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With something to say on Poetry

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  • With something to say on Poetry

    Poetry becomes a beacon, a method with infinite forms and styles and possibilities-- able to camouflage into any medium. The word itself 'poetic' can bring stark stillness into being, flagrant with past touch enflamed once again. It defends itself but destroys itself, furthering some presumptive 'evolution' through some pedagogic stages, --in short, I fall in love with 'qualities' or perspectives; trapped in amber, moments forever. Defying time and sense and reason, altogether. How I suddenly discover the second instance of discovery; and that is it, 'nirvana' is the flame which died, turned to nothingness.
    Things, strong Gods, the wind has brothers and sisters. I exhale perfumed stringencies, my finger runs along these rifts in reality. It is queer, because to something so utterly incapable of love at times-- I myself know my own faults best (worst)-- something moves out of the way. And for all I know it is into something better, that with tilted face and chin, I face the light oncoming. Somehow wrong.
    I am more like the paper than the message. On the sea I am the billions of broken tons of glass, all dumped once, forth upon the bleeding sea. Coils of strange lights fixed to the bottom of the sea, you can see them from such a distance, at the murky surface; brilliant circles cones of light, down there, waving beautiful and candescent. How many leagues beneath the sea. As if expecting an answer. Breeding ... mutating shapes ... metallic painful tasting beauty. Touch my molten core. The devil knows me well. The waxing and waning moon. The devil is a girl. I know you so well. The two of us make shadows even at night even without any light switched on. Simply being. Thought's love, and love's thought, wrapped and swathed, somehow larger than it was before: it knows you. Somehow, it dreams without eyes, it would rather see you.

    Keys and locks to underground places.
    I am afraid sometimes, too.
    It's a large world, we are so small, even a little
    snake could kill us with its bite.
    A spider smaller than a finger will kill
    And even after death its mark is left, I don't know why.

    Pleading towards a tomorrow in the grasps, I wake
    Like suburban tragedy sneaking suspiciously through the door--
    No, not Heaven or paradise, but my silent center
    Evoking what the punishment and reward do to me; itself.
    It knows the secret language of rhythms of the heart
    And the melt and thaw of the continents ...

    Little by little I awake. To the things I ponder beautiful,
    To which I give myself, which in turn I am changed by, and from,
    Into the other being I end up staying with. You,
    Even if you are given a name or remember one, that
    is wrong. Neither do I deserve to have a name.
    I'd rather leave like the wind, and somehow not repeat
    At all as I go my merry way through the contoured world.

    With eyes that roll past the hills of forever,
    And an eye which flirts as beautiful as a succulent flower--

    Poetry swallows up the tastebuds, and lets loose the winds to defeat the distance, silence, stillness, --everything at once. It knows no wrong which can't be better, and its sole liberty lies in the break down of 'time' ... The personality enshrouds within everything such that its living imprint upon the forms, as dust and general vapor, is quickly dismissed. We choose or not to hold our breath; i'd rather not worry about my breathing. Though sometimes it helps.
    Afraid of the thunder, yet tantalized by the thought of something worse than fear. I turn inwards upon myself, and without a face to identify, I can 'shell'.
    I can be my other self. Dangerous game, pieces of me warring in the four directions. My torn flesh is sundered, and the pink foam stains the lips of the things which kill me. Over and over. The nightmare I found shook my living core. The truth against lies. My being pitted against the ephemeral sunrise. Was I afraid?

    In a straight line, my muse, you form unto the singly woven tapestries. You spill color in a queer vernacular, gesticulating silent. Repeated gesture, access genuine amotion via scripted circuit. The words I remember, an idea, "a habit of being will take over especially when a new situation arises. At any time the tendency to fall into old habits is present within us." The paint which flowed via brush and dried upon the wall is now flaking. A baby gets sick from eating the chips.
    My lungs began hurting because I was moving so fast. Somethings do matter the most. I've left parts, too. Islands that float or vanish. Ultimately, it's the re-envisioned "paragon" the archetype of freedom. A wheel, completed. All the successive stages that went into developing ... and the forms platonic which confound the natural world. Possibly unnatural. I begin to think of things happening like music together. They accord and strengthen the resonance they share. It is somewhat of an entrainment, and qualities are brought out ... majestic symphonies of lashing waving liquid light stream. Fear provides a first offering. By chance, some sense. ... Poetry is a daze of a familiar, nostalgic fit of

    Something new ... something we can say is "new to us". We'll say we're poets because we read and enjoy poetry. And sometimes more. ...
    Last edited by amenOra; 11-30-2017, 09:39 PM.

  • #2
    What a rich cascade of insights, amenOra, studded with stars. Thank you for sharing this.


    • amenOra
      amenOra commented
      Editing a comment
      Yes and thanks once more for the consideration and time spent upon my writings.
      I have been finding the truth of throwing myself into my work, --I could call it the opposite of work, if work isn't deemed enjoyable...

      But I write more than I post at any one site. It is a treat to share my thoughts, little shades of my days, ideals of futures.

      When I write I feel like I am well, usually whole, in control. The idea of switch addiction applies, as I have addictive tendencies. Writing and reading are so wholesome, the idea of giving back in motion.

      Anyway, McKenna said he at times feared dying of astonishment. I want that feeling!

      Everything in measure, right.

      Thanks for reading, and bearing with me.

  • #3
    Astonishing! Yes that is the perfect word for your writing.


    • amenOra
      amenOra commented
      Editing a comment
      a poet is a lover of words
      I have heard
      it is our business to
      choose the
      correct ones

      the talent on this site
      is great

  • #4
    Wow. My thoughts went down many paths as the words spun through me. What your thoughts must have done as you wrote this. Choosing words is easy, it's how you choose to use them or not that can be hard. Thank you, amenOra!
    Last edited by Muttado1sb; 12-03-2017, 08:47 PM.


    • #5
      It's as if you can't possibly contain the wonder. And why should you?


      • amenOra
        amenOra commented
        Editing a comment
        I like that. And it is very true, I like to burst my confetti seams!