Poetry springs from something deeper; it’s beyond intelligence…It’s a thing of its own; it has a nature of its own.
Words are only painted fire ; a look is the fire itself.
This is how to title a poem: simple and direct.
From Sad Poem by E., on A Sign of Life.
It’s a wonderful blog, you should check it out.
Think of it as a convenience charge. You could write this schlock, but it’s time consuming, and it takes you places you’d rather not go. That’s where I come in. I sacrifice my life to ensure our allied viewpoints are preserved.
I write for you lover, outcast, left behind and forgotten.
For you scholar, explorer, tinkerer, fool.
Natural, cosmic, and mundane.
These poems aren’t for me,
They aren’t even for me and you.
They are for us, allies—
extant, and yet to be.
I serve your current fanciful and poetic needs, but I also make testament to the sublime balancing act of our time for our future allies, like that teenager of 2032, curled up in some dark hole, will know that our time was more than conflict and strife, hatred anger abuse and drought. There were people, your allies, and they strode proud in defiance and in love. They saw the world not so differently from you.
In 2100 someone mesmerized by our time is wondering WTF happened back then, and even with changes in the language, they’ll know we ran naked in jungles and ate fruit from the vine.
In the 2200s, on an outpost on Mars, someone feels a connection to the ancient past: others have known heartache and abandonment.
2300s, and people don’t talk anymore, so much as commune, and they quiver in joy: intelligence makes due and survives, and emotion is a part of that.
Running a poetic time capsule is expensive, and consuming, and I need your help. Your patronage will ensure that our allied world views, and our secret selves, have a voice.
It’s a beautiful day.
Take a breather.
Here’s something to listen to while you do.
Communion ” Beati Mundo Corde” (1:36)
Choeur Grégorien De Paris Et Schola Greg. Pragensi
Toussaint Requiem – Chants Grégoriens À Fronfroide
The lone survivor of the ambush and subsequent tortures suffered survivor’s guilt and post traumatic stress disorder for his remaining days. Mostly in bed waiting to hear from an ally.
Solace never came. No trust or hope now. Just ruin. Ruin and decay. And one lone broken poet spreading the story, but leaving off the ending—he will have none think ill of his ally.
Continue reading Call it love.
If it holds true that mindfullness melts down the walls between worlds, and in that melting are sublime nudges and suggestions, then someone must have tagged it already.
The insights discovered in meditation are primarily non-conceptual. They concern the nature of experience — and to the extent that this can be expressed, only poetry or metaphor will serve.