(New Poems, below...)
POETRY DIARY: PART FIVE:
Poetry as Modern Art
PERHAPS, POETRY, such as the Ragged Writings of Everland can be compared with paintings. Just as the forms and colours of a picture produce a certain emotional effect in us, in its communicating without words, so a piece of writing, communicating in seemingly unintelligible phrases, in worlds within words, can have a similar pleasurable effect on us, also. Beauty, can be as much in the sound of a run of words, as in the sight of a play of colours in an abstract painting. But, like everything else which affects our consciousness, we need to learn to become conscious of such a thing, lest it pass us by.
Light comes in nuances.
As in a certain style of impressionistic painting the artist is finding it not important to reproduce what he sees according to its exterior context - he instinctively knows the interior content is the thing to grasp - he sacrifices the outer natural form for the abstraction; for a diffusing of the beauty he sees within it. It all flows together for him. But it is revealed to him, only little by little. He instinctively dissolves the forms in his painting so that they cannot be too easily perceived by the outer self, which all too quickly judges and discards; he would be known only in that most holy place within where was no judgment, only wonder; but for a long time, he was misunderstood.
Like the painter, the inner-writer finds another language. Inadvertently he stumbles upon another way of communicating truth. Another place where, the emotions, which were renewed by surrender, could ‘read’ words they could not understand, but which would stir the spirit deep within, and in this way bring to the mind that vital revelatory flash of insight which is the mind’s true food.
And, if spiritual ideas were the consonants of this new language, then the kernels of truth, hidden within those ideas, were the vowels. They gave the pronunciation. The life of it. The sound of life! For the ‘sound’ in one phrase, flowing in with that of another, in the spirit, made another language, another sense altogether other than the surface look of the first sense which seemed as nonsense - but which wasn’t nonsense, at all - it had come of itself, so it spoke. It came of the spirit. And this strange, writer, a babbling baby, understood and marvelled: seeing evidence that language, as a whole was a living entity and a divine gift:
It was not of us!So that if--- in the flow---It was surrendered back to the SourceFrom which it came---It could say more---Going beyond the natural mind---Being greater than the pen that wroteOr the fingers that touched the keysAnd---Being greater than the pen that wroteOr the fingers that touched the keys---Going beyond the natural mind---It could say more---Surrendered back to the Source from which it came---In the flow---It was not of us!
Life: it was backwards: and forwards! And there was inspiration: wherever the kernel was language could go backwards or forwards!
But, it was all and only through the painter and writer being as nothing: becoming as fools to become wise: only through weakness growing in strength: only through brokenness finding love, deep and unfathomable. There the ever increasing passion to communicate what was seen in the mirror lake of tears, or in the tunnel of a telescope turned back-to-front, with the reflecting back of the light, all upside down and inside out!
No wonder the light was as darkness to us when it was written; it was incomprehensible because it was opposite! It is opposite to us and our earthly way of thinking - just as light and dark are opposites!
To every force is a counter-force; both are inevitable, both are opposite. But in all this back-to-front living - the losing to find - we are helped. Behind the scenes, deep in our innermost being things are happening there opening us up, which if we are courageous enough will eventually emerge, bringing the reward of an extraordinary and entirely individual, insightful joy!
All really new ideas have a certain aspect of foolishness when they are first proposed.
-Alfred North Whitehead
People are open to new ideas . . . as long as they are identical to the old ones.
- Ancient Chinese Proverb
*
THE RAGGED WRITINGS OF EVERLAND: VOLUME THREE: ARKIAHH DREAMING: (Vol. 3 / 15; 17; 18; 26; 20.)
15. Dust in the Cracks
DUST
in the cracks---
Dust
in the divides between---
Between---one
letter and another
Why
is a keyboard a jumble of letters?
Not
in any order that makes any sense--- to me---
To
my surface mind---
My
fingers don’t think
They
know where the letters are they need
What
wonders are in my subconscious mind---
That
can write--- without thinking---
That
can compose--- living leaves
Out
of a jumble of ideas---
And
know---
They
were aligned--- before ever I found them
Know---
They
were given me before ever I was
Can
a keyboard go blunt---
As
a saw--- can lose its teeth?
If
used too much the wrong way
It
won’t speak---
Nor
cut on the cutting edge---
Consciously
thought on too much---
Birds
singing mocking songs:
Writings---
writing dulled things
*
17. Twigs
Will Always Fall
TWIGS
WILL always fall from trees
In
certain strengths of wind---
Standing
firm in fast moving air
We
gather hints---
Bits
of understanding falling---
What
was gained of turbulence
Bringing
interlinked insight---
And compensation for the suffering
In
a hurricane---and we reach up
Grasp
the illusive telltale signs of the Wind
Inspired
knowledge has broken off in hurry---
That
later, are seen to live a separate life
Being
taken from you---
Flying
on---working someplace else
In
someone else---as you write them down---
And
the influence of the Breeze
Sending
them on---
And
to the four corners of the earth
*
18. Bitter Leaves
BITTER
leaves are red and falling---
A
carpet beneath a tree of spent fortune---
The
goodness of it passing in and in
Feeding
the hungry roots of faith---
And
in love’s warmth---the sun’s rising of it
Steadily
through the body---
Nurturing
the mind
Seeding
it with the best of all that is bitter
Making
of recycled Life a revolving feast
Firm
in heart---forming new leaves
And
the process of it---over and over
Sharing
in Life---again and again
If---in each season---dying
The
fall and falling---to rise again
*
26.
The Outdoors Whispering Secrets
A SOUND---which could not be heard
A movement---that could not be seen
The outdoors whispering secrets
In its most alluring voice
A beckoning---in the clean scent of
spring
A calling---in the lowering of the sun
The air radiant with possibilities
Ten hand spans past its zenith
Caught---in answering of the owner’s voice
All parts of me---respond---
Drawn like iron filings to a magnet
I leave my place and follow
I am given the key---
Touching all parts which are---one---
Bound with the whisper---
The outdoors meeting the wonder
In the outreaching me
*
20. A Hairsbreadth of Love
A
HAIRSBREADTH of love can span a chasm
A
bridge so narrow
Only
love’s bare feet can cross---
Lightly
stepping along---
And
the whole length of its endurance---
Never
giving up---never knowing any end
Even
in the least degree of its assessing the cost
Not
afraid of losing all it wanted
Gaining
what it had looked for all its life
Courage
to walk its line in air
Even
a hairsbreadth of love can span a chasm
*
