An episode of swirling seas . . .

                         Illustration from: 'Arkiahh Dreaming'

NEW POEM: 'There is no such thing as nothing; out of nothing were all things created . . .'

There is No Such Thing as Nothing                                        

There is no such thing as nothing

Out of nothing were all things created

More could be made out of nothing

Than out of something

For there was no limitation to it

It was as elastic as infinity

In the containing of everything

‘Nothing’ rejected no, colour

So it was colourless---

But pregnant---with endless possibilities---

Until the brush of one’s imagination

Painted it with what was desired

In the containing of everything:

‘Nothing’ held all, miracles

All that was ever needed

Came of it---by faith

When---in perfection---all things are taken

We are left nothing. Full stop!

And for a long while

Nothing feels like nothing

And the unbelieving---feel cheated

But those that believe---begin again

Knowing they have all things and they do

                                                                   * 

                                              from:  ARKIAHH DREAMING; The Ragged Writings of Everland; Volume Three.  

                                                

N.B.   All my artwork is done completely by hand....(No ‘Photoshop,’ etc.)....I create on paper with pencils and erasers, and different sized ink pens, (and sometimes brush and watercolours,) and a tiny sharp craft knife, for stenciling. Afterwards, I scan the finished picture into my laptop; and from there into my books and this Blog.

Heartbreak and the emerging light . . .

                            

                          

Arkiahh’s New Rags 

Arkiahh’s new rags---

She sends them out---confident of being heard

But as the old wine is found---best

The flash and sparkle of the new goes untaken---

And they preferring the fragrance of the old

Recoil unceasingly from the new---

It takes! ---It takes from them all they knew!

They cannot see the glory in being left with---

Nothing---and a new way of knowing

The dazzle of new wine has a strong hint

Of foolishness when first proposed

Every breakthrough of the light---

Is first a break with tradition---

The casting aside of old ways of thinking

The shedding of the shadow

For the substance---

Old ways of knowing---for new

                                                 *

 ‘Perhaps the sentiments contained in the following pages are not yet sufficiently fashionable to procure them general favour; long habit of not thinking a thing wrong gives it a superficial appearance of being right, and raises at first a formidable outcry in defense of custom. But the tumult soon subsides. Time makes more converts than reason.’

- Thomas Paine; Introduction to 'Common Sense;' 14, February, 1776

Poetry: Volume 1. ) The White Goose . . .

THE RAGGED WRITINGS OF EVERLAND 
(Volume One /  18;  4;  1;  3;  2;  17.)

  18. The White Goose

I SAW A CHILD walk forward into a field

A level land it was with marshes, reeds

And waterways... and in every direction

Your eye took you, it was all level

Not a mountain or a hill... not a knoll...

Nor even a mound...

And the sky was very large...

Larger than the fear of being

Too small when the answer comes...

And the clouds folded their arms around her

Though they were very high that day

They the silent witnesses that above keep watch

I saw the child stand still and gaze awhile

Hosts of hungry hearts were with her...

All so small she thought they could fit inside her

That she should carry them and take them further...

She had suffered so there was room    

The emptier she got, the more a bearer she became

And the more room in her, for more...

She belonged to that which looked for her

Which she never named

I saw the child turn and face the other way

I followed her gaze and saw what she saw

A wild goose in rain, a little distance away

Not a farm goose lost... though it was white

One wing hung down; broken, or so, she thought

Instant her passion to gather it into her embrace

And there it was, at her feet... fearless, tame...

In its eye the sweetest part of every hurting thing

In its heart the cry of every suffering creature

I saw the child stagger beneath the weight of answers

The white goose cradled in her arms...

If I could paint a picture of the healing of the many 

There it would be, a child holding a goose

Both as simple as each other

Both blind to what wasn’t love...

If I could hold a picture and a dream of the passion

There it would be, a child cradling her goose

Both lost in the better part of pain and found in its gift

Both saving one another journeying home

                             *

4. Silvered Seam

FALLOW MY SPACE along all shores of sand

Emptied lines trace the waiting edge

Of those who fly

Hidden the silence that holds the blind heart

Knowledge leaves holes in the better part

Of those who know

Silvered the seam that binds the sharp sea

Fallen wings deem folly the broken parts

Of those who wait

Rolling of waves the flood-tide enters

Yet who could ever tell the fullness it fills

For those who have waited 

                        * 

     1. Far Runs the River
     

            FAR RUNS the river that takes her willing captives speechless

Upon all high hills their sacraments of peace

Yet past, bright crimson halls and lost voices

They pour forth from veiled altars buried deep

For onward, ever onward will she sweep them all away

Until the fall of every hill breaks through the bar of ages

And sets them free

Then past from floundering awhile the captives leap

They understand and let all their broken dreams

Fall through their fingers like sand

Loosed from every hold these shattered hopes

Then find their several voices

Till transformed above, their selfish selves forsaken

Their sound is heard

And love’s comprehending captives

Made transparent by the stream

Speak out life’s hidden truths and voyage on 

              *

3. Cast the Bridges

CAST THE BRIDGES that ply the bright seas

Sweeping proud ashes beneath its streams

They go past unnoticed with hazy bent wings

And cease not to lose their footing for the light they bring

Scalloped the fringes of silvered seas

Surging lace filigrees that unloose tight seams

Passing all marbled halls their veiled voice stays

And seals up the hollow canyons left by their waves

Loosed the moonbeams on all bare shores

Bringing new aligns to our poor peppered bites                          

For by lingering light the heated wealth lies taken

And all peoples’ hoarded gain by revelation lies forsaken 

                  *

2. Clouds Follow Stars

CLOUDS FOLLOW STARS in filmy coverings of flesh

Hope bringing his own content

To harbours steeped in everlasting peace

Whither fly the sparrows from your altars buried deep

Conflagrations of incense expand there

Following before to keep your faltering flight

Where will I find the sum of a sparrow lost?

Floating on strings that through love’s dust

Will change in pulling her along

Hushed the brave sleep and there fulfill their frail song

For then will they come to him and fall

Helped in each descending stair to rest in peace

                                          *



            17. Pull Back Let the Cinders Settle

                                    PULL BACK let the cinders settle

The fire which in me burns is love

The waste places, cleared, shine

Bearing fruit in soaring light

The highest towers fly ribbons

The lowest depths fill with gold

Love holding a candle of life

As joy ripples through the night

Find music dancing from their touch

Feel their shimmers as they pass by

It is the white herons which are helping

The rippling lights lifting me along

Wings dip with love’s living things

There are no words where they are

Gold on silver, light in their emerald eyes

They look through my veil and see me cry

They know me where I know not myself

From there they take me with them

They fly through the sanctuary lifting me

I cannot for joy find fault with my pain

Turned they can ascend and descend

There is no lifting ladder other than love

They hold the broken pieces of my life

They bear my heart heavenward

They carry a vial filled with my tears

Bear it in ecstasy born of ecstatic love

They wait to serve and give life

No fear can harm where they are

It is not for wanting am I helped

Before I call, I am strangely heard

I cannot fathom this love given me

Healing love waits not for the asking

Out of the well of “don’t-know”

Springs the life which knows for me

Should I drink any perilous thing

It will not harm me: it is turned

Nothing of me works any life in me

Life and truth is all not of my self

I cry and the white herons rise

They take up the patterns of my mind

They are broken, my purple see-shells

Emptied, every seeing-shell of self deceit

No inner lie, hid, can slip past me unseen

Laid open bear and naked... light enters here

                                              *





The Ragged Writings of Everland;  Volume One


'The Counting-Fall;'   The Ragged Writings of Everland;  Volume Two


'Arkiahh Dreaming;'  The Ragged Writings of Everland;  Volume Three

V. 2. / 166.) Water Rushes Onward

Water rushes onward

Kept in its course it has no need

Of ‘why?’ and ‘where?’

It runs how it always runs

And in its bending journey

Knows no remorse

Downward only will it keep

To its expectant momentum

And to the unknown place

Water flows with no fear

I am a trickling brook

I am a river running to the sea

I am a lively silver sound

Growing in the falling

                     *

V. 2. / 141.) The Disjointed Rose . . .

I saw a ‘picture’ of the disjointed and the joined:

That which couldn’t live and that which could:

A cardboard stencil was laid across my page

And the image there mere empty space

Brush and painter’s palate --- then appeared!

Pigments: rose madder, sienna, and sap green

Rolled across flower, leaves, and stem

And took up the emptiness there

And seeing --- I saw --- and all the parts

Of the stencil were joined --- and all the parts

Of the painting were disjointed --- Breath

Left me in the instant --- such a rose would die!

Only that which is joined with life lives . . .

                                    *

V. 2. / 118.) The Fountain Of Continuous Joy

Give me of the fountain of continuous joy

In stepping back and giving others credit;

Let me always have that rising delight

In building people up where no one else does;

Let me not miss the chance to bless another

In spirit and in truth and see them shine.

                                    *

V. 2. / 116.) If One Was A Nothing . . .

If one was a nothing what did it matter?

If one truly had let go then one wouldn’t care

I drove too near the edge of the road

But there was help even there

And Another’s two hands upon the wheel

Sharply turned it, and I was spared

The plunge to the valley below, and death

In the flesh . . . perhaps I had a purpose here?

                                    *

Story: 23. ) The Art of a Book & Books about Art / from A Book is Like a Sacred Isle . . .

                              

The Art of a Book & 

Books about Art

  I don’t know anything about art I only know that love it and I dabble in it sometimes. It is my youngest daughter, Felicity, who is the artist in our family; working as a professional one now: it is her beautiful drawings and paintings which illustrate this book. My eldest daughter, Bianca, is a professional photographer; while my middle daughter, Keziah, is also gifted in digital design work.

  Living with an artist in the family is wonderful for me; her books about Art are scattered everywhere; as are her drawings and paintings and all her materials and easels and delightful ‘mess!’ I find it all inspiring and have learned lots! From time to time I pick up one of her Art books. Intending only to flick through them I soon find myself intrigued and reading more of them than I thought I would.

  What continually amazes me is how often I will come across concepts and ideas which I have known inside me somewhere, but which I have not seen written or expressed, or not in such allegorical ways. Ideas in painting can be applied to writing almost seamlessly, I find. Ideas about freedom and love, truth and beauty have the same effect in art as they do in writing; they can be defined in the same way. 

    The following is an extract from the Foreword to my book: THE RAGGED WRITINGS OF EVERLAND: A Book of Amaranthine Poetry; Volume One:

   “Painting and writing link . . .  Just as the strokes and colours of a particular painting produce a certain emotional effect in us, in its communicating without words, it is yet like a piece of writing having 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.

    Our inner light comes in nuances, and according to our heart’s level of surrender. As in a style of impressionistic painting, the artist finds it not important to reproduce what he sees according to its outer context – he instinctively knows the inner context 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; but, it is revealed 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. Like the abstract 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 was the mind’s true food!”     

    Some of the ideas I have used to explain my ragged writings I have gleaned from reading between the lines of a wonderful book on art and painting and drawing and art appreciation by Robert Henri, The Art Spirit; Basic Books edition, 2007; Perseus Books Group, Cambridge, MA, USA.    

  “Robert Henri was an American artist, teacher, and outspoken advocate of modernism in painting. Henri was a devote of realism and the usage of everyday city life as subject matter. He taught at the Art Students League in New York from 1915-1928, and had a profound influence upon early 20^th century painters such as Stuart Davis, Rockwell Kent, and Edward Hopper. His book The Art Spirit is a classic among all those who love art.” 

   I love this book! And I continually find treasure in it. Though Henri is speaking to artists and to the art world his ideas can be transposed and be as equally valid to writers, especially the ‘inner-writer,’ as well as to all creative people, whatever their particular expression is, in a kind of ‘cross-pollination’ of concepts which brings light! Here are a few more life-giving quotes from his book:  

  “There are moments in our lives, there are moments in a day, when we seem to see beyond the usual. Such are the moments of our greatest happiness. Such are the moments of our greatest wisdom. If one could but recall his vision by some sort of sign. It was in this hope that the arts were invented. Sign-posts on the way to what may be. Sign-posts toward greater knowledge.”

  “The sketch hunter has delightful days of drifting about among people, in and out of the city, going anywhere, everywhere, stopping as long as he likes – no need to reach any point, moving in any direction following the call of interests. He moves through life as he finds it, not passing negligently the things he loves, but stopping to know them, and to note them down in the shorthand of his sketchbook, a box of oils with a few small panels, the fit of his pocket, or on his drawing pad. Like any hunter he hits and misses. He is looking for what he loves, he tries to capture it. It’s found anywhere, everywhere. Those who are not hunters do not see these things. The hunter is learning to see and to understand – to enjoy. There are memories of days of this sort, of wonderful driftings in and out of the crowd, of seeing and thinking.

  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.”      

                                                                              

  “Every student should put down in some form or other his findings.”

  “When the artist is alive in any person, whatever his kind of work may be, he becomes an inventive, searching, daring, self-expressing creature. He becomes interesting to other people. He disturbs, upsets, enlightens, and he opens ways for a better understanding. Where those who are not artists are trying to close the book, he opens it, shows there are still more pages possible.”

“Let yourself free to be what you will be. Those who express even a little of themselves never become old-fashioned.”

          - Robert Henri; (1865-1929); The Art Spirit 

             

                                          

                                                 *