Anya Jul 2015
it still
       hurts but
                   it doesn't
                               kill me
                                         anymore.
To the person who cheated on me and left me hanging...
vircapio gale Jul 2012
"
"nor is this a fact," nor is my syntax the 'true.'
i can't use quotations in the way i'd like to,
to allow the paradoxical to seep through
in the sly act of revising 'this' honestly--
merging truth with falsity, to silently see--
grammar become a means to shatter certitude

"i can't tell the 'truth' with these ["i can't tell the 'truth'
with these{...} very words"] very words"; i really can't...
it's somewhat unfair to communicants, this rant.
let me bolster your trust by not telling it slant:
in fact, it's not poetry, not from this angle.
maybe when you read, this 'this' will be poetic?
meh, i'm relying on telling, not showing. so...
quiet's often better than such entanglement

but this is not about value, it's about truth.
sincerely, i doubt i'll keep those two separate

perhaps... if you pretend i'm a prolix parrot,
who happened through some acosmic accident
to be the transmigrated daimon-soul of Sappho,
or Hypatia, Gertrude Stein or Plath even...
(yeah, i'm like a Cretan for going on): they weren't,
'your gobbledygoo,' or 'Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.'
stripped bare at the Caesareum, being murdered
for the crime of godlessness or female wisdom
spoken in the scapegoat-hungry rule of Rome...
this is not what they were, not the whole truth, at all
and though from winds of Lesbos she spoke in verse
that her vast poetic fame 'was no delusion:'
and that, 'dead, I won't be forgotten,' i fail,
painfully fail,
to trace into a verbal womb
the seeds of those that transformed all, yet now entombed...
for to remember them in me is to revise,
reduce, sadly in that poetic untruth found...

"this" is a gestalt, i guess i'll have to say,
a "figure-ground," a floating 'shape' in some context,
one that you embody too, somehow, not in text;
even through a distant sharing, it's realized
(hold onto the random metaphors you find,
they're probably better than what's in my mind)
and to share this with you now, to hypocritize,
it's lunacy. i mean, the moon, the poetic moon
is not a meme, is not a custom, is not a poetic fact,
in fact, it's not in this poem, and if it were--
being televised with some authentic ontic pixel-space--
here between the lines augmented mOOn for you
it would prove how unpoetic the poem is, and how
very true the moon is, if it were here, right quoteunquote"here"
ineffably punctuated
            -- well, let me try
and fail again to make Erasmus proud:
the quotes would hang about romantic beams
parentheses to echo adjectival spectra streams,
an underscore horizonal and asterisks for stars.
but not these * asterisks,
or those_types of underscores--
better (parentheses) and far more "quothy" "quotes"--
the punctuation would literally ^punctuate^ the sky of my text.
time would stop.                                                            ­                   and that would be poetic.
you don't need to breathe, even; not this 'you,' in this moment
(the one i've failed to capture):
'i will put you on the moon' i say,
'and sit you buoyant by the buddha-astronaut, who,
in answer to the question sprinkles moondust in slow motion,
symbol-guiding realness, my "finger" for solution,
to present to you again, what is present to me now.
the Russian names, the rest of names, the 'face' some say cries, "sweetly,"
as if we could use the moon's sympathy,
or as if we should feel it for the white rock that elliptically defines us,
dances to our rhythm, (the tides, the virgin huntress)
the one that taught us to dance,
the one that taught us to yearn darkly in surreal eclipse
more hopefully for the chance of cataclysmic doom
some Greeks thought it was a disco ball, after enough booze, that Dionysian night,
some Greeks thought it was a disc,
like a coin that flipped just right
to match it's dance about our pearoid earth
in synchrony's anachronistic mirth.
i would lick each Bacchant clean to learn the mysteries of poem
i would lick each Bacchant clean. period. no music or noema known
this 'poem' is not a "poem"
in a very real sense
i did not make this,
nor did i compose or create it.
if you're not following it's ok, i'm barely there myself -- i'm trying to refer to...
the elliptical shape that certain publishers use
to refer to fundierung
the double-founding,
reversibility,
the flesh of passive
the flesh of active
enfleshed perceiving
the common meaning we contribute
but can't attribute to any source we express!
(however distorted) after the fact, yes! --
either all that, or the meaning you get from "this" act
doubly-enfolded, with two pairs of hands kneading the same dough,
two pairs of eyes weaving the same lOOm,
another Indra's net to sew,
in meaning you give now,
the techne of your reader's mind
and the meaning i'd wish to know,
if i were still writing what you are reading,
doing my best to ignore the title
and to write something worthwhile...

i do wish i could show it to you the way i love it in your own poetry,
but you would know that, already, without my love

without my unpoetic lack of facts, my rhymes.
free of poems, free to flout the literary sea.
free to be unwordly, and let the contradictions fly
"
-a version of the Cretan's or liar's paradox ('This sentence is false.') inspired this write and took on a life of its own and isn't meant to be an argument for anything. just an exploration of the problem of representation, a universal distrust of language and my associations. hope it didn't drive you crazy like it did me :)

-i quote Sylvia Plath's "Daddy", Stein's "Susie Asado", and Sappho's very short,

"I have no complaint"

I have no complaint
prosperity that
the golden Muses
gave me was no
delusion: dead, I
won't be forgotten
Sappho

-Erasmus wrote "Praise of Folly." the title alone comforts me

-when asked 'what is truth?' by one of his disciples, the buddha is said to have picked up a flower.

-our moon rotates at the same rate as its revolution (not sure why please inform me), so one side always faces us. the greeks thought it was a disc, literally. and when the Russians got to the 'backside' first, they got to name all the craters.

-noema:
the objective aspect of or the content within an intentional experience. NL, fr. Gk noema perception, thought understanding, mind, fr. noein to perceive, think
Avery Langcaster Nov 2014
It's called faith, not fact.
But for it to be faith, you must see it as fact.
Anna Garcia Apr 2014
The world shall end...



...even if innocent lives are spend
How dull the wretch, whose philosophic mind
Disdains the pleasures of fantastic kind;
Whose prosy thoughts the joys of life exclude,
And wreck the solace of the poet's mood!
Young Zeno, practis'd in the Stoic's art,
Rejects the language of the glowing heart;
Dissolves sweet Nature to a mess of laws;
Condemns th' effect whilst looking for the cause;
Freezes poor Ovid in an iced review,
And sneers because his fables are untrue!
In search of hope the hopeful zealot goes,
But all the sadder tums, the more he knows!
Stay! Vandal sophist, whose deep lore would blast
The grateful legends of the storied past;
Whose tongue in censure flays th' embellish'd page,
And scorns the comforts of a dreary age:
Wouldst strip the foliage from the vital bough
Till all men grow as wisely dull as thou?
Happy the man whose fresh, untainted eye
Discerns a Pantheon in the spangled sky;
Finds sylphs and dryads in the waving trees,
And spies soft Notus in the southern breeze
For whom the stream a cheering carol sings,
While reedy music by the fountain rings;
To whom the waves a Nereid tale confide
Till friendly presence fills the rising tide.
Happy is he, who void of learning's woes,
Th' ethereal life of bodied Nature knows;
I scorn the sage that tells me it but seems,
And flout his gravity in sunlight dreams!
Amitav Radiance Dec 2014
In this journey
We walk into the unknown
The clock’s hands
Drag us towards it
A day packed with surprises
Our plans do not matter
We seem to deny the fact
Unknown is our journey
Afraid of the known
Created by our imagination
What have we created?
In the unknown we have to delve
To look for the right answers
We have to be aware
When we step into the unexplored
To be a willing learner
We have to be accepting
George Krokos Apr 2013
The inner beauty of man is far superior to that of the outer,
we only need look deep enough within us to see it's greater.
It is basically through ignorance most haven't seen this fact,
but to actually witness this truth requires extraordinary tact.
_______________
From "The Quatrains" - ongoing writings since the early '90's.
Austin Woodruff Oct 2015
All I know
Is that
Love has
   Already won.
Even if you can't see love in every moment,

Doesn't change the fact that love already won the battle.

So endure the hardship and ask forgiveness for your own short comings so that others may experience the love you know is true.
Snow White in fact to hell and back pursued the seven Dwarves

Who daily mined their businesses and never minded yours

She danced the ground where hammers pound

She sang in quadraphonic sound

She knew her scene was just on screen

And screens were not of human beings

She knew her life in truth to be

Light flickering through transparency

And that she soon as all cartoons

Would roll back to her film's cocoon

Then a sticky floor for a Disney whore

A princess serving clients

She did her part, now Dwarven hearts

Can beat the blood of Giants
so
people say that there are things
    objects
    abstracts
    other people
    earth's natural boundaries and bounties
that urge  or maybe converge the mind
into action - though most probably think the act,
they reverie in what they dream as exceptional.

so
here is an ideal,
a prototype esteemed
like that emblazoned scrap of paper
with the birth names and letters
dotdotdot etc ...

so, tell me
are you aspiring
or laying deep
in the molds ?
will it buy you a ring for your trophy ?
will it make you prolific ?

we would not know happiness,
if only for the grand stories
told to us of our entitlement
to enjoy our senses. well,
look at this container,
you were perfectly crafted
to roam
with intention, across all spaces
conquistadoring and
expanding and
'destroying to create'
whatever the fuck that means

and never learning not to rear our ugly heads
to the paradise
breastfeeding
us,
or to the processing
keeping us bred
nice and tidy.

so
there is the ambiguous person again,
and is there something wrong with monotony,
does it imply a good in consistence
does it lend translation to the static
     (coming up and out of your roaring mouth;
           he is an angel, i grant it worth.)

so
be inspired by feeling.
that dumpster over yonder is what it
is, as your lobes transmit
and lucidly self actualize ::

i am not here to convince anyone
but myself.
donovan Jul 2014
i get angry at your opinion
as if it were something i could change.

facts are easy to alter
(if not, ignore them).

opinions linger like kisses from unwanted lovers
(absolution skips a few).
Doug Potter Jan 2017
From a straight back wooden chair I see
a light blue ceramic bowl filled with
tangerines next to a desktop radio
tuned to National Public Radio
all sitting on my oak table

and out the bay window
birds bicker over seeds
overflowing a feeder,
a raccoon scours
the earth below;

I keep in mind the fact
all of these things will
be gone from my
sight one
day.
ConfusedSoul33 Aug 2014
no time to take life decisions in the shower
       cuz
shortage of water in California.
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