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 Looking-Glass

A book is like a looking-glass . . . 

   for me a mirror lake of tears un-shed  

A viewing thing of inward silver:

By its light I see the inside story

   of myself . . .

I look for peace, 

But see my heart’s own insecurities

   reflected back at me instead . . .

But, safe, joyous in another’s fantasy

   in storied freedom, all is without fear!

And yet, fear, what has it to offer peace

   if not experience of its own wealth:

      its own wisdom fathomed;

So, why flee, my soul, the spot you see?

Fear returns me great riches, 

   far beyond any peace could ever give! 

Poem from a Sequence:

A Rain of Booklight
Part 1  # 30

© Judith Evans Deverell, 2014

The Bookmark Project

(Poetry/ Vol. 1. ) Breathing Heaven

from THE RAGGED WRITINGS OF EVERLAND



Breathing Heaven

By myself I can write, and write the dead thing

Alone I can follow leads, and take the wrong one

Destitute I can look for gold, and find only a fool’s

But when I breathe I am in the centre of your will

With you one hundredfold . . .

Not alone: doing always my appointed thing

Breathing – and in every breath I can know I am with you

You give it to me, no one else, you do it for me  

Breathing – and in every breath I am in the right place

Breathing, breathing heaven, there I do no wrong

I can ask for understanding, and chose my own

I can hope for knowledge, and take the wrong kind

I can make a decision, and it can be quite out of line

But when I breathe, I am in the centre of your will

With you in your perfect life a hundredfold . . .

Breathing heaven! 

In the happening-life of the in-and-out of air:  found! 

The Inner Arms

On the waiting side is peace:

Resting 

On the hoping side is strength:

Believing 

The arms are underneath:

Everlasting 

Standing on that water is life:

Bearing 

Landing on that height is joy:

Being held 

The arms of the embrace above:

Loving me without ceasing  

Forever

Where falling I am found:

Standing 

Where the lilies feed:

Lowered 

The everlasting arms are in me:

Holding me without ceasing

Forever . . .

[ read backwards : read forwards ]

Treasury of a Day

When I woke I did not know what my day would hold

Whether of sharp lilies I would be bound by restraint

Or of rifled hues I would be set free to find beauty

I do not know the measure of each day’s treasury            

Nor the gems that make for my happiness when I wake

Thistles come and I make of them an unwanted thing

Fierce edged things that turn painful curves inside

Not thinking that their piercing points were good for me

Or that their painted counterparts were for mirrors inside

And of a perfect balance to equalize my unknown parts 

That through my unarmoured heart, seeds would sprout

Seeds of peace, to see in shards of lilies no restraining thing

But of topaz, amber and emerald walk on clouds of shine

Uncovering things beneath these pained flowering points

That rise each day for my further watering or suppressing

Waiting quite harmless till I either feed or reject them

Tall candles smooth or dripping in mixtures of my making

Wavering light, either still, or flickering in difficulty

The choice was mine whether to wake in hope or doubt

To take to heart treasure in what I don’t understand

   

As a garden has more than one kind of weed in it

So has a day

As some flowers have a scent and some don’t

So has a day

A day’s treasury may be made of a garden of hassles

And yet be fragrant with beds of heart’s ease  

If I am confused as to which is which

Some of the world’s nicest flowers have been

Considered weeds

And the heaviest scents full of surprises

Of elfin proportions the weight of every sigh

And all my trials are gifted garden trails

In my day’s treasury