{"id":8258,"date":"2023-03-30T21:08:54","date_gmt":"2023-03-30T21:08:54","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/?p=8258"},"modified":"2023-03-30T21:08:54","modified_gmt":"2023-03-30T21:08:54","slug":"evergreen-into-ivory-white-poems-by-julia-webster","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/evergreen-into-ivory-white-poems-by-julia-webster\/","title":{"rendered":"Evergreen into Ivory White Poems by Julia Webster"},"content":{"rendered":"
\r\n\r\nTread Softly<\/strong>\r\n\r\n      \r\n      Tread softly for the night is but\r\n      a prelude to the day\r\n      And all that lives must die\r\n      For thus it is as we've heard say\r\n      So many times before.\r\n      Before? the end of the beginning\r\n      Which itself is only spinning to Infinity\r\n      Divinity is but a name for good thought\r\n      Transferred into deeds\r\n      Where one man counts the cost\r\n      The other's praying for his needs\r\n      Stop!..A thought\r\n      Listen!...A bird is singing somewhere\r\n                                             in the Universe.\r\n      Poor thoughts, poor empty thoughts.\r\n      How can I say ' I love you?'\r\n      What's in a word?\r\n      Just frailty.\r\n\r\n      One, two ,three, four, five ,six ,seven\r\n      All good people go to Heaven\r\n      But I think otherwise and I'd advise that \r\n      You do too\r\n      Wouldn't you advise someone that\r\n      Hell's by far a better place\r\n      And that a misplaced feeling of                      disgrace is relatively unimportant\r\n      Oughtn't one to think so?\r\n      No I suppose you wouldn't, couldn't\r\n      I like to think a little differently\r\n      Not follow in the crowd , eh?\r\n      Tread softly, you may say,\r\n      Have it your way.\r\n\r\n\r\n       A devil, black and smoky,\r\n       Breathing fumes of concentrated                   orange juice through cold-pudding                 nostrils\r\n       What's wrong with that?\r\n       Don't tell me you don't like him\r\n       None of that!\r\n       I suppose you'd paint a better?\r\n       Fetter him in garlic, would you\r\n       Could you?    \r\n\r\n        Tread softly \r\n        For the night has come and dying is\r\n        Out of tune\r\n        And all the people on the earth are                Gazing at the moon\r\n        For soon her light will out\r\n        And shouts of anguish then will spill\r\n        the air\r\n        And everywhere will be a place too                small\r\n        And anywhere will be the devil's fool\r\n        And stars will burst and thirst\r\n        for more good deeds to fill up History\r\n        And soft bright eyes will dim\r\n        And then the earth will lose its spin\r\n        And fighting chaos raging for a                                                                          decade\r\n         Will streak the skies with noble deeds\r\n         And stars will burst and thirst for                   More good deeds to fill up History\r\n         And then....only Time\r\n         Not space but Time\r\n         Running, walking ,speeding\r\n         Slowing ,\r\n         Straight, bent, Lent.\r\n         Time without space\r\n         And nothing more.\r\n\r\n          A drop of sun upon a leaf\r\n          Warm rays spraying silver on the seas\r\n          A fan of light beating colours into                  flowers\r\n          And hours upon hours upon hours..\r\n          Tread softly....tread softly...    \r\n         \r\n\r\n\r\nFlight of the Dove<\/strong>\r\n            \r\n            The tree stands in the lonely field.\r\n            It is raining in sleep- filled rivers.\r\n            Do not hate, do not love.\r\n\r\n            beyond hope or caring, sleep or                      sloth\r\n            Dreams deride the thing which is\r\n            Whole world's subside and we,\r\n            Who think we know what suffering                                                                         is\r\n            Cannot abide the murmuring of the                                                              dove.\r\n            We who do not hate, we who do not                                                                     love.\r\n            For us the barren fields are soaked\r\n                                                            in  blood.\r\n            Send up the cry!   God is dead!\r\n            Only beware the fleeing of the dove.\r\n\r\n            Have you seen her?\r\n            Flashing blue across the river?\r\n            Did you call out to her?\r\n            Splash of film over the river.\r\n            Catching sight of her wings of taut                                                                   gold\r\n            Did your heart of a sudden grow                                                                             old?\r\n            As she sliced the sun into pale-                                                  white ivory stalks\r\n            By the water's edge, disrupting the\r\n                                            moor-hen's song,\r\n            Belong, belong! belong, Belong!\r\n\r\n             \r\n            But what are you doing here,old                                                                     man\r\n            Fouling the greenways?\r\n            Mouth of pomegranate, stench of \r\n                                     tears gone sour,\r\n            How could you have tasted the                      Forbidden fruit\r\n            At this ungodlike hour?\r\n            You were cast in too strange a                                                                 mould\r\n            A million years of shadow have                      Trespassed behind your eyes\r\n            How could you taste the light\r\n                                              of your eyes?\r\n             Rains you heed not, nor the                                                           wind's outrage,\r\n              But poach at ease beside the                                                  blood-lit streams\r\n             Not hating, not loving\r\n             But tell me, what will you do\r\n             When she comes, robed in mist?\r\n             At the first hint of dawn,\r\n             Will you see her, even in                                                                  dreams?\r\n             Will you stay silent as she drops\r\n             To her pale death in the foam\r\n             Jagged rock of white mist,                               Plummeting down through\r\n             the air's crystal streams\r\n             Lost to the sunrise\r\n             Staining the day with new gold\r\n             As the sun's rivers melt her                                                                      through\r\n             Will she touch you?\r\n             You who are so old?\r\n             Will you reach out to feel that                         Warm rush of feathers\r\n             Blue-green-scarlet-gold?\r\n             Or are you too old, too old?\r\n             As the waters reflect back her                                                 causeless song\r\n             Will you trace those pyramids of \r\n                                                                light\r\n             Treading sapphire rings\r\n                                                  into the mud?\r\n    \r\n         \r\n\r\nOde to a Drug Addict<\/strong>\r\n         \r\n       \r\n        The great scape of Heaven\r\n\r\n       Is tortured with images of Death\r\n   \r\n       And the night sky.\r\n\r\n\r\n       Owls swoop in the twilight world \r\n\r\n       Where Keats went mad\r\n\r\n       For Beauty 's treacherous eye. \r\n\r\n\r\n       Ode to a fool \r\n\r\n       Transfixed by the painting \r\n\r\n       Of some great pig of a man\r\n\r\n       Eating a fly.\r\n\r\n\r\n       Tempestuous nights and dawns of \r\n\r\n        Eclipses \r\n\r\n        Fighting the otherwhere and the\r\n\r\n        Why.\r\n\r\n        I\r\n\r\n        Screech at you from the rooftops \r\n\r\n        Over the bridge,  driven wild\r\n\r\n        Inside my head\r\n\r\n\r\n        Hammer the bed into white sheets\r\n\r\n        Grasp cold on \r\n\r\n        Nothing\r\n\r\n        Outstare the stars to white lead. \r\n\r\n\r\n       And running,\r\n\r\n       Hand you the piece of dust \r\n\r\n       From which I fled. \r\n    \r\n\r\n\r\n       Evergreen into Ivory white<\/strong>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nEvergreen into ivory white\r\nThe curlew calls\r\nThe morbid manufacturers of day\r\nAttend the passing funeral\r\nOf those who decay\r\nSlowly with time.\r\nThe bird rustles in the hedgerow\r\nHear its mating call\r\nAt close of day\r\nthe flight of swallows return\r\nNo matter where.\r\n\r\nThe passing shepherd summons the sheepdog\r\nThe daffodils burst out in gold\r\nMy lover's out there in the cold\r\n\r\nThe short mist comes\r\nThe gap between heaven and earth\r\nAnd all obscurity\r\nNo greater love than this\r\nWill\r\nYou\r\nGrant\r\nMe\r\nA\r\nShort\r\nSpace \r\nFor\r\nBreath\r\n\r\nThe galleon ship enshrouded in mist\r\nWhite walls surround the drowned sailor\r\nShipwrecked\r\nIn white water\r\nOn the turf of dreams\r\n\r\nThe bird flying calls \r\nThe seamen look up \r\nIt is not a white albatross\r\nIt is I turning about\r\nInto this white pool\r\nThe shoreline crinkles into powder\r\nTiny and remote\r\nFlying high, the day recedes\r\nInto this ivory-white <\/pre>\n
 
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\nJulia Webster<\/strong> studied English & Drama at Exeter University then later studied Integrated Health Sciences at Westminster. Her first play written in 1972 entitled “The Object of the Game”<\/em> was performed at The Little Theatre, Barbican , Plymouth and was likened by the well known Harvey Crane critic of the South West to works by Pinter and Ionesco. She began writing puppet plays for children and performed at various Albion fairs throughout the U.K. and was selected to attend The Children’s Festival in Austria by Arabella Churchill. She also wrote poetry since her teens and has composed many songs for voice  guitar, violin and piano accompaniment which have been performed in various venues across the U.K. and also in India. In 1979 she met her teacher Chogyal Namkhai Norbu Rimpoche and has been a student of his and Dzogchen teachings since then. She currently lives in West London with her family and teaches piano and also practices cranio sacral therapy.<\/p>\n
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Tread Softly Tread softly for the night is but a prelude to the day And all that lives must die For thus it is as we’ve heard say So many times before. Before? the end of the beginning Which itself is only spinning to Infinity Divinity is but a name for good thought Transferred into … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[998,796,366,401,43],"tags":[18,136,3],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8258"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=8258"}],"version-history":[{"count":9,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8258\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8269,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8258\/revisions\/8269"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=8258"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=8258"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=8258"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}