The Pearl...

 The Pearl 

                          When I am old I will write a pearl.

The pearl will be 25,000 miles wide

Because it will circle the world

In one second.

It will be the smallest thing

Which can do that.

Small as a pea under 20 mattresses.

That is why it will be a pearl.

Then the world will know

What it has lost and forgotten.

And I will be gone.

Story.) The Well of Eternal Youth... Part One... The Map beneath the Map...

from my book manuscript: A Circle of Swift Songs: A Circlet of Inner-Life Stories . . .



               The Well of Eternal Youth & 
                The Map Beneath the Map

 BEFORE ME WAS LAID OUT a map of the World. An ancient and beautiful map. As I gazed at it, a deep wondering was in me: ‘Where in the World was the Well of Eternal Youth?’ Upon the instant, a faint gold line appeared from the land where I was and moved across the map. As it did so it changed colours . . . antique gold entwined with ruby red and emerald and sapphire blue . . . all the deep, rich colours of old illuminated manuscripts. A hidden line it was; but now revealed and full of light; and drawn out into a thin and serpentine line that led across the World.
   In me, in the same instant, I knew this thing: That because I followed the tracing line with the eyes of my heart more than through the eyes of my intellect, it grew stronger and deeper and penetrated through the surface map.   It sank through to the map beneath. To the living map which is always underneath all things; which had we the eyes to see would give us the answers to all the questions asked of our own heart. For there was no hidden thing which was not known; and where in me I was known: there I could see: and there I could know the things beneath.   I saw the tracing line go all around the World. Its colours imperceptibly changing all the time . . . as though it was seeking. As though it were questioning for me searching out all the deep things of God and the answer to my question: ‘Where in the World was the Well of Eternal Youth?’   As I watched, I saw the beautiful line follow the full circle of the World and return to me: for it never stopped until it found me, and where it found me, it answered me: ‘In your own heart the well of eternal youth: for in you in your own ending a well of water springing up unto everlasting life through my Son; and whoever drinks of this water he shall never thirst.’
  And, all at once, I drank my fill from the Well at the World’s End! Here was the Well of Eternal Youth! Where there was an ending of the old surface World in me, it was found! For here was a beginning of the new inner World in me! So, here, life was revived in a continual renewing of life; and all the while I ‘died:’ which was really living! And so here was youth, forever! The Well was beneath! And I rejoiced, and circled the World in one second. The answer, it was so small it had been lost and forgotten.                                                                                                                                                      (-The Pearl)

                                                          *

________________________ 

  The Well’s foreshadowing ‘picture,’ its mystical symbol in the Earthly Realm, it was drawn upon the ancient map before me. It was where I stood in spirit on the land at the End of the World: upon the holy Isle of Iona, in the faraway isles off the West Coast of Scotland. There in my heart, I stood upon the brink of its windswept hill of Dun I: in being given the underneath meaning of its name: Done I: and now, I’m Done with I. And, yes, Dumb I: for now I know that the Well of Eternal Youth, it begins where I know I am nothing and I can let my self go and be free! Upon the Isle of Iona, ‘I own her’ within my own heart!  

Poetry Diary. ) Beyond the Usual... Robert Henri . . .

  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.)    

                                                                       *


  

Life in Circles...

  

The day came when I could go to another shore
I would bathe in life and indulge my senses in it
Dance in wide open spaces on a sandy beach  

There I ran along the water’s edge jumping over wavelets
How lovely the scalloped lacy petticoats the sea wore today
On the edge of her beautiful bridal dress 

I would leap out of time and there would be only ‘NOW!’
NOW would be my future I would be all complete in today 

‘Oh,’ said the sea,
‘Like my waves stop when my tide is full!’ 

‘Oh!’ said the wind,
‘Like I don’t blow anymore once my gale is done!’ 

‘Oh!’ said the sun,
‘Like I rose today so I’ve finished rising!’ 

And the sea and the wind and the sun,
They all laughed at me! 

                                        *

A Book is like a Sacred Isle . . . A Rain of Booklight . . .

Where next? What then follows on?

Through the inner mist I wander onward

Through a maze of speckled cloud

Not knowing if I’m right or wrong

Or where I’m going –

Trusting blind to the inner gifted vision:

Alive to the lonely dream alone

What next? Where then shall I go?

That any hear what I am given to say

A rain of booklight is in me –

A pouring of oil but against the grain

In my centre, my way I find: not-knowing

A torrent through any subject flows:

Alive in light and life, I fit through all

                           *

Faltering Steps

Faltering the steps I take in festive forays

Through the Lantern Brights in books . . .  

To find in light the strength to pass through dark

To loose the oil I find there, beyond the spine

Amidst the unseen streets I walk through gold

Find there my sight that turns my heart to see

My goings helped, and known and sheltered

And entered there: simplicity, and new happiness!

In a World Books 

From a lighted centre a beam goes forth:

A line in amethyst shooting depths of sight –    

Through a world of books it travels

Finding stories in a river of life –

Thought open, the light beyond fills it

And a flow of angel’s tears are in me, pearled –  

Falling softly in streams of insight burning bright

The Lonely Poet

The breeze that lifts my autumn leaf

That bends this silent flower stem

Tears from my midst the finished page

That cannot see what it shall be

But joined with life’s own rifling wind

Will write within the heart it rends

                        

                          *

The Light Tree Journal: The Antiquities of August

           

Of the chart at the World’s end, the Map beneath the map: 

And a silk purse from a sow's ear, small as a pea.

All clothed in newness the song of the pivotal thing;

Ancient fruits of August increase sublime and amazing.

For here the unravelling of what was beauty,

In moving through all the colours of the light.

Here too, the hidden source of the eternal stream found, 

Flowing through all my valleys of sorrel and tansy.

And life’s picked cherries of joy and sorrow - 

Light out of darkness in spitting out the stones.

                                *

Note:

At the beginning of every month, in my book, 

The Light Tree Journal, 

there is a poem - like a chapter header quote - 

on the title page of each month:

twelve poems for the twelve months of the one year 

that I kept a journal of all the stories 

which well up in me almost constantly.
And the poems are as summaries of the month:
the lines made and adapted from the titles and content 
of the eight or nine stories which are in each month. 

Vol. 1. / Phases of the Moon...

THE RAGGED WRITINGS OF EVERLAND:  Volume One

I watch, and the candle’s flame leaps higher

Coming near awhile and flooding all with light

Then in decline, a sliding down and it drops away

And I wonder if I ever did see it

I know, and the mist’s unveiling parts me further

And there’s a greater understanding lasting longer

Then in decline, a sliding down and it drifts away

And I wonder if I ever did perceive it

I listen, and the wind’s song knows me deeper

Coming near awhile and filling all with joy

Then in decline, a sliding down and it slips away

And I wonder if I ever did hear it

I speak, and the sea’s power surges nearer

There’s a greater understanding, a meaning more

Then in decline, a sliding down and it falls away

And I wonder if I ever did say it

I love, and find Everland’s comfort holds me firmer

Coming near awhile and pouring oil in peace

Then amazed, I see it was all the phases of the moon

And I wonder if I ever did doubt it

                                     *

Vol. 1. / Caught Up...

A man stands against the sun, a ring around his edges

A circling of intrinsic golden light

He moves softly forward, coming straight towards me

He doesn’t stop he goes on right through me

And out behind me on the Other Side

I turn around I see his back as he goes onward

I follow, drawn ‘forward,’ too:

(That which is backwards is forwards now.)

I caught him up – and caught up we two were one

A cloud, he disappears; I am on my own, but not alone

I turn not back again nor even turn around   

Pressing onward I went where he went

Following - if I could have seen him, but I couldn’t

And it was so and as it should be, though I didn’t know

Before me is a wood, and the sun shines around its edges

Earthly – the first few rows of trees seem brightly lit 

Invitingly – but they are full of their own light

I move – with arms outstretched I run toward them

Ever hopeful winged in delight, and barefoot free

Yet, made of hollow shells, dry branches do not greet me  

I follow on – I do not stay, I pass right through them

As though they were not there

Wood-caged people they are grounded in Earth.

In their own light, the trees not caught up, melt away.

Passed through them, I am out on the Other Side, alive

For them, I am sad: misunderstood I am all alone

For this lack of losing all how much is lost.

                                      *

( - from THE RAGGED WRITINGS OF EVERLAND: Vol. One)

Story: 23. ) The Art of a Book & Books about Art / from A Book is Like a Sacred Isle . . .

                              

The Art of a Book & 

Books about Art

  I don’t know anything about art I only know that love it and I dabble in it sometimes. It is my youngest daughter, Felicity, who is the artist in our family; working as a professional one now: it is her beautiful drawings and paintings which illustrate this book. My eldest daughter, Bianca, is a professional photographer; while my middle daughter, Keziah, is also gifted in digital design work.

  Living with an artist in the family is wonderful for me; her books about Art are scattered everywhere; as are her drawings and paintings and all her materials and easels and delightful ‘mess!’ I find it all inspiring and have learned lots! From time to time I pick up one of her Art books. Intending only to flick through them I soon find myself intrigued and reading more of them than I thought I would.

  What continually amazes me is how often I will come across concepts and ideas which I have known inside me somewhere, but which I have not seen written or expressed, or not in such allegorical ways. Ideas in painting can be applied to writing almost seamlessly, I find. Ideas about freedom and love, truth and beauty have the same effect in art as they do in writing; they can be defined in the same way. 

    The following is an extract from the Foreword to my book: THE RAGGED WRITINGS OF EVERLAND: A Book of Amaranthine Poetry; Volume One:

   “Painting and writing link . . .  Just as the strokes and colours of a particular painting produce a certain emotional effect in us, in its communicating without words, it is yet like a piece of writing having 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.

    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, and in this way bring to the mind that vital revelatory flash of insight which was the mind’s true food!”     

    Some of the ideas I have used to explain my ragged writings I have gleaned from reading between the lines of a wonderful book on art and painting and drawing and art appreciation by Robert Henri, The Art Spirit; Basic Books edition, 2007; Perseus Books Group, Cambridge, MA, USA.    

  “Robert Henri was an American artist, teacher, and outspoken advocate of modernism in painting. Henri was a devote of realism and the usage of everyday city life as subject matter. He taught at the Art Students League in New York from 1915-1928, and had a profound influence upon early 20^th century painters such as Stuart Davis, Rockwell Kent, and Edward Hopper. His book The Art Spirit is a classic among all those who love art.” 

   I love this book! And I continually find treasure in it. Though Henri is speaking to artists and to the art world his ideas can be transposed and be as equally valid to writers, especially the ‘inner-writer,’ as well as to all creative people, whatever their particular expression is, in a kind of ‘cross-pollination’ of concepts which brings light! Here are a few more life-giving quotes from his book:  

  “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.”

  “The sketch hunter has delightful days of drifting about among people, in and out of the city, going anywhere, everywhere, stopping as long as he likes – no need to reach any point, moving in any direction following the call of interests. He moves through life as he finds it, not passing negligently the things he loves, but stopping to know them, and to note them down in the shorthand of his sketchbook, a box of oils with a few small panels, the fit of his pocket, or on his drawing pad. Like any hunter he hits and misses. He is looking for what he loves, he tries to capture it. It’s found anywhere, everywhere. Those who are not hunters do not see these things. The hunter is learning to see and to understand – to enjoy. There are memories of days of this sort, of wonderful driftings in and out of the crowd, of seeing and thinking.

  Where are the sketches that were made? Some of them are in dusty piles, some turned out to be so good they got frames, some became motives for big pictures, which were either better or worse than the sketches, but they, or rather the states of being and understandings we had at the time of doing them all, are sifting through and leaving their impress on our whole work and life.”      

                                                                              

  “Every student should put down in some form or other his findings.”

  “When the artist is alive in any person, whatever his kind of work may be, he becomes an inventive, searching, daring, self-expressing creature. He becomes interesting to other people. He disturbs, upsets, enlightens, and he opens ways for a better understanding. Where those who are not artists are trying to close the book, he opens it, shows there are still more pages possible.”

“Let yourself free to be what you will be. Those who express even a little of themselves never become old-fashioned.”

          - Robert Henri; (1865-1929); The Art Spirit 

             

                                          

                                                 *