Filed under: Gypsy Meetings
The theories of Romany Origins have been many; they are the lost tribe of Israel, they were Egyptian (hence `gypsies’) – they have even been suggested to be interstellar wanderers from another planet. But it seems that genetic scientists have finally nailed it – the Romany come from India.
Right here in Oz, at the University of Western Australia, Professor Luba Kalaydjieva and her team discovered the origin of the Rom by studying the DNA of up to 10 million European Gypsies.
The study has been going on for 10 years, and is the best evidence yet of the true origin of the Gypsies.
You can read the full report here.
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.
