|twins: two wise us match
it beckons --
the oblivious sea
for that vessel
drops of time --
we've been [t]here twice
we've grown twice as much
we are its center
leaving traces of mind
who would know
how these fulls
that time is
time and again
we wake and slumber
to the same hunger
that only leaves
in autumn, support
in winter, when we huddle
in spring, when we recoil
just enough for that sunny
o u t b r e a k ofsummer
when we butterfly
we do these things
we sail to the shore
and back to the source
paving the journey
for fools rushing in.
for my sweetest bestest friend
and soulmate, Diana Jiganie.
H KNUD XNT with all my being.
17 Nov 09
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Very nice poem. I'm not sure about the punctuation thing and if the effect is any different than without. Good feelings
very sincere while carrying sentiment beyond indulgence. the way it's written points us out and to the stars, our thoughts speeding as fast as your speeding stars and into a corona around you and your friend in friendship. the way you've written this forces me to become your thought, and i think with you and, in order to, have to find the feelings you have and the way you see.
good use of time-spacing in line 21, and the brackets are classic internal thought markers and used at just the right place -- as though, to ourselves, we look around outward, while turning inward from the poem.
your friend is gifted to have you as a friend.
noticing john's comment, i can't help but feel that it's up to us to learn to read the author's grammar -- that the way of writing IS the poem, and carries us in its arms and works just as it does because it shows the author's consciousness and emotion.
below the surface of 'i'll say something nice', which is the given move in noodling, and, that's mostly the move for PC writing, there's the actual looking at to whom you're saying something nice for: to become the reader and give to the reader all of yourself and in the only way you can. and, most certainly, a poem to a friend, shared with us too, is going to be in a special language and dialect. that this one transcends that space and carries us to another space of love and universal truth is un.use.u.al, and works my poetry consciousness as i learn to read the grammar of "twins: two wise us match", written on an english-language base, but with its own way of saying.
a dedicational that works!
you are both very fortunate
very cool poem-
though did you want a space
between 'of' and 'summer' in line 33 or was that intentional?
jake web, did you notice how he broke outbreak into space separated letters? so, that's a slow down motion, and the quick of summer as, ofsummer is encapsulated into uvsumer and made into a new concept -- not, 'mee no summertime' but the brilliance and warmth 'of summer', but written in poetry grammar. so, did you not know how to read a poem in this way -- for the phrases and wordings -- or is it that you thought he shouldn't 'rit rong like a hillbilly'? actually, he's musicalizing the conversational moves of language and returning it back as music without melody.
beautiful poem about soulmates
i just love l 7 to 38
Thank you for it from all my soul.
I really like this piece. Frac: you are a true weaver of words and I always feel that I have visited a special place when I read your work, as I have here.
nice-fRact in seasonal acts for tWo or is it a duality etude dude -- both it seems and the seeming is fractured with reality spattered in pretty patterns that only fools rush bye
thanks very much. i think a friend of mine
commented on one of your posts and told
me you were writing in some style of some period
in the past.
it's interesting to hear it from him and i will check
that piece of yours soon.
i've been looking at this piece for its punctuation
and can't seem to find anything to change about
it yet. if i did change it, though, it would read very
differently to me and most prolly get it back to the
way it used to be.
that's exactly how i wrote this piece and i feel very strongly about it.
it seems, too, that your early comment here evolved into some very
interesting thread on time. you're a very sensitive, attentive, sharp
guy, mike. i tell a friend of mine who's an old poet here you're serious
about poetry/writing/art, but you know how most people react to you
because your comments come off as roundabout to them most of the
time. i can't understand many stuff you say myself but maybe he should
spend more than just 15 seconds with you to know you better, but i don't
worry about that so much -- he introduced me here and is one of if not
the coolest guy[s] i've known outside PC.
anyway, a poem-moment is a rare occasion that i find myself into from
time to time. i wrestled with my sleeplessness trying to finish this piece
after getting stuck at the end of |6. i could've sustained the tone of voice
in those first lines onto |7 and all the way down, sounding too self-indulgently
trippy and insincere, but it's not how i felt really. those opening lines represent
the mood i was in and |7 was just a voice shift of sorts.
i used 'time' here in different instances which hopefully have individually
different meanings. and, i'd already told you elsewhere that it's for my girl
on our 2nd anniversary. the rest is something i don't have to talk about any
longer as you've already covered that for me.
and, i am very very lucky to find a soulmate in her. it's like finding a poem
or finally writing a poem after some failed serious relationships or a long
time of poem-writing practice.
thanksgiving may be over now, but i thank her for coming into my life.
and you, of course, for being a true and passionate poet/artist and friend.
thank you for the kind words.
i am very fortunate to have her
and she tells me the same thing.
i used weaving there to keep it
consistent with the W sound of
that particular stanza. 'dream
sketch' is not a bad idea, though,
but would change the feel and look
of this piece if i were to use it.
thanks again for dropping by.
i think that some intuition -- some deep but unexplainable -- idea of time might come out of a poem as an after thought, an understanding, after or during the reading of a poem, but there's nothing called 'time' which you can write a poem to, without either going into everyday kinds of talking about, 'the time it took to wash up and go down to supper'. but, if you were to write about how your hands were dirty from working, and wondering if that's what kept millie from loving you, and how much you had to scrub and it wasn't enough, then i think people might have this idea that 'no time would be long enough to make her a pure heart worthy of you'. 'time' would just be a second notion, though it would be the most significant. but, writing 'time is but a stream i go a fishing in' -- which is thoreau or emerson or some wise thing like that, is just bull-shit, and would better be put, 'my ego doesn't allow me to be distracted by small things like other people's lives'. and, the mystical tradition is actually not metaphysical, is always talking about the big-calendar cosmic cyclic times, where it's believed that there will come back around a world destroying planet and an end of ( that particular era ) 'time'.
my dearest nisetru,
anything and everything for you.
happy [2nd] anniversary.
H KNUD XNT with my whole being.
that was quite a quick comeback, mike.
yeah, and as humans, how else can we allude to that
intuition or experience or concept if not by talking
about ordinary earthly circumstances -- an act pretty
much akin to the personification of Gawd.
a poem invents some viable reality for time as much
as 'omniscient' does for 'Gawd'.
reading a poem and being in the poem would be like
being in a cosmic pause while still hearing and seeing
that ticking of that clock that sprung from nowhere --
time as a second notion, yes.
time is a notion altered on the spot, an invertendo dalliance of what you thought, a remembrance of what you were before, a supposition and nothing more; it's one of the superstitions of science that Academicians pontificate to screw with the fluid minds of folks swimming in that river of light, that insight that time is less when you find your thrill on blueberry hill and so much more when you dive deep into the melody, yet lingers not for you and me
mike and Alc,
it always seems to boil down to a very cliched realization that it's
all mind stuff. as poets, we set up these markers and guides for
other minds to anchor unto in trying to see things as we do -- and
we expect them to do so -- by reading the/our poem as if reading
our thought processes or mind-wanderings. sensing or sensation is
something we share with our readers and through hybrid eyes on
sensing connotes duration and is how long we hold or process a thought
or image or feeling, which may extend and evolve into an altogether
different thought process in the reader when a certain level of curiosity
is spawned. a specific poem is always bound to elicit a specific response
and the markers in it, i.e. the same word or consonant or vowel sound
repeated, create a unique sonic pattern that poetry readers and poets
alike aesthetically respond to. we would never know how a tree senses
or cognates things in nature although it may be the poem we're writing
about -- a poem is only possible because of our humanness, which allowed
us the faculty of recognition and appreciation of things within and without
us, in the first place.
the poem is always we, or, arbitrarily, is a part of us.
time or life as it is may be an illusion but what is a non-illusion?
we draw the line, we create reality, and thoughts are real
in the duration we are allowed to have or observe them --
poetry is life or the mind leaving traces of the notes it has
made along the way of its sporadic reality checks --
snap shots, glimpses, time-warps and light-bendings.
poets are just bound to dream and write.
thank you for commenting on and liking this.
sorry for not coming back to you soon here
or in other pieces of mine you might've
but, what if it's not dreaming -- what if it's the creation of language itself and what you've made is a part of nature?? as real as a wood carving is real? and, that, no matter how you interpret your poem or how anyone else does, the poem stays as it is and exists on many levels...? looking at the poem, you look at yourself, and the more you live with the poem the closer you'll come to going back to that state of existence you were in when you wrote it: which was the pure and innocent state of self expression. others have to be hit by flaming arrows or fall from a bridge or watch someone die, to be able to express so purely -- scream into the void -- and, we don't scream, we sing, and what we sign sounds like 'us'.
but, what if it's not dreaming -- what if it's the creation of language itself and what you've made is a part of nature?? as real as a wood carving is real? and, that, no matter how you interpret your poem or how anyone else does, the poem stays as it is and exists on many levels...? looking at the poem, you look at yourself, and the more you live with the poem the closer you'll come to going back to that state of existence you were in when you wrote it: which was the pure and innocent state of self expression. others have to be hit by flaming arrows or fall from a bridge or watch someone die, to be able to express so purely -- scream into the void -- and, we don't scream, we sing, and what we sing sounds like 'us'.
you're right, mike, that's how it is for me. but i just notice being
dreamy to be a very distinct trait in most artists. they day-dream
most of the time and even dream in their dreams at night.
it just requires some kind of poet mind as a palette for these poems --
and how many kinds of poet minds are there? we can't always get it
right in every write we do no matter how soulful we sing in it. maybe
it happens very often for some.
only line that is weak for me is line 11. i fall out of the poem at that point (the eye pulls me back in but just barely)
what if, instead, the 'dreamy' part is the body shutting down and the mind assuming the body's normal functions -- extending into space, sensing, taking care of biological business in a symbolic way -- as an exchange of symbol instead of exchanging DNA? the poet isn't passive to life, when he dreams, he's actually creating life in his own image -- not just the 'what if i...', but even the envisioning of any world out there is a creative act out of nothing but impressions. the dream-image -- in this case the imagination -- is more vivid than reality because reality is hardly ever seen so close up and within your powers of observation.
the poem is a look at what cannot be seen -- it's not a refinement of rationality or a trip to the zoo on the back of an aardvark.... being held in the arms of your dad and thrown to the sea lion.
aren't we all just the figment of gawd's imagination?
and we are creative like he. we create in the same
manner and there seems to be a subtle schism there
between the poet and the poem in the sense that a
poet is only a poet when he's so much into imagining
other worlds or writing a poem -- what remains after
that act and after that moment is just this person who
is reading a poem by his alter-ego just moments ago
and then he just becomes an absentee gawd after he
is done with all the revisions and editing.
a poem is sinless and perfect and exists on many
levels and never dies -- timeless.
what time did you do the elecTrik-jerk into dream seeing yourself as radial lightening enlightening-up again -- you know that jerk just between now and asleep where the body rests and the mind reaches theoretical-less-satori as an elecTrik-coursing of shock'n'awe -- it's called a Hypnic Jerk where all the muscles contract suddenly and violently and for some reason dreams of falling may occur -- what time did you jerk or fall if at all? what jerk did time make you become under the cycles of Moon 'n Sun? when you slept in a tree dreaming of the hunt did your brain disengage your body for awhile while you learnt to prey in a new style? -- what kind of jerk did you do, the Hypnic Jerk? When you go to sleep at night your brain paralyses your body to stop you acting out all your dreams with this ‘sleep paralysis’ which evolved when we slept in trees, so as not to be acting out your dreams whilst sleeping high up in the branches -- those branches of 'lectricity that scatter my mind in the sky, waywayup inside
saying that we're a figment is to say that we're real, and if we're real, what's our dimension? and, dimension is to travel over a surface for a duration, and that's the time thing, the illusion made real, that something is which is continuing and builds in our mind and in reality as 'there'. since god is our imagination, isn't it that we're creating everything we see and experience through our creative ability? all of us, i mean -- the guy opening the pack of cigarettes knows what's inside and how to unwrap and what to do with what he finds... normal repetition... but, there's always the possibility of an accident. and, in the way things work, he'll be talking to his buddy at lunch and hearing about the game and just opening the pack, no? but, that depends on how into hearing about the game he's at. there's this two time things at once, 'paying attention and looking like it', and 'keeping a distance and still being there'; while, the two time things of 'opening the pack' and 'is there a problem?' -- and, what part of 'figment of god's imagination' is playing here? because, it's ok to have a game played on every single level, if 'god' means 'that which is everything'. but, what, in all that, is the most important thing god wants out of this? to hear about how the packers lost? and, the poem itself -- it doesn't belong to us after we write it -- it's as you say, that it's pure and all -- but, it wasn't made of pure poem stuff: the poem is a shaping from broken bits and shaped into a complete whole. my argument is that that particular shape depends on the poet's unique to himself and no other poet way of shaping it. no two poems are alike, but the real poem could be written again and work the same gestures because the real subject of the poem is the way mind projects onto other minds. there's only one unique way this happens for each of us... it's not like we're all going to have the same reaction to the same things -- some of us won't even see what's real to someone else. that's the 'subjective' part of it, but the only subjective part: when you see something, it's seen by you alone -- no one, when it comes down to actually confronting the alien world of life, can see for you. if god, then we are not god. if we're not god, then we have to figure out what's going on.
ignore the idiot bauer.
our impressions can be broken down to the atomic level -- even further if
you will... to the pure stuff level? this 'pure stuff', as a concept, can only be
true in the context of conceptualizing [it] and ultimately for that purpose
alone. hence, 'conceptualizing a pure thing' is a creative process done in the
image of or by virtue of a need which is what?
'creating in his image' is in a sense creating a replica of a state of being.
a poem, in effect, is a map or outline of our consciousness taking the form
of some psycho-biological condition. but, before a [creative] process takes
effect or before any kind of action is taken or made to move by who or
whatever agent of action, there's this state of immobility, colorlessness,
inaction, namelessness, formlessness, absence of discrimination and
judgment, etc. -- again, we can conceive of that state as a 'concept' and
that makes anything, at all, able to exist without having to need a dimension,
but with us necessarily discounting the mind -- our very own mind, most likely --
that originally conceived the idea.
so, now what is the purest poem in this case? is it when a poet has said
or written everything he could and ends up with a blank poem with a blank
title this time? is it the pure moment when he becomes the pure poem himself...
in this perfect merging instance?
and, why does the mind have the tendency to allude to that which is pure?
mind is we and we are gawd, not necessarily needing to know what's
going on although we have the tendency.
we just can't help it.
one very pragmatic thing is that you can break down these mental concepts, complex concepts, into their atomic components -- like, take the parents out of 'family' and then take 'mom' out and write purely about her.
at the most honest level, it's not even you and 'god' or you and 'you' -- it's just the voice out of the wilderness writing a poem.
our reality as poets can only extend up to that point then, that
instance being our very honest moment of creation.
what do you see beyond that wall?
nothing of as much importance?
you see the force holding the wall together and you trip on that -- it's like when an inane melody holds your head -- you simply start listening to it in your head, and you see the motifs in the melody and work them outside the melody and back into where they came from or where they can go. you compose yourself out of that trap.
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does anyone else know any other mean practice for
salvation? drug me, dear unk, or better yet, drag me
out of an illusory illusion.
i can feel your pain -- really. i know you got shoes
a size smaller than your fetus.
the only salvation is to create your own myth from your own understanding of the things you personally have lived -- including books and music you've lived too. borrowing someone's mantra is like sitting in a concert hall in NYC with 3000 fervently meditating Manhattanites and one thin guru on a platform.
so the fetus already knows stuff he should before his
nike shox gets delivered?
how weird and swooshed is that?
the race goes to whomever actually finishes. as they say, it's not what you are, it's what you do in life that makes you real.
lucky unborn fetuses.
"with fractal wings"
happy 3rd anniversary,
H KNUD XNT.
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