In the Heart of Me

Flowing swirling running free

Falling water calling me

Captured deep the sunlight’s song 

Day’s pouring water in the heart of me

Floating lifting soaring free

Curling air all calling me

Released above the starlight’s song

Night’s twirling air in the heart of me

Flaming heating rising free

Burning fire all calling me

Configured wide the firelight’s song

Winter’s warming oil in the heart of me

Finding caring winding free

Steadying earth all calming me

Pressured long my low-light’s song

Summer’s cooling earth in the heart of me

The Saga of Amethyst Poetry / Part Three: Springtime of Acceptance

     From the commencement of an inner springtime: my heart made transparent, I started writing poetry once more; and where I had left off. The sap rose again, and more powerfully for having endured such a harsh winter. Up through the fiery pillar, in the midst of me, ‘the force that through the green fuse drives the flower.’ * The issue of life out of death, light out of darkness, brought forth new uncurling ‘leaves,’ having torn my heart, even further apart. And now it seemed my writings were even harder to decipher; they were, perhaps, even more incomprehensible! But that was alright! It was alright! Delight washed over all I wrote, and I knew I was where I was meant to be – in the Unknown with God. Confidence revived. The door opened.

                                                                               

* (- Dylan Thomas.)

The Saga of Amethyst Poetry / Part One: A Winter of Rejection

(This is the first of a ten part story . . .)

     A few years ago I submitted some of my poetry to a professional body of poets for assessment, critique; and, hopefully, some encouragement!  I was devastated by their response. My poems were deemed incomprehensible. Such complex conceptions could not be understood. Heartbroken, I stopped writing. But after weathering a long hard winter season (of about two years!) I began to write again. Yet it seemed that the format in which I could most satisfyingly communicate, and express what was burning inside me, was in my earlier formidable art of “incomprehensible poetry.”  I knew that I might have to face continuing rejection because of it; but I was willing. Being torn to shreds wasn't a bad thing! Even so, in a moment of desperation I began to call my work ragged writings instead of ‘poems,’ because I was left in tatters! (And, not being ‘poems,’ they might evade censure!) Then in an emerging of a tentative springtime, I wrote a definition and an explanation for my strange writing; and hoped it made some sense!