Story 31.) Living on Another Plane of Life . . .

...from my new book:  A Circle of Swift Songs:

A Circlet of Inner Life Stories...  

A LONG, STEEP, UNSWEPT driveway with two hairpin bends in it, makes for a slow walk down it. It is slippery after rain; from long decayed leaves turned into earth. But because of walking slowly, I saw more. Near the bottom of the drive a sparrow suddenly flew up from beside me, carrying a thread-like strand of dry grass. I followed its flight. I saw it was making its nest in a tall rimu tree above the workshop at the end of the driveway. As I watched, the sparrow dropped the thread. I was fascinated: for he peered down, looking almost as if he were surprised and sad, at his loss. 

   My heart cried out to him, ‘We’re same! Oh, don’t be sad! Our ‘house,’ it will be built! We won’t stay perplexed!’ 

   The sun broke through the rain clouds: I knew there would soon be a new patch of serendipity blue to this heavenly walk here on earth that was all a gift. Unless our inner being, our house, by Life is built we labour in vain who build it. The sparrow flew down and began again; I continued my walk. 

   Everywhere I turned there was joy: for one after another all my difficulties and pain were being shown as pathways to the light. 

   Who would have thought that our problems could contain so great a treasure as could light for us a shining beacon in our dark, work for us a fountain of rejuvenation in our heart, and bring for us the gold of new life, all by revelation! Truly our problems are our gifts and poor is he who has not many in his life! 

   For it is only out of some necessity that an inner answering wisdom can come to us. No problem, no need for revelation. No dark, no need for light. When one light floods everything there is no need of any other: the stars shine only at night, their message not needed in daylight. 

   Where my entrenched thinking is, I think not to look for another way: Where I think I see, I see not, because I haven’t let go of what I think I have, for what I don’t know I haven’t. And so, hearing, I hear not, and neither do I understand! 

   Where was any joy in a patchwork quilt where all the patches were of one colour? Where is any joy in Autumn where there are no dying, falling leaves? There are no delights of stellar answers inside of me where there is no surrendered space for them in me!  I have no inner beauty where there has not been first some need of it! And truly, I do not know where I lack it!! So problems come to me as presents – present issues – to give me the means and the wherewithal to grow inside me the life I really desire! 

   Up above the sparrow sits on her eggs, but when they might hatch she doesn’t know. She cannot teach them when to hatch. So is, Life, caught, not taught! No one can teach me what I will not admit to needing; and no other teacher outside of me can know what it is I truly need and when I first need it. Life is spontaneous. So living in it is, too! 

   An inside tutor I have; one who is not afraid of me! For I do not like to learn the lessons I truly need - which can only be taught in the midst of me - because they don’t usually feel too good! People are basically lazy where inner growth is concerned. Therefore, problems are my best teachers: they are not afraid of offending me! They come rushing upon me, urging me onward, and pressing me in toward a new day - regardless of my bent feelings that I didn’t deserve them! For the gift, the present of their help, I need only to recognize their presence and not deny them heading for the easier option! 

   ‘Got a problem? That’s good!’ I would say to myself! ‘Oh, let me face it with confidence – upon another plane of life!’ 

   I will know a more joyful spring, for having had first a barren winter. It is death which works life! 

   All my bright buds of Day come from my long winter’s Night, and all their openings, in the fragile flowering of my tears; bringing with them the promise of a wonderful fruitfulness and a harvest just ahead of me. 

   In spring-time all the buds blossom: nature does nothing by halves!

                                      

   

                                                       *

Poetry: Volume 1. ) The White Goose . . .

THE RAGGED WRITINGS OF EVERLAND 
(Volume One /  18;  4;  1;  3;  2;  17.)

  18. The White Goose

I SAW A CHILD walk forward into a field

A level land it was with marshes, reeds

And waterways... and in every direction

Your eye took you, it was all level

Not a mountain or a hill... not a knoll...

Nor even a mound...

And the sky was very large...

Larger than the fear of being

Too small when the answer comes...

And the clouds folded their arms around her

Though they were very high that day

They the silent witnesses that above keep watch

I saw the child stand still and gaze awhile

Hosts of hungry hearts were with her...

All so small she thought they could fit inside her

That she should carry them and take them further...

She had suffered so there was room    

The emptier she got, the more a bearer she became

And the more room in her, for more...

She belonged to that which looked for her

Which she never named

I saw the child turn and face the other way

I followed her gaze and saw what she saw

A wild goose in rain, a little distance away

Not a farm goose lost... though it was white

One wing hung down; broken, or so, she thought

Instant her passion to gather it into her embrace

And there it was, at her feet... fearless, tame...

In its eye the sweetest part of every hurting thing

In its heart the cry of every suffering creature

I saw the child stagger beneath the weight of answers

The white goose cradled in her arms...

If I could paint a picture of the healing of the many 

There it would be, a child holding a goose

Both as simple as each other

Both blind to what wasn’t love...

If I could hold a picture and a dream of the passion

There it would be, a child cradling her goose

Both lost in the better part of pain and found in its gift

Both saving one another journeying home

                             *

4. 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-tide enters

Yet who could ever tell the fullness it fills

For those who have waited 

                        * 

     1. 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 

              *

3. 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 all marbled halls their veiled voice stays

And seals up the 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 

                  *

2. 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 before to keep your faltering flight

Where will I find the sum of a sparrow lost?

Floating on strings that through love’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

                                          *



            17. Pull Back Let the Cinders Settle

                                    PULL BACK let the cinders settle

The fire which in me burns is love

The waste places, cleared, shine

Bearing fruit in soaring light

The highest towers fly ribbons

The lowest depths fill with gold

Love holding a candle of life

As joy ripples through the night

Find music dancing from their touch

Feel their shimmers as they pass by

It is the white herons which are helping

The rippling lights lifting me along

Wings dip with love’s living things

There are no words where they are

Gold on silver, light in their emerald eyes

They look through my veil and see me cry

They know me where I know not myself

From there they take me with them

They fly through the sanctuary lifting me

I cannot for joy find fault with my pain

Turned they can ascend and descend

There is no lifting ladder other than love

They hold the broken pieces of my life

They bear my heart heavenward

They carry a vial filled with my tears

Bear it in ecstasy born of ecstatic love

They wait to serve and give life

No fear can harm where they are

It is not for wanting am I helped

Before I call, I am strangely heard

I cannot fathom this love given me

Healing love waits not for the asking

Out of the well of “don’t-know”

Springs the life which knows for me

Should I drink any perilous thing

It will not harm me: it is turned

Nothing of me works any life in me

Life and truth is all not of my self

I cry and the white herons rise

They take up the patterns of my mind

They are broken, my purple see-shells

Emptied, every seeing-shell of self deceit

No inner lie, hid, can slip past me unseen

Laid open bear and naked... light enters here

                                              *





The Ragged Writings of Everland;  Volume One


'The Counting-Fall;'   The Ragged Writings of Everland;  Volume Two


'Arkiahh Dreaming;'  The Ragged Writings of Everland;  Volume Three

Poetry: Vol. 3.) Arkiahh Dreaming . . .

                                      THE RAGGED WRITINGS OF EVERLAND: Volume Three

Arkiahh Dreaming

ARKIAHH dreaming in rapid folds of words

Under-light pourings from a book of hours

Quick-cradled wraps of cut-skin brokenness

A swathing of sad hearts in milk and honey

Arkiahh dreaming in rock-clasping heights

Holds in basalt ledges over valleys of beauty

Vantage sight gatherings of nine points of view

Countings in veiled places of moonlit seeings

Arkiahh dreaming in nine amber-cloud skies

Her one less than ten dreams in jasper and topaz

All findings of paradise in makings of nothing

Inner loosings in pure light that perfection won

Arkiahh dreaming in thirty days of writing

A month’s yield of starlight illumining hours

Crisp-lights in water from a pure river of life

Apples of lit-silver in bright pictures of gold

  

                                       *

(More... new poems, below...) 

 POETRY DIARY:  PART SIX:  INTRODUCTION:             

Everland

   

   Space within for life and I wrote in air the ragged writings--- Everland in my heart--- the internal country in which we ever journey onward. 

   Everland is that true inner kingdom within us---the intangible realm of heaven---made tangible where we touch base, see ourselves as we really are, and meet love - Love who is everlasting: ever there!

   

Everland, Everland!

The Land that Ever was

The land of every heart’s own joy

Wherein we ever are!

   I was given the interesting word amaranthine to describe this strange kind of poetry that flows from the realm of Everland; amaranthine means ‘never fading;’ and comes from the word amaranth which refers to a purple flowering plant called, ‘Love-Lies-Bleeding.’ All the ragged writings that come out of me are caught up in the mystical beauty of dying to self and eternal life; hence a love that lies bleeding for there is a cost in loving truly and in laying down our lives for others. But therein is born, joy, and the language of Everland, which never grows old, nor fades with time. 

  The lucent shores of Everland are ever far-reaching; and as mystical as unbounded waters; and as dark as the unknown---in the elusive quest for the beyond. Her interior is timeless---and as real---as heaven on earth. In the dreaming back to lost worlds of beauty, the longing eye turns inward to find her perpetual fountains; outward to find them flowing into the whole broad spectrum of life! 

   Found in the compelling pursuit of love rose these artesian waters; spilling in inner-given words; emerging in elusive perplexing songs. These were ‘the ragged rosebuds of Everland:’ the tight-curled flowers of eternal youth; and the mingling of puzzling lines to un-puzzle the mysteries within spirit-led life and light. 

   And their amaranthine message---the inner banner she flew from her highest towers: that beauty and truth were not made one---and so, never-fading---without their stinging thorn; and that, flesh cannot abide! It will endlessly reject it; and that to its own demise! Not understanding that its very piercing and seeming dying was the life of the inner path: the sword being pulled from the stone within us and the reigning as a ‘king’ in this life! 

   It was the missing piece of the puzzle---the piece we didn’t want, so it was always missing---for we clung to the shadow, instead of to the Light which had cast it. We trusted in the outer forms of things, instead of the inner Substance which had made them. We saw barriers that could sting us, instead of doors which would let us in. We saw mud, where we could have seen stars. 

   But unless we become as fearless as a little child we won’t understand. Only the small would comprehend. It was the blind who saw. It was the poor who were rich. The weak that were, strong. And the process which made them so? The key to that strength that was the thing to comprehend. Only then the possibility of the drawing of a sword from a stone and the evidence and power of a heavenly life. 

   It was hard. Very hard. But it was worth it. Who would not want to pull from the stone the very sword of ‘kingship’ which made one rich in Life! It was still there! Ever enthusing and empowering the brave of every generation, and through all time. ---It was irresistible.

   

                                 *

          The Inner Explorers

A RIVER WINDS through a far-forgotten Land

A wind blows in cryptic wending lines within it

Former holds of knowledge there, now run freed for new

As tadpole tiddlers changing form in summer waters:

Leaping little bits of twigs---going further out

Little joyful understandings---

Grown---of a heated former confusion 

As the inner wine, entering, takes them in its endless flow

Leaving less and less of them as they go

Love flows in scripted lisping-lines---in fluid forms

Life filters through Everland’s honeyed heart---within

Holds of old thought, being overturned for new, and            

Butterfly beginnings changing form in lit-thinking:

Leaping little pieces of perception---moving out 

Sown---of a fire in a furnace of knowledge

As the inner beauty, piercing, sees them speaking

Giving more and more of them as they flew

Explorers---ply the sea’s most fearful depths

Researchers---go to any lengths to solve their riddles

The brave---they just glide by now---in extreme pursuits   

Mountaineers---still climb every misted height they find---

But, Everland’s inner realms---who will conquer there?

Her inner sees, her hills and mountains---who will climb?

Who’d ever give up all to win what they couldn’t see?

                                      *

Stones of Fire

A SWIFTLY FLOWING stream was tumbling

A great many stones and pebbles

And within the stream the stones

Were tossed and turned upon each other

And there, they made one another

Smooth and very beautiful

But those outside the stream

Lay undisturbed.

Stones of fire were in the strong stream

Brightly shining there

But those too afraid to enter

Lay as they always were:

Un-touched: un-shining

                        *

Poetry Diary: Part 5. ) Poetry as Modern Art . . .

(New Poems, below...)

POETRY DIARY:  PART FIVE:        

Poetry as Modern Art

  

PERHAPS, POETRY, such as the Ragged Writings of Everland can be compared with paintings. Just as the forms and colours of a picture produce a certain emotional effect in us, in its communicating without words, so a piece of writing, communicating in seemingly unintelligible phrases, in worlds 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.  

   Light comes in nuances. 

   As in a certain style of impressionistic painting the artist is finding it not important to reproduce what he sees according to its exterior context - he instinctively knows the interior content 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 for him. But it is revealed to him, 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; but for a long time, he was misunderstood. 

   Like the 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 is the mind’s true food.  

 And, if spiritual ideas were the consonants of this new 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! For the ‘sound’ in one phrase, flowing in with that of another, in the spirit, made another language, another sense altogether other than the surface look of the first sense which seemed as nonsense - but which wasn’t nonsense, at all - it had come of itself, so it spoke. It came of the spirit. And this strange, writer, a babbling baby, understood and marvelled: seeing evidence that language, as a whole was a living entity and a divine gift:

   

It was not of us!

So that if--- in the flow---

It was surrendered back to the Source

From which it came---

It could say more---

Going beyond the natural mind---

Being greater than the pen that wrote

Or the fingers that touched the keys

And---

Being greater than the pen that wrote

Or the fingers that touched the keys---

Going beyond the natural mind---

It could say more---

Surrendered back to the Source from which it came---

In the flow---

It was not of us!

  

   Life: it was backwards: and forwards! And there was inspiration: wherever the kernel was language could go backwards or forwards! 

 But, it was all and only through the painter and writer being as nothing: becoming as fools to become wise: only through weakness growing in strength: only through brokenness finding love, deep and unfathomable. There the ever increasing passion to communicate what was seen in the mirror lake of tears, or in the tunnel of a telescope turned back-to-front, with the reflecting back of the light, all upside down and inside out! 

  No wonder the light was as darkness to us when it was written; it was incomprehensible because it was opposite!  It is opposite to us and our earthly way of thinking - just as light and dark are opposites! 

  To every force is a counter-force; both are inevitable, both are opposite. But in all this back-to-front living - the losing to find - we are 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, insightful 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 RAGGED WRITINGS OF EVERLAND:   VOLUME THREE:   ARKIAHH DREAMING:  (Vol. 3 /  15;  17;  18; 26;  20.)

15.  Dust in the Cracks

DUST in the cracks---

Dust in the divides between---

Between---one letter and another

Why is a keyboard a jumble of letters?

Not in any order that makes any sense--- to me---

To my surface mind---

My fingers don’t think

They know where the letters are they need

What wonders are in my subconscious mind---

That can write--- without thinking---

That can compose--- living leaves

Out of a jumble of ideas---

And know---

They were aligned--- before ever I found them

Know---

They were given me before ever I was

Can a keyboard go blunt---

As a saw--- can lose its teeth?

If used too much the wrong way

It won’t speak---

Nor cut on the cutting edge---

Consciously thought on too much---

Birds singing mocking songs:

Writings--- writing dulled things

                        *

17. Twigs Will Always Fall

TWIGS WILL always fall from trees

In certain strengths of wind---

Standing firm in fast moving air

We gather hints---

Bits of understanding falling---

What was gained of turbulence

Bringing interlinked insight---

And compensation for the suffering

In a hurricane---and we reach up

Grasp the illusive telltale signs of the Wind

Inspired knowledge has broken off in hurry---

That later, are seen to live a separate life

Being taken from you---

Flying on---working someplace else

In someone else---as you write them down---

And the influence of the Breeze

Sending them on---

And to the four corners of the earth

                                    *

18.  Bitter Leaves

BITTER leaves are red and falling---

A carpet beneath a tree of spent fortune---

The goodness of it passing in and in

Feeding the hungry roots of faith---

And in love’s warmth---the sun’s rising of it

Steadily through the body---

Nurturing the mind

Seeding it with the best of all that is bitter

Making of recycled Life a revolving feast

Firm in heart---forming new leaves

And the process of it---over and over

Sharing in Life---again and again

If---in each season---dying

The fall and falling---to rise again

                            *

26.  The Outdoors Whispering Secrets

A SOUND---which could not be heard

A movement---that could not be seen

The outdoors whispering secrets

In its most alluring voice

A beckoning---in the clean scent of spring

A calling---in the lowering of the sun

The air radiant with possibilities

Ten hand spans past its zenith

Caught---in answering of the owner’s voice

All parts of me---respond---

Drawn like iron filings to a magnet

I leave my place and follow

I am given the key---

Touching all parts which are---one---

Bound with the whisper---

The outdoors meeting the wonder

In the outreaching me

                        *

20. A Hairsbreadth of Love

A HAIRSBREADTH of love can span a chasm

A bridge so narrow

Only love’s bare feet can cross---

Lightly stepping along---

And the whole length of its endurance---

Never giving up---never knowing any end

Even in the least degree of its assessing the cost

Not afraid of losing all it wanted

Gaining what it had looked for all its life

Courage to walk its line in air

Even a hairsbreadth of love can span a chasm

                                    *