we breath life into language which we construe with semantics and syntactical alliances until it needs to be said or is a lovely song but mostly flung out there into a crowded starry sky to fly or fall, that's all -- I learn a lot from my still-born writes as much, if not more, than those that never get a stare -- it all gets recycled in the cauldron of my heart, boiling with fires too hot for knowledge or understanding, spewing forth with plasma graces where they flow to my pen again and again as leaden storms or golden winds
inspiration is the gift of stars flowing with light from eyes glittering with delight or waves of sweet wise words floating off the tongue of an old and smiling one -- nice poement -- inspire - To breathe life into
we invent language, but I've used the archaic expression with [Middle English enspiren, from Old French enspirer, from Latin nsprre : in-, into; see in-2 + sprre, to breathe.] -- which aids in the allusion of language forms 'n rituals being dead, without life until we breath that life into them -- kinda like in Jewish folklore, a golem (גולם; English pronunciation: /ˈgoʊləm/, goh ləm) is an animated being created entirely from inanimate matter and then 'life' is breathed into it -- of course they can become servants or monsters
I get the feeling you're really like Le Petit Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in that your allusions are that we are all bubbles of brilliant shimmering hues bouncing and bullying each other around looking for ways to merge with each other, leaking through our surface tension, wiggling or waiting for that 'special' one to burst us free to really be me -- i'm real only then when you are and life is real only then when I am bursting at the seams of what I thought really me means --
the 'song' was originally a come-along of similar sounds with reverberation, a frequency-ride in scales that shaped the land-scape you were assimilating, the urge to merge with a naked-dance prance -- a sort of serendipity cum verity where your body-heart-mind instrument sympathetically resonated with the here-we-go, doncha'know -- as you are aware, I'm not a fan of thinking and find it highly over-rated, nonetheless, when thought follows in resonance with the heart and the body dances to that earth-bound beat reaching for the sky, that's when my words become imbued with inspiration, a sweet-release, a sigh
I don't flaunt that I'm a flautist and like to jazz 'n rhythm with that music stick in either sonorous tones of a Tai Hei Shakuhach or the rigorous tonality of a Sonare Solid Silver Flute (Split E) with it's inherent mystery -- from the Music of the Spheres to the sounds that sooth our fears in the relative dance to the frequencies of scale : Planet to Planet, Star to Star, Galaxies and Dark matter revolving in the slipperiness of deep 'n dark space keeping pace to their own law of falling into each other in time and space matter -- I'd imagine dear Wittgenstein with a black hole in his head bending the light with his insight -- Godal, Escher 'n Bach played with the infinite-in where all thats left of the Cheshire cat is the grin -- canons and fugues with Shepard scales, the white whale of Information Theory, the Eternal Golden braid in Quantum tessellations made -- it's Higgy dust where from nothing to everything you see, a Quantum fluctuation made music and you 'n me
I agree -- as stated in rigorous English, I'm not fastidious on syntactical forms 'n rituals nor am I averse to the idiom of the medium is the message -- as an idiot staring at forever I've found concept bubbles burst on the meandering stream of consciousness toward the Sea of eternity, where I, you and me no longer dis-agree nor are bound by the laws of 'be' but ride the waves of entropy -- the medium of longing swells in an ancient-ache, as if the stillness of the infinite sea that is our sky quivered in a hundred-million lights, falling as stars, the searing tears of night
i'm laughing in spasms here -- yep! it's the 'terror of the situation' bound in words that slap and scold that what is new always comes from something that is old -- here you've scraped the surface with your wit, like some grave-robber digging into it, to boldy go where we'll all end up, as worm-food making them, too, fed-up
for me, words as sound and vehicle of what we need to say, come as streams of rhythms bound naturally by the tempo of the time and how would you say, what is going 'round in Zeitgesitian rhyme -- nevertheless, as night is bound to day, where language ends, poetry will have it's say -- whether it's dialectically determined daydreams speaking in defence or a bird-song rivalling for the highest branch in the tree - the writer writes, in idioms of laughter and tears, words that grate or are in harmonies -- either way, what is real and what is not, is an invention we corral in the words that we've got; why not?
I get what you're aiming for and spewing word-vomit on the floor from drinking it all in 'till you wanna' burst that write is wrong when you've got it all rehearsed -- to analyze and sift through all that we are which makes us say the things we say, like Physicists mapping layers of a Star as it bursts into a fiery rage or the pundit and his polemic to the Political slave -- to reiterate my wan declination, I'm not a fan of knowings demarcation, but I understand this non-trivial need in this forum of Poetics, however, understand that I'm not into rhetoric nor a theoretician but rather lean to the nature of the beast in us and it's mystery of the numinous -- reason is wounded in that it cannot embrace consciousness, that there is something more and bigger than we can garner by taking it all apart, that Science like Art is not the map but the territory where your feet are write now, where to show is the goal and not to tell -- Art is greater than the sum of its parts but getting what you're going for takes analytical skill, the heart of it, if you will
i read often and often when I'm not, I read visually all sorts of movies from the 'B' horror raves to the artsy Sundance festival faves -- lately I've been entwined in IT Server migrations and DNS woes which is what I've been doing all day today -- however, the collected Patchen poems you steered me towards gave me inspiration then to William Carlos William and that old lover Walt Whitman -- these American Mystics who fired-up with wit, inspiring is the very foundation of it -- I've read other Poets but lean to these guys, loving their oddity, finding it wise
well that's an interesting turn of phrase in what you say, do I read for fun in any way -- well, yes it's fun to read 'n write, in fact it's outta' site -- as you read me write before, joy is the foundation of wonder and wonder is the basis of the dream that all that we are and all that we seem is as the bloom is to flower, as scent is to what we feel, and the feeling is fun when it's then so visceREAL -- I study too and then I dream, look out over the Burrard Bay into a city that shines like jewels in the night -- I read some and I write some, mostly for fun, while watching the Sun glitter on the Sea or the tessellating Moon beams that set my heart free, yes, that's fun for me
'little-rat-eyes' squint so much that all they see is cliche' -- they've castigated 'n shit on the Poets here with never any wit to the crit that'd help them be clear -- so much odiousness in the reply, why? they sound like an over-educated baboon that cannot cry -- all poetry, good or bad, comes of genuine feeling -- so reviews should not be personal diatribes but plainly simple dialogues of what works or does not work in the context of the writing -- where Poetry is about healing the wounds that reason makes many odious 'I am writer' folks are making wounds on Poetry with their reasons -- doubt is their religion and bullying their secular sacrament -- often intelligence is mistaken for hierarchical desire monkey opinion, 'cause I'm smarter, better, more insightful and my writing is top form kinda thing -- darWINian at best -- from street gangs to bed rooms and forums the Alpha-fucker puts you down so sHe can be one up -- eGo for it is the why -- the arrogance of ignorance is the conceit that hides behind the averted fear that I'm not good enough to be here, so they regale you, that you won't be too, if they have anything to do, with it -- so they'll take a shit all over what you writ and you better like it 'cause they're the writeous crit -- laughing with other little-rat-eyes without wit
