we phase-shift through our wonder into awe as our eyes glitter with the beauty that we saw...
the phases of 'knowing' have been parsed thus: firstly we're unconscious that we don't know, then we're conscious that we don't know, then we're conscious that we do know, then, finally, we're unconscious that we know.
knowing is often wounded by our reasons inside, those 'forms and rituals' that fear the unknown, from which we hide, and that they lied about the numinous that is always moving-us beyond the shackles of Newtons arrow-of-time or that we're slaves to Darwin's struggle from the slime; nonetheless, we're made in our own image and can invent ourselves anew, as three parts dark-matter, where deep calls to deep, and one-part light, to see what our sentimental-reality reflections really do...
this slippery surface of merCurious illuMentation:
this ephemeral shining at the back of the mind,
where the numinous is really moving-us
beyond the limits of the fatal 'skin-we're-in'
and beyond this tunnel-vision we call time--
it's the plight of the unbelonging to be longing
before sentimental-realities bottomless bliss;
where you kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses thee,
and listen to the sound that only the heart can hear,
and there, experience eternity...
reasons un-wound, fall, unbound, toward
a pointlessness of
parallaxing into a tunnel-vision,
where the paralysis of analysis 'n indecision
becomes a doubt about it, then derision...
that cynical-sin of taking things apart, piece by piece,
and then cutting them down, again and again,
and calling it discriminating-wisdom then;
where deep calls to deep,
where it gets
wrapped up
in many Mansions
for LotusBlossomslaughter,
where wounds of reason all bleed-out
from lessons upon the alter,
where Gods like Horace
and that blind-Homer
reached within the cloud-of-unknowing,
for another conflicted hero,
watching shadows lurching on the wall,
bent-over laughing at the absurdity of it all...
When we are at rest, we Dream; that is Poetry, in that what we experience as Dream is the concourse of being inside out withoutta' doubt; a sentimental-reality - Poetry is often this language of Dream, in that we experience these Dreams of Language in Poetry which is without the doubt of reason, but reveals the phases of 'knowings' natural 'seasons' - Novalis said,
"We read Poetry to heal the wounds that reason makes" - we make Poetry to contemplate what is beyond mere reason - Poetry is meaning in motion like the roiling ocean reflecting many Suns - the Poet is like a sphere with her centre everywhere and his circumference nowhere, without beginning or end, always rolling, rolling 'round 'unknowings' wondrous bend -
unknowing-one - what would 'objective' Art look like? -- it would seem there are two forms of Art. Objective Art and Subjective Art. Subjective Art comes in 3 flavours, generally, i.e., Intellectual, Emotional, and Physico/Instinctual. A quick example of each would be Picasso's Instinctual works, the Expressionists emotive works, and the Intellectual forms of the so called minimalist Post-Modern Art. Of course there are various blendings of these 'subjective-types' which speaks to each of us on the level of our personal character, our relative perspectives; hence the like/dislike quality of subjective art works.
With Objective art, like the Gothic Cathedrals of old, the Pyramids, and music such as Beethoven's 5th Symphony or Mozart's 40th, 41st and 42nd symphonies, each and every one has a similar experience. Lifting us up, out of our personal time/space habit patterns; lifting us in awe to the greater nature of life, lifting our wings of wonder so we're flying through a vast cloud-of-unknowing that is this sentimental-reality, throughout Natures continuous motion of creative-destruction. So it is that Nature reflected in Art moves us beyond our tunnel-visions, while the subjective forms tend to chain us to our habits of seeing and hearing, or provide us a temporary diversion at best.
Poetry often reflects the 'small' miracles in our everyday struggle. Like most Art, it is subjective and produces few Saints. Poetry as a Language speaks within but without reason, and sings of a Love that cannot be named, in a music that only the Heart can hear. However, it is like having a 'Myth' which is like having a 'Map!' We can share these 'stories' of our 'Map Quest', our experiences, and somehow in the sharing we are renewed! Nevertheless, ?'knowing' is like this Map, but it's really not the Territory, that cloud-of-unknowing you're presently 'wondering' through...
Dreams are like Poetry;
Some are wishes, some are fears,
while but a few are prophecy!
Some are laughter, some are tears,
while some are mere philosophy!
Some writers write to be mean and right,
others to be liked, feel they belong;
then there is the Shiva-Grace: a destroyer,
a creator, a Diva of change!
An urge of nature in lyrical song!
She is mystic, language her crucible,
igniting grace to passion;
no past compels, nor future beckons!
Her dreams of light, this second sight
that comes of longing in the night!
mostly metaphor is a trick of the light to get these reflections just right, so,
you-know, it's glinting in your eye as you release into the 'flower of meaning' with a sigh; like looking at the mesmerizing-sea glimmering-many-Suns, so sympathetic-tessellations resonate in your oceanic-brain, where synapses shivering-sentient luminescence reflect again ... we're epiphanators, ecstatics reflecting a whirl'd-view, swooning with another oceanic-dream waving at me 'n you...
"We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are." -- Anais Nin
"believe nothing, not even yourself" -- Gurdjieff
