From time to time a poem

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22 Mar 2019 04:23 #336086 by OB1Shinobi
Replied by OB1Shinobi on topic From time to time a poem
Found this, recently. Thought it was a good fit...

The More Loving One

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

Beware of unearned wisdom.
-Carl Jung
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30 Apr 2019 23:06 - 30 Apr 2019 23:15 #337891 by Alexandre Orion
Crusade


*... yet climbing back out just right before settling down under an influence breathed out of a shaded sundial toward a supernova ; seeing red isn't always Rage – sometimes it's acceleration, getting away with the goods, brought into bright daylight, shadows of tomorrow stretch out like palms open to receive an offered embrace ; Told Time get retold right side up above the thunderheads and all the rain falling through the cracks in crowds of those hoping to get into a club so private that no soul is there, where a least one was … once ; One finds betimes that Books can talk too much, Telling much more time than Tale, thrilling hearts and filling other organs, choir and all, arias echo from archways covering Chaos and Cosmos tipping to and fro' : they sleep together from afar, apart-ness of open interpretation and to which most culures bear witness for the prosecution whilst the jury falls asleep during the testimony, judging by the cover of a more discreet Book, dog-earred and dirty, dry as bone but dripping with desires Upheld toward the full moon, Tides rise 'round Them dancing deliriously as laughter and lamentation spice an early supper sunset a month from summer's Solstice clinging like star clusters clump around a well of gravity ; Historians will love tomorrow's headlines and how muddled most be about sense so common It escapes all evidence, like wishes, needing a truth value within which to nourish their roots, as also trees have bases greater than their crowns, telling Tales and Time as well as truths ; Solstices dwindle to Exquinoxes, blowing Autumn and Spring around a year Time told the tragic tale of too many Times … Taken in tortured out of the last life's landscape, Princes find favours foolish until performing them, errant Knights forget to for-go the Hero, Heroes forget they were fools – the Magician is merely poet, the Storyteller who tells Time the tale Time can't tell … Should all events be equal, one may find it farce : for Order tends toward Absurdity, honing habit to fashion Dreams distorts more broad fields of possiblity, Unequal events fossilise Dreams, cutting the roots off Wishes, narrowing the horizon of Hope ; Dreams and passion arise out of the Fertility beneath Thought : What we want is justified – a flimsy film of superficial Rationality, explaining away the countours and flattening more robust relief ; 'Tis this shame which Sharpens Pride, using the wisdom crafted in manufactured Dream of foolhardy Cause … The Ends reached by Means mis-used by dreamers' un-thought desires defines the identity of Want, not Dream – Stories remain untold When the time to tell them is counted through utility wrought by the rashest Rationality, aiming for Order but arriving on Time at un-welcoming Absurdity ; Historians know more than headlines, they recognise Heart-lines as well, for only Consequences reveal Reality : much of which is Suffering – which Dreams serve to Reconcile ; Real is consequential, really meaning as much as Meaning may, to Face Totality, amusing and melancholy in ever exchanging measures ; a Knightly cup of tea steaming before a battle front, or a swamp of serpents somewhere between One and Zero with more than mere Meaning beating out a heart-ful of dismissed Dreams, day-drempt and drowned-out, sleeping with book-worms and What-Ifs … He is Real – sparklingly consequential – in Love and at War – the two truest absurdities Wanted and Wished for accordingly ; speaking with very modest Meaning penetrates a discerning, partial pose fashioned in the Image illustrated by a plethora of Representations of almost desires and dreams barely laid bare before unconscious of pleasant Presentness ; Too many Solstices collide in Equinoxes of future-former calendars, So many Spiringtimes between New and newer Years, all easily seen from Orbit, beholding the beauty of sunset sixteen times each Day … Nightmares graze in perpetual pasture, fed full of Habits and eager to gallop the way to the Extraordinary historically residing at the Rainbow's End, transport (it turns out) is by slow caravane, stopping to trade treasures There, where is only another Here, and all Needs are Alike … Presentations through repeated Re-presentation, untold, retold, re-untold, un-retold Time chatter of hermaneutic paragraphs with missing punctuation, making Meaning more muddled through untold Time retold, each incomplete cycle more unfinished than the former, demoltition precedes construction and evolution precedes its genesis ; Means become the Ends toward which Meaning tends where virtual Virtue is venerated more than valued ; humanity's heritage excedes its History, He is only understanding slowly the being “human” is making meaningful Meaning with Another ; Not just any other – only an Other who make more than Meaning for Meaning's sake, but makes the mundane Meaningfully bearable, bound to find fulfilment in Realising consequential Dream, Sharing the labour and the price of it all … Times tell these terrible tales unbound from Books in languages dividing into Cultures : generations sown, grown and harvested by mid-Autumn moonlight ; these languages follow phases, reclimbing up the downspiraling cycle of backward facing Seasons, when Time is up-told, up-turned, up-ended, or just merely Up … Thoughts bloom up like mushroom clouds as silent as microscopic circuses performed under a canopy of Cherry Blossoms ; when heroes remain warriors, Love is only another suspicious strategy, rarely a remnant of Sentiment, others are Objects and Objectives, prodigal poets tell half-truths timed to the march of Tyranny, detoured from the crown of the Pambasiliea around what Virtue he would otherwise retain from the boon of erstwhile Ordeal – blown thither like white petals … Narcissus drowned in his Objectivity, suchlike blood is for the vampire but an ersatz of lost Life, grasping always for a perfection but clutching only the muck of some Meant deprived of Meaning ; years pass, almost unnoticed – there are seasons, new and full of day-dreams and night-lights, peaks of ambition from which fall the Soul into the Self ...*
~ Alexandre Orion
avril 2019

"Chaque homme a des devoirs envers l'homme en tant qu'homme."
~ Henri Bergson
Last edit: 30 Apr 2019 23:15 by Alexandre Orion.
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21 May 2019 05:24 - 21 May 2019 05:34 #338641 by Alexandre Orion
Incivil War

* … off on another adventure home to where home becomes because healing happens here, where there are no Lies, not even the Truth ; Dreamers can delight in improbable events just as Gamblers do and those who Fly by night to sleep and Dream away to elsewheres bound to rebound in bindings of respect for the spectre disrespected as a Living Being, conscience clings to the cognition, trying to wish it away, knowing not how to wish – Thinking of somewhere else amplifies the away wished Will were it not for distractions drowning out the dying Dream at least as late as sunrise on every third Day, dedicated and devoted to well-ness even when told Truths tear tears from the Told ; Time cures neither the Conscience nor the Heart as it can other ills, those wounds remaining open, oozing a nectar so sweet it's in for pennies and pounds down its pleasures with Gold, Red and Blue at each sideways glance betraying Truth-telling in a Land without Lies ; It's hard to want what one well knows would harm, Even temptation tastes briefly flavourful, 'til one feels Free enough to asphyxiate in It, frozen, despite all the Warmth one hasn't learnt to want yet ; It is only observation, 'Being There' patiently, pining for what is worth waiting on, over and against rainbows however oddly seen from Orbit, like looking up toward what is beneath, reflections of Envy and Langour spellbind in patterns of blue and white geometry resting on sunset years ago … Confidence, Trust, Respect need tending even in Elsewhere, possibilities of Improbable events arrive with Inspiration, Hearts beat homebound to hold the hand which never was withheld in any of the awkward instances ; So many unknowns are active, unremembered out of Dream, except for a lingering feeling, either Force or Forelornness, felt viscerally Satisfied or famished Soul's hunger … Values can be virtuous until depleted or exceded, making Others into either Means or Martyrs, one being as deadly as the other for the Other whose wholeness is stripped off in a wild goose chase with geese doing the chasing ; Foxes taking tea with Hounds, waiting out the Ordeal cunningly ; Virtuous values motivat Man more than they do geese, foxes or hounds, only a little more cunning but manifestly more rash, rushing into where Angels fear not to tread, but where they do not bother to go … Man has ceased to be merely a Wolf to fellow Man, but more a virtueless virtuoso, playing fellows like flûtes and poorly sturng lutes living instrumental measure silently and desperately ; Sitting quietly at a lakeside, Contemplaiting the windblown ripples and geese making splashing landings whilst foxes sleep and Dream in nice, dry dens, hounds hop hopefully after butterflies ; So, for a meagre while, Love fortifies the firm foundations of improbable events, untold Truths in the Land with no Lies – lover's quarrels and Love making come from the same source, canalised by the Foundation's features, fertilised with moments of Beauty, so soon forgotten ; Minds try too much to matter most – knowing not how to wish, they plan : improbablity gets Understood as mental landscapes fill with Lies, including Truths … Time gets told backwards, from the consequences towards their causes, crafted to conform to and confirm the Plans ; justifications of non-rational motives made Irrationals by meaning them Mindfully … Season change between Other and Object, between artisanery made only methodically ; Art inspired to expression and expired from exasperation : playing the flute or lute without Love is but technicity, skillful perhaps, yet bereft sorrowfully of Spirit ; identities in uniform, Two dimensional profiles mimick maturity, models determine modes of Meeting ; Exitential events are unique, precious phenomena, carrying upon them Reality and all improbably possibilites prone to create ! Cosmogony begins with Wonder ; Creation occurs upon Awakening from Dream every First Day … Worlds are always new, Possiblity ending only at Totality ; Faces read like old hyroglyphs and amplified by ten thousand generations to hurricane-force event horizons spinning 'round Self-Centres from which many Others are thrown out-of as come again therein … just less dense every more or less Time it turns upwound downwind of smouldering campfire pits at dawn on each morning-after and second-hand homelands' home-comings where Home once was ; Worlds do not differ much, not even by their geographies, All existential events, full Faced and open to accept Grace were it only so accessible, willingness to step into it commands an uncertain risk factor not easily estimated via calculation, no matter how precise ; Full-Face, dangerous in unfamiliar landscapes like home, where the night sky is full of constellations gone all wrong … Dwarves sleeping deeply underground disturb no Worms while they rest, nestled in bedrock Aeons old, from when worlds were melting into Being, pearls under pillows feel like stars nesting in a nebula ; Fusion forged in a sliver of Forever … But dreaming dwarves dream not of mines and quarries, they sort out senses and sensitivities just as does everyone else in the Land without Lies, Truth has no value, Nothing untrue can come about-Face value of Ordinary Utopia ; Thought lives in undecorated of front-lines constantly shelled with explosive Irony, Mind and Meaning are obliged to meet outside of Consciousness – in neutral territory – without the insurrection of Reality ; Truth and Reality are not allies : one Lies cunningly to the Other toward means to undetermined yet eager ends, Attention is paid with Interest and heavily Taxed ; one is encouraged to build castles in the clouds and then are flung from their highest towers by the same Absurdity that dared them to Desire ; Shocked into briefly into an awakened State – the Ordinary World – it's painfully clear that should one have Choice, it is prone to ill-advice from ill-advisors (taking into account that Error is not a deliberate Lie), one sets … *
~ Alexandre Orion
mai 2019

"Chaque homme a des devoirs envers l'homme en tant qu'homme."
~ Henri Bergson
Last edit: 21 May 2019 05:34 by Alexandre Orion.
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