the art of definition

the art of definition

There is no method for definition: to learn how to define. Definition is a consequence of imitation, its foundation so deeply grounded in our perceptual models of reality that any reform would only be an aberration of the original fortuity. We learnt to use a system of language through imitation and even the precision of mathematics remains illusory as a result of being an imposed code of rules embedded in the ambiguous amalgam of imitative language.

I would live,
dedicate my entire life
to defining a single word
properly – justly. 
That word would be:
	melancholy
I do have other candidates,
perhaps I would define another
still stranger word: mysterious.

What is mysterious?

That which cannot be grasped intellectually.
That which is still unknown, unexplained,
perhaps the truly mysterious is
that which can never be explained by thought,
that which is intrinsically unknowable. 

Here I am defining a word with other words. 
But I would not stop there. 
I would access zones of intuition,
a series of instruments predating language,
like an amulet that contains an entire cosmology
or a monolith that served as genesis to historical memory.
I would anchor my word to other unreliable words,
vague words that by their very nature would
serve as examples of the intangibility 
of my definition for mysterious.  

I would, for example, make mysterious 
synonymous with Life, Happiness, Nirvana, etc 

ect.

Contemporary Poetry

more heavens

Heaving above me

It dreams, sounds, quivers like a barrage

drenched in nostalgia these figuratively unknown

release the hungry words to pillage the earth out of its meaning

left with the questions that have already been answered by

above-the-clouds, silences-drawn-by-the-desert, light-colliding-water;

a definition that can be caressed and departed from

words that came so close to smelling of life

puny insignificancies that were almost a secret under the skin

my hand, these verbs and the kill

pogroms and a consequent silence

I surrender

due to bluest aim

as a truth that defeats

a heaven in me

 

 

for lack of definition

Journey in the streets

I have enough fall
to crack open
my soul
the yolk of essence
oozing through my
ribs

I keep evaporating
but the clouds
won’t integrate my
formless mass

my thoughts taste
of cinnamon and world war
and yet they failed
at school

it’s time to saw off
my hands
and let poetry
be made
with
unlicked          journey.

 

 

 

contemporary poetry

Children of nowhere

Those rotten truths and the atrophy of written words

life is outside the inferno of cadaverous literature

the ever-increasing waste of past thoughts

attempting impossible resurrections

                            free the world from fossilization

allow it to burn and dismiss its ashes

our best experiences are never contained

            they roam beyond the frontiers of definition

close those covers of inky nothingness

            step into the bare unadulterated flux

                             mend with the unknown

Flee from cages of routine and metropolitan nonsense

recognize the hollow of every day

            reject the veil of prospects and careers:

                              usurpers of wonder and transformation

children of nowhere

            creators of ambiguity

exorcise the daemons of logic

                             celebrate your insanity!

 

 

 

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