Continued
from Writing Saga # 22; The House and its Rooms and its Environs…
The walled
garden: This was the lovely cultivated paradise I passed
through on my walk along the white shell path leading to and from the house. On
either side of my pathway was a free flowering in-world of living and growing delight!
An oasis. A profusion of watered beauty tucked away from the dry deserts of
out-world busyness. Here beds of heart’s-ease and forget-me-not kept me cradled
in pools of simplicity and quietness, which are a garden’s gift. Tidy beds of dreamy
cottage flowers…tiny infusions of my mind with dreamy distractions…these were
the necessary solaced insights that visual loveliness will impart to lonely
sojourners. Beautifully ordered in chaotic non-order my cultivated in-garden
breathed peaceful diversion. Inner poetry. Fragrant lavender, subtle violas and
violets diverting the word-gaze of my writing life onto lighter things, and
away from the surface follies of the eminently necessary.
The wilds: Between my walled garden and the forest was
the orchard; this was so rich a place that I must write it separately. Beyond
the orchard was the wilds bounded on
one side by the orchard wall and on another by the pine forest and on the
remaining two sides by the running brook. Tumbling and tripping over itself, because
the wilds sloped down to the river of which my running brook was but a tiny tributary.
The wilds
were wide and free and as uncertain of order as my garden was vivid with it. I
loved this place! Thorny briar roses grew here in tangles of raw verbiage and
crazy thought. Poetry gone mad. ‘Ragged writings’ gone feral. Blackberry and
nettles, dock and thistles grew here in a riot of self, in lost fear-for-skin; and
all in a profusion of rank wild grasses in a perpetual abandonment to glorious
liberty. Dock and nettle. ‘Good and evil.’ I was free of all earthly interpretations. An antidote for every ill was in this wild place. If I
picked any deadly thing it did not harm me.
‘It is better every thought
should be uttered freely, fearlessly, than that any great thought should be
denied utterance for fear of evil. It is only through complete independence that
all goodness can be spoken, that all purity be found. …Restrictions hide vice
and freedom alone bears morality.’* I am not loved because I am ‘good;’ I
am loved because I am Love’s little child.
(* Robert Henri; The Art Spirit.)
These
are the titles of the next two
‘ragged writings’ of amaranthine poetry:
Taken!
Intrinsic Desire
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