What is the Work of LIFE...

1.) The Counting-Fall...

The counting-fall,

And through the crested loop

There your footsteps . . .

And your steady progress

To where I lodge:

The stuff of inner tremours

Making all the difference

Telling of this blind new magic

In a bold waiting delight

Forging deep within me

A new crystal fountain

Of liquid life welling up:

All words well clear of Sensennae’s

Deceiving waters, of course,

But in, newer, fluid words:

A ‘fall-which-matters;’

And a farther entering-in

With which to grasp

The pearl-shaped thing;

And find again, the silver thread

Which once, in another time,

Captivated the whole rest of me

And sincerely took for good...my entire life.

Yes! The counting-fall!

It is, you, who come stepping near

Clothed in dark garments

Ready to frighten me

But it is too late! I know!

You cannot fool me now!

Drawing near

You fill me full with ecstasy,

Round, golden, and terribly rare!

Rare . . . rare . . . 

And no one hears your step but me . . .

  

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1.)  The Counting-Fall  ...This is the first poem in an extended sequence, which will eventually form a complete book, illustrated by the author with a number of hand-written and hand-decorated poems. The book bears the same title as this first poem:  
THE COUNTING-FALL.

I only write poetry these days... but, I don't like to call them "poems," just, Ragged Writings.

Here is a link to my blog...AMETHYST POETRY....
where the above sequence of poems is posted daily as I write them.

amethystpoetry.blogspot.co.nz

Lilies of a Wider Field... from the handwritten book...

Unheard book...

Daylight...

                    Were it well to obey then, if a king demand

                           An act unprofitable, against himself:

                                                          - Morte d’Arthur; Alfred Lord Tennyson

   We are not so accustomed to God changing shape. We are used to water dramatically changing its form, but not God. We are familiar with insects doing it in their cycles of metamorphosis, but not God. Generation after generation he goes on being molded after our own image of him; and he stays the same. Our understanding of him stays locked inside that pattern of him which we have made for ourselves, and we do not let him change. But being infinitely smaller and bigger than us he will ‘outgrow’ all our preconceived ideas of him, and make all things new. Then we will realize, of course, that it is not God who needs to change shape, but us; ‘...me.’

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The Tea Service... 'The old order changeth.'

                       The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 

                 And God fulfills himself in many ways,

                                             Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 

                                                  - Morte d’Arthur; Alfred Lord Tennyson

   On one of the narrow shelves of the old Welsh dresser in the lounge was an antique tea service. A set of fine bone china tea cups, and saucers, and little plates, and a cream jug, a sugar bowl, and a cake plate. They were strongly gilt edged and elaborately decorated in a flowery pattern. The tea service was a family heirloom. It was so old fashioned that it wasn’t used anymore; and one was anxious not to handle it too much for fear of breakages. No one knew why, but one cup was already missing from the set. And so along with its two gold teaspoons, with crystal knobs on the ends of them, the tea set sat on its dark wooden shelf as an ornament generation after generation; and there it gathered dust.

   Beautiful, elegant, it served a decorative purpose; but it no longer had a useful one; and it had sat there for so long now that no one even noticed it anymore. What you don’t notice you are unaware of and the point of the thing eludes you. You cannot look at it objectively, nor examine it, nor question it. Being blind to it you cannot look at it from a fresh perspective. And so it goes on and on, the same. Whatever spark of life it may once have had is lost; and the thing gathers dust.

   It was like truth, I thought, when one day I stopped in front of it; and looked, again: and learned. Anything, that remains in its first condition will be left behind and gather dust! Truth always had first, its natural part; and second, its spiritual counterpart. The first things I was given to see were, earthly; and I knew they must be given back, surrendered, in order to be given their second things which were, heavenly. This principle seemed to crop up continually! It must be central to the vision?  Whatever I was given to see of the truth – and that in any field: science, mathematics, horsemanship, medicine, education, or the things of the Spirit – that truth lives on, only in and by its being given up by the soul, and given to the spirit. It was to be held lightly by the earthly part of me, and surrendered to the heavenly part for it to develop and bring, life.

   As a little bird truth must be set free from its cage to soar in the skies, to really, live. It can continue to unfold, only in and by its being released. Set free it will take us further. Only in its being allowed to grow beyond us, does it live. Truth is like a flower. It buds, and opens; it droops, and dies; then new life appears upon the same plant, in a new flowering! Truth is a living thing; every bit as much as a bird, or a flower is.

   In other words, when the mindset I now have is lain down, I have space in me, for the new to come, and truth continues to flow, and live; for it can only ever do so in its release from my sticky grasp! Where I am full, there I see no need; and so there I go no further, and truth dies. Starved to death! Starved of liberty, and life!

   Still standing in front of the dark and beautifully hand-carved Welsh dresser; (my Welsh grandparents’ wedding gift, from their Welsh parents,) I was still looking at the tea service; which was of a more ancient heritage. It had sat in shadow for generations, and its ‘cup’ was dry; no one ‘drank’ from it anymore. The people it represented were dead, and their service no longer quenched the thirsty. If a passing visitor should notice it, they saw that it was only there, for show. They admired it for its old fashioned beauty, and antiquity, and its intriguing history. But mostly it was admired for its comforting custom, and tradition. For it was a time honoured picture of the way things worked. Tradition was safe. Custom required no exertion. It just happened. And you didn’t have to think.

   There was nothing wrong with tradition, so long as one recognized that it was tradition. Because if one held to something simply because it had always been, then it always will be; and so, of course, nothing new would ever happen; and you would be safe. Tradition has traditionally stuck to its guns and fought change; it is the tradition!  Custom never leaves its own path for another; it is the custom!

   The dead thing does not move: so it opposes change. That is just the way things are. Why? Because whatever is comfortable is never lightly discarded. No one who has eaten cooked fish all his life strait away desires to eat it raw. Any change in the way we see something is a challenge to the way we used to see it. Even a threat. Something familiar being replaced with something strange and uncomfortable looking is always resisted.

   We would, of course, never discard the tea service; but we could let it go, and willingly give it away. But then what would take its place? We can’t imagine that because we haven’t given it away. That’s scary.   

   First things go one way, then they turn about, and go in another. This was a principle which constantly cropped up. But it is always like that. Because the new always pulls against the old: it is the opposite of the old... and tears it, like a new patch on an old coat.

   A tea service or a devotion service: a public spectacle, or a secret garden? Old is comfortable, new, uncomfortable; like a pair of new shoes.

   Arise, shake off the dust; loose the chains of ages.

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