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5424. resonance - 3/17/2005 8:16:17 AM The whole I know of beauty knows no words;
a sweeping curve of line which slips and sines
the dead geometries of cadent verse
and rises through the cracks of cobbled lines.
These words are carved on beauty's broken tombs;
memes left for us to read and eulogize
and conjure with the rituals of our minds
to resurrect a thing that never dies.
We reach to hold it close and breathe in life;
it breathes us back instead and sets us free
to think that we can master beauty's bounds
and lock it with a Solomonic key.
The paradox of beauty; words are lies.
We know it when we make it with our eyes.
5425. alistairconnor - 3/17/2005 9:50:05 AM I think you're on to something there. 5426. RickNelson - 3/23/2005 5:43:22 PM resonance,
That's excellent.
Uz,
Those Victorian sensibilities! 5427. resonance - 3/26/2005 9:35:19 AM artifice
I have spent each single waking day
hammering this ore for gleaming chrome,
driving words like nails into the screen,
pushing thrusts of thought into the clay.
It has been my solitary art
making things that never were alive
sit up and play,
first fumbling and twitching into motion
then smoothly blurring into polished form,
the dancer and the dance as one,
for I thought I knew what I had made,
pretending they were walking flesh and bone
crafting them to fit the things I say
and not once guessing that is all they mean.
I have assembled choirs of broken stone
to hear them blend in flawless harmony
so I might own their song for my own voice
and with it fashion wisdom where none was
to light a torch and with it lead the way.
Their sound was a harsh and burning thing,
and I mistook it for reality,
not seeing that I saw just what I sought
because such was all that I could find,
nothing else but the product
of base lead and shackled thought.
Lies are the shape of human wisdom.
They are the things we need to say.
They are the artifice of answers.
They are temples in which blind men pray
for vision, not knowing they already see.
And for years I have fashioned them for light
in the shadow of my own mind.
It is the subtlest of artifice
of all the things that my mind has made
a dumb machine which feeds back on its stock
and twists it with precise stupidity -
a mind itself, my mind,
brilliant with pointless detail
of gears which turn upon their axes
but do not move from them,
of light, but not the light.
That I shall no longer seek to make,
but perhaps find instead.
Let Daedalus lie silent with the dead.
The bones of better men sleep in his shade.
I will find another way
not to make my light
but to light be made.
5428. uzmakk - 3/26/2005 1:41:50 PM Goodness, I am experiencing resonance. My left eye is twitching and my right foot is tapping. 5429. RickNelson - 3/29/2005 4:59:40 PM Res, a brilliant light.
A renaissance of romanticism.
Worthy of Keats or Shelley.
Inspiring, bringing pitch and melody to screen. 5430. alistairconnor - 3/29/2005 5:08:52 PM A thing of formal beauty indeed, and a remarkable piece of self-awareness.
Is this the epitaph for the Resonance of old? I'll miss him! 5431. RickNelson - 3/29/2005 5:31:52 PM These past two poems by res seem to contain a common thread. That is an awareness of cyber writing. I like the subtlety of it. These are excellent works. 5432. resonance - 3/31/2005 6:52:43 AM >Is this the epitaph for the Resonance of old?
Just putting words to some thoughts. Lately I've been struck by the fact that our logic is self-referential and so are our words and the things we craft with the two. I mean, it's not exactly a new idea, so it's perhaps better to say that it's struck me in a different way lately.
It's a lot easier to write a poem about it than it is to live it, though. Still, bit by bit, we learn. 5433. RickNelson - 4/3/2005 3:44:18 AM It's poetry month again.
I would like to read Shelley and Mary Oliver.
And write like both. 5434. Ulgine Barrows - 4/3/2005 7:26:15 AM 5427. resonance - 3/26/2005 9:35:19 AM
artifice
Thank you sir, may I another? 5435. Ulgine Barrows - 4/3/2005 7:27:32 AM Er, have another. 5436. RickNelson - 4/5/2005 3:29:37 PM As busy as a bee
If you wish, follow the link
You may just find, it wont stink.
Thoughts about:
End rhyme, prose, olde english and modern poetry will be found in Robert Pinsky's article "I, Too, Dislike It" 5437. Macnas - 4/6/2005 8:49:05 AM The Living City.
You went to town to buy a new coat
and when you got back a telephone call
told you your father was dead.
And when you hear, and when you understand,
a cold full feeling spreads through you.
It blocks out everything else.
She nearly falls down.
She’s 7 months gone and weary,
strong and all but now this makes her waver
and you go to her and hold her up
by the elbow and sit her down.
You don’t know what to do yourself
so you go outside and smoke.
In the carpark high above the city you can see
across to Douglas village,
and down to Blackrock castle too.
You imagine that if he were here with you now
He’d be telling you stories of times and people,
put together with the places we could study
from up here in the incurables,
with your dead fathers ghost
still warm from the bed.
Looking out over the living city.
5438. webfeet - 4/6/2005 3:36:04 PM How to Pretend You’re Not Crazy – (the actual state of things)
You wake up and go to use the toilet.
Funny, you say. Why is the door locked?
It turns out, no-one is in there. It has locked by itself.
Your husband, who wakes up looking like someone
boxed him in his sleep, opens the toolbox and takes
out a screw driver. Four minutes later, the door swings wide open
but it no longer has a knob, just a gaping hole that suddenly makes you feel like the apartment is up for rent and you are just a squatter.
But you forget. And when you go to close the door
you close it on your finger which throbs like
the bulge in the pants of the pirate on the pirate ship
who was going to rape you in your dream.
Everyone is suddenly hungry. That’s too bad because
there is no more milk. Your daughter has spilled the
last of it and is licking it off the table like a
kitten in a nursery rhyme. It’s the same kitten, actually,
who ends up locked in the cupboard
until the mice hold the dolls hostage and come to free her.
But, what are you thinking of? You dress your children
clean the kitchen, and take out the patty
before its time for school.
As you press the meat with your fingers, you see a small black hair, not your own,
and realize that the butcher has left his eyelash in the organic ground round.
But it’s just like that story, the day Mrs. O’Brien cracked open an egg and found a dead baby lizard inside. But she was crazy.
And you aren’t going to sue anyone.
From his bedroom, you hear your son cry,
“Dancing palm trees! Dancing palm trees!”
as he plays
and we all are just spinning, Mrs. Obrien, the butcher, the pirate and me under the same sun.
5439. wonkers2 - 4/6/2005 3:45:19 PM Nice! 5440. webfeet - 4/6/2005 3:53:05 PM It's a coping strategy, but thank you. 5441. NuPlanetOne - 4/6/2005 6:04:57 PM /
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....what ever became of resonance bashing. most excellent stuff res, 'artifice' especially, is marvellous. just a nice set of things in here now...fun reading. 5442. NuPlanetOne - 4/7/2005 7:43:47 PM
Hope
It is not so much the promise of spring
As it is the anticipation, the idea, the relief
The brief forgetting, the flowering, the swing
Of emotions toward forgiving, toward
Renewed expectations of betterment; to sing
To dance, to capture a chance, a moment of love
Of leisure, to imagine as if in a seizure or fit
Of joy you could again run and chase the sun
Because the promise is only that, an out held hand
An opportunity, an excuse to finish, to be done
With the silent cold and its withering hold, with
The darkening mold that collects at its corners
In the basement of a season, and with good reason
You smile, and welcome the touch, the lifting
The coming out, that what it is all..all about
Is hope.
5443. webfeet - 4/8/2005 4:02:59 AM Yes dear nuplanet, but April is still the cruellest month.
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