there never has been any
glorious spellbinding
horoscope like crossroad.
just here always - the magic was never lost. born
into it.
all my ambition is not it
some
messengers chase a destination - i am a destination sent by a message
before
always after
- a second glance proves this
my
look is odd if
yours is even
but
in this case all odds are goododdly enough for all even is all processes of conversation
is this another case of mere reflection has everybody become in every direction?
is this another case of mere reflection has
everybody become in every direction?
before
we thought all is relative - and this meant
something
vague
but
i tell you this exactly we
are all related
this
is not big ticks on a ruler
this
is the wind ticking like talk - the penultimate clock – the
last must be my body
poetry
is not truth but it is more specific than math
1 comment:
"poetry is not truth but it is more specific than math"
"in the dew of little things the soul finds its morning and is refreshed" kahlil gibran on friendship
this poem reads like an index of one line says it all, but that would not be fair to its spirit, for in dispossessing itself of its exactness, though not exactness itself, (poetry is not the truth) it attains to a ineffable substance with which all letter and number finds its meaning in that which is most familiar to the human mind, that of the otherwise irreconcilable conflict of eternity and change which is the beginning and living essence before it is ever the end or the expression, the expansion, change, regeneration and change, the memory before it has even happened, each one bathed like ourselves or with ourselves, in their utter lack and fashion of independent existence, an expansion in dissolution, an ever lasting in ever passing, a sadness into inexplicable happiness, duality into a spiritual irony that has every mark of the eternal substance or God through which we move that fullness of whom lived within a relatedness and similarity in feeling profile within which, somehow, Life would have never existed at all, having been inspired by nothing less.
I am a big fan of great last lines. This poem is one long list of them, the beginning of a math or a language that may find its only equation with that which never really ends at all finding its only equation in that of the living creation and endless regeneration of new Life via formulae that can never be written down, the fullness of which were reflected by every particle of feeling with which countless combinations of letters or codes of DNA or the Dream of Life were organized in a vast epic of communication amongst all souls as with all elements within all souls. Having said that, words are more specific than math in that equation, in a living system, is a process of creation that need never end, endless combinations of life springing eternal even in the retreat of spring, notes of the Soul saddened mostly by likeness and kindness and fullness beyond words, speaking of that which cannot be said, spoken by all, although knowing something that one cannot explain why is somehow what knowing were all about, encompassing forces at once beyond our imagination and well within its every grasp, that of a commanding place amidst every unfolding of an everlasting Dream of Life electric and magnetic as the cells of our body, the particles of our feelings (thought accelerant) and the Sun of all our dreams come true.
"in the dew of little things the soul finds its morning and is refreshed" kahlil gibran on friendship
"poetry is not truth but it is more specific than math"
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