I have never been able to fathom poetry. Not because it's unensnarable—which it annoyingly is—but because it never seems to touch upon that all-encompassing nerve of human endeavour supposedly running through our blood, transcending cultures and time and space. Is there a common trouble that we all share? Is there a common tragedy that is not death that we all quietly await that so many claim is described by poetry?
I, for one, think that that thread of shared memory is lost, forever leaving the feeble grasp of our comprehension. In fact, I believe that there is more to be shared, more to be found that will speak to the mind's innermost voices, in a lonely moment of self-doubting. Away from a larger freedom, a "shared freedom", we now reside in a larger prison, an invisible cell that assumes various shapes and sizes.
Sometimes, it’s in your throat, blocking your words from surfacing. Sometimes, it has your skull in a death-grip, suffocating all thoughts. Sometimes, it holds your feet to the ground and keeps you from flying, or sticks your fingers in your ears and never lets you hear what you might want to hear. Sometimes, it’s a cock in a cunt, a blade against your nerves, a catch on your side, a tapeworm in your intestines, or that cold sensation that kills wet dreams.
Today, now, this moment, the smallest of freedoms, the freedoms that belong to us alone, are what everyone shares, what everyone experiences. It's simply an individuation of an idea, rather a belief, and the truth of that admission—peppered as it is with much doubt—makes us hold on more tightly to it. And as much as we partake of that individuation, like little gluons that emit gluons, we inspire more to pop into existence.
Within the confines of each small freedom, we live in worlds of our own fashioning. Poetry is, to me, the voice of those worlds. It is the resultant voice, counter-resolved into one expression of will and intention and sensation, that cannot, in turn, be broken down into one man or one woman, but only into whole histories that have bred them. Poetry is, to me, no longer a contiguous spectrum of pandered hormones or a conflict-indulged struggle, but an admission of self-doubt.
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Saturday, 8 September 2012
Monday, 26 March 2012
Tainted waters
This poem was inspired by this post.
--
What does the mind do when it doesn't think?
What do colours do when they don't show?
Do they sulk in the shadows and fade in hue
Or do they dissolve and simply colourless go?
What of their individual shades and the soul?
When they leave, what is it that they leave?
Do they pop out of existence like old black holes?
Do they die because they lived and just cease to be?
Do they have memories like the sleeping mind?
Does a colour dream during its sojourn on my wall?
When the paint sweats and greens and reds criss-cross,
Will their moods kiss, vessels list and let droplets fall?
Will molecules entwine and bonds be joined
In the space between spaces, within and without time?
With father-given free-will think with digits
Delving into the future with a pulse, quartz clock chime?
Where do colours come from—a place called home?
Do they drip off unseen from Nordic stalactites,
And collect in century-old pools of light that the Sun
Awakens as blue and green-hued sky in the winter
Before they are swept by melting snow and start to run?
Are they conceived in the vortexes beneath sand pits
In the Sahara, in the shadows of Arbre du Tenere?
Or are they voices of the sand-bearing charred winds
Where the bristling rumours of death and thirst lay?
When the burgeoning oceans and rivers flood over
And devour the shores of my childhood's plain,
When they seep silently under the farmlands' feet,
Will they awaken colours that were long since slain?
Whence come the blue, the pink and the amaranth,
and the auburn and arsenic, the ao and aureolin?
Are they the residue of conflicts, the sweat of creation,
Or simply from whim whence the jonquil and icterine?
The wold is coloured with men who stole its roots;
The moon's argent a reminder of morn's aging sheen,
Usurped and tainted, they roam homeless, aimless,
Yet as colours they came, but as dyes have been seen.
Sans protest upon nature's command did they predate
The dawn of civilization, and with such stillness did they
Succumb to the tyranny of the eye, pushed to scatter,
And now of their origins, I know not what to say.
--
What does the mind do when it doesn't think?
What do colours do when they don't show?
Do they sulk in the shadows and fade in hue
Or do they dissolve and simply colourless go?
What of their individual shades and the soul?
When they leave, what is it that they leave?
Do they pop out of existence like old black holes?
Do they die because they lived and just cease to be?
Do they have memories like the sleeping mind?
Does a colour dream during its sojourn on my wall?
When the paint sweats and greens and reds criss-cross,
Will their moods kiss, vessels list and let droplets fall?
Will molecules entwine and bonds be joined
In the space between spaces, within and without time?
With father-given free-will think with digits
Delving into the future with a pulse, quartz clock chime?
Where do colours come from—a place called home?
Do they drip off unseen from Nordic stalactites,
And collect in century-old pools of light that the Sun
Awakens as blue and green-hued sky in the winter
Before they are swept by melting snow and start to run?
Are they conceived in the vortexes beneath sand pits
In the Sahara, in the shadows of Arbre du Tenere?
Or are they voices of the sand-bearing charred winds
Where the bristling rumours of death and thirst lay?
When the burgeoning oceans and rivers flood over
And devour the shores of my childhood's plain,
When they seep silently under the farmlands' feet,
Will they awaken colours that were long since slain?
Whence come the blue, the pink and the amaranth,
and the auburn and arsenic, the ao and aureolin?
Are they the residue of conflicts, the sweat of creation,
Or simply from whim whence the jonquil and icterine?
The wold is coloured with men who stole its roots;
The moon's argent a reminder of morn's aging sheen,
Usurped and tainted, they roam homeless, aimless,
Yet as colours they came, but as dyes have been seen.
Sans protest upon nature's command did they predate
The dawn of civilization, and with such stillness did they
Succumb to the tyranny of the eye, pushed to scatter,
And now of their origins, I know not what to say.
Monday, 5 March 2012
Peter Vries
Peter Vries behind the mirror
Narrow eyes submerged in focus
Above the isosceles knot of a purple tie
White shirt basking in blanketed sunlight
A smile to show for a breezy week to come
Peter Vries in front of the mirror
Red-rimmed bulges beneath wide eyes
Bright sunlight, broken window, brighter still
A sundog poised on each shaft
No tears to spare for a sultry Monday morning
Idiot at work, idiot at home, idiot everywhere
Yet still top of the class, delicious arm candy
With time a mishmash of leftovers, American chop suey
Reaching into the depths of the Atlantic
Right under the flap of his toilet seat
Drained and purified by rats in the sewers
Beneath Amazonian rivers and canopies of green
One boat to paddle and paddled to the ocean
Looking into the bulging head of an octopus
Meeting its lonely eyes sunk within watery life
Sometime flying, sometimes crawling, sometimes still
Like the fingers of Peter Vries standing on
Either sides of a Belgian mirror stolen from
Somewhere in the tomb of a local pharmacy
And thrust straight past the epiglottis, down, down
And back, defenestrated out of Atlantis, a hall of demons
Monsters one and all, covetous losers, give him
His antidote, his tears, the stuff of his snot so
He may sniff and weep and wipe and wipe
Something but the chips off mirrors and geriatric skin of iron
Peter Vries is beside a mirror, inside a mirror
Not trapped but the shadows of one journeyman
Like me, expelled argent minerals on my backside
Silvered and blown and erected and floored
Pregnant with the molten sand to make some more
Groping in hallucinated darkness for sugary bundle
Of wires in my brain, squirming like an injected baby
Away from the howling dogs in my five-fisted walls
Cataplexy in the knees of my beloved Vries before climax
And Monday's night comes on with the blowing of my switch
Narrow eyes submerged in focus
Above the isosceles knot of a purple tie
White shirt basking in blanketed sunlight
A smile to show for a breezy week to come
Peter Vries in front of the mirror
Red-rimmed bulges beneath wide eyes
Bright sunlight, broken window, brighter still
A sundog poised on each shaft
No tears to spare for a sultry Monday morning
Idiot at work, idiot at home, idiot everywhere
Yet still top of the class, delicious arm candy
With time a mishmash of leftovers, American chop suey
Reaching into the depths of the Atlantic
Right under the flap of his toilet seat
Drained and purified by rats in the sewers
Beneath Amazonian rivers and canopies of green
One boat to paddle and paddled to the ocean
Looking into the bulging head of an octopus
Meeting its lonely eyes sunk within watery life
Sometime flying, sometimes crawling, sometimes still
Like the fingers of Peter Vries standing on
Either sides of a Belgian mirror stolen from
Somewhere in the tomb of a local pharmacy
And thrust straight past the epiglottis, down, down
And back, defenestrated out of Atlantis, a hall of demons
Monsters one and all, covetous losers, give him
His antidote, his tears, the stuff of his snot so
He may sniff and weep and wipe and wipe
Something but the chips off mirrors and geriatric skin of iron
Peter Vries is beside a mirror, inside a mirror
Not trapped but the shadows of one journeyman
Like me, expelled argent minerals on my backside
Silvered and blown and erected and floored
Pregnant with the molten sand to make some more
Groping in hallucinated darkness for sugary bundle
Of wires in my brain, squirming like an injected baby
Away from the howling dogs in my five-fisted walls
Cataplexy in the knees of my beloved Vries before climax
And Monday's night comes on with the blowing of my switch
Friday, 2 March 2012
The Castle of Brithombar
After the plague,
Water gathering in puddles, running like waves on an oily seabed,
Out of the wound, a gouge in the sky, and into our hands;
Droplets between the lines of a map, navigated by probing fingers,
To invite the maggots to gather, festering in the flesh, crawling,
Upon the holy land!-
Blasted from shore to shore by winds blowing from the west;
Sand in our ears, sand in our eyes, sand on the tips of our tongues,
While soldiers and priests alike look down at the dead god.
We are climbing out of the soil to look up
At the Castle of Brithombar,
Windows of stone set atop pillars of foreign steel, framed,
Sinewed, with the gold of the atheists, the non-believers;
Spewing plumes of red smoke, packing the heavens above
And clouding the stars from our drenched eyes behind the water;
Faceted and cut
Like rotten diamonds, glittering at the whims of untrained eyes!
Calling upon the Fallen with stern guidance, our new commander
Taking its place, squatting, on the limp palm of divinity past,
Where fingers malformed once were are flights of stairs
Unto the feast halls!
We walk, we walk, shoulder to shoulder, back to back;
Invisible spear points jutting into our spines, we walk, we walk.
As the faithless we leave to forge our faith anew,
Where we may kneel before the face of another stillborn
Within the Castle of Brithombar:
Resplendent with the hollowed bones of the dead, wherefrom
Hang candles of clay instigated with the blood of our wives;
From the walls hang carcasses of the children of our brothers,
Ill-begotten, for that would be the essense of our entreaties!
Henceforth will speak
Only a doctrine of the centuries-old laws of human civilization,
Whereupon the wheel once spun keeps spinning on and on!
Creepers and vines will find hold beneath the thrones heaviest
And with blighted hands invade the seat where the kings fall!
Thus, their promises,
All but gone like the whispers of hope lost from our hearts;
Suppurating sweat, tears, cleansing each other of our memories:
We are reminded, alas, that faithlessness alone is faith itself,
For the first amongst them is now the king of man
Within the lost Castle of Brithombar!
Water gathering in puddles, running like waves on an oily seabed,
Out of the wound, a gouge in the sky, and into our hands;
Droplets between the lines of a map, navigated by probing fingers,
To invite the maggots to gather, festering in the flesh, crawling,
Upon the holy land!-
Blasted from shore to shore by winds blowing from the west;
Sand in our ears, sand in our eyes, sand on the tips of our tongues,
While soldiers and priests alike look down at the dead god.
We are climbing out of the soil to look up
At the Castle of Brithombar,
Windows of stone set atop pillars of foreign steel, framed,
Sinewed, with the gold of the atheists, the non-believers;
Spewing plumes of red smoke, packing the heavens above
And clouding the stars from our drenched eyes behind the water;
Faceted and cut
Like rotten diamonds, glittering at the whims of untrained eyes!
Calling upon the Fallen with stern guidance, our new commander
Taking its place, squatting, on the limp palm of divinity past,
Where fingers malformed once were are flights of stairs
Unto the feast halls!
We walk, we walk, shoulder to shoulder, back to back;
Invisible spear points jutting into our spines, we walk, we walk.
As the faithless we leave to forge our faith anew,
Where we may kneel before the face of another stillborn
Within the Castle of Brithombar:
Resplendent with the hollowed bones of the dead, wherefrom
Hang candles of clay instigated with the blood of our wives;
From the walls hang carcasses of the children of our brothers,
Ill-begotten, for that would be the essense of our entreaties!
Henceforth will speak
Only a doctrine of the centuries-old laws of human civilization,
Whereupon the wheel once spun keeps spinning on and on!
Creepers and vines will find hold beneath the thrones heaviest
And with blighted hands invade the seat where the kings fall!
Thus, their promises,
All but gone like the whispers of hope lost from our hearts;
Suppurating sweat, tears, cleansing each other of our memories:
We are reminded, alas, that faithlessness alone is faith itself,
For the first amongst them is now the king of man
Within the lost Castle of Brithombar!
Saturday, 26 November 2011
Insistence
It is upon the cheek of insistence
That I lay my fingers
One, two, three, four, five
Where my palm lingers
Where it will till the day I die
It is upon the cheek of insistence
That I lay my lips again and again
One, two, three, four, five
Until I can feel the pain
A memory to cherish till the day I die
It is upon the cheek of insistence
That I shed my many tears
One, two, three, four, five
Where I will bleed my final fears
And be diseased till the day I die
It is upon the cheek of insistence
That I inter my hope of resistance
And wave to all a pleasant goodbye
So I may succumb to eternal quiescence
So cowardly in my sleep may I die
That I lay my fingers
One, two, three, four, five
Where my palm lingers
Where it will till the day I die
It is upon the cheek of insistence
That I lay my lips again and again
One, two, three, four, five
Until I can feel the pain
A memory to cherish till the day I die
It is upon the cheek of insistence
That I shed my many tears
One, two, three, four, five
Where I will bleed my final fears
And be diseased till the day I die
It is upon the cheek of insistence
That I inter my hope of resistance
And wave to all a pleasant goodbye
So I may succumb to eternal quiescence
So cowardly in my sleep may I die
Sunday, 9 October 2011
I must go.
Of what must be done and what must not,
I do not know;
But spare me this time.
I must now go!
Where and why do I have to go?
For, why, it is so!
I do not have much left to say,
You must let me go!
I do not have time for all this, no,
The road is white with snow!
My feet ache for a long walk, to and fro.
Bah! I must go.
For a talk with you I can not but stay, oh;
Soon, you will get up and go!
I, what else will I have left to do,
And so, I must go!
I do not know;
But spare me this time.
I must now go!
Where and why do I have to go?
For, why, it is so!
I do not have much left to say,
You must let me go!
I do not have time for all this, no,
The road is white with snow!
My feet ache for a long walk, to and fro.
Bah! I must go.
For a talk with you I can not but stay, oh;
Soon, you will get up and go!
I, what else will I have left to do,
And so, I must go!
Sunday, 11 September 2011
Rich man poor
I have 500 bucks,
But I can't have a Frooti!
This absence of change sucks,
This ugly Communist beauty!
But I can't have a Frooti!
This absence of change sucks,
This ugly Communist beauty!
Rich man poor
I have 500 bucks,
But I can't have a Frooti!
This absence of change sucks,
This ugly Communist beauty!
But I can't have a Frooti!
This absence of change sucks,
This ugly Communist beauty!
Sunday, 17 July 2011
Celebration
This is a little something for a friend who was getting married. To be frank, I wouldn’t have written it if not for her uncle.
It’s called Celebration, inspired by the Lord Tennyson’s Vastness (c. 1892).
A storm-felt sculpture not to be read,
And a bough, upon its bosom a moulder’d nest,
Astride its weary form, stood stark by the dead;
And beyond him, hung low in the West,
With one thousand rays of shadow and light,
And many in colour but only one in form,
‘Twas a baleful orb that over the gates of night,
A sun, glaring at a coming storm.
Then glided a rapturous paragon forth,
That on the passage of time had thriven;
They call’d her ‘Beauty’ here upon earth,
And the mortal engines of life in heaven.
Behold! For she sang and the people turned,
And the beauty of her voice caught like a flame
From heart to heart it sprang, and on, it burned,
Till her nobility was her soul whence it came.
The voice that sung nae deserving an old sun set,
But a sun rising in the East, in his youth!
Great and noble—oh, yes—but yet—
A man, as men everywhere are, a lover of truth
And bound to follow, wherever she goes,
Hither, thither, and up or down,
Through high hill-passes of stainless snow,
Or the foulest sewer of the town!
Noble and great—oh, aye—but then,
And here a prophet just has earned his due,
For the man was noblier-fashion’d than other men!
Lo! Shall we see to it, then, I and you,
To help the love paving their pathway still,
Until it presses into ardour the evening’s din
Behold! They rise with togetherness, and will,
Now, each others’ hearts aspire to win.
Autumns and Winters, Springs and Summers,
And all old revolutions of this good earth;
Travails of our Empire—carpentered wonders—
What is all of it worth?
Treasures are they all, if we all of us stand
Here as one, in this finest of hours,
Swallowed in mirth, and hand in hand,
To thus bear witness to the celebration of lovers!
It’s called Celebration, inspired by the Lord Tennyson’s Vastness (c. 1892).
A storm-felt sculpture not to be read,
And a bough, upon its bosom a moulder’d nest,
Astride its weary form, stood stark by the dead;
And beyond him, hung low in the West,
With one thousand rays of shadow and light,
And many in colour but only one in form,
‘Twas a baleful orb that over the gates of night,
A sun, glaring at a coming storm.
Then glided a rapturous paragon forth,
That on the passage of time had thriven;
They call’d her ‘Beauty’ here upon earth,
And the mortal engines of life in heaven.
Behold! For she sang and the people turned,
And the beauty of her voice caught like a flame
From heart to heart it sprang, and on, it burned,
Till her nobility was her soul whence it came.
The voice that sung nae deserving an old sun set,
But a sun rising in the East, in his youth!
Great and noble—oh, yes—but yet—
A man, as men everywhere are, a lover of truth
And bound to follow, wherever she goes,
Hither, thither, and up or down,
Through high hill-passes of stainless snow,
Or the foulest sewer of the town!
Noble and great—oh, aye—but then,
And here a prophet just has earned his due,
For the man was noblier-fashion’d than other men!
Lo! Shall we see to it, then, I and you,
To help the love paving their pathway still,
Until it presses into ardour the evening’s din
Behold! They rise with togetherness, and will,
Now, each others’ hearts aspire to win.
Autumns and Winters, Springs and Summers,
And all old revolutions of this good earth;
Travails of our Empire—carpentered wonders—
What is all of it worth?
Treasures are they all, if we all of us stand
Here as one, in this finest of hours,
Swallowed in mirth, and hand in hand,
To thus bear witness to the celebration of lovers!
Saturday, 25 June 2011
Dorothy & The Dingbats
Ere last evening a scene
Caught all the townsfolk's eye:
'Twas poor Billy weeping, oh!
Quoth he: "Mary loves me, but why!
Because I can dance? That lie!"
Then Dorothy raised a hand up,
And offer'd to teach down his worry:
"You'll be swinging to good music;
Behold! Mary'll swoon in a hurry,
Leaving her lonely heart in a flurry!"
So Dorothy got her shiny li'l shoes on,
And The Dingbats struck up a song!
Clapping, ev'ryone came out to watch!
They crowded round her in a throng,
But Billy was still lost; he'd stared long!
She had him watch her legs,
And danced, tra-la la-la la!
But he never got it, he didn't,
You wouldn't blame him, would ya:
She wasn't wearing a bra!
Caught all the townsfolk's eye:
'Twas poor Billy weeping, oh!
Quoth he: "Mary loves me, but why!
Because I can dance? That lie!"
Then Dorothy raised a hand up,
And offer'd to teach down his worry:
"You'll be swinging to good music;
Behold! Mary'll swoon in a hurry,
Leaving her lonely heart in a flurry!"
So Dorothy got her shiny li'l shoes on,
And The Dingbats struck up a song!
Clapping, ev'ryone came out to watch!
They crowded round her in a throng,
But Billy was still lost; he'd stared long!
She had him watch her legs,
And danced, tra-la la-la la!
But he never got it, he didn't,
You wouldn't blame him, would ya:
She wasn't wearing a bra!
Wednesday, 15 June 2011
When geeks aspire
On the first day of school,
A geek was born in class;
The kids made fun of him,
Burying a fear inside that math just got harder to pass!
When the words fall down,
His stories are made:
It's a tale with a moral
That'll teach you humility and the will to never fade!
When the slut whispered that
For her homework he'd have her flower,
He did it all knowing anyway
That once the time came he'd have to finish in the shower!
When it's time for DotA-
Get high on frame-rate thrills-
Immortal guts and glory:
It's not over until they're all m-m-m-monster kills !
When the card's on the table
And the bet's are on hold,
He's got no poker face;
Smart kid'll teach you what isn't stupid but bold!
When geeks aspire,
The game doesn't end that way!
It plays itself, on and on,
Until he's got a Wikipedia page on his name some day!
A geek was born in class;
The kids made fun of him,
Burying a fear inside that math just got harder to pass!
When the words fall down,
His stories are made:
It's a tale with a moral
That'll teach you humility and the will to never fade!
When the slut whispered that
For her homework he'd have her flower,
He did it all knowing anyway
That once the time came he'd have to finish in the shower!
When it's time for DotA-
Get high on frame-rate thrills-
Immortal guts and glory:
It's not over until they're all m-m-m-monster kills !
When the card's on the table
And the bet's are on hold,
He's got no poker face;
Smart kid'll teach you what isn't stupid but bold!
When geeks aspire,
The game doesn't end that way!
It plays itself, on and on,
Until he's got a Wikipedia page on his name some day!
Why Quentin Tarantino is wrong
(This article involves a prelude that I insist you read.)
It's important to understand that technology does not, and will not for a long time to come, replace emotional expression and emotional honesty, and that's where I think the great Quentin Tarantino could be wrong. He once famously stated that,
I appreciate his loyalty to the ideals of romanticism but, looking at it axiomatically, he chose to say "computer" and not anything else (although don't ask me what "anything else" could be). What does a computer do to effectively reduce the "poeticness" of a poem? What is it about an electronically supplied numerical input and an electromagnetically generated visual output that is beaten by a leaky fountain pen and paper that crumbles at the lightest touch-or should I say that it is a matter of individual investment and computers limit that when they shouldn't? I don't agree. If anything, typewriters and computers make it easier to compose real poetry: poetry that is completely independent of its medium, poetry that finds it rational to reflect only the literary prowess and emotional content of the individual (objective) and not his/her association with the oldest form of literary communication (subjective).
Poetry, you see, is an abstraction just like beauty and justice are, and if Tarantino thinks he can't find them in a computer or only on a piece of paper, then it's also unfortunately obvious that his films are a product of iconoclastic ideals and the chance of the occasion that I was to be born in 1988, and that doesn't happen often.
Our individual attitude towards technology does not change the way technology itself behaves; it only changes how much we think it can do for us when we take to it-and this applies even to the tech that is constantly being upgraded and modified to satiate different needs. Similarly, poetry that requires a "non-computer" to be realized is not poetry but what we think is poetry: it is subjective interpretation, one that fails in the face of the slightest opposition, and therefore cannot withstand the test of time.
It's important to understand that technology does not, and will not for a long time to come, replace emotional expression and emotional honesty, and that's where I think the great Quentin Tarantino could be wrong. He once famously stated that,
"You can't write poetry on a computer."
I appreciate his loyalty to the ideals of romanticism but, looking at it axiomatically, he chose to say "computer" and not anything else (although don't ask me what "anything else" could be). What does a computer do to effectively reduce the "poeticness" of a poem? What is it about an electronically supplied numerical input and an electromagnetically generated visual output that is beaten by a leaky fountain pen and paper that crumbles at the lightest touch-or should I say that it is a matter of individual investment and computers limit that when they shouldn't? I don't agree. If anything, typewriters and computers make it easier to compose real poetry: poetry that is completely independent of its medium, poetry that finds it rational to reflect only the literary prowess and emotional content of the individual (objective) and not his/her association with the oldest form of literary communication (subjective).
Poetry, you see, is an abstraction just like beauty and justice are, and if Tarantino thinks he can't find them in a computer or only on a piece of paper, then it's also unfortunately obvious that his films are a product of iconoclastic ideals and the chance of the occasion that I was to be born in 1988, and that doesn't happen often.
Our individual attitude towards technology does not change the way technology itself behaves; it only changes how much we think it can do for us when we take to it-and this applies even to the tech that is constantly being upgraded and modified to satiate different needs. Similarly, poetry that requires a "non-computer" to be realized is not poetry but what we think is poetry: it is subjective interpretation, one that fails in the face of the slightest opposition, and therefore cannot withstand the test of time.
Why Quentin Tarantino is wrong
(This article involves a prelude that I insist you read.)
It's important to understand that technology does not, and will not for a long time to come, replace emotional expression and emotional honesty, and that's where I think the great Quentin Tarantino could be wrong. He once famously stated that,
I appreciate his loyalty to the ideals of romanticism but, looking at it axiomatically, he chose to say "computer" and not anything else (although don't ask me what "anything else" could be). What does a computer do to effectively reduce the "poeticness" of a poem? What is it about an electronically supplied numerical input and an electromagnetically generated visual output that is beaten by a leaky fountain pen and paper that crumbles at the lightest touch-or should I say that it is a matter of individual investment and computers limit that when they shouldn't? I don't agree. If anything, typewriters and computers make it easier to compose real poetry: poetry that is completely independent of its medium, poetry that finds it rational to reflect only the literary prowess and emotional content of the individual (objective) and not his/her association with the oldest form of literary communication (subjective).
Poetry, you see, is an abstraction just like beauty and justice are, and if Tarantino thinks he can't find them in a computer or only on a piece of paper, then it's also unfortunately obvious that his films are a product of iconoclastic ideals and the chance of the occasion that I was to be born in 1988, and that doesn't happen often.
Our individual attitude towards technology does not change the way technology itself behaves; it only changes how much we think it can do for us when we take to it-and this applies even to the tech that is constantly being upgraded and modified to satiate different needs. Similarly, poetry that requires a "non-computer" to be realized is not poetry but what we think is poetry: it is subjective interpretation, one that fails in the face of the slightest opposition, and therefore cannot withstand the test of time.
It's important to understand that technology does not, and will not for a long time to come, replace emotional expression and emotional honesty, and that's where I think the great Quentin Tarantino could be wrong. He once famously stated that,
"You can't write poetry on a computer."
I appreciate his loyalty to the ideals of romanticism but, looking at it axiomatically, he chose to say "computer" and not anything else (although don't ask me what "anything else" could be). What does a computer do to effectively reduce the "poeticness" of a poem? What is it about an electronically supplied numerical input and an electromagnetically generated visual output that is beaten by a leaky fountain pen and paper that crumbles at the lightest touch-or should I say that it is a matter of individual investment and computers limit that when they shouldn't? I don't agree. If anything, typewriters and computers make it easier to compose real poetry: poetry that is completely independent of its medium, poetry that finds it rational to reflect only the literary prowess and emotional content of the individual (objective) and not his/her association with the oldest form of literary communication (subjective).
Poetry, you see, is an abstraction just like beauty and justice are, and if Tarantino thinks he can't find them in a computer or only on a piece of paper, then it's also unfortunately obvious that his films are a product of iconoclastic ideals and the chance of the occasion that I was to be born in 1988, and that doesn't happen often.
Our individual attitude towards technology does not change the way technology itself behaves; it only changes how much we think it can do for us when we take to it-and this applies even to the tech that is constantly being upgraded and modified to satiate different needs. Similarly, poetry that requires a "non-computer" to be realized is not poetry but what we think is poetry: it is subjective interpretation, one that fails in the face of the slightest opposition, and therefore cannot withstand the test of time.
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
The fifth traveler
At the edge of civilization,
Where it was raining day and night,
We decided to bury our our feud and join
Each other on the road thereafter.
Now John he was a guitarist
And struck up a tune
That traveled with us as the fourth traveler;
The sound of its music was like the rain,
Trespassing our loneliness like a silent killer.
As we walked we saw an old man
Sitting in a raincoat 'neath a tree:
He lit up a cold smoke.
Its orange light swam the wrinkles of his hand.
He looked long at us searching for an open ear
Into which he'd crawl to escape the shifting sands.
But we had no time for talk or play
Even though we had nowhere to go
Because each of us knew
That he was in a place where he'd like to stay,
Where the knowing silence of death stalked us,
And the temples were where we wanted to pray.
Gently we came upon a fallen tree,
Uprooted by the fury of an ancient storm,
Its leaves and boughs scattered.
Our journey seemed over in that shadowy sea,
And we rested our backs against the wood,
Finally with that silent surrender becoming free.
And John he finally let his eyes weep
For the loss of a friend long ago;
We tried to hold him down.
His sorrow in the dark was our treasure to keep;
He smashed his guitar there and fell down crying,
And there we lay fear our fifth traveler to sleep.
Where it was raining day and night,
We decided to bury our our feud and join
Each other on the road thereafter.
Now John he was a guitarist
And struck up a tune
That traveled with us as the fourth traveler;
The sound of its music was like the rain,
Trespassing our loneliness like a silent killer.
As we walked we saw an old man
Sitting in a raincoat 'neath a tree:
He lit up a cold smoke.
Its orange light swam the wrinkles of his hand.
He looked long at us searching for an open ear
Into which he'd crawl to escape the shifting sands.
But we had no time for talk or play
Even though we had nowhere to go
Because each of us knew
That he was in a place where he'd like to stay,
Where the knowing silence of death stalked us,
And the temples were where we wanted to pray.
Gently we came upon a fallen tree,
Uprooted by the fury of an ancient storm,
Its leaves and boughs scattered.
Our journey seemed over in that shadowy sea,
And we rested our backs against the wood,
Finally with that silent surrender becoming free.
And John he finally let his eyes weep
For the loss of a friend long ago;
We tried to hold him down.
His sorrow in the dark was our treasure to keep;
He smashed his guitar there and fell down crying,
And there we lay fear our fifth traveler to sleep.
Saturday, 11 June 2011
Not tonight, I'm working.
Did you know the hills have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch them grow.
Did you know the rain has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it flow.
Did you know the match has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it glow.
Did you know all the doors have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to shut them close.
Did you know the hills and the rain and the match
And the doors and the floors and the walls
Are so clean and praise not the blight of a scratch
Simply because I never played in their halls?
Because I don't have the time to watch them grow.
Did you know the rain has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it flow.
Did you know the match has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it glow.
Did you know all the doors have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to shut them close.
Did you know the hills and the rain and the match
And the doors and the floors and the walls
Are so clean and praise not the blight of a scratch
Simply because I never played in their halls?
Not tonight, I'm working.
Did you know the hills have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch them grow.
Did you know the rain has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it flow.
Did you know the match has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it glow.
Did you know all the doors have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to shut them close.
Did you know the hills and the rain and the match
And the doors and the floors and the walls
Are so clean and praise not the blight of a scratch
Simply because I never played in their halls?
Because I don't have the time to watch them grow.
Did you know the rain has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it flow.
Did you know the match has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it glow.
Did you know all the doors have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to shut them close.
Did you know the hills and the rain and the match
And the doors and the floors and the walls
Are so clean and praise not the blight of a scratch
Simply because I never played in their halls?
Not tonight, I'm working.
Did you know the hills have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch them grow.
Did you know the rain has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it flow.
Did you know the match has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it glow.
Did you know all the doors have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to shut them close.
Did you know the hills and the rain and the match
And the doors and the floors and the walls
Are so clean and praise not the blight of a scratch
Simply because I never played in their halls?
Because I don't have the time to watch them grow.
Did you know the rain has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it flow.
Did you know the match has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it glow.
Did you know all the doors have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to shut them close.
Did you know the hills and the rain and the match
And the doors and the floors and the walls
Are so clean and praise not the blight of a scratch
Simply because I never played in their halls?
Saturday, 4 June 2011
Civilization
All that is about the human condition will endure!
All the way into future's filthy slums for sure!
All the lies, the profanity and the broken words
Will fly the infinite distance like tireless birds!
The cause of money is its undying plastic will:
What do you care as long as it buys you the thrill?!
What do you care when it reworks all of history,
And erases the gifts of simple truths for a small fee?!
You should be spending your time saving this earth
For all those kids to have a clean place of birth,
Or so I've been told in a school where the rich study
While the poor dig the sewers where the water's bloody!
Gods and goats and pigs and perverts and pinheads
Know it's got to be done in a time for desperate measures!
When the rich fly their smoking choppers to keep time,
Atlas shrugged his shoulders to profit from crime!
In a Vietnamese grave lies my rotting arm and my glory!
God bless civilization because this is the only story!
Isn't all this food what we always wanted, oh, dining fine-
Don't give a damn and enjoy this night, this moonshine!
All the way into future's filthy slums for sure!
All the lies, the profanity and the broken words
Will fly the infinite distance like tireless birds!
The cause of money is its undying plastic will:
What do you care as long as it buys you the thrill?!
What do you care when it reworks all of history,
And erases the gifts of simple truths for a small fee?!
You should be spending your time saving this earth
For all those kids to have a clean place of birth,
Or so I've been told in a school where the rich study
While the poor dig the sewers where the water's bloody!
Gods and goats and pigs and perverts and pinheads
Know it's got to be done in a time for desperate measures!
When the rich fly their smoking choppers to keep time,
Atlas shrugged his shoulders to profit from crime!
In a Vietnamese grave lies my rotting arm and my glory!
God bless civilization because this is the only story!
Isn't all this food what we always wanted, oh, dining fine-
Don't give a damn and enjoy this night, this moonshine!
Thursday, 2 June 2011
A nursery rhyme for agnostic children
Hell!
Hell is not far away!
Hell is a simple head cold
On a beautiful rainy day
Hell is not far away!
Hell is a great word
That the believers simply say!
Hell is like a bird
That poops on you come Sunday!
Hey!
Hell!
Hell is not far away!
Hell is just a rabid dog
That will chase you astray
Hell is not far away!
Hell is the face of the pedo
Who will steal you while you play!
Hell is the tripping toe
When you spill a whiskey-laden tray!
Hey!
Hell!
Hell is not far away!
Hell is a hefty dinner bill
When it's your turn to pay!
Hell is not far away!
Hell is not far away!
Hell is a simple head cold
On a beautiful rainy day
Hell is not far away!
Hell is a great word
That the believers simply say!
Hell is like a bird
That poops on you come Sunday!
Hey!
Hell!
Hell is not far away!
Hell is just a rabid dog
That will chase you astray
Hell is not far away!
Hell is the face of the pedo
Who will steal you while you play!
Hell is the tripping toe
When you spill a whiskey-laden tray!
Hey!
Hell!
Hell is not far away!
Hell is a hefty dinner bill
When it's your turn to pay!
Hell is not far away!
Monday, 23 May 2011
Aurora
Beyond the mountains, the crowning guardians,
There was an horizon that spanned the sky
From the seven stars in the cold East
To the sun hidden forever on the brink of the West.
At the foot of a glacier, where the moon turned blue,
I was come finally to the end of my way
Where there was an aurora every day.
In the cold warmth of the infinite loneliness,
Within a loud silence, slept a new world.
In the dark virgin waters, an unborn child swam,
And I knew somehow it was the coming of man.
The sun was never to rise in my eyes again;
I was finally come to the end of my way
Where there was an aurora every day.
A fierce wind lay to rest the reeds around me.
The flock of birds in the distance only reminding me
Of the many, many miles lying open behind my back,
My footprints in the mud showing my children the track-
I knew I was somewhere in a place they called home.
I was finally come to the end of my way
Where there was an aurora every day.
There was an horizon that spanned the sky
From the seven stars in the cold East
To the sun hidden forever on the brink of the West.
At the foot of a glacier, where the moon turned blue,
I was come finally to the end of my way
Where there was an aurora every day.
In the cold warmth of the infinite loneliness,
Within a loud silence, slept a new world.
In the dark virgin waters, an unborn child swam,
And I knew somehow it was the coming of man.
The sun was never to rise in my eyes again;
I was finally come to the end of my way
Where there was an aurora every day.
A fierce wind lay to rest the reeds around me.
The flock of birds in the distance only reminding me
Of the many, many miles lying open behind my back,
My footprints in the mud showing my children the track-
I knew I was somewhere in a place they called home.
I was finally come to the end of my way
Where there was an aurora every day.
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