one day the poet Herodia
of ancient Pincaeia
found in the garden
a note thrown in over the wall:

dear poet
do not sing us of unpleasant things;
do not make us think:
sing us of love instead
a poem about a kiss is far easier to read
(some *** would make it even more memorable)
and poems on light matters
are better on one's brains
rather than a poem
where one has to ponder over things


and the poet Herodia
of ancient Pincaeia
from then on
was never heard of;
nor, for that matter,
was ever Pincaeia

how did it begin anyway
this love of sound and words and rhythm
and word-painting?
did a bunch of perhaps thirteen men and women
gather one night
under the star-covered trees
and eat pizzas and say:

tonight we'll all not drink sake
or soma
and we'll not have ***
or argue about swines and politics and metaphysics;
we'll not drink wine or breathe in fumes
that make minds gallop like wild boars
but, tonight, we'll drink words instead?

of course everyone
knows the famous riddle
that drew a one-word answer
but the sphinx also threw another
at Oedipus just outside Thebes:
a sister comes first and gives birth to another
and the second consumes and then births the first



bored, the gifted Oedipus yawned his answer:
*day and night

the Sphinx, bringer of bad luck and destruction,
half-woman and a lioness,
she throws Oedipus a riddle outside of Thebes
strangled with a curse:
what goes on fours in the morning, two at midday
and three in the evening?


Oedpius, born a prince, feet-mangled
and soon to be a king, well-traveled and bored
and wishing for greater challenges than a riddling sphinx
in his way, answers:
look at me in my prime, I walk on two
and I crawled on fours
and I shall walk with a staff soon enough...
that is the lot of my kind, humankind...



and the Sphinx,
not one to condone one better than itself,
devours itself...

lovers of words
we build dungeons;
lovers of words
we forge our own chains;
lovers of ideas
we inhale illusions:
the mind confronts the world
(rarely does it meet the world)
and the mind confronts the world
like a careless driver who hits a tree
and then considers what is to be done;
like how a group might attempt to control
a river that runs through the village;
and the mind creates ideas
to overcome, to control, to transcend
and the mind is
trapped in words
(loves words for its gentle touch)
and so it builds wordy cages
builds for itself escapes
builds for itself diversions
and is manacled by words it plucks out of thin air
and that it develops into theories and ideas and revelation
(loves these for the relief)
and that become truth and immutable by time and repetition
and so the mind lies chained in it own prisons:
lovers of words
we build dungeons;
lovers of words
we forge our own chains;
lovers of ideas
we inhale illusions

again and again we copy and imitate
and crave to be shaped
or we create ideas and cherished notions
and we cling to traditions and hopes and inspirations;
and we run to this and then to that
and we say this is revelation, this is the Divine
and this is the path
and we have solutions and formulas
and plans and consolations
and we say this is the truth and that is the truth
and this is the leader
and we crave for stimulants
we eat cliches
we bow to consuming and demanding Revelations
that eat minds;
and we crave for things that offer solutions
that offer certainty
and so we believe, we rather believe
and this the Blessed
and that one the Chosen
and this the Ultimate True Guide:
always chasing, always wanting to be led
always wanting to be burdened
like trained donkeys, with heavy loads;
always wanting Super Powers, Omnipotence
always the leverage of a Supreme Being
always division: the All Powerful and the Weakling;
always believing, always believing
in such complexities, such mysteries
but it is simple;
drop everything
and see what is left...
but one will not do it
for one would rather cling to something and notions
and authority
and wait for someone else to describe it
rather than seeing it oneself;
one would rather revere

I am content here
in my open
with the trees and the birds that sing
and the clouds above
and the moon that radiates at night;
and the feel of the warmth of the sun on my
arms and chest and legs
and the feel of the cool water
on my face;
not for me all the revelations
and the vanities
and the theories
and the pomposity
of the life here
and the life hereafter;
for I am content here
in my open
with the trees and the birds that sing