Cyberia - The City of Ladies

Leave all your woes dire, come to the campfire,
Come to the sound of the tambourine;
Come in a red skirt, come in a gold shirt,
Come to the dance on the Gypsy Green.

Take down the barn doors, make them a dance floor,
Partner your Rom, and sweep up your Queen;
Dance by the camp fire, dance ’til your feet tire,
Dance `neath the moon on the Gypsy Green.

Tell us the old tales, tell us some new tales,
Tell us everything that you’ve done or seen;
Take us down old ways, tell of your young days,
Spin us a yarn on the Gypsy Green.

Now watch the fire die, now hear the owl cry,
Soon the first rays of morning steal over the scene;
Sleep in your caravans, dream of fair atchin tan,
All tuckered out on the Gypsy Green.

Note: atchin tan=camp place

Posted by Gail

Here are couple of resources for anyone who wants to know more about the Romanyi and their way of life:
The Patrin Web is one of the best, set up and maintined by Romany people, but this resource, lthough for role playing games, is also very well done.
The Lemurian Tribe has brought together Gypsies from all over the world, from the fiery dancers of Spain and the whimsical travellers of Ireland, to the mysterious Dom of North Africa, and the Romanyi of Europe. Lavengro, the Gypsy King, is the son of an Irish Gypsy Chief and a flamenco dancer. He is susceptible to beautiful ladies (they are all beautiful to Lavengro) and looks a bit like Johnny Depp.
One of the most popular events at the camp is a crossroads dance, when a nearby farmer is likely to see his barn doors taken off their hinges and laid down for a dance floor. Fortunately, this farmer loves a hooley as well, and can be found doing the heel and toe with the best of them.
With so many influences at work, you can stop at any campfire and enjoy Irish stew, soda bread, fiery curries, paella and Turkish Delight (Lavengro’s favourite food).

Word has come from Lavengro, the King of the Lemurian Gypsies, that they have set up camp near the City of Ladies.
The Gypsy Camp is a colourful setting for parties, celebrations and nights of song and story telling, so everyone is invited to join in. Sit around the campfire, set yourself up in one of the many caravans especially prepared for travellers, and share you tales, songs and poems. If you have any Gypsy lore to share, please add it to the archives. In the original Gypsy Camp at Blogger you can find a lot of inspiration.
Over the next few days, Lavengro and his tribe will be keeping the fires burning, the mead and cider flowing and the laughter ringing, so just follow your heart and you will find your way there.
Please come and join in the celebrations and add to the enterainment.

The unwary hand gropes in the depths of the school bag - what horrors lie below the books, the crumpled bits of paper, permission notes they forgot to give you, missives from their teacher asking you to come and `have a chat about your child’, a pair of wet muddy socks, a homework project they `forgot to tell you about’, swap cards, leaking ballpoint pens, art work they were supposed to give you to tape on the fridge, muddy gym shoes…
Beneath this vile repository of your child’s school life lies the greatest horror of all, the grinning corpse of your carefully balanced nutritious lunch - not even the one you packed that morning. The one you packed on Monday.
Yes, the one with the chicken sandwiches, the pot of strawberry yoghurt and the banana. By now the chicken sandwich has grown fur and is trying to eat its way out of the lunch box. The yoghurt has obliged it by swelling up and popping the lid. The banana escaped the horror in the lunch box but died a grisly death on the bottom of the school bag, it’s blacked corpse clinging with its last dying gaseous breath to your child’s math homework.
“How did this happen?” You demand.
“I forgot.”
Forgetting to eat your lunch is one thing, forgetting it for a week the act of the devil’s spawn, watching with intense interest as you scrape the stinking remains of the banana off the homework.
I can see it now, my child’s face turning to the teacher with a Machiavellian smile - “a week old banana ate my homework, Miss.”
Some sainted mothers would scrape out the lunchbox too, and soak it in hot water and bleach until it was fit to use again. Not this one. The whole thing gets tossed in the bin and I dive under the sink for a new lunchbox.
Oh, yes, I have quite a stack of them standing by, these brightly coloured coffins for deceased lunches. You never know what you’ll find when you plunge your hand into your child’s school bag.

The shop overlooks the sea, in a sunny position, with a flourishing herb garden and lots of geraniums pouring out of big stone pots. I love this location - apothecary’s shops are sometimes thought of as dark, poky little places, but I need lots of light and the scent of the sea.

There is plenty of living room at the back of the shop, and though it is simply furnished with rugs and baskets from the bazaar, it is very comfortable. I spend most of time in the still room, anyway, where I have put shelves and drawers for my herbal supplies, and a big roll top desk where i keep my receipt (recipe) book.

The interior of the house is lovely, with buttery cream walls and deep hearths for cold nights. I know I will be very happy here.

I have been stocking the shop - Heather’s Goddess of the Hearth has pride of place, of course. I have a new set of brass scales from the bazaar, glass jars filled with dried herbs and home made confections - horehound candy, peppermint creams, violet comfits.
There is home made ginger beer, sarsaparilla and lemonade verbena to drink; rows of pretty glass bottles filled with lavender water, Hungary water and other scented delights; big rush baskets overflowing with pot pourri; and creams and potions for every need - calendula cream, honey and garlic paste, four thieves vinegar and sweet smelling essential oils to lift every mood.

You can linger and enjoy a cup of herbal tea with some rosemary scones, lavender shortbread or oatcakes with lemon and ginger marmalade. And yes, that is a pack of tarot cards you see on the table by the window. The Gypsies have been to the shop to stock up on herbs and have offered to read your tarot cards while you sip your tea.

In celebration of all the irishness here tonight, I will perform a poem based on a favorite childhood joke.

Himself Went into Confession, and knelt in the Holy stall.
He said, “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned – shall I start with the great or the small?”
The Father said, “Now listen, son, I’ll tell you where to begin,
We’ll save the best for last, and you start with the smaller sin.”

“Well, Father, me brother has a farm, and he brings me meat for me dish,
And I eat it on a Friday, for, God Help Me, I can’t stand fish.”
“Now God doesn’t care,” the Father said, “if himself owns a couple of dairies.
You can’t eat steak on a Friday, so that’ll be three Hail Marys.

Now tell me about the other sin, though I fear for the state of your soul.
If it’s any worse than the first one, you’re looking at Hell’s black hole.”
So himself said, “It’s my neighbor, she looks like that Sharon Stone,
“With lovely blonde hair and a killer shape, and she just won’t leave me alone.

“Each day when I’m making my dinner, I see her out on her lawn,
“And, Father I swear she has nothing at all but little bikini pants on.
“She’s giving me lustful thoughts, and Father, I’m in such a state,
“For here I am a married man with more than enough on me plate.

“I’m having to fend for meself these days, while me wife is at her mothers’,
“The old lady’s sick, and the worst of it is, me wife has four big brothers.”
The Father scratched his chin, and then he nodded and said,
“Three Hail Marys is not enough, I’ve got to get into your head,

“There’s a trick we priests have often used, which I’ll pass on to you,
“You say to yourself these powerful words, until you believe it is true –
“’You’re not a lovely young girl, says you, you’re a withered and wrinkled old crone.’
“If it worked for me with Sophia Loren, it’ll work with this Sharon Stone.”

Next Friday came and the Father was passing down the street.
He thought he’d call in and see if himself was eating meat.
The door was standing open, so the Father went inside,
And found your man in the kitchen, and crept up to his side.

Himself was cooking his dinner as out of the window he stared,
At a lovely young woman sunning herself, and his lips were moving in prayer.
And this is what the Father heard, as himself reached for the dish…
“By the Holy Crook of St Patrick, you’re not a steak, you’re a fish.”

With his bobbing red head and his trim suit of green,
Herb Robert’s a dandy, the finest e’er seen.
For which Rob was he named, this knight of the hedgerow?
A monk or a Saint, or a stout Duke with short hose?

Nobody knows, but it doesn’t matter a ween,
For Herb Robert’s a dandy, the finest e’er seen.
He’s a friend and a helpmate to all those who serve
The Goddess of Healing and the magic of herbs.

The Geranium family spawned this wee bein’,
Herb Robert’s a dandy, the finest e’re seen.
But he wears no sweet perfume, no charming nosegay,
He smells like an ostler, of horses and hay.

For you’ll find him in places that are dark and mean,
Tho’ Herb Robert’s a dandy, the finest e’re seen.
In the stench of a battle, where limbs bleed and tear,
You’ll find handsome Robert, tending wounds there.

With his bobbing red head and his trim suit of green,
Herb Robert’s a dandy, the finest e’re seen.
But his heart’s with the wounded, the bleeding and torn,
He wraps them in comfort, and heals the forlorn.