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the goatherds crooked staff
AlchemiA

Tuesday Lobsang Rampa made
 1
tea so his Third Eye could open
 2
to see dreams fortifying in aspiring hearts
 3
as they reach for the next beat in their comings and goings
 4
 
 
Socrates played the lyre by
 5
banging on the strings while
 6
humming and hawing about the trouble of
 7
always stressing and straining against the chains
 8
though he loved Phaedrus in the Symposium
 9
it was Xanthippe that made him seek a muse
 10
 
 
Hermann Hesse spoke in tongues
 11
while translating the synapses of a goatherd
 12
who arranged new ideas like glass beads
 13
which almost always came undone
 14
except when Siddartha played the lute
 15
in exchange for his crooked staff
 16
 
 
Nietzsche saw the cunning linguist
 17
would never solve the puzzle of the dead body
 18
which Zarathustra carried to his bed like a wolf
 19
where he lay dying of syphilis wrapped
 20
in the wool of many sleeping sheep
 21
 
 
Sibelius finally gave in to the seduction of despair
 22
when for many restless nights he looked up at the
 23
stars in the same Elysian fields where
 24
the goatherd lay asleep
 25
dreaming
 26

30 Jun 12

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... the root of polite is polis: But where is the teaming agora in a global-wide city of well-manner'd poets. The root word of panic is Pan…who was thought to cause mass panic when a whiff of the god's musk arrived in the agora. Academy-approved poetry refuses to delight in animal spirits. The root of "panorama" comes from the Olympian Gods who gathered around Pan and took delight in his outrageous half-god-half goat form. If political poetry does not cause a bit of musk-borne panic in the dust-clutching precincts of the academy--then there is little delight to be found in the form.
 — unknown

cool poem.  love the title and the 4th strophe especially.
 — JKWeb

Poetry is an act of actualizing self, individuating with each write, which flows out of the lowest we did fall and crawl to the highest we dared dream in the eyes of a lovers gleam - this 'lektrick muse let loose, plugged into the warmth in your chest or the chill in your bone to become words that tinker in the antics of semantics and linger on the poetics of noetics, rythm'd in time; words that smash and blush, flash and hush, dash and duck, in the neurolinguistics of your mind

I'll give the 'moan-oral' a try and I always liken'd Nietzsche to being the original cunning-linguist: an emancipated-semanticist with a philandering-philology of ontology path-dependent on desire -- imagine the Übermensch trying to quench his thirst for power with nihilism -- nonetheless, these writers write and I remember reading each of them and listening to Sibelius -- writing is a way to emerge from the cocoon of learnt metaphor clusters which we garnered from other writers and philosophers, so that our own wings of imagination, though fractaly path-dependent, but meant to navigate to new worlds we wept-of before, when we lost so much more than we felt we could endure, unfold fer sure and wing us to the fire like the moth to flame -- so, this bookmark of writers gleans my left-write brain-stays and even Heinlein, that right-wing hack, made credible sojourns for my becoming young mind -- a shadow hangs over me 'cause yesterday came suddenly, in the books that I read, reverberating inside my head ...

I'd like to hack-through this Gordian-knot with the steel of reason-true -- but that's what I'm telling you, the reader - when you think about anything you're in the point-of-view you're in, which is more-or-less than the sum of all you've heard and read, inside your head - then you go somewhere and develop it according to the nerves in you, plugged into the warmth in your chest or the gnawing in your gut, or the cold in your bone, which is transmitted to your pen over and over again -- so the goatherd is simple, representing the quiet of a naturally rhythmic life filled with silence and peace, the pause of emptiness wherein the sound of dreams begin - which these writers and philosophers longed for, i.e., to become the noble-savage watching ripples on Walden's pond...
 — AlchemiA

Poetry (writing) is an act of actualizing self, individuating with each write, which flows out of the lowest we did fall and crawl to the highest we dared dream inside of the eyes of a lovers gleam - this 'lektrick muse let loose, plugged into the warmth in your chest or the chill in your bone to become words that tinker in the antics-of-semantics and linger on the poetics-of-noetics, rythm'd in time; words that smash and blush, flash and hush, dash and duck, in the neurolinguistics of your mind.

I'll often give the 'moan-oral' a try and I've always liken'd Nietzsche to being the original cunning-linguist: an emancipated-semanticist with a philandering-philology of ontology path-dependent upon desire -- imagine the Übermensch trying to quench his thirst for power with nihilism -- nonetheless, these writers write and I remember reading each of them and listening to Sibelius -- writing is a way to emerge from the cocoon of learnt metaphor clusters which we've garnered from other writers and philosophers, so that our own wings of imagination, though fractaly path-dependent, are meant to navigate to new worlds we wept-of before, when we lost so much more than we felt we could endure, which unfold, for sure, and wing us to our inner fire like a moth to flame -- so, this bookmark of writers above gleans my left-write brain game, and even Heinlein, that right-wing hack, made credible sojourns for my becoming young mind -- a shadow hangs over me 'cause yesterday came suddenly, from the books that I read, reverberating inside my head ...

I'd like to hack-through this Gordian-knot with the steel of reason-true -- however that's what I'm telling you, the reader - when you think about anything you're in the point-of-view you're in, which is more-or-less than the sum of all you've heard and read, inside your head - then you go somewhere and develop it according to the nerves in you, plugged into the warmth in your chest, or the gnawing in your gut, or the cold in your bone, which is transmitted to your pen over and over again -- so the goatherd is simple, representing the quiet of a naturally rhythmic life filled with silence and peace, the pause of emptiness where the sound of dreams begin - which all of these writers and philosophers longed for, i.e., to become the noble-savage watching ripples glimmer on Walden's pond...

Nonetheless,

Good poetry helps us to know we're not alone. Great poetry provides a looking-glass showing us that we're the answer.
 — AlchemiA

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