In a samba house party Linda meets the man she left
Years ago——stalwart, tanned face with feminine eyes;
His charming smiles work to conceal a heart bereft
But his feminine eyes have betrayed his lies.
They dance around the house in a choo-choo train
As if 1994 never happened... until the music calms...
Linda has moved on but to him Linda's scent will remain
The sweetest breeze under the Brazilian palms.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
"Linda"
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
The use of poetry as reconciliation
When we were younger, one of our utmost desires was to explore the world around us, and having been acquainted with it, to rationalize what we couldn't understand (which was everything).
As we age and still have yet to understand what we couldn't rationalize fully, but have since been forced to reconcile with the oddities (which, again, is everything), we turn a corner and suddenly discover a whole new realm for exploration that we have been ignoring: the being by whom we judge all things—the inner-self; and so begins the hardest task in life.
Though we could reconcile with the world, we could not reconcile ourselves, for we are beings caught in time and are not in any instant fully ourselves. The burden of a moral being is a burden of reconciling with the knowledge of the implications of death and its imposed restrictions, therefore a burden from immortality; for no problem could be solved except beyond the level at which it was conceived.
Making poetry is an inherent ability of a moral being and only of a moral being. We couldn't be more wrong to suppose that it is an artistry restricted only to a chosen breed among us, for contrary to common misconceptions poetry-making is a procurable craft much like any other, and its works, like works of all other true crafts, ought to be produced out of necessity rather than individual flair—this I learned from Rilke's letters and from personal experience both. So poetry that comes forth from the inevitability of the inner-being's fullness—or more accurately, wakefulness—acts as a reconciliation simply and only by embracing the questions, as Rilke recommends, though the reconciliation is only a luminary by night, or a mirror that confirms one's shabbiness—it reflects what's under suspicion without even beginning to rectify.
So what good is a well if we are not to drink from it? This is a question that can only be rightly answered by those who truly benefit from the work; to be exact, the poet himself. Though poetry has a role as a medium between poet and reader, I believe that is only peripheral to its other truer function, which is to provide solace (and not even really joy when the subject of a particular piece of work calls for it) to the one making it. For when the heart is glad with songs, the best poetry that captures its moments does nothing to add to the poet's pleasure; a heart that is made joyous needs not to be told that it is so. But if a poetry is lucid enough to capture the poet's grief, grief—for want of attention pays attention—shall be transformed into a special kind of knowing that transcends the question itself and shall point to something greater that has yet been reached. Poetry that is used thus reflects much more accurately the state of the human condition and is worth much, even when ill-conceived.
As we age and still have yet to understand what we couldn't rationalize fully, but have since been forced to reconcile with the oddities (which, again, is everything), we turn a corner and suddenly discover a whole new realm for exploration that we have been ignoring: the being by whom we judge all things—the inner-self; and so begins the hardest task in life.
Though we could reconcile with the world, we could not reconcile ourselves, for we are beings caught in time and are not in any instant fully ourselves. The burden of a moral being is a burden of reconciling with the knowledge of the implications of death and its imposed restrictions, therefore a burden from immortality; for no problem could be solved except beyond the level at which it was conceived.
Making poetry is an inherent ability of a moral being and only of a moral being. We couldn't be more wrong to suppose that it is an artistry restricted only to a chosen breed among us, for contrary to common misconceptions poetry-making is a procurable craft much like any other, and its works, like works of all other true crafts, ought to be produced out of necessity rather than individual flair—this I learned from Rilke's letters and from personal experience both. So poetry that comes forth from the inevitability of the inner-being's fullness—or more accurately, wakefulness—acts as a reconciliation simply and only by embracing the questions, as Rilke recommends, though the reconciliation is only a luminary by night, or a mirror that confirms one's shabbiness—it reflects what's under suspicion without even beginning to rectify.
So what good is a well if we are not to drink from it? This is a question that can only be rightly answered by those who truly benefit from the work; to be exact, the poet himself. Though poetry has a role as a medium between poet and reader, I believe that is only peripheral to its other truer function, which is to provide solace (and not even really joy when the subject of a particular piece of work calls for it) to the one making it. For when the heart is glad with songs, the best poetry that captures its moments does nothing to add to the poet's pleasure; a heart that is made joyous needs not to be told that it is so. But if a poetry is lucid enough to capture the poet's grief, grief—for want of attention pays attention—shall be transformed into a special kind of knowing that transcends the question itself and shall point to something greater that has yet been reached. Poetry that is used thus reflects much more accurately the state of the human condition and is worth much, even when ill-conceived.
Monday, August 06, 2007
"That We Are Like Fire"
That we are like Fire,
lithe and flaxen, wielding in the wind;
joy is a city gate rising
from the horizon, smiling
at the abandoned feet...
Behold a people in Akedia's bed...
None will each upon themselves take
the city by David's lyre——
yet when the city bathes in Fire,
from Goliath's ashes rise.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
"Those Who Wait"
Under the arc of night perpetual
are you lying wide awake,
waiting for the silver-break
to claim its triumph eventual?
Are you one of those who weep
over fate's betrayal upon entry;
beauty lost in gallantry;
a wound that cuts too deep?
Don't you know that those who wait
will reap the fruits of suff'ring long?——
Love distills in them a mourner's song
and then arrives——not a day too late.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Lately I've been moonshining
Judging from the number of poems I've been whipping up in the past month, it looks like troubles are calling again. Pleasure and pain had never mingled so intricately before, and as much as I would like to chronicle the whole experience, experience itself has forbidden all attempts to answer the questions it poses, except, through the words of Rilke, "to live them."
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