Robert Bly

A Chunk of Amethyst

    Held up to the windowlight the Amethyst has elegant corridors, 
that give and take light. The discipline of its many planes suggest 
that there is no use in trying to live forever. Its exterior is jagged, 
but in the inner house all is in order. Its corridors become ledges, 
solidified thoughts that pass each other. 
    This chunk of Amethyst is a cool thing, hard as a dragon's 
tongue. The sleeping times of the whole human race lie hidden 
there. When the fingers fold the chunk into the palm, the palm 
hears organ music, the low notes that makes the sins of the whole 
congregation resonate, and catches the criminal five miles away 
with a tinge of doubt.
    With all its planes, it turns four or five faces toward us at once, 
and four or five meanings enter the mind. The exhilaration we 
felt as children returns...We feel the wind on the face as we go 
down hill, the sled's speed increasing…