Writing Saga # 20 / The House of Amethyst Poetry; Part Three . . .

  

               ‘We are not here to do what has already been done.’

                                                                                                     - Robert Henri; 1865 - 1929  

   The downstairs rooms:  There were ‘ragged writings’/poems that were open, clear and plain, and almost easy to understand; these were from downstairs, from the ground floor rooms in my house. They came every time I wanted to explain something through my own ability. They rose from the cellar but ascended no higher than the ground floor. They would always please me, at first; but later I often rejected them. Sometimes it would take me quite a long time to discard them; but in the end I instinctively knew that anything too straightforward missed the point; (and that, is very hard to explain.) So there are not many of these poems left now. My friend John Fynn has them under lock and key so that I can’t burn them, sadly. But the more time passes the more I flee these kinds of poems; I think it is because of entering more deeply and fully the walled garden of my beloved and seeing clearer there.

   The upstairs rooms: From here flowed the complex or ‘incomprehensible’ encoded ‘ragged writings.’ They were written when I didn’t depend upon anything of my own. They came up from the cellar going quickly through the downstairs rooms up the staircase and into the upper gabled rooms in my house. These filled me with much delight in their creation because they were expressing the twoedged things which were at the heart of my experience, from the depths of my life in Love, and from out of darkness where the light shines.

   I found what ‘went against me,’ the central pivot to turn me around to drink from the Fountain of Life. These ‘ragged writings’/poems were costly. They had been won through joy in suffering, and born out fearlessness in the midst of fearful frailty. In continual juxtaposition and paradox, life and light were divided in me to reveal the inner truth that nobody wanted to know.

   These ‘ragged writings’ would, of course, be rejected by the majority. I would have to live with that. People looked at them and I never heard from them again!  It was an intensely lonely place where I supped with Love – in the upper rooms.

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

Lines of Eight

The Tree and the Lake of Colour