Category Archives: writer

Time to write that book!

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In 1990 I was working as a technical training and overseas sales manager for a company that made agricultural machinery. I was lucky enough to travel to Africa and help train the operators of their machinery on its safe use. I went to South Africa, Ghana, Tanzania, Uganda and Kenya and utterly fell in love with the continent and its people.

At the same time as this I was undergoing training in short story writing and freelance journalism. Although my travel-bug was being fed by my job, I really wanted to be a writer. I was in a heavy metal band playing the drums at the time and although we all spoke about what we were going to do when the band ‘made it’, I also wanted a back up career, and writing was where I was placing my energy.

I gave up on journalism when the course teacher said, “If you are lucky enough to be the first at the scene of an accident, don’t call the police. Get your camera and take photos first.” It was at that point I realised I wasn’t built to be a journalist, but a career as an author still appealed.

I left my executive job with its expense account and company car and got a job as a milkman. I told myself that if I got up really early in the morning (3am) and finished my round by 9am I would have the rest of the day to write. The trouble with this thinking was that the manager, seeing I had a sales background, put me on the wholesale round, dealing with shops and other establishments. I started work at 3am and finished at 5pm… My plan was not going to work. I asked my previous boss if I could have my old job back and he was kind enough to take me back on a part-time basis and this would give me time to write, as well as earn a living. But customers didn’t like dealing with a manager who was only in the office every other day. It didn’t work, so I returned full time, and with that move I gave up on my writing aspirations.

Life continued. Changes, redirections, opportunities arrived and I took them. I moved away from the corporate world. My spiritual path opened up before me and with it I rediscovered my love of writing and playing music. Over the last 10 years, and particularly since 2006, I have been blessed to live a full life doing all of the things I love to do. But since the release of my last album, the idea of writing has re-entered my awareness. I’ve suddenly realised that if I’ve had the time to write and record 6 albums, I probably now have the time to write that book.

I’m out of practice. I need to get my story-writing mojo working. I need to brush up on my grammar, but I have to say that I’m getting quite excited about the prospect of trying something new.

My music is still my priority, but I think if life has changed to give me this time, I should take it.

I will be writing a book of short stories, each with a spiritual/supernatural/Otherworldy theme. I already tell stories with my songs. These tales will expand this way of storytelling, and allow me to engage another aspect of the Bardic Craft.

Research and plot outlines begin….now!

I’ll keep you posted!

The Blessings of the Wheel

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I love the way our Pagan Wheel of the Year works its magic. It lies at the very heart of my spiritual life and I’m sure, like many other Pagans, the more I have worked with it, the more my own life has changed to reflect the turning of the seasons. So now, as the nights have drawn in, and the leaves have fallen once more to the ground to nourish next year’s growth, I too can feel the busy-ness of my own life changing. But just as the birds and animals are still busy searching for food, so I am searching for the Awen to inspire new songs, and to bless me with the insight for the arrangements of the songs I’ve already written.

I’m heading back into the studio to record a new album – the first album of my own songs since The Cauldron Born released in late 2008. I have a couple more concerts this year, and a couple early in 2012, but I have consciously created a space for that Awen to enter. And as I look outside at the late Autumn day I can see and feel that the energy is right.

The origin of some people’s inspiration is action, from friction and intense activity. Some people find their spiritual connections also come from that space, from drumming and dancing, screaming and chanting. I love that too, but I also know that the foundation of my inspiration comes from stillness, from peace. And that is another reason why I love the Wheel of the Year. The Spring and Summer are times of activity, when I am out playing at festivals, dancing around a burning Wickerman, running through a labyrinth, losing myself to the fire and power of the Pagan drummers. So when Autumn and Winter arrive I am ready to welcome their energy too – energies of reflection, and peace. I know that my spiritual life is enhanced by these changes. If all I knew was hot, how could I fully understand and appreciate it if I never felt cold? If all I knew was light, how could I fully understand and appreciate it if I never knew darkness? So if all I knew was wildness, how would I fully understand and appreciate it if I didn’t know stillness and peace? 

The Ancestor is standing at the Threshold. The woodland is still, and filled with the aroma of decaying leaves. And I am now ready to approach the Ancestor, to seek entry into the Grove of Reflection, to sit in stillness with eyes open, and to allow the woodland to accept my presence. Only then will the Faerie come out once more to dance, to show themselves to me, and allow me to hear their music.

Spirit of Albion movie film diary day 7

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Here’s the latest film diary!

New Lyric – Brighid

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A couple of years ago, during an Imbolc ritual, I made a promise to Brighid that I would write a song for her. Last week I made good on that promise and I hope that

She is pleased with her song. I’ll be playing it at my forthcoming concerts over the next few weeks, so I hope you all like it too!

Brighid

(Verse 1)

There’s a tree by the well in the woods that’s covered in garlands,

Clooties and ribbons that drift in the cool morning air,

That’s where I met an old woman who came from a far land,

Holding a flame o’er the well, and singing a prayer.

(Chorus)

Goddess of fire, Goddess of healing,

Goddess of Spring, welcome again.

(Verse 2)

She told me she’d been a prisoner trapped in a mountain,

Taken by the Queen of Winter at Summer’s End,

But in her prison she heard a spell the people were chanting,

Three days of Summer, and snowdrops are flowering again.

(Verse 3)

She spoke of the Cell of the Oak where a fire is still burning,

Nineteen Priestesses tend the eternal flame,

Oh but of you, my Lady, we are still learning,

Brighid, Brigantia, the Goddess of Many Names.

(Bridge)

Then I caught her reflection in the mirrored well,

And looked deep into her face,

The old woman gone, a maiden now knelt in her place.

From my pocket I pulled a ribbon,

And in honour of her maidenhood,

I tied it there to the tree by the well in the wood.

(Chorus)

Goddess of fire, Goddess of healing,

Goddess of Spring, welcome again.

(copyright Damh the Bard 2011)

The Winter King – Where it was written

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A couple of weeks ago I played at the PF Devon and Cornwall conference, a gig I love to play each year, and a great reason to step foot upon my home county of Cornwall. On the Sunday after the conference the Boscastle Museum of Witchcraft opens for that one Sunday, so many of the people at the conference descend upon the town to see what’s been happening at the museum.

Now I cannot go to Boscastle without walking to the top of the cliffs to look out upon the mightly Atlantic ocean, and it was here, about 14 years ago that I heard the refrain that opens my song The Winter King in the sound of the sea as it struck the cliffs below. So this time I took some footage on my walk up to put into a video to go with the song.

It’s VERY shaky, but it does show the beauty of the place, and the inspiration behind the refrain, and the rest of King Arthur’s song. I hope you enjoy it, despite the wobbly videoing!

 

Story of the Song – The Greenwood Grove

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From the album The Hills they are Hollow.

As with many of my songs I had the tune for this song for a number of weeks before the lyrics finally arrived. Looking back I think I wrote two sets of lyrics for this and both ended up in the bin. But finally I was noodling with the tune on my mandolin in the living room and it was the chorus that came first.

Come follow me, come dance with me,

Come with me to the Greenwood Grove such magic there to see,

The Lord of the Wild with his Faerie Kin,

Deep within the Greenwood Grove,

We’ll dance the Magic Ring.

I remember looking at these words and thinking, ‘the only way I’m going to find out what this song is about is to do as the chorus asks, and follow the Lord of the Wild into the Grove itself.’ So I carried on playing the song, and closed my eyes.

Music takes me away. I can lose hours simply playing an instrument, closing my eyes, and riding the notes to wherever they take me. On this occasion I was taken into a woodland (no surprise there then!) and pretty soon I heard the sound of music being played, coming towards me through the woods. I hid behind an oak and waited as the music drew closer and closer. A huge horned figure led a procession of dancing spectral figures past me. Then came others walking behind, laughing and smiling, and others on horseback. Now I’m quite familiar with the stories of Tam Lin and Thomas the Rhymer, but I had to follow, I had to, the music was irresistible.

I kept a small distance so as not to be seen, and soon the host began to gather in a clearing up ahead – an almost perfectly circular Grove. There was a hill in its centre that reminded me of a large round barrow, and the large horned figure slowly climbed the hill, and silence began to fall around the glade. He had a large club in one hand which he raised above his head, then brought it down onto the hill which resounded with a deep, hollow, sound. He raised it again, and once more it fell upon the Hollow Hill below, and then again, and again, until I realised he was creating a consistent bass rhythm, as other drums began to join him. The figures began to circle and dance in a magical ring dance around the edge of the Grove, then from the hill emerged a Man of Birch, followed by a Lady of Rowan. Other leafy-faced figures began to step from the Otherworld, through the Hollow Hill into the grove, and join the dance. I realised I was watching the Spirits of the Ogam trees join the dance, and in that moment the words of the song began to form.

I am the Birch of the new beginning,

The Rowan star with magic guarding…

The images around me began to fade, and I became aware that I was still playing the tune on my mandolin, and had been throughout all of this, and that it was this tune that the Faerie Host had been dancing to. I became more and more aware of the room around me, until I opened my eyes, and began to write. It was finished in no time at all after that. A gift from the Spirits of Nature!

Art is Magic – Alan Moore

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Cerri showed me this piece and I posted a link to it on my Facebook page but I think it’s so good that I’m going to blog it too.

This piece is dark, and honest, as Alan Moore speaks his truth directly with no frills or fluffy language, and to me it sums up how I feel about Art and it’s relationship with Magic. To me the Bardic Path is a magical and Shamanistic tradition and an artist, be that a musician, writer, painter, sculptor, like the skilled storyteller, can change consciousness and guide us through Other Worlds. See what you think.

 

Major Influences Part 1 – Phil Lynott

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One of the things I am asked more than any other is who have been my major influences when it comes to songwriting, so I thought it would be nice to write a series of blog posts addressing this subject. The question is where to start? So I think I should start with the first time I consciously became aware of the skill of the songwriter. For that I need to go back a number of years…

When I was 12 I asked my parents to buy me the latest album by David Bowie. I remember putting Heroes on my simple record player and listening to the opening music. I liked it, but it didn’t move me. I had loved his earlier album, Diamond Dogs, but there was a quality to his voice on Heroes that I just couldn’t get on with. I loved the songs, but wasn’t keen on the direction of the delivery. At the same time my friend had bought the new album by a band called Thin Lizzy called Fighting. He brought the album around and we played that, and Heroes over and over again (as children are apt to do with new favourite records). I still had trouble accessing Bowie’s new album, but when I heard the opening notes of Fighting I was immediately hooked.

When the first notes of Rosalie played I guess that was probably my first conscious encounter with a real guitar ‘riff’. There had been others – Blockbuster by The Sweet, Rebel Rebel by David Bowie, but there was something that shifted within me when that Lizzy guitar lick flew from my speakers. And then there were the lyrics. Within Phil Lynott’s music the lyrics and music are formed together in a vital marriage where the music holds the song, and the lyrics tell the story, but the music also acts as a kind of film score, changing here and there to emphasise and add accents where needed, but not overtly so anyone would really notice how their relationship with the song had been influenced.

My friend preferred the Bowie album, I preferred the Lizzy, so we swapped. I must have played that album to death – I still have it. Phil Lynott was a writer of real quality, his music had meaning and depth, but it also made you want to bang that head! This wasn’t something that was usual at the time. Even Ronnie Dio’s Sword and Sorcery lyrics were often confusing to me – they promised a lot, but actually when I listened hard I was often left not really understanding what he was singing about. Phil Lynott left no such grey areas, he delivered great words, and blended them with melodies that just didn’t leave you alone. My love of Thin Lizzy continued and they were the first rock band I ever saw live in 1979 on the Black Rose tour. I saw them many more times, and each time was a treat. Phil Lynott was not only a great lyricist, but also a brilliant bassist, singer, and an incredible front man and entertainer. I’m sure he also inadvertently taught me how to interact with an audience too.

I was at a rock club in Sussex the night I heard about his death, and it was on that night I realised that the golden age of rock, at least as I had known it, had died with him. After that the sounds of LA Hair Metal, Thrash and Death Metal became the major trend. But years later in my mind it is the music of Thin Lizzy that has proved its longevity. I listen to Boys are Back in Town, Waiting for an Alibi, Suicide, Black Rose – the list is endless, and they sound as fresh to my ears as they did when I was 12 years old.

So a big HENGWAH to Phil, now rockin’ out in the Otherworld with Gary Moore, and what a party I’m sure they are having!

A Lyric – That Happily will no longer be Used

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Lore says that the ancient Bards could raise welts on the faces of their enemies just by using the magic and power of words. I rarely write political songs but sometimes the energy of the moment just gets to me and a song is the only way I can let off steam. Only Human was one, Pagan Ways and Tomb of the King were another two. I’m so glad that my most recent political song, written about the UK Government’s plans to sell of England’s forests, will now no longer be recorded. Yesterday they announced they are scrapping the idea. I never entirely trust politicians so I’ll be watching closely, but on this occasion common sense and people power have won, and although the other parties are now chasing Cameron down calling out ‘U turn’ etc, I will give him the benefit of the doubt and say thank you.

However…

Just in case they decide that, while we aren’t looking, to implement an equally idiotic forestry scheme, I’ve decided to print the lyrics of the song what would have been flying around the internet. It’s an angry song, because I was angry when it was written. “If you thought that we would do nothing, you’ve misunderstood…”

 

The Sons and Daughters (of Robin Hood) – Damh the Bard

Verse 1:

We all watched you on our TV,

Right Honourable Gentlemen, apparently,

Different voices with only one aim,

To win my vote, to win the game.

People have died to pave the way,

So we can vote come polling day,

X marks the spot that gives us our voice,

But how do you vote when there isn’t a choice?

 

Chorus

If you thought that we would do nothing you’ve misunderstood…

For we are the Sons and Daughters of Robin Hood!

 

Verse 2:

See I remember exclusion zones,

At Solstice time around the Stones,

Poll Tax riots at Trafalgar Square,

The rich they got richer, the poor were stripped bare.

Building new roads with no thought for the land,

And the blood of the Beanfield is still on your hands,

Now drilling off Shetland will do just fine,

And you’re selling off forests like you closed down mines.

 

Chorus

If you thought that we would do nothing you’ve misunderstood…

For we are the Sons and Daughters of Robin Hood!

 

Bridge:

Nothing to see, there’s nothing to see, there’s nothing to see here…

Nothing to see, just look away, there’s nothing to see here…

 

Verse 3:

England’s green and pleasant land,

Is not there to put cash in your hands!

I see your symbol is the English oak tree,

Is that your idea of irony?

Now thousands of eyes will fall upon you,

Each watching closely what you will do,

All are ready to spoil your game,

For the blood of an outlaw flows in our veins!

 

Chorus

If you thought that we would do nothing you’ve misunderstood…

For we are the Sons and Daughters of Robin Hood!

Imbolc Blessings

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As the dark, cold morning gives way to light,
And the world shows her face dazzling in her nakedness,
So the twigs and leaf-bare branches,
Bow to the passing dance
Of old Jack Frost.

His crystal breath on the earth,
And the corners of houses weep icicles of joy.
But where is the Sun’s warmth?
Where is life?

A small flower, delicate and pure-white,
Looks to the earth,
As if talking to the waiting green,
“Not yet,” it seems to whisper.
“When I fall, then you can return.”

And she nods her head,
as the Lady passes by,
Leaving more flowers in Her wake.

Happy Imbolc Everyone!

© Damh the Bard