Story: 6. ) The Book-Hammock / from A BOOK IS LIKE A SACRED ISLE: A Rain of Booklight; A book about books

 The Book-Hammock

  When the cicadas start singing I know summer has come at last. Heralds of a new season of warmer weather, these large winged insects up in the trees carol the joy of balmy days in the sub-tropics of northern New Zealand. At times they sing so loudly –probably because there are so many of them – that they are almost, deafening. But it’s early days yet. They have not long begun their serenades of summer. And by the time they reach their highest decibels our ears have adjusted and we no longer notice the sound. Though, from their first day of breaking out in song, I begin to remember an annual, accompanying delight – the book-hammock in our wilderness garden! For half the year it is put away; and it is the cicadas which remind us to put it up again.
  In our little plum and pear orchard on the south side of our Edwardian house, built by the pioneer European settlers here, there are two trees a perfect distance apart. Here our wide, white hammock is tied up; and when there is ‘nothing to do;’ more frequent in the summer Christmas holidays than at any other time, one can recline and read for an hour or two in the languid, dappled light of our singing orchard.
  There is a curious appendage to 'the book-hammock,' which has given rise to its name. A small, white wicker basket is attached by a very short white rope about half way along on one side; it sits in the hammock till I throw it out and then it hangs in just the right position to reach into with ease. Inside the basket are several items wrapped in a waterproof bag – books and biscuits – they seem to go together! Through the summer the basket is replenished from time to time to keep everything fresh and always delightful.  

  I believe hammock-reading is a glorious idyll engrafted in every daydreaming romantic soul. The writers and painters of the Victorian age romanticized nature’s whimsy in dreamy portraits in word and paint which have entered our hearts. Ever since I saw the painting “Sunlight and Shadow,” by the famous American painter Winslow Homer I have found hammock-reading wholly enchanting. Amongst a profusion of delicate leaves, which are dressed in various shades of viridian green in the dappled light, a young woman in a beautiful long white dress lies in her hammock reading a book. The painting has made hammock-reading iconic.
  But instead of cicadas, one hears the bees buzzing in Britain, and the occasional fly, and the constant chatter of sparrows and the song of blackbird and thrush. Rustlings of summer zephyrs through the leaves above and all around, bathe one in varying degrees of warmth and comfort; while the delicious fragrance of all the flora blend together, to make one feel fairly drunk on airy wine; and for those who need it, it lulls one to nap; even to sleep. Peace, sweet garden peace.
  The book, too, works its magic and while we rest we escape; we leave our cares behind awhile and disappear; we enter another world. But the ‘book-hammock’ is more a symbol of altruism than of hedonism; the joy and liberty one finds there, works more for the benefit of others than for one’s self: a rested person is of more good use than a frazzled one! I feel I am doing my family a favour by reading in my book-hammock! If a book is like a tonic, then hammock-reading is good medicine.  J
  
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A Book is like a Single Star

A book is like a single star 

A many-sided diamond

A complex thing

Giver of a thousand beams

Unbending source of power

Though one amongst a crowd

Shining as a silent eye

Shivered light, brilliant cut

A single force 

In many-sided dreaming lines                         

Yet as a star without a seer is no light

A book without a reader is no star:

For of itself it has no dream to shine

Its all, in the eye of its beholder       

Poem from a Sequence:

A Rain of Booklight
Part 1  # 33

© Judith Evans Deverell, 2014

The Bookmark Project

A Summer's Morning

I woke upon a summer’s morning

Made all new with expecting

Even the birds could sense it

Oh everything around me knew!

I leaned upon a window’s warming

Held all through with hoping

Even the glass could feel it

Oh everything around me knew!

I dressed in haste a child’s clothing

Blessed all bright with wanting  

Even my garb could sense it

Oh everything around me knew!

I rushed outside a young one’s running

Filled all through with singing

Even my feet could feel it

Oh everything around me knew!    

I danced in glee a sunbeam’s dreaming

Risen all bright with glimpsing

Even the grass could sense it                                   

Oh everything around me knew – 

A love hold’s gleaning!