A POEM TO ENGENDER THE UNIVERSE!

* DRAGONFLY RIDDLE *

2007-01-31T14:23:00.000+02:00

MARGATNEP EHT EDISNI

STHGUOHT ETULOSSID YM FO

DROW EHT SREVOH

ROMA LASREVINU FO

ELCRIC EHT EDISTUO

STNAW HSIFLES YM FO

TOOR EHT SEVIRHT

NOTAMMARGARTET FO

~ INCARNATION

2006-07-06T13:56:00.000+03:00

~ THRASHING

2006-06-29T12:33:00.000+03:00

~ I.D.

2006-05-30T18:41:00.000+03:00

~ NOW, I HOPE

2006-05-25T18:35:00.000+03:00

ENDOMETRIOSIS

2006-05-20T18:46:00.000+03:00

...but now the birthing pains...

A 4-hand composition in 4 movements
by Renu & Daubmir
I am swept into the core of existence
from which all things arise and
into which all things converge

I am churned by the waves of light
and the husk of worldly wisdom parts
revealing the core of my soul

I am atomised into molecules of love
where satisfaction cannot reside
and despair mutilates the senses

I am hurled into the temple of fire
where my dusts are burned
And the true splendor of love disclosed

TRIANGLE

2006-05-20T07:02:00.000+03:00

side One:

~ INVERSIFICATION

side Two:

~ RECURRENT INTERMENT

side Three:

~ SEEING

~ L'ENFANT ABDIQUE SON EXSTASE...

2006-05-18T00:24:00.000+03:00

- MAIS L'HOMME N'ABDIQUE PAS

je te prie de m'écouter

The power of man's imagination is greater than all the poisons –
No need for cocaine. Everything is a drug for the man
Who chooses to live on the other side.

~ PROTEAN TRIALS: HEPTAGRAM

2006-05-17T23:55:00.000+03:00

1. Floored Rhyme In Pondering State

Very clearly I remember
As each separate dying ember
Wrought its ghost upon the floor
In my last bleak December.

Vainly I had sought
The hopeful morrow
Deep in darkness of all sorrows -
Doubting, dreaming
Peering, steering
Away from long inner fearing,
But the silence was unbroken
And the stillness gave no token.

Then my soul
From out that shadow
Got engaged in a new guessing
But no syllable expressing:
This and that I sat divining
With my head at ease reclining
And the pallid bust of Pallas
Just above my studio door
Threw its beauty on the floor.

2. Forming Thought

There is the end
And the means,
Which is the prescribed task:
One can rise
Above the heaviest leaden clouds
To touch luminous taut pellicles
Of mental ceilings,
Translucent forces
In delicate abandon
For the final luxury
Of a promised achievement.

3. Semantic Hill

It makes no difference
Whether I write or not:
Words will look for
Other meanings,
Even in my silence.
That's how they are,
Blind to revelation
Deriving another obscure theory
And spending another eternity
Trying to decipher
The secret message
Hidden behind my breathing.
Being
Conveys directives
Through its oblivion,
So I might as well still my pen
And look at the hill:
It's so beautiful.

4. Penetration

In a dazzle of rubies
I entered my woman,
In a flash of sapphires
I insufflated love
Into a semblance of pathos
Where passion
Lay dormant with
Decay.

5. My Menhir
For sunshiny girl...!
Standing up for life,
Down for ennui -
Erect it works
And prone it rests.
The vertical position
Throbs,
Pointing sunward -
An obelisk of power
Against the horizontal posture
That is sleep and death.

6. Refrain

Concert's night
Stars alight
My song to blame
For notes aflame
The heart is proud
But I cry aloud
Ignite the other
And I find a brother

7. ...Y...

Open Cosmos
To my cry
And sense
The profundity
Of yearning
For an expanding
Why

~ MY WORDS

2006-05-14T18:29:00.000+03:00

...Are you listening?
My words
Create my rhapsodic rapture
And trigger enchantment
To the synaptic junctures
Of my brain cells.

My words
Are absolute flashes
Of orgasmic bliss
Catapulting flights
Into the quadrosensor realms
Of pure imagination,
Tactile vibration of
Seismic awe.

~ TIBET ALOOF

2006-05-13T16:50:00.000+03:00

Roof of the world
Is the tallest mountain
In the reflective peak
I am now scaling

~ HERACLITEAN PHOENIX

2006-05-05T18:13:00.000+03:00

Man grows from his smallest
To his greatest
By removing excess
And remedying deficiency.
What is not cannot come into being.
From where will it come?
All diminishes and increases
To the greatest possible maximum
And the least possible minimum.
'Becoming' and 'perishing'
Are really 'mixing' and 'separating'.
Becoming and perishing are the same thing,
Mixing and separating are the same thing;
Increase and diminution are the same thing;
They are all the same thing
And so is the relation of the individual to all things,
And all things to the individual;
Yet in spite of appearances
Nothing of all things is the same.
What shall I do? Call Heraclitus to my rescue?
No, perhaps not.
It is not better that men should have all they want.
I had much, and much I rejected.

Man, like a light in the night, is kindled and put out.

I want to talk to the Infinite,
I want to take it all in and explode.
The big bang of my unlimited microcosmos.
My phoenix infinity,
Keeps resurging into my heart
In a continuous effluve of discontent:
I am who I am,
And that's my catastrophe.

~ SELFISH LOVE

2006-04-26T18:36:00.000+03:00

~ Love me, love me not...

Genuine love
Is selfishness:
Love doesn't mean
To sacrifice yourself
For others.
It is the exact opposite.
It is truly the most selfish
Experience possible:
It benefits your life in a way
That involves no sacrifice
Of others to yourself or
Of yourself to others.

To love a person is selfish
Because it means that
You value that particular person,
That he or she makes your life better,
That he or she is an intense source of joy
- to you.

A disinterested love
Is a contradiction in terms.
One cannot be neutral
To that which one values.
The time, effort and money
You spend
On behalf of someone you love
Are not sacrifices,
But actions taken
Because his or her happiness
Is crucially important to your own.

Those who argue
That love demands self-denial
Must hold the bizarre belief
That it makes no personal difference
Whether your loved one is healthy or sick,
Feels pleasure or pain,
Is alive or dead.

It is regularly asserted
That love should be unconditional
And that you should
Love everyone as a brother,
- hate the sin, but love the sinner!
Which would have you condemn death camps
But send Hitler a box of swiss chocolates.
Most would agree that
Having sex with a person
One despises is debased.
Yet somehow,
When the same underlying idea
Is applied to love,
Most consider it noble.

Love is far too precious
To be offered
Indiscriminately.
It is above all
In the area of love
That egalitarianism
Ought to be repudiated.
Love represents
An exalted exchange,
- a spiritual exchange -
Between two people
For the purpose of mutual benefit.

You love someone
Because he or she is a value
- a selfish value to you,
As determined by your standards
- just as you are a value to him or her.

It is the view
That you should be given love
Unconditionally -
The view that
You do not deserve it
Any more than some random bum,
The view that it is not a response
To anything particular in you,
The view that it is causeless
- which exemplifies
The most ignoble conception
Of this sublime experience.

The nature of love
Places certain demands
On those who wish to enjoy it.
You must regard yourself
As worthy of being loved.
Those who expect to be loved,
Not because they offer some positive value,
But because they don't
- are parasites.

A person who says:
Love me just because I need it,
Seeks an unearned spiritual value
- in the same way that
A thief seeks unearned wealth.

~ UNINVENTED GENIUS GELATO

2006-04-25T18:46:00.000+03:00

~ Dedicated to my frozen creativity

Feel the genius in me
It wants to get out,
Just like the birth
Of Athena from
Zeus' head.

Opening my brain
With a scalpel and
Getting the genius out!
It's there, I know it.
I'm sure.
I am a genius,
no doubt about it.

So, how come
I cannot create?
What evidences
The soaring splendour
Of my genius?
Hidden still in the foetal status,
Ready to explode and
Illuminate the world
With the immensity
Of its genial beauty.

Nonsense.
My genius thrives incognito.
My brain is of such excellence,
That it cannot include itself
And express openly.
The entrails of my sympathetic
Loquaciousness
Indicate the brightness
Of a genius' personality –
Although his productive approach
Defies the normal channels of proof.

What else is there to say?
A genius' work is never done.
Mine was never, and never is nor will.
Content with its state of geniality,
Ingenuousness, genially.

If Genius is the power of lighting
One's own fire,
I forgot the matches –
If Genius is an African
Who dreams up snow,
I am an Italian
Who dreams up gelato.

~ GEMINI 1: DREAMSNATCHERS

2006-04-25T18:10:00.000+03:00

~ Two gemellated miniatures, dedicated to the dearest friend who got lost in a snatched dream...

1. PEREGRINATOR FAILING

Wandering drifter
You've burnt yourself out -
Seeker of peripatetic dreams
You reached for the sky
And ended up
With a fistful of flies.

2. CONFRÈRE PERDU

You stole my sinuous chimera
In the evening of youth
Not to return it
But with its skin molted
At the twilight of life.

~ GEMINI 2: ASCENSIONS

2006-04-25T18:08:00.000+03:00

~ My ultimate duet...

1. DISSOLVE AND FADE

I hope
For total
Dispersion
Into my
Inconceivable
Primer

2. ASCENDING SCALE

A musical note
Discloses my gate
To heavenly alteration,
Providing the key
To the highest concerto
Whereby every
Ecstatical tone
Is receding from
All evocative others.

~ CONTAINMENT

2006-04-25T17:45:00.001+03:00

My death
Cannot change the fact
That I had a life

My life is a member
Of a larger context
And forms part of it

The larger context
Is the Universe
Because my thoughts
And emotions
Are not extended
In space and time
Unless they travel
To my outer world

Therefore they have the same nature
As the Universe as a whole
And so my thoughts and emotions
Are added to the Universe as a whole
In the logical field of the Universe

~ COMPOSER

2006-04-25T17:45:00.000+03:00

Piano playing
Notes of sublimest melody
Whilst I walk
On clouds
Nude and insentient
Feeling cotton pods
In my head.

Split my skull
And extract a sonata
A million cherubim
Cannot compose
In God’s lifetime
And demons
Dance.

ANCIENT GREEK ANTHOLOGY

2006-04-24T17:28:00.000+03:00

Selected Greek Poems From Antiquity

Seventh-Fourth Century B.C.

Seven couches and as many tables
spread with poppy cakes and linseed and
sesame, and among the wooden flagons
were honey cakes for the young
-- Alkman (7th Century)

I am Lais. My pride of face
Once laughed at all the Grecian race.
At my door, lovers stood ten deep--
Goddess of Love, my mirror keep....
As I am now, I shun the glass,
And I cannot look on who I was.
-- Plato (4th Century)

If you are a simple mortal,
do not speak of tomorrow
or how long this man may be
among the happy,
for change comes suddenly
like the shifting flight
of the dragonfly.
-- Simonides (6th Century)

I do not like the man who sits by his bowl
and sobs about sad wars,
but the rake who loves to rave about fine feats
in the arts and art of love
-- Anakreon (6th Century)

Catch the apple that I throw,
If you love me. Give me now
Your maidenhead; or if your will
Is set against me, catch it still
And think that beauty soon shall go.
-- Plato (4th Century)

Let us drink
Why wait for the lighting of the lamps?
Night is a hair's breadth away.
Take down the great goblets
From the shelf, dear friend,
For the son of Seleme and Zeus
gave us wine to forget our pains.
Mix two parts water,
One wine
and let us empty the dripping cups--
Urgently
-- Alkaios (6th Century)

Third Century B.C.

Let's drink up:
With wine, what original
What nuanced, what sweet fancy speech
I might hit on!
Soak me with a jug of Chian
and say,
"Haven fun, Hedylus."
For I hate wasting time unless I'm drunk.
-- Hedylos

Remember, do you remember
those solemn words--
Springtime is loveliest,
time most elusive,
quicker than the quickest bird in the sky--
Look, your blossoms
all scattered on the earth.
-- Thymokles

Why grudge your useless maidenhead?
For Hades holds no lover's bed.
Love in our lives does very well,
But virgins are mere ash in hell.
-- Asclepiades

At play, Hermione caught and drove me.
She wore a belt of many colors
With golden letters, saying: "Love me,
And don't you mind if I'm another's."
-- Asclepiades

Sit down in the shade
of this fine spreading laurel,
draw a welcome drink
from the sweet flowing stream,
and rest your breathless limbs
from the harvesting--
here, where the West wind
blows over you.
-- Anythe

Drink down the strong wine:
Dawn's but the span of a finger.
And shall we wait for the lamp
that brings good night?
Drink, drink to joy, dear friend:
for soon we'll have
A lonely night for sleeping,
and that's for ever.
-- Asclepiades

Second Century B.C.

Remember, remember, my holy words--
'Fairest beauty is most fleet.'
Beauty outstrips the swiftest birds.
Your blossoms lie about your feet.
-- Thymocles

According to the astrologers,
I Seleucus have few years
To live. But I don't care, for if
My way to Hell is rather brief,
It's the same way for us all.
I'll just pay death an earlier call.
Water-drinkers walk the course,
But wine-guzzlers take a horse.
-- Antipater of Sidon

First Century B.C.

Let us undo these buttons my lovely,
and lie to gether naked, interlaced.
Put your long arms round my shoulders,
with nothing between our bodied, not
even those maddening flimsy pieces of underwear.
Let our breasts rub and our lips meet.
Let our murmurs throb into languid silence.
Don't use your tongue for talking, for a moment.
-- Paulos

I came across her, delightsome,
relaxed, stretched out, dreaming
in the heat of the afternoon
one arm stretching behind her head

overcome with audacity I approached her bed
taking advantage of her state
I was halfway there
before she came to her senses
struggling with her little white hands
to free herself

in spite of her resistance
we achieved the task of desire
and she burst into tears bewailing:
miserable man, you have satisfied your desire
which I have so often refused
your payment to have
and now you will leave straight
to take another girl in your arms
you are never satisfied
you wicked pilgrims of desire
-- Paulos

O Morning Star, you enemy of love!
How lazily do you creep
round the world tonight,
this night, while another lies warm
beneath her cloak!
But when she lay, my slim love, in these arms,
then you did come--how quickly O Star--
To stand over us,
drenching is in your light that laughed
at our loss.
O morning Star, you enemy of love!
-- Meleager

The lip of the wine-cup is sweet.
It tells of the touch of the mouth
Of Zenophila, prattling of love.
Happy cup! If she could set
Her lips to my lips, she would quaff
My soul in one swallow of love.
-- Meleager

First Century A.D.

I do not wish to marry hag or child.
The young I pity, and revere the old.
A sour grape or raisin won't be mine,
Only a beauty ripening on the vine.
-- Honestus

Her breast against my breast,
Her skin on mine,
Her lips against my lip, with nothing in
Between Antigone and me, we lay.
I say no more.
The rest the lamp can say.
-- Marcus Argentarius

Isias my love,
with your scented breath
sweeter than any perfume:
wake up.
Here is a symbol for you:
this garland
is in full, fresh bloom now;
but towards morning
you will see it wither.
Take it in your hands;
and think of your beauty.
-- Marcus Argentarius

Psyllus brought a whorish stable
To entertain young men in style.
He preyed on weakness, and was able
To deal in flesh and make his pile.
He lies dead here. But don't throw stones,
Traveller, nor urge on others.
Spare the complacent pander's bones--
He kept young men from seducing mothers.
-- Marcus Argentarius

I loved a girl called Alcippe,
And talked her round, and secretly
Brought her to bed. We hid and feared
Our loving might be overheard.
Her mother soon popped in her head,
"My daughter, we go halves," she said.
-- Marcus Argentarius

I refuse to become a shower of gold,
A bull or swan as in days of old.
Let Zeus do tricks.
Corinna's more than willing,
If I remain human and give her a shilling.
-- Bassus

Second Century A.D.

A silver-ankled girl
was bathing in a brook,
letting the water flood down
on the golden apples of her milky breasts.

When she walked,
her round hips rolled and flowed
more liquid than water.
Her arm reached down
to shield her swelling belly,
not all--
but all her hand could hide
-- Rufinus

Let us wash each other's body
Prodike
and crown ourselves
and swill neat wine
from bigger jugs
life's joy is miniscule
then age mars
the residue
and at last death
-- Rufinus

I send this wreath, my Rhodoclea,
Made by my hands from every flower.
Lily and rose and anemone,
Narcissus and violet woven lie.
Wear it, and put off your pride.
The wreath and you both bloom and fade.
-- Rufinus

I am provoked
by the delicious boy next door.
His laugh of complicity is not
that of a novice.
He is twelve years old.
Green grapes my be touched, but his ripe
chastity will be guarded.
-- Strato

Meeting a lovely boy face to face
I may strive to avert my eyes--
I may succeed,
but must at once glance back.
-- Strato

I like all young men. I will not choose
A brother from a brother
For his beauty. One for one charm I use,
Another for another.
-- Strato

Prodike, I warned you, age is coming,
Love is lagging and dissolving.
Wrinkles like harpies hold you in,
Crab mouth, gray hair, tired flesh, dry skin....
Who wants you now, my haughty one--
We pass you like a roadside tomb.
-- Rufinus

Third-Sixth Century A.D.

Once while plaiting a wreath
I found Eros among the roses.
I grabbed him by the wings
and dipped him in the wine
and drank him down.
Now inside my limbs
he tickles me with his wings.
-- Julianus, Prefect of Egypt (6th c)

This is life and nothing else is.
Life is pleasure. Damn dull care!
Man shall live no more than this.
Now, there's wine and women fair,
Flowers and dance. Live well today:
What comes tomorrow none can say.
-- Pallas (5th c)

The Tomb of Anakreon

I have sung this often,
even in the grave will I shout it:
Drink:
for you must put on this mantle of dust.
-- Julianus, Prefect of Egypt (6th c)

Bees do not plough nor dig their honey;
They bribe the flower of the spring,
So I work at Love with money,
Which culls the sweetest offering.
-- Macedonius the Consul (6th c)

Sweet, my friends, is Lais' smile,
Sweet the tears that milk her eye.
Yesterday, she put awhile
Her head on me and gave a sigh.
I asked, "Why do you weep?" She said,
"Men lie and leave. I am afraid."
-- Paulus Silentiarius (6th c)

But the brief pleasure of life!
But the headlong fuge of time passing!
Waking, sleeping, playing, contriving
With time against us,
Marching always against us,
Swerving us to our end--
And that's nothing.
-- Pallas (5th c)

Anonymous Sources

Bring Homer's lyre but mute
the cords of savage war.
Bring wine cups and the laws
of proper revelry.
I shall get drunk and dance
at our party, and even
roar on my tanging lyre.
yet with a tempered fury.
Bring Homer's lyre but mute
the cords of savage war

I wish I were the wind, and you
walking along the seashore,
would uncover your breasts,
and let me touch them
as I blow.

How good it is to roam
on the ripe grassy meadows
where the sweet wind drifts;
look at the grapevines,
and lie under the leaves
with a soft girl in my arms
who is willing and warm.

Boy, hold my wreath for me.
The night is black, the path is long,
And I am completely and beautifully drunk.
Nevertheless I will go
To Themison's house
And sing beneath his window.
You need not come with me:
Though I may stumble,
He is a steady lamp for the feet of love.

Perfume sweet I send you,
gracing not you but the perfume:
You are yourself
the perfume of the perfume.

If gold could buy life,
I would guard my wealth
with jealous desire,
and when death came
he would take some
and leave me alone.
Yet being mortal
I cannot prolong
my life, so why
should I cry or moan?
If we must die,
what good is gold?
So bring sweet wine,
and when I've drunk
bring my good friends.
I'll lie on a soft bed
and be lost in love.

Sappho

HYMN TO APHRODITE

I

Shimmering-throned immortal Aphrodite,
Daughter of Zeus, Enchantress, I implore thee,
Spare me, O queen, this agony and anguish,
Crush not my spirit

II

Whenever before thou has hearkened to me--
To my voice calling to thee in the distance,
And heeding, thou hast come, leaving thy father's
Golden dominions,

III

With chariot yoked to thy fleet-winged coursers,
Fluttering swift pinions over earth's darkness,
And bringing thee through the infinite, gliding
Downwards from heaven,

IV

Then, soon they arrived and thou, blessed goddess,
With divine contenance smiling, didst ask me
What new woe had befallen me now and why,
Thus I had called the.

V

What in my mad heart was my greatest desire,
Who was it now that must feel my allurements,
Who was the fair one that must be persuaded,
Who wronged thee Sappho?

VI

For if now she flees, quickly she shall follow
And if she spurns gifts, soon shall she offer them
Yea, if she knows not love, soon shall she feel it
Even reluctant.

VII

Come then, I pray, grant me surcease from sorrow,
Drive away care, I beseech thee, O goddess
Fulfil for me what I yearn to accomplish,
Be thou my ally.

PEER OF THE GODS

I

Peer of the gods, the happiest man I seem
Sitting before thee, rapt at thy sight, hearing
Thy soft laughter and they voice most gentle,
Speaking so sweetly.

II

Then in my bosom my heart wildly flutters,
And, when on thee I gaze never so little,
Bereft am I of all power of utterance,
My tongue is useless.

III

There rushes at once through my flesh tingling fire,
My eyes are deprived of all power of vision,
My ears hear nothing by sounds of winds roaring,
And all is blackness.

III

Down courses in streams the sweat of emotion,
A dread trembling o'erwhelms me, paler than I
Than dried grass in autumn, and in my madness
Dead I seem almost.

ON WHAT IS BEST

Some celebrate the beauty
of knights, or infantry,
or billowing flotillas
at battle on the sea.
Warfare has its glory,
but I place far above
these military splendors
the one thing that you love.

For proof of this contention
examine history:
we all remember Helen,
who left her family,
her child, and royal husband,
to take a stranger's hand:
her beauty had no equal,
but bowed to love's command.

As love then is the power
that none can disobey,
so too my thoughts must follow
my darling far away:
the sparkle of her laughter
would give me greater joy
than all the bronze-clad heroes
who fought it out at Troy.

THE TOMB OF BILITIS

~ FIRST EPITAPH
In the land where the rivers are born from the sea, and the beds of the streams made of fine flakes of quartz, I, Bilitis, was born.

My mother was Phoenician, my father Damophylos, Hellenic. My mother taught me the sad songs of Byblos, sad as the coming of dawn.

I adored Astarte at Kypros. I knew Psappha at Lesbos. I have sung of how I have loved. If I have lived well, Passer-by, tell your daughter.

And do not sacrifice the black goat in my memory; but, as a sweet libation, squeeze her soft dug o'er my tomb.

~ SECOND EPITAPH
On the dark shores of the Melas, at Tamassos in Pamphylia, I, Bilitis, daughter of Damophylos, first saw the light. I rest far away from my birth-place, you see.

As a child I was taught the loves of Adon and Astarte, the mysteries of holy Syria, and death and the return to She-of-the-full-rounded-eyelids.

If I have been a courtesan, wherein lies the blame? Was this not my work as a woman? Stranger, the Mother-of-Everything guides us. She cannot be wisely ignored.

In gratitude to you who have paused here, I wish you this fate: May you be loved, but not love. Farewell, and in your old age remember that once you gazed on my tomb.

~ LAST EPITAPH
Beneath the black leaves of the laurel, 'neath the amorous blooms of the rose, 'tis here I am resting forever; I who could weave verses together, I who could make kisses to bloom.

I grew up in the land of the Nymphs; I lived on the island of lovers; I died on the island of Kypris. That is why my name is distinguished, and my monument polished with oil.

Do not weep for me, you who have paused here: my funeral arrangements were sweet; the mourners scratched their cheeks; my mirrors and necklaces rest in my tomb.

And now, on the pale prairies of asphodel, an impalpable shadow, I walk, and the memories of my earthly existence are the joys of my underworld life.

~ YEAH, MAN, YEAH! (warning: contains expletive madness)

2006-04-23T18:49:00.000+03:00

~ Picture me staring at you... yeah! Then grab my hand and fly.

A light breeze hesitates around me.
The air is pure as the soul of a Buddha.
The sky is limpid and bright as the heart of E.T.
I am ready to change, once more.

With the lights out,
In the most ontological silence,
I gently place the palms
Of my yearning hands
On the heart of my soul,
I close my eyes
And with infinite expectancy
Prepare to savour
An infinity of pain
In a way only I know how to feel.
The pain of ecstatic vision.

It is a moment of extraordinary intensity
That catapults me into the first day of creation.
I feel the scope of my desire:
A desire for emotional transfiguration
That equals nothing,
Not even the explosion of the Supernova
Still, I wish to make you share it,
Now, while I feel it,
Now yeah, man, yeah!

Ah, friend, if you were here with me!
None of that simple communion
Of experiences along treaded routes.
You would share a unique trip to intensity...
In the very moment in which I'd shake your hand,
You would perceive and interpret my biorhythm
And all my vibrations,
With the knowledge of your extrasensory response.
And my biorhythm
Would immediately return
To optimum vital level
And my whole Being would pass
From the melancholy-depressive
To the most harmonious tonic-active
Vibrational frequency.
Spreading onto you like an aura.

Yeah, man, yeah:
I need you to become real,
And not just a reading presence:
How fucking depressing,
A virtual presence indeed.
You are a flesh and blood human,
Are you not?
Then transmit to me,
With all the tenderness
Of a real warm embrace,
Your marvellous,
Vividly coloured images
Of your pictorial mind and
Make'em flow into mine.

Yeah, man, yeah:
I'd visualise greatly loved landscapes,
Faces of favourite people (finally!) And animals,
Adored paintings, sculptures and objets d'art,
Aphorisms and extracts of poetry
And prose of amazing beauty and profundity,
With a perfectly intuited backgrounbd music,
Celestial to say the least.

All this transforms me, man, yeah:
Transmutes me ispo facto.
You'd loosen all the knots
Of my compressed energy
And empty all the sacks
Of my neurosis.

While I gloat light, fluid
And vibrating with joy and peace
In a state of pre-Nirvana,
Because of my inspirational state...
I understand that communion of kindred spirits
Is a soliloquy of cosmic import,
Architecture of extreme spatial possibilities.
Communion - friendship is in fact a spatial fresco,
I do believe.
And as you read me now, I find light
And shadow of the spirit
In the spring of my Emotion.
From the abyss that we are,
Both you and me, yeah!

Man, yeah:
The strength comes to us
From the unexplored regions of the Ego,
The Mind's Eye to offer itself to community.

That image lives in the background space,
In the remote cellars of the Ego
That borders on the cellars
Of all the other companions and brothers,
Printed on the eternal pages.

And so it comes up from free imagination,
From the hand in direct contact with the heart,
Like writing,
Its brake invisible and pure.

~ PERFECT HUMAN LIGHT (a mundane oratorio)

2006-04-23T18:34:00.000+03:00

~ Here's looking at you, experienced man!

Unfortunately,
humanity has placed before itself
the model of a perfect man.
The idea of the perfect man
is born out of the value system
that we have created.
That value system is born out
of the behaviour patterns
of the great teachers of mankind.

Jesus, Buddha
and all the great teachers.

Every human body,
however, is unique.
Nature is not interested
in creating a perfect being.
Its interest is to create
only a perfect species.

And if every one of us is unique,
that implies that our code of enlightenment,
if there is such a thing,
would also be unique
so that each of us
reaches that state
individually and uniquely.

It is just not possible for us
to produce enlightened people
on an assembly line.

If you look at history,
humanity has produced
only a very few enlightened people.
You can count them on your fingers.
But unfortunately,
in the market place,
we have many claimants
who say they are enlightened,
and they are in turn out
to enlighten everybody.

There is a market for that kind of thing.
The demand and supply principle
is responsible for that.

But actually an enlightened man
or a free man, if there is one,
is not interested in freeing
or enlightening anybody.
This is because
he has no way of knowing
that he is a free man,
that he is an enlightened man.
It is not something that can be shared
with somebody,
because it is not
in the area of experience at all.

There is no such thing as a new experience.

Suppose you go to a new place.
What goes on in your mind
is that you are always trying to fit
whatever you are seeing
into the framework of the past.
The moment you say
that something is new,
it is the old telling you
that it is new.
So, it is very difficult for us
to experience anything new because,
if there is something really new,
it is not in particular frames
that the old is destroyed,
but the totality of the past is destroyed
in one great big blow.

We cannot experience anything new.

There is no such thing as a new experience.
There is nothing new at all.
It is the old that tells us that it is new,
and through this gimmick
thought is making what it calls new
part of the old,
and is thus maintaining its continuity.
So, whatever you cannot experience
does not exist.
Dogmatic assertion?

When you try to experience something
that you have not experienced before,
the whole movement of the experiencing structure
comes to an end.

~ Medicated..... by Will Barber

2006-04-23T00:40:00.000+03:00

... mi ritrovai per una selva oscura
ché la diritta via era smarrita....
... ma per trattar del ben ch'i' vi trovai,
dirò de l'altre cose ch'i' v'ho scorte.

05/2006

* trans. -- I found myself in a dark wood, where the direct path was lost... but to tell of the good I found there, I will speak of the other things I discovered.

~ PERDERTI / TO LOSE YOU (Italian/English)

2006-04-22T18:31:00.000+03:00

Perderti,
Nell’immensità delle cose, perderti.
Ti ho perduto
Come ho perduto quel grazioso
Raggio di sole che mi
Ha colpito tra i veli opachi
Di un sentimento, or ora.
Nei ricordi sei un fantasma.
Chi coglierà adesso
La margherita nell’entrare
A San Francisco?
Di certo ognuno prenderà
Il fiore
Per suo conto.
Tra noi è crollato
L’ultimo ponte ferreo
Velato da strani ideali.

(10 February 1968)

Losing you,
In the immensity of things, to lose you.

I lost you
As I lost that lovely
Ray of sunlight that
Hit me between the opaque shades
Of a sentiment, just now.

In memories you are a phantasm.
Who will pick now
The flower
Entering San Francisco?
Surely each of us will take
A bloom
On their own.
Crumbled between us
Is the last ferreous bridge
Veiled by strange ideals.

(6 May 2006)

~ INTENSE NAÏVETÉ

2006-04-20T18:27:00.000+03:00

~ To my beloved daughter

Can I skip rope
With you
My child,
And send shrieks of joy
To firmament
For the thoughtless
Encounter of beauty
With happiness?

~ I SHOULD LIKE... (a new design of life)

2006-04-19T18:26:00.000+03:00

I should like to refound and create difficulties for everything in me and in front of me. A new design of life.

A roving design for a loving contact, while computerized design expands to infinity the nirvana of its own cold brain.

A human walk in a void of goods and metropolises. I should like a map referring to my activity, not, however, in terms of technologies, or of the forms of creative accomplishment, or of the commercial success of my didactic work.

Even if I thought the generational problem was overcome, I should need not to conform.

I should like to shrug everything off, even the holds that most reassure me, that are my momentary salvation.

I should like to intuit the epoch about to be born, I should like it to be different from the present one. Because today people's souls are closed in defence of an involution that seems to accept, but in fact excludes, the diverse and the novel. That's the source of my lambasting: Man, so Davincian and yet so misspent.
But I should like to meet myself again within the millennial flux of the applied arts.

I should like to discard the monumental aggression of so many words.

One of my most certain points is the attitude towards the uncertain and the weak, towards exposure to the discomfort of the unknown.

After so much rule of logic, I should like types of approach which are stratified, magical, emotional. You know, yes, you know…

I should like to renounce the certainty of the joyous and amoral language, and pursue ancient and tortuous paths, to find objects from beyond my brief time, in a distant vision of the past, present and future.

I should like to think that the slightest movements made by my objects and by my logorrheic fragments were as acupuncture in the body of a mistaken context.

I should like to live a project of availability that led to new, calm, poetical, delicate objectives, suitable for the stages on which the new people will reveal the rituals and the fantasies of a near future - alive, but destined to die.

I should like to set off again, as I often did and do, on another ideational adventure, alone or in company, to search the darkness of 'challenge' for a fascinating unknown risk, hidden more within me than without.

I should like to be an ancestral and amorous person, to formulate the hyper-moralistic idea of an anti-wordly Concept, I should like my Concept to be capable of absorbing hunger, violence and poverty.

I should think of Giotto or of Kierkegaard, of the maternal womb or of kitsch, of shamans or of Islam, of the wind or of miniaturization, of artists or of the desperate, of religion or of incommunicability.

No more teachers, not for you not for me.

I should like to make clear to myself that the new type of epoch calls for a different person, capable of superimposing the two opposites; telematic solitude and existential dispersion.

I should stake also my personal perdition, my credibility, my isolation, even the impossibility of return... For a perfect moment of Love.

Then not all would be lost.

Nor I.

~ HEMINGWAY'S SPARK

2006-04-18T18:10:00.000+03:00

~ There are two of Hemingway's titles in the poem... can you find them?

Islands in the stream
Of my consciousness:
Floating gashes
Across the river of reality
And into the trees of illusion.

~ Storming The Fortress..... by Katrina

2006-04-16T23:55:00.000+03:00

~ The Dream (a fragment)...... by Echoing Katrina

2006-04-16T23:51:00.000+03:00

The bride arrived on time
holding a newborn babe.
She was driven in a carriage by
a faceless man dressed in black.
Her nails were tapered fine and long
like that of a woman who never knew a day's work
She was serene and so white.
There was no groom.
She stood at the altar holding the infant
while she listened to the priest.
Even the crying child couldn't detract from
the dignity and formality of the wedding
The organ music resumed and swelled to the
joyous, baroque strains as the ceremony closed.
Everyone kept to themselves after
the service
The bride seemed so peaceful.
When the faceless man approached,
he courteously offered his hand as he
led her back into the carriage,
stroke the horse for just a moment
and then drove.

~ Twins generated by... The Wanderer In Love

2006-04-16T18:40:00.000+03:00

~ KILL ME...

~ I TRUST YOU...

So strong and filled with true pathos: I feel their force so very much!
You are mine, oh yes you are mine, you are in me...

~ THE EYE OF CHANGE (technolyrical chant)

2006-04-16T18:38:00.000+03:00

~ Dedicated to Enigma, a musical group of the 80s who dared citing the Sufi poet Jalaluddin Rumi in their beautifully strange songs.

I do not believe changes
Are due to technological conquests,
On the contrary,
I believe that these voices
Respond to instances
Of deep change that come
From the very body of humanity.

The eye is a pre-eminent part
Of the body of any animal;
The reiterated mirror of the soul
It is the window through which
The interior leans toward the exterior
And vice-versa,
It is the point of encounter
Between the microcosm
Ad the macrocosm,
Between the ego and nature;
And it is the pre-eminent symbol
Of knowledge.

My windowsill leans out
Onto the scenario of nature,
There every scenario is projected,
Like in a fantasy movie.
In this combination of waves
Which go and come in constant flux,
My vision will come about,
I assure you:
Action and measure
Are appraised.

My ego is also a symbol,
It becomes social,
Since it is from the eye
That the ego speeds
Towards the other
Into the Other,
Against the other,
Towards the other,
Towards the world
Thus becoming the world.

My Eye,
Is the sign of an anouncing vision.

It is the eye of my inner witness
Which nothing escapes.
It is the eye of my inner child
Which never abdicates
To its own human dignity.
It is also and above all
The evidence that
'the gaze through which
we contemplate God
and the gaze through which
God contemplates me
is one and the same' *

The Eye, the I,
Is my symbolic cipher
And the three-dimensional icon
Of my soul,
Wherever it poses
Its fluttering wings.
My 'I' is an extraordinary instrument
For celebrating the immesurable beauty
Of the merciful universe.

My inner Eye
Is the mirror of how
I am inside:
That you must comprehend
And then survive.
It is the most alive part of myself
Where the sky and the infinite
Are reflected.
It is the place where
Two infinities meet,
You and 'I',
Or the conscience and the cosmos:
Unsettling, attractive, tremendous.

It is above all
Through the Eye
That love flows and changes our world,
Before the other senses.
In ancient Greece
Seeing was believed the result of rays
Departing from the Eye
And emanating towards the world
And so they knew it: or rather,
Created it and continually recreated it.

Thus, the eye,
Which sees the capacity of projecting
The world and the firmament,
Has been symbolically assigned
With a creative will of its own,
Desirous of joy,
Of the transmutation of all negativity
Into positivity.

If I look at the disconcerting depth of the signals that arrive from society's different ways of living and behaving, from a world tending increasingly towards globality, I feel the importance of concentrating the idea-creating forces in order to respond to these signals, to these inalienable voices.
How do you respond?

* quote is from Meister Eckhart.

~ Sun, Moon, Stars..... by Sunshiny Trisha

2006-04-16T16:46:00.000+03:00

Sun
Your blazing excellence sustains
Refulgent beams dispersed
Wherever need arises
Warming humanity
With a blanket of love

Moon
Your effervescence illuminates the night sky
Imparting clarity to lost wanderers
A light above the dance floor of life

Stars
Your enduring twinkle remains salient
A tapestry of eloquence and charm
Alluding to whimsical beauty ambient

~ Tempestous Ardor..... by Sunshiny Trisha

2006-04-15T13:10:00.000+03:00

Dedicated to Daubmir, Daubmir, Daubmir

Exquisite journey
Physical, mental and spiritual
Slow and steady burn

Complete intoxication
Inconceivably high
Suffused with salaciousness

Sighs and whispers
Shivering tingles
Lips brush softly

Hair unkempt cascading
Parting legs gently
Tasting my essence

Hands on heaving breasts
Hearts pulsating rapidly
Longing eyes lock

Probing entirely inside
Rhythmic thrust of hips
Skin on skin

Souls and bodies
Immersed in impassioned love
Fusillade of fiery passion

Trembling limbs cave
Resounding amorous contentment
Souls melt into one eternally

~ FOUR MUSES

2006-04-14T18:00:00.000+03:00

~Inspiration
~Illumination
~Incubation
~Modification

The four primordial states of consciousness
That randomly express artistic creativity.

Painting, sculpting, composing,
Crocheting a pastoral tapestry
With billions of hummingbird feathers -

Every artist experiences
Their affecting pulsion,
None predominating
Then suddenly one leading
And reaching fruition.

Four conditional factors,
Mind enhancers
Transforming vision to product,
Self-consuming guides of intellect:
They govern the change
From thought to deed.

~ Inspiration,
Inseparable portion of my Self,
Formulates desire and need,
The coveting of a precious concept,
The cradling of a newborn thought.
Suggestion of my imaginary stimulus,
Triggers my fancy
To search the void of my brain
For a minuscule fresh seed of notion,
Asking for a response.

~ Illumination
Recognizes my worthiness
And seeks the ways and means
Of aiding the inspiration,
Preparing my mind for an embryo solution,
Kindling the flame of discarded concepts
And giving new life with reason.
It brightens my playing field and
Inspires the game,
Shining a spotlight on the tiny idea
And throwing it into the central circus ring
For the audience of my obscured mind,
To see and appreciate.

~ Incubation
Is what my Self questions,
My mental detective
That seeks to disprove
Or alienate the idea.
Yet, if the seed survives
The withering inquisition,
It automatically matures
With sufficient strength
To endure manipulation
And unyielding critiques.
Impetus forces change,
The final viewable realization.

~ Modification
Is the culminating act,
A change for the senses to accept
It dwells at the end,
Suffering alteration:
Hindsight more prevailing
Than foresight -
My looming Atropos.

P.S.: In Greek mythology, the Muses were nine goddesses who presided over the arts and sciences and inspired those who excelled at these pursuits - born at the foot of Mount Olympos, they were: Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, and Urania.

~ Atropos was one of the three white-robed Moirae (Greek Μ ο ί ρ α ι — the 'Apportioners', often called the Fates) , personifications of destiny. They controlled the metaphorical thread of life of every mortal and immortal from birth to death (and beyond) . Even the gods feared the Moirae. The Greek word 'moira' literally means a part or portion, and by extension one's portion in life or destiny. The three Moirae were:

Clotho (Gk. 'spinner') spun the thread of life from her distaff onto her spindle.

Lachesis (Gk. 'alotter' or drawer of lots) measured the thread of life with her rod.

Atropos (Gk. 'inexorable' or 'inevitable') was the cutter of the thread of life. She chose the manner of a person's death. When she cut the thread with 'her abhorred shears', someone on earth died.

~ WAKE

2006-04-13T18:48:00.000+03:00

I drift through the ripples
That are my desires
I swim in the void
That is my confusion
I sprawl on the rock
That is my resolution
I gargle with the water
That is my damnation…

But only I understand
This joy of combating.
Then I walk by the lake
That are my spent emotions,
And sit waiting for the hour
When clouds rise.

~ FISTULA

2006-04-13T17:59:00.000+03:00

Ulcerous rites of passage
From the tormented abscess
Of a never quite matured
Trial by existence,
I still feel all the pains
And hear the sweet cries
Grieving
As I leave paradise
for a suggestion of
Lanced release
In the suppurating cavities
Of unrealized adventures.

~ FIRST SCHIZOID STATE

2006-04-12T17:57:00.000+03:00

~ Please, understand me, won't you?

...If words could ever produce a psychic orgasm... this is mine.

Be real now.
I have never been real;
No one is as unreal as I am.
When I wanted to be real,
I created disaster.
For me, and for others.
Because I didn't believe in reality.
So I played it as a game,
Going through the motions,
And the others got piqued

If I let myself believe that I am real,
My heart races around
And my breath gets funny
And my nerves twang
And jump like wires
Or grasshoppers set on fire
Or beams of light
But ones that ache.

My reality, minute by minute,
Actual minute by minute,
Is inset with a flickering madness
Of joyous self-will
And carelessness
Of which I am deeply ashamed,
Violently proud.

Madness is near.

To murder someone's pride
Or to pass into social catatonia,
These are the common terms
Of conscious existence for me.

Rage or quasi-pietistic acceptance,
I distrust the wavering tick-tockishness
Of the shrinking and
Of the dangerous enlargement
Of the self.

The mood and the life's history
That has led to this dark and devious grandeur
– the grandeur of lowness –
Is linked to self-disgust,
Self-admiration.

In my room,
When I sit or lie in the dark,
My madness looms.
Reality, time, awareness –
Trite problems of everyone
Searching for purpose.

Awareness of the dark,
For instance.
Not nothingness –
Time is something...
Am I ill? Surely not,
Not in the accepted sense.
Life is making me ill.

I know that the first enclosing paradise
Was the human belly of my mother.
It was so changeable
That I encountered the passage of time
In the paradise there,
The salt birthplace of my spirit,
In my awareness
That one would feel better,
One would be all right:
That was the loose evidence:
That was the measure of paradise
From the beginning.

Amphibious state.
The first schizoid state of man.
The unreturn that time is
Includes the mechanical thing
That awareness has always
An element of resistance
To time itself in it.
It refuses the identity
That time proposes
To bestow on minutes,
On everything.
It is a force of resistance,
Resistant even to those forces
That constitute it.

The force of individuality
In a particle,
Since it is time-ridden,
Would vary and weaken
Not entirely mechanically
And give birth to the world
And to anomalies.

A balance, a situation
Has to have a form of awareness,
Or knowledge, of itself as a balance
Or how could it exist as moments pass?
The urge in time itself is to exist –
And it names and individuates
Everything in a mystic electricity
And force –
In eerily always renewed individuation
Until it fails for this or that thing –
The hurried dawns and
Semi-sleeplessness of matter
And its nakedness
To the brushing formation
And anatomical trespass of the creation
Of existence – and then the lapse,
The letting go, the decay –
The restlessness of amendment –
In that, I drown, waking-and-sleeping,
Fluke-attentioned in ways that jeer
In the mental light in the dark
At really crippling fear
Until thoughtlight becomes a dance
In mental darkness of fear and beyond-fear,
A little natural chemical fire in the skull,
A little buzz of hellfire
And resistance – in the skull,
Beneath the hair.

Without cure or remission,
The flickers of memory
And the present-tense of merely-a-room alternate.

And in resignation to the crawling,
Wormy,
Maggoty minutes and breaths,
The tiny, transparent monkeys of my breath,
The snake-flutters of eyelashes and of lungs,
I endure my punishment
Like in a Dali oil.

In the alternations,
It seems to me,
My shadow eats the world
And drags me in its belly
(in the mind of my mind)
Into a moment of eclipse.
My darkened self proposes
And manages an awful kind of marriage
And filial thing with darkness itself,
With awful matter.

An infant patience,
Seemingly infinite,
Inside the night,
Preserves me
As I straddle the alternations and twists
And moment-by-moment prolongation
Of this condition of loneliness
And of predicament
In amphibian contradiction
Of everything I have been taught
About simplicity and ideas.

Clapping a mind on top of a mind,
An observing consciousness,
Another placement of awareness
On top of the one before,
And then piling body on mind,
On minds, and superimposing a giddily aerial
(and sad) form of mind
On all of that,
And still another form of mind to watch,
To judge and observe,
I rise to a kind of a glimpse
Of the nighttime room.

People say, I know all about it...
And: we know nothing about that...
Explaining or un-explaining
Man's longing
For the divine intellect...

I am not tired of god –
But the idea of god is so much simpler
Than the sense of presence
In the passage of moments
That I can't ask for anything
But merely wait for mercy,
Here,
So long after my birth
Into the immortality of sheer existence:
One rises with a heavy beating of wings
Into a condition of migration.

Thought and recognition
Of the motions of thought,
The most elaborate imaginable collection
Of simultaneous rifflings
Of predatory exercises
Of worded will,
Stories and whatnot,
Made of stiff letters
Erected in a phallic one,
A single quill sufficient,
Or insufficient,
For warding off despair.

I want to be like a book
In its powers of survival.
Or a painting?
I feel the whispering
Inside and outside of me –
Strange primal stories:
Would you like to speak
The language of atoms?
The formation of the cosmos?
The first war cries on the shores?

If you fail to sleep,
You can hear the howling
Of the electrons
In the black spaces in you;
And a kind of Troy arises –
And falls then – the nothing
With its peculiar motions stitching it,
Seamed nothingness,
Into borders, until it is me –
Factual and predicted light of awareness,
Like light,
A form of time...

~ FEEL THE RHYTHM

2006-04-12T17:56:00.000+03:00

I feel the rhythm,
The rhythm that is
Constantly around me,
As I communicate
Through my mind
The emotions pervading me.

Everything needs rhythm
And of everything
I, the human
Need it most.

Everything is where
And what it is
Because of rhythm.

I, the human
Am the only creature
That can add questions
And understanding
To rhythm.

There is a rhythm
That permeates
All I do,
From sleeping
To going to the grocery
To dying.

I may,
At some brief moments
Be out of tune
With rhythm,
But it is still
Why I am.

When I move
With rhythm and perhaps
Feel it brush gently
Against me
There is harmony
Within me,
Within my life.

I feel a worth
In and of being.
Without being cognizant
Of the rhythm
I know I simply
Feel good.

In this state rain,
Lightening and even thunder
Possess an awe-inspiring beauty.

When, for some reason,
The rhythm of my living
Is upset
then discord ensues
And even sunlight
Can be frightening.

When this state exists
I long for and even seek
Rhythm.
I wish to simply
Feel good again.

Rocks, wind, water
And anything else
That is non-living
Exists in and are
Because of rhythm.
All living things
Also exist within rhythm
But also use it to procreate.

I, the human
Also seek the harmony
Of that rhythm
In order to feel good.
To me rhythm is pleasure
And it is this pleasure
I seek.

I am
The only animal
That creates a rhythm
Of my own
Inside the larger rhythm
Of life.

The true poet
Listens to and expresses
The rhythms of life
More acutely than anyone.

Feeling this rhythm
Is what gives me
The ability to write poetry.

Knowing that it exists
In all things
Gives me the ability
To understand a poem.

~ THE ULTIMATE LOGIC OF TIME (prosaic disquisition)

2006-04-11T18:45:00.000+03:00

~ A pindaric toolkit for the hyponoetic seeker...

The idleness of time
Too much time, wasted
The boredom of timelessness
Timing time and the upsetting function of clocks
Being in time and not being,
Abusing and disabusing time
Finding time
For myself and others
The ultimate time
The limitless boundaries of time
Time, the universe, and everything...or else.

The ultimate view
Regards the universe
As a unified organisation
Of three ultimate realities:
The realms of the material,
The emotional and the psychological
Existents.

Ultimates:
The soul is conceptualised as
The ultimate driving factor of life.
The ultimate carrier of life phenomena,
Which departs the body
At the moment of death.
Man strives to find
The ultimate law
Able to explain all the laws
Intermediate between empirical facts
And mental understanding,
A universal and ultimate principle
To be regarded as the governor
Of the universe,
The primary factor.

The ultimate view of the universe
Is closely related to
The timeless character
Of our thoughts and emotions.

The aim to give our life a meaning
Exerts important influence
On our existence as a whole,
Which does not pass
With the end of our earthly life.

Our life as a whole
Will not become invalid by our death.
Aren’t you relieved?
I do wish to dispense relief.

So, do not believe in
The materialist view
That our life is born
From inanimate matter,
And we will return to inanimate matter
- from dust to dust -
Into the complete annihilation.

Believe in Logic,
More than individual consciousness:
Logic is a potential of infinite,
Relevant and true consciousness
And creativity.

Logic is the cosmic network
Of the primal, pre-material,
Biological and psychological existents.

Thoughts and emotions
Help realise
The destination of the universe.

If our thoughts and emotions
Born by our life
Add continuously to the logical network
Of the universe,
Than the universe is necessarily
Destined to a kind of evolution.
This evolution is an interesting,
Extraordinary and
Unsuspected one.
This evolution
Starts from realms of time
And arrives to the realm of timelessness
And completes its ultimate meaning
In timelessness.

Ancient philosophers
Perceived a Cosmic Soul
And conceived of it as
An Image of Eternity,
In relation to divine godhead
And transrational knowledge.
Peak-experiences,
Near-death experiences
And ecstatic trances
Show that we can live
During our life
Also with the abilities offered
By higher dimensions
And the ultimate reality.
The ultimate view of time
Confirms that we can live our life
In its full scope
When we live with the power
Of our ultimate reason.

The ultimate concentration
of infinity in finiteness
is called Life,
The ultimate stake.

Therefore, when our life is at risk,
It is the concentrated infinity which is at risk,
under the attack in the finite existence.
The dynamics of finiteness and infinity
Is paralleled in the dynamics of timely
And timeless existence.

Material reality
Is not a separate, isolated subset
Of existence, which is closed in itself.
Material reality is related
With the realities of life and reason.
Material reality forms
A complete reality
With the realities of life and reason.
It possesses a principal, spiritual nature.
In this way
It is necessary that our thoughts
And emotions form a communicating unity
With each other and the material reality.
In this way,
The destination of the universe
Requires a development,
An evolution in a fuller sense,
The time of which is the logical time,
The time of reason,
The order of the completion
Of the reason-full, genuine, cosmic meaning.

The evolution of the universe
Occurs in the logical time of eternity.
We can contact eternity
If we are able to connect our emotions
And thoughts into the reason-full,
Logical order of the universe.

There is no time without reality.
Clear?

~ ESSENTIAL UNCERTAINTY

2006-04-11T17:54:00.000+03:00

Every look forward
Is a potential illusion.
This satisfies my need
To insecurity
Since in an eternally
Insecure situation
I must externally
Seek knowledge and security
And never completely find them.

~ DO YOU LISTEN?

2006-04-10T17:46:00.000+03:00

Do you listen?
You do not.
You listen only
To yourself.
Leave the sense
Of hearing
Alone,
Then you find
The vibration
Of sound.

~ BEAUTY VALUES

2006-04-08T17:44:00.000+03:00

How can I define aesthetics
Without thinking about
The beauty of the Universe?

If the Universe is the cornerstone
Of conceptual definition,
Then anything else loses meaning

Nothing can compare
Not a thing
The Nothingness of Aesthetics

The supreme beauty of indefiniteness
Since Beauty cannot be defined
Not by humans, surely
Not by me.

~ ATOMIC JOLT

2006-04-07T17:42:00.000+03:00

Love me,
Fight me,
Reach me, or
Leave me!
But it is
Love all
Over again.

Or if I blew a kiss
At every atom particle
In the universe...
And they all at once
Blew me a big kiss
And embrace in return?
Is this possible?
I think so...
Because we are connected
Yet so immersed in ourselves
For so long...
A forgotten sorrow...

Alone
Together
Alone
In pulsations
Like a melody,
Reaching ecstasy.

I tried it and felt it.
I shouldn't perceive presences as far away
I should perceive them as within my being.
I wouldn't have to shout
And I can be deaf too
Or dumb.

I think we can extend from static to stars and back
With as simple a tool as awareness.
The more focused and sweeping
The bigger the effect.

When a Messiah is born,
All the atoms rejoice.
A Messiah knows how.
We know how.
Are we doing it?

Any message to
any atom
any cell
any being
can be in the form of
Beauty
Art
Care
Desire
Need
or Love.

Say hello from Earth to everyone for me.
I mean everyOne.
Deliver it well and
With lots of love.

Remember those you loved
In all Eternity!
They are waiting
Or perhaps already calling...

Echos of ecstasy linger
in every atom
in every cell
in every Being:
Yank it out -
Your ecstasy!

~ ANGST IV

2006-04-06T17:42:00.000+03:00

Elation
Euphoria
Jubilation and
Exhilaration
All congregate
In a cauldron of boiling
Synonymity
To produce a feeble
Bubble of nonentity

~ ANGST III

2006-04-05T17:41:00.000+03:00

Depression
Low
Emptiness
Abysmal void
Negated will
Cut breath
And lancinated guts
Grating nails
Against the slate
Of damned
Birth

~ ANGST II

2006-04-04T17:40:00.000+03:00

Panic
Enters the vault
Of chemical reassurance
And demolishes its volatile patina
Brick by screaming brick
Scattering psychotic visions
Like insidious cockroaches

~ ANGST I

2006-04-03T17:39:00.000+03:00

Vital force
Escapes
The clogged stomata
Of my agitated addiction

~ SWINGING YAMA *.....by Wanderer in Love

2006-04-02T22:31:00.000+03:00

-- by Wanderer In Love, 05/2006

* Yama (Sanskrit: यम) is the lord of death, first recorded in the Vedas. Yama belongs to an early stratum of Indo-Iranian mythology. In Vedic tradition Yama was considered to have been the first mortal who died and espied the way to the celestial abodes, and in virtue of precedence he became the ruler of the departed. Its Greek equivalent may be found in Pluto.

~ AMNIOTIC CRISIS

2006-04-02T17:38:00.000+03:00

My old is dying
And my new cannot
Be born:
In this interregnum
A great variety of
Morbid symptoms
broils.

But what can Heart
Remember?
If a little less than needed -
It bleeds,
If a little more than wanted -
It bleeds.

All that Heart can conceive,
I possess elsewhere
All, and more -
Heaven and earth embrace
In my carapace.

~ AFTERTASTE

2006-04-01T17:36:00.000+03:00

You shall not taste of death
For there is no death for you:
You cannot experience
Your own death.

Are you born?
Life and death
Cannot be separated.
You have no chance whatever
Of knowing for yourself
Where one begins
And the other ends.

You can experience the death of another,
But not your own.
Where is death, there is no you.
The only death is physical death;
There is no psychological death.

Why then are you so afraid of death?
- Because there is no you.

~ A VISION TO SHARE

2006-03-01T23:49:00.000+02:00

I have travelled the whole world, consumed by an inner fire I cannot decipher yet. But my disquiet and restlessness hasn't abated: I'm still as impulsive, angry, emotional, and discontent as when I was first born into puberty.

But when I compose poetry, oh when I compose! When I write I seem to become universal, in an orgasmic, a-tonic, mental masturbating sort of way that pampers my deeper requisites for sensual freedom and awakens the genius in me.

I am actively thinking, while I write. While I'm writing for you and to you, the anonymous reader.

All active thinking is more than a mere linking together of images and conceptions. Can you intellectually connect with me and perceive the genius?

Genius: his messages take shape in the secret depths of the soul...

Philosopher Galton wrote that "what is generally meant by genius is the automatic activity of the mind, as distinguished from the effort of the will. In a man of genius, the ideas come as by inspiration; he is driven rather than drives himself."

It is a gift of the gods... Plato, himself a genius, suggests that creative thought is a kind of madness sent upon men by the gods in accordance with some purpose of which they and not we are conscious. Being conscious that I am not really a genius, I should be satisfied with my intuitive mind, as intuition is the basis of all thinking. The intuited idea is operative throughout the whole process of the collection of facts, the brooding over them, the gradual heightening of the tension, the sudden release and the slow and steady mastery of the detail by the elaboration of the conceptions and judgments. In any concrete act of thinking mind's active experience is both intuitive and intellectual. If you wish to be my intellectual connection, in turn I should be intuitively your medium for manipulating your higher sense of existence. Accept?

I mean: do you accept that?

It is a mistake to think that the only qualifications for elucidating truth and fulfilment in life are purely intellectual. Only those whose lives are deep and rich light on the really vital syntheses significant to mankind.

Shouldn't we do our part in the synthesis of our life? Let's be creative then, if we cannot be true geniuses. Let's be alive and expressive in all our senses.

Artistic. Yes.

The work of art is the crystallization of a life-process. Grab my hand... shed your skin awhile, and be an artist with me, just like I want to be an artist with you, unlearning to relearn -- just like Socrates said.

Is this my electronic virtual crisis? Since I've just about experienced any sort of intellectual crisis available to man, I may as well have a cyber-crisis online!

(sarcastic laugh)

I've been like this since birth, so no bullshit. It's actual awareness, finally. A wanting for aesthetic achievement. My mind is in labour and craves for sustenance from the whole being. No more crap from others.

Now read a poem, for chrissake! Or write me a poem...

This is the prayer I understand, no other.

True poetry which is rich with a world of suffering and experience, has the fullness and mystery, and depth and authority of life itself. It is because the poet sees so intensely that he is able to communicate to us his feeling and judgment. The creative spirit and its activity are so unlike the conscious mind that the latter feels itself to be inspired and raised above its normal power by the breath of spirit. Can you bear with me a moment about "inspiration"?

The inspired souls speak from a centre of consciousness that has transcended the limits of its finitude and so claim an authoritativeness which is not within the power of the normal individual to bestow. They do not think so much as thoughts come to them. Hey, you see how close we now come to the concept of "genius" as Plato sees it? So, perhaps all hope is not lost. The poet believes that his work is due not to his intellectual skill or imaginative boldness but to what he calls his inspiration.

I feel inspired. My reader, if you do exist, you've got to believe me: I feel soooo inspired I could initiate an atomic fission by just composing a haiku verse!

But DO YOU feel inspired? Well, do you? Ever?

Since inspiration comes to the poet's life and fades out of it regardless of his inclination, he traces it to a power more unconscious than conscious. To the ancient Hindus and the Greeks, the poetic exercise is a religious act, and the poet invokes his muse and begins with a prayer. Ever read Homer? It is always a dialogue between the daimon and the psyche. The authors of the Vedic hymns regarded themselves as channels of something greater than they knew, instruments of a higher soul beyond themselves. They do not so much create the contents as contemplate them in their moments of deepest insight. Plato in his Symposium suggests a similar view. Aristotle says that the poet is either "happily gifted by nature" or "a bit of a maniac". Dante says: "I am one who, when love inspires, take note and as he dictates within me I express myself."

Isn't all this beautiful? Yes, it is.

The poetic experience is but momentary for the veil is redrawn and the mood of exaltation passes. The poet attempts a translation of the ineffable experience into words. While poetry is in the soul, the poem is a pale reflection of the original, an attempt to register in words an impression which has become an image in memory.

Here, dear virtual reader, I falter.
Here I have my tragedy: cannot ever be satisfied with my "registrations". There is something incommensurable in poetry, eluding my expression in words. The poetic temper is in all of us though only a few develop it. The poet has the gift, which fewer still have, of communicating the experience by words of immediate power which compel the wandering mind to respond to his appeal. It is truly difficult to translate states of soul into words and images. The success of art is measured by the extent to which it is able to render experiences of one dimension into terms of another.

The difference between a poet and a non-poet is that the experience of the former is larger and his verbal control greater. And an adequate control of technique is essential to the poet. Even in the act of composition the poet is in a state in which the reflective elements are subordinated to the intuitive. The vision, however, is not operative for so long as it continues, its very stress acts as a check on expression. The experience is recollected but not in tranquillity. Poetry is the language of excitement. For in recollecting the exciting experience, the poet recreates the conditions of its happening and identifies himself with it. The spell of the experience is still on the poet and under its influence he employs intuitive words and images which possess emotional value more than logical meaning. While poetry is not the vision itself, but only the image of it, still its quality depends on the degree with which it calls up the vision.

Let us then be poets together, and call up a vision to share....