The oppression of language (two poems)





The following two poems explore the human need to express everything we experience and the impossibility of absolute correspondence between lived experience and our descriptions.  I wonder why we cannot contain the purity of experience in ourselves without exchanging it for the artificial-reality of words and symbols. Wouldn’t it be better to leave the flux to itself while we join in its silent (nonverbal) dance in an ahistorical frenzy? For what are our conversations but a miniature-history of the world and our lives? Must mankind be forever trapped in the webs of a descriptive situation? What’s the need to define place, time, mood, thoughts, hopes and expectations?



Is life too great for anyone to bear alone that we must reduce its intensity and infinity to the limited bounds and finiteness of language? 


If we cease to communicate (purge) life could we die from an overdose of life itself?






These are the dry leaves of the 21st century
Falling upon our feet that coil
A path as snakes on a dune of sand

These are the subway noises
Under the surface of our routine
Where are our shouts of ecstasy?

These are the ripples of passion
Unborn embrace of earthly bliss
We are one catastrophe away from paradise

These are the memoirs of all power-lines
Showering us with light of illusion
Approaching twilight for today’s relics 

These are the end-products of pleasure
Fascination with the wonders of plastic
And a what-for question left unanswered

 These are the dry days of the 21st century





 Fetch me nature’s product in a plastic bag
While this blue-eyed kid stares at me
As I dance to the melody of pure purposelessness 

 Talk to me about an Asian photograph
While this train takes me to your hometown
As I write lines of life’s ineffability

Promise me there is a higher plan
While I grow old with laughter
As I adjust my twisted underwear

Abandon me for taking the trivial for the profound
While the grass is still wet outside
As I swear life’s grandeur is best unexpressed



Melancholy towards the self-destructive tendency of all creation is perhaps the most common trait in the images of the poets. There is to be found both frustration and excitement in the disappearing of all things. We become disappointed with the passing away of the things we cherish but there is always the seduction of resurrection urging us to keep our tear-drowned eyes open to discover what novel creation comes forth from destruction. The transit of days is unavoidable yet it appears as if we encourage their dissolution by ignoring the small miracles that constitute the realm of human existence. The chest in which we store all our memories is sadly not buried in the depths of a recondite island where it can be dug up by some daring explorer. Even if it were possible to leave a map to our most intimate experiences with the record of words, the explorer will never rescue the living spring of our lives but only sterile fossils that portray nothing of the effusion of lived experience. He will find only scraps of descriptions and explanations signaling to things and events, never the chest itself with the treasure of life. The chest that contains life as we alone experience is coiled inside our brains and it will perish mercilessly with our own destruction.

We experience a secret we will never get to share.

What sort of material do we put inside this isolated chest? That’s a matter of personal decision. In history we find a hierarchy of values presented by the most clever thinkers and writers. Each pretend to have found the quintessence of life. They speak of knowledge, god, morality (virtue), and love principally as the sources of most profound joy. But how are these things of any value with the awareness of their ultimate death in us? For these things exist only through us: they are born and die in us.

It is then not surprising to see our age waning in the enthusiasm for an ultimate goal in human life. We seek small and individual goals in this disillusioned world. Nothing of ever-lasting duration is conceivable anymore; we paradoxically live for all the things that die. Neglecting the temptation to feel depressed by this fact our perseverance is not yet defeated; and we continue to make our tortuous journey through a reality of constant change.

In a civilization with no universal interpretation of what life is to be, the free-spirited explores the potential of existence with new experiments carried out each single day, unveiling tiny miracles never again to be experienced, as he recites in the hollow confines of his soul:

Insignificant and transient experiences,

Profoundly and joyfully—lived.