There is No Emptiness inside Silence . . .

THERE IS NO emptiness inside silence

Nor is there any---in places where one fancies nothing is

There is no such thing as nothing

My every emptiness was replete with peace

As if it had eaten away what had first been there---

Of unbelief---of it having any content

And it was now full up

With all that I had believed for it to have

And I saw---it was true--

Saw, too, how slow I am to take true hold

Of what I am given but miss out on---daily---

I shame the star of day!

And I saw the setting sun

Reflecting on the horizon of the east

Blushing in his daily dealings there

With unbelieving earth---

Fallen---

In her semi-orbed sinking once again

Into that darkness she could only know

When she was lost to him

Though even for so short a time

Would they never find in silence

Their spirit won while they had no light

But that it would peep up at daybreak

And fill the universe

                    *

- From:  Arkiahh Dreaming; The Ragged Writings of Everland; Volume 3

              

                                            

                     

Set Adrift On a Sea Of Light . . .

Set adrift on a sea of light

Only let its tides take you where they will

Trust to that great underlying Thing

That you be washed up on some friendly shore---

Whether rough, rocky, even treacherous

Look at it not with the eyes of an old world but new

Even, hardly shelving, fine sandy beaches

Can be deceiving---

Strong counter-currents taking you out and out

As you attempt to land

Tens of times, perhaps, you have drifted

Upon the mirrored surface of your own subject

Felt it, enjoyed it, but shrinking from its beauty

Afraid to find it verify the virtue you deny is in you

But, it is true, so it is there---

Though you quickly look away---

In false pride ashamed of your own outworked gift---

The task set before you

So infused in your every subconscious thought

So, a part of you

That it cannot be separated to see itself

Without the agony of the soul reflecting mirror

Upon the sea of light---

The raw of self afraid of its own beauty

For it knows it is corrupted---  

Though no one has told it

But there is another who would be same

And he looks at you

And sees nothing but himself gifted you

Take every ounce of courage---

Look deep---

You are the reflection of love divine

And the object of his selfless adoration---

The apple of his eye

                                    *

-From:  Arkiahh Dreaming; The Ragged Writings of Everland; Volume 3;
("The Task Set...A Sea Of Light;" & "Set Adrift On A Sea Of Light:" dedicated to Raymond J. Scott.)

The Task Set... A Sea Of Light . . .

To always do as you are given to do---

It was your gift---

And through the sunshine as though it were

A sea of light flowing in from another country

Pursue the sight of that thing which delights

And for a closer look, not to do as others would

Nor be afraid you may do as another would---

When the thing suits you it is right

You need but to command your field

And your sense of beauty will do the rest

To fill in, create, and complete the task you are set

And you will find those fragile new filaments

Of the life which comes so naturally to you

Take on a certain glory in the constant piercing rain

And form for you, as---scent, music, light, do---

Symbols of spirit, intangible, but real---

All the colours of the prism

Un-see-able but for that fine hurting rain

That split you---gifted you

These working things were still themselves---

Even woven together---

The scent of that damask rose

Swathes of gold in which was music

And the sunlight which made it---

Yet, at the same time, were avenues

Of a glory beyond themselves and where to walk

                                    *

-From:  Arkiahh Dreaming; The Ragged Writings of Everland; Volume 3;
("The Task Set...A Sea Of Light;"  &  "Set Adrift On A Sea Of Light:" dedicated to Raymond J. Scott.)

The White Goose . . .

I saw a child walk forward into a field

A level land it was with marshes, reeds, and waterways

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 about her

Though they were very high that day –  

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 I saw what she saw

A wild goose a little distance away

Not a farm goose lost, but it was all white

One wing hung down, broken 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 hurt 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, 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

                           *

Alone . . .

ALONE . . .

And almost not lonely

Cast aside . . .

But only waiting

Dropped like a plummet line

Measuring vanity

Stripped like scapegoat

Assessing deceit

Stretched out cut in half

Mirroring souls

Pain in inner wealth

Bereft of friends

                     *

-From:  Arkiahh Dreaming; The Ragged Writings of Everland; Volume 3

NEW BOOK on schizophrenia available . . .

DIVIDED ASUNDER
The Saga of a Gifted Illness; Unlocking the Mystery of Schizophrenia

                                                                   
The following extract is from the FOREWORD to this book:

"THIS BOOK IS MADE of bits and pieces of my ’trying-to-reach-people-writings:’ because a chronological, clinical-style account of my lived-experience of schizophrenia, alone, would not bring to light the complete picture of how this illness affects the whole of a person’s life. Everything one does is born of how one thinks. So different bits of writings which reveal one’s nature and actions might help to form a better picture . . . a complete picture. Like an artist, painting with an array of different coloured paints with different shaped brushes, smooths in the whole of a landscape. He needs to make it understandable. So he needs the contrast of light and dark. Because without it there would be no painting; there would be nothing to see! For if it were all one shade of one colour, there would be no meaningful picture! Nothing to differentiate one thing from another! And so, the different parts of this book are the different shapes and shades of the landscape of my life showing the lengths and depths and heights of the schism of schizophrenia.

  Now I can use . . . the opposite metaphor . . . to better describe the diverse nature of this book, and show that it can be likened to a kaleidoscope . . . made of the many-coloured, shattered glass shards of a person’s heart, which, when gathered up and glued together form the whole picture of a broken life . . . and the complete paradox of a logic defying truth: . . . a person torn by illness and divided asunder, split, in order to be made whole. Hurt and healed, through the gift of illness.

   And so, in this book you will find bits of letters; which were never replied to. Slices of explanations; which nobody read, though I wrote them to help people understand my illness. Pieces of Everland Cipher-Script writings; which no one translated, in which I encoded some of my more complex thoughts. And a few portions of my early calligraphic artwork; that few have seen which illustrate my three volumes of poetry. Plus, segments from my books of short stories; which, amazingly, were loved by those few, who bothered read them. The book contains only the bare minimum of these things: for too much hides the joy in just enough. (I have written other books; and for those who might like to know, more, the digital manuscripts of these books can be accessed online through my blog.)

   If I seem to have gotten nowhere with the written bits and pieces of me, why then do I write? Why do I never give up trying to communicate the things of my heart when there is no response? I don’t know. But it is in me, to write. I cannot give up. I trust that my work has a purpose, even when I cannot see what that is, and a place where it belongs, even when I do not know where that might be.

   It is my hope that through its diversity this book will bring a clear picture of an extraordinary lived-experience of schizophrenia . . . and show, too, that the further dimensions of mind and heart, which enrich life, are made possible through the gift in this illness . . . where light is seen in darkness: love in every void . . . and where even the most awful things are found to contain treasure and the gift which made one, gifted."

                                                                        

                                                  

                                                          *

  

A Gifted Illness...?

How could any illness be a gift?

Let alone the suffering

in true schizophrenia: 

the deep fear and pain

of seeing-oneself-seeing-oneself:

in the raw utterly exposed

to God utterly exposed to one’s self?

A Gift...?

             *

This book reveals the long-searched-for mystery in schizophrenia

The Place of Meeting . . .

THE PETALS open out to receive the light

It is another part within the flower, which can

Travel onward into seed to perpetuate life

The assimilation of light into life, in yet another

I had experienced that my heart torn asunder

Could carry my mind’s

Every finding further and deeper

And that it wasn’t necessary

For the outer parts of it to understand

In order to meet with the central thing

Derive delight and light in the inward part

Lifting the glory of love’s lessons there

Which taught life and gave me seed

For making me littler  

For the littler I was the lighter I became

And the lighter I became the happier I was

Which wasn’t by more but by less                                

                                                  *

- From:  Arkiahh Dreaming; The Ragged Writings of Everland; Volume 3

The Green Within Green . . .

LEAVES. . . and leaf . . . green within green

The appearing of speech in many similar places

Jade and juniper . . . sage and chartreuse

Viridian, mint . . . lime, olive, and emerald

Oak, beech and pine, fir, aspen and willow

Across ragged hillsides through brooks in valleys

Lofty tomes . . . books in veined papers

Life . . . and inner life . . . living within living

The astonishing message carried in all things

The pattern . . . the silver web revealing life

So, clear and plain . . . so, filled . . .

Waiting to be unravelled and known . . .

If any, were even

Half-way looking however fleetingly

It was the abundance of ideas in that

Eclectic mix of green

Deriving hints

From a broad diverse scoop of changing resources:

All living things were books

Beneath were new concepts, sparks in new ideas

Amaranthine knowledge satisfying the searching mind

Light . . . and inner light . . . dream within dream

The substance similar but all different and same

Expanding insight inside the first inner room

The door into the second was hid

No space to see the hint of a crack in the door

Opening up a new world . . . the second

If it was brilliant knowledge it went no further

To brighten, bring alive, uncover the central thing

That . . . turned . . . turned base metal into gold

Still the vague search for what seemed to be missing

It was still missing

                                      *

- From:  Arkiahh Dreaming; The Ragged Writings of Everland; Volume 3

I Can See the World Turning . . .

STANDING ON A HILL I can see the world turning

Spinning me round to face the sun

Pulling me forwards while taking me back

Into the thick of things that should need to be silenced

Into the thick of things that in hope went before

Into this cryptic silence, free of all censure . . .

That falls in pieces

Is the wealth of all the parts of the whole . . .

All gladly given away for the whole of the whole

In tiny clipped-winged clouds the quintessence of rags

Broken lines of brushed writing-clouds . . . colouring . . .

Needing no edges

Bearing no relation to the lines in the land below

Over which they flew, but when seen together

As I now, know, they can be

Are painting the beginning of my day in brightest sunrise!

Telling the pieces of Whole, till they are made whole

And a new day!

Then gathering and raining . . . in the utmost grey

To make, in these perfect examples of gems in vapour, 

Divisions and outlines to see them by!

Am I crazy, or what? 

                                                *

- From:  Arkiahh Dreaming; The Ragged Writings of Everland; Volume 3