Edge Field of William Blake
Edge Field of William Blake (borrowed)
Liminality in a Universe that has no center, no edge, no way between distant counter parts
In time multiplied in dimension, and scope, accounting for our ennui.
Our doubts at the pedestal of each other and the surmise of conflicting desires.
You want me?
I want you
To take charge of flippant, feeble destiny, grow large, grow small,
The margin forever attains just beyond reach of conscious pleasure.
Snakes in the vinery Mr. Blake, the eternal suns and scrape of ideal body, garden, flower
Thrown and printed as the seed would wish it,
As your tree grown to great height and in the Autumn chill,
She blushes a rusty rouge and he falls on the blades of aged reason.
Short cuts laid out for everyone.
Through density and vacuity,
It is there at human scale that the marginal and liminal are so real
Sufferers one and all with joy itself an acute injury of love’s wagers and speculations,
Her positron and his mass, inert, awaiting hand and spark, light of your fine mind
To find the real harmonies enfolded everywhere,
But not as a meal or even as longing.
The thin strings of the lyre and guitar
Silver or cat gut piercing the body eternal,
Its sensitive heat and drying edges
Like a hunger cultivated before a great feast.
Let us set in at the table of numinous naming of notions – deeper still the arrow
Plunges in the Saint’s naked side, his naked slaves in agony and bondage,
Reason’s river finally crossed to the gates of hell and trickling below is the
Mountain stream of heaven’s satiety.
Let us rest, ardent dreamer,
Whip calculating out the decimal places of vision and infinity.
Out picnicking with her cousin in the tall grass by the river.
The hot sun warming under your hat brim with clothes a little too tight,
Her arms naked, ankles bitten in the buggy grass.
Lay forth your interlude fair Ophelia, lay out your garment in the gentle stream,
The mouth of the poet all about you, calling forth the rotten apples –
His mis-spelled passions of your death on an English lawn.
Brown shirts and hushed crowds that took over the church yard
As a kind of illiterate ceremony of power.
Turn in your internal pedestal where the goddess should reside.
No self now for the bookish and avaricious monks
Who steady their hair in prayer.
Our William Blake, man of the mountain, the stage, the press, the talk of the town.
Our silent dream with dreamer winged and clothed in all of the old
With the iconoclasm to liberate the spirit- something new,
Born of the ethereal, rested in material,
So finely made,
So rich in pallor and presentation
That the discussion must turn to its truth.
Arrows dipped in blood,
Buoyancy of the hull,
Army of sailors crowded and sweating below
In their ready costumes of war.
Such sayings to be replete with staged tension,
The dagger, the door and the vault of heaven.
We couriers and the damp rags of a hospital mission in a wilderness of fire –
The roast and bloat taken up by sacred smoke,
Signals as the star or distant hill,
The alignment of fire and sensitive technology
At the very edge of the soul’s dropping question, its very limit,
Burst from surety, ecstasy,
Both proof and elimination
Beyond the squares where anyone can say
Elevated as only the outcaste has freedom to imagine
When all is lost but the barren heath
Beyond even the limit of the stars.
By Rolf Stavig
10/17/21
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