writing

"The business of the poet is not to find new emotions, but to use the ordinary ones and, in working them up into poetry, to express feelings which are not in actual emotions at all. And emotions which he has never experienced will serve his turn as well as those familiar to him. Consequently, we must believe that 'emotion recollected in tranqulity' is an inexact formula . . . Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things." ~ T.S. Eliot


as for me, writing is an entering into other thoughtscapes, emotions and dimensions, rather than it is an expression of something.

it also is other dimensions entering into me - the writing is the journey, is the trip (of both, me and the words), and it is the process of writing itself that creates the emotion, the altered state of consciousness.

it's more an in than an ex.... an "into" rather than an "out of".

i'm not letting it out - i'm letting myself in...
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amaryllis

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ambiguity

watch yourself
leave yourself behind
in the eye of the crow

light your feathers
wrap yourself in sweet bark
and unravel the scrolls
of other times

let lose the canvas
of your whispering tent;
sun-drunk like seed
you must close
the shutters of the sky

the labyrinthine heart
keeps distance
as something lost
becomes a spark
followed through dust

in shades of dunes
the sift of sand
speaks braille

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schrödinger's hatbox

imagine isaac newton, erwin schrödinger, and george berkeley standing around the cat box, discussing the cat's nature.

newton would say "a cat is a cat is a cat". schrödinger would speak of a 50:50 cat. and berkeley would claim that there was no cat at all, since nobody perceived it at that very moment.

the absolute cat, the potential cat, and the no-cat.

and upon opening the lid, what would they see?
a cat in a hat.
meow!



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the only sun

"The existentialist…finds it extremely embarrassing that God does not exist, for there disappears with Him all possibility of finding values in an intelligible heaven. There can no longer be any good a priori, since there is no infinite and perfect consciousness to think it. It is nowhere written that “the good” exists, that one must be honest or must not lie, since we are now upon the plane where there are only men. Dostoevsky once wrote "if God did not exist, everything would be permitted"; and that, for existentialism, is the starting point. Everything is indeed permitted if God does not exist, and man is in consequence forlorn, for he cannot find anything to depend upon either within or outside himself. He discovers forthwith, that he is without excuse. For if indeed existence precedes essence, one will never be able to explain one’s action by reference to a given and specific human nature; in other words, there is no determinism — man is free, man is freedom. Nor, on the other hand, if God does not exist, are we provided with any values or commands that could legitimise our behaviour. Thus we have neither behind us, nor before us in a luminous realm of values, any means of justification or excuse. — We are left alone, without excuse. That is what I mean when I say that man is condemned to be free. Condemned, because he did not create himself, yet is nevertheless at liberty, and from the moment that he is thrown into this world he is responsible for everything he does."
Jean-Paul Sartre





we wander on primary rocks
doing ancient things with archaic instinct
realizing old ideas we think are new

on untrodden paths we walk
searching for a place to rest
demanding peace with archetypal struggle
and a primal scream

flowing with the real tides of existence
reaching into an underground
beyond guise, hate or love
thirsting for and demanding meaning
entering into the unescapable truth and squalor
of our own being

a warm thrilling voice crying out hallelujah!
god father, show your face!
or must it finally be acknowledged
we are all orphans?
standing in the dark midnight of existence
knowing we are all alone?

it is a jungle of pain and happiness
we stagger through
dewdrops on our feet
and on our forehead beads of sweat

and as we walk deeper into the forest
breathing its intensive spice
listening to the murmur of leaves
we lean back our head
and see pieces of celestial blue
and a glittering far up in the treetops

and we know what we see there
is the sun -
the only one
we have

and stepping out of the forest
our amazement turns into joy

Masked

desert rose

drifting like plankton among the shadows of passing spells,
wrapped in blue sheets of transience,
moonlight on brows and elbows,
tiptoeing through a stranger's dream -

a story without ending, sweet and hot
like turkish coffee served
in tiny cups filled anew forever.

letters written with white ink flow, pressed
out of erect nipples, unread and stored
in shirt pockets close to the heart - if i looked
through them in my dreams, would the heat of my sands
create form from your salt and tears?

beyond the concrete of all considerations, you are
arching over me your rainbow,
fool's gold and colours of everything to come;
skin exposed to the sound of night,
eyes like heartbeat grazing bodies sore with life,
spread out beneath the fresco ceiling,
dancing slowly,
meeting, parting, touching,
in an ancient rhythm of blue.

silent, be silent, but
swallow me into you,
lest the cool air finds any space between us -
let silence potentialize, radiate, while the thunder
of the city is screaming in the night of chosen destiny,
giving birth to a desert rose of forgotten sand.

.

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