Cast the Bridges

Cast the bridges that ply the bright seas

Sweeping proud ashes beneath its streams

They go past unnoticed with hazy bent wings

And cease not to lose their footing for the light they bring

Scalloped the fringes of silvered seas

Surging lace filigrees that unloose tight seams

Passing marbled halls their veiled voice stays

And seals up all hollow canyons left by their waves

Loosed the moonbeams on all bare shores

Bringing new aligns to our poor peppered bites                          

For by lingering light the heated wealth lies taken

And all peoples’ hoarded gain by revelation lies forsaken          

Silvered Seam

Fallow my space along all shores of sand

Emptied lines trace the waiting edge

Of those who fly

Hidden the silence that holds the blind heart

Knowledge leaves holes in the better part

Of those who know   

Silvered the seam that binds the sharp sea

Fallen wings deem folly the broken parts

Of those who wait  

Rolling of waves the flood tides enters 

Yet who could ever tell the fullness it fills

For those who have waited   

  

Clouds Follow Stars

Clouds follow stars in filmy coverings of flesh

Hope bringing his own content

To harbours steeped in everlasting peace.

Whither fly the sparrows from your altars buried deep

Conflagrations of incense expand there

Following on before to keep your faltering flight

Where will I find the sum of a sparrow lost

Floating on strings that through God’s dust

Will change in pulling her along

Hushed the brave sleep and there fulfill their frail song

For then will they come to him and fall

Helped in each descending stair to rest in peace                                

Far Runs the River

Far runs the river that takes her willing captives speechless

Upon all high hills their sacraments of peace

Yet past bright crimson halls and lost voices

They pour forth from veiled altars buried deep

For onward ever onward will she sweep them all away

Until the fall of every hill breaks through the bar of ages

And sets them free

Then past from floundering awhile the captives leap

They understand and let all their broken dreams

Fall through their fingers like sand

Loosed from every hold these shattered hopes then find

Their several voices

Till transformed above their selfish selves forsaken

Their sound is heard

And love’s comprehending captives

Made transparent by the stream

Speak out life’s hidden truths and voyage on

  

The Saga of Amethyst Poetry / Part Ten: The Losing to Find

     It was all and only through the artist and poet being as nothing: as open to the winds of the Spirit to blow through them as though they weren’t there; no impermeable bodies of knowledge barricading against things new. The future of creative expression, in all fields, was as dynamic as we were prepared to let it be. Although it would seem to go against our common sense the key to development wasn’t to hold on, but to let go.

     To experience currents of air sweeping through you, you had to be in the air. To find spiritual things you had to live and move and have your being in the Spirit. In every place where the mountain river was, the water was running. In every steep place where we were tipped out, life was flowing. Staying in love the night shone for us as the day; there were our treasures. For as pearls are found inside oysters, so is light found inside darkness: where we didn’t say we knew, we saw.

     It was through our weakness we grew in strength; through brokenness we found love, deep and unfathomable. There the ever increasing passion to communicate what was seen in the mirror lake of tears. Through the tunnel, then the reflecting back of the light all upside down, and inside out! For the light was as darkness to us, all incomprehensible: it was opposite to the way of the world!

     But, in all this back-to-front living – the losing to find – we were helped. Behind the scenes deep in our innermost being things are happening there opening us up . . . which, if we are courageous enough, will eventually emerge, bringing the reward of an extraordinary and entirely individual, unimagined joy!  

 'All really new ideas have a certain aspect of foolishness when they are first proposed.’                                                                                                                                        - Alfred North Whitehead                    

                                                                                       

 ‘People are open to new ideas...as long as they are identical to the old ones.’                            - Ancient Chinese Proverb 

              

The Saga of Amethyst Poetry / Part Nine: It Works Backwards or Forwards

    If spiritual ideas were the consonants of this 'other language,' then the kernels of truth hidden within those ideas were the vowels. They gave the pronunciation – the life of it – the sound of Life. The sounds in one word flowing in with those of another word, in the Spirit, made another language . . . another sense altogether-other, than the outer-look of the first sense, which seemed as nonsense . . . which wasn't nonsense, at all; it came of itself, so it spoke. It came of the Spirit. The crazy writer, perhaps nothing but a babbling baby, had understood; and marvelled: seeing evidence that language as a whole was a living entity, and a divine gift. It was not of us.   

If in a living writing flow

It was surrendered back to the Source

From where it came, it could say more

Going beyond the natural mind

Being greater than the pen which wrote

Or the fingers that touched the keys

Being greater than the fingers that touched the keys

Or the pen which wrote

Going beyond the natural mind

It could say more, from where it came

Surrendered back to the Source

If in a flow of living writing 

For wherever the living kernel was

Language could go . . . backwards or forwards

The Saga of Amethyst Poetry / Part Eight: Finding Another Language

     Our inner light comes in nuances, and according to our heart’s level of surrender. As in a style of impressionistic painting, the artist finds it not important to reproduce what he sees according to its outer context – he instinctively knows the inner context is the thing to grasp – he sacrifices the outer natural form for the abstraction; for a diffusing of the beauty he sees within it.  It all flows together; but, it is revealed only little by little. He instinctively dissolves the forms in his painting so that they cannot be too easily perceived by the outer self; which all too quickly judges and discards; he would be known only in that most holy place within where was no judgment, only wonder. Like the abstract painter, the inner writer finds another language. Inadvertently he stumbles upon another way of communicating truth. Another place where the emotions, which were renewed by surrender, could ‘read’ words they could not understand, but which would stir the spirit, deep within.  

The Saga of Amethyst Poetry / Part Seven: Painting Poetics / 'Writings' as 'Paintings'

  Painting and Writing, link: The Ragged Writings of Everland can be compared with an artist's paintings. Just as the strokes and colours of a particular painting produce a certain emotional effect in us, in its communicating without words, so a piece of writing communicating in seemingly unintelligible words, in words within words, can have a similar pleasurable effect on us, also. Beauty can be as much in the sound of a run of words, as in the sight of a play of colours in an abstract painting. But like everything else which affects our consciousness, we need to learn to become conscious of such a thing, lest it pass us by. 

The Saga of Amethyst Poetry / Part Six: A New Awakening

     In no way aspiring to be instrumental, perhaps it might be true, that without pushing the limits, without crazy-seeming innovation and experiment, people, and literature, and all forms of art would stagnate . . . and without knowing it   . . . because you can’t know something without something to know it by. So maybe we ought not to resent or resist those things which we cannot understand – even though fearing the unknown is a natural human instinct – but rather brave the intangible, plunge into its dark and delight in it; and increase within the wherewithal to know it by. Else, what will we gain from sticking to our own pride’s right to comprehend everything before we approve of it? We will gain only dimming pools of reluctant water, and perpetually paralyze our powers of perception. But anyone who has once learned to surrender their impressions finds a new world forming there, where they let go, and an eager surge of lively water, rising in a new awakening.  

The Saga of Amethyst Poetry / Part Five: Wisdom of the Amaranth

         How easily and unconsciously creative expression becomes enmeshed in conventional practice, and current trends put up walls. To live outside the box is always a challenge! All around us are living pictures of ourselves, which give insight into this universal truth; as it is in the world of Nature, so in all things. The living ‘flowers,’ of a single ‘plant,’ come to ‘bloom’ for awhile, then die for new ones to flourish. In their continuously necessary, cycle of life and death, continuous renewal: the way of LIFE, for all things. But we are not so wise as the flowers! We hang on to ‘the stem,’ refuse to fall, and so, miss out on what’s next . . . the wisdom of the amaranth . . . the never-fading flower of truth.

  

   [I have written extensively of the above – Nature’s universal truth – in my memoir:  ‘THE LIGHT TREE JOURNAL: A Twelve Month Story-Journal: Portrait of a Lost Star.’ (Creative non-fiction.)  This section of my unpublished book is available in pdf format in Microsoft Word Document 2007 from the author. Email: judithdeverell@hotmail.com ]

The Ragged Writings of Everland

A green leaf . . .

Hard ripped from a bent twig

Yet sent flying

A rose bud . . .

Cruel plucked from a thorn bush

And taken deeper

My soul untouched is safe . . .

But that is not what it was created for

                                                                   

The Saga of Amethyst Poetry / Part Four: A New Art

        If art went abstract, couldn't poetry? If some streams of art turned 'incomprehensible,' but not without a battle for acceptance first, should I wonder at or fear initial rejection? Although these 'poems' are not abstract - for like the inventive artist every line or brush stroke is full of known meaning - I suppose they might appear so, at first glance! But I had experienced that the heart 'rent in twain' could carry the mind's every finding further and deeper, and that it wasn't necessary for the outer parts of it to understand, in order to perceive light via the spirit.

      In joy and wonder I was shown that the primary purpose of these poems, is not that they be literally understood, but that they literally make us littler. For the littler we are the lighter we become; and the lighter we become the happier we are, which isn't by more, but by less. 

The Saga of Amethyst Poetry / Part Three: Springtime of Acceptance

     From the commencement of an inner springtime: my heart made transparent, I started writing poetry once more; and where I had left off. The sap rose again, and more powerfully for having endured such a harsh winter. Up through the fiery pillar, in the midst of me, ‘the force that through the green fuse drives the flower.’ * The issue of life out of death, light out of darkness, brought forth new uncurling ‘leaves,’ having torn my heart, even further apart. And now it seemed my writings were even harder to decipher; they were, perhaps, even more incomprehensible! But that was alright! It was alright! Delight washed over all I wrote, and I knew I was where I was meant to be – in the Unknown with God. Confidence revived. The door opened.

                                                                               

* (- Dylan Thomas.)

The Saga of Amethyst Poetry / Part Two: The Ragged Writings

 ‘The Ragged Writings of Everland:  A collection of poetic writing’

       A definition:  n. a 'ragged writing' is basically a poem rejected: being as it is an affront to the intellect, because the most used part of the mind can’t make much sense of it!

  An explanation: a piece of 'ragged writing' which upon first reading appears incomprehensible, will to the diligent searcher slowly render its secret treasure upon each subsequent reading; enlarging the faculties of the inmost being to taste and eat of a whole new kind of fare. If we will but let go the incessant demand of our intellect to understand something before we can enjoy it, we might develop the spiritual capacities that are within us instead – the ones which make us who we truly are – the exercise of which will bring a more satisfying reward than we could imagine.

      It is hard. But narrow a river and it will flow for you more swiftly. Over feeding the intellect has hindered the heart. Help a butterfly escape from its cocoon, and it dies. Its wings never develop.  It needed its struggle to fly.

    Read without wanting. Read as though being read, yourself. These writings are as looking-glass stones, reflecting back at you whatever you see in them. You could work them out, with some mental effort; or you could soak them in, with no effort at all; in both ways are treasures. Most of all you will discover, to your joy that you are given out of not demanding to understand.   

‘Everland:’

       A definition and explanation: Everland: the internal Land through which we ever journey onward, and always ‘further up and further in;’ her shores are as mystical as Avalon, and her waters as dark as Annwn in the elusive quest for the beyond; her interior as timeless and real, as heaven on earth.

The Saga of Amethyst Poetry / Part One: A Winter of Rejection

(This is the first of a ten part story . . .)

     A few years ago I submitted some of my poetry to a professional body of poets for assessment, critique; and, hopefully, some encouragement!  I was devastated by their response. My poems were deemed incomprehensible. Such complex conceptions could not be understood. Heartbroken, I stopped writing. But after weathering a long hard winter season (of about two years!) I began to write again. Yet it seemed that the format in which I could most satisfyingly communicate, and express what was burning inside me, was in my earlier formidable art of “incomprehensible poetry.”  I knew that I might have to face continuing rejection because of it; but I was willing. Being torn to shreds wasn't a bad thing! Even so, in a moment of desperation I began to call my work ragged writings instead of ‘poems,’ because I was left in tatters! (And, not being ‘poems,’ they might evade censure!) Then in an emerging of a tentative springtime, I wrote a definition and an explanation for my strange writing; and hoped it made some sense!  

A Ring of Love: an Extract from an Epic Poem

     The poem, A Ring of Love, is an extract from a much larger work, IN THE PATHS OF MYRDDIN WYLLT . . . a 9,400 word epic poem concerning the sixth century legendary Welsh bard and poet, Myrddin Wyllt; a forerunner of the famous Merlin of the medieval legends of King Arthur. More on this later! But the unpublished manuscript of this epic poem is available to those who would like to read it. (Contact author and request via email: 

 arielaevans@gmail.com ) 

      To reach out, to give beautiful words new every day from the inner wells, was my longing...words through an inner fullness speaking light. The outflow of living waters from the midst of me was unending; and I longed to share from out of the treasures of my experience the living truth which fires the creativity in my life. There was just so much to share. So much to tell of the beginnings of Amethyst Poetry. But before I could begin to unravel further the saga of my writing life, the following came, written today . . . 

Veiled Realms of Swiftlight 

Out of the things which were first, the greater part of purple palaces

Inner castles graced with ivory towers and the amaranth within

The amethyst flowerets mystic pale with milky light 

All fused with royal red and blue

Casting from the windows of my sight

The firstling things I have within

To speak instead in silent gems of the veiled realms of swiftlight

Of the breaking parts of faith that slowly fill with love and unravel here

Out of the things which were second, the amaranthine tumbling spires

From which my inner-writing banners flew

Out from my highest tower, my hooded tercel tossed skyward

Flung from a soft gloved hand

Set free to gather its beloved prey, and return to me the longed for news 

That, from afar they would hear and in that oneness promised

Draw near and I would know that from today 
I was not alone

Amethyst Poetry

     Sometimes, truth, too hard to be said in one way, will find another way to express itself; love never ceases to translate its fiery gems. Sometimes beauty, too piercing to be conceived in its raw state, will come to us clothed in complexity that we might be able to bear it; even appearing in a form we might naturally resist in order to protect itself from being too easily seen. The interior of love too wonderful by far to be perceived by any proud eye, its secrets were the portion of the pure in heart. As the ennobling fires of beauty and truth wait to be welcomed of the poor in spirit, so the shining amaranthine gems of Amethyst Poetry are poised here, their truth and beauty hidden, yet waiting to be discovered. All gifts of love to all who read...shine through the amaranthine rocks Amethyst Poetry . . . 

A Ring of Love

He has taken me with a snare, a ring of love

And broken me when I fell stumbling

He has taken me with a fish trap

A tangled web of passion

And peeled me when I surrendered

He has opened me with sunlight, and filled every gap

He has seen me with moonlight, and tipped me out

He has chosen me with a circlet, a ring-knife of swiftlight

And cut me in twain, torn down all my walls

He has chosen me in the furnace of affliction

And set me amongst the fiery stars

Not any hurt can harm me, nor any terror shake me

With their silent speech with the circle of their sound

He has married me to the Songs of Wales

Made of ever-living roads, I am

Yet, before ever they were, the rising wells

With the lucent shore with the amaranthine rocks

He has married me to the Tidal Sea

Made of mortal flesh, I am

Yet of Spirit overawed and overflowed