#Wilfred Wilson Gibson

[oxenfreeao3]

Flannan Isle

By Wilfred Wilson Gibson

THOUGH three men dwell on Flannan Isle

To keep the lamp alight,

As we steered under the lee, we caught

No glimmer through the night.

A passing ship at dawn had brought

The news; and quickly we set sail,

To find out what strange thing might ail

The keepers of the deep-sea light.

The Winter day broke blue and bright,

With glancing sun and glancing spray,

As o'er the swell our boat made way,

As gallant as a gull in flight.

But, as we neared the lonely Isle;

And looked up at the naked height;

And saw the lighthouse towering white,

With blinded lantern, that all night

Had never shot a spark

Of comfort through the dark,

So ghostly in the cold sunlight

It seemed, that we were struck the while

With wonder all too dread for words.

And, as into the tiny creek

We stole beneath the hanging crag,

We saw three queer, black, ugly birds—

Too big, by far, in my belief,

For guillemot or shag—

Like seamen sitting bolt-upright

Upon a half-tide reef:

But, as we neared, they plunged from sight,

Without a sound, or spurt of white.

And still to mazed to speak,

We landed; and made fast the boat;

And climbed the track in single file,

Each wishing he was safe afloat,

On any sea, however far,

So it be far from Flannan Isle:

And still we seemed to climb, and climb,

As though we'd lost all count of time,

And so must climb for evermore.

Yet, all too soon, we reached the door—

The black, sun-blistered lighthouse-door,

That gaped for us ajar.

As, on the threshold, for a spell,

We paused, we seemed to breathe the smell

Of limewash and of tar,

Familiar as our daily breath,

As though 't were some strange scent of death:

And so, yet wondering, side by side,

We stood a moment, still tongue-tied:

And each with black foreboding eyed

The door, ere we should fling it wide,

To leave the sunlight for the gloom:

Till, plucking courage up, at last,

Hard on each other's heels we passed,

Into the living-room.

Yet, as we crowded through the door,

We only saw a table, spread

For dinner, meat and cheese and bread;

But, all untouched; and no one there:

As though, when they sat down to eat,

Ere they could even taste,

Alarm had come; and they in haste

Had risen and left the bread and meat:

For at the table-head a chair

Lay tumbled on the floor.

We listened; but we only heard

The feeble cheeping of a bird

That starved upon its perch:

And, listening still, without a word,

We set about our hopeless search.

We hunted high, we hunted low;

And soon ransacked the empty house;

Then o'er the Island, to and fro,

We ranged, to listen and to look

In every cranny, cleft or nook

That might have hid a bird or mouse:

But, though we searched from shore to shore,

We found no sign in any place:

And soon again stood face to face

Before the gaping door:

And stole into the room once more

As frightened children steal.

Aye: though we hunted high and low,

And hunted everywhere,

Of the three men's fate we found no trace

Of any kind in any place,

But a door ajar, and an untouched meal,

And an overtoppled chair.

And, as we listened in the gloom

Of that forsaken living-room—

A chill clutch on our breath—

We thought how ill-chance came to all

Who kept the Flannan Light:

And how the rock had been the death

Of many a likely lad:

How six had come to a sudden end,

And three had gone stark mad:

And one whom we'd all known as friend

Had leapt from the lantern one still night,

And fallen dead by the lighthouse wall:

And long we thought

On the three we sought,

And of what might yet befall.

Like curs, a glance has brought to heel,

We listened, flinching there:

And looked, and looked, on the untouched meal,

And the overtoppled chair.

We seemed to stand for an endless while,

Though still no word was said,

Three men alive on Flannan Isle,

Who thought, on three men dead.

[my-pjo-stuff]

As someone who has recently gotten into WW1 poetry it's frankly shocking how many of these poems match up with PJO characters, like genuinely. August 1914 by Issac Rosenberg? Luke Castellan. A Lament by Katharine Tyan? Charles Beckendorf. The Poet As Hero by Siegfried Sasson? Percy Jackson. The Messages by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson? Alabaster C. Torrington Anthem for Doomed Youth by Wilfred Owen? Cabin 7. To His Love by Ivor Gurney? Annabeth Chase. After the War by May Weddeburn Cannan? Will Solace. War Mothers by Ella Wheeler Wilcox? The mortal parents of demigods. The Dead by Rupert Brook? Litteraly all the demigods.

[scotianostra]

An investigation subsequently concluded that it was on December 15th, probably in the afternoon that the three Keepers of the year old Flannan Isles Lighthouse disappeared.

The work of the forenoon had been completed and no light was visible that night. No trace of them was ever found.

I think we all know the story, I indeed remember reading about it in primary school, so even then I had an interest in our history.

The Flannan Isles actually has an interesting history, before the establishment of the lighthouse on the Flannan Isles -named after St Flann - which consists of seven rocky, uninhabited islands called the Seven Hunters, the island of Eilean Mor on which the lighthouse stands had two other habitations.

The Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland describe the islands ruins as "The Bothies of the Clan McPhail" and in appearance one of these ruins seems to have a chapel and the other a dwelling.

Probably from as early as the 17th century the Flannans were attached to holdings in Uig parish, indeed Rev Hugh Munro wrote at the end of the eighteenth century:

"The people of the farms to which the isles are connected, go there once a year to fleece their sheep and to kill sea-fowls, both for food and on account of their feathers."

According to tradition grazing on the Flannans was exemplary, ewes would have twin lambs and even sickly sheep would benefit from a spell spent on the islands. By the 1920s Crofters were paying rent for the right to pasture 50 to 60 sheep. The sheep were distributed over six of the islands according to what the area could sustain: 24 to 30 on Eilean Mor, 10-11 on Eilean Tighe, 6 on Soray, 1 on Sgeir Toman, 2 on Roarein and 8 on Eilean a Ghobha. By the 1970s the Bernera crofters considered the cost and trouble of putting sheep onto the islands outweighed the benefits and the practice came to an end.

In the 1760s it was recorded that 38 stone of feathers were taken from the Flannan Isles, Rona and Sulasgeir and sold. The most prized bird for feathers was the eider duck, valued for its down as the puffin was for its flesh.

In 1899 a lighthouse was built on Eilean Mor by engineer David Alan Stevenson assisted by his brother Charles Alexander. This lighthouse led to a great mystery in December 1900 when the three keepers vanished without trace. A party, sent out to investigate why the light was not lit,some reports say they found an untouched meal on the table, this is untrue, a first-hand account made by the the relief keeper, stated that: "The kitchen utensils were all very clean, which is a sign that it must be after dinner some time they left."

Much has been written about these final log entries in the years since, as interest in the Great Lighthouse Mystery has evolved, for in some ways, as we have received them, they appear to be odd and foreboding. On the 12th of December, Marshall writes about a storm the likes of which he’s never seen, and mentions in passing how quiet Ducat was and how MacArthur had been crying. This perhaps shows the stress these men were under, day in day out.

Then on the 13th, he makes sure to put down that all three of them took to prayer, such was their disquiet and dread. Then, on the 15th, he notes that the weather has calmed, stating cryptically, “God is over all.”

The occurrence gained national publicity and became the inspiration for the following poem by Wilson Wilfred Gibson "Flannan Isle."

In the years following, other keepers claimed to hear voices in the salty air screaming out the names of Thomas Marshall, James Ducat, and Donald McArthur.

The light, which was served by a shore station at Breasclete, was automated in 1971. The third pic is a memorial at Breasclete, Isle of Lewis.

[ourlittleband]

Carl Turner is one of the founding members of Irshmodhachas (who were originally called Our Little Band and then Bruadaraichean nan Tursachan). In the 1990s, Carl and Rowland Hart were studying Sound Engineering at college, close to the Black Country area of England. During a night out for a Rhythm & Blues gig, they bumped into Brad Carrington and Michelorbe, who had been visiting The Black Country at the time. The guys got on really well and a collaboration soon formed. Brad was looking for someone to help with the sound for his Flannan Isle Project, which is a stop-motion idea based on a poem called Flannan Isle, by Wilfred Wilson Gibson. Carl and Michelorbe volunteered to help. Brad and Carl then started resourcing to bring some more musicians together to work on a soundtrack for the project, which in turn led to the formation of the supergroup. They never managed to see the project through after a freak wave washed away all their musical instruments. However, since 2012 a process of restoration has been taking place. Carl along with his close friends Angus McLean and Charlie have offered to play the three sailors featured in the poem and some of Irsmodhochas have been offering to help build sets, equipment, and props. Angus has had a go at recording a narration of the poem: Flannan Isles, by Wilfred Wilson Gibson and I’m expecting Carl will want to work with him on this sometime.

So Carl has been there since the very beginning, and throughout, and although his focus is on the sound, not on performing, he is nonetheless seen as a member of the band. Yet Carl himself is a skilled musician and singer. He not only helps Irsmodhochas with their performances but he also sings lead vocals for their main support band, Prince 8 Zeppelin (P8Z). These two roles involve different disciplines but it’s a challenge Carl loves, and he’s always been good at sport. The arrangement allows him to stay in the background and focus more on what he loves most, working on the sound, while he also gets some release from performing with P8Z; and he’s never appreciated why support bands should aspire to blow away (upstage) the band they’re meant to be supporting, anyway. Carl will argue that the most important thing about working backstage is learning to listen. In his opinion, good listening is possibly one of the greatest transferable skills you could ever hope to attain. For Carl, he really does love working in this field. It not only helps him to find balance in the sound, and to know when someone is beginning to shine, but it also helps him to discover and appreciate things about life and living: a quality that is valued greatly by his fellow band mates Shay 5, Russ Zizipiow, and Jade Meadows.

To this day there’s a lot of camaraderie between Brad and Carl and Carl and Connory Mac. They call each other names. Carl sometimes gets referred to as Candyfloss (short for Neurotic Candyfloss), by Brad, or as Goldilocks, by Connory Mac. I’m not sure what Carl calls them. And I think Shay 5′ got a few names for him too.

Carl himself was born and brought up in North Dakota, but I’m not entirely sure where exactly. His parents have relations in England and Germany and one of his grandparents used to live and work in the Black Country area of England. This is a heritage he loves to explore and is what led to him going to college in England and meeting and building a great rapport with all the characters in this band. He also facilitates a deep love for the ancient prairies of North America and told us more about this in his post for the Bruadaraichean (Irsmodhochas) botany project 2016, where he featured Anise Hysopp as his chosen plant.

Apart from sharing the same birthday as myself, Carl is very different from me and I’m on a forever journey learning stuff about him. My investment on undergraduate studies with a focus on music, sound and technology is in many ways testament to this. I love working with Carl and hope to facilitate quality posts from him for many years to come.

    Pòl A O’Roideain is our facilitator

A thing or two I know about Carl Turner… Carl Turner is one of the founding members of Irshmodhachas (who were originally called Our Little Band and then Bruadaraichean nan Tursachan).

[alienbuddhism]

Mindful Memorial Day

By John M. de Castro, Ph.D.

“We who are left how shall we look again Happily on the sun or feel the rain Without remembering how they who went Ungrudgingly and spent Their lives for us loved, too, the sun and rain?” ~Wilfred Wilson Gibson

Memorial Day is the unofficial start of the Summer holiday season. But, it’s primary purpose is to remember and honor those men and women who have died in wars. As such it’s a somber occasion and a reminder of the human cost of warfare. This is usually a day celebrating patriotism and the righteousness of the country’s cause. Some may think that I’m being a little discourteous to the honored dead. But, I believe that the greatest honor we can provide is to work tirelessly to insure that no one else has to die for their country in warfare.

Some wars are regrettably necessary. At times, pacifism and nonviolence just can’t work. It requires a minimally just society. For example, in 1938 Adolph Hitler advised the British government on how to protect their empire from the threat posed in India of Mahatma Gandhi: “kill Gandhi, if that isn't enough then kill the other leaders too, if that isn't enough then two hundred more activists, and so on until the Indian people will give up the hope of independence.” Fortunately, the British did not follow this advice and Gandhi’s nonviolence triumphed. But, if this had been Hitler’s empire, pacifism, no matter how well led or intentioned, would have failed miserably.

Even the Buddha who taught love, compassion, and nonviolence, also taught that we should defend ourselves. There are sects of Buddhist monks who practice martial arts and are celebrated for their skills. When under attack, we have a right and perhaps an obligation to stand up and resist violent assault. If non-violent means aren’t successful, then violence and aggression may be necessary. This is never a good thing, but at times necessary. There have been far too many wars, most unnecessary. We should honor the courage, valor, and commitment of those who died in war by doing our best to make sure that unnecessary wars are never fought again.

It is right that we honor those who died in warfare, not just soldiers, but also civilians and merchant marine who often perish in massive numbers. They too should be remembered. We should always remember that what we have and enjoy, including peace, was paid for dearly. But, we should honor all who perished. This doesn’t mean just those who belonged to our side. We should remember that the vast majority of combatants entered into battle with the finest of intentions, believing that their cause was right and just, and that they were fighting for their families and their countries. Regardless of whether they were misled by unscrupulous, evil, or incompetent leaders, they entered into battle honorably and deserve our respect.

It is sometimes difficult to see, but their sacrifices have paid off for the rest of us. Since World War II, European countries and similarly, the Asian countries of China, Korea, and Japan, who had been at virtually constant war among themselves for thousands of years, are now peaceful and there has not been an armed conflict between them in over 70 years. So, even with all of the conflict in the world, there is less warfare now than at any time in recorded history. We have the honored dead from the terrible conflict of World War II to thank for the peace and prosperity that has been enjoyed since. We don’t need this reason to honor them, but it is reassuring to know that their sacrifices were not in vain.

To prevent these horrors in the future and honor our dead by abolishing warfare completely, there are a number of strategies that may be helpful. We should view our past, present, and future enemies, as the great sage Thich Nhat Hahn did during the Vietnam War, as people whose lives, backgrounds, training, and beliefs put them into the roles they are playing. If we lived in their shoes, we would likely make the same choice they did. No matter how despicable we may think they are, or how horrible their deeds, we need to understand that what they experienced in life, led them there. If we truly place ourselves in the shoes of our enemy, do we honestly believe that we would make different decisions. The terrorist, so despised in the west, may have been brought up in poverty, with little education save for religious indoctrination, that taught him that his god demands that he kill the infidel and that he will be rewarded in the next life for doing so. If we were raised similarly, would we act differently. This kind of understanding can lead to actions that may help to prevent future violence. Seeing the enemy as intrinsically evil can only lead to more warfare. Seeing them as human beings whose situation dictated their behavior can lead to peace.

A key strategy for preventing future wars is forgiveness. Violence begets violence. Retribution demands that the people who killed your family members must themselves be killed. But, this is a never ending cycle as the families of those you killed now seek to kill you. The only way to break the cycle is forgiveness. This can be very difficult. But it is the only way. Nelson Mandela, when he took over leadership of South Africa from those who oppressed and imprisoned him and his people for decades, didn’t enact retribution. Instead he launched a massive campaign of forgiveness and reconciliation. He understood that this was the only way to heal his country. He was amazingly successful and South Africa, although far from perfect, has become peaceful and prosperous working for the betterment of all of its citizens.

Most people look at creating peace and preventing war as a massively difficult task that is beyond their capabilities to resolve. As a result, they do nothing waiting for a Ghandi, Mandela, or King to lead them. But, this is a grave mistake. We can all honor our fallen by contributing to world peace. We can do this if we stop looking for grand solutions and instead, contribute in the ways that we can during every day of our lives. By leading peaceful, nonviolent lives we contribute. We create ripples on the pond of life spreading out to the far horizons. “If in our daily life we can smile, if we can be peaceful and happy, not only we, but everyone will profit from it. This is the most basic kind of peace work.” ― Thich Nhat Hanh

Communications is a key to peace. By engaging in non-violent communications, what the Buddha calls “Right Speech,” we not only produce peace in ourselves but in the people we’re communicating with. Their peacefulness then affects others, who affect others, etc. interpersonal ripples of peace. We also become role models for our children who then become role models for their children, etc., producing intergenerational ripples of peace. If many of us practice non-violence the ripples will become build and sum into tidal waves of peace washing over the earth. “If we are peaceful, if we are happy, we can smile and blossom like a flower, and everyone in our family, our entire society, will benefit from our peace.” ― Thich Nhat Hahn

Practicing mindfulness can similarly promote peace and create ripples. By being focused on the present moment non-judgmentally, we are fully present for those around us. This produces the deepest kinds of human communications based upon understanding and compassion. In human communications there is great power in non-judgmental listening. It has a tremendously calming effect on people, particularly when they are highly agitated. In a leadership position I once held, I would quite often have people come into my office and just rail on about the injustices they’ve experienced and the horrible people around them. I would just listen and occasionally acknowledge their emotions. At the end, they would almost inevitably thank me and tell me how much that helped. I had done nothing other than deeply listen and this by itself had dramatic effects. Over time, I could see how the ripples moved outward and affected the entire organization. Listening is a powerful tool of peace.

Another key method for promoting individual, societal, and planetal peace is practicing compassion. This is simply looking deeply at ourselves and others to understand their suffering. First we must have compassion for ourselves. Unless we do, we cannot have true compassion for others. We have to acknowledge that we are flawed human beings and not scold ourselves for it, but compassionately understand and forgive ourselves. We are essentially good. But, sometimes our background, indoctrination, humanness, and circumstances conspire to produce harmful acts. Rather than looking at the actions as good or bad, think of them as skillful or unskillful; bringing greater or less harmony and happiness. We need to understand this about ourselves, forgive ourselves with the intentions to do better, to be more skillful, and look upon ourselves with eyes of kindness and caring.

It is important to also recognize and congratulate ourselves for all of the good we do. Celebrate our goodness while having compassion for our faults. Once, we can do this. We can then move on to others. Being compassionate to our enemies involves looking deeply into their suffering, looking deeply into their background, indoctrination, humanness, and circumstances that conspire to produce harmful acts, and then being forgiving, kind, and caring about them. This is essential to healing wounds and developing world peace.

So, on this Memorial Day, let us resolve to honor the fallen for what they have done. But let us truly honor them by working to make their sacrifices not in vain, to do what we can to develop peacefulness in ourselves and others, and to let their deaths be the foundation not of more war but of lasting peace.

“On Memorial Day, I don't want to only remember the combatants. There were also those who came out of the trenches as writers and poets, who started preaching peace, men and women who have made this world a kinder place to live.” - Eric Burdon

[theotherpages]

from the permanent collection at theotherpages.org

The Stone

"AND will you cut a stone for him, To set above his head? And will you cut a stone for him-- A stone for him?" she said.

Three days before, a splintered rock

Had struck her lover dead-- Had struck him in the quarry dead, Where, careless of a warning call, He loitered, while the shot was fired-- A lively stripling, brave and tall, And sure of all his heart desired . . . A flash, a shock, A rumbling fall . . . And, broken 'neath the broken rock, A lifeless heap, with face of clay, And still as any stone he lay, With eyes that saw the end of all. I went to break the news to her: And I could hear my own heart beat With dread of what my lips might say; But some poor fool had sped before; And, flinging wide her father's door, Had blurted out the news to her, Had struck her lover dead for her, Had struck the girl's heart dead in her, Had struck life, lifeless, at a word, And dropped it at her feet: Then hurried on his witless way, Scarce knowing she had heard. And when I came, she stood alone-- A woman, turned to stone: And, though no word at all she said, I knew that all was known. Because her heart was dead, She did not sigh nor moan. His mother wept: She could not weep. Her lover slept: She could not sleep. Three days, three nights, She did not stir: Three days, three nights, Were one to her, Who never closed her eyes From sunset to sunrise, From dawn to evenfall-- Her tearless, staring eyes, That, seeing naught, saw all. The fourth night when I came from work, I found her at my door. "And will you cut a stone for him?" She said: and spoke no more: But followed me, as I went in, And sank upon a chair; And fixed her grey eyes on my face, With still, unseeing stare. And, as she waited patiently, I could not bear to feel Those still, grey eyes that followed me, Those eyes that plucked the heart from me, Those eyes that sucked the breath from me And curdled the warm blood in me, Those eyes that cut me to the bone, And cut my marrow like cold steel. And so I rose and sought a stone; And cut it smooth and square: And, as I worked, she sat and watched, Beside me, in her chair. Night after night, by candlelight, I cut her lover's name: Night after night, so still and white, And like a ghost she came; And sat beside me, in her chair, And watched with eyes aflame. She eyed each stroke, And hardly stirred: she never spoke A single word: And not a sound or murmur broke The quiet, save the mallet stroke. With still eyes ever on my hands, With eyes that seemed to burn my hands, My wincing, overwearied hands, She watched, with bloodless lips apart, And silent, indrawn breath: And every stroke my chisel cut, Death cut still deeper in her heart: The two of us were chiselling, Together, I and Death. And when at length my job was done, And I had laid the mallet by, As if, at last, her peace were won, She breathed his name, and, with a sigh, Passed slowly through the open door: And never crossed my threshold more. Next night I laboured late, alone, To cut her name upon the stone. -- Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

[lunalavendera]

30 Day Poetry Challenge: Day 15: Post a poem (written by someone else) that you love (for any reason).

The Stone by Wilfred Wilson Gibson "And will you cut a stone for him, To set above his head? And will you cut a stone for him-- A stone for him?" she said. Three days before, a splintered rock Had struck her lover dead-- Had struck him in the quarry dead, Where, careless of a warning call, He loitered, while the shot was fired-- A lively stripling, brave and tall, And sure of all his heart desired . . . A flash, a shock, A rumbling fall . . . And, broken 'neath the broken rock, A lifeless heap, with face of clay, And still as any stone he lay, With eyes that saw the end of all. I went to break the news to her: And I could hear my own heart beat With dread of what my lips might say; But some poor fool had sped before; And, flinging wide her father's door, Had blurted out the news to her, Had struck her lover dead for her, Had struck the girl's heart dead in her, Had struck life, lifeless, at a word, And dropped it at her feet: Then hurried on his witless way, Scarce knowing she had heard. And when I came, she stood alone-- A woman, turned to stone: And, though no word at all she said, I knew that all was known. Because her heart was dead, She did not sigh nor moan. His mother wept: She could not weep. Her lover slept: She could not sleep. Three days, three nights, She did not stir: Three days, three nights, Were one to her, Who never closed her eyes From sunset to sunrise, From dawn to evenfall-- Her tearless, staring eyes, That, seeing naught, saw all. The fourth night when I came from work, I found her at my door. "And will you cut a stone for him?" She said: and spoke no more: But followed me, as I went in, And sank upon a chair; And fixed her grey eyes on my face, With still, unseeing stare. And, as she waited patiently, I could not bear to feel Those still, grey eyes that followed me, Those eyes that plucked the heart from me, Those eyes that sucked the breath from me And curdled the warm blood in me, Those eyes that cut me to the bone, And cut my marrow like cold steel. And so I rose and sought a stone; And cut it smooth and square: And, as I worked, she sat and watched, Beside me, in her chair. Night after night, by candlelight, I cut her lover's name: Night after night, so still and white, And like a ghost she came; And sat beside me, in her chair, And watched with eyes aflame. She eyed each stroke, And hardly stirred: she never spoke A single word: And not a sound or murmur broke The quiet, save the mallet stroke. With still eyes ever on my hands, With eyes that seemed to burn my hands, My wincing, overwearied hands, She watched, with bloodless lips apart, And silent, indrawn breath: And every stroke my chisel cut, Death cut still deeper in her heart: The two of us were chiselling, Together, I and Death. And when at length my job was done, And I had laid the mallet by, As if, at last, her peace were won, She breathed his name, and, with a sigh, Passed slowly through the open door: And never crossed my threshold more. Next night I laboured late, alone, To cut her name upon the stone.

[scotianostra]

An investigation subsequently concluded that it was on December 15th, probably in the afternoon that the three Keepers of the year old Flannan Isles Lighthouse disappeared.

The work of the forenoon had been completed and no light was visible that night. No trace of them was ever found.

I think we all know the story, I indeed remember reading about it in primary school, so even then I had an interest in our history.

The Flannan Isles actually has an interesting history, before the establishment of the lighthouse on the Flannan Isles -named after St Flann - which consists of seven rocky, uninhabited islands called the Seven Hunters, the island of Eilean Mor on which the lighthouse stands had two other habitations.

The Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland describe the islands ruins as "The Bothies of the Clan McPhail" and in appearance one of these ruins seems to have a chapel and the other a dwelling. Probably from as early as the 17th century the Flannans were attached to holdings in Uig parish, indeed Rev Hugh Munro wrote at the end of the eighteenth century:

"The people of the farms to which the isles are connected, go there once a year to fleece their sheep and to kill sea-fowls, both for food and on account of their feathers."

According to tradition grazing on the Flannans was exemplary, ewes would have twin lambs and even sickly sheep would benefit from a spell spent on the islands. By the 1920s Crofters were paying rent for the right to pasture 50 to 60 sheep. The sheep were distributed over six of the islands according to what the area could sustain: 24 to 30 on Eilean Mor, 10-11 on Eilean Tighe, 6 on Soray, 1 on Sgeir Toman, 2 on Roarein and 8 on Eilean a Ghobha. By the 1970s the Bernera crofters considered the cost and trouble of putting sheep onto the islands outweighed the benefits and the practice came to an end.

In the 1760s it was recorded that 38 stone of feathers were taken from the Flannan Isles, Rona and Sulasgeir and sold. The most prized bird for feathers was the eider duck, valued for its down as the puffin was for its flesh.

In 1899 a lighthouse was built on Eilean Mor by engineer David Alan Stevenson assisted by his brother Charles Alexander. This lighthouse led to a great mystery in December 1900 when the three keepers vanished without trace. A party, sent out to investigate why the light was not lit,some reports say they found an untouched meal on the table, this is untrue, a first-hand account made by the the relief keeper, stated that: "The kitchen utensils were all very clean, which is a sign that it must be after dinner some time they left."

Much has been written about these final log entries in the years since, as interest in the Great Lighthouse Mystery has evolved, for in some ways, as we have received them, they appear to be odd and foreboding. On the 12th of December, Marshall writes about a storm the likes of which he’s never seen, and mentions in passing how quiet Ducat was and how MacArthur had been crying. This perhaps shows the stress these men were under, day in day out.

Then on the 13th, he makes sure to put down that all three of them took to prayer, such was their disquiet and dread. Then, on the 15th, he notes that the weather has calmed, stating cryptically, “God is over all.”

The occurrence gained national publicity and became the inspiration for the following poem by Wilson Wilfred Gibson "Flannan Isle."

Though three men dwell on Flannan Isle To keep the lamp alight, As we steer'd under the lee, we caught No glimmer through the night!

A passing ship at dawn had brought The news; and quickly we set sail, To find out what strange thing might all The keepers of the deep-sea light.

The winter day broke blue and bright, With glancing sun and glancing spray, As o'er the swell our boat made way, As gallant as a gull in flight.

But, as we near'd the lonely Isle; And look'd up at the naked height; And saw the lighthouse towering white, With blinded lantern, that all night Had never shot a spark Of comfort through the dark, So ghastly in the cold sunlight It seem'd, that we were struck the while With wonder all too dread for words.

And, as into the tiny creek We stole beneath the hanging crag, We saw three queer, black, ugly birds-- Too big, by far, in my belief, For guillemot or shag-- Like seamen sitting bold upright Upon a half-tide reef: But, as we near'd, they plunged from sight, Without a sound, or spurt of white.

And still too mazed to speak, We landed; and made fast the boat; And climb'd the track in single file, Each wishing he was safe afloat, On any sea, however far, So it be far from Flannan Isle: And still we seem'd to climb, and climb, As though we'd lost all count of time, And so must climb for evermore. Yet, all too soon, we reached the door-- The black, sun-blister'd lighthouse door, That gaped for us ajar.

As, on the threshold, for a spell, We paused, we seem'd to breathe the smell Of limewash and of tar, Familiar as our daily breath, As though 'twere some strange scent of death: And so, yet wondering, side by side, We stood a moment, still tongue-tied: And each with black foreboding eyed The door, ere we should fling it wide, To leave the sunlight for the gloom: Till, plucking courage up, at last, Hard on each other's heels we pass'd Into the living-room.

Yet, as we crowded through the door, We only saw a table, spread For dinner, meat and cheese and bread; But all untouch'd; and no one there: As though, when they sat down to eat, Ere they could even taste, Alarm had come; and they in haste Had risen and left the bread and meat: For on the table-head a chair Lay tumbled on the floor. We listen'd; but we only heard The feeble cheeping of a bird That starved upon its perch: And, listening still, without a word, We set about our hopeless search.

We hunted high, we hunted low, And soon ransack'd the empty house; Then o'er the Island, to and fro, We ranged, to listen and to look In every cranny, cleft or nook That might have hid a bird or mouse: But, though we searched from shore to shore, We found no sign in any place: And soon again stood face to face Before the gaping door: And stole into the room once more As frighten'd children steal.

Aye: though we hunted high and low, And hunted everywhere, Of the three men's fate we found no trace Of any kind in any place, But a door ajar, and an untouch'd meal, And an overtoppled chair.

And, as we listen'd in the gloom Of that forsaken living-room-- O chill clutch on our breath-- We thought how ill-chance came to all Who kept the Flannan Light: And how the rock had been the death Of many a likely lad: How six had come to a sudden end And three had gone stark mad: And one whom we'd all known as friend Had leapt from the lantern one still night, And fallen dead by the lighthouse wall: And long we thought On the three we sought, And of what might yet befall.

Like curs a glance has brought to heel, We listen'd, flinching there: And look'd, and look'd, on the untouch'd meal And the overtoppled chair.

We seem'd to stand for an endless while, Though still no word was said, Three men alive on Flannan Isle, Who thought on three men dead.

Read more at http://www.poetry-archive.com/g/flannan_isle.html…

The light, which was served by a shore station at Breasclete, was automated in 1971.

The pics show the lighthouse and ruined "chapel" and the three missing men, left to right Donald MacArthur, Thomas Marshall, James Ducat, and their boss Superintendent of Lighthouses, Robert Muirhead.

[poets-kick-ass-blog]

THE STONE "And will you cut a stone for him, To set above his head? And will you cut a stone for him-- A stone for him?" she said. Three days before, a splintered rock Had struck her lover dead-- Had struck him in the quarry dead, Where, careless of a warning call, He loitered, while the shot was fired-- A lively stripling, brave and tall, And sure of all his heart desired . . . A flash, a shock, A rumbling fall . . . And, broken 'neath the broken rock, A lifeless heap, with face of clay, And still as any stone he lay, With eyes that saw the end of all. I went to break the news to her: And I could hear my own heart beat With dread of what my lips might say; But some poor fool had sped before; And, flinging wide her father's door, Had blurted out the news to her, Had struck her lover dead for her, Had struck the girl's heart dead in her, Had struck life, lifeless, at a word, And dropped it at her feet: Then hurried on his witless way, Scarce knowing she had heard. And when I came, she stood alone-- A woman, turned to stone: And, though no word at all she said, I knew that all was known. Because her heart was dead, She did not sigh nor moan. His mother wept: She could not weep. Her lover slept: She could not sleep. Three days, three nights, She did not stir: Three days, three nights, Were one to her, Who never closed her eyes From sunset to sunrise, From dawn to evenfall-- Her tearless, staring eyes, That, seeing naught, saw all. The fourth night when I came from work, I found her at my door. "And will you cut a stone for him?" She said: and spoke no more: But followed me, as I went in, And sank upon a chair; And fixed her grey eyes on my face, With still, unseeing stare. And, as she waited patiently, I could not bear to feel Those still, grey eyes that followed me, Those eyes that plucked the heart from me, Those eyes that sucked the breath from me And curdled the warm blood in me, Those eyes that cut me to the bone, And cut my marrow like cold steel. And so I rose and sought a stone; And cut it smooth and square: And, as I worked, she sat and watched, Beside me, in her chair. Night after night, by candlelight, I cut her lover's name: Night after night, so still and white, And like a ghost she came; And sat beside me, in her chair, And watched with eyes aflame. She eyed each stroke, And hardly stirred: she never spoke A single word: And not a sound or murmur broke The quiet, save the mallet stroke. With still eyes ever on my hands, With eyes that seemed to burn my hands, My wincing, overwearied hands, She watched, with bloodless lips apart, And silent, indrawn breath: And every stroke my chisel cut, Death cut still deeper in her heart: The two of us were chiselling, Together, I and Death. And when at length my job was done, And I had laid the mallet by, As if, at last, her peace were won, She breathed his name, and, with a sigh, Passed slowly through the open door: And never crossed my threshold more. Next night I laboured late, alone, To cut her name upon the stone.

Wilfred Wilson Gibson (1878 - 1962)

[mariser-blog]

We who are left how shall we look again Happily on the sun or feel the rain Without remembering how they who went Ungrudgingly and spent Their lives for us loved, too, the sun and rain?

Wilfred Wilson Gibson