and knowing the words to a song count for a lot more.

If we are lucky, a famed fiddler or pipe player might be there, sawing or piping up a storm of jigs, reels and mournful ballads.

The gosheens up in the trees and the old ladies gathered round the dance floor learn everything worth knowing as they watch the goings on among the crowd. A shy exchange between a red faced young farmer and the demure daughter of the local farrier sets tongues wagging. Their hands link briefly as they stand watching the dancers step out to the fiddler, feet flashing so quickly that you can hardly follow them.

Dougal and Diarmid, the rascally twins from McMinn’s farm, are planning another joke on their long suffering older sister, who has worn her best finery to attract the attention of young Fergus Finnegan. It involves creeping up behind her with handfuls of mud, but luckily their father spots them first and a roar rents the air, sending the twins scuttling back to their Ma for protection.

Romance, bargains and gossip abound, for this was truly a social event and a chance for everyone to get together and exchange news.

(Alas, crossroads dances were banned by the Irish church in 1935, and these days it would simply be too dangerous, with all the traffic about, but here at the Gypsy camp we like to keep old traditions alive.)

Just some stream of consciousness free verse that I am still hammering into shape on the anvil.

Gail

Sometimes I wish
That I had never had children,
And I think, if I ever come back,
I won’t have any.
I’ll spare myself that, at least,
The pain of seeing them
Hurt by life as it hurt me.

I’ll go along with the oft spoken wisdom,
“If you can’t look after your children,
You shouldn’t have them.”
Because we can’t look after them,
No, we can’t. Simple as that.

And maybe someday everyone
Will think the same,
And no one will have children
Because to bring a child into this world
Is nothing less than child abuse
And we are too responsible for that.

And we’ll watch each other grow old,
We’ll watch each other die,
And there will be no one to remember,
Or care.

Then we may wish
That some irresponsible ninny
Of a woman somewhere
Will get herself pregnant
So we can hear
The laughter of a child again.

Posted by Barbara in Gypsy Meetings, Poet’s Forge. add a comment , edit post

This is my first attempt at rhymed verse since my grade school years (and that’s very long ago).

The tempo isn’t just quite right
But I do so love the sentiment.

Sorry! I’ve been trying so many rhymes, I couldn’t resist that couplet when it popped into my mind. And here’s the poem.

A Gypsy Memory

I wander far from family tents
while camping in thick wilderness.
to far explore from all the rest.

Creeping so silent through thick underbrush
breathing so quiet, barely a hush;
the forest arms wrap me with restoring touch.

Then I open my eyes so very wide
and a dark, young girl I really do spy
in colours bright on a sweet Gypsy child.

Quite shy, she hides in a giant oak tree
and peeks around slowly so she can see.
Our eyes do meet, and smile do we.

We smile, oh, a most friendly smile
She beckons; we walk ‘most a mile
And seek her camp of Gypsies wild.

Down to a clearing in the vale
Bright caravans line the deep, green dale
Protected from both wind and gale.

Oh, fabulous tents and ornate spires
Amid the glowing, embered fires
Hear tambourines ring high and higher

In fascination, I can’t hold still
As gypsies sing with robins’ trill
And dance so free on misty rill.

The families from the Middle East
make rice and curry, a fine feast,
their welcome’s true for man or beast.

I find a hammock in the trees
and watch a honking pass of geese
My happiness shall never cease.

But then a yell from mountain high
My father calls and so I cry
“Yes, father, here I am” and sigh.

My Gypsy friend hides with her clan
All dancing and all singing banned
Tents fill with woman and with man.

And slowly I go up the path
to meet my Dad and we rush fast
for he feared we’d meet a Gypsy lass.

This story lies within my heart.
Forced so by race, we had to part
But Gypsies, they’d read my Tarot card.

They’d searched my fortune; it was read
A laugh-filled life and long, they’d said.
Soul mate and I, we’d live well wed.

The Tarot card I’d saved was Lovers.
The life I knew, the mem’ries, hover
surround my bed and quilted cover.

I dream of Gypsies.

Lemuria is full of interesting places to visit, and nurture your creative spirit.
The heart of Lemuria is always the Soul Food Cafe where Heather Blakey reigns supreme as guide, mentor and friend.
On WordPress, start with Riversleigh, the rambling manor house where writers and artists find a safe and nurturing retreat to express themselves. The Taverna Di Muse is lively venue where the Blue Stocking Club meets every week. You can contact Heather to become part of a Soul Food Tour - check out the Grand Tour and be swept away.
There is so much to Soul Food that it would be impossible to list it all here. Just dive in and explore. You’ll find a community dedicated to creative freedom and joy.

Once Grainne lived on the hillside,
A girl with wild dark hair.
And they said she healed those sick with care,
With the herbs she found
In the fertile ground;
She knew all that flourished there.

Once Grainne walked on the hillside,
With the wind in her long dark hair.
And they say she met with the Huntsman there,
Who came in the night
Like a swan in flight,
And saw that she was fair.

They heard her cry out on the hillside.
No human child did she bear.
And he grew like a stag with wild dark hair,
An elfin boy, the Huntsman’s son
Who lived as one
With the hawk and the leaping hare.

Once Grainne lived on the hillside,
Now there is no one there.
And they say one night when the stars were bare,
The Huntsman came like a swooping swan,
And carried off his Elfin son,
And the girl with the wild dark hair.

Gail Kavanagh

The Rom of old, camped for a hundred years in the ‘beautiful valley’ at the foot of Mount Tigor would not have celabrated Christmas as we — but Solstice most certainly — always a reason for dance and song

and to welcome a traveling Bard from Moravia
……………………………………………………………………………………………

This would be best, methinks, sung in the Trevere’ style in which each verse can be presented in a different meter and tune to meet the mood of the audience. Thus the singer can use any method to which their passion drives them.

Three Voices

CHORUS:
He came with staff, came with lute, here with twinkling eye.
Hid within, three voices sure, songs of earth and sky.

Buckskin boots scarce touch the grass, bard of silent moon.
Cloak of simple homespun, seized by ring of bone.
Laughter like bells aringing, strong voice wind in the trees.
No weapon did he hold, no foe on land or seas.

CHORUS:

His first voice was that of an ancient Jongleur bold,
Magic song trembling low to tell of ballads old.
Then lyric swing to heaven’s height, to seize soul’s claim
On dreams of knights and honor, and true archer’s aim.

CHORUS:

The second voice could be heard in shadowed glade,
Or by tinkling spring of soft fern and fairie bade.
Whistles, chimes and whispered chant; hear now Mother Earth.
Child laughter, call of the deer, feel the song of birth.

CHORUS:

Voice made three was meant for me, shot into my heart.
Stir quick my soul, make me blush, never to depart.
He strode away into the dawn, lilting song most dear.
Of child now within my loins, he will never hear.

CHORUS (slow - minor key)

Fire Draw

You cannot give our fire but a glance,
or walk right by with never a chance
to be one with it and know its heart,
of which death and birth both take part

Huddle close for warmth or skying,
embers pulse with endless dreaming –
gone those discarded writs of sorrow,
smoky prayer for joy tomorrow.

Far the mountain of bright yearning,
forgotten more the sea left churning.
Claim the now by fire’s entrancing –
be one with all who fuel its burning.

Join the campfire of Gypsy haven,
sense the presence of nighttime Raven;
share food and drink and storied wonder,
growing, learning from one another.

faucon

A frail shapeless form pushing a rickity cart
dropped a fraying coat –
and in giving it to her
I looked into her eyes.

papa
…………………………………………………………………………

BAG LADY

They had called her a traveler
‘cause she wandered hither gone;
but in truth she was only lost,
being forgotten long from home.

They had fancied her a Gypsy
‘since she danced with silver bells,
but in truth her swirled colored skirts
were from a wash-line fair and found.

The thought her but a withered crone
as she mem’ried n’er child nor kin;
but in truth she but hid inside,
all the laughter she might have known.

No one looks her quite in the eye
for want of seeing their own fears;
but in truth she danced with sunshine
if they would but expend some time.

I knew her as the girl next door
whom I might have claimed and wed;
but in truth I let love slip away
for hearing mind instead of heart.

So wave to every bag lady
and help them across street ‘n park;
for it truth she’s just like yer mom
‘cept I took simple trust away.

I appreciate your comment about the incredible sunset of Trigor and would show it here also for those avoiding a ‘Tour’. But also find a glimpse of sunrise across the meadow which was once home to early Gypsies.

faucon (also a Golden Eagle of Trigor)
…………………………………………………………………………….

as a bit of Gypsy magic, I wrote to the photographer of the SunSet picture, telling him of what I was doing with early myths of Karantania which might lead to a book, and he has given permission to use this photo (selling for hunders of dollars) as the cover. “If you don’t ask …”