Because of the Spanish wreck I tackled the hill

[sovay]

A draft of the program for this year's ICFA is now online. I am left praying that the conference will produce an annual publication of all its papers, because who schedules things like "The Hidden Mystical Sublime: The Poetry of Algernon Swinburne Dramatized in Aleister Crowley's Rite of Venus," "Uh Oh, They're Learning: The New Dangers and Heroes of the Zombie Apocalypse," and "Insects and Automatism: Angela Carter, ETA Hoffmann, and Guillermo del Toro" all across from one another? I am personally in competition with papers on slipstream, humor and the sublime, David Bowie, and Grindhouse. I need the ability either to time-travel or to duplicate myself. Possibly both.

On that line, today's mail brought my contributor's copy of Home and Away, the annual not-Not One of Us publication. Within its black-and-white pages can be found my poems "January" and "The Second Ghost" (for kijjohnson), as well as handful_ofdust's "The Dream of the Astronaut," Brad C. Hodson's "The Perfect Jackson," Patricia Russo's "Why," and other stories neither here nor there. As soon as I have a link for purchase, I'll put it up.

How is it I am just now discovering George Mackay Brown?

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[sovay]

I went to look up George Mackay Brown (whom I have yet to discover), and found out that he and I share a birthday. Only, he was born many decades before I was.

Happy very early birthday! I discovered him last night through "John Barleycorn," which nineweaving kindly shared with me. This afternoon I found the notes and texts for a recent choral piece called The Kestrel Road, drawn from his poetry ("The poems are highly evocative of Orkney life, history and folklore, with shepherds, crofters, fisher folk, a laird, a scarecrow King Barleycorn, and the timeless figure of Ikey the Tinker, who passes through many of Brown's poems, seemingly linking past and present. According to Max, the music is suggestive of the 'elusive land and seascapes' of the islands and is much influenced by the local folk music"), and fell in love:

III. Ikey crosses the Ward Hill to the Spanish Wreck

Because of the Spanish wreck I tackled the hill.
I heard of the apples,
Wine kegs, mermaids, green silk bale upon bale.

My belly hollowed with hunger on the hill.
From Black Meg's patch
I borrowed a chicken and a curl or two of kale.

We both wore patches, me and that harvest hill.
Past kirk and croft,
Past school and smithy I went, past manse and mill.

On the black height of the hill
I lay like a god.
Far below the crofters came and went, and suffered, and did my will.

I wrung a rabbit and fire from the flank of the hill.
In slow dark circles
Another robber of barrows slouched, the kestrel.

Corn and nets on the downslope of the hill.
The girl at Reumin
Called off her dog, poured me a bowl of ale.

I found no silk or brandy. A bit of sail
Covered a shape at the rock.
Round it the women set up their soundless wail.

You see why I need more.

Bilocation. That's the power you need.

Dude. Yeah. Or something quantum mechanical.

[asakiyume.livejournal.com]

I do, I do see why you need more! Breathtaking--and very like nineweaving's own writing.

Oh, it's just heartpainingly lovely, the way her stuff is, too.

I like this: On the black height of the hill/I lay like a god./Far below the crofters came and went, and suffered, and did my will.

And this tune, this John Barleycorn--I'm going to learn to sing it.

As I recall, your birthday is also close to George Mackay Brown's. So, I salute you with very, very early birthday greetings, too. I shouldn't be surprised, by the way, if you do master bilocation. I'll look for you here and there.

[sovay]

And this tune, this John Barleycorn--I'm going to learn to sing it.

I have transcribed the lyrics. I was unable to find the printed poem to check them against online, however, so just be warned. But I have also been listening to the song without end . . .

As I was ploughing in my field
The hungriest furrow ever torn
Followed my plough and she did cry
Have you seen my mate John Barleycorn?

Says I, Has he got a yellow beard?
Is he always whispering night and morn?
Does he up and dance when the wind is high?
Says she, That's my John Barleycorn

One day they took a cruel knife
Oh, I am weary and forlorn
They struck him at his golden prayer
And they killed my priest John Barleycorn

They laid him on a wooden cart
Of all his summer glory shorn
Then threshers broke with stick and stave
The shining bones of Barleycorn

The miller's stone went round and round
They rolled him underneath with scorn
The miller filled a hundred sacks
With the crushed pride of John Barleycorn

The baker came by and bought his dust
That was a madman, I'll be sworn
He burned my hero in a rage
Of twisting flames, my Barleycorn

The brewer came by and stole his heart
Alas that I was ever born
He thrust it in a brimming vat
And he drowned my dear John Barleycorn

And now I travel narrow roads
My hungry feet are dark and worn
But no one in this winter world
Has seen my dancer Barleycorn

I took a bannock from my bag
Lord, how her empty mouth did yawn
Says I, Your starving days are done
For here's your lost John Barleycorn

I took a bottle from my pouch
I poured out whisky in a horn
Says I, Put by your grief, for here
Is the merry blood of Barleycorn

She ate, she drank, she laughed, she danced
And home with me she did return
By candlelight in my old straw bed
She wept no more for Barleycorn

[asakiyume.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much for transcribing them. They look right to me--what a great song.