Writing Saga # 21 / The House of Amethyst Poetry; Part Four

    Continued from Writing Saga # 20 / The House and its rooms and its environs...

   The lean-to kitchen:  A source spot. A sore spot. This was the place in my little purple house of amaranthine poetry for the storing of the raw ingredients of my creations. It was the place for the mixing and concocting of a delicious fresh fare of beautiful writing from the interesting foods of ideas stored in my pantry cupboards.

   Here were condiments, the herbs and the spices to add zest to what was written, as well as the bulk ingredients which formed the base of my ‘ragged writings.’ And, yes, here were the mixing bowls, of all sizes, and utensils of every kind, to fabricate the raw substances of my experience into forms ready to be placed into the oven, to cook. Oh, the oven! The furnace of affliction! But without my fiery trials no dish would be fit to eat! The hidden manna was bread in me only after it was fired. For who would like to eat uncooked bread? Yuk! The dough un-fired was an inedible glutinous mess! My writings unproved, un-risen, and uncooked fed no one anything that was truly good.

   The woodshed:  Love truly, do what you like. The suggestion here is of absolute liberty and freedom if you, only love. In my lawless behind the woodshed escapes from the norm, in utter crazy faith that I was loved, and abandonment to that, I was found and redeemed. But any Life: and poetry here was unthinkable to good people. I was ‘black, but comely . . . as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon.’ This place of source Life was extremely private and a continual harbour of never-ending unspeakable joy. Joy won through that obedience to Love which cannot on this Earth be spoken of: ‘I will give him a white stone, and in the stone a new name written, which no man knows saving he that receives it.’   

   Here the fuel for my fires was stored. It was being kept dry to be later taken into the house when it was needed. It was for the underlings of my radical ‘ragged writings’ there. Mostly this dark place was kept neat and tidy, with a crib for wood chips and shavings. The smaller fuel for the beginnings of fabulous things, the larger for the maintenance of them; but all the fuel was love, and only love. Love is the end of the law.

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

Coalmine Black

Beloved Lover

Sword of Unpuzzling Paradox