Where
Next?
I am in the midst of writing A
Rain of Booklight: a large sequence of poems, which forms two sections
of a book titled: A BOOK
IS LIKE A SACRED ISLE: a Book about Books…and I am trying to sort myself
out and figure out what on earth I am doing and where I’m going!
Endlessly writing for years, never making any
attempt to seek the publication of the books I write, I find I have finally
moved out of a particular groove I've been stuck in for ages, and the field has
opened out wide to explore the next, whatever the next is!
Part of this ‘sorting-myself-out’ phase has
been to begin a blog site, Amethyst
Poetry, in which to catalogue my
writings, (book titles are listed down the right hand edge, which on ‘clicking’
provides a brief synopsis of each one,) and present myself with a daily
platform, the daily necessity for further inspiration and work. This
opportunity afforded me every day to write ‘something’ is quite amazing;
without it, I feel now that I would flounder about lose the path and waste my
time with ‘red herrings.’ Having to write chronologically, day by day, one step
after another in some kind of logical sequence in a public place provides me
with a kind of responsibility, even if only to myself. A responsibility for the
gift that is in me.
Where
next? I don’t know. But on 10th November, 2014, it suddenly dawned
on me that . . . writers need readers. Whereas I had been quite happy that no one
ever read anything I wrote, I now realized, that I might write better if I had
a reader! And so I began to consider how to promote this blog site…it was a way
of access to my books for readers to find…and read. Scary! Yes! …Very! But it
doesn’t matter.
‘Writers need
readers.’ I thought deeply on this, and came to the conclusion that if I wrote
anything I needed to change my perspective and write things people would like
to read. Much of my writing till then had been of the things which no one could
bear: the things which went against the self: where I found my light, my glory,
and joy unspeakable. I had found a way to the end that we all seek; but a
bridge needed to be built, to step across the divide to reach it; or I would
keep on being misunderstood and rejected forever. I saw this clearly now.
But where next? I knew I needed to promote
my blog site; but how? What would people like? …What would I like? That was
easy; I like to give. Readers (of paper books) need paper markers. In a flash I saw in my
mind’s eye colourful, tasseled bookmarks. I would write poems about BOOKS.
The shortest poems I would design into slim paintings for bookmarks, to give
away; which had my BlogSpot address on the reverse side so that people could
find me. [I have already written quite a bit about this idea, in earlier posts
. . . ‘Writing Sagas # 30, # 31, # 32.’]
Then I saw that this avalanche of poems
that kept coming to me on the subject of BOOKS would form a book of its own;
to promote books and reading, as a whole; and not for my own ends. …It
was the beginning of the bridge.
Yesterday evening, all at once, it fell
into place. I was given an inner vision suddenly seeing my writing path in
picture form.
Through a barren field I had walked for
thousands of years. The field had been divided up into successively narrow
furrowed plots, through which I had been walking blindfold in order to reach
its end. My hand had always been held through this field, no matter how fearful
it became; and the owner of the hand had successively been named, less and less;
just as I could only reach the end, by being more and more blindfolded. Many
times I had thought I had reached the end of this field; but I hadn't, not really.
Still walking through one narrow furrow, one particular groove, stuck: my
blindfold slipped, only a little; but even a little was too much. Then suddenly
the field must have ended, because I could see nothing. I could see nothing of it; almost as if it had
never been; but of course it had, I had just been taken, further…further into a promised liberty…a glorious freedom from
every furrow and barrier of mankind’s building.
Now I was on the other side of the bridge, across the dividing river in a land of no
fences. Here I ‘saw,’ or was reminded of, STORYCHASER,
a book in embryo. Now I knew who he was this chaser of stories and that I
could write this book I had had to abandon because I wasn't free enough. And I ‘saw,’ just a little more the purpose of
this book and how to write it; though only just barely enough to attempt more pieces
of it in the days to come. For even here in a new land the method of any forward progress
was the same. The same guiding principle governed this new land: walking blindfold:
an act of simple childlike faith working through, love. Writing without knowing what
I was going to write next or whether I was right or wrong.
Where next? Wherever I would go, not-knowing.
A
Rain of Booklight
Where next? What follows night?
Through a mist I wander onward
Through a maze of lowering cloud
Not knowing if I’m right or wrong
Or where I am going
Trusting blind to the inner vision
Alive to the lonely dream alone
Where next? What could I write?
That any hear what I want to say
A rain of booklight is in me
A pouring of oil but against the grain
Let me tip it out, find my way not knowing
A torrent through any subject flows
Bending light in day it fits through all
From, A Book is like a Sacred Isle:
“A Book about Books”
Poem from a Sequence:
A Rain of Booklight
© Judith Evans Deverell, 2014
