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5898. Seamus - 8/4/2007 6:45:19 PM Thank you, alistair. I am grateful. 5899. NuPlanetOne - 8/6/2007 4:26:16 PM It could be said that poetry is most deservedly a finest of fine arts. It embodies everything that can be wrung from imagination by evoking the more ancient perceptions and depictions that preceded stand alone literature. Good poetry, in my opinion, will leave someone mulling the imagery long before it becomes necessary to interpret the meaning. If you hold the reader in that pose, enthralled, whether in wonder or disdain just for a few moments, an understanding of the intent then becomes a worthwhile endeavor. Even if, at best, the author has no clear message nor a worthwhile meaning, you recognize, at least, an ability to project and portray pathos the way an excellent aged wine develops pleasantly across the palate. You want more. Ha! Bad poetry and bad wine. A most excellent analogy.
Seamus, that is very good poetry, that Sursum, there.
5900. alistairconnor - 8/7/2007 8:41:26 AM And that is a most succinct and powerful evocation of the soul of poetry, Nu. The oldest of the arts? It undoubtedly preceded cave wall painting, and perhaps even language. 5901. NuPlanetOne - 8/7/2007 4:23:35 PM alistair…
That is an interesting chronology, actually, if one were to ponder it. That poetry preceded even language. Yet, since I do now ponder it, I suppose early humanoids before the aliens landed, (that is, prior to alleged interactions with beings not of this planet, divine or otherwise), must have developed the ability to recognize the wonderful symmetries and rhythmic consistencies in the natural world about them. As well, contrarily, as being fascinated by the chaos and apparently random occurrances that surrounded just about everything else. Or is symmetrical consistency as it perpetuates down the river of Time just the best of all possible worlds to exist in, and the only one where life can take hold. I’ve always felt that mathematics and its complicated derivatives are possible because we are what I like to call Time-aware®. Beings able to appreciate and observe the incalculable fluctuations and perturbations of a trillion gazillion phases of matter with various faces, that are quite observable, providing there is an able observer. A stasis point, if you will, where one can actually comprehend the organized and unobservable natural state of chaos. Or, more simply put, we exist outside the gazillion phases and see in the blur, a face, as if the ripples finally stopped on a pond, as reality. And as such, can observe it, and count and calculate our estrangement. Hence, see it as moving on and on. And, being outside of it, we can look back as well as imagine its forward progress. Yet, because it might be impossible to observe other faces of these grand chaotic systems, life will remain a mystery. Wow! That is heavy!
I could be wrong. And you all know I’m a fringe thinker. But mice don’t ponder this shit, nor bacteria, nor giraffes. Why us? Anyway, there is a downside to this caffeine induced rant. Or as Frank Zappa put it, ‘it don’t mean shit to a tree.’ I hope not. Because some of our fellow creatures, as well as flora, seem quite happy with their conclusions about their snapshot of reality. But damn it! We do seem to exist outside of time. And we know it! And then we die. But first we write some poetry. Which, to get back to the actual question here, or suggestion, is poetry the oldest of the arts? I agree with you alistair, it just might probably be.
5902. Seamus - 8/7/2007 8:56:17 PM Thank you, Sir Nu, for your kind words.
And to interject myself unasked into the interesting discussion you and alistair are making...
It is almost certainly true that chanted speech in the vein of the pre-Homeric is poetry (as we seem to be agreeing to loosely define it) as the oldest of the "language" arts, for want of a better term.
I'm guessing, however, that those cave dwellers who painted up patterns and designs and animals in their dark caves would today be hot to hire a solicitor to make dark speech for them should you impugn their work as "not-art".
Even if you consider motive, I think they have us by a notch. Motive meaning "when I created this, did I intend it as art?"
Perhaps the cave painters were merely telling their fellow hunter-gatherers that tomorrow, we shall go for this big, bold fellow with the multi-fork head top and the roan colour. Then later, we came along and called it "art".
But it would be equally so that the chanters were merely hitting upon a wonderful device for memorisation and recall. Once again, we came along later and termed it "art".
I believe the dye guys have the jump on the know-it poets. (But, I'd like to see those cave critters try that kind of internal rime, in colour no less, and have no one end up badly hurt! Feh!)
5903. NuPlanetOne - 8/8/2007 1:13:14 AM Interject, by all means Sir seamus. I have time on my hands this week. I should work on my novel or scribble some fresh rhyme, but my mind is blank and outside the heat index tickled 110/f today. (I am just outside of Savannah Ga. A most remarkable city I must say.) As for the chanters, yes, I agree it would be for memorization, especially as the main thing they might be memorizing would be some sort of cosmology. Primeval scripture, no doubt. Healers with sidelines in shamanism. Severe dudes all jumpy and strict. I bet you some of those cave paintings and privately shared chants were the work of individuals who bucked the establishment and tried to immortalize their own view of things. And, somewhere in the midst as always, a curious watcher, scribbling in his mind a series of thoughts to describe his observations. A poet, that is. 5904. NuPlanetOne - 8/15/2007 1:58:59 AM Please God, Help Them
I am against the notion
Of God,
That is
If
You believe in miracles
Or
Divine intervention
I know women and babies
All females
Are raped, murdered
sold as is for gang
rape, as servants
in the congo
that’s where
and these helpless
souls scream
piercingly
at icons
boiling tears
sparkled in moonlight
please help me
it is happening
now
every day
what exactly
am I praying for
this week
oh, ya
please God
save those trapped
miners
that guy said
in the newspaper
God saved that little
girl
that was thrown from
the bus wreck
can’t we agree
God left town
Can we have
A God
If we can’t imagine
A dialogue
That’s the fucking
Problem
Forget
I mentioned it.
5905. NuPlanetOne - 8/18/2007 6:30:07 PM Funeral Mass Family Picnic
And when the Sacrament was offered
They got right in line
It meant they never questioned
Their faith
Not seriously
Not in a way
That made them
Form an opinion
Had they confessed?
My sister,
What thing could she
Have done?
She has lied, fudged
Swore and ogled
But sinned?
Did my brother
Now gone
Swallowed whole
A huge bubble
Moving down
The serpent’s neck
Ever admit a thing
Yet he was always
In line
And bowed his head
Tongue slowly retracting
The host
Was he hungry?
My other
Siblings, cousins
Uncles, friends
And relatives
All hungry as well?
If I had got in line
I suppose, then
I might be damned
But who would know?
I don’t have one thing
Eligible
For damnation
Yet I am damned
I should eat too.
5906. Jenerator - 8/19/2007 7:37:22 PM Are you okay, Nu? 5907. NuPlanetOne - 8/20/2007 2:09:53 AM Jen,
Oh yes, quite alright, actually. I know, sounds like I’m railing against my Catholic soul. Just the ruminations inspired by a recent death in the family and a cabernet chat with someone close to the nastiness amok in Congo. Bone chilling shit. But, never mind that, I am fine, and, as always, your concern is genuine, sweet really. Besides, I am out of the South and back in Boston, which, in comparison to Savannah, moves most rudely and conspicuously at the correct speed. The South is like playing chess without a clock. All the time in the world to make your next move. I never once heard anyone saying hurry-up. Move it. Lot of pauses. Let me think on it. Anyway, going there occasionally is something I must do. I will be at light speed in no time.
5908. Jenerator - 8/20/2007 3:59:11 AM Thank you for your explanation. I was worried because you seemed disgruntled if not despairing. Sorry to hear of your family's loss. This seems to have been a hard year for a lot of people. I cannot imagine life in the Congo. From what little I have seen and heard, it seems like such a violent and tragic place. Your friend is lucky to have you to share with.
Boston is a beautiful city -- completely different from Savannah for sure. I hope you're enjoying it. 5909. NuPlanetOne - 8/21/2007 1:23:16 PM You are welcome Jen. I could not imagine living anywhere else. It would be wicked hard to stay away completely. Yet, I guess we are all creatures bound to our roots, just some more than others. Home is just a terrible place to visit. It’s best to live there. 5910. NuPlanetOne - 8/21/2007 1:23:53 PM Convenience Store
In line behind the ticket
Scratchers
I just need milk
They buy a handful
And walk scratching
Away
Missing the door
Glance up briefly
Not to crash
Or bump things
The hard of hearing
Senior
Says what
And strains in
Even at nothing said
Two more
Then me
Next one asks
About batteries
Had been trying to
Study them
On the wall
The cashier with
A phone cupped
To its ear says
I gotta go
The milk sweats
This one? That one?
No, we don’t have
The big ones
A scratcher turn abruptly
Says yes you do!
Now the mailman’s turn
As he has a parting
Conversation
About the flashlight
With slowly retreating
Battery guy
Back on the phone
The girl asks
Is that all?
The mailman leaves
The battery guy and
Scratcher
No, stares at the fifty
Scratch choices
The clerk whispers
Into its shoulder
My turn
Can I help you?
No,
But I want this milk
It leaves a wet smudge
On the counter
I go around
Battery talk
Two of them scratching
One holding a flashlight
I make it outside.
5911. Seamus - 8/24/2007 9:28:17 PM I like each of these from you, Nu.
In "Please God, Help Them" Message # 5904
this, where you invoke the god you go on to conclude is not invocable because she is not there to be invoked, is wonderful:
please help me
it is happening
now
every day I love the tension in that.
And this is particularly fine:
what exactly
am I praying for
this week To the extent that
Can we have
A God
If we can't imagine
A dialogue
That's the fucking
Problem represents your own philosophy and is not merely a point-of-view assigned to the voice here, you and I are perhaps busily not-praying to the same damn not-god. As you say, "forget/I mentioned it".
As it was for Jen, I too was concerned in response to "Funeral Mass Family Picnic" Message # 5905
and I am sorry to hear of your loss.
I don't have one thing
Eligible
For damnation Would that it were true for me. Or would that it were true if it were also true there were a god to hand out the damnation. Which there is not, so what the hell, right? (Of course, the subjunctive mood was invented expressly for the purpose of my torturing you with a paragraph such as this one.)
In any event, I particularly like those lines.
And once again, there you go demonstrating your mastery of the wonderful image in "Convenience Store" Message # 5910.
So much to enjoy here. So much to admire, Nu. I thank you.
And I'd no idea you were a novelist as well! What is the old line?
Q: "What's it about?" A: "About 300 pages."
Seamus
(The slowly retreating battery guy)5912. Seamus - 8/24/2007 9:41:59 PM This is a far more Serious Topic™, and it's directed to arky as well as anyone else who thinks that just because I may seem perpetually unawares, that I am, at all times, unawares. The fact is, I am indeed preternaturally unawares, but it is also the quite remarkable case that, for the moment, I’m awake. For the moment.
And towards that end…
I do not believe I've ever achieved an "It Which Must Not Be Named" here. The m-word. In the 8-ish or so years here (correct?) and in all the years at this place's predecessor, our former home, I do not think I've ever worn the laurel.
And I'd name it, save I cannot remember after all of the debates about its proper spelling what its proper spelling is. One "l" or two? One "n" or two? Zed zero?
We all realise that pigs fly about as often as one of these presents itself in Mote Poetry.
Here, I can be seen practising for the final sprint:
I
may
fall
miserably
short,
but
I'm
going to
try
for
it!
(Line breaks!
Ideal!
I could claim it is found poetry!)
So...
To arky and all other pretenders:
I'm going to fight you with every sentient ounce of my being for this one. Which adjective of course means you've not much of a threat in me.
The rest is silence.
5913. wabbit - 8/25/2007 12:26:03 AM Darling, sweet Seamus,
I have no poetry, but
you may count on me
for assistance in
the quest for the
M victory
which, once achieved,
I shall hope with my every breath
the rest from you will
not be silence. 5914. arkymalarky - 8/25/2007 12:50:17 AM OOOOh, a challenge! 5915. Seamus - 8/25/2007 4:06:11 AM wabbit, you are very kind.
arky, yes, the game is afoot.
(Or as a dear friend from the Czech Republic, who loves Shakespeare but whose idiomatic English is less than precise, says: The game is underfoot.)
5916. alistairConnor - 8/25/2007 11:38:51 AM Seamus : And I'd no idea you [Nu] were a novelist as well!
I am pleased and proud to say that it started here (the unfinished Chicken Piccata Test).
Next comes the work in progress Tony, or Proof it existed.
Pleased, proud and frustrated, because he isn't letting us look at the process at the moment...
Next question is for you, Seamus : would you consider a contribution to that 5917. alistairConnor - 8/25/2007 11:46:41 AMNext question is for you, Seamus : would you consider a contribution to that autofiction thread?
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