I’m extremely fond of William Blake, not only as a writer but as a person. He was perhaps unique in combining art, particularly engraving, with writing, and he worked hard on both. He came of humble origins and seemed to be a very down-to-earth person: he supported the French Revolution – at least initially, before the Terrors – and had what we would consider a very liberated outlook on society, including the role of women. This painting of Cain after murdering Able is one of the most powerful I’ve ever seen:
His approach to religion was direct and personal and he had no time for the establishment. This attitude seems to have been reciprocated, right up to the present day: last time I went to the Tate I had to hunt for his pictures and finally found them hidden away in a very ill-lit corner.
This is a disgrace: he is one of our greatest artists – at least as great as the far more popular Turner – and ought to be celebrated as such. So in that spirit, here is today’s poem, a response to feelings of low self-esteem:
On Assertiveness
I wish I weren’t a little lamb
that frolics high o’er dale and hill;
the easy prey of spam or scam
that passes by, invisible:
I wish I were a tiger bright
in the forests of the night.
…
I wish I were a soldier bold
that didn’t start at shells,
that didn’t do as she was told
but cast anarchic spells
a warrior perceived as brave
a stoic in a well-marked grave.
…
I wish I weren’t a lilyflower
in livery of white
a maiden in a silly tower
a prisoner of spite.
A lion left without a zoo
– even a dandelion would do.
…..
I wish I were a macerator
chomping down on life
a well-ferocious lacerator
living by the knife
– reduce the universe to mulch
to fertilise my inner gulch.
……
If only I were someone else!
How powerful I’d feel
bombarding mysteries with shells
and crushing under heel
the world of doubt and paradox
attending schools of harder nox.
……..
But then, it’s hardly progress
to wish you were a soldier
or some electric ogress
that makes the life-force mouldier
surely there’s some middle ground
where an answer’s to be found?
……
Perhaps. if I hold steady
the oscillating compass
so mastering the eddy
and jumping, tame the jumpers;
if I can crush the opposites
perhaps I’ll sit where Poppa sits.
…..
Our histories insist
that tide waits for no man
but woman gets the gist
and comprehends her span;
so, swimming with the deeper tide
– not drowning, waving – gets a ride.
……….
Let’s leap into despair
and call its bloody bluff;
end the opposing pair
and cry aloud: ‘Enough!’
Let Burnham come to Dunsinane
see? That perfection hunt’s in vain.
Kirk out
Sarada Gray 
