i_havent_felt_poetic daxle in a very long time i used to, in semi random, semi regular intervals (occasionally) 050912 ... imagine that "poetry in general," she once told me, as if to pre-empt an oncoming outburst of poetics that she had inspired "is shit." 050912 ... z this is a much too poetic way to die jane fonda as barbarella 1968 050912 ... superleni is sad to not feel poetic. i, too, rarely feel poetic anymore. they say most poets become disillusioned with poetry eventually. what is the point? the point is sound and beauty and maybe truth. and sharing, and expression. sometimes poetry is the right thing. 050913 ... pete i think it may come back this year, though its been gone for oh so long 050913 ... oldephebe i've often and overtly opined here that poetry IS the language of the soul. When my innards clutch at the unseen and now unfelt and all its grasps is the scoured out air-- air without smell air without the pregnancy of many ecosystems vying for expression and existence air without the music of civilization air without the musty scent of strangers packed into an obsolescent steel trolley hurtling on rusted steel girders air without the energy of steel carriages the drivers cradling cell phones, the ubiquitous cell phone to the scrubbed and erudite ear air without sound and noise I agree with jane--it's really disquieting to reach for your souls music and come up empty ... 050913 ... oldephebe the lone contemplative having withdrawn from the crush of bodies and the bedlam of so many minds and mouths having seen his/her ideals distributed as through wireless nodes and seen them savagely jettisoned from the modern soul in its singularly desperate tenacious pursuit of wealth and power the lone contemplative arduously and dreamily plaiting his ivy cords ceremoniously festooning his shoddily constructed tower they, the world of machines and competition and iron will the world that does not shrink from the ugliness and harrow of honest struggle the world that does not construct alternate realities the world that does not hide in the mists of mysticism the world that does not comfort the pathetic dream fugue plagued reality avoiding psychosis and neurosis with obsolescent notions of Thoreau, and Voltaire and Dickens and Bronte and the 16th century mediocre actor with little formal education that somehow aquired the facility to read ancient greek and plumb the works of Plutarch to examine and articulate the quality of being human in a way that no other document than the King James (james was a torturer and tyrant of the nth degree) Bible He has been banished from the world of comptition and commerce and like Focault found guilty of trying too hard to impress upon the Philistinistic age/heart the compensatory virtue of his esoteric erudition and banished to an isolated prison high in the Pyrenees Mountains to spend what is left of a laugh of a life alone no hears him no sees him when he descends from his tower to walk amongst the world of men when he out of neccessity must ruefully punch the clock and accept the Beasts stamp upon his brow for a few schekles to pay the usurious rates of the monopolistic utilities he and millions of others throw their rubles, scheckles dollars, lira, pounds, deutchmarks into the bottomless canyon of the corporate maw the lone contemplative does not understand in his idealist and overtly romanticist passion, his regard for the under dog in all of us he does not understand or even accept how power that is vested in the hands of the few elected officials who pass laws that enable the corporate collossus to poison the drinking water and over charge in a basically monopolistic market he wonders whatever happened to The Taft Hartley Act he wonders how can such men become so innured to the spectacle of horror and trajedy when corporations run amok in the pursuit of its blood, its vitality the reams of printed paper with the faces of our founding fathers emblazoned across the front have they not permitted the omnipresent, unsleeping corporate ID to become far worse than old King George the lone contemplative has a habit of wounding, of injuring the vanity of the powerful or at least the lilliputian tyrants that rule over ponds, and the thin trickle of water that feeds the corporate current he tries to say that he owes the Other his honesty and humility like that painter whose every stroke is honest upon the canvas instead the vain and the powerful will not SAY what he sould know that they want elaborate parties and promenades in honor of His/Her vanity he wants no one around him who can so easily unbalance his sense of himself and so he is doomed to inadvertantly injure peoples vanity and he continues to pay raises are witheld the air become rank with hostility taut all motion and words stop when he enters the conferance room one black stone amidst a sea of white he is too small for this ugly ignoble job the job that so many others pragmatically accomodate themselves to for down the road they will be reward for thier selfless and craven sycophancy -the job of propping up the continental mass and whieght of the department heads vanity he wonders how any work gets done the mere IDEA the unholy act of hiding his light of becoming the echo to someones fatuous deliberations is like dying but this is the way of Power but he neither has the inclination nor the time to pore over the infinite complexity of the psyche the proud and the powerfully who want, no who chemically NEED to be the center of attention at all times He knows that Power once offended like Heaven intent on venting its fury on a sinful world will have its justice, its honor even if it means grinding the knife in the back over and over and over again We are not free not the black or the white not the red or brown or yellow He wonders why the powerful and wise and acomplished cannot see that there is not enough fuel to feed the flickering fires of envy, rage, greed, malice, hate He cannot artfully feign sincerity he is not adept at those political stratagems... he feels like something vile and horrid smelling has crawled into his soul, his heart whenever he tries to imitate the art of the charmer, the charismatic The Constitution is no longer a document for the people and by the people--it is now whatever the imperatives of power and all those beholden to it whatever it wants it to mean so yeah its difficult to feel poetic I don't know if retreating into a fortress is really the best solution here. Isolation can breed a kind of misanthropy sure. Isolation robs one of what the soul so desperately needs-- human contact. ... 050914 ... oldephebe May I share a bit of Rabbinical wisdom with you? Great. Here goes. "Man thinks, God laughs....But why does God laugh at the sight of man thinking? Because man thinks and the truth escapes him. Because the more man thinks, the more one man's thought diverges from another. And finally because, man is never what he thinks he is." Some very wise rabbi. I think the essence of feeling poetic, or even more accurately stated, I think the essence of writing poetry is the act of transcending the world's ache and whieght, or even because of it--one stops struggling, one reaches for the firmament and is carried there almost effortlessly upon the currents of his/her own music. To become light in the midst of all this whieght, to carry the anchor with you, and because of the mass and whieght of your souls torment, you fly higher, you make a sweeter sound. Poetry does that. If you can carve out one REAL moment where you'e not even aware of driving or piloting the plane. You look down and suddenly discover you've achieved the winged perfection of flight. I guess ... 050914 ... stork daddy i haven't felt poetic ever. 050914 ... oldephebe I don't know, I have read a few things of yours that while not aspiring to any ideal of poetry of romanticism quite clearly succeeds in sounding poetic. I mean exigency and existence, the metaphysical and the rational just delineating the diachotomy of those two polarities invested in the Human can produce a poetic tension, and can at times be powerfully expressive rivaling even some of the finest "poetry" written. The process of divestiture, of dignity, innocence, is in itself equisite fodder to fill all those plumed pens and parchment paper with enough authorial authenticity to rouse the jaundiced soul from its stupor. I mean after all in this post-modern age where can the soul seek respite? 050914 ... daxle jimmy, you lie 050915 ... stork daddy yeah i do. what does that have to do with anything? 050915 ... daxle You're breaking my heart! How dare you, you cruel selfish bastard! 050915 ... stork daddy that's pretty poetic. if by poetic i mean pathetic...which i don't! but come on now, you're a sophisticated mama and yet you just keep using my name just so people know i gave it to you! well i hope it lasts longer than the xbox! 050915 what's it to you? who go blather from