VAN MORRISON, 1972 – Another outtake from the Saint Dominic’s Preview
album cover session. Source: http://www.michaelmagic.com/
— kenne
Van Morrison — Source: Ryan H. Walsh
“Into the Mystic” in Van Morrison’s 1970 Moondance Album
We were borne before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won
As we sailed into the mystic
Hark, now hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic
And when that foghorn blows
I will be coming home
And when the foghorn blows
I want to hear it
I don’t have to fear it and I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
And magnificently we will flow into the mystic
When that fog horn blows
You know I will be coming home
And when that fog horn whistle blows
I got to hear it
I don’t have to fear it and I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
And together we will flow into the mystic
Come on, girl
Too late to stop now
“Into the Mystic” — the words and melody ethereally flowing together as one —
is about a spiritual quest. But over the years the song has become much more —
an affirmation of life for me, and I would like to think for my generation,
as well, should we choose to embrace its sentiments, an anthem of lives
lived as we float down that stream, merrily or otherwise, after leaving
this mortal coil. I am honored that my path intersected with friends departed,
and I am a better person because it did. The fog horn has blown for them
and they will be coming home.
It is indeed too late to stop now.
Computer Art by kenne
“Gratitude is the memory of the heart.”
– Jean Baptiste Massieu
These are the days of the endless summer
These are the days, the time is now
There is no past, there’s only future
There’s only here, there’s only now
Oh, your smiling face, your gracious presence
Oh, the fires of spring are kindling bright
Oh the radiant heart and the song of glory
They’re crying freedom in the night
These are the days by the sparkling river
His timely grace and our treasured find
This is the love of the one magician
Turned the water into wine
These are days of the endless dancing
And the long walks on the summer night
These are the days of the true romancing
When I’m holding you oh so tight
These are the days by the sparkling river
And His timely grace and the treasured find
This is the love of the one great magician
Turned the water into wine
These are the days now that we must savor
And we must enjoy as we can
These are the days that will last forever
You got to hold them in your heart
These are the days
These are the days
These are the days
These are the days
These are the days
These Are the Days, by Van Morrison
These Are the Days Video
Leaves On the Ground (Mt. Lemmon) — Image by kenneLeaves of brown they fall to the ground
And it’s here, over there leaves around
Shut the door, dim the lights and relax
What is more, your desire or the facts
Pitter patter the rain falling down
Little glamor sun coming round
Take a walk when autumn comes to town
Little stroll past the house on the hill
Some more coal on the fire will do well
And in a week or two it’ll be Halloween
Set the page and the stage for the scene
Little game the children will play
And as we watch them while time away
Look at me and take my breath away yeah
You’ll be smiling eyes beguiling
And the song on the breeze
Will call my name out and your dream
Chestnuts roasting outside as you walk
With your love by your side
The old accordion man plays mellow and bright
And you go home in the crispness of the night
Little later friends will be along
And if you feel like joining the throng
Just might feel like singing Autumn song
Just may feel like singing Autumn song
You’ll be smiling
Eyes beguiling
And the song on the breeze
Calls my name out in your dream
Chestnuts roasting outside
As you walk with your love by your side
And the old accordion plays mellow and bright
And you go home in the crispness of the night
Little later friends will be along
And if you feel like joining the throng
Just might feel like singing Autumn song
Just may feel like singing Autumn song
You’ll be smiling
Eyes beguiling
And the song on the breeze
Calls my name out in your dream
–Van Morrison
Autumn Song, by Van Morrison (Video)
Grandsons Jax & Nick — Image by kenne from Kate’s Mobile Phone
Song of Childhood
By Peter Handke
When the child was a child
It walked with its arms swinging,
wanted the brook to be a river,
the river to be a torrent,
and this puddle to be the sea.
When the child was a child,
it didn’t know that it was a child,
everything was soulful,
and all souls were one.
When the child was a child,
it had no opinion about anything,
had no habits,
it often sat cross-legged,
took off running,
had a cowlick in its hair,
and made no faces when photographed.
When the child was a child,
It was the time for these questions:
Why am I me, and why not you?
Why am I here, and why not there?
When did time begin, and where does space end?
Is life under the sun not just a dream?
Is what I see and hear and smell
not just an illusion of a world before the world?
Given the facts of evil and people.
does evil really exist?
How can it be that I, who I am,
didn’t exist before I came to be,
and that, someday, I, who I am,
will no longer be who I am?
When the child was a child,
It choked on spinach, on peas, on rice pudding,
and on steamed cauliflower,
and eats all of those now, and not just because it has to.
When the child was a child,
it awoke once in a strange bed,
and now does so again and again.
Many people, then, seemed beautiful,
and now only a few do, by sheer luck.
It had visualized a clear image of Paradise,
and now can at most guess,
could not conceive of nothingness,
and shudders today at the thought.
When the child was a child,
It played with enthusiasm,
and, now, has just as much excitement as then,
but only when it concerns its work.
When the child was a child,
It was enough for it to eat an apple, … bread,
And so it is even now.
When the child was a child,
Berries filled its hand as only berries do,
and do even now,
Fresh walnuts made its tongue raw,
and do even now,
it had, on every mountaintop,
the longing for a higher mountain yet,
and in every city,
the longing for an even greater city,
and that is still so,
It reached for cherries in topmost branches of trees
with an elation it still has today,
has a shyness in front of strangers,
and has that even now.
It awaited the first snow,
And waits that way even now.
When the child was a child,
It threw a stick like a lance against a tree,
And it quivers there still today.
Mother, Grandmother, Great-Grandmother, Agnes.
Willie Agnes Poe passed away (September 8, 2006) after three months of fighting post-surgery infection. During the last few weeks of Mother’s life, she shared stories of her childhood and often talked about playing with her close childhood friend, Fern. (They remained close throughout life.)
“We had so much fun playing in the cemetery — Can you take me back to the cemetery on the hill?’ she would ask. “I can see the man in black with a big black dog,” she would go on.
In her last days, the man in black visited her. As we were talking, she looked straight ahead, “…see him, he is here! Don’t you see him?” Then she would turn and ask, “Can you bring me a big black dog? I want a big dog! Can you get one for me?”
“Yes, we can,” would be my reply, We were making arrangements for Jill to bring one of their black labs by for Mother, just two days before she passed on.
On August 26, 2012, the family gathered in The Woodlands to celebrate the life of Willie Agnes Poe, which involved a brunch at Cru’ Wine Bar and a gathering at the pedestrian bridge over Grogan’s Mill Road.
After moving to The Woodlands in the mid-1980’s, Mother would walk the trails from her Grogan’s Landing apartment, which included the pedestrian bridge in a six-mile walk around the TPC golf course. Over time, Mother became functionally blind, limiting the trail walking, but not her walking. Early each morning she would spend a couple of hours walking back and forth over the pedestrian bridge. Our gathering at the bridge ended with a symbolic walk over Agnes’ bridge.
Why this celebration now? Because Mother had donated her body to the Texas Medical Center after her death, we didn’t have a family gathering to celebrate her life. It was our understanding that Mother’s ashes would be sent to us 2-3 years after her death. As it turned out, we didn’t receive her ashes till this past May.
Hall Cemetery
Several months after Mother’s death we got word that her brother, J.C. had died. I knew immediately we were going to Alabama. How I know just how important it was to bring closure to the Mother’s life. While in Alabama, Joy and I made a point of going to Lincoln, then two miles out to the country church and cemetery in Refuge. She was always at her happiest when talking about her childhood in Alabama, even more so during her last days with us. She always wanted to go back but knew she would only be able to in her vision of those childhood memories. It doesn’t go unnoted that with the importance of Hall Cemetery in Refuge, Alabama, Mother didn’t desire to be buried there. For her, a higher priority was to give her body to medicine.
While visiting Hall Cemetery, I wanted so to turn around and see two little girls playing in the cemetery on the hill – to see the man in black with the big dog – to hear them laughing, and see the joy when the big dog came running to the children. Instead, Joy and I walked silently, on this sunny fall morning through the small cemetery on the hill, which now represents the burial-place of the last surviving member of the Confederate army. As fate would have it, as we walked through Hall Cemetery, a black dog appeared.
By making the journey to Hall Cemetery, I have for my life captured the feeling of two little girls laughing and playing in a world that never vanished from Mother’s vision of happiness. Real or not, it was real for her – now it is real for me, and I might add, Joy.
kenne
A Celebration Of Life
“When the child was a child, it didn’t know
It was a child
Everything for it was filled with life and all life was one
When the child, when the child
The child, child, child, child, child
And on and on and on and on, etc. And onward
With a sense of wonder
Upon the highest hill. Upon the highest hill
When the child was a child
Are you there
Shassas, shassas
Up on a highest hill
When the child was a child, was a child, was a child
Was a child, was a child, was a child, etc.
… and it’s still quivering there today”
from, Song of Being A Child
Music by Van Morrison, Words by Peter Handke
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Source: KCTunes
When it comes to the sixties British Music Invasion, most will probably not remember the Northern Ireland band, “Them.” How about the name Van Morrison? Them was the band that launched Morrison’s career. Here’s a great video I learned about via TheLefsetzLetter
For years, the Montgomery County Literary Arts Council (MCLAC) has cellebrated Walt Whitman’s birthday on his birth date, May 30th. However, this year the event took place May 9th. I have photos and video of the party, but have yet to process them, only the one above.
Rather than share some of Whitman’s poetry, I have chosen something by Van Morrison, since I feel he embodies Whitman — Whitman zealots may find that offensive.
Rave on John Donne, rave on thy Holy fool
Down through the weeks of ages
In the moss borne dark dank pools
Rave on, down through the industrial revolution
Empiricism, atomic and nuclear age
Rave on down through time and space down through the corridors
Rave on words on printed page
Rave on, you left us infinity
And well pressed pages torn to fade
Drive on with wild abandon
Uptempo, frenzied heels
Rave on, Walt Whitman, nose down in wet grass
Rave on fill the senses
On nature’s bright green shady path
Rave on Omar Khayyam, Rave on Kahlil Gibran
Oh, what sweet wine we drinketh
The celebration will be held
We will partake the wine and break the Holy bread
Rave on let a man come out of Ireland
Rave on on Mr. Yeats,
Rave on down through the Holy Rosey Cross
Rave on down through theosophy, and the Golden Dawn
Rave on through the writing of A Vision
Rave on, Rave on, Rave on, Rave on, Rave on, Rave on
Rave on John Donne, rave on thy Holy fool
Down through the weeks of ages
In the moss borne dark dank pools
Rave on, down though the industrial revolution
Empiricism, atomic and nuclear age
Rave on words on printed page
Van Morrison Rave On, John Donne lyrics
kenne
