Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts

Wednesday, 31 December 2014

Story: 13. ) Biographies

from A BOOK IS  LIKE A SACRED ISLE

     

          Can they see my centre---
          Feel my edges---feel my bumps?
          How will they know…
          If I do not---show and tell---them?

          My book is real---needs no writer
          Harder---than, the marker of Life
          There---before the face of every heart
          That sees---upside down...



         Biographies

         If I ever read, which I didn’t much, until a few months ago when I became conscious of reading, I had always read novels and those that had come my way mostly secondhand, due to being poor; and of those, the majority were children’s classics: I homeschooled my children. But a new world has opened up to me recently, reading-wise; and I've found that old adage to be true: ‘truth is stranger than fiction.’ The dramas of real people, who had really lived, or were still living made extraordinary stories with twists too insightful to be found in fiction. Characters explained by biography necessarily issued a deeper form of thinking, which, legitimately, carry us along new pathways of fascinating introspection. Our identifying with a real person, feels right and more valuable somehow, more comfortable, or noble than identifying with a fictitious character. Not that fiction isn't awesome, too; it is! It, also, is a teacher. But through the labyrinth of biography, inside paths of a real life reveal and draw out vital elements from the insides our own life; and encourage us in our own struggles motivating us toward greater bravery.
   The deeper the inward gaze of a live person the more succor there is for us in a book, and the more meat there is to chew on. We have to look in, before we are strong enough to look out and see. Exploring of the pathways of the brain and psyche is the quest of the twenty-first century, and its territory. We know this instinctively. We know there is something ahead just out of reach. But still, the way to the fore is clouded: we reject it; we do not wish to fully understand that it is only through suffering.
   I read my first serious, human biography only a couple months ago. Previously, I had read only Natural History biographies; (animals and plants were easier to understand than people!) The book was Gavin Maxwell. A Life; Douglas Botting; and I was, fascinated. I lived in this book for weeks. I learned a great deal more about an extraordinary person and about people in general, and to always deeply appreciate their idiosyncrasies, gifted or otherwise. Strangely, the more there were, the more I found the person precious; and this, I believe, is the work and purpose of biography. I also learned more about otters and wild animals, and about myself. As I have mentioned earlier, this book worked needed compassion in me.
   I am now beginning to read a new biography of the reclusive nineteenth century American poet Emily Dickinson; Lives Like Loaded Guns: Emily Dickinson and Her Family’s Feuds (Lyndall Gordon) and I am thrilled. Once again, things dwelling below the surface are being confirmed. Now I know why I always wanted to put far more pauses between words and phrases in poetry. I would put them in then take them out: I had not fully understood why I had wanted them there and so lacked the courage to do so. But now I do. And I am free! But what if I had not read this book and found the answer to…the riddle of spaces…it was meant to be! This book is fast becoming a treasure to me; and Dickinson a much admired ‘alive’ person; and needed helper and mentor. I have never had one before, in any shape or form; I have always walked in ‘the dark’…the unknown; and, literary-wise, entirely alone.    
   I wonder. If biography is enlightening, perhaps autobiography could be more so, for there is no intermediary between the protagonist and the reader. Who better to tell their story than the one to whom it belongs? I think I’ll find a few autobiographies to read, after I've read the two interesting looking biographies that await me on the coffee table; C.S. Lewis, and Robert Louis Stevenson; a few of who’s works I've read, definitely not enough, but I would like to know more about their authors.
  This might sound strange for an adult, but I feel as if I am growing up at last; or graduating; or coming of age---or at the end of some long process of being released from a prison. Perhaps this is why I have become conscious of reading; and this in turn, why I am finding so much to see in it.
   I missed out on the world’s normal quantity of book reading in my life: I did read only one, and for many years, and that overall, for a sad reason. But everything in our lives works together for good; and even if we can’t see it yet a rewarding destiny awaits every brave explorer of love and truth.                                             BIOGRAPHIES---the true story of other lives---makes our own lives more meaningful---opening doors into our own---through which we can find---a richer life---and new friends in other realms.          BIOGRAPHIES---can rock our boat---just a little---making our ‘see’ faring voyage---just that little bit more exciting---for sailing through the stories of ‘lives like loaded guns’---can make us shorten sail, and ease our ride---or put up flying spinnakers to speed us up! 
               


                                                                         *






Thursday, 4 December 2014

The Placemark Poems



As the garden daisies
Shut their eye at dusk 
I close my book 
Put away those things 
Of today, awhile . . . 
The life in this book 
Must await another time 
Or, another day 
To take me further, 
Along its line of thought; 
Take me with it onward 
Toward new ideas . . . 
New horizons opened 
And made my own 




Poem from a Sequence:
A Rain of Booklight; Part 2;
The Placemark Poems, # 3
© Judith Evans Deverell, 2014


The Bookmark Project




Tuesday, 25 November 2014

A Book is like a Whispering of Wings



A book is like a whispering of wings; 
Strange the sighs that rise up in me
Lifting from the stealth of life upon the page

Unhurried meeting of minds in what I read;
Discoveries of insights, echoing within,
Where they have lain asleep, waiting to be met

If only from the dawn of time, lapping round
The standing stones, beneath the unknown seraph
That in me guards my heart, in whispering, life



Poem from a Sequence:
A Rain of Booklight
Part 1  # 32
© Judith Evans Deverell, 2014

The Bookmark Project




Monday, 17 November 2014

A Book is like a Scattered Seed



A book is like a scattered seed . . .
That falls upon a well ploughed ground
It sounds its living message, as I read
As it draws through me the inner life it calls

Its gifted words it buries in me deep . . .
Unknown their entry into the dark within;
In my heart, it has no knowledge of its abode 
Only of its will to sow itself a living seed in me            
           



Poem from a Sequence: 
A Rain of Booklight
Part 1  # 14
(c) Judith Evans Deverell, 2014
The Bookmark Project



Monday, 10 November 2014

Faltering Steps / The Bookmark Project



Faltering the steps I take in furtive forays
Through the sunlit lantern Brights
To find in day the strength to pass through night
That though shaking I might walk through dark
I find the gold of life that turns my pain to see
My goings helped, and known, and sheltered 
And entered there, know peace and happiness


Poem from a Sequence:
A Rain of Booklight
Part 1
(c) Judith Evans Deverell, 2014












Wednesday, 5 November 2014

Writing Saga # 27 / The House of Amethyst Poetry; Part Ten


 (Continued from Writing Saga # 26 )


 ‘Where are the sketches that were made? Some of them are in dusty piles, some turned out to be so good they got frames, some became motives for big pictures, which were either better or worse than the sketches, but they, or rather the states of being and understandings we had at the time of doing them all, are sifting through and leaving their impress on our whole work and life.’ 

                                                                -Robert Henri; The Art Spirit

   The House from Afar:  ‘Where are the sketches that were made?’ And what will I do with those snatches of thought that I captured in my little sketchbook? Those flickering sparks of insight given me, in beaded strings of words as I walked about in the orchard or in the wilds. As I saw, I scribbled what came......the life in that bird, the lichen on the branch, the wavy lines in the bark of the tree: the integration of all living things? These fragments preserved on past pages in my sketchbook, and saved in past lines in my mind, were fleeting; but it is true that they leave ‘their impress on my whole work and life.’ They chip away at me. What will I do with them? Strange they were perfect when I scribbled them on those creamy pages. They had struck a chord. In the moment of their coming they had seemed complete. Fresh life! Raw thought! They gave pure joy! But I think perhaps they are as good left there as removed into 'a more proper’ form later, typed into a poem! Below is an example. The collected lines on one page in my sketchbook:

    ‘An Eclectic/. . . a live bird on a wire . . . shooting off . . . lichen on an electric power pole . . . life growing off life . . . a living symbiosis . . . in all things! . . . life was a spark flying off a thought . . . from life come the springs of life! . . . from having sight I see!'

  Yes, well, some quick word-sketches are best left in a ‘dusty pile’ in the corners of my sketchbook! But some do end up as parts of poems; and some even get put into ‘frames:’ added to my new book. 

   The House from Afar, the House of Amaranthine Poetry is as complete every moment as I myself am complete:  all in one piece from the beginning:  needing only life to produce more life; and the bits of me, translated, turn into poems!






Tuesday, 4 November 2014

(Poetry/ Vol. 1. ) Immortal Wound . . .



Ever Present

The immortal wound it had always been there
Throughout every age, throughout all of time
Through the entire universe it is there: the pinning pivot
Turning dead living toward the source of ever living wine  

Through my every portal the heavenly strike
The dividing smite, the flash of light rending me asunder
Wounded of a thorn in flesh, and immortality for death
The price, the pivot of life in spirit and in truth is bliss
           
Way of inner life: the fleshly wounding of me to see
Way of inner delight turning me upside down to know
Precursor of abundant joy, ever there my lively thing 
Pierced in and of mortality ever living immortal wound


Monday, 3 November 2014

(Poetry/ Vol. 1. ) A Pearl Feather




If found a gift

If found a gift this thorn in flesh
Then life’s glory was for ever
My turning thing, the thing I treasured
Then joy and a pearl feather

If beginning in water and ending in wine
In the midst and all the way through divine
Then was the wind wine, the wine rain:
The writings of an only daughter

If found of love in being made of love
And in the thick never more or less
Then this, my river and my ink my breath: 
All cradled life and a pearled feather



Friday, 24 October 2014

Altered


The wind tears fierce
A cruel hand grasps the rose
It groans piteously turned upon its stem
It is torn away
It is cast down despised 
No more in its exalted place where it once was

The simple anger of another
A written message batters the soul
It writhes in anguish gutted to the core
It is mutilated
It is put down, rejected
No more in the lovely place where once it was

The sun shines slantwise warm
A kind hand picks up the little rose
It lies there languid aching in humiliation
It is returned
It is not the same it is altered
Not hopeless but emptied there where it once was

Turbulence and needed shame
Innocence agonizing in being misunderstood
But what gift could ever profit more
If pain should work more right than ease
And humiliation an even greater good
Why cry my heart be glad there is more room in you






Friday, 10 October 2014

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. 




Tuesday, 7 October 2014

Space...and A Time for Everything...space for Every Purpose under Heaven





                                        Space . . .
            And a time for everything . . .


                               
                                   Space . . .
                     For every purpose under heaven . . .


                        Wings . . .     Given wings I Flew
Flight . . .     Given flight I Went
Migrating . .  I left one for the Other
Falling . . .   And falling I landed There
Landing . . .  Where there was Air
           . . .     There to Dare to write of Life: 

        Space . . .











Sunday, 5 October 2014

Golden Castings

Pieces of six and the whole story of a first life 
Only taken of a second and a castle with no moat
Of a new peace a next trust saved with no defense
Up from the sacrificial centers of a ripe led returning
The rasping round of one life’s crystal fringed tassels
           
From a Rose plant on which were only some parts living
A first and a second life clearly framed and forming          
Fulfilled of the ‘mad light’ when the wine was taken
Where the pulling things left for the lines of seven
And the longing heart torn, all taken in a twinkling

A vine draped of autumn in a yellowing of leaves
Sweeping release in the hearts of the all falling
Swift turnings and happenings formed of lost cleavings
Jeweled the joys within born of Everland’s rulings
The roaring distance covered in a split second’s instance

Rivers of the uprising overflowing pallid havens
Where were no cords or chains, or colours of bindings
No holding back in the utter taking
Free to roam in all expanded places of the divining
Entrances of the undoing pull the golden castings

Not in the furtherest part did the paling pass
Welling up through fields ripe with golden grain
The fullest measure in the barest parts of seven
Rising as incense given from flying awhile
In all the fastening spaces in between held in black

The not-locked parts that went stepping backwards
With lighted feet that run on coals in diamond paces
The regal race all hidden of their path
White with stones and red with portions of lined cases
Translated yet not of knowledge where saved fishes feed

On winsome wings and softly folded will each one come
Once in water’s falling the ringing part of truth was heard
Raised of the decreasing, the gathering of the yearning ones
Where their outer forms transformed, no part denied them
They of the fallen found their life’s delight in the welling up




Friday, 3 October 2014

Wisps of Sight


Through the iron fair-lead I pull the feathered light
Yet by a cord so thin it was only ever briefly seen
A swirling thread, a snuffed out candle’s prayer

Through the ancient pool of all there is
I pull my wisp of sight
And see but do not see
Eyes not half shut I see nothing

I look
And with eyes open I see not
I have too much
Too much hides the gift in just enough

‘Look,’ has its eyes wide open
And so takes in a flood
‘See,’ has its eyes half shut
To ponder and perceive . . .

To find in one single line of truth
Its fleeting thread
Which truly going through
Unravels me within 

All found in the undoing
The oil to slip right through
And the pull-less vision freed
Of every outward effort of my self

Then winded horn its strength
And the candle its second life
The subject given light 
Born of its being blown out awhile




The Fall and Rising Again of Many

 If of immortal flowers light was heat
Then was heat light
Then were no gardens of ornament which could confine it
That beyond which budding flowers were deemed weeds
Then were no barriers to the sun
It shone on one as on the other
None excluded from its light or heat
The will of the sun
To bless each weed and flower as one

If of perfect beauty truth was love
Then was love truth
Then were no forms needed to hold it in any container
That outside of which you were deemed lost
Then were no divisions between men
None being any better than any other
Love alone made equality clear
And the whole picture plain
The prerogative of love to make the good and bad alike

When truth was only love
And love was all the truth
Then would simplicity be restored 
And babes would take the stand
The mighty from their thrones would be removed
Who sold the truth at a cost to others not themselves:
That one-edged truth which could never please all men
Then would wonders be everywhere in wisps of air
Truth free of rigid form love reigned  

When all the messaged leaves
From all the trees of selfish men have fallen
When every petal of every flower of Sensennae
Lies discarded
Each one surpassed and so proved senseless
As half truth left and soon forgotten 
Then life will begin again
And out of beauty’s selfless sap renewal rise
And through hearts that long have waited
That love should turn the tables of the balance
Choosing fields that please all men
And loose the downtrodden restoring all things