At this Season wisdom is found not in speech but in silence.
Stand in Awe.
Commune with your own heart.
Be Still.
Hope and wait.
In Silence.
Not in the mountain rending wind.
Not in the earthquake.
Not in the fire.
A still small voice.
To listen you must be silent.
Attend to the great blue bell of silence.
Conversation flourishes when surrounded by silence.
Hidden treasures in silence sealed.
In silence sealed.
Silence of the stars and of the sea.
For the depths of what use is language?
The music is in the silence.
The silence between the notes.
Can you feel the silence?
Don and Phil Everly with The Boys Town Choir of Nebraska.
There is inestimable mystery and depth in the sound of harmonising human voices and few can have sounded those depths as heart wrenchingly as The Everly Brothers.
Can you feel the silence?
Sinead O’Connor.
A singer who takes tender care of silence.
A singer who can, shockingly for us and for herself, cut to the very quick of life.
Can you feel the silence?
From Duluth in the far North, Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker – Low.
In stillness a perfect marriage of sound and silence.
Can you feel the silence?
Notes :
Thanks to – The King James Bible, Plutarch, Charlotte Bronte, Claude Debussy, Cicero, Edgar Lee Masters and Delmore Schwartz for the inspirations.
The song today is featured in Neil Jordan’s wonderful Film from 1997, ‘The Butcher Boy’ adapted from Patrick McCabe’s astonishing novel.
In my view Sinead O’Connor has shamanistic gifts as a singer and performer (with all the blessings and trials imposed by such gifts).
A performer like Sinead comes along about as often as apples grow on an ivy tree.
If you want to imagine what it might be to die for Love and have a strong heart surrender to Sinead’s incandescent performance here.
In Dublin Town where I did dwell ….
The Butcher Boy
In Dublin town where I did dwell
A butcher boy I loved so well
He courted me, my life away
And now with me he will not stay
I wish I wish but I wish in vain
I wish I was a maid again
But a maid again I ne’er can be
Till apples grow on an ivy tree
She went upstairs to go to bed
And calling to her mother said
Bring me a chair till I sit down
And a pen and ink till I write down
I wish I wish but I wish in vain
I wish I was a maid again
But a maid again I ne’er can be
Till apples grow on an ivy tree
He went upstairs and the door he broke
And found her hanging from her rope
He took his knife
And cut her down and in her pocket
These words he found
“Oh, make my grave large, white, and deep
Put a marble stone at my head and feet
And in the middle a turtle dove
So the world may know I died of love
Geraldine Plunkett Dillon (1891 – 1986) had a fascinating life and after many decades of neglect at last her contribution to Irish culture and letters is being recognised.
’Magnificat’ her only collection of Poems was published by Candle Press of Rathgar in 1917.
It is a work of considerable luminous power.
She also wrote a fascinating memoir, ‘All In The Blood’ which was edited by her grand niece Honor O’ Brolchain.
Geraldine Plunkett Dillon : June
I fill my heart with stores of memories,
Lest I should ever leave these loved shores;
Of lime trees humming with slow drones of bees,
And honey dripping sweet from sycamores.
Of how a fir tree set upon a hill,
Lifts up its seven branches to the stars;
Of the grey summer heats when all is still,
And even grasshoppers cease their little wars.
Of how a chestnut drops its great green sleeve,
Down to the grass that nestles in the sod;
Of how a blackbird in a bush at eve,
Sings to me suddenly the praise of God.
William Orpen (1878 – 1931) was a highly gifted and highly successful Portrait Painter.
The Immortal Jukebox 