- If love is not important enough a topic for important poetry, then I just don’t care.
Because if poetry can be that arrogant, then we’ve really lost the plot.
- No, I don’t write on love “for women” as someone suggested. Love is not a women’s problem.
And do we think that men don’t love? And did anyone ever posit that a man’s poems were “for men,” even in times one might argue they were?
SO FUCKING TRUE
Judgment originates in the self.
If the group comes first, the self has final say.
Judgment is less intelligent than fresh observation.
Judgment is dysfuntional tradition.
Judgment is pretention.
Judgment brings justice sometimes. But not peace.
Judgment brings injustice too.
Judgment is natural; it feels like survival.
Judgment feels relevant and righteous.
Side effects could bring a sickening feeling.
When encountering judgment, try to be patient.
Somehow, we already know everything.
In the wiser lessons of history, philosophy.
Science, poetry, psychology.
It’s strange but doubt yourself first, to be great.
Observe the thought first, to think.
Assumptions without inquiry proliferate quickly.
A false foundation that frees no truth.
To want confirmation, in reflection: caution.
Trouble brews in demands to be echoed.
It’s strange, but doubt convention.
It’s not always flattering.
We choose the opposing action.
Truth beyond self, beyond judgment is too tiring.
Hard-won ideologies hardened our hearts.
Experience offers a speck of “understanding.”
But experience too is misleading.
A wise idea says, do not reject the self, to please.
But perhaps the wiser: remember
Self is not so distant
Others have judged you too.
Others judge you.
You are no better than a half-baked idea.
Let us not forget. Go now
Beyond self, beyond power of one, to relate.
Look back perhaps to tradition, on this point.
Beware passive consumption of a person.
Relationship is not an expectation.
Or even a passion. That’s all yours.
Passion is all yours.
Something that’s truly original must have something unplanned about it. Something that couldn’t have been predicted. Something that couldn’t have been controlled. Something that couldn’t even have been wholly imagined from the start, since that’s what originality is — something heretofore unimaginable. These are the qualities that make it unusual, that make it special. And fascinating, and difficult to place.
They are also the same qualities by which the original resists being owned. As a creation the original comes as an inadvertent and incalculable gift, not merely as a product of effort or ego. The truly original is beyond “practice,” because practice does not require openness, nor does it require surrender.
To allow the original to happen is to take a step back. To fade previously held notions and ideas into the background, to make space. To forget the ego, the control just enough to allow some other voice or vision to speak clearly, without noise.
You can not have originality, can not nurture originality, can not embody it in any part, can not hope for it, can not strive for it, can not hold it, can not truly value it, can not prize it, yet also expect to hang on to old ideas for dear life.
Interrupted or intercepted, its quality becomes disorganized and eventually lost in confusion. But fear will simply neutralize the offering.
This is why the original is available to anyone, but few accept what they would take instead of a blessing, for a curse. Or at least a liability, not worth the risk.
We could be more brave.
Let me whisper. Let me bring these words to you, let them turn yellow then purple like light diffusing through polluted air. In a sound of voice I long to hear and embrace floats near me. Connect these words in us through this space, not by chains of past offenses identity crises and grievances. Let them feel comforting and welcomed, not as wounds, feel like birds at dawn singing through cold air or a bell tower carillon drop notes over chaotic streets on the way home from work in the evening. Let these words mean nothing, let them be nothing, let them exist for no indisputable purpose or explicit reason, yet not be treated as meaningless. Let them not be crowded out with opinions, nor create such crowds. What makes such opinions more meaningful?
What if I have no history anymore. What if I claim nothing. These words have tongue in them, lips, lungs, I want for them to not be pushed to sting. Let me kiss with them. Let me exist with you as if there were nobody else before us, and nobody to jump down our throats after. I have slept with these words when hungry, when lonely, now let these words take company. Let these words be a place to land, not just a springboard to and from troubles, not as an opiate either but a place to be fearlessly awake together. Let these words be a world that’s not too smart for romance. Enough views crowd us one after another, it’s blinding. If we come from nowhere beyond this moment, if only by sound we could touch these screens delicate as paper, what if.
Your voice alone is wonderful to me. Carillon notes blending and separating over rivers inside sending little messages barely heard, grow more resonant. I long to hear beauty instead of these arguments. Then these words will not chase you down, will not hunt you. For truly I long for you and for no opinion. I long to hear words exist less for the purpose of proofs, divisions, violence, information. Thus let their intelligence here stake no claim. Let these words be unimportant yet significant. Be available and abundant. Let them be valuable.