Within these journals, I discuss the implications Blake makes with regards to revolution, subconscious thought and religion. As a poet, author and artist, Blake pursues a number of different themes that were typically not characteristic of his era, let alone popular views of his country. He is what I consider to be a revolutionary of political and religious thought, a promoter of free imagination, and a constant reminder of the benefits of a creative mind.

Blake’s work brings about thoughts within me that otherwise may have never surfaced. He evokes a different perspective in his reader and allows a certain degree of interpretation in his text that is otherwise non-existent in most other writers of his time. Whereas authors like Coleridge and Wordsworth were writing of imagery and tales of men and women in the 18th and 19th centuries, Blake tells of tales that are not bound by time and place and create their own settings. With each piece of prose Blake wrote he built a fairytale-like image that could be superimposed over the days of Christ or 23rd century earth. His themes are so universal that all ages and creeds may take his literature and compare it to their own lives.

Above all, his art is a step above the rest. Unfortunately, like most other artists, appreciation of the work that took an entire lifetime to perfect was never fully obtained until well after death. Even so, the idea of such massive quantities of art coming from the creativity of one mind and all being of such superior quality is fascinating. His mind is one that I repeatedly state within my journals as one I would love to step inside of. I would die to sit down and chat with this man over dinner or engage in an afternoon stroll. He is fascinating, but unfortunately was never fully discovered until decades later. It is a shame.

As for me, I try to delve into his mind by pushing through the centuries that separate us. I try to understand where it is he is coming from and what it is he is trying to communicate to the men and women who read his work. But then again, can I? To read between the lines is almost like an act of thievery. Why should I try to steal away the cryptic writing he has mastered? By defining his work, I thereby destroy all that he has accomplished. And aside from the required assignments, I try not to break his cryptic codes.

Instead, I try to find as many different meanings that I possibly can. I try to counter all interpretations with an equally argumentative and logical explanation so that we don’t narrow and constrict Blake’s work to the point of death. Even in death, Blake needs to breathe, we can’t bind him by the reasoning he so commonly speaks against in his work.

And it is with this reasoning that I wrote my poem. "A Memorable Fancy from the Likes of a Bench" is an attempt at creating something Blakean. I regret to admit that my engraving is rather Romantic; I tend to draw less sinister images than Blake. But when writing I wanted to capture an aspect of Blake’s writing, and as I wrote, I decided that the best way to integrate my writing would be to write a prophecy. Again, I tried to make the language somewhat ambiguous, but at the same time decipherable with a little bit of work and a vivid imagination. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

A MEMORABLE FANCY FROM THE LIKES OF A BENCH
The Author & Printer Jennifer Burrough, 2001.

Upon an afternoon outing with myself as my company
I restd upon the likes of a bench
whereupon my mind and my body combined
and I witnessed the beauty of the earth below me, the sky above me, and the water before me.

And there I sat and watched as the clouds folded around my being
and the sea of which I was looking upon with an admiring eye
bathed my senses and wrapped its watery arms around me—
A man was swept ashore by a glistening hand freshly soaked by the tears of the sea
and there he sat beside me.
We cordially embraced and he shared with me truth.
The sky and water that I only formerly saw as beauty became repulsive:
Its color and warmth, touch and taste wrenched my face and
isolated my senses into a prison of iron shackles and concrete walls.
Only then did he enlighten me with the ugliness man’s possessive tendencies.

There, before me was sea-kissed wind and a deepend and darkening sky.
Water that stretched into my mouth and pierced my sides and folded over and over upon itself in
waves of watery blue and gray, frothing peaks and blackend valleys.
And the man shewd me a sea-going vessel that blew form the East
and settled directly before my watchful eye
In a bellowing voice, he ranted and raved:
Man sits there upon his earthly throne,
the supreme possessor, the jailor who with his shackles and chains
binds the likes of thought and imagination with fetters of reason and science.
Chains that enslave life, chains that enslave freedom, chains that have bound
the enslaved pangs of sea and land
Shackles that bind both you and I, our brothers and sisters, friends and
enemies.

And then the same tear-streaked wave that brought the man beside me unfurled from the watery abyss below
and pulled the man back down, his watery eyes and darkened skin staring
back at me as I waved goodbye with an admiring hand.
The same hand that led me to an orb of red glowing light
that once entered my body and threw me into a free state of imagination.
A state of sensual freedom.
But here I sit on the likes of a bench.