Poetry Over All

…how to weave, a stray seedling in the breeze, avoiding mire, doldrums, barren sod, and sea? Among answers sought and responses readily bought, you shall wander through thunder clouds and hark a thousand roaring claps clashing. As more furious billows pounce to join in the crowd. Alobscuring, that pure little sound of instinct that in the conscious goes on vainly screaming, “Do not forget me.” You need nought I to describe e’ery idea that wrangles to reach your heart and by doing so, convinces you to follow it sole. You have grown in this world where a devil so sly and with rictus heaven high, has put in your pocket a burning magic so fine, that would you use it wise,  how jealous Faust would cry, how wondrous your very soul could beam a beam so bright. Yet how jet black is this spell, that you shall choose it only to base urges, satisfy, and replace all that nature made for you ond I.

Howe’er you are nought so utterly unaware of this leaf bladed gift. For we complain and remark dearly on the gaining rift between the life lived and the life we fib. Yet how ready is the storm that draws you in, as -isms by the host come to coax you in. We seek a figure to appeal to or figures to blame. Trapped in single frame, and fixed to a vision that only the left and right eye may claim. But e’en the lightest sunshower has hidden currents and unseen breaths, hovering o’er by. Without pausing you cannot e’en see the precious veins of a leaf, thus tell me how among the Anemoi and the Zephyrs blowing their ponderous gusts into our lives. How can you capture e’en an instant of sunlight, and should you see it, shall you have the power to seize it?

You are an addled character in the story another would wish to write. Although were you to realize it, with new awareness what would you do with it? Build nations, destroy them, renew culture, or rot it, rewaken faith, or curse it, turn scientist, philosopher, artist or buyer? Would you pretend yourself to be Job or Prometheus, Sun Wukong, or Siddhartha? Howe’erso, you will fall short of those stories told. You are men, dividing yourselves between beast and men as two countering aspects when they are the selfsame esse. Such we cannot hope to solve this duress, from e’ery onset, we incite, just to become a confused mess. Therefore would nought one resolve to make their self more than a man, with hope then to become something greater, something so bold? Cherish what can be dreamed, but fro’ this, nightmares alone shall be reared. Again recall the blazen hex in your bag, amongst a myriad others, that in so short a span continue to hatch.

So I again refocus on the inquiry by which I began and the result I assume is we cannot weave, dodge or escape to safe or untouched lands. We must face the current that races us on, although we find in this course a complete unknown a pathless path. As the dancer who has prepared no steps, the music races and one cannot stand still. The dancer hides and appears at times both a wraith ond e fay painted by rays of all colors and makes, as through the greater darkness of the space he makes his way. You must dance your way through the minefield of thought and hold tight the line of the sail, as you rove the ravenous sea of mind. Touching upon all eyes and considering them for a time, tasting every intoxicating plot ond design, and though you assault the very mountain of mankind’s schemes and perspectives. Always keep a keener eye.

Ourselves always kidding ond joshing about thus how or why. The obsession is ne’erending for too many detest what they are, their kind. You were what you are to create, the same playing creature that is far too despised; albeit all done is sworn for the benefit of their lives. Now, is there more, why yes. You are to write a poem in flesh and nothing less. With each snowfall you witness, every dawn ‘n’ dusk in repetition, with every argument you lose, and joke you laugh too, with e’ery revelation you discover although unnumbered before you already done so, and with every mooncast night you tear down in tears for the things you’ve refused, or for the gratitude of what you’ve choosed. I do not hone in on you as chosen or special to boot, I do not seek to delude you of what you are and what you will become. You are clustered calcium the stars did not intend, you are the gods toy, and the impossible work of nature’s, inevitable casualty. Yet even if the seedling upon concrete lands, how lovely it always is, to see a flower grow in the most barren land.

But it was not just you, it is the meadow from which you flew, the glade, the knoll, the oasis, or pocket of some other biome and climate forgotten at hand. You are theirs, and they as space and time allowed, You. You are the poem writ in flesh, and you must appreciate what life meant, and that this poetry that life wrenched is the only means and the only end. The aesthetic principle is the poetry in every living sign, the rhyme, meter, rhythm, technique and repetition in all life’s encounters and coincidences. All that urges death except death itself is an enemy and dismissal of the promise your birth augured. Create life, and live to create life, in both verb and noun. Then as you investigate and find, only better fall in love ever deeper with life.

Therefore if one principle to espouse and hone sole, one politique to preach, one faith to seek, it be Poetry O’er All…