Writing Saga # 27 / The House of Amethyst Poetry; Part Ten

 (Continued from Writing Saga # 26 )

 ‘Where are the sketches that were made? Some of them are in dusty piles, some turned out to be so good they got frames, some became motives for big pictures, which were either better or worse than the sketches, but they, or rather the states of being and understandings we had at the time of doing them all, are sifting through and leaving their impress on our whole work and life.’ 

                                                                -Robert Henri; The Art Spirit

   The House from Afar:  ‘Where are the sketches that were made?’ And what will I do with those snatches of thought that I captured in my little sketchbook? Those flickering sparks of insight given me, in beaded strings of words as I walked about in the orchard or in the wilds. As I saw, I scribbled what came......the life in that bird, the lichen on the branch, the wavy lines in the bark of the tree: the integration of all living things? These fragments preserved on past pages in my sketchbook, and saved in past lines in my mind, were fleeting; but it is true that they leave ‘their impress on my whole work and life.’ They chip away at me. What will I do with them? Strange they were perfect when I scribbled them on those creamy pages. They had struck a chord. In the moment of their coming they had seemed complete. Fresh life! Raw thought! They gave pure joy! But I think perhaps they are as good left there as removed into 'a more proper’ form later, typed into a poem! Below is an example. The collected lines on one page in my sketchbook:

    ‘An Eclectic/. . . a live bird on a wire . . . shooting off . . . lichen on an electric power pole . . . life growing off life . . . a living symbiosis . . . in all things! . . . life was a spark flying off a thought . . . from life come the springs of life! . . . from having sight I see!'

  Yes, well, some quick word-sketches are best left in a ‘dusty pile’ in the corners of my sketchbook! But some do end up as parts of poems; and some even get put into ‘frames:’ added to my new book. 

   The House from Afar, the House of Amaranthine Poetry is as complete every moment as I myself am complete:  all in one piece from the beginning:  needing only life to produce more life; and the bits of me, translated, turn into poems!