Opening (I.); Note; Close (VIII)
Spirit of Rain in the Glade, sad day
plucked at with cutting glances plays
The Lamentation Serenade to Plant-Life
on the stops as plot synopsis:
Glowing with your own original and ringing
golden sense of goodness and
of innocence, you sing out volunteering:
I will take the Blame, even as far as
Absence, and with Luck come back
like from an errand to the shops.....
I claim a certain privilege in the criticism and interpretation of my poetry, and, very probably, I was one of the first to discover the meaning and the theme of my poem The Fountain Tree: The Paradisal Tuba.
It’s about a problem in theology, psychology and therapeutics: If you take the blame, where can you take it to? My current solution is Eastwood Refuse Transfer Station, where, I imagine, they’ll have a bin for blame; but there was a time when some more dramatic excursion was called for.
It is sad to relate, so I’ll keep it brief, but I passed some years being daily blamed for allsorts. Some of my faults, I never ever understood what they were, or what I might have done. At first I tried refusing the blame but, having grown used to chuckling at the view of my lifelong mental limitations----one skunk toke and I don’t add up----I thought I might accept the blame, and glibly toss it off. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I was adding to my blame-burden. There was no admission, no apology, no craven humiliation, no utter abjection that could lessen, by the teenth of an ounce, the blame that came my way. I accumulated more than the planet could possibly store. I knew no way to palm it off.
It was only in poetry that I blithely volunteered to try, to find the place for disposal of the world’s heaped blame.
It turned out to be
Levantine Demons? I have never been
When I contracted to take the blame,
I had no idea where it might be deposited. I thought of mosses and salt flats.
All muck can drain by the
An image of pure geography riddles
and detaches brain.
Post Mid-Life. Post a Palm and Archetype.
I looked today for graveyard yew, and found it.
[Close: the end of VIII.:]
Now at evening when The Tuba droops
into the blue nocturnal soup,
The Phoenix sinks within itself
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