Story) The Shadow and the Glory . . .

An allegory . . .

The Butterfly Story

The Shadow and the Glory

                                                                       

A NEW BUTTERFLY had appeared in the midst of the Garden of children. It had never been seen before. It was beautiful beyond description. Full of joy, and such, lifting liberty, that it seemed it could take you with it, everywhere, and through, anything. It was like no other butterfly. The sight of its lovely opal-sparkling wings, shimmering in the early morning sunlight brought gasps of delight to the children. They danced in the middle of the Garden like little butterflies themselves, newly escaped of their cocoon. 

   Tender hearts overflowed with boundless joy. 

   The butterfly alighted upon the shoulder of one of the smallest children then flew onto his hand. Even from the first moment of its appearance, he had loved it. Nothing in him that wasn’t of it. The child remained perfectly still, lying beneath the green willows among the fragrant flowers of the meadow his feet dipped in the flowing stream. 

   Rewarded for his stillness, time melted away as he gazed and gazed upon the beautiful butterfly, shining with life and light on his hand. It swept him up and renewed his whole being and he followed the living butterfly whithersoever it flew.  

   Oh, how all the children longed to share this wonderful new freedom that the butterfly had brought them! Even a new way of living! A new way of seeing! Then some of the older and wiser ones reasoned amongst themselves as to how they should do this. 

   They came to the conclusion, that if they could just catch the butterfly then they could pass it around to their friends, so that they might all share in this wonderful new joy together. 

   Their idea seemed good to them, so they did it. 

  They caught the elusive airborne butterfly dancing and shimmering in the warm morning sunlight. They pierced it with a pin. Then they stuck it on a piece of paper. How eagerly they anticipated the delight their friends would have when they saw it. 

   So the children laid out the pierced butterfly, decently and in order, just as the entomology textbook had taught them. Then they carefully placed it in a box. They were thrilled with it! Here was proof! Evidence of its existence! Now, at last, all their friends would be able to study it for themselves and find out all about it, and learn of the glorious new life of the butterfly and come and join them in the Garden. They passed the box around expectantly. 

   So shadows come and the glory fades. 

   While some saw nothing but a decaying, common garden, cabbage white, and thought their friends had quite lost their senses: these lived on the outskirts of the Garden, others did see a beautiful butterfly and became fascinated with its exquisite markings. 

   They spent much time, and many a happy hour examining it with magnifying glasses, making careful notes of the detailed patterns on its wings, and then comparing them with the textbook. They uncovered many amazing things about this new butterfly. They found exciting evidences of life, encoded in its lovely markings, which they were most earnest and diligent to teach to one another. Those whose interests and passions seemed similar gathered themselves together in separate groups in the Garden. 

   Oh, the myriads of messages and fascinating things to learn! They took great delight in these things. With them, they were fulfilled and content; although, there never seemed to be quite enough, and their search for more was endless. Never having: never finding; they hadn’t got it. 

   So shadows came and the glory faded.  

   Then one of the smallest children, who lived in the centre of the Garden, came and looked at the dead butterfly in the box. 

   “What have you done?” he cried, as he held the lifeless thing in his hand; and he threw it down to the ground and wept in brokenness of heart.

                                                                                *

To Poetry Returned...

The Ragged Writings of Everland:

Volume Three: 2018

Arkiahh Dreaming

I have recently written a new, third, volume of “ragged writings:”continuing an inner-given adventure in blank verse and alliteration. The more I write in this vein the more the life-flow and the freer I am; for through the liberty that this style of poetry accords, I find my inmost spirit unleashed and my heart grown fearless to better express its hidden treasure. I hope you will join me in this new adventure! Posting these new poems as from tomorrow!

Poetry: Vol. 2/ 153.) Fishers of Men . . .

Being taught of my capturing in the light

In the midst of a painted picture I stood...

The painter before me only just beginning

Being made of nothing and as light as air

It seemed I took up no space, nor yet paint

Nor did I appear to him applying the brush

Seemed he could not see me, nor did he guess

The wonder of the marvel was made for him

But I heard the painter’s heartbeat at his touch

Hardly daring now to see I glimpsed his brush

Working lightly down beside me a lovely green

And all along my side I felt his willow’s leave

I felt the brush of leaves and the tree he made

And swift the river where it seemed I stood

It was being painted all around me as I watched

At my feet, a fleeing fish appeared, but with his

Tiny brushstrokes sent out a fly on rod and line

And the leaping trout was snared, and I was taken

From his painted picture I was pulled and gone

Of the Fisher King of heaven all caught away

Sent, and sent again at his marvellous will: and the

Catch of Two! In his rejoicing-instant the painter sees

His own success and skill! The perfect picture painted!

Snared: he sees! Taught ‘his own’ capturing of the light!

                               

                             *

Vol. 2. / 194.) From A Driftwood Pen

Upon a lonely beach of hard sand

Light fading with the ebbing tide

I stood within its scalloped edges

Felt the sea-surge pull and push me

In gathering cold I felt the in-light

Knew within me the waiting depths

To the sea I turned and to all within it

Quickly finding there a sweet release

A stick of driftwood, bleached, bare

Held tight in my hand but light as air

Could such a pen as this, write here?

Write what I was being shown here?

Six lines of what I knew not formed

A swirling pattern I drew upon the sand

‘This is you, my child, and here your hurts

‘This is what I see of you from inside’

A cry, a single sob, a breaking voice

Before a sea-surge swept it all away

No trace, no line of pain was left me

Nothing there but retreating sea-lace

‘Write again, my dove, my only one,

‘Let me show you what I see is there’

By some strange magic I drew again

A pattern of living shapes, and joy!

‘Gentle-kindness, patient-trust, and love:

‘Courage has given birth!

‘Here, what hurt has worked within you!’

I saw my hurts were all transformed

       *