Amethyst Poetry / Writing Saga # 10 / Epic Poem / IN THE PATHS OF MYRDDIN WYLLT

In the Paths of Myrddin Wyllt  2018

     (In this post I share the incident which began my brief phase of fascination with medieval legend, and how I came across the things of King Arthur and the Holy Grail, and came to write the epic poem, IN THE PATHS OF MYRDDIN WYLLT.)

    A few months ago, at a huge second-hand Book Fair in our nearest town, I happened to pick up a book because its cover at once attracted me, though I don’t know why, and I simply added it to my basket without even opening it or looking at the back cover. When I got home I looked through the few books I had bought there and picked out this particular one, first; and later read it with delight. It was titled: ‘Arthur: The Seeing Stone,’ by Kevin Crossley-Holland; (the first book of his ‘Arthur’ trilogy for children.) The author was obviously a poet as well as a novelist and I loved his style of writing. Being as I was ever, inside, a simple child, one which had forgotten to grow up, I was captivated!  Well written children’s books are always my favourite read; I, somehow, prefer them to adult books. 

    Without ever having been interested in medieval legends before, suddenly I found myself profoundly inspired and all unconsciously my ‘ragged writings’ took on a new theme, for awhile. 

    I became even more intrigued. On the 23^rd of March, 2014, I started to write an epic poem, without realizing it. On that morning, all at once, I had a vivid mental picture of a man in a state of inner turmoil and distress standing upon a hill overlooking a dreadful battle; who had then descended and fled into a deep forest, and lived with the wild animals there for a long time bereft of all human companionship. I had the distinct impression in my mind, that this man was Merlin; but, that made no sense to me, because from all I had thus read, this picture of him did not fit, at all. 

  That afternoon happened to be our once a week ‘town day;’ and before we did the shopping I went to the local library and checked out a pile of books on King Arthur and related topics. Through my study, and a bit of internet research, I discovered that there was such a Merlin, as I had seen; named, Myrddin Wyllt; a Welsh bard and poet of the Dark Ages. And it wasn't long before I found myself reading a description of this ancient legendary man, that exactly and perfectly fitted all I had seen. 

   From that memorable day in March, till about three weeks later, inspiration flowed as an unstoppable river and I wrote an historical poem well over 9,000 words, at this stage, in 43 manuscript pages. The story was to build...a living bridge...linking the Myrddin Wyllt of the Dark Ages with the Merlin of the Middle Ages in a dynamic historical enactment, with full attention to historical accuracy, and historical background detail, with sixth century geographical place names, people, and events, and dates, creating a timeless, mythical story imbued with all the magic forest imagery familiar to us through the works of JRR Tolkien and CS Lewis.  

   I had been deeply into my amethyst poetry during the first three weeks of March and so it seemed natural to carry on communicating out of this overflowing inner well. Writing the story in rich lyrical language, instead of prose, using alliterative and assonantal techniques, seemed to more easily release thought provoking lines, which would remain in the mind of the reader long after the book was read and put down: touching the heart with a haunting complexity and intriguing beauty in which the mind was irresistibly drawn to 'chew,' in order to learn and discover, for itself.  

  When the work was completed I realized that this poem was not a part of my large, illustrated, and unpublished poetry collection: ‘The Ragged Writings of Everland,’ but a work that needed to be under separate cover, as it was a complete book in itself---12,240 words---having all the elements present of a miniature historical novella.     

   This unpublished manuscript is available to anyone wishing to read it.  I hope that someday there will be an interest in publishing it. 

The work is entitled,

IN THE PATHS OF MYRDDINWYLLT.

(Its Welsh title is, Yn y Llwybrau Myrddin Wyllt.)  

Please feel free to contact the author and request a free copy: 

Email:   judithdeverell@hotmail.com     

I can, also, email this book in pdf format in a word document.

                                   
                                      *

The titles, below, are the next four ragged writings of Amethyst Poetry. The first, A Ring of Love, is an extract, an untitled section, of the above mentioned epic poem.

         A Ring of Love

         Angled Perspectives

         As A Day

         Only Slowly Opens the Rose

Season of Alterings

How softly sang the wind in his dreamy silken music

Of a change in the heavens were the coils of men unwound

When one played upon a pipe ten others heard and wept 

When a hundred saw the light a thousand cried

As understanding alters so too the seasons of fish and birds

Of a change in the world were their cages opening

And all the winged little ones did swim away free

Too small to trap love’s tiddlers escaped man's horrid snare

As knowledge alters so too the seasons of men and trees

Of a change in the wind did their sap rise or fall

Where one tree bent double two others fell forward

Where four saw the light eight others were slain  

In joyous loss they held to nothing that could be seen

Of love were all free to go flying upon their falls

Lifted higher and higher the greater the descent

Of old judgments freed, all turned, changed about!

Gift of Four

Four hid stones in a stream

Incandescent pebbles 

Small round and smooth

Shining there fire bright

Four hid feathers in the air

Little sharp quills

Brave and beautiful

Twirling there very light

Four cornered shafts all found in my middle

Stony weights and feathered burdens first

Yet freed in uplifts both come weaving through

Till bathed in lit-life winged sight they give me

Love in delight in patience born of peace 

These four all a perfect portion form

When drawn of light I am drowned in life

And left shining there . . . underneath. 

Willowed Stream

Not the sound of any hammer could be heard

Silent the truer work of the turning around

The stinging things being made a delight:

The scriptured cache of past mysteries made plain

The well-worn ancient Puzzlebook being deciphered
And unlocked . . .

The whirring of a fan winnowing the harvest

A threshing of knowledge-mountains, beating them small

Making of the hills of outsides – chaff

That only their sacred centers remain

The whirlwind scattering life’s proud knowledge-waves

Single blows, and the roar and rush of the liked part

Her pearls (the not-liked part) silent for they were as two

Yet the prudent few chose instead a hammering of truth

And what they thought was gold

For which they paid a high price and lost the prize

Single blows and our liked parts were all one-sided truth

All a cat’s purr, but grating as the sound of a saw

And the engine-buzz of a busy fly

All fool’s gold and an apple cradled in a broken glass

Only the severed parts of seven and so never the whole

Seeing what seemed to shine in knowledge’s outsides 

The un-golden apple they held to their breast; which

Not being made to hang onto, was as a broken glass

Not whole, not remade it would hold no new wine

If only parts it could hold, never perfect

Their lines they tangled; their slender unfed leaves

Went dangling down and winnowed fell breaking off

The slowings of life in every willowed stream

The clogged up muddles of thinking we knew

Clearing as the running light came sifting through

Would now they dig out their willowed stream

Let the light of life go rushing through them

A cloudburst’s flood to clear every path of inner mud:

Dead skinny leaves, one-sided knowledge bits  

Let it sweep away all their cloggings up

Of things too long held in overcrowded streams

Amethyst Poetry / Writing Saga # 2 / Continuing Inspiration According to Surrender

      All that I had in the way of any qualifications for writing was through my heart's surrender in the LORD, my Beloved, in simple faith and love. All that came out of my midst in ‘ragged writing’ was inspired upon the inner wings of a complete ‘letting go’ and a total losing to find. Every day new inspiration came at the very moment I began to write; for every day the inestimable treasure of loving surrender was given me in the Spirit. 

      Although I had studied Journalism for a year in London when I was eighteen years old, writing was in me from the time I first learned to hold a pencil. …My first ‘book’ I wrote at the age of seven and a half. It consisted of five, one sentence pages, all sown together with purple yarn . . .

‘My Book

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 is has forgotten, and I will be gone.’

                                                         *

These are the titles of the next five ‘ragged writings’ /poems:  

In the Light of Innocence

From My Falling 

Willowed Stream

In Another Form

The Two Parts of Thought

Before . . .

Before glass windows sea

Before see-through eyes dust 

Before love could blossom ashes

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 marbled halls their veiled voice stays

And seals up all 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          

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 tides enters 

Yet who could ever tell the fullness it fills

For those who have waited   

  

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 on before to keep your faltering flight

Where will I find the sum of a sparrow lost

Floating on strings that through God’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                                

The Saga of Amethyst Poetry / Part Six: A New Awakening

     In no way aspiring to be instrumental, perhaps it might be true, that without pushing the limits, without crazy-seeming innovation and experiment, people, and literature, and all forms of art would stagnate . . . and without knowing it   . . . because you can’t know something without something to know it by. So maybe we ought not to resent or resist those things which we cannot understand – even though fearing the unknown is a natural human instinct – but rather brave the intangible, plunge into its dark and delight in it; and increase within the wherewithal to know it by. Else, what will we gain from sticking to our own pride’s right to comprehend everything before we approve of it? We will gain only dimming pools of reluctant water, and perpetually paralyze our powers of perception. But anyone who has once learned to surrender their impressions finds a new world forming there, where they let go, and an eager surge of lively water, rising in a new awakening.  

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. 

A Ring of Love: an Extract from an Epic Poem

     The poem, A Ring of Love, is an extract from a much larger work, IN THE PATHS OF MYRDDIN WYLLT . . . a 9,400 word epic poem concerning the sixth century legendary Welsh bard and poet, Myrddin Wyllt; a forerunner of the famous Merlin of the medieval legends of King Arthur. More on this later! But the unpublished manuscript of this epic poem is available to those who would like to read it. (Contact author and request via email: 

 arielaevans@gmail.com ) 

      To reach out, to give beautiful words new every day from the inner wells, was my longing...words through an inner fullness speaking light. The outflow of living waters from the midst of me was unending; and I longed to share from out of the treasures of my experience the living truth which fires the creativity in my life. There was just so much to share. So much to tell of the beginnings of Amethyst Poetry. But before I could begin to unravel further the saga of my writing life, the following came, written today . . . 

Veiled Realms of Swiftlight 

Out of the things which were first, the greater part of purple palaces

Inner castles graced with ivory towers and the amaranth within

The amethyst flowerets mystic pale with milky light 

All fused with royal red and blue

Casting from the windows of my sight

The firstling things I have within

To speak instead in silent gems of the veiled realms of swiftlight

Of the breaking parts of faith that slowly fill with love and unravel here

Out of the things which were second, the amaranthine tumbling spires

From which my inner-writing banners flew

Out from my highest tower, my hooded tercel tossed skyward

Flung from a soft gloved hand

Set free to gather its beloved prey, and return to me the longed for news 

That, from afar they would hear and in that oneness promised

Draw near and I would know that from today 
I was not alone

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 . . .