Happy St Patrick’s Day

shamrocks for st patrick's dayAlright you lovers of Green, it’s that day again. So go on now, grab that Guinness, put shamrocks in your hair, wear green anywhere you can think of (hah), quote Irish poets who come to mind (there are a lot of them), watch your favorite Irish actors in your favorite Irish movies, do something kind for someone and don’t tell anyone (that’s an old Irish tradition), and wish the best of the best for everyone you meet.

And of course, give a topping of the hat (I’m assuming you’ll be wearing one) to the wee ones and their clans (of which there are many), should you be blessed enough to meet them.

It’s a special day but it’s also meant to be fun (also known as a bit of craic), so go have some!

HAPPY ST. PATRICK’S DAY!

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The poem … ‘I Had A Dream’

Yesterday I posted a ‘Prelude’ to this poem to give you a sense of how it came to be, the feeling of power,magic, and yes perhaps even destiny, that wove round its coming into form. Here is the poem itself. It is very long so do hang in there. Thanks!

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I HAD A DREAM…                                      By:  Aliana Alani – updated ©2016

I had a dream on a wayward night when the moon was riding high.
A dream of the future once hidden so deep, now crying out to arrive.
A dream with a voice, a dream with a name, a dream with a purpose true.
A dream that grabbed me by the heart and begged me to see it through.

The dream spoke of a land, full and rich, steeped in the power of words.
Where voices whispered in morning mist and councils longed to be heard.
Where the earth was ancient and the song was of old, its colors royal too.
Where legends lived and prayers could be heard locked in the morning dew.

It spoke of a time when the world was right and the island knew its name.
When keys were forged in the glistening light of a golden destined flame.
Buried they were in the depths of the earth beyond terror and human sight.
Beyond evil hands and evil thoughts and intruders come to dig in the night.

For it was known then by those who could see between the sleeves of time
That hungry men would stretch their hands across the water’s broad line.
They would stretch and claw and grab for themselves pieces of the soil.
The land would burn, the land would bleed, and men would know only toil.

And all that was holy, all that was pure, would drown midst a sorrowful cry.
The power of the day would run for the dark, its magic now needing to hide.
Men’s spirits would live in the midst of night’s hue serenading a somber song
And all that was free, unfettered and true, would seem lost in a captor’s bonds.

The seed would be sent to foreign lands with young stomachs yet to be filled.
Such worlds appeared new, wild and alive; still the heart could not be stilled.
It longed for the green, it longed for the mist, it longed for those hidden keys
That called from the depths of that deep dark earth and promised a spirit free.

There would come a time when the world itself did not know which way to turn.
It would look to the left, it would look to the right, its lessons still not learned.
The seers knew such a time as that would wash harsh o’er the souls of this earth.
It would toss them and turn them, it would tumble them round, all before the birth.

They knew those keys would be needed then, so potent with life was their door.
Each encased in a golden light so pure, its spark took one straight to the core.
There would be no denying the power of its flame, no denying the power of truth,
No denying the light that would soon emerge, its flag flying o’er all of the earth.

It would come from an island once lost in pain, an island of war and of strife.
It would come from a place ancient yet new that oft seemed to have little life.
It would tear at the heart, sing to each soul, it would open doors so long bound.
It would call to the day, it would call to the night, it would call to the table round.

The island would live, the island would breathe, the island would claim its place.
From the north to the south, the east to the west, its spirit cast in lasting grace.
Its song would circle a troubled world, a loving voice long destined to be heard.
A white dove would fly from a hilltop high, and the dream would now emerge.

And those who had sat on that still dark night when the keys were buried deep
Who had watched them sink within rich moist soil, their secrets there to keep,
Whose hearts were etched in the print of the plan, fired within a golden mold,
Would be called from far, would be called from wide, their stories to be told.

They would place their print in the palm of the plan, the heart’s song to be sung.
The earth would tremble, the soil would shift, and the birthing would have begun.
Then the ghosts of the past meet the spirits of the day, awash in a glow of light
And that which was sorrow, that which was pain, is dissolved by a higher might.

Soon a love song is sung through emerald rain, a song so full and so strong.
Its call can be heard through forests and fears, through hatreds and rivers long.
It’s a song we long for, a song held in our hearts, a song the world needs to hear
Brought from an island long known for words, sacred and destined and clear.

I had such a dream on a wayward night when the moon was riding high.
A dream of a future once hidden so deep whose time had finally arrived.
A dream with a voice, a dream with a name, a dream with a purpose true.
A dream that grabbed me by the heart and begged me to see it through.

                           Aliana Alani © 2016

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 …for the heart song of Ireland

Me & the writing of BETWEEN WORLDS …

Glendalough-08-1Awhile ago in what is beginning to feel like another life, I wrote a book called, BETWEEN WORLDS. Sculpted from within the mist and memory of Ireland, it tells a tale of a man many later came to call a saint, and a woman remembered, if she was remembered at all, as a sinner. It is an archetypal story. It is also true.

Like many stories locked within the mists of time, it comes laden with baggage and hidden agendas. Agendas, as other writers might tell you, have a nasty habit of not liking their stories to be told. That is, quite obviously, why they have been plopped usually unceremoniously into the depths of that deep dark place sometimes called (at least in Ireland) – the bog.

It is from the bog that they must be retrieved and that, as you may have guessed, is the beginning of what Joseph Campbell would lovingly call – the hero’s journey.

Thus began my quest.

Did I want it? Not consciously. Did I ask for it? Again, not to my immediate awareness. Did I take it on? You betcha.

You see, there was this woman, like an often fleeting apparition, walking around Glendalough – that’s in County Wicklow – think old monastic city, ancient times, power, and yes sometimes light. She was hard to ignore. As was the energy of the place and the sense of whispers and messages slipping forth from the very fabric of the land – the ‘tell the tale – you must you must’ kind. Perhaps you could have walked away from that. Clearly I didn’t.

Frontcoveronly - half size - for internet

I’m mentioning it now because, though I have shared the how-I-got-to-it story to friends, I have very seldom spoken of it to others. The book is not yet well known. It’s self-published, it’s in eBook, it’s on the blog, you have to find it.

I could quite simply let it stay that way. It did after all take many years of my life and I could be forgiven for being tired. But it is a story that begged to be told, and told for a reason most honourable, and I, the storyteller, would be remiss if I didn’t give you a glimpse of why.

 

… stay tuned please

– book cover by Tannice Goddard           – Glendalough photo by Kevin O’Kelly (Ireland)

for those of you who love poetry …

wave-energy_nice-wave            

SOFT, MY LOVE …

                        © 2013 Aliana Alani

 

 

 

Soft, how the river flows

and I, a thousand dreams away, ride

like waves upon the sea of memory.

 

Soft, the winds they do approach

and with their building swirl and blow

doth come the dance of love’s hidden symphony.

 

Spin and twirl, my love                                              single hawthorn tree

the fairies’ melody begins like May flowers

fluttering on a budding hawthorn tree.

 

And you and I, once wrapped in gossamer

will soon discover the light of day.

 

Soft, my love, the world awakes

with a clap and thunder.

You don’t want to miss this!

There’s a new page – THE EBOOK. It’s where you can buy your own copy of BETWEEN WORLDS. .It’s a historical romance with a twist or two set in Ireland and LA, and it’s a great story whose time has come.

Check out the page. Click on the button. Enter its world.

Enjoy!

The EBook of BETWEEN WORLDS is here

Now you can get your very own copy!

                It has been said that some stories have their own timing, a sense of place within the fabric and power of word when they choose to deliver themselves to our world. Such stories can drive authors crazy as we strive, usually vainly, to birth the tale before its inwardly designated moment.

 BETWEEN WORLDS is one of those stories.

This, after many moons, is its first wave.

Set in present day Los Angeles California and in what has often been called The Garden of County Wicklow Ireland, BETWEEN WORLDS carves its tale along the pathways of time, casting us back through Ireland’s mystical mists into the sixth century and those precious moments before Glendalough became a renowned monastic city. It tells the tale of a woman who leaves her budding LA world behind to follow an invisible thread connected to the face of a man who has come to haunt her. Instinctively she feels Ireland carries the clues that will rid her of this vision and bring peace back to her world. The upper lake of Glendalough has other plans.

Called a historical romance by some, albeit with more than one twist, BETWEEN WORLDS is really a heart song to and for Ireland, and because everything is interlinked in our world, it naturally becomes a heart song for us all. Like all songs of the heart, it carries the potential for healing, and a key to love.

Be one of the first wave to read this EBook!

It’s a wonderful story whose time has come.

$9.95 CDN (plus applicable taxes)

You can order your copy(s) by leaving your contact details on the comment section below and we will get back to you. Payment is by PayPal. The EBook is available both in Kindle and main stream version (which can be downloaded onto Adobe Digitals Edition software and also thru ibook on your iphone). Each is also available in high or low res. Let us know which version you want.

If you want a taste of the tale before you buy, click on the Between Worlds – Sneak Preview page of this blog, scroll down, click on the pdf link below the book cover, and enjoy.

Word-of-mouth is a treasured thing when self publishing so do pass the word along to anyone who you feel would be interested. Truly it’s a story that deserves to be read.

I hope reading BETWEEN WORLDS will touch your heart. Writing it has definitely touched mine.

…book cover design by Tannice Goddard

Between Worlds – Sneak Preview!

CHECK OUT THE NEW PAGE – Between Worlds – Sneak Preview

I’ve made it available especially for you.

When you get there, ponder the cover image (you’ll know its depth when you have read the whole tale), scroll down and click on the pdf link. It will take you into a Sneak Preview of the land and story of Between Worlds.

I hope it wets your appetite and encourages you to want to read more.

Enjoy!

Aliana

Between Worlds: Reflections

In some ways, it feels like it was centuries ago when I started researching what was to become the book, Between Worlds. Like its heroine, I too was pulled over to The Green; that mystical, often magical, frequently haunting place known as Ireland. It is truly a land of layers, of stories, of polarities, and of love. Ireland is a door to the heart. After years walking its pathways, I’m convinced of that. But like any magnificent door, it requires a key, and finding the key to the heart of Ireland becomes a journey in itself.
There is a saying that some places make you pay your dues. For me, Ireland was one of them. Of course once you do, there is no end to what they might tell you. And once you do, they never quite let you go.

Birthing Between Worlds, finally, is for me a give-back. It is a story that so deeply wanted to be told that it yanked me clear across the Atlantic to follow its trail, plunked me at the edge of Glendalough, and demanded that I listen. Had I known the journey it would take me on, perhaps I would never have gone. But that’s the force of such things, isn’t it. To tempt and tantalize, envelop and immerse you to such a degree that you find yourself heading off a proverbial cliff with no idea of the outcome or even the steps along the way.

For me, it has been a story worth telling, something that has been hidden within the mists for far too long. Ultimately it is a story of the heart. After all, it’s from ancient Ireland. How could it not be?

And, it’s a self-published book searching for its audience. Perhaps you are one of those people meant to wander through its pages and be touched by the magic of its story.

Aliana Alani    July 2011