"kierkegaard" poems
If I said my heart was a cyanide laced pomegranate,
would that make its expressions any less ******
If I said falling in love was like throwing yourself off a cliff on a winter night and drowning yourself tumbling through the air blind like a bag of kittens, but I was quoting Kierkegaard,
would that make it any less of an awkward melodrama?
If I told you the western blocks blind attacks on the other,
kinda resembled Freud's account of the mother
of a miscarriages melancholia,
is that a condoning or a condemnation?
if I translated every meta-narrative of class relation, oppression, wage slavery, state violence, suppression,
into anthropomorphic allegories for a myriad of psychological phenomena,
would I be an academic or a shinto miko?
[and would the world be any better?]
if I superimposed on the geographical topology,
the political and then the existential,
would I have a sandwich?
Or a lasagne?
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
#
They called Kierkegaard insane,
poor man, poor fool..
ink turned against him
by a city that feared
his furious clarity.
That label is given still:
“mad,” they say,
when a voice rises
against the hidden thing,
the shadow crouched in the soul,
the beast that feeds on silence.
It is not flesh that is cursed,
but the fortress
built stone by stone
from secrets unspoken,
where the child’s cry was buried
and the monster kept the key.
Yes, let it be cursed again..
that ancient predator
that left spirits trapped,
that tried to leave others
shattered in its claws.
If eternity should open,
even the darkness of God
would rise against it,
tumbling the beast
through endless years,
stripped of its power,
stripped of its stolen faces.
Call it madness,
call it folly.
The words remain jagged,
for truth has teeth,
and silence has killed enough.
At least the monster was named
when others smiled politely
and called it “past.”
At least there was no collusion.
*And if the witness is written off,
so be it
Better condemned
for fighting the beast
than praised for leaving it
enthroned.*
#
Aug 18, 2025
Aug 18, 2025 at 10:02 AM UTC
#
The prophets wore it,
woven of thorns and laughter..
the jeering crown,
the mark of those
who dared to name the truth.
Kierkegaard wore it,
penned as insane,
pushed to the margins
by voices too clever
to risk listening.
The fool’s crown
is given freely
to any who refuse silence,
to any who lift their voice
against the beast,
against the fortress,
against the lie.
It weighs heavy;
not of gold
but of ridicule,
a diadem of mockery,
a garland of exile.
Yet it fits more honestly
than all the jeweled circlets
worn by the deceivers,
for it is fashioned
from truth spoken aloud.
If the crown is madness,
let it rest heavy.
For it is made of truth
..and truth is the only jewel
worth bearing.
#
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 3:02 PM UTC
I tip my hat to Kierkegaard
Who was there when things were hard,
To Mr. Hofstadter
Loading my cannon with fodder,
To Willie Yeats
Who showed me my poetic cognates,
To the Buddha
Who, mentally being a barracuda,
Illuminated what patience really means,
To Graham Greene's
"Brighton Rock"'s influence on Morrissey,
Which made me smile at the sea
And recognize "in my own life
What Robert Browning meant
By an old hunter talking with Gods;
But I am not content."
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
#sweet lord, girl..
I like the way your brain moves its thoughts into its own deeper
realms with each thing said. You have that rare gift of being able to
be your own internal/external Muse.. even while midstream within
the process of writing it all out.
Alone.. maybe more than you may think you want to be, you are
never lonely. A very rare thing indeed in the modern world, kid.
Very unique, and very very special.
(It is very much the truth..)
I would always hope for the gifted ones such as yourself, that you
would always and ever-increasingly be able to see your own
worthiness in yourself in being chosen to be a bearer of such a
wonderful gift. Kierkegaard was a chosen recipient such as you
(your rare mind's unfolding thought processes are in ways, much
like his), and through his own beautiful self-love, became.. through
his stewardship of the gift, the father of Existentialism. He felt the
Living Word within him, causing his wonderous mind to feel also,
through thought.. which in turn, churned deeply his
forever-goldmining heart, which in turn, mused his mind into deeper processings of the deeply-felt word's expressions--
ever-cycling.. ever churning within him, until every cell within his
electrified body became fully lit..
And out onto paper it all went.. as what was so beautifully
self-Mused within him was brought out from an internally-lit
darkness and into the full light of day. The deeply-searching, in you
is in relationship with the gifted Magical in you,
(which is also so very much you [the gifts are irrevocable]),
bringing out words and concepts/thought processes pretty much
previously unknown here in this world. Make your own self-Love..
self forgiveness.. self-acceptance, and self understanding.. all your Art..
And it will be your art that most blesses this world down here.
You've already got the goods, kid.. watch them become greatly
clarified in you as your own self-Love becomes your own finest art.
The gift, you already have-- clear as clear can be. Shame and
condemnation are powerful enough down here to make even the
most purest of pure, become obscure.
Mm.
Yeah, kid..
*"In the end..
The Love you take (in)
Is equal to
The Love, you make"*
Make your own self love, your goal-- surround yourself with
loving truthtellers who will love you for who you truly are.. rather
than what they want you to be (or think you should be) for them.
Clearly you are worth every single bit of it all.
~Paul
*(preston
M Vogel
F Unting Somethingoranother)*
#
Jan 28, 2022
Jan 28, 2022 at 9:38 PM UTC
you know that, only in england
you can wear a t-shirt in january,
and concede that (it's chav scots
clearing the path):
reading a søren kierkegaard book
qualifies you as mentally ill?
odd, isn't it? read a philosophy book
get a psychiatrist... where's the ******* bookmark?
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
the defense of your legacy manifested into strings of saccharin
and phrases like ‘Come on in from the rain. We all need a torrent to own the storm, just- take off your clothes, don’t mind Kierkegaard.’
your sincerity is a cipher
you’re something of a conversation piece between good friends
who were artfully made of pre-engineered steel on a day Jove tremored in his bed
you’re something postured beneath a javelin
and likewise- something propelled for decorum
blackguard, black coffee and a birthmark turned into a running joke.
inevitable.
you searched the bottoms of summer pools
and found no discernible trace of your history
her sable crown whips back and forth in your head
and you maintain the chaos with aureate cries of preservation
it’s a halcyon boom, a lonely and sexless halcyon boom
it makes every yellow and red dress chimerical
it makes your neck unassailable
drugstore cowboy
they got close enough
to see you sweat
to note that heat and her magnificence could purge as quick as they reinstate
and you still beat
like they do
stubbornly.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 10:20 AM UTC
Sonya was reading
some Kierkegaard book
I was reading Dostoevsky
both laying on the bed
in a cheap hotel in Paris
the window was open
street sounds outside
traffic
people
snatches of conversations
want to go out
for a coffee?
I asked
if you're paying
she said
I paid last time
she turned a page
you're the male
you're supposed to pay
she said
I put down the book
and looked up
at the ceiling
I thought this was equal time
for women
woman's rights and all that?
what's that got to do with it?
equal paying of bills
I said
she sighed
and put down her book
you always
have to make arguments
always have to see things
so **** black and white
she said
do you want coffee or not?
I said
she turned over
and away from me
her backside
just about cover
by her tight skirt
why do women
have to sulk
when things
don't go their way?
who said
they're not going my way?
your **** says so
what's the matter
with my ****
it isn't so pretty
as your face
she turned back to me
and gazed at me
it's always either or
with you isn't it?
she said
you've been reading
too much Kierkegaard
I said
you want *** again?
I looked at her lips
her *******
her eyes blue
as washed out blue can be
sure if it's on offer
well it won't be
if you keep on
with this equal thing
she said
you like ***
she frowned
yes of course
well I do too
so that's equal
so what's the problem?
she lay back down
on the bed
I’ll have black coffee
and I’ll pay
she said
but you get the food
I smiled
OK if that's
what you want
can we go see
some art afterwards?
sure
I said
she kissed me
and I kissed her
and coffee was forgotten
as we decided
to rock
the cheap old bed.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 5:12 AM UTC
danke, und scheiße geruch um beachten! (if ungrammatical then ensure you do not waver to correct me, but speak as correctly as possible and leave me to my insolence and gratify my mistake as championing your correctness, at least thus i'll be glad to make you see what i too wanted to see with my imperfection the suggestive).
western society has taught me
that i'd be better off
not having educated myself -
and that reading philosophical
books is considered a mental illness;
such heightened literacy rates
i almost clamour to buckle
in marking journalism a synonym of propaganda.
no, of course i'm not happy where
i live, i what's deemed a civilisation or
an exportable social model,
a place where you say the word Kierkegaard
and people think you've said gonorrhea,
so the French kiss outlasts oral *** -
tongue here, tongue there, tongue up your ***
you're a credible ****** should it matter,
while all the menial tasks for the unruly
have been exported to made in China -
i ****** Poland for ever wanting to join
the E.U., thank god they didn't adopt the failed
Euro currency - the diversity of the project
would always fail - no slingshot Indians
or bow & arrow akin mattered
when the other Indians gave us the Taj Mahal...
wise too i would be as an Ewok... and a Vindaloo...
wait a minute, why am i writing
like a reformist coloniser? i've been duped!
i learn the english tongue i suddenly
become nothing less than a coloniser myself;
might as well be a viking in york
or a norman at the battle of Hastings!
otherwise i'm a concubine on a mechanised
dildo-throne while the irish are Yuppie
with psychos of american Wolf St. scenarios
awaiting the 1980s discography of
a lucid John Peel commentary.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
the greateast lie of all is feeling of firmness beneath our feet we are at our most honest when we are lost - soren kierkegaard
think about people managing running this city state country how do they do it trouble managing myself today 3/19/10 eating alone at cantonese restaurant suddenly felt nauseous sick rushed to cashier paid drove hurried home feeling need to go maybe ***** ran upstairs pooped exhausted lied down sick anxiety attack could not breathe opened windows fetus position all in my head imagined hours later feel fine think about women how beautiful they are menstraution pregnancy giving birth menapause subjugation abuse stress am i pretty enough good enough property commodity find provider daunting pressures they bear tearing while typing think about my mom turning 90 alone trudging heavy purse think about children of the future so much weight on their shoulders so much dysfunction disarity how will they manage run reach their dreams think about myself so scared desperate about tomorrow future i have no money property belonging this world is tough with great sadness want to hear joke what do you call fish with no eyes fssshh not very funny
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 6:39 PM UTC
Sometimes
I wonder
am I more saint
or sinner
Is it
self-preservation or
selfish and me-centered?
And how,
how can I know
when Your voice feels
so far off?
Am I saint
or sinner
self-preserving or
self-centered?
Your voice isn't sounding
all I hear is silence
And I beg,
I plead,
Lord,
am I a saint
or a sinner?
Sometimes I can't breathe
my soul
suffocating in
questions without answers
What
do you see, in me?
Saint
or a sinner?
Do I delight or
disappoint,
You and others with
this life I'm trying to live?
Questions
begging answers
can't rest until
they're found
Saint
or sinner,
self-preserving or
self-centered?
"God creates out of nothing. Wonderful you say. Yes, to be sure, but he does what is still more wonderful: He makes saints out of sinners."
― The Journals of Soren Kierkegaard
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
Sonya spoke
of Kierkegaard.
I sat enthralled,
not by the Danish philosopher
or his philosophy,
but by her,
the way she sat
outside the Parisian café,
her long blonde hair,
her blues eyes
like deep fires,
awaking
my ****** desires,
the way she waved
her slim hand.
She was eating
her second croissant.
I liked the way
she licked
her fingers after,
each one
at least twice,
as if they
were small penises
waiting in turn
to be done,
one by one.
She sipped her coffee,
licked her lips.
I studied
her small ****
firm and tight,
waiting to be touched
or ******
She spoke
of Kierkgeaard's books,
of the leap of faith.
I thought of her
secret garden
waiting to be dug
and ******
I sipped coffee,
held it on my tongue,
around my mouth,
savouring it all,
the taste,
the warmth,
the slight bitterness,
sweetness,
each in turn.
She spoke of
Fear and Trembling,
Either/Or,
The Sickness Unto Death,
and other books
he'd written,
that Kierkegaard guy,
while I sat there,
drinking her all in,
hair,
eyes,
**** and hands
and fingers
licking and *******
while sat dreaming
of bed and her
and digging
and *******
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
A Ballad For A Thin Man.
Understood backwards. Lived forward. Life.
Haunted by diverging others. Us but not. Wraiths.
Ghosts of what if? Who then? What might have been?
Leave room. Turn left. Lovely house, wife, retirement.
Leave same room. Turn right. Shack, loneliness, poverty.
Theorize games. Physik quanta. Slide down strings.
Into Wonderland, Oz, Middle-Earth. Narnia.
All the places that don’t exist and matter the most.
Where doors open up to impossible possibilities.
Fight your way through every day. Pit bull of potential.
Just do your work and be kind. That is a separate peace.
We may be others in other universes, but here we are just us.
**** it up. Love your life. Do what you must. Soldier on.
Real realities can really hurt. Take it like a Man. Or Woman.
Be grateful for your trials. Trials are you. Struggle.
Mount the philosopher’s donkey backwards, advance.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 5:16 AM UTC
Sonya
that Parisian street
is still there
no doubt
although whether
that cheap hotel
is still there
is another
question
but we were there
back then
the double
old bed
the bidet
the sink greasy
and the toilet
well less said
the better
but Paris
was good
and we walked
its streets
and ate and drank
in its restaurants
and cafés
and saw
the art galleries
and rode the metro
sometimes for free
avoiding
the ticket collector
and the room
and that bed
and us lying there
the window open
the street sounds
and the smell
of the City
and I
with my Dostoevsky book
and you saying
can't you read
something
more cheerful?
and you lying there
with your blonde hair
spread on the pillow
on the bed
and you talking
of Kierkegaard
and Either Or
or something
about a leap
of faith
and you puking
into the bidet
after the cheap wine
and I reading
and saying
serves you right
but sorted you
later that night
and how we love
the early morning
feel of Paris
the opening
of the window
and wow
there we were
in the city
where Hemingway stayed
and Ezra Pound
and Henry Miller
and others
worth their salt
and we kissing
and embracing
and making
the long love
with moon and stars
and the night sky
up above.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
Hell is here
And here
And everywhere you don't want it to be
You cut to the part of the play where we see Rome burning
YOU: Sisyphus! Here is your rock!
ME: Thanks, I thought I lost it!
I hit pause.
Up I go and down I come a
Merry-go-round that throws up red water
Free as a stallion
Free as a show pony
Running running running—
You pull me back into the auditorium
With a thought unheard in an unclean
Chalice I can't help but drink from
Water from my head filling the crevices that are
Hidden deep
Deeper
Deepest and—
Cue the [crash]! and [burn]!
(Ha! Get it! You’re burning in hell!)
That’s all this is, isn’t it?
A carefully scripted (comedy) tragedy by a (God) Devil.
I read the script again.
You’re drowning in the fire of your sins
"Condemned by the Father you once loved
Like an unfulfilled prayer
Gathering dust in hell."
I throw it in the fire.
Running running running.
Nov 23, 2021
Nov 23, 2021 at 1:39 PM UTC
Sonya in the moments free
of serving the customers
leaning on the serving bench
dark brown eyes
on you
her dark hair
pinned back
said she liked
Mahler’s 4th best
O so exciting
so full of the life
you preferred
the 5th or 2nd
but she said
no no too deep
too long
life is for living
not dozing
to long symphonies
she preferred Kierkegaard
to your Nietzsche
liked his leap of faith
his books on God
and such
you liked her mouth
small
like rose petals
stuck together
her ears visible
and so lickable
(if ever permitted
to do so)
that Nietzsche
she said
went mad
think it
was the pox
stuck his *****
in some whore's hole
she stopped to serve
a customer
all smiles
and politeness
that butter
wouldn't melt
in her mouth
kind of thing
you carried paint
up from the basement
and shelved it
in colour order
thinking of her
laying in some bed
Mahler's 4th
blaring out
she putting chocolates
one by one
into her small mouth
and licking
her fingers
afterwards
so sexily
one leg
slightly lifted
the other flat
and you imagined her
yakking off
about the Kiergegaard guy
her other hand
not stuffing chocolates
in her mouth
resting over
her ***** hairs
you read Dante?
she asked
having served
the customer
with a smile
and politeness
yes the Purgatory
you said
that is where men belong
she said
unless they take
the leap of faith
she leaned
on the serving bench
eyeing you deeply
what you thinking about?
she asked
how well you serve
the customers
you lied
thinking of her lips
pressing against yours
her tongue meeting yours
in her mouth
of her body
her hair
her eyes
that is why
I am here
to serve
she said
but she was serving you
differently
inside
your young man's head.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
Friday night used to be for writing.
Red wine, music and poetry
Is how I survived this era of
aloneness.
An era of destitution
that rediscovered the writer
inside
with a critical edition of
Leaves of Grass
and a leather bound journal
with pages too pretty to write
upon.
Some blogs lauded by perfect strangers
who found my erotica and loneliness
intriguing.
Kierkegaard says poets are unhappy
but
Mr. Whitman seems pretty **** happy
pushing his man-flesh into his lovers.
Sometimes I would use what little
grocery money I had on that
$10 bottle of wine.
It calmed me and felt like the mark
of a true artist
to be a Friday night alcoholic.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
4 door Electric skillet
flying low into a spiral
magical words created viral
splashing down inside the crowd
play that music so dam loud
swinging high in my backyard
singing words of Kierkegaard
dizziness of lives gone past
anxiety growing oh so fast
loving everyone on your shelf
but don't forget to love yourself
my mind expands I try to fill it
inside my 4 door electric skillet
Gomer Lepoet...
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
People of modern society are blind.
They've lost sight of what it means to recognize and accept basic human emotions.
They're frightened by feeling.
At the first sign of angst, depression, anxiety, discomfort, or anger they're convinced it can't be natural.
It must be some disease or disorder that is causing such pain.
No other answer, diagnose and treat at once.
Children, teenagers, young adults, the middle aged, and the elderly
all desperately seeking some sort of instantaneous solution
for themselves and their loved ones.
Those that they should hold dear pawned off on medications
from those commercials with smiling faces
that they wish to be their own.
While in the end the only smiling faces are those with full pockets.
We as humans must confront the fact that sometimes there is not a light at the end of the tunnel
and adapt, as our species so often has, to our individual and collective darkness.
For without that darkness we would never recognize the light.
Because once was a time when we sought to not mask our pain but to understand it.
( see: Neitzche, Kierkegaard, Sartre, Camus, etc.)
When experience and education actually provided freedom and enlightenment,
where the youth were given tools to understand themselves, their society, and their emotions,
to find themselves, to learn, and were encouraged to ask the important questions, to question at all.
To question it all.
Who am I?
What are we?
When did we get here?
Where did we come from?
Why are we here?
Open your eyes.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 3:08 AM UTC
.i said what? all i heard was the sound of a keyboard clicking: click click click... the breaking of bones in the fingers... the wind brushing the craniums of trees... a siren... a bottle being opened... a blank page being filled (a variant of a one man squash match being played out)... and... you're free to peer on this, but this is not speech... well... either your tongue or your eyes; since technically you didn't hear this, you saw it... so what? i don't care for the freedom to speak, but i am all for the freedom to think; and unless you're strapped to a chair, about to be tortured, and the torturer says: blink once for YES and twice for NO... well?
like Kierkegaard said:
people busy-body themselves
defending their "freedom" of speech,
and take little concerning
for the freedom to think,
-of speech
-to think...
it's like that grammar game:
to think is to do, something,
a freedom of?
doesn't tell me much...
that apple vendor at Romford market
is talking... let's listen...
two for one love!
quid a half kilo bag!
talking...
i much prefer giving
my hands to the devil,
than my tongue to god...
honest sailor, prior to a boy scout,
and his virginity, and honor...
it's so... invasive...
talk...
writing? that's not talking,
not unless...
'and i said this', see? quotation marks...
i really did say that out-loud simultaneously
within the confines of writing this...
and there's no "ambiguity" to go with it...
comments section: technically talking...
throwing words onto a blank piece of
paper, while having a stitched-up mouth?
well...
i guess what i am doing is
showing you my thought...
this... this is after all the P.E.A. meeting?
the phonetic-encoding "anonymous"?
yeah? great!
good thing i brought a bottle of
whiskey with me, to pass the time.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 9:07 PM UTC
Sonya posed
by the Eiffel Tower
I had my box
Brownie Cresta camera
I took a photo or two
trying to get her in focus
bring in the Tower
behind her
she smiled
and put her hands
on her hips
as dames do
her blonde hair
was bunched
behind her
in a ponytail
her face looked drawn
afterwards we went
for a coffee
at some bar
down by the Seine
and she sat there
with one leg
over the other
the foot dangling
I sat opposite
********* through
the French money
looking at the notes
you should read
Kierkegaard
she said
leave Nietzsche
to the Germans
I prefer Nietzsche
he's more realistic
I said
Kierkegaard
is more religious
and more positive
she said
the waiter came
and we ordered our coffees
and he went off
Kierkegaard
is Danish like me
she said
not so good looking though
I said
and he's been dead
sometime
she lit up a cigarette
and offered me one
I took and lit up
and inhaled
there's something
about Paris
I like
the atmosphere
the way these people
just live here
all this history
all the art
I said
as I exhaled smoke
cultural capital
of the world
she said
I listened
as she went on
about this artist
and that
and who did what
and when
as she spoke
the waiter returned
with our coffees
and went off again
I sipped mine
remembering her
coming out
of the bath
the night before
like some Venus
all stark and bare
shaking her head
letting loose
the water
from her long
blonde hair.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
in reality, Kierkegaard
was right, it is up to each
of us to look back and define ourselves
in the bright lights of reality,
were we cruel, self centered,
lost waylaid , we must take credit
no man made me think
or do or cuss or believe,
not a woman's fantastickness
beauty caused me a thing,
I chose, it was me,
who was weak or strong or cruel,
I had choices and all the clues
the answers though i may have refused to believe.
But essentially i am neither of those things,
not wise or cruel or brutally honest,
everyday I changed evolved stumbled saw ignored
struggled thrived.
Each sun was anew.
Another chance to right wrongs I ignored
too weak. too unwilling, too afraid.
Absurd how I tend to define
being here, now I have lived, the past just a dream.
described fully by my actions I rationalize away.
I did not choose parents situations, were I a
rich man I might view different the
actions as warranted.
The future is my only action possible.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 8:13 PM UTC
b. she’s in love with kierkegaard, i borrowed a quote by him
about poets...
i was going to end the poem with sarcasm...
the poem got deleted without being saved...
now to remember:
the missing diacritic in english of phoneticism
gives chaos to how english is punctuated:
bewildering that there are two types of quotation in english
rather than the polish / joycean irish
use of quote / dialogue,
in the latter instances we have the use of thye hyphen,
in the latter
the problem of what freedom of speech invokes:
how was it said if it wasn’t said?
“ “ “ “ “ “ “ “ at all?
the english language has moved away from the classical
sense of the ditto...
it has moved into the confusing territory aking to its excessive spelling:
- i said you could have said it better.
- you thought that prior though?
- i did indeed.
this is the polish / joycean example of how dialogues flow.
but in english there’s a disparity of the usage of the dialogue “brackets”
that are “ “ and ‘ ‘...
in philosophy the ditto brackets are ambiguity stressors...
the mis-understood words in servitude of specified usages...
but there’s no contentment in applying
such notation to stress ambiguity when the mathematical
symbol modelling is already apparent - approximately:
i.e. instead of noting the ambiguity of meaning of a word like
truth via “truth” is no better than the notation ~truth:
since the former only revels in the negation of the meaning of the word
truth... that there’s a meaning & and an ambiguity of using such a word...
rather than the mathematical observance that there is an approximate truth:
the one that’s experienced / the one that’s related to / the one that’s
neither as a mere historical interpretation.
i detest being tested by a diety in the platonic sense...
i know what i'm writing about...
i can remember it and explain it - but of course poetry's
verbiose and sometimes ivory extravagence is self-explanatory,
poets know what metaphors are...
poets know what imagery is... but i hardly expect
there's a need to itemise which words fit the terminology
of identification for an essay... there would be
not creative fluidity if that was the sole intention behind poetry.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
#the forming of substance 03
Stephan W
(fallen from grace)
~
*"I have just come back from a party
where I was the life and soul.
Witticisms flowed from my lips.
Everyone laughed and admired me—
but, I left,
yes.. that dash should be as long as the radii
of the earth's orbit ———
and wanted to shoot myself."*
~Soren Kierkegaard
~ ~
*It is not enough...
It is never enough--
we need too much
But, here on earth
we have to make it work
so we call good-enough, "good enough"
and with gratitude, we
learn to take in what it's available to us.
But the truth behind it all remains--
the fact that we need so much;
Where is one that is complete..
and if so, complete--
compared to what?
There is a perfection- cloud-hidden
within everything that is human
The spirit within the body that carries it--
b r e a t h e s out perfection's truth,
though- we may only experience it
in the moments between awake and asleep-
the human psyche is bent on survival--
and in a broken world, the thought of an
inherent perfection brings on too much--
our own condemnation even.
In our minds we fall too short of even the
concept of it.
Or do we?
The gravitational pull towards Muse
borderlines on that of addiction;
its stirrings touch what is primal in us--
once-inexpressible words, suddenly find expression;
And a Beethoven finds musical notes
that lead to a symphonic masterpiece.
"Words from Heaven" is not saying too much
concerning the poet, or lyricist.
"Music from Heaven" is easier to say,
when concerning a Mozart or Beethoven.
Or a Tchaikovsky.
Perfect reaching into the imperfect?
How about 'imperfect'- feeling, and then
expressing pieces of its own long-forgotten
perfection--
things experienced within the sphere-
made tangible again through the flesh,
simply in a moment of remembering..
and also that of a temporary forgetting--
of limitation.
The beauty of despair is in the heartbreak
of finding out that what is right in front of us
is never truly enough
or worse yet--
possibly even harmful to our own true needs.
What we need most is all and everything
that helps us remember--
That we came from perfection,
and were loved there first,
and now, within the imperfect-
are unable to be denied by the perfect that is
forever inherent in us--
It is completely unable to deny that
which is of its own.
If we were to never despair over what is in
front of us, we might never be compelled
to find the strength to remember-
flashes of the primal--
that of our own history, of perfection.
And if there ever were ever an evil,
or a Darkness-
it would be hell-bent on keeping us
from finding that very thing.
Sometimes.. just sometimes, death
looks just like love.*
#
Sep 27, 2020
Sep 27, 2020 at 8:29 PM UTC
She laid on top of him with their bare skin kissing
and whispered in his ear,
*"poetry is not only made of words
and all poems are not written down
poetry lives in our hearts
and dances on our breaths
it is all of Kubla Khan in the moment
before and after a kiss
it is the marriage of Blake's Heaven and Hell
and all his rural pens and pipes and Songs of Innocence
in a brief glimpse of eternity as felt in a single sigh
as our lovers have left our rooms and our hearts
it is in every word of fear and trembling
of Kierkegaard in a sigh of joy and grief
as our lives close chapter after chapter
it is in the bloom and the root of every flower
of Baudelaires fevered mind
as we lay and move breathless
in the hours of sin and decadence
it is there hiding under the skin
and the stars and gardens of a skirt
with pleasures waiting to be explored
by eager fingertips
it is there in the flesh growing hard
beneath a loosened belt waiting to feel
the heat and twist of a wet tongue and moist mouth
it is all the loneliness of the broken typewriter
without a ribbon and missing the metal head of the "v"
and the hard strikes of a mind gone mad
with too much to say and no way to say it
it is in the blood and the ***** and the bird
and the song only Bukowski could understand
in the way he understood things
it is there in the sounds of lust grinding and pounding
and plowing and slithering and sliding
our bodies into and over and under
and behind and before and above and below each other
it is there in the silence of dreams
of light and truth when we become more than
flesh and pleasure and delight and joy
where our souls collide and become one
with the thread and fabric and vibration of love
it is in these moments without ink and paper
and pages and books and unrecorded bliss
that we become words of fire
and poetry that lives and dies on our every breath
as we say more than just I Love You
without writing or saying a thing"*
and they kissed again and fell into dreams
and sleep and farther into love without saying
or thinking or needing another word
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 4:06 PM UTC