In Memoriam: Bert Richardson January 12, 1913 – August 5, 2000
God knows fathers are not flawless. They stumble, they learn, they strive. If my father were here with me now, I would thank him for all he gave— I’d honor the strength in his steady hands, The wisdom that shaped who I’ve become.
The lessons he taught me in silence Are gifts I carry deep within my soul. Maybe time has softened the edges of truth. I can’t claim to know all he endured, But I cherish the man he was to us all: I didn’t need him to speak as I spoke.
I didn’t need him to dream as I dreamed. I just hope—he senses that I admired him. Do you ever wonder how much he achieved? Do you see the quiet sacrifices he made? Do you feel the depth of his love, Even when words were few?
Do you ever pause to honor his journey? God knows he wasn’t perfect, But his heart was steadfast and true. My own life is richer because of him— More than words could ever convey: His legacy lives in the lives he touched.
I’m just a child with a lasting wish: O, how I hope he knows I admire him still.
Edgar Lee Masters’ “Serepta Mason,” “Amanda Barker,” “Constance Hately,” and “Chase Henry”
The four characters from Edgar Lee Masters’ Spoon River Anthology—”Serepta Mason,” “Amanda Barker,” “Constance Hately,” and “Chase Henry”— offer very specific complaints against others in the town who affected their lives in deleterious ways.
Introduction: Four Flawed Characters Reveal Their Thoughts
Serepta Mason accuses Spoon River residents of stunting her growth, as she likens herself to a flower. Amanda Barker died in childbirth and blames her husband for killing her because he knew her poor health made her unable to bear a child.
“Constance Hately” and “Chase Henry” offer brief sketches of two Spoon River curmudgeons. The poems feature ten and eleven lines respectively. Both reveal flawed characters who feel the need to unload the thoughts they lived with.
As most of the Spoon River characters confess sins, these two are no exception. Constance seems to be trying to set the record straight, while Chase boasts about the irony that sometimes attaches to good vs evil intentions.
Text of “Serepta Mason”
My life’s blossom might have bloomed on all sides Save for a bitter wind which stunted my petals On the side of me which you in the village could see. From the dust I lift a voice of protest: My flowering side you never saw! Ye living ones, ye are fools indeed Who do not know the ways of the wind And the unseen forces That govern the processes of life.
Reading of “Serepta Mason”
Commentary on “Serepta Mason”
Serepta complains that the “fools” “in the village” were ever unable to understand that she had a good side as a well as a not so good one. She begins her lament by announcing that she might have been a well-rounded, fully developed personality if she had not been “stunted” by the nastiness of the people in her town.
She metaphorically likens her growth to a flower: “my life’s blossom,” which “might have bloomed on all sides.” But because of the “bitter wind” “her petals” were kept from developing fully, and that “stunted” side of her was all that the villagers saw.
Therefore, as the other ghosts from the Spoon River cemetery do, she raises her “voice of protest.” She enlightens the villagers that she did, in fact, have a “flowering side,” but they never saw it. She foists all the blame on the villagers, not considering her own share of blame that might be part of the equation.
Serepta concludes her accusation with a rather grandiose philosophical attempt to convince herself that she is, in fact, accurate in her assessment: she calls the “living ones” “fools” because they “do not know the ways of the wind / And the unseen forces / That govern the processes of life.” The recurrence of the metaphor “wind” implies that she is castigating the townies for being gossip-mongers.
Serepta’s complaint implies that she was damaged and her growth stunted by town gossip signified by “wind”: “a bitter wind which stunted my petals” and “Who do not know the ways of the wind.”
Text of “Amanda Barker”
Henry got me with child, Knowing that I could not bring forth life Without losing my own. In my youth therefore I entered the portals of dust. Traveler, it is believed in the village where I lived That Henry loved me with a husband’s love, But I proclaim from the dust That he slew me to gratify his hatred.
Reading of “Amanda Barker”
Commentary on “Amanda Barker”
Unlike Serepta who waxes poetic and philosophical with metaphoric comparison and aphoristic critique, Amanda speaks her mind very plainly and bluntly. Amanda was married to Henry, who was aware that Amanda could not procreate children.
Henry knew that pregnancy would kill Amanda. Henry, however, impregnated Amanda while knowing that deadly fact, and sure enough, Amanda died young: “In my youth therefore I entered the portals of dust.”
Calling those who might have stumbled upon her tombstone “traveler,” Amanda offers her lament to those vague persons. She insists that the Spoon River citizens found nothing wanting in Henry’s love for Amanda, but Amanda knew the truth: Henry hated her and deliberately killed her out of that hatred. Amanda’s main focus in on having returned to “dust” before having lived her life.
Constance Hately
You praise my self-sacrifice, Spoon River, In rearing Irene and Mary, Orphans of my older sister! And you censure Irene and Mary For their contempt for me But praise not my self-sacrifice, And censure not their contempt; I reared them, I cared for them, true enough!— But I poisoned my benefactions With constant reminders of their dependence.
Reading of “Constance Hately”
Commentary on “Constance Hately”
Constance addresses Spoon River residents, calling attention to the fact that they were always commending her for raising “Irene and Mary,” the orphaned daughters of her older sister. She further reminds them that they also condemned Irene and Mary because they did not offer gratitude for their aunt’s sacrifice.
Constance now reveals that the citizens’ appraisal of her “self-sacrifice” and the nieces’ attitude was flawed and inaccurate on both counts: she reports that she does not deserve “praise” for her sacrifice, and the nieces, Irene and Mary, do not deserve the town’s scorn for their disrespect for her.
Constance admits that, indeed, she did raise them and she cared for them, but while she was doing so, she “poisoned” the girls’ minds “With constant reminders of the dependence.”
Her confession perhaps reveals a measure of remorse for her failure with her nieces, but on the other hand, she seems to be gloating that the town got it so wrong about her relationship with them.
Text of “Chase Henry”
In life I was the town drunkard; When I died the priest denied me burial In holy ground. The which redounded to my good fortune. For the Protestants bought this lot, And buried my body here, Close to the grave of the banker Nicholas, And of his wife Priscilla. Take note, ye prudent and pious souls, Of the cross-currents in life Which bring honor to the dead, who lived in shame.
Reading of “Chase Henry”
Commentary on “Chase Henry”
Chase Henry played his role in life as the town drunk, to which he seems gleeful to admit. Of course, that was “in life.” Now, he, like many of the Spoon River deceased, can wax philosophical and indignant about how he was treated “in life.”
Chase’s indignity centers on the fact that after he died, his body was not allowed “burial / In holy ground.” The priest would not accept the body of an immoral “drunkard” to foul the cemetery of the Catholic Church.
But Chase deems that he has the last laugh because Protestants defied the Catholics by purchasing a burial plot for the drunkard. Now he rests “Close to the grave of the banker Nicholas, / And of his wife Priscilla.” Chase can boast that he has come up in the world—a lowly drunkard buried nearby to a highly regarded banker.
Chase, in his best condescending, supercilious tone, offers a piece of advice to all “ye prudent and pious souls.” He warns them that circumstances can change because of the “cross-currents of life,” and those who “lived in shame” can find “honor” in death.
Image: Emily Dickinson – Amherst College – Daguerrotype of the poet at age 17, circa 1847 – likely the only authentic, extant likeness of the poet
Emily Dickinson’s “Going to Heaven!”
The speaker of “Going to Heaven!” muses on the certainty of heaven with equal measures of astonishment and earthly attachment, moving through three stanzas of tender, searching honesty.
Introduction and Text of “Going to Heaven!”
The speaker in Emily Dickinson’s “Going to Heaven!” addresses an unnamed listener, confessing her astonishment at heaven’s inevitability while simultaneously expressing a glad reluctance to leave the Earth behind.
On the literal level, the poem is a musing on what the speaker does and does not know about dying and what follows. She knows heaven is coming; she does not know when or how, and that gap between certainty and comprehension is the poem’s central drama.
On my literary website, Linda’s Literary Home, I have argued that the concept of immortality was one of Dickinson’s deepest preoccupations throughout her creative life, a question she returned to with unfailing curiosity and spiritual seriousness.
The poem moves stanza by stanza from bewilderment, to communal longing, to a final and deeply personal grief held alongside gladness. The speaker never resolves the tension between loving the Earth and accepting heaven; she simply holds both, honestly and without apology. That honesty is what gives the poem its enduring emotional power.
Going to Heaven!
I don’t know when – Pray do not ask me how! Indeed I’m too astonished To think of answering you! Going to Heaven! How dim it sounds! And yet it will be done As sure as flocks go home at night Unto the Shepherd’s arm!
Perhaps you’re going too! Who knows? If you should get there first Save just a little space for me Close to the two I lost – The smallest “Robe” will fit me And just a bit of “Crown” – For you know we do not mind our dress When we are going home –
I’m glad I don’t believe it For it would stop my breath – And I’d like to look a little more At such a curious Earth! I’m glad they did believe it Whom I have never found Since the mighty Autumn afternoon I left them in the ground.
Commentary on “Going to Heaven!”
The speaker’s musing enacts a spiritual journey moving from bewilderment through communal longing to grief and gladness held together in the same breath. Each stanza adds a new layer to the speaker’s understanding of what heaven means and what it will cost her.
First Stanza: What I Do Not Know
I don’t know when – Pray do not ask me how! Indeed I’m too astonished To think of answering you! Going to Heaven! How dim it sounds! And yet it will be done As sure as flocks go home at night Unto the Shepherd’s arm!
The speaker opens by announcing plainly that she cannot answer her listener’s questions about when or how she will go to heaven, not because she doubts it, but because the fact of it leaves her too astonished to speak.
The exclamation “Going to Heaven!” is less a cry of joy than a gasp of disbelief that such a thing should be true. The speaker is not refusing to answer; she is genuinely overwhelmed.
She then makes a striking admission: heaven “sounds” dim to her, meaning the word itself feels thin and inadequate against the magnitude of what it names. This insight spring from a characteristically Dickinsonian observation—the language of religion, worn smooth by repetition, fails to convey the actual force of the reality it describes. The speaker senses the reality is immense; she simply cannot yet grasp it.
Yet the stanza closes in warmth and confidence, comparing the soul’s going to heaven to flocks returning to the shepherd’s arm at nightfall. Paramahansa Yogananda teaches, in his “On Understanding Death and Loss,” that death is not a catastrophe but a natural passage of the soul into greater freedom and divine awareness.
The speaker’s shepherd simile expresses exactly that understanding: going home is the soul’s most natural motion, as inevitable and as gentle as a lamb finding its shepherd at dusk.
Second Stanza: You, too, maybe!
Perhaps you’re going too! Who knows? If you should get there first Save just a little space for me Close to the two I lost – The smallest “Robe” will fit me And just a bit of “Crown” – For you know we do not mind our dress When we are going home –
The speaker now turns to her listener with sudden warmth, wondering aloud whether that person, too, may be going to heaven. “Who knows?” she asks—a phrase of genuine spiritual humility, acknowledging that she cannot determine the soul’s schedule, her own or anyone else’s. The tone shifts from private astonishment to something communal and tender.
She then makes her most touching request: that a small space be saved for her near “the two I lost.” The term “two” points to specific, beloved persons already departed, whose identity the speaker keeps private but whose absence she carries openly.
The capitalized “Robe” and “Crown” gently deflate the grandeur traditionally associated with heavenly reward; the speaker asks for the smallest of each, expressing a humility that is as genuine as it is quietly playful.
The stanza closes by returning to the phrase “going home,” linking it directly to the shepherd simile of the first stanza and reinforcing the poem’s central conviction that death is not exile but return.
Paramahansa Yogananda’s teachings explain that the soul is a perfect reflection of God’s consciousness and that its passage beyond the physical plane is a homecoming to its Eternal Source.
The speaker’s easy dismissal of heavenly dress—“we do not mind our dress / When we are going home”—reflects that same priority: the reunion matters infinitely more than the clothing.
Third Stanza: Glad for not Believing
I’m glad I don’t believe it For it would stop my breath – And I’d like to look a little more At such a curious Earth! I’m glad they did believe it Whom I have never found Since the mighty Autumn afternoon I left them in the ground.
The speaker now delivers the poem’s most surprising statement: she is glad she does not yet fully believe in her going to heaven, because that belief, fully realized, would stop her breath and take her from “such a curious Earth.”
She is not denying heaven; she is confessing that she still loves the Earth too much to be entirely ready to leave it. On my literary website Linda’s Literary Home, I have discussed Dickinson’s deep attentiveness to the natural world alongside her spiritual curiosity as a parallel devotion, neither canceling out the other.
The speaker then turns her gladness in a new direction: she is glad that “they did believe it”—those she has not seen since a mighty autumn afternoon when she left them in the ground.
That single phrase, “left them in the ground,” is the poem’s most direct and devastating moment, stripping away all metaphor to name the plain fact of burial. Their belief in heaven was their comfort in dying, and she honors it with a gladness that is inseparable from grief.
Paramahansa Yogananda teaches that souls who have departed dwell in expanded freedom and love, and that the bonds of deep spiritual friendship are not broken by death but simply suspended until reunion.
The speaker closes the poem holding two kinds of gladness at once —gladness to remain a little longer on the curious Earth, and gladness that those she loved and buried believed in the heaven toward which she, too, is inexorably going.
Time’s hands unveil as morning’s glow fades, A silver face like pewter forward parades. In silence, like the dove on fence post still, The pewter visage moves with quiet will.
The mind holds desires in a brimming cup, No calming stone of regret to lift up. As blood flushes cheeks in meandering flow, A vein in the brain bursts, letting life go.
Skin stays unchanged through centuries long, Where invented wheels roll, heavy and strong. Unswayed by mourners’ destiny so grim, An endless route of minds, intruding, skims.
The turtle’s dark lips part in silent speech, Each soul burns star-like, beyond earthly reach. Over rocks of intrigue and fury they soar, As mapping songs on breezes gently pour.
Stone wise, the world remains a place so hard, Brute gales and pestilence, hidden, stand guard. Tempting the margins with blasts of sin’s might, The devil plays judge, spinning games of spite.
From Spoon River Anthology, Edgar Lee Masters’ American classic, the epitaph “Cassius Huffier” is written in the American-Innovative sonnet tradition: reversing the Petrarchan octave and sestet, while revealing the depravity of the speaker.
Introduction and Text of “Cassius Hueffer”
Edgar Lee Masters’ “Cassius Hueffer” from the Spoon River Anthology offers up the acerbic belly-aching of a man who hated life so completely that even after his death, he continues his belly-aching about the epitaph written on his tombstone.
Cassius Hueffer
They have chiseled on my stone the words: “His life was gentle, and the elements so mixed in him That nature might stand up and say to all the world, This was a man.” Those who knew me smile As they read this empty rhetoric.
My epitaph should have been: “Life was not gentle to him, And the elements so mixed in him That he made warfare on life, In the which he was slain.” While I lived I could not cope with slanderous tongues, Now that I am dead I must submit to an epitaph Graven by a fool!
Commentary on “Cassius Hueffer”
From Spoon River Anthology, Edgar Lee Masters’ American classic, the epitaph “Cassius Huffier” is written in the American-Innovative sonnet tradition: reversing the Petrarchan octave and sestet, while revealing the depravity of the speaker.
The Sestet: “They have chiseled on my stone the words”
They have chiseled on my stone the words: “His life was gentle, and the elements so mixed in him That nature might stand up and say to all the world, This was a man.” Those who knew me smile As they read this empty rhetoric.
The speaker, Cassius Hueffer, lays out the epitaph that is carved into his grave marker: “His life was gentle, and the elements so mixed in him / That nature might stand up and say to all the world, / This was a man.”
In order to refute the truth of such a claim, Huffier reports that the statement will make the people who were well acquainted with him “smile” because those folks would know well that those kind words are merely, “empty rhetoric.
The epitaph states that Hueffer had been a gentle, loving man in whom “the elements” stacked themselves up to render him a genuine “man.” The epitaph leads people to believe that Cassius Hueffer was a warm man, who always had a kind greeting for those he encountered, and he behaved as a caring soul who was loved and admired by everyone he met.
Of course, Hueffer knows otherwise; therefore, he declares that those words are merely “empty rhetoric.” Huffier is also aware that the people who chafed under his abusive character flaws would comprehend immediately the emptiness of that rhetoric.
The Octave: “My epitaph should have been”
My epitaph should have been: “Life was not gentle to him, And the elements so mixed in him That he made warfare on life, In the which he was slain.” While I lived I could not cope with slanderous tongues, Now that I am dead I must submit to an epitaph Graven by a fool!
After striking down such a beautiful yet vacuous epitaph as it is written, Hueffer suggests his own version, the one that he knows ought to be chiseled on his grave marker: “Life was not gentle to him, / And the elements so mixed in him / That he made warfare on life, / In the which he was slain.”
Hueffer contests the idea that his life was “gentle,” but he does not actually dispute the accuracy of the claim that his own life was gentle, just the “idea” that life was gentle “to him.”
Hueffer contends that life did not deal gently with him. He then employs the same form to assert, “the elements” were “mixed in him” in such a way as to urge him always to be at “warfare on life.” Thus, he battled in life like a warrior, but finally, he “was slain.”
The speaker does not elaborate about the manner in which he was “slain,” but he does contend that he was not able to abide “with slanderous tongues.” He continues in his vagueness, however; thus, the reader remains without any information about either the nature of the slander, or how Hueffer left this earth.
But his last dig at life and society and particularly the person who is responsible for the inaccurately carved epitaph is especially focused as it points an accusing finger: “Now that I am dead I must submit to an epitaph / Graven by a fool!”
Resentful in Life, Resentful in Death
Although many readers of this poem may remain puzzled by the specifics of Hueffer’s life—why he carried on as such a misanthrope? what was the nature of the slander he actually suffered? how did he finally die?—such issues, in the long run, are not vital to the message of the poem, which is simply the grievance of a man who lived a resentful life and now undergoes a resentful death.
Representing the fifth epitaph in Masters’ Spoon River Anthology is the character named Robert Fulton Tanner, who compares his life to a rat caught in a trap.
Introduction and Text of “Robert Fulton Tanner”
Edgar Lee Masters’ “Robert Fulton Tanner” is the fifth epitaph in the American classic Spoon River Anthology. Fulton is a pathetic character, who discovers that building a better mouse trap might only get up a cockeyed metaphor to fling at this thing vaguely called “Life.”
Robert Fulton Tanner
If a man could bite the giant hand That catches and destroys him, As I was bitten by a rat While demonstrating my patent trap, In my hardware store that day. But a man can never avenge himself On the monstrous ogre Life. You enter the room—that’s being born; And then you must live—work out your soul, Aha! the bait that you crave is in view: A woman with money you want to marry, Prestige, place, or power in the world. But there’s work to do and things to conquer— Oh, yes! the wires that screen the bait. At last you get in—but you hear a step: The ogre, Life, comes into the room, (He was waiting and heard the clang of the spring) To watch you nibble the wondrous cheese, And stare with his burning eyes at you, And scowl and laugh, and mock and curse you, Running up and down in the trap, Until your misery bores him.
Commentary on “Robert Fulton Tanner”
The fifth epitaph in Masters’ Spoon River Anthology features the character named Robert Fulton Tanner, who compares his life to a rat caught in a trap.
First Movement: Holding a Grudge
“Robert Fulton Tanner” holds a grudge, and he holds it against “Life.”” He thus blames “Life” for his misery, and he muses on the notion of being able the bite that hand of Life that has bitten him. If he could have bitten that “giant hand,” then what? He does not say. It appears he did not think beyond that luscious ability. Or perhaps he thinks such biting would be enough to avenge his plight.
Reader/listeners are free to imagine the consequence of such biting, and the only safe conclusion is that Tanner would feel better if he could have accomplished such a biting. Likening that “giant hand” to God, as well as Life, Tanner reveals that he is a hardware store owner, who had determined that he had built a better mouse trap.
But while demonstrating that “patent trap,” a rat bit his hand. And that bitter event unleashed in Tanner’s mind all that would go wrong in his life henceforth. From that day forth, he would see himself as a victim of the giant hand, which caught him and destroyed him.
Second Movement: Biting God’s Hand
If only one could bite that giant hand—of God, of Life, or of whatever—living would be improved for the man. Unfortunately, that is never going to happen, and Tanner knows it.
Tanner then goes on a philosophically tinged discourse, likening being born to entering a room. He observes that one must “live” and “work out [one’s soul].” He pities himself for having to do such work, but then transforming himself into the rat seeking bait, he admits that sought to marry a woman who had money.
And then he marries her for “prestige, place, or power in the world.” The reader’s likely sympathy at this point turns to disgust at the incivility of this speaker. Who seeks a woman to marry to achieve wealth and power? Only scoundrels unworthy of the very wealth and power they seek.
Third Movement: Life Requires Effort
Having discovered that all of life requires some kind of effort, he highlights his having to perform and struggle just to get to the woman in order to woo her. But to him, she is just a piece of rat bait. He must exert much effort just to get to her. But like the rat who spies a piece of cheese, he does what it takes to grasp that morsel.
After achieving his goal of marrying the woman he sought, he finds not the wealth, the power, the prestige he thought he was pursuing, but that that “ogre, Life,” is entering the room again, watching him munch at the bait, while scowling and laughing at him.
What has he achieved? Only more of that monster Life eating at him. Of course, the reader realizes that the only ogre in this lazy, evil opportunist’s life is Robert Fulton Tanner himself. He has destroyed his own life because he failed to understand honesty, sincerity, and genuine affection while striving for self-improvement.
Fourth Movement: Self-Professed Victims
Self-professed victims are all the same: someone else is to blame for their misery. They have no role in making themselves miserable. They cannot see that it is exactly what they have done that has resulted in all the misery of their lives.
The final image of Robert Fulton “[r]unning up and down in the trap” is most appropriate. But his ignorance of how he got there is the real ogre in his life. It is not God or “Life” that will become “bored” with his misery; it is his own self who will experience that boredom until he discovers a way out of it.
Paramahansa Yogananda’s “My Krishna Is Blue” reveals the chanter’s yearning for union with Krishna consciousness. He is envisioning a state beyond ordinary awareness, where the soul rises to the highest level of divine realization—self-realization.
Introduction and Text of “My Krishna Is Blue”
Paramahansa Yogananda’s “My Krishna Is Blue” is a devotional chant consisting of three movements. Through chant repetition and simplicity, the chanter dramatizes his profound love for Krishna and his longing to dwell perpetually in the Divine Presence.
The chant progresses from recognition to aspiration and finally to spiritual identification. The chanter first notices a correspondence between Krishna and the blue tamal tree, then expresses a desire to ascend to its highest branch, and finally longs to die where Krishna sat.
On the literal level, the chanter appears to be praising a tree associated with Krishna. On the mystical level, however, the imagery points beyond physical nature toward the soul’s desire to attain the exalted consciousness embodied by Krishna.
My Krishna Is Blue
My Krishna is blue; the tamal tree is blue. My Krishna is blue; The tamal tree is blue. So I do love thee, tamal tree! So I do love thee, my tamal tree!
And when I die, O Mother! Do put me high On a branch of the tamal tree, On a branch of the tamal tree.
Where Krishna sat, there I would die, Where Krishna sat, there I would die, On a branch of the tamal tree, On a branch of the tamal tree.
Commentary on “My Krishna Is Blue”
Paramahansa Yogananda’s “My Krishna Is Blue” reveals the soul’s devotion to the Divine Beloved. The chanter’s simple chant also expresses a profound spiritual aspiration toward God-union.
First Movement: “My Krishna is blue”
My Krishna is blue; the tamal tree is blue. My Krishna is blue; The tamal tree is blue. So I do love thee, tamal tree! So I do love thee, my tamal tree!
The chanter begins by establishing an identity between Krishna and the tamal tree. Both are described as blue, and that shared quality causes the chanter to regard the tree with affection and reverence.
The repetition carries the force of devotional musing rather than ordinary description. The chanter seems to be dwelling lovingly upon a spiritual correspondence that links the visible object with the Divine Reality symbolized by Krishna.
Because Krishna and the tamal tree share the same color, the tree becomes more than a botanical object. It functions as an emblem of Krishna consciousness and therefore deserves the chanter’s devotion.
The declaration—“So I do love thee, tamal tree!”—reveals that the chanter’s love for the tree derives from its association with Krishna. The affection is not directed toward matter but toward the divine presence reflected through matter.
The repeated address, “my tamal tree,” adds intimacy to the relationship. The chanter regards the tree as a sacred possession because it serves as a reminder of the beloved Lord.
Paramahansa Yogananda frequently emphasizes perceiving God’s presence throughout creation. Paramahansa Yogananda explains that divine consciousness may be perceived behind all forms, and the chanter’s vision reflects that spiritual perception.
On my literary website Linda’s Literary Home, I have discussed how poets often employ physical imagery to suggest metaphysical realities. The chanter similarly employs the visible tamal tree as a symbol pointing toward an invisible spiritual state.
The stanza therefore moves beyond literal description. Through the repeated equation of Krishna and the blue tamal tree, the chanter transforms a natural image into a symbol of divine consciousness.
Second Movement: “And when I die, O Mother!”
And when I die, O Mother! Do put me high On a branch of the tamal tree, On a branch of the tamal tree.
The second stanza shifts from recognition to aspiration. Having established the sacred significance of the tamal tree, the chanter now expresses a fervent desire regarding his own destiny.
The address to “Mother” adds emotional intensity, referring to the Divine Mother. The invocation conveys humility and dependence before a higher power. At first glance, the request appears unusual. The chanter asks to be placed “high” upon a branch of the tamal tree rather than buried or laid to rest in some conventional manner.
The word “high” becomes the stanza’s crucial term. The chanter does not merely seek proximity to the tree; he desires elevation within it. Such elevation suggests ascent rather than location. The imagery points toward a higher level of consciousness rather than a merely physical position.
The branch functions as a metaphorical rather than literal destination. To imagine a devotee sincerely wishing to have his body suspended in a tree would diminish the spiritual seriousness of the chant. Instead, the high branch symbolizes the summit of awareness. The chanter longs to rise to the highest attainable state of realization.
Paramahansa Yogananda repeatedly teaches that human consciousness may ascend from body-awareness to soul-awareness through spiritual discipline. The chanter’s longing for the highest branch harmonizes with that teaching of spiritual ascent.
On my literary website Linda’s Literary Home, I have often observed that poetry rarely states its deepest meanings directly. Through symbol and suggestion, poets allow intuition to perceive realities that ordinary language cannot adequately express. Thus the high branch becomes an image of supreme spiritual attainment. The chanter prays not for physical elevation but for the soul’s ascent into divine consciousness.
Third Movement: “Where Krishna sat, there I would die”
Where Krishna sat, there I would die, Where Krishna sat, there I would die, On a branch of the tamal tree, On a branch of the tamal tree.
The final stanza reveals the chanter’s ultimate desire. He wishes to die precisely where Krishna sat. The statement deepens the symbolic significance of the branch. It is not merely high; it is the place occupied by Krishna. If Krishna represents perfected divine consciousness, then the branch symbolizes the level of realization attained by that consciousness. The chanter longs to occupy the same spiritual station.
The repeated line intensifies the devotional yearning. The chanter does not seek worldly rewards, intellectual accomplishment, or heavenly pleasures. Instead, he desires complete identification with Krishna. The aspiration is one of union rather than admiration from a distance.
The word “die” also carries spiritual significance. Mystical literature frequently employs death as a symbol for the dissolution of ego-consciousness.The chanter therefore longs for the extinction of the limited self in the very state inhabited by Krishna. Such a death would not signify annihilation but fulfillment.
Paramahansa Yogananda teaches that the soul’s highest goal is realization of its unity with Spirit. The chanter’s desire to die where Krishna sat reflects precisely such a yearning for God-union. The repeated return to the tamal tree completes the chant’s symbolic design. What began as a blue tree associated with Krishna culminates as a metaphor for the highest spiritual center.
The chant’s simplicity is permeated with remarkable depth. Through the image of a blue tamal tree and its highest branch, the chanter dramatizes the soul’s longing to rise into Krishna consciousness and experience the liberating realization of divine union.
Linda's Literary Home 