My musical trip to IRELAND. Meeting Mickey McConnel and Gavin family.

On August 22, we met the Family Gavin, and their Gypsy Wagon TV. They had invited me to sing and to be recorded in their wagon, and I had the luck of knowing their natural paradise in the middle of Fintown's Nature; a green paradise of trees and grass, lakes, rivers... They were very kind with us and we spent a happy and nice afternoon of music and friendship. You can see their awesome channel of folk and music.

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCoiry3FOj-18ibNQe9FijDA

The other great experience of this summer was meeting Mickey McConnell.

First of all, I met the song. “Only our rivers run free”. I listened to it some years ago, through YouTube, sung by a young man in a pub of England; this man seemed a worker or a syndicalist, and he sang for freedom. I felt upset with that song, it made me cry and I didn’t know why. May be It happened because its meaning was applicable to the situation of my country, Catalonia. As I told you, It happened some years ago.

From that moment on, I searched and I discovered that that song was written by a man called “Mickey McConnell”. I learnt things about him. He was born in Northen Ireland. His song “Only our rivers run free” talked about the constittutional status of Ulster, and this song became a hit in Ireland in 1968. He made many other songs like “The little drummer boy” and “Follow the flag”. The songs of Mickey were sung by singers like Christy Moore, The Wolfe Tones, Mary Black, The Kelly Family, The James Last Orchestra...

I listened “Only our rivers run free” again in YouTube from a young singer called Sheena (now she is older and lives and sings in pubs from New York. Few weeks ago she was in derry) and I cried again. Finally I learnt to sing this song, and... from time to time, even now, I perform it in the kitchen of my home for my daughter. Now she is 11, but when she was three or four, she hardly ate his dinner, and I sang this song, an others too, so that she had dinner easier, and really she did. Now, I have just made a Catalan version of the song. I told it to Mickey last night and he loved the idea.

So… after all that… I met Mickey McConnell through facebook one or two years ago. This summer, my family and me decided to visit Ireland and I asked Mickey where did he sing and he told me about McMunns, in Ballybunion. We went to have a dinner there on August, 26, and it was great, magic, exciting… My family and me enjoyed a lot, and, in two occasions, Mickey put his guitar on my hands and asked me to sing a couple of songs. It was very exciting to contribute to the magic of the pub with two Catalan songs. If only I had knew that I was going to sing I would have prepared some irish song; I usually sing “Grace” and “The great majestic Shannon” but I don’t know them by heart, and I sang two Catalan songs that I remember and feel very well. Anyway, It was great. The atmosphere of the McMunns was bewitching, entrancing, gripping, awesome… Mickey sang “only our rivers run free” “Viva la quinta brigada” and many others. Other man whom name I don’t remember that had been a very good football trainning (and player) many years before sang too (a deep song about a worker). A woman stood up and sang too (Me and Bobby McGee). Mickey made us feel welcomed; he dedicated songs to us, he explained to the whole pub that we had come from Catalonia, he introduced ourselves to one of the owners of McMunns and some other kind people, he helped us to feel very happy in a warm and kind human climate. That night, the Irish people of McMunns turned out to be like a group of friends for us, openminded, open to other culture (Catalan culture), cheery…

So… I want to thank Mickey such a wonderful night, three days before I turned fifty years old.

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A better life

I think you've got me mixed up

when you direct me to expire

the sweet deep wish for wind and sand

for wildness and the pure desires

shining near the waves and foam

under the burning sky of fire.

I think you've got me mixed up.

Further the water, the line of dreams,

my heart is born at noon again.

I'm just a child naked and free,

only a man beside the sea.

Further the water, the line of dreams.

Where are you, fellows, taking me?

I don't get here often enough.

Your way is bright, empty and tough.

I only need a bit of love.

Where are you, fellows, taking me?

I'm pushing for a better life,

poorer, may be, but clear and nice.

I do not want a dice to choose

my steps, my thoughts, my words, my mood.

I'm pushing for a better life.

I think you've got me mixed up.

Further the water, the line of dreams.

Where are you fellows taking me?

I'm pusher for a better life.

The leaves that fall.

Green and red twilight 

during the last instants of the day.

I know where my ashes will rest;

beside the roots, wallowing into the mud,

swallowing drops of life and breath.

This will is not an attack or a despise,

but the true wish of a dying soul.

I don't want dogmas of tortures and redemptions,

just the love and the bless of an awesome Earth.

People who love me know 

where my ashes will rest,

and this yearning is not an incitement 

or a provocation.

A little part of me, 

clean and mineral,

will symbolize what I will have been,

what I will have loved.

But my mind will stay 

with those who I love,

for ever and ever. 

Our main God

There will come back the leprechauns,

the fairies rings, the Morrigan,

beyond the hills, under the clouds,

when rain is back and dew is pure,

we will recover the freedom’s pace,

without the death’s machines of fear.

Our god is green and made of land;

I’ve seen its face in every man,

in every woman, in every child,

in every song, in every smile.

Above the homeland of my soul,

we’ll worship life deeply again,

and we’ll proclaim that every person

is our main God and our main chant.

Poor human being

He plays to be an angel,

and thinks he really is,

but he is just a little puppet,

slave and full of bliss.

His happiness is light dust

flying in the wind;

a mirage in his poor mind

of tribal steam.

Nasty blows of hazing,

dressed up in peace,

under bright appearances,

he stings like a bee.

He works just for his swarm

According a main wish

the will of the thin strings

that move the puppet's swing.

Our actual life hides in these foolish things.

More covers in my  YouTube Account

Take my hand, and I'll give my heart.

Today the Moon shines, big and bright.

Our greatest treasure
is the kindness that flies
where it wants;

the kindness that has made our core.
 

Everywhere
a pure soul
draws great designs.

The simplest things
are the most valuable jews.

I'm the owner
of the actions that I made
just because I like making,

I'm the slave
of the habits
that are suppossed to rule
the way I live.

Nothing of what I freely do
makes me different
to the most of the people.
Nothing of what I freely do
is lost forever.
Nothing of what I enforced do
does any good. 

We really live
when we enjoy the simple breaths
of our daily pace.

Our actual life, 

makes us deeply live.
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The white forest of Tiergarten.

Once it was a garden of animals. Some years later, a hunting area. The aristocracy of Prussia chased deers and wild pigs. Nowadays  it is a green area inside Berlin. Well... In fact, the day I took these photos it was a white area. I talked with a muse of the forest.  She promised me tons of inspiration. On the limbs of the fir trees, I found lost words, secret messages, outlaw verses, hidden rage waiting the liberation, hidden love waiting the proclamation of the beauty's government. I stepped the silent snowy ground, and it was soft like an impossible mattress. My children played and laughed. They read the merry stories imprinted in the core of the forest. The white forest of Tiergarten harbors the magical power of the mind. I belong to Tiergarte and I will go back there. 

We lack a sweet view of his mind.

I'll never fear what my skin wants,
enjoying the air, the sun, and burning
the chains that a blind power has settled
to take me slowly towards the very death.

I'll never fear the soft sweet water,
inside the blue core of the sea,
away and free, like a big whale,
my recipe tastes very well.

My love resides where my mind is,
my mind was made from dust of stars.
A lover molded this wet powder,
and shaped simple lights of gold.

My God once thought my naked meat,
there's no use hiding his great design.
If we lost that that god devised,
we lack a sweet view of his mind.
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The strongest power of the universe.

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May be for once,

the light of life is going to emerge

from Earth entrails.

How much do we own?

Wooing and dreams,

further the planned situation of the daily pace.

We live so few
years on this land,

that if we don't live all the life,

we lost the view

of the core, and we use the knife

of the golden thrustfulness

to trundle on.

And so... if the light of the life doesn't emerge from the Earth's heart,

we must track down the hiden gate of mankind.

I couldn't help but notice

the power of the cosmos's shape;

every line is made of love and hate.

But hate is an empty box of cold and darkness,

just to understand the light.

Existence is not a pink story of honey and sugar plum;

we're fire and rage,

and in the cage

of dreams is breathing the yearn of the years;

we are the strongest power of the universe.  

Jeremias. S.

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I'm coming.

I'll be arriving in the sunset, when sky gets red. The awakening is bound to be delayed, because I'm weak, and blind, and dark... But inside of me, there is a seed that is germinating. And I'm coming. Expect to see me around sunset-ish. I will have sung all my old sweet songs, the tunes that always make cry us. I'm really looking forward to seeing you. And the gift I ordered is due to arrive just when I met you. I've been dealing with a muse, and she has promised me that she will bring it. I'll be fitting it before night falls.

I'll be arriving with the soft wind, when the thyme's scent spreads around, and time stops, and west inflames, and your face be another sun beside the woods. My wisdom is bound to be delayed, because I'm just a poor monkey playing to be human. But I love you, and I love everybody. So... I'm coming. Expect to see me when my voice sounds. I will have left my possessions far away, and I'm going to be only me. I will have left my lies, and I'm going to be only me. I'm really looking forward to kissing you. And the gift I ordered is due to be here just when I dream of you. I've been dealing with a muse, and I can see her when I think of you. I'll be fitting it before night embraces all.

You, freedom, clearness, lives here, and I'm coming.  

A sweet and ancient sound of peace.

When I walked by street and didn't watch hearts, it was wicked of me.

When I chased a wish while I glanced a mirror, it was wicked of me.

When I chose the hard land of the noises and hurries, it was wicked of me.

When I forgot the life to earn safety, it was wicked of me.

Sometimes we need to rip everything up and start from a scratch,

and begin to live in a different way,

more peacefully and slowy,

getting to know our neighbours,

and sitting everyday to talk for a while to our sons and daughters.

Sometimes we need to draw another life in the existence's canvas,

giving away a dazzling and cool way of being to ourselves.

Make yourself a drink, from my soul's cupboard,

I haven't ice nor stunner liquors.

We can sing a poem near the golden fire of an old big house,

feeling the true depth of this alive instant

while the night cries out there, and the storm sounds far.

We can recite a pray, thinking of the stars

while the dancing shadows of the warming light

smile and create an unique and soft coreography,

only for this moment.

If my brain sleeps, you can stick around,

dreaming of a time of tenderness and childhood.

Then I'm waking up, just to chase your steps,

together we are laughing for nothing or for all.

I'm supposed to not fritter my valuable time

just on doing nothing,

but now, in the stillness, I sip all the life,

meantime the red wood that sings in the fire

fills the home of a sweet and ancient sound of peace.

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To clear out (Leave everything)

I'm going to get rid of my worries. 
I'm going to get rid of my fears.
I'm going to get rid of my boundaries
that doesn't allow me to reach my fate.

I want to get rid of the chains
that press my heart and tie my brain.
I want to get rid of the thoughts
that stick me and hit me without faith.

Heaps of junk inside my soul
must disappear with fire and light.

In the drawers of my inner home
only hope, only smiles.
I'm going to clear out the path
that I have to start freely under the sun
sorting out the array of instants
some in passion, some in fight.

I'm giving away myself with joy
working on me, I'm helping the world.
Throwing away the shit, I choose
a better pace and a sweeter world.
I ask you to take out all your rubbish
far away of your core.

Jeremias Soler.
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Edinburgh in the night.

Edinburgh in the night,

and a explossion of light,

with the stone of the fronts,

drawing up smart lines 

of the dreams and the drums,

in the dark city's closes,

while a fairy sings loud,

and a lullaby sounds, 

through a window in pale

yellow candle of oil,  

under the biggest moon

beyond the fog it shines

dress of colours and roses

beside the freedom's minds

where the great poet lies

despite the time goes by.

For a soul of his age

he is pure like a child

at the end of the days.

                                                Jeremias Soler

Unscrupulous sheepherders.

I don't like many things of the world where I live. 
The utilitarian education creates narcissistic monsters.
Fear manufactures bad persons.
People often is a herd moved by unscrupulous sheepherders; 
every sheep has tied dreams;
the identity of every sheep is sheared;
every sheep is punished for being creative.

I don't like the exemplars of monkeys 
that consider themself superior;
they shepherd the flock to where the livestock industry is
to kill or to enslave the sheeps.
But the herd is made of hearts,
and every heart is a creator,
every heart has an unique capacity to create, to love, to grow up.

Everybody has the right to be a superior aim, 
higher than the drove.
Every consciousness is the main aim of the universe.
People should fight for everybody's freedom,
for the right to be free, for the right to be creator, for the right to be able to love.
Everybody has the right to identity, the right to be oneself.
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Where is the thrill when body passes?

Where are the minds that one day cared me?

They nursed me more than they nursed themselves.

Some years ago, they went away

to the earth of the landscape.

If they were earth, how could they loved me?

How could they be a pure and strong wish?

If they were thought, how could they die?

The will remains, the matter fades away. 

When the wind blows, I think of them

as if they were the air that moves away,

and their heart talked with silent voice

around my skin, and they were wakeful.

Some day they had a whole world inside,

they were as strong and tall as trees.

I was their heritage, their dreams,

but one day they turn into ground.    

 I can't understand how the thrill

can born or die from dust of stars.

Where is the thrill when body passes?

And when the fire fizzles out,

and star gets dark in coldest night,

where are the minds that one day loved?

Jeremias Soler

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Dust of foam

In the wide light, bumping into waves,
water is burning, shining in blue,
earth's skin converting in man's skin,
as an alive brown flower in bloom.
The warm meat loves the grand bright sea, 
and the wind moans its deep truth.

I freely watch the far horizon,
breathing salted pure air
with dust of foam.
The ocean and I are oneness,
at once, and in an instant, that never finishes.
I'm only me and the sea, the sea and I,
when we live in the core of light, we fly,
inside the instant that grows and stays,
and eternally smiles and prays.
The rumble of the waves 
is the psalm of Earth.

First light

Let's go back to the first light
when we enjoyed the being
dazzling shower of sun drops 
in a strange world of cold.

Our first sight, was a puzzle
all made of fear and hope
holy scents of bright mother
spreading always around.

Slowly, the mind awakes
understanding the unknown.
The unknown is all, and increases
the more we learn, more it grows.

It's a hard work, the long life,
growing till be a child,
we'll have had to burn much clothes,
a lot of empty gold gods.

One day we thought we were adults,
grand men or women, wise lords.
Strong Time’s hammer sculpted us
with a mysterious love.

At the end, we keep our hands,
our eyes, a smile, a few words,
a guitar, a sunset, a clean beach,
and the slow pace of joy.

Jeremias Soler

Sunset's land

In sunset's land,
where mountain gets in red and thyme presents its soul,
my name is uttered,
from wall of stone to wall of stone.
The night grows up
and stars tremble and shine, 
and scent of pines spreads around the sight
of sky dressed in blood and night.

And borns, the calm
as if the ethereal sea all made of dying light
flooded the space and land, 
as it embraced your skin and took up to the sky. 
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To all the posts about poetry
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The orchesta sounds (II)

The orchestra sounds,

the orchesta that celebrates the privilege.

A man laughs and has a clown's nose,

and children jump on sand dunes.

The waves come and go

while the sun is going down

and dyes landscape in red.

Someone is dying,

but before leaving life,

he dances with the person he love most.

They follow the melody

of a young man with dreadlocks

that plays a guitar and sings 

an old John Sebastian's song:

"And then all that I know

I've learned, assuming my kid.

And all my deepest worries

must be true historical cartoons..."

And really they dance badly,

but they know that the sweetest experiences in life

are those we have not learned.

Wherever someone walks,

between the forest and the beach,

he, or she, feels a mixture of scents,

salt, pine, grass, algae ...

And when you want, you can sit or walk. 

And you think that the fact that you exist 

is a good experience, 

in spite that tomorrow 

you will have gone away.

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To "The orchesta Sounds (I)"

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The dark nights of the life.

Sometimes I feel that life winds and twists around me, 
like a rope that brings to live and tries to tie me.
I want to be reckless and transmit so much braveness as I can 
to my son and daughter.

In the dark nights of the life
I hear warblings and the wind's song
and my hypothetic braveness.
It is only a dress that covers my fear
because the beauty of the landscape 
asleep my mind with honey dreams and nude light.

I hatch my brood with my blindness
avoiding the images 
that destroy the core of my bones
and, as better I can, 
I sketch on my face 
something that seems a smile.
The enforced smile, then, 
turns into a sun's ray that appears after storm.

Those to come 

deserve our love

as we have deserved the love 

of those that have gone away.

Every voice singing from the deep of the heart

springs an only poem, an unique piece

that have ever yet been heard upon Earth.

Our voice borns from the love that flows with our blood, inside us.

Sometimes our love seems cold because It is free,

but free love is perhaps the only sincere love,

because It only seeks the good for those It loves.

I cry some nights, 

because my own weakness scares me,

the same as any.

But I know that no one will be dropped by death,

It is one of my deep secrets.

I can't say that I believe this, because I know this.

This idea allow me to go forward.

There's another idea I know too:

All persons are equal,

In spite the facts or evidences.

If each one of us would be the thief that yesterday stole a bank,

then, each one of us would has stolen the same bank.

Jeremias Soler