Another Blog Poem-see more on the tag

The Pool of Fire and Ash

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact.
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold,
That is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
Such tricks hath strong imagination,
That if it would but apprehend some joy,
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;
Or in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush supposed a bear!

Janie, Irish lady in her seventies,
elegant in her pale blue linen suit,
sat on her velvet rose chair, swishing

flies, away in the heat of the south.
We spoke of tea, and travel, and love,
which she claimed only lasted six months.

But, I, of long memory, knew better, like
one watching the shores of Ithaca for ships.
The heat reminded me of Mississippi, where

Shards of sun hit the face like ice in mist
in Iowa; but here, in the upper room of
her flat, the heat sank upon us like bedding.

I wanted to correct her views on love, but
being younger, and she so wise and good, I
merely listened. But, her impatience led me

Astray. I should have waited and kept silent.
Put me as a seal upon thy heart, 
as a seal upon thy arm, 

for love is strong as death, 
jealousy as hard as hell, 
the lamps thereof are fire and flames.

But, she seemed to know nothing of death,
fully alive in her confidence that truth makes
love happen, not understanding that some

flee from truth, always, in a habit of self-
delusion, running, running until death.
I listened, and deferred.  So soon

had loved died in the other, that my
head could not absorb the pain
which was in the hidden heart.

So, Janie, passing me a cup of tea,
resembling one of the Moirae, only
beautiful, but inclined to sewing,

gave me the advice of the world,
her world, not mine, as mine is
on the edge always, by the pool

of Mnemosyne, and I learned too
late that one cannot discuss love
with those who live in the pragmatic

deserts,
and do not know the forests of Logres.

Part Two

For when our fathers were led in Persia, 

the priests that then were worshippers of God 

took privately the fire from the altar, 

and hid it in a valley where there was a deep pit without water, 

and there they kept it safe, But when many years had passed, 

and it pleased God that Nehemias should be sent 

by the king of Persia, 

he sent some of the posterity of those priests that had hid it, 

to seek for the fire: and as they told us, 

they found no fire, but thick water.

Then he bade them draw it up, and bring it to him: 

and the priest Nehemias commanded the sacrifices that were laid on, 

to be sprinkled with the same water, both the wood, 

and the things that were laid upon it.  

And when this was done, and the time came that the sun shone out, 

which before was in a cloud, 

there was a great fire kindled, so that all wondered.

I put my hand in the pool and pulled out

the nephthar of God, for healing, for
purification of the senses, like the pool

of John's Dark Night, nada, nada, nada.
But, the flames came again and again,
lighting the passages of time and memory.

Moving between the dark columns of
Nehemiah's temple, ruined by greed,
the selling of the people down river

as slavery is always the same. But, 
faith triumphed and the wandering stopped.
Still, I am that merry wanderer of the night.

The people applauded the flames 
licking the summer night, soon to
fail, except in beating hearts. Not his,

but why the closed heart, I do not know,
I do not understand those who alone
do not take at least one chance, one

step towards the arms of Morpheus,
So quick bright things come to confusion.
Love cannot grow in the fearful mind,

and certainly not in the timid heart.

Part Three

Be whole, absolved and atoned!
For I now will perform your task.
O blessed be your suffering,
that gave pity's mighty power
and purest wisdom's might
to the timorous fool!

I bring back to you
the holy Spear!

O supreme joy of this miracle!
This that could heal your wound
I see pouring with holy blood
yearning for that kindred fount
which flows and wells within the Grail.
No more shall it be hidden:
uncover the Grail, open the shrine!

Blanche Fleur had to wait a long time.
Waiting is old, out of fashion, tedious
for the young, impatient heart. One

can remember a later girl like a
pink flower, not white, hurried
in love and romance. But, those

days of longing fade from the
time of instant passion-no hidden
love, no charms of the chase,

only madness, hurling youth down
a senseless path of disappointment,
but they try, like Parsifal, to find,

seeking in the wrong places, not
having the map in their heads, or
the guide in their hearts. I should be

better, child of Gurnemanz, where
reason meets faith in the northern
spheres. But, like unoffending shadows

I hope all is mended and made part
of the tapestry of dreams, I am better
on the outside, as inside all is damp,

cold and full of error. Still, one 
desires to be a member of a tribe,
or at least pretend to hold the cup

at the fireside, after the battles,
watching the celebrations a little sadly
from a safe nook- how Love fled

No one writes one man loved the pilgrim 
Soul in you, unlike the silent lady 
of the white flower, with virgin eyes.

Some one called it oil-spot strategy.
My job behind the lines. Spilling
and watching the flow of naptha.

Great flames crackled in Jerusalem,
but the fire only lasted a short while.
The people still had to go to war.

But, I am old and full of sleep, the 
orchid has no song for me now.
And, he walks on stone pavements,

his face amid a crowd of stars. 
So goes the wounded king
into the pale night of no healing.

The mind absorbs his image, but
not his likeness...