to give back anathema its first benignity.
She that loves place, time, demarcations, hearth, kin, enclosure, site, differentiated cult, though she is but one mother of us all: one earth brings us all forth, one womb receives us all, yet to each she is other, named of some name other...
...other sons, beyond hill, over strath, or never so neighbouring by nigh field or near crannog up stream. What co-tidal line can plot if nigrin or flax-head marching their wattles be cognate or german of common totem?
Though she inclines with attention from far fair-height outside all boundaries, beyond the known and kindly nomenclatures, where all names are one name, where all stone of demarcation dance and interchange, troia the skipping mountains, nod recognitions.
As when on known-site ritual frolics keep bucolic interval at eves and divisions when they mark the inflexions of the year and conjugate with trope and turn the season's syntax, with beating feet, with wands and pentagons to spell out the Trisagion.
Who laud and magnify with made, mutable and beggarly elements the unmade immutable begettings and precessions of fair-height, with halting sequences and unresolved rhythms, searchingly, with what's to hand, under the inconstant lights that hover world-flats, that bright by fit and start the tangle of world-wood, rifting the dark drifts for the wanderers that wind the world meander, who seek hidden grammar to give back anathema its first benignity.
Gather all things in, twining each bruised stem to the swaying trellis of the dance, the dance about the sawn lode-stake on the hill where the hidden stillness is at the core of struggle, the dance around the green lode-tree on far fair-height where the secret guerdons hang and the bright prizes nod, where sits the queen im Rosenhage eating the honey-cake, where the king sits, counting-out his man-geld, rhyming the audits of all the world-holdings.
Where the marauder leaps the wall and the all dances to the marauder's leaping, where the plunging wolf-spear and the wolf's pierced diaphragm sing the same song...
-- two pasages from The Tutelar of the Place, a section from The Sleeping Lord and other Fragments by David Jones.
Posted by Unknown at 25.8.12