The Gap

 

I couldn’t lie

 or distort the truth

when I tell you that seven seagulls

–   not six or eight – I counted,

    took flight in the direction of the moon

and that the water was slightly offering an insult

  with its restlessness and simple undulations

I suddenly felt as at the bottom of a gap

    a precipice that links two different lands

behind me everything that is

  before me everything that could be

I was inside the great hole that separates the two

  and it didn’t seem fair to build a bridge

sauntering from fact to possibility;

      to cross this gap

I felt

  requires the courage of a climb –

to create a new fact

     demands a start from the lowest point

to climb up again in rags

    to emerge from the deep

after the torture of darkness has engaged with us…

only then can the gap be closed!

 

 

 

Tinges of blue

 

 

I left the office shy of two o’clock

gaining inside a shudder that could reach

just beyond the boundary of solitude.

              I raised this old neck of mine

                           the sky was me.

Belonging to dreams we no longer dare to glimpse

               futures too powerful too bear

fears that out of plain habit

covered me like husks of wisdom.

So eternally blue – with the intensity of an S

similar to the smell of dawn, depths of now

                                      bright as selflessness

        blue as sky.

A kind of rejoicing, a mystic’s forgotten book

                                       and the glory of erased words!

TO return, live a thousand sleeps

                       one more lonely death

varying degrees of godless hours

                                  those dissipated moments

hungry of freedom, so easily obscured.

               Bury me in lands of mute plants.

Blind pasts, unimportant futures.

                 The sky was me, I turned

I had gone away… hands overflowing possibility.

Go back to Beyond Language

The Mold of Reality

THIS IS HOW I SEE IT…

Artists, poets, musicians, philosophers, scientists – in short, anybody who creates becomes a sculptor of human reality. They all exhibit aspects of human life that are present – or possible. One life is not enough to survey all the possibilities that can be brought upon the living experience; we must share with each other the Spectrum of the Possible, because we need more than two eyes to visualize the totality of human existence.

 

In a world where most men and women are concerned primarily with “making a living”, that is, having enough money to buy stuff and have sufficient comforts for raising a family; in this world the prospects of poetry, pure science, art, philosophy become irrelevant, if not insignificant, at least, secondary.

 

But my view is contrary to this widespread carelessness. I conceive life as this:

 

We are a crowd of gazing eyes all found in the depth of a lush valley. Most eyes are focusing on the ground, ensuring that each step is safe, reasonable (and profitable!). But amongst this majority of conformists there are a few visionaries that focus on more than just the flatness of the ground. These few are studying the trees around, gazing at the stars, describing the colors of insects, monitoring the motion of the wind, and endless observations take place that are ignored by the mass of robotic somnambulists. All these irrelevant and beautiful things the minority gazes at are equally real as the beaten path most walk upon.

 

To end this metaphor I kill everyone and then ask the reader to capture what human life would have been without these few wanderers:

it would only be a muddy track of monotony.

 

 

 

No complex forms of nature (trees), no immensity of space (stars), no microscopic detail (color of insects), no invisible mystery (motion of the wind), etc.

ONLY A
MUDDY PATH…

This is the importance of the poet of human existence, of the artist of human potential, of the musician of the human imagination, of the genius of human exploration. They give depth to human life, they bestow on reality a wider dimension.

 

Some come upon this rotating planet to fill the mold,

                                                                Few others come here to fashion this mold.