The Blake Mistake
Henri took Ginsberg to St. George’s, Everton,
chill church interior constructed of cast iron:
iron columns, vaulted ribs, window tracery,
all transported via horse-drawn dray from
Cragg’s Forge, Toxteth. As they emerged
from the iron cathedral, the scribes laughed
to see “Blake Street,” reminded of William Blake,
eighteenth century poet, madman, artist: unaware
the street name derived not from the Tyger man
who had warned of England’s dark satanic mills,
but Cromwell's ironsided admiral, Robert Blake.
Each cherished the talismanic moment in his heart;
William Blake’s ghost fertilized his muse to the root.
By Christopher T. George