"rashness" poems - Hello Poetry

1432 Spurn the temerity— Rashness of Calvary— Gay were Gethsemane Knew we of Thee—

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1432 Spurn the temerity— Rashness of Calvary— Gay were Gethsemane Knew we of Thee—

After all, poetry is a savage calling. -Edel Garcellano Let poetry be an interstice. Say, an intervention to the gap of loneliness. Depressive. Let bitter medicines dissolve or, madness will make its ultimate call. Convulsive patterns of mental spasms. Schizophrenic impulse hitting the nerves. What is known to be rational flees. Enough to learn from the burning of its wings and Youth. Say, pulling a magic trick under the hat. You know you are being fooled but why enjoy such spectacle or, better enjoy than masking the truth. Say, a glimpse through an interstice—from Whitman’s poetry. An intervention to the rashness of day. An intercept to the chaos of the soul. A reminder that we are not assemblages forever desiring. A poetry fumbling to the course, enough to welcome the rain of sad realizations. “The task is heroic. Poetry is a minor matter” (E. Garcellano) – an intervention/interstice, the negotiator to the ultimate task of poetry. We are savage gods. We feed on the detritus of truth, those are, lies. Consider this poetry as an epitaph. To the disremembered victims of El Sidro. We dealt the cards of fate. We intervened to live. We pierced our stones to their hearts so cold. Darwin’s prophesy always reminds us that in every epoch there are some interventions we cannot avoid. After all, we are his favorite animal. We are gods feeding on loneliness. We are agnostic souls entangled in caves of shadows. Say, are we forever trapped in the compulsive dimensions of ourselves? In love, for example. To answer this question is the task of poetry. Let poetry be an interstice.

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Oct 1, 2016

Oct 1, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC

guido-orifice

Interstice

After all, poetry is a savage calling. -Edel Garcellano Let poetry be an interstice. Say, an intervention to the gap of loneliness. Depressive. Let bitter medicines dissolve or, madness will make its ultimate call. Convulsive patterns of mental spasms. Schizophrenic impulse hitting the nerves. What is known to be rational flees. Enough to learn from the burning of its wings and Youth. Say, pulling a magic trick under the hat. You know you are being fooled but why enjoy such spectacle or, better enjoy than masking the truth. Say, a glimpse through an interstice—from Whitman’s poetry. An intervention to the rashness of day. An intercept to the chaos of the soul. A reminder that we are not assemblages forever desiring. A poetry fumbling to the course, enough to welcome the rain of sad realizations. “The task is heroic. Poetry is a minor matter” (E. Garcellano) – an intervention/interstice, the negotiator to the ultimate task of poetry. We are savage gods. We feed on the detritus of truth, those are, lies. Consider this poetry as an epitaph. To the disremembered victims of El Sidro. We dealt the cards of fate. We intervened to live. We pierced our stones to their hearts so cold. Darwin’s prophesy always reminds us that in every epoch there are some interventions we cannot avoid. After all, we are his favorite animal. We are gods feeding on loneliness. We are agnostic souls entangled in caves of shadows. Say, are we forever trapped in the compulsive dimensions of ourselves? In love, for example. To answer this question is the task of poetry. Let poetry be an interstice.