thirst

windows to soul

Sed is Spanish for thirst. Cyrano de Bergerac sat one day to write his tragedy, La Mort d’ Agrippine, for reasons no one will ever know or understand. He wrote, perhaps before midnight:

Ces beaux riens qu’on adore et sans savoir pourquoi….

Beautiful nothings that we adore without knowing why. He was referring to the gods. So there is thirst for absolutes, some people sense it and yet die athirst. For centuries mankind has looked for this totality through a window they’ve called the soul, which is rather unfortunate that today it has been reduced to myth. Not because the soul is an actuality, but because we need the image of the cosmic window. Alma is soul in Spanish. But I don’t want to say, tengo sed de alma (I am thirsty of soul). It is peculiar that in Spanish “to be thirsty” is expressed literally “to have thirst”, as if thirst were a possession, an accretion to one’s being. For this reason I prefer to express myself in a double language: I am sed of soul. That is to say that I AM the thirst of soul, I am the empty dark room desirous of an aperture, of the link between my personal darkness and total illumination; I am the emptiness craving a flood of light that will inundate the cavity of my cavernous being.

In the same play, Cyrano wrote:

Une heure après la mort, notre âme évanouie sera ce qu’elle était une heure avant la vie.

One hour after death our vanished soul will be that which it was an hour before life.

That is to say, the window will soon be shattered.

So quick, let’s raise the curtains of alma.

Contemporary Poetry

on hollowness

What I employ
is not language
but the vivid shade
of movement and instinct
I have to be asleep
murmuring like a wide surface
of sea froth
twilight before the birth of pain;
my eyes expiring like new moons
in the obscure tingling of selfhood
only then
in that reflection
the hairs of the galaxies
sway like dark music,
the pupils expand
in one big womb of memory;
I remember
the place where the soul
used to be.

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

mystic flowers

Mystic flower poetry

I let go of the beard
and eyelids of God.
It will rain, the eyes of the earth
will go blind, white breathless turmoil.
A boy with books and grand prophesies,
composing the sadness of the final silence.
An epoch to remember what I wanted.
The river of visions carries skin and mirror,
a noise of nowhere and nobody’s scent.
What beastly ache to be a fleeting universe
with no country except the island of thought.
I have no beard and the nausea of mountains;
I have in my mouth the salty meat of the soul.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

sketches of quintessential

Death poetry

if
some
fundamental
level
of reality

the blurry steps
of the passage of time
limbs moving, solitary breath
dying streams of flesh

darkness with short
explosions of light

everything is metamorphosis
formlessly attached
to the mind

the visible is unexplored
nobody sees the becoming

was
the world
collapsing
into my soul?

the greatest adventure

to have all the
planets in view

to be a leaf

and die like a
son

Nihilistic Poetry

old reverberations

Sunrise Airplane

my task is very
          simple

observation
untroubled

the battle for
      satisfaction
is over

I’m resting my head on phenomena
like on the exposed
breast of my lover

open eyes
breathing

allowing the world
to play with itself

I move cloudlike
I think rocklike

keeping record of things
for this lost history of the soul

 

Modern Poetry

barely here

Barely Here Poetry

Most of the time
I cannot write
of what I see
        or think
I feel but I do not seek
subjectively I am indeterminism
within a fatalistic mechanism of the soul
I observe, even participate
in the sacrificed logic
shedding
pale metaphysical tears
because the longer I live
so much more has gathered
about the edge

as more days go by
I begin to recognize
the happy truth
that I was
barely
here at all

Nihilistic Poetry

playthings

oh in what manner
I touch
these playthings of the
soul
sculpting in torn blindness
the mode of the self
eliciting shapes
like a damp cloud
over the empire of uncertainty
am i this wisp
of creation
twisting and turning
emerging
painfully philosophically inadvertently
from the wreckage
of my
sadness?