Writing Saga # 18 / The House of Amethyst Poetry, Part One

  

     My life was like a house.  Its different rooms held different aspects of writing. From attic to cellar, from the main rooms, two up and two down, and the lean-to back kitchen and woodshed there flowed different types of writing.

   But first, before anything of the house could be revealed or any writing in any room of it, exist there was the pathway to it. 

The path:  This was narrow and a little winding and white with crushed pipi shells. This white path was lined on either side by a low, dark-green box hedge. Beyond the little hedge and on either side was a cottage garden, full of flowering plants and fragrant herbs and some small shrubs. At the furtherest bounds of the garden was a sheltering curtain of tall trees, and beyond these a pine forest which roared when the wind blew from the southeast.

   My crushed but shining path led to the door of the house; and without this there was no other way to it; and without the door there was no entry.

   Much of my poetry to date has been the pathway.  In the sharing of my hard things, the crushing things which led to the house and its inner riches most often everything became highly metaphorical and encoded, but some of the 'ragged writings' were shallower and plain. All, though give only surface hints of the horror and pain that once was below in my journey through the forest, and along the white shell path to the House.  

These are the titles of the next four ‘ragged writings’ of Amethyst Poetry:

Altered

Gutted 

Where My Heart is

The Inner Arms