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

A Book is like a Tranquil Stream

A book is like a tranquil stream 

   it has a kind of liquid life

Beside the inner watered willow trees

   that calms my soul

That bends around my growing stems

Though it take me savage in several places               

Falling through the loop                                   

As book streams do, in sudden turns

When taken from their natural course

   in limestone lands

They run in sunken caverns, broad

   in tunnels wide

Seeking there to challenge, keen

Though they be but pallid streams 

   that greet me:

Another’s sighted undercurrent, yet 

   alive with hidden lines 

      they touch my mind . . .

Poem from a Sequence:

A Rain of Booklight
Part 1  # 27

© Judith Evans Deverell, 2014

The Bookmark Project

Scented Garden

Created my garden of an arrow river’s running

Sharpened trainings of a silenced soul its present life

As the movings of the rhyme-tree flow all her songs

Of all principled parts of understanding their making   

Scented my garden of a silk wind’s blowing

Latticed twinings of a rested heart its secret source

As the turnings of the time-plant grow all her stories

Of all apple-ed parts of receptivity their fragrance

Filled up my garden of an inner fire’s burning

Hallowed lines of a quiet spirit its sacred spices

As the yearnings of the rain-flower blaze all her signals

Of all unravelled parts of wisdom their fullness

In every fresh beginning a perfumed garden

Of every stinging thing turned replenished and filled 

Of the marvelled wisdom of Another my garden scented

And of every peppered bite and willowed thought painted

Deep Pools

Deep pools of sacred possessions

Un-cautioned cascades of revelation

Chasing braved bounties in love’s tellings

And a bright-made woven holder

For all my heart’s own wrested rovings

Daft pieces of fast ravings

Un-careful shavings of sharp arrows

Colliding particles in plenty’s pouring 

And a soft-filled safety folder

For all my heart’s own suffered bleedings

Dusted scribblings of dashed truth

Un-captured portions of chaliced lives

Coiling burned embers in my seven sides

And a silver-made chaste casket

For all my heart’s own secret sorrows

                         *

Un-counted the silver of silent stars

Standing without end or known number

Like my ribs

All broken in love’s reachings

Like my bruised heel and wounded head

Tastings in the Tinglewoods

In the bearings of the beautiful

Lingerings of the light

In my tastings in the tinglewoods

Ripe rimmings fire red

In the rivers writing wreaths of things  

Circles of my soul

In those were further wings within

Soft spinnings burnt and bled            

In the playings of the plentiful

Weavings of the willow

In my graspings in the tangible

Swift singings glad and bold

Many cornered are my pathways

Calling the melodic

In those were fillings up inside

Fed runnings hid within

In the leavings letting go awhile

Spillings of my will

In my surgings in the sounds of things

Bright learnings rippling through

The Ragged Writings of Everland

A green leaf . . .

Hard ripped from a bent twig

Yet sent flying

A rose bud . . .

Cruel plucked from a thorn bush

And taken deeper

My soul untouched is safe . . .

But that is not what it was created for