A Book is like a hopeful Rainbow

A book is like a hopeful rainbow 

I take a turn and look around

And there a promise arc 

Of sudden colour:  . . .

Hope falling by me 

Through its gifted pages

Holding light for me 

As though through fire in rain

Its spirit streams are in 

Seven colours split

Its story, message, 

Its hope-filled teachings

All prismed light 

Caught alive in me:  . . .

Since first I glimpsed 

Its intriguing cover 

Quickly guessed in me 

Its depth, of hidden promise  

Poem from a Sequence:

A Rain of Booklight
Part 1  # 23

© Judith M. Evans Deverell, 2014

The Bookmark Project

A Book is like an Angel's Breath

A book is like an angel’s breath . . .

   it breathes a wisp of air

      a silent thing, as of life from death

The secret sigh of wings of purest breadth: 

   hidden width in lines of gifted sight;

Wisdom, as the in and out of air:

   breath-filled life, in the heart that joys

      to relinquish what it harbours

In lines of joy, in dreams of angel flight

   the spirit’s sojourn

As a selkie’s lift to tip me ever onwards

Prized open here to take in light

   and on toward new streams thought;

Hope so near in lighted understandings,

   in writing caught in airy comprehending:

As an angel’s breath, inside 
   the hidden inner heaven in me . . .

Poem from a Sequence:

A Rain of Booklight
Part 1  # 22

© Judith Evans Deverell, 2014

The Bookmark Project

Stretching

People like form and a perceived order delights

If out of some chaos of incompatible lines

Any pattern appears its gifted ease will soon appeal

No eye likes to be faced with what it cannot fathom

Understanding life’s piercing swiftlight can only come

Through belief that in it is some unforeseen beauty

Waiting in seeming complexity to be found out simple

In simply believing here was something greater 

For out of darkness God commanded the light to shine

That the best of any knowing come only of faith

So that what it chooses to love without understanding

Can have an inner working greater than any straighter thing

In the end it will be those who have dared who win

Those who swallowed walls and were willing to be stretched

It is all in the stretching my spirit’s capacities expand 

Left without it I think I’m right and tied stay shrunk 

Deep Pools

Deep pools of sacred possessions

Un-cautioned cascades of revelation

Chasing braved bounties in love’s tellings

And a bright-made woven holder

For all my heart’s own wrested rovings

Daft pieces of fast ravings

Un-careful shavings of sharp arrows

Colliding particles in plenty’s pouring 

And a soft-filled safety folder

For all my heart’s own suffered bleedings

Dusted scribblings of dashed truth

Un-captured portions of chaliced lives

Coiling burned embers in my seven sides

And a silver-made chaste casket

For all my heart’s own secret sorrows

                         *

Un-counted the silver of silent stars

Standing without end or known number

Like my ribs

All broken in love’s reachings

Like my bruised heel and wounded head

The Ragged Writings of Everland

A green leaf . . .

Hard ripped from a bent twig

Yet sent flying

A rose bud . . .

Cruel plucked from a thorn bush

And taken deeper

My soul untouched is safe . . .

But that is not what it was created for

                                                                   

The Saga of Amethyst Poetry / Part Four: A New Art

        If art went abstract, couldn't poetry? If some streams of art turned 'incomprehensible,' but not without a battle for acceptance first, should I wonder at or fear initial rejection? Although these 'poems' are not abstract - for like the inventive artist every line or brush stroke is full of known meaning - I suppose they might appear so, at first glance! But I had experienced that the heart 'rent in twain' could carry the mind's every finding further and deeper, and that it wasn't necessary for the outer parts of it to understand, in order to perceive light via the spirit.

      In joy and wonder I was shown that the primary purpose of these poems, is not that they be literally understood, but that they literally make us littler. For the littler we are the lighter we become; and the lighter we become the happier we are, which isn't by more, but by less. 

Amethyst Poetry

     Sometimes, truth, too hard to be said in one way, will find another way to express itself; love never ceases to translate its fiery gems. Sometimes beauty, too piercing to be conceived in its raw state, will come to us clothed in complexity that we might be able to bear it; even appearing in a form we might naturally resist in order to protect itself from being too easily seen. The interior of love too wonderful by far to be perceived by any proud eye, its secrets were the portion of the pure in heart. As the ennobling fires of beauty and truth wait to be welcomed of the poor in spirit, so the shining amaranthine gems of Amethyst Poetry are poised here, their truth and beauty hidden, yet waiting to be discovered. All gifts of love to all who read...shine through the amaranthine rocks Amethyst Poetry . . . 

A Ring of Love

He has taken me with a snare, a ring of love

And broken me when I fell stumbling

He has taken me with a fish trap

A tangled web of passion

And peeled me when I surrendered

He has opened me with sunlight, and filled every gap

He has seen me with moonlight, and tipped me out

He has chosen me with a circlet, a ring-knife of swiftlight

And cut me in twain, torn down all my walls

He has chosen me in the furnace of affliction

And set me amongst the fiery stars

Not any hurt can harm me, nor any terror shake me

With their silent speech with the circle of their sound

He has married me to the Songs of Wales

Made of ever-living roads, I am

Yet, before ever they were, the rising wells

With the lucent shore with the amaranthine rocks

He has married me to the Tidal Sea

Made of mortal flesh, I am

Yet of Spirit overawed and overflowed