A Book is like a Sword being pulled from a Stone

A book is like a sword being

   pulled from a stone . . . 

A sharp thought drawn from a book:

A sword drawn from a stone

A double cutting edge 

A message received with no offence

But it is the young who believe 
The childlike heart which finds 
Excalibur . . . 

Poem from a Sequence:

A Rain of Booklight
Part 1  # 25

© Judith Evans Deverell, 2014

The Bookmark Project

Amethyst Poetry / Writing Saga #6 / Those Who Dare Win

(This writing follows directly on from Writing Saga # 5 / Following the Lamb Whithersoever / the Holy Grail )

     …And the process? Whatever was that? The key to the strength which opened impossible places, which withdrew the sting of the offence of the truth from the stone of stumbling: drawing out the sword stuck in the offending stone and so tightly, no one could pull it out, what was that?

  Just as day springs from the womb of night, and the tender shoot from under the earth, so LIFE springs from the tomb of death – its beginning. So it was first the dark; then the light. First the seeming-nothing-there; then the ever-living knowing. It was a loss which came first; and a seeming-dying in it before you were lifted up, and free. From then on, out from your innermost depths, the rising up of unquenchable light in unspeakable joy, in LIFE forever and ever.

  It took patience. But those who dare win. For them the ease of the drawing of a sword from a stone. But they are as nothing: dressed in ‘rags,’ incomprehensible, unrecognizable, little thought of – least in the eyes of those all around about them – and certainly no ‘king’ in their own eyes; yet, strangely, fulfilling the dream of one who was and will be.

  We are not foolish to believe the unbelievable: giving up the life we cannot keep to gain the life we cannot lose: alive in ancient Avalon, timeless in Everland, true in our inner world of Annwn; for caught up in the turning then you were you in the heavenlies.

  Everland’s longed-for beauty it was still the prize of all them that for love of the truth were incredibly happy in their nothingness; they want for nothing and so they walk through every wall. . . .

         ‘The old order changeth, yielding place to new,

         And God fulfills himself in many ways,

         Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.’                        

                                                                                        

                                                                                                - Alfred Lord Tennyson; Morte d’Arthur

The titles of the next four ragged writings of Amethyst Poetry:

I Turned the Page

The Tides of Everland

The Treasury of a Day

The Gift of Four

Amethyst Poetry / Writing Saga # 5 / Following the Lamb Whithersoever / the Holy Grail

     Space . . . and I wrote in air the 'ragged writings,' Everland in my heart, the land of our father’s, the internal country in which we ever journey onward and always ‘further up and further in.’ Her shores are as mystical as Arthurian Avalon, dark as ancient Annwn,* in the elusive quest for the beyond; her interior as timeless and real as heaven on earth. In the dreaming back to lost worlds of beauty, the yearning eye turns to the past to find the future. 

     Found in the compelling pursuit of the Holy Grail her elusive perplexing songs; all springing from their inner ageless, Celtic pool. These were the ragged ‘rosebuds’ of Everland; and their message, and the inner banner she flew from her highest towers: that beauty and truth were not made one, and whole, without their stinging thorn; and that flesh cannot abide. It will endlessly reject it; and to its own demise! Not understanding that its very piercing and seeming dying was the life of the inner path, of ‘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 mystery; the piece we didn’t want so it was always missing. We clung to the shadow instead of the light. We trusted to the outer form of things instead of the inner substance. 

     Unless we become as believing as a little child, we won’t understand. Only the small would understand; it was 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. But 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 ‘knights’ of every generation, and throughout all time . . . it was irresistible!

[* Annwn   n. A Welsh mythical land; spoken of in ancient Welsh poetry; translates as: “In-World;” ‘the inner world.’ Annwn was surrounded by darkness and men were afraid; but it contained the magical cauldron or cup, held sacred and holy to saints and explorers, alike; among whom was the mythical King Arthur of Dark Age and Medieval legend who went in search of it.]

The titles of the next four 'ragged writings' of Amethyst Poetry:

Space 

In Following

The Inner Grail

Just Being Loved!

The Saga of Amethyst Poetry / Part Two: The Ragged Writings

 ‘The Ragged Writings of Everland:  A collection of poetic writing’

       A definition:  n. a 'ragged writing' is basically a poem rejected: being as it is an affront to the intellect, because the most used part of the mind can’t make much sense of it!

  An explanation: a piece of 'ragged writing' which upon first reading appears incomprehensible, will to the diligent searcher slowly render its secret treasure upon each subsequent reading; enlarging the faculties of the inmost being to taste and eat of a whole new kind of fare. If we will but let go the incessant demand of our intellect to understand something before we can enjoy it, we might develop the spiritual capacities that are within us instead – the ones which make us who we truly are – the exercise of which will bring a more satisfying reward than we could imagine.

      It is hard. But narrow a river and it will flow for you more swiftly. Over feeding the intellect has hindered the heart. Help a butterfly escape from its cocoon, and it dies. Its wings never develop.  It needed its struggle to fly.

    Read without wanting. Read as though being read, yourself. These writings are as looking-glass stones, reflecting back at you whatever you see in them. You could work them out, with some mental effort; or you could soak them in, with no effort at all; in both ways are treasures. Most of all you will discover, to your joy that you are given out of not demanding to understand.   

‘Everland:’

       A definition and explanation: Everland: the internal Land through which we ever journey onward, and always ‘further up and further in;’ her shores are as mystical as Avalon, and her waters as dark as Annwn in the elusive quest for the beyond; her interior as timeless and real, as heaven on earth.