(Poetry/ Vol. 1. ) The Intrinsic Desire . . .

     

Opener of Mists
                  

Opener of mists in my mind’s veiling cloud

The sharp piercing swiftlight falls as a magnet

Touching, drawing, pulling from my depths

Every buried passion for the altering heartache

The sweetest part of the far-wine and my all

From the beginning the desire, from the first day

Of dawning, insistent its call traversing every age

Passing through every wall this opener of shafts

Parting, cleaving my pre-structured blindness

Beauty slays the broken heart as its healer

Teaching, instructing, pulling from my depths

Every buried passion for the altering heartache

The sweetest part of the far-wine and my all 

From the beginning the yearning, from before

The foundation of the world, its invincible forming

Roaming every fabrication of man

Seeping through his every fabled story

Opener of the awakening in his waxed-gross heart

Twoedged, the sword spares no self-hurting deceit

As its turner thinning the inner streams of its forming

Gentle, kind, pulling from the depths

Every buried passion for the altering heartache

The sweetest part of the far-wine and our all

Through every noble heart, that ever was or will be 

The secret glorious yearning and its silent quest

Intrinsic the desire, ever existing ever present its fire

Even before the fall it was forming . . . 

It is gathering strength

(Poetry/ Vol. 1. ) Raptured & Taken

Taken

From the end of the age

Yet from the dawn of time

Someone leveling towards you---  

Sharper than the point of a needle

Faster than the blink of an eye---

Hurtling through the ages

Bent on finding you

Traversing ten thousand mountains

And tearing them all down---

Terrible in his longing to reach you

Glorious in his desire to keep you---

But will you receive him when you see him?

Will you give him all you have? 

Let him take you till you've nothing left? 

To give you all he has

Writing Saga # 23 / The House of Amethyst Poetry; Part Six

Continued from Writing Saga # 22; The House and its Rooms and its Environs…

  The walled garden:   This was the lovely cultivated paradise I passed through on my walk along the white shell path leading to and from the house. On either side of my pathway was a free flowering in-world of living and growing delight! An oasis. A profusion of watered beauty tucked away from the dry deserts of out-world busyness. Here beds of heart’s-ease and forget-me-not kept me cradled in pools of simplicity and quietness, which are a garden’s gift. Tidy beds of dreamy cottage flowers…tiny infusions of my mind with dreamy distractions…these were the necessary solaced insights that visual loveliness will impart to lonely sojourners. Beautifully ordered in chaotic non-order my cultivated in-garden breathed peaceful diversion. Inner poetry. Fragrant lavender, subtle violas and violets diverting the word-gaze of my writing life onto lighter things, and away from the surface follies of the eminently necessary.

   The wilds:  Between my walled garden and the forest was the orchard; this was so rich a place that I must write it separately. Beyond the orchard was the wilds bounded on one side by the orchard wall and on another by the pine forest and on the remaining two sides by the running brook. Tumbling and tripping over itself, because the wilds sloped down to the river of which my running brook was but a tiny tributary.

   The wilds were wide and free and as uncertain of order as my garden was vivid with it. I loved this place! Thorny briar roses grew here in tangles of raw verbiage and crazy thought. Poetry gone mad. ‘Ragged writings’ gone feral. Blackberry and nettles, dock and thistles grew here in a riot of self, in lost fear-for-skin; and all in a profusion of rank wild grasses in a perpetual abandonment to glorious liberty. Dock and nettle. ‘Good and evil.’ I was free of all earthly interpretations. An antidote for every ill was in this wild place. If I picked any deadly thing it did not harm me.

  ‘It is better every thought should be uttered freely, fearlessly, than that any great thought should be denied utterance for fear of evil. It is only through complete independence that all goodness can be spoken, that all purity be found. …Restrictions hide vice and freedom alone bears morality.’*  I am not loved because I am ‘good;’ I am loved because I am Love’s little child.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        (* Robert Henri; The Art Spirit.)

These are the titles of the next two ‘ragged writings’ of amaranthine poetry:

Taken!

Intrinsic Desire

(Poetry/ Vol. 1. ) Star Finder

(from THE RAGGED WRITINGS OF EVERLAND: Volume One)



Far Finder

Far finder, star finder, pulsar of hope

Rainbows of hard beams

In a star-baby’s stone

Rubies in crystallite all pourings through

Bringing me far-rope

To tie me to you

Far finder, star finder, shedder of light

Cradles of fair worlds

In a little one’s sight

Callings in distant beams all shooting down

Bringing me farlight

To find me in you

           

When will we see you, when will you come?            

When will your little ones

Finally run?                         

When they have farlight all filled up to the brim               

And no more let heart light

Through timidity dim

(Poetry/ Vol. 1. ) Butterfly Bay

Blown of the Wind's Ease

Blown of the wind’s ease in Butterfly Bay

Were thousands of winged things

Flitting by!

Were tempests survived by a lively lament?

Could destiny’s sad-giftings

All spread out?  

Found by the in-breeze in the cradle of life

Were thousands of glimpse-things

Of winged delight!

Dancing’s the remedy for sorrow‘s repine!                  

The butterflies showed me

In rhyming lines    

Up through the twirling air, playing in the calling

Sunbeams in their sad songs

To dance in my mourning

Storms put to rest by my happy demise!

A quick dancing lilt

Comes to catch me up!

Up through the Chesapeake, up through the roof

Up through the hardest part

Of life’s gifted gloom!

Up!  Up! . . . Up!

Writing Saga # 22 / The House of Amethyst Poetry; Part Five

Here is a link to a pdf word document of 'little book:' . . .
(The pdf closes and opens in a new Tab at the top of your screen)

Little Book
A Little Book Open: An Opened Person An Open Book

 Continued from:   Writing Saga # 21; the House and its Rooms and its Environs…

  ‘There are moments in our lives, there are moments in a day, when we seem to see beyond the usual. Such are the moments of our greatest happiness. Such are the moments of our greatest wisdom. If one could but recall his vision by some sort of sign. It was in this hope that the arts were invented. Sign-posts on the way to what may be. Sign posts toward greater knowledge.’
                                                           - Robert Henri; 1865-1929; ‘The Art Spirit’

   The attic:   

   Here was the place of my extremes in expression, all rising up from my upstairs rooms and going through their ceilings! And the extremities whistling through were dancing-writing. When joy was so full I spontaneously danced and did cartwheels inside. I guess it’s not terribly normal to dance in one’s attic, but then I don’t rush to be normal. The writings that came out of the attic were the most incomprehensible when I was all-free and free-flowing, and the most simple and plain when I was not so free. But in the attic there was always a passion to ‘recall my vision by some sort of sign;’ and whether the sign was complex or clear, a dance of words would come to me, all at once. And though I couldn’t capture the half of it, or even a millionth part of it, at least there was some small sign of it . . . for my own pleasure even if for no one else’s.

                  

             ‘Cherish your own emotions and never undervalue them.’     - Robert Henri

  The cellar:   

   This was the site of my seeming dark ventures in communication which went below everything else. Here the 'ragged writing' which emerged was entirely composed of a kind of polarity in a total juxtaposition of two intimately experienced opposites: my own soul and my spirit, split, by suffering, divided asunder by the Light which came only out of Darkness; as the light of the stars shines only in the dark. Eventually this writing came together in the angel's hand and became little book . . .


  LITTLE BOOK OPENED.  


     I thought people would welcome it, as it made so shining clear what constituted living faith, which brought delight, and what didn’t: the difference between the holy and the profane illumined and exposed by the Life that is our Light, written inside two parallel columns on the two edges of each page both sides of the page. 

    Few welcomed little book. All the people I sent it to never replied, at all, sadly; and I lost friendships as they withdrew from me. That unnerved me and made me withdraw 'little book;' but at least no one killed me, not yet anyway. So now it lives hidden away on "a little shelf" in "the cellar," away in the place of my glorious "Darkness:" which is that Light that lights every person that comes into the world...the glory within the pitch-dark Most Holy Place, the Holiest of All...safe there within the ark of the covenant...a person.    

                                          *

These are the titles of the next two, very simple dancing ‘ragged writings’ out of the House of Amethyst Poetry:

Star Finder

Butterfly Bay

(Poetry/ Vol. 1. ) Sword of Unpuzzling Paradox

from THE RAGGED WRITINGS OF EVERLAND



Streams Cascading

Streams cascading, crevasses opening

Falling shafts of penetrating light

Seeping through these broad solid rocks 

Sounds of entering truth, double-edged

Sword submerged become part of stone

Part of pain embedded until drawn out

Lifts of sharper seams of purest thought

Piercing the veil the thickness of skin

Dimension of the broadest stone squared

Thinking they knew never fully finding

Though hundreds of years were given

To find of the quest the embedded answer

Stuff of inner dryness the paradox unseen

A verdant first part leaves the second dead

Clinging to one losing the next

So the semblance of a viridian river only

Deceitful rivers narrow for the splaying out

Past pages of unpuzzling paradox for the few

Narrowed given and with a quivering fullness

Clinging things must fall for the unattached

Loosened space there where we were emptied

Then the ease of pulling a sword from a stone

Then the drawing of refulgent lines from rock

Un-jostling phrases of life’s cryptic thought

Spilling out the jangles spread out space there

Peace passing from the crippling applause

Unpuzzling paradox an inner candle rekindles

Patience born of being blown out awhile

Then lit the heart’s treasured cup this sangreal

Only home and container of the broken soul

Homeward parts the enigma’s unravelling gift

Beloved Lover

Beloved lover, lover of all of me

In the fold of your cradling wings

You hold me to you closely bound

Slain, joined as air with air I am
And there...forever...

And ever...
One out of two, one flesh in my beloved

Not the experience of the many but the few 

None follow where flesh has never gone before

None cared to take up the thread least ravelled
Nothing there...

They are gone without leaving a trace

Coalmine Black

Clothed she is in coalmine black

The son has looked upon her

Those people not her people hate her:

From the reflection of their inner face they flee

They dig and delve, they seek and search

But all the time there in their looking-glass book

           

Garnered she is in pillars of smoke

Perfumed with myrrh and frankincense

From the clefts of the rock the voice of the dove

But being paved with pain they couldn’t bear it and fled

They dig and delve, they seek and search

Yet all the time there in their looking-glass book

                         

Immersed she is in the songs of birds

In the secret places of the stairs she lives

With all flowers of the appearing the flight of the dove

But being lined with pain they couldn’t bear it and fled . . .

Ever learning they never learn: ever seeking they never find

Yet it is all the time there, in their seeing of their inner face

Writing Saga # 21 / The House of Amethyst Poetry; Part Four

    Continued from Writing Saga # 20 / The House and its rooms and its environs...

   The lean-to kitchen:  A source spot. A sore spot. This was the place in my little purple house of amaranthine poetry for the storing of the raw ingredients of my creations. It was the place for the mixing and concocting of a delicious fresh fare of beautiful writing from the interesting foods of ideas stored in my pantry cupboards.

   Here were condiments, the herbs and the spices to add zest to what was written, as well as the bulk ingredients which formed the base of my ‘ragged writings.’ And, yes, here were the mixing bowls, of all sizes, and utensils of every kind, to fabricate the raw substances of my experience into forms ready to be placed into the oven, to cook. Oh, the oven! The furnace of affliction! But without my fiery trials no dish would be fit to eat! The hidden manna was bread in me only after it was fired. For who would like to eat uncooked bread? Yuk! The dough un-fired was an inedible glutinous mess! My writings unproved, un-risen, and uncooked fed no one anything that was truly good.

   The woodshed:  Love truly, do what you like. The suggestion here is of absolute liberty and freedom if you, only love. In my lawless behind the woodshed escapes from the norm, in utter crazy faith that I was loved, and abandonment to that, I was found and redeemed. But any Life: and poetry here was unthinkable to good people. I was ‘black, but comely . . . as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon.’ This place of source Life was extremely private and a continual harbour of never-ending unspeakable joy. Joy won through that obedience to Love which cannot on this Earth be spoken of: ‘I will give him a white stone, and in the stone a new name written, which no man knows saving he that receives it.’   

   Here the fuel for my fires was stored. It was being kept dry to be later taken into the house when it was needed. It was for the underlings of my radical ‘ragged writings’ there. Mostly this dark place was kept neat and tidy, with a crib for wood chips and shavings. The smaller fuel for the beginnings of fabulous things, the larger for the maintenance of them; but all the fuel was love, and only love. Love is the end of the law.

These are the titles of the next three ‘ragged writings’ of Amethyst Poetry: 

Coalmine Black

Beloved Lover

Sword of Unpuzzling Paradox

The Tree & the Lake of Colour

‘And the light shined out of darkness

And the darkness comprehended it not’

Truth out of the unknown

The earthly mind would not understand it    

Out of fear the light and joy the terror

And all the territory of the weak

The gentle strong

           

A vast level lake of brimming light is there

All silver-shine grey in translucid movings

As still as still yet hovering

On the surface

A single tree stands amid centre

The translucent enigma translating

Braving the homeward colours

Hidden in its appled isle

Of veiled Avalon

Out of that inner lake the vision the door open

Out of apple seed black the un-blinding light

All harvest moon white the gift unveiled

In story filled hues the quest’s end

All wrapped in these shiny tight seeings

           

Deeply helped, deeply freed, deeply filled to the brim

The colours the telling-things the gold of the seeker

Speaking in the peace light giving in its filling

Life filled hues hidden within this lake of colour

Books of grey, but prism turned and understood

A lake of given words the heart of Avalon

Ever present the seasoned light savours the message

While the underlying spirit waters the inner palate

And the tree above speaks out her own fearsome light

Out of spilt-blood red her fiery flame of Orange

Out of rich gold-yellow her harmless apple green                   

From dead-of-night indigo, horizon’s shimmer blue

And all her velvet purple pansies turning vermilion red 

           

Making of the tipped out space, flowerings of the rainlight

Forming from her emptied midst ecstatic bravings of the terror

           

The dreams will fit

Buried hopes beneath the lake of colour rise

All the brave of the King of Kings are here     

As Love’s arm pierces through her shining opal lake

Offering a new sword of twoedges made and true

A flaming sword of light cutting both ways at once

Truth’s discerner ever within my hidden parts 

Dividing me first to win of Love her endless life

Lines of Eight

Newness raised living found

And where I belong

Begins again the gifted trail

The throwing of straw for wheat

And loss for gain

Underneath

Eight were left me

I saw the land clearer, clear

The embracing fold it was always there

I never left it, nor was I ever apart from it

Dedicated the Presence to preserve and compass

And underneath

Eight little jewels were left me . . .

Liveliness rose spilling found

And where I hear

Rises again the flowing through

The exchanging of dust for gold

And gloom for starlight

Underneath

Eight were left me

I found the place nearer, near

The compassing hold it was always there

I never was separated from it, or ever away

The joining as water with water   

And above

Eight little streams were left me . . .

                        *

Anastasian surge-lets centering life

Enfolding abundance that resurrects

And there, tiny new truths are left me!

If, in new life’s raisings, razing

Lively little streams were ever newly forming!