#origins - Hello Poetry

cat gut, dried and twisted, sang out, stretched and braided, worked by the hands of a master. A mold formed its shape released from the plaster. They came, as do we all, from the earth and the rain, the sun, or our .. pain the origins of soft, meaningful refrain. The echoes that remain. recalled and loved by us all without much strain. The origins oft considered now insane those creatures whose lives were lost, or even worse, were used or slain. The turtle, for its shell, used as a pick not too thin, not too thick. The human blood and ash put to wick, the scholar’s ink Don't dry too quick Enemies skin stretched over the head of drums, the sound of fire and bent wood as it thrums. The pain it takes back to each creature , the creators. The destroyers. callused finger caresses banged thumb. cries are carried within it, our grief it helps us numb. We all howl still under the moon’s glow, hearing each other and our connection. Wandering in what direction. ? We feel what we feel, but how do we know what we know? The candle, made of discarded fat. The vellum, made of less than that. The strings of a bull, an ox, or a cat tones that shiver, shrill or fat. The thoughts and ideas, blood and lust, capture take us to certainty, or lead us to rapture. The potatoes boiled, the insect crushed, but once they toiled. The lacquers and enamels and oils we crush from the life of plants and leaves, reminding us of the one for whom we still grieve. The worst of lies: that we are separated from this world. We are one with it, and we will share its fate, its riches, its seasons, its spoils. From whence does brilliance come? A desire, a sleepless night, an explosion. The life that once lived sings back to us through the ages, more than it lived, more than what it had to give. We hear the tree of Stradivariuses' choosing fight and cheat to have it in our hands. Search far and wide, for every one, in every recess, in every land. Da Vinci, strokes of egg and wash, make a material not often spoken of—gouache. We are looking at an egg, illuminated by dried fat and beeswax. We are inspired by a creature’s skin, flayed and beaten to a pulp, paper-thin. We are amazed by the ideas, and inspired by the truth within. Do we see its beginning in us, or our end? What do we use? For what we give back What do we gain and what do we lack? The energy to grow to achieve to believe to communicate. Elucidate. Try and relate We **** we suffer our art. Still we feel our worlds apart. Give back to me the howls of the alley cat the munch of teeth in the endless grass I'll take all that. The rhythm of the river the blood the stone the flesh the bone. But Alas I will leave this world as I came alone.

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Feb 27

Feb 27, 2026 at 5:54 PM UTC

CountDeStGermaine

The sources

cat gut, dried and twisted, sang out, stretched and braided, worked by the hands of a master. A mold formed its shape released from the plaster. They came, as do we all, from the earth and the rain, the sun, or our .. pain the origins of soft, meaningful refrain. The echoes that remain. recalled and loved by us all without much strain. The origins oft considered now insane those creatures whose lives were lost, or even worse, were used or slain. The turtle, for its shell, used as a pick not too thin, not too thick. The human blood and ash put to wick, the scholar’s ink Don't dry too quick Enemies skin stretched over the head of drums, the sound of fire and bent wood as it thrums. The pain it takes back to each creature , the creators. The destroyers. callused finger caresses banged thumb. cries are carried within it, our grief it helps us numb. We all howl still under the moon’s glow, hearing each other and our connection. Wandering in what direction. ? We feel what we feel, but how do we know what we know? The candle, made of discarded fat. The vellum, made of less than that. The strings of a bull, an ox, or a cat tones that shiver, shrill or fat. The thoughts and ideas, blood and lust, capture take us to certainty, or lead us to rapture. The potatoes boiled, the insect crushed, but once they toiled. The lacquers and enamels and oils we crush from the life of plants and leaves, reminding us of the one for whom we still grieve. The worst of lies: that we are separated from this world. We are one with it, and we will share its fate, its riches, its seasons, its spoils. From whence does brilliance come? A desire, a sleepless night, an explosion. The life that once lived sings back to us through the ages, more than it lived, more than what it had to give. We hear the tree of Stradivariuses' choosing fight and cheat to have it in our hands. Search far and wide, for every one, in every recess, in every land. Da Vinci, strokes of egg and wash, make a material not often spoken of—gouache. We are looking at an egg, illuminated by dried fat and beeswax. We are inspired by a creature’s skin, flayed and beaten to a pulp, paper-thin. We are amazed by the ideas, and inspired by the truth within. Do we see its beginning in us, or our end? What do we use? For what we give back What do we gain and what do we lack? The energy to grow to achieve to believe to communicate. Elucidate. Try and relate We **** we suffer our art. Still we feel our worlds apart. Give back to me the howls of the alley cat the munch of teeth in the endless grass I'll take all that. The rhythm of the river the blood the stone the flesh the bone. But Alas I will leave this world as I came alone.