Thursday, April 3, 2014

On a Glimpse of Castle Island




W.B. Yeats, Maud Gonne, and (for a time) A.E. were involved in a magical project usually referred to as "The Celtic Mysteries."  There is no documentation to show that Ella Young was ever involved, though she knew all about what they were doing. How Ella's magical endeavors influenced Yeats, and perhaps vice-versa, has yet to be shown.
Photo by Franc.c  https://www.flickr.com/photos/francz/

Here is how I imagine the moment when Yeats first glimpsed the place that inspired his Mysteries. 
EXT: IRELAND.  A lLARGE LAKE.  SUMMER 1892 - MORNING.

YEATS and DOUGLAS HYDE, 35, a tall bearded man of great dignity and presence, are boating together on Lough Key in County Roscommon. A heavy mist rises from the lake.
Hyde rows with great ease and precision.
Yeats leans back in the boat and gazing up toward the sky.

YEATS
There are forces, mighty forces, that can do more for the revolution than my words will ever accomplish alone!
HYDE
Your occult experiments are a distraction - it is your poetry that should fill your days - and your nights!  

Hydes’ voice deepens.

Be careful of what you are asked to sacrifice so that you may gain this magic!

At that moment Yeats turns toward the lakes' center, watching as the wind sweeps away the mist to reveal a small island.  
As he sees the abandoned Castle on the island he remembers Gonne's words from an earlier time.

FLASHBACK - EXT.  IRELAND. A RUGGEDLY BEAUTIFUL SPOT FULL OF OLD STONES AND TREES. - MORNING  
Gonne and Yeats walk together, hands clasped.
GONNE
If only we could make contact with the hidden forces of the land it would give us strength for the freeing of Ireland.  The land will help us expel our enemy.  England, like the ancient Fir Bolg, will flee when our true gods empower us!
The wind on the hill blows through Gonne's dark hair and her eyes shine with her passion.

EXT. THE LAKE.
GONNE
(V.O.)
I see a tower in the middle of a lake, a shrine of Irish tradition where only those who dedicate their lives to this great land can go. It will be built of stone and decorated only with the Jewels of the Tuatha Dé Danann!

Yeats stands up in the boat and turns to Hyde.
YEATS
There! That of which my muse has spoken!  An obsession more constant than anything but my love itself is the need for mystical rites ... to reunite the perception of the spirit, of the divine, with natural beauty ... 

HYDE
Sit down, man - you'll topple us both over!  You are right about one thing - this land is holy and each of us must find our way to serve that holiness.

Yeats sits reluctantly and looks at Hyde. His voice rises with excitement.
YEATS
This is my destiny, Hyde. There are those who will serve with guns, and others with speeches, but as I serve magic so will magic serve Ireland!

Copyright Registered and  Protected. 


Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Daughters of Time - excerpt

"Autumn Riders" copyright 2004 by  Emily Balivet

This novel, based loosely upon three of my ancestors, is available on Kindle for $4.95.

 I've included an early chapter - hope you enjoy!


Happy New Year - may it be rich with the blessings of the Earth.




Chapter Three
Spain 1268
The thin gold torc around her neck caught the morning light as she adjusted the heavy cloak about her shoulders. Despite the sun’s warmth, the mountain air was cold and reminded Sanza that the seasons were changing and winter would soon be on the mountaintop. The climate of Navarra was not intense and Sanza easily welcomed the coldness of winter. This winter in particular, the coldness of the world outside would echo the coldness that lived in her heart. Even now, having achieved this much, she felt no lightening from within. Perhaps that would come later. Perhaps now it was just too soon and her expectations too grand. She wanted to be here on the mountain top—alone for the ceremony. And really, what choice did she have? If her father knew what she had done she would be cast from his home forever. She found herself caught once again in the middle of the struggles that had ripped her family apart. She loved and honored her father and she wished with all her heart she could be the good daughter he expected her to be; but greater than that love and honor was the darkly deep bond that held her to her mother—even now, even in death.
“Maman!” So soon the great longing for her mother had begun and she did not yet understand how the longing would stay with her and that it would grow and shape her life for eternity. Today she climbed the mountain in order to release her mother’s spirit and return her to the elements from which she was born. Her hand grasped the small silver box that lay nestled in the pocket of her cloak. She knew what must be done but she held back for another moment, keeping the contact that had guided her through all of her sixteen years. And her mother’s voice came to her over the wind reminding her that what she was about to do was the way of their path and the way of their ancestors.
“Keep to the true ways, daughter, though your path be walked in darkness. Keep to yourself and to the silence and honor that which I have taught you, and teach your daughter so she may teach her daughter. In this, Sanza, lies our greatest strength for I have seen such horror and death ahead in the time that is soon coming. The old ways must be kept alive though the world seeks to destroy us all…”
Her mother, Acibella, drew Sanza close when she spoke these words and the great terror that she had envisioned moved from the mother to the daughter until Sanza dropped to her knees and covered her face with the soft blue silk of her mother’s gown. And she understood that the secrecy and the lies that Acibella uneasily embraced so that they could live their truth in the outside world would become her shield of armor in the years ahead.
Acibella Salazar
Honored wife
of Arnaldo Paunfiloun
May Her Soul Rest With God
Roncesvalles, Navarra, 1268

Was it only last night at twilight she met with her mother’s two trusted friends in the mausoleum at the Chapel of the Holy Spirit in Roncesvalles? Yes, and together they had removed her mother’s shrouded body from her tomb and carried her to the mountaintop. This had been Sanza’s promise to her mother as she lay dying in her small home in the forest. She would go along with her father’s wishes and her mother would receive the Christian burial expected by the family and the people of Pamplona where her father’s house marked him as a respected member of that community. Yes, but then later, later in the darkness of night she would free her mother and return her to her true home in the mountains. And now there was nothing left but the ashes and the wind and the release of Acibella’s spirit so it might journey through the night and find again a home.
In a circle of rosemary branches Sanza stood with the silver box held up toward the evening sky. A fire of oak branches and dried herbs sent sweet-smelling smoke down into the valley. Now was the time—the twilight time when the two worlds came together for a brief moment and the powers of the elements hovered nearby waiting for her to call them into her circle. She stood facing the west where the sky was still tinged with the rose of the setting sun and in the secret language of the old ways— as taught to her by her mother who was taught by her mother and so on and so on —Sanza called out to the elementals and showed them her love and her honor. And in the old words and by their old names she bid them to attend her in the circle. In a sudden gust of the wind—in the quickening of the flames—in the trembling of the earth beneath her feet—in the pale mist that shrouded the circle the elementals made known their presence. Sanza held up the silver box and slowly opened the lid. The wind on the mountain top quieted for a brief moment and in that moment the ash lifted from the box and danced as a spiral in front of Sanza.
“I return to the river and the river returns me to the sea—mother of All! The endless beginning and eternal end. I am home.”
She felt more than heard her mother’s voice circling the mountain top. From a silk pouch tied to her belt Sanza withdrew a handful of shimmering powder and a clear smooth crystal. She circled the fire singing softly an ancient chant her mother had taught her many years ago. The words mingled together—some in her native Basque and others in the tongue of the people who had left the land so long ago. It was the language the trees spoke and the language of the earth caves. When her song was done Sanza knelt by the fire and dropped the powder and the crystal onto the burning oak wood. Violet blue flames shot up toward the darkening sky and the wind rushed down across the valley and called out to the river whose waters surged and washed over its banks. Sanza knelt before the fire, her cloak spread around her and her dark hair loose about her shoulders. And in the crystal Sanza envisioned all that was her mother’s spirit and the beauty and the wisdom of that spirit reached deeply into her heart and touched the sadness of her great mourning .
Later, wrapped in her cloak, Sanza slept in the circle by the still burning fire. And despite the mountain’s winter chill she felt the warmth that was her mother’s presence and with this warmth she felt the strength and wonder that she knew was the presence of her Lady—Dona—Donia—the pure essence of all that was and would ever be. And in her dreaming She came to Sanza and bid her no more to mourn for her mother but to change the mourning into something alive and powerful—something by which Sanza could honor her Lady and in this she would honor all life. Through the dreaming She spoke to Sanza her words—the words of the deep caves and the running rivers.
“Be here with me now, child—for I will be with you as I have with your mother through all the steps that will be your life. From the waters of the Great Mother you were born and it was I that brought you forth—it was I who was midwife to your mother and to her mother and to her mother…as I will be to your daughter and all of her daughters. In this we are one and we serve each other. Stay true only to this and I will stay true to you.”
And the breeze stirred Sanza’s dark hair where she lay on her cloak by the fire and her breathing quickened as she dreamed the words of her Lady in the night.
“My ways are not the easy ways of this world, daughter, and of this you have much to learn. We choose each other and in the choosing is the contract that will not be broken. No marriage here on earth can be so binding for I bind you, daughter of the earth, to my world — a world that is all above you and all below you. With me you have no boundaries—no weights to hobble your feet to the earth. You will see. You will grow, you will learn and you will seek with me by your side. Always and in All Ways.”
And like a lover’s kiss at dawn Sanza drew in the touch and scent and feel of her Lady and rose up from her dreaming refreshed and renewed. The day, like a wondrous journey, lay before her and though she knew not what waited on the road ahead she was strangely and eagerly excited.

Thursday, November 7, 2013

"Stay, Illusion"

Today I discovered a poet - Lucie Brock-Broido  - and her new book of poems Stay, Illusion.


The days are shorter now and I feel the need for being quiet. So, without "further ado"  let me share one of the poems from this book that spoke to me.

Misfits


Where I grew up in blue, before the rich red seasons of American,
                                                                I had thought that everything would always

                                                                Go our way - save Marilyn Monroe weeping

On the dry plains against the noosing
                                                                 Of the rag of mustangs wild to keep alive

                                                                  And the rugged craggy men who took them
Down, to sell their hooves and haunch, their meat for meat.

                                                                   I, soon to be an element of the lunatic

Fringe, am willing to kill for their right
To life: I thought the horses beautiful.

                                                                    I cringe to think I stood for nothing, for a jar
Of jam and marriages, my usage of exotic words (chimerical), my lilac apron, me

                                                                    Starry in our home-movie, handsome, noir
As the one dark brooding stallion, kicking going down.





Friday, October 18, 2013

Elsa Gidlow - "Poet Warrior"

Photograph © Chris Patton 2008

One of Ella Young's dearest friends in California was, as Ella named her, "the Poet Warrior," Elsa Gidlow.  In 1956 Elsa moved to a wild bit of land near the sea in Marin County, created a home for herself with a thriving garden. Druid Heights became a gathering place for San Francisco's literary and spiritual groundbreakers, such as Kenneth Rexroth and Alan Watts. The wheel turns for now as Monterey Peninsula College's archivist I have discovered that both these men spoke on campus in those early years. Connections! Many others found a sanctuary with Elsa, including Catherine A. MacKinnon, an important pioneer of feminist theory and poet Gary Snyder.

Here are three of Elsa's poems. Elsa Gidlow's poetry gave words to feelings where there had been none before. She wrote of the love of women for women and how that love was reflected in women's deep connection to the earth. The last poem I include here is "Eyes" and was written the year my daughter was born - Connections!


Grey Morning (1931)

It is morning and I am still.
My heart is still as grey water;
The cry of my love is still.

Over me is the sky like ash.
With cold eyes I look on the day;
Desireless, listen to waking day.

If my love were here I would not touch
Nor look at her: I would say:
"What is life but a noise between silences,"

A cry out of the mouth of space,
the falling echo of an echo
That soon shall sound no more."


Region of No Birds (1958)

Where the earth groans with earthquake
I know you,
Where the waters boil black
And the dragons are
You are immersed in me.
Beyond pleasure, where terror is kissed
And the small I's die.

In that region of no birds
One does not speak prettily of love.


Eyes (1968)

My mother said
of her mother:
Her eyes are
Gold-brown;
Like bees' backs.

My mother's eyes:
Speckled pebbles
In swift-running
Water.

At the mirror
Observing my own;
Just eyes.

Wondering
What my daughter
Would have seen
If I had had one.

Monday, September 23, 2013

A Pool of Quiet Water

Photograph © Denise Sallee 2013


Make for myself a pool of quiet water,
Wombed in by rocks whose granite strength
Holds back the turbulence of the tides.

Quiet waters of seclusion,
Not of isolation that lacks
The interplay of the small pool with the vast ocean,
But of separation and reunion.
In such quiet waters of seclusion,
Shelter me for a time
From the turbulence of my own tides.

Immersed, I know it is my own breath,
The rhythm of my life,
That allows me to float freely on the surface.

Quiet waters of seclusion,
Where in safety and trust
Of my own being,
I swim in stillness.

Make for myself a pool of quiet water
In which I descend for sanctity
And release the past and yield to the future.

In silence shall I slip naked
Into the clear, the renewing,
Waters of my own afterbirth.

Dark and mute is my pool,
She invites me inside,
She seduces me to her depths
Where reality is the truth
That my heart remains beating,
My heart remains strong.

And I glide all fin-like
Through the shadows,
The rocks my castle walls – 
Impenetrable.

I have made for myself a pool of quiet water.
My soul is secure.

Denise  Sallee – All Rights Reserved 1995

Thursday, September 5, 2013

The Celtic Twilight of Carmel, California. Conclusion

Carmel. Photograph © Denise Sallee 2012
There was one very important and central point from which all of Ella Young's California connections sprung - Albert Bender. Bender, born in Dublin in 1866, arrived in San Francisco  at the age of 16 - working as an errand boy for an insurance office.  By 1890 he was an insurance agent - owning his own company and becoming very wealthy and influential.  But most of all, Albert Bender was a discerning patron of the arts with a deep love of books, literary manuscripts, and Ireland. And he was kind and generous. It was Bender who arranged for Ansel Adams' first portfolio of prints to be published and also took him to Carmel to meet the Jeffers and the O'Sheas. 

When Ella arrived in  San Francisco for the first time her manager, Jessica Colbert, told her  “There are two people in San Francisco that I hope you will meet, one is Albert Bender...the other is Noel Sullivan...”  (Flowering Dusk: Things Remembered Accurately and Inaccurately. Ella Young. Longmans, Green and Company, 1945).  Both Bender and Sullivan became long-lasting friends with Ella - they were her admirers and her patrons. 


Bender adored Ella and she him. He was instrumental in her struggle with the U.S. government to remain in America and he introduced her to his closest friends who immediately became her closest friends. This, indeed, was the power of social networking. It was through Bender and Sullivan that Ella became a part of the Carmel community. She was soon a central figure in the art and literary scene of the small village. It was not only Ella's poems and folktales that drew many Carmelites to the Irish immigrant. Her deeply magical consciousness and passionate love for Ireland fueled many a soul on the western edge of America. She inspired established poets, such as Dora Hagemeyer and Sara Bard Field and encouraged others, such as Ansel Adams and John O'Shea, to explore in words and images, their own connections to the natural world. 


How fitting it was when in 1935, Una Jeffers, splendid in a new black velvet gown, spoke at the opening of the Yeats exhibition at Mills College, where Albert Bender was a trustee and benefactor. Robinson Jeffers also attended the event  - important, I think, in linking the two great poets known so well by Ella Young.  





Credit: Special Collections, F.W. Olin Library, Mills College

The exhibit was organized by Bender, containing many items from his own collection.


Credit: Special Collections, F.W. Olin Library, Mills College
Ella spoke at the University of California - as revealed in this newspaper article from the Berkeley Daily Gazette of October 23rd - the following month as part of the ongoing Bay Area Yeats celebration. 




In December of 1930, Ella wrote to Albert Bender:

The top of the morning to you and a hundred thousand thanks. There is nothing in the world like a good friend. (Albert H. Bender Collection. Special Collections, F.W. Olin Library, Mills College)


Carmel, Ireland, poets, mystical seekers,  and Ella Young.  A truly magical connection!










Sunday, August 11, 2013

The Celtic Twilight of Carmel, California. Part Two

It is tempting to compare Ella Young's Dublin connection with W.B. Yeats and his elusive love, Maud Gonne, with her later connection to Robinson Jeffers and his wife, Una.  There is, of course, the great-poet-and-his-inspiring-woman connection that links the two couples - but far more important - there is Ireland.

Una Call  - Mrs. Edward Kuster - a young, beautiful and vivacious graduate student, met Jeffers in Los Angeles in 1906. While traveling in Ireland in 1912, to sort out her feelings for both her husband and her new lover, Una wrote a letter to Kuster describing her ancestral land:

"We passed through a beautiful country Emerald - indeed…Meadow lands crossed by little wandering streams and everywhere amidst tall, lush grass great beds of golden iris growing wild. Giant trees and hawthorn hedges break up the fields and very often a crumbling tower in the midst of an utter solitude…"


Photograph © Denise Sallee 2010


A crumbling tower.  Little did Una know then how Irish towers - and their real and symbolic roles  - were to figure in her life with Jeffers.  

In a few short years Una's new poet-husband would build for her a tower of her own in Carmel from stones he hauled up from the beach and shaped into a fitting sanctuary for his beloved bride. In the foreword to his book, The Selected Poetry of Robinson Jeffers, the poet describes his first view of his new homeland: "A second piece of pure accident brought us to the Monterey coast mountains, where for the first time in my life I could see people living - amid magnificent unspoiled scenery - essentially as they did in the Idyls or the Sagas, or in Homer’s Ithaca. Here was life purged of its ephemeral accretions."


I think this poem by Jeffers reveals what he felt while building Hawk Tower:


To The House
I am heaping the bones of the old mother
To build us a hold against the host of the air;
Granite the blood-heat of her youth
Held molten in hot darkness against the heart
Hardened to temper under the feet
Of the ocean cavalry that are maned with snow
And march from the remotest west.
This is the primitive rock, here in the wet
Quarry under the shadow of waves
Whose hollows mouthed the dawn; little house each stone   
Baptized from that abysmal font
The sea and the secret earth gave bonds to affirm you.
From Roan Stallion, Tamar and other poems. Boni and Liveright, 1925
Credit:William Brooks Collection, Henry Meade Williams Local History Room, Harrison Memorial Library, Carmel, CA


In another letter, from 1927, Una tells her dear friend Albert Bender how much she treasures her inscribed picture of Yeats' own tower and cottage, because, as she writes "Yeats is one of my most honored authors - because its on a coast I love - and because it seems unbelievable that another poet should have a tower and cottage on a western shore!"

In 1929 the Jeffers went to Ireland - staying for the most part in County Antrim but also touring throughout both Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. By now Una and Ella Young were very close friends. Ella wrote letters of introduction for the Jeffers to take to Maud Gonne, but cautioned Una about Maud, saying "Hope Maud Gonne won't be in prison or deported when you arrive." Ella goes on to reassure Una, telling her "I know she would enjoy you all."  Ella wrote to Maud prior to the visit, describing Jeffers as "the big poet of America" and Una as "his Irish wife." 

Robinson Jeffers was drawn to the many ancient towers and sacred ruins of Ireland. He wrote several poems while he was there - poems that often merged the local mythos with the land. A theme that was prominent in his California writing, as well. 

The Low Sky
No vulture is here, hardly a hawk,
Could long wings or great eyes fly
Under this low-lidded soft sky?

On the wide heather the curlew's whistle
Dies of its echo, it has no room
Under the low lid of this tomb.

But one to whom mind and imagination
Sometimes used to seem burdensome
Is glad to lie down awhile in the tomb.

Among stones and quietness
The mind dissolves without a sound,
The flesh drops into the ground.
From Descent to the Dead. Poems, etc.  Random House, 1931 

Photograph © Denise Sallee 2010

Una Jeffers met Ella Young in the spring of 1926 when Ella lectured at the Golden Bough Theatre (owned by Una's former husband Edward Kuster). Ella's lectures were entitled "Nature Magic" and "The Celtic Myth of Creation." How I wish I had been in the audience on that enchanted evening!  

Una was there and later she wrote this description:

“Ella Young was like a Druidess that first time I saw her, in flowing gown, against the lovely blue-green curtain of the Golden Bough stage, a wisp of veil about her head, gray eyes shining and hands weaving magic as she named the old Irish gods and heroes and told the deeds they wrought. Since that night I have seen her in many different settings; kneeling to succor a wounded snake; hovering on the seat of my car... [on] that terrible old coast road...peer[ing] into the chasms at our side, following a hawk’s flight as carefree as if she too had wings.”   The Carmel Pine Cone.  December 20, 1935 pg. 9

And so we further explore a little of what made Carmel, in the first decades of the 20th century, such a Celtic and magical refuge for so many people - both ex-pats like Ella Young and those who feel an Ireland of their own possessing their souls. I fall into the latter category and yearn most for what Una perfectly captured when she wrote "an utter solitude…"