Post by artolmaeus on Oct 10, 2021 13:05:06 GMT -6
So much is ever elusive. So much is seemingly the thing we are about to get to, to finally have, that orgasm that was unlike anything in our existence and we have to make a journey or something to acquire or get it. Hmm. So it is that experience itself is a rather personal thing and so many people will say "been there done that" to something another has done, but it is a lie. A fucking lie. That is because of what is in the back of your mind. More importantly, in front of it.
It is why poetry is so much a poor man's art unless it is a song where the content of the words get lost to the music but yet, just enough of the words hit us where we have not been hit in a while or where we want to be hit and are afraid nothing will ever touch us there, ever. Poetry is the box in the attic of all the good memories, of all the dark experiences we don't want to forget, but, we don't want to think about all the time. Poetry is not the words we read. It is not the form it is written in. Poetry is the shortcut to the thing we want most in whatever part of us that it is. So then, poetry is the biggest failure to ever get that across because we never do get at that part of us. We avoid it. We solemnize over it and it is a train of thought that only we are riding. NO ONE ELSE HAD A MOTHERFUCKING TICKET TO OUR TRAIN OF THOUGHT. James Joyce defied that. Alot. Pommes Pennyeach. So then, some poets get all great and such. Then, most don't. Most never will. Yet, if you study Literature, poetry is universal for all languages, poetry is different from songs, but alot of poetry is made into songs and some songs are poetic. None of it is poetry. Bjork defined it pretty sexily in her song "pagan poetry" in that "on the surface simplicity, but for the dark currents in me....and its pagan poetry". The song, however, is beautiful, and we need beautiful carriers for dark messages, seemingly(refer to Julie Andrew's singing "Just a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down, in the most delightful way"). However, we don't need sugar and so often, we get more wrapped up in sugar than in the content. The iambic pentameter and the abba cdcd whatever whatever rhyme schemes. The structure of what we call poetry is a prison for the content we try to cram into its tight and tidy and may I add well bleached and visually appealing asshole. None of it is poetry.
Poetry is all you want. It is everything you desire. Then, it is the language we share to commute that between each other as we cannot fuck, suck and blow everyone and get fucked sucked and blown back as we want....many have tried. Just outside of being tired of being in one's own skin. Poetry. Inside the contentment of being just totally bestruck by joy and comfort. Poetry. In the falling of your spirit because every goddamned thing you have ever tried and given your fucking all has left you alone and desolate and you don't kill yourself but you keep on. Oh, that is my favorite poetry. On and on and on. The Judeo Christians rave about King David's "Psalms". Hell, I rave about them too, because he covered alot. Mostly, in how he wasn't perfect. How he wanted stuff. How he faced adversity and so many times was on the verge of failure and defeat....but that was something he kept at. FUCKING POETRY. Not all rhymy. Then, it was interpreted from its mother language. Was it embellished? What did the monks leave in, leave out or lie with? That too becomes a study just like onamatapoeia or assonance....but then, it is not poetry. The study of poetry is not poetry. The study of music is not music. Only in performance does music matter because otherwise, it can never be heard. Poetry can never be read. No matter how shitty it may seem constructed. Getting it out in writing is important. It may never make a fucking difference. You will never get famous for it. No one may ever go down on you or get you off because of the content you wrote. Think about it, I know I may be obsessing on some vulgarity....but when a man tells a woman he loves her, to get laid, the woman wants to have sex but she wants to be loved, so much so that the lie is as good as the truth and we know it. However, lies make more of the world we know than the truth. To tell the truth is not poetry. To lie is not poetry. To bring out what is within us without shame for wanting or needing it. Yes, that is poetry. To bitch, to moan, to decry what is because what is sucks....motherfucker, yeah, poetry. Even the perfect rhyming and sometimes benign words where we say "I was in the meadow, and the sun shined on me, as I lied underneath the hedgerow, I finally knew I was free(did anyone catch me showing that "I" went into the shade to be free?)". Yeah, it's poetry. However, all of that stuff at the back of your head, in the corners of your mind, in those things that you don't want people to know about you, what you may really want, how you may really feel.....that is the soul of poetry and if you don't write it, it dies. All that is dead is not poetry, it is just dead. An unknown tragedy of the songs and things within you that while you were in this world could have been put out there, to be known. To be heard, by someone else and never understood...but interpreted by that someone else with the CODEX of their own train of thought or experience and like a message in a bottle, if once read, pulls from the reader maybe some connection to all that we might for shame or whatever reason, leave silent within us to let out....to feel and to be in the moment thereof when words have no time for being....it is the gas for the fire of what you might yet do, think or feel and so completely experience where words cannot touch and with words we can only witness and report what was at the periphery of our convenience and knowing. That is poetry. It is everything. It is why I write sometimes without abandon, without worry that it will even be understood or loved or offending or whatever, and not just to tell someone for my own gain, but for this experience thing...as someone once said to me, to "matriculate" the collective experience somehow, which is an impossible language, as it has so many characters that each of us form words by, but like a silent alphabet it only our own.
A cat has three names. A scientific one, one given by its owner and one that only it knows of itself.....to know that name, to speak that name to someone else. That is poetry. So, you are marvelous darling. You are enough. What is within you is a greater journey than you will ever know. So many people travel the world to find something new. People do so many things and the real arrival is that through that process, they find themselves...which is really what they were looking for all the time. That journey, yes, yes, yes...is poetry. It isn't pretty. It does not have happy endings(sometimes it does). It is more than love. It is love. It is hate. It is the honest admission of things we would wish we were clean of and it is the dirt under our nails. That brown streak in the tighty whities, maybe you don't want to see it, smell it or acknowledge it, but that little stainy wainy poopie poo is poetry and perhaps that starfish was not so bleached or pleasantly presentable....come on, dogs know each other by smelling asses and we say dogs are man's best friends....poetry, is never easy. Poetry is what the world needs more of. Not poets, but the interchange and the collision of minds and thoughts and whatever else. The story of Sabrina and David, poetry. The story of you, maybe even greater than anything that has ever been known or felt....don't let it be silent...even if it silently falls upon the world and like an unknown fallen tree in the woods, it does feed the bigger system and the explanation of how we all fit into a bigger system is poetry. It is not polite inclusion(just test some people if you say you like Trump and how far that all goes)...but if you can face your opposite, if you can face your butthurt, talk about the santorum stains or yellow snow or all that you love, desire or hate, if it is from you, how good or how horrid...poetry. The world would be less without a skunk just as much as it would a field of fragrant lavender. Poetry, not words, using words to arrive somewhere, we have no words for...and trying to do that in the shortest most efficient way possible. Amazement. Horror. Pain. Agony. Misery. Awe. Joy. All of it, every atom every neutino's neutrino quark and tangent....poetry.
