Clopin's Page

Life under open skies
Consider, are we really wise?
Why do we think and ponder
What life is well worth yonder.
Think on the castaways and this...
Life on the road is simple bliss

by Clopin

DREAMS

Perhaps you be in bed now,
asleep and in safe dreams
Where everyday seems most unreal
and wondrous things take wings.
Where visions can amaze the eye
and sounds are rich and clear
Nothing is impossible
and impossible seems so near.
And when you wake
The sky is blue
where do old dreams go?
It's easy friend, the answer clear.
They live inside of you.

by, Clopin

 Rey Kralis Clopin: Storyteller extraordinaire & Singer a le magnificent! There is magic in me dat's (father's) voice, as ye listen to his stories, or hear is well sung songs, ye will be filled with the emotions, the smells, the sounds, and the sights of his tale!  He is so very brave, strong, shook`ar (good) and protects his clan from the evil's they face in Paris.  Clopin is me dat (father) by a sacred blood oath bond.  A`ver behavs (loves) his dat (father) and is constantly amazed that this man, a rom (gypsy), could love one that was nae born a rom (gypsy) so.  Our blood is now mixed, and A`ver *is* rom (gypsy), chavo (son) of Rey (Great) Kralis (King, Leader, Chieftain) Clopin.

Kocho: (Button) She is first wife to Clopin and is mother of two of his sons, Chikis (Hammer), the first born and Bohk (Hungry); they live and stay with Varda's Lovara tribe.

Varda: (Wagon) Kralis of the Lovara tribe, that lives near Darkmoor Manor.  He is the father of Kochi, Clopin's match.
A very interesting time line of and about the Romani.  A`ver finds this information rather.  One can see just how much the Romani are hated. Rom, Roma, Romani....all mean Gypsies

 

A`ver Ewan: adopted through blood oath by Clopin, Rey Kralis of the Kalderesh Campani.  A`ver was adopted at 16 winters through the mutual love and respect the two held for each other.

Devi: (Magic) a four year old mischievous little curly headed child.  She is an orphan and is forever finding her way to Clopin's tent, and our hearts as well.

Reardan: Clopin's Fourth, guard and protector of his Rey Kralis and of his Kalderesh Campani.

 

 

A'ver Ewan
A`ver Ewan's Site
A`ver Ewan's Portrait
A`ver's pages Ewan's pages

A`ver's Daggers

Ewan's Books

A`ver's Dat's Site

Ewan's Kestrel
 

Ewan's Leeches
 

Ewan's Medicine

Clopin
Blessed Sarah
Clopin's Page
Clopin's Portrait
Devi's Portrait
The Story of the Nails
Reardan's Page
Reardan's Portrait
Romani Timeline
The Romani Who Forgot his Vow

Clopin's Favorite Romani Poems

Me dat, Clopin, Rey Kralis Clopin of the Kalderesh Clan, be a storyteller! One of the best!

A`ver writes below in his dat’s words.

Oh, ye thought me name was Ewan? It is m’gentle, but among me peoples, the Romani (rom), this one is known as A`ver, which means "friend of the gypsies".

*****

Now, our people have ways of telling stories and tales that the gadji (those not rom) do non (not) understand. You see, ma chavo (my son), many of our stories are only stories. They are used only to entertain and mean little more than good times at the fires at night. But some stories, special stories that tell of who we are as Rom (gypsy) and where we have come from, have special meaning. These stories are passed from teller to teller. This is the complicated part that the gadjikane (those not rom) do non understand.

These stories have certain facts of them that should never be changed... and they have certain parts of them that may be changed as the teller wishes. So long as the sacred part of the story is not changed, it is considered a true story, even if the other parts of the story are changed. This example below is how Clopin tries to understand it.

All stories have an introduction, something that gets the listeners entranced with the story. Most introductions can be changed as the teller reads his audience. Dramatic effect or artistic license, if you will.

Then there be the core of the story. This part be the truth of a story, one that should non be changed. It is the part of the story that can touch the hearts of the listeners, as truth often does.

Last, there be the closing of the story. Often it can be changed, if needed, to help the current audience see the value of the core. Some audiences want a dramatic ending, some comical. A good storyteller will learn when to tell a different ending.

Now, stories change as the teller decides what to add. Many times the teller will add his own life experiences into it, his own history. By adding his own life, or the life of his people into it, he has the opportunity to live on just a bit longer. You see, the Rom believe when there is no one left to remember someone, the deceased no longer exists. By adding a bit of his own life, he has a chance to be remembered longer....until the next teller changes the story. Your dat hopes you will understand this better as Clopin will give you examples.

Here is something that may help.

"What Rom tales do contain is a lingering custom of handed down from times gone by, the dimly recalled story of exile and persecution, of their homelands and wanderings abroad, of scraping a living, and the often unconscious adaptation of the folk tales of other peoples to their story telling."

"may the reading of the tales bring you luck, put the wind forever at your back, and find you a place in heaven before the devil finds you gone."

James Riordan:  Russian Gypsy Tales:  The Gypsy Who Broke His Vow:

One of the legends why the Romani are so hated, has to do with a story of the Nails.

 

Papusza,

the greatest Romani poet ever.

I Love the Fires

I love the fires as my own heart.
Winds fierce and small
rocked the gypsy girl
and drove her far into the world.
The rains washed away her hears,
the sun - the Golden Gypsy Father-
warmed her tears
and wonderfully seared her heart.
Oh land, mine and afforested,
I am she, your daughter.
The woodlands and plains are singing.
The river and I combined our notes
Into one Gypsy hymn.
I will go into the mountains in a beautiful swinging skirt
made of flower petals.
I shall cry out with all my strength.
My land, you were in tears,
you were pierced with pain.
My land, you cried for help.
My land, you cried in your sleep
like a small Gypsy child
hidden in the moss.
Forgive me, my land,
for my poor song
for it's Gypsy strains.
Place your body against mine, my land
When all is over, you will receive me.

Papusza is regarded by Romani writers and poets as the mother of Romani poetry.  Papusza is her Romni name, meaning 'doll', her given name was Bronislawa Wajs.  She She was born in 1910 in Poland and survived the holocaust by hiding in the woods.  In 1949 the Polish poet Gerzy Ficowski met her and collected her works for publication. Unfortunately, he believed that all nomads should settle, so he tribe saw him as a threat. She was expelled from her tribe in 1956 and died in isolation in 1987.

 

Once I loved A Lady, She Meant The World To Me

Once I loved a lady
She meant the world to me
Her eyes as green as a shady lake
Her smile like the spring time breeze
Her long hair shone like golden silk
With the rolling sea in her stride
I found my comfort in a feathery bed with my lady by my side
But a long dark winter took her from me
I must have wept for 40 days
As the spark from the pyre blew up to the stars
I thought about me ways
My lady was my hearth and heat
My lady was my home
Without her love and without my tears
I'll pick up my staff and roam
Harvest time turns the trees to rust and my travels brings me to town
The smell of straw blows up from the fields and the sounds of the music rolls down
The call sings out from the 'mergent field and the woman dance till dawn
There is ale and merriment enough for me but in the morning I'll be gone
For I'm at my best when my boots wear thin
I'll see the world by the mile
Every lake is green as a lady's eyes
Every breeze is welcome as a smile
From caravans of gold and silk
To ships on the new moons tide
I found my comfort in a mossy bed
With the road close by my side
Harvest time brings the drums of war
And banners from lands far away
The fields burn as the farmers arm
So I lend my sword to the fray
"you've won a place of honor here lad…why is it you won't stay?"
‘Cause the winding road keeps calling me back so this is what I say
For I'm at my best when my boots wear thin
I'll see the world by the mile
Every lake is green as a lady's eyes
Every breeze is welcome as a smile
From caravans of gold and silk
To ships on the new moons tide
I found my comfort in a mossy bed
With the road close by my side
On a cold mountain road in a travels inn
I find shelter in the wintertime
I warm by bones by the crackling fire
And I trade my tales for wine
The innkeeper always asks the same
What calls you to the open road?
AS they turn for an answer
All they see is me vanish in the swirling snow
For I'm at my best when my boots wear thin
I'll see the world by the mile
Every lake is green as a lady's eyes
Every breeze is welcome as a smile
From caravans of gold and silk
To ships on the new moons tide
I found my comfort in a mossy bed
With the road close by my side
Credit given to Wyld Nept

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