Heart of Darkness

[Erthona]

i

Like the stressed metal in a fine Japanese sword,
my guts feels hammered and folded
the requisite two hundred times.
After each series of metallic lashes,
I am lifted off this anvil of retching nausea
and exposed to the chill of the world,
nerve naked, shivering uncontrollably.
At the center of my being a concentrated
cancerous mass of fear coalesces:
an emotional black hole, cork screwing, tightening
inexorably downward toward greater darkness.
For reasons unknown to my impotent conscious mind
I am unable to stop committing Hara-Kiri of the psyche,
my will is no longer under my control.
Using this sword, honed on the whet-stone of my despair,
I slowly saw through my tough sinew covered innards:
bisecting my increasingly enervated psyche.
I feel the need to disgorge whatever is coiled there
but not even this simple act of relief is allowed.
In a battle royal, helplessness, hopelessness,
and loneliness, fight to see who will rule my emotions
for the next micro-second ticking off this
everlastingly slow clock of eternal torture.

ii

“If this is Hell,” I think,
“ I will sign up with whichever
religion can keep me out of it.”
“That,” I think, “is a small price to pay.”
As the Christ did on the cross I cry out.
Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?
I am no Christ, but my answer is the same:
only the echoing silence of no-reply!
God, if there ever was one has abandoned me
to the consequences of my selfish behavior.

iii

Milton was a fool: rule over this?
It takes all of ones mental strength,
to even begin to separate Hell from the self.
What is this talk about a devil . . . Satan,
the ruler of Hell, the great torturer?
It is doubtful in the extreme that he
could torment me more than I do!
He might enjoy my misfortune,
but cause it?
I have only myself to blame.
Through my own acts of sin,
I have willingly removed myself
from the presence of God.
Yet… I retain the faintest hope.
Yes, I see it now. Satan and I
are the same in this respect.
God allows us the smallest hope,
for in existence is always that seed.
That seed of hope that urges us to continue to struggle.
It is why Satan continued to fight
although he had no hope of winning.
As long as he had existence, he had hope.
With each breathe…even as each breathe
sends searing bullets of pain strafing
through my torso, cooking the torn meat
it penetrates, despite this pain,
in fact because of this pain,
I know, I am aware. I exist!
Must there still not be the spark of life within?
Can I build that tiny oscillating glow,
into a bon-fire to conquer this darkness of the soul?
If the good on earth be the slightest reflection of heaven
then this must be only the slightest shadow of Hell,
for I know I am not yet fully in hell.
Milton then was twice the fool.
No Being of any awareness would choose
even this mild reflection of Hell
above the faintest echo of Heaven.
Only owing to the fact that we are never without
the presence of God could one believe such an inanity.

iv

Comparing the meanest, the lowliest drudge in heaven,
to the highest prince in hell, is to liken the brightest star
to a spent piece of pitch-bleached coal.
No, if there is a Satan,
then he is not the sly deceiver,
the trickster, the haughty
or proud prince of demons,
but the greatest of all buffoons.
If you wish to scare me, do not trot out
this worthless gomeral goat.
If you wish to convince me
of the rightness of your dogma
come instead to where I am at this instance:
feel what I feel, see what I see,
experience this that I experience.
The paradox of Hell: to be only for one second,
completely separated from God,
any person would commit
the worst sin to come back into his presence.

v

Hot molten lead of despair pours
into the mold of Hell that is my gut.
I stare into the mirror of my soul,
a skull of deepest horror looks back.
Without a friend, or even an enemy
to hold my hand, or offer the barest idea of comfort.
It would be worth the most terrible torture on earth
just to have the presence of another here with me:
but each world of Hell is individually tailored,
this rite of passage has berth for only one.
In the end, that is what makes it Hell.
Not just separation from God,
but the separation from any other.

vi

Tell me then, you the answers.
What will you do when all prayers fail,
falling still-born to the ground?
Can you find communion when
all of your rituals ring hollow,
and are exposed as pointless façades?
Can you find meaning when all
the words of scripture blur,
and are rejected as tainted and impure profanities?
Tell me then poor wretch, self-deceiving fool,
wastrel of time:
when no question is asked,
tell me you have the answer.
When you feel only despair,
tell me your faith is strong.
When the smallest sound,
sight, or utterance of scripture
makes you heave as though the lining
of your stomach is anathemic poison:
When everything that you have ever believed
is reveled to be shallow and hollow,
and you find yourself reveled as
the most empty and superficial all:
tell me then of your belief!
When the smallest sign of life within yourself
is pain more encompassing and dejecting
than you could ever before have comprehended,
and the only thing you can think to do is to ask why?
Why this pain? What must I do to make it stop?
And the only answer is laughter,
laughter at your confusion,
laughter at your pain.
and they will laugh at the agony
that crushes your soul,
as they bring forth the ones you love most,
and work all manner of evil upon them,
while you stand impotent and helpless.
Tell me then of your acceptance.
When you have stood where I stand,
endured what I endure,
when you have looked into
the eyes of Satan and know him,
in your deepest shame, to be yourself!
When you have done these things,
then will I listen to your proselytizing.
Until then, be silent!
You have not earned the right
to inflict upon me your childish syllogisms,
and you fairy tale religion.
You are so self-deluded you can no longer
distinguish what is false from what is true.
I would rather converse with the great deceiver,
that such an insipid fool as you,
even from him I more chance of the truth.
The great deception is he has no need to deceive.

vii
Mistake this not my friend, and be assured,
you are my friend; I beg your forgiveness,
for I speak through my pain,
and this pain has ripped from me all gentle sensibilities.
Although I know I speak the truth,
I know I speak the truth raw.
Truth devoid of equivocations,
without regard for the inherent foibles of human beings.
It would be my wish to speak
with more care and subtly
as has been my wont in times past.
I am sorry, for I am without
those oratory balms which I once possed.

You are my friend, I would that I be yours,
but know this for the truth, for in hell
all lies are stripped away.
If you want truth, come to hell,
it is poured out by the bucketfuls,
a sharp stinging brew of the most potent acid:
it never ceases to burn.
What did you believe they
punished one with, lies?
No my friend, for self-deceivers such as we,
there is no more hurtful punishment than the truth.
So truth you may believe I speak,
for they will allow me nothing less,
for anything less would ease my pain.
So even were you my worst enemy,
I would do no less than give you the truth.

Here in the solitude of hell,
the lowest, ugliest, meanest human on earth,
who could break this Godless solitude
with his presence,
would be the greatest lover
anyone here could know.
For yet while he lives,
any human carries with him
some part of God, and though
hidden on earth, it would burst forth
like a supernova here in the blackness of Hell.
But I wonder off, and I still have that which
I am compelled to tell you,
even though you will hate me
and cast aside my words,
I have been tasked with this message.


So my friend, while I am yet able,
I will tell you this which you have need to hear.

--time is fleeing from you–
can you feel it sliding away?
Do you feel the anticipation?
Anticipating…what? Death?
Worse…much worse.
Rest assured the day is coming,
it is a day already known,
and it is coming nearer each clock tick,
with each pleasure spent,
each race won,
each meal eaten,
each joy overlooked,
every pain rejected.
Each pulse of blood through
the miles of your veins
brings the shadow of eternal night closer.
There will come a time
when the ticking clock stops.
-For You,
as it is now for me.
Then you will find no act pleasurable:
all sights will be ugly and grotesque:
all you taste will be bitter.
You will taste only the
ashes of the dead upon your tongue.
No matter where you seek, no joy will you find.
Every pain that has ever been,
shall return upon a thrice barbed arrow.

That day has yet to come,
you are still safe,
you yet have time,
but know this, let there be no doubt,
that day comes…
-for you,
-come it does, and come it will.

On that day, you will look around, astonished.
Everything will appear the same,
but it will not be the same.
It is then that you will begin to realize that Hell
is not some place…
out there.

©2012 –Erthona

[Philatone]

hello dale
i'm jealous of poetry that can sustain itself for a while; I have a hard time doing the same thing when I write and usually end up with short pieces

i hope some of what i say can be of use

i

Like the stressed metal in a fine Japanese sword, ...I like the /s/ sounds, and the /e/s as well
my guts feels hammered and folded
the requisite two hundred times. ..."requisite" felt a little extra to me
After each series of metallic lashes,
I am lifted off this anvil of retching nausea
and exposed to the chill of the world, ...I wanted more of a contrast between the "chill" and heat of swordmaking
nerve naked, shivering uncontrollably. ...in some ways, the line above captures this
At the center of my being a concentrated ..."concentrated" and "cancerous mass" feel redundant to me
cancerous mass of fear coalesces:
an emotional black hole, cork screwing, tightening ...I would have been ok with just "black hole", "emotional" didn't add much for me
inexorably downward toward greater darkness....these three lines have been rather abstract; grounding them in something more tangible could be helpful
For reasons unknown to my impotent conscious mind ...again, "for reasons unknown" would have been enough for me
I am unable to stop committing Hara-Kiri of the psyche,
my will is no longer under my control. ...ok; something like "my will is no longer mine" could be a little more striking I think
Using this sword, honed on the whet-stone of my despair, ...now this "whet-stone of my despair" felt a little too romantic for me
I slowly saw through my tough sinew covered innards:
bisecting my increasingly enervated psyche.
I feel the need to disgorge whatever is coiled there
but not even this simple act of relief is allowed.
In a battle royal, helplessness, hopelessness,
and loneliness, fight to see who will rule my emotions
for the next micro-second ticking off this
everlastingly slow clock of eternal torture.

... I liked the beginning because it gave me something to imagine and connect with, what with the image of the sword. as the poem gets more personal and individual, I lose touch personally

ii

“If this is Hell,” I think,
“ I will sign up with whichever
religion can keep me out of it.”
“That,” I think, “is a small price to pay.”
As the Christ did on the cross I cry out.
Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?
I am no Christ, but my answer is the same:
only the echoing silence of no-reply!
God, if there ever was one has abandoned me
to the consequences of my selfish behavior.
...the quotations were interesting. I don't think you need them, especially when you drop them in the second half of the stanza! I would either drop all of them or add more, but I'm in favor of the former

iii

Milton was a fool: rule over this?
It takes all of ones mental strength,
to even begin to separate Hell from the self.
What is this talk about a devil . . . Satan,...why the ellipsis? if you can explain it to me, ok, but I don't get much from it
the ruler of Hell, the great torturer?
It is doubtful in the extreme that he
could torment me more than I do!
He might enjoy my misfortune,
but cause it?
I have only myself to blame.
Through my own acts of sin,
I have willingly removed myself
from the presence of God.
Yet… I retain the faintest hope.
Yes, I see it now. Satan and I
are the same in this respect.
God allows us the smallest hope,
for in existence is always that seed.
That seed of hope that urges us to continue to struggle.
It is why Satan continued to fight
although he had no hope of winning.
As long as he had existence, he had hope.
With each breathe…even as each breathe
sends searing bullets of pain strafing
through my torso, cooking the torn meat
it penetrates, despite this pain, ...before "despite," I would change the comma to a semicolon or a period to show a contrast
in fact because of this pain,
I know, I am aware. I exist!
Must there still not be the spark of life within?
Can I build that tiny oscillating glow,
into a bon-fire to conquer this darkness of the soul?
If the good on earth be the slightest reflection of heaven
then this must be only the slightest shadow of Hell,
for I know I am not yet fully in hell.
Milton then was twice the fool.
No Being of any awareness would choose
even this mild reflection of Hell
above the faintest echo of Heaven.
Only owing to the fact that we are never without
the presence of God could one believe such an inanity.

...the ideas I am ok with, but the presentation I was not fond of. So you are having this battle/ monologue with yourself. and that is just it; as a reader, I felt I had no part in this
iv

Comparing the meanest, the lowliest drudge in heaven,
to the highest prince in hell, is to liken the brightest star
to a spent piece of pitch-bleached coal.
No, if there is a Satan,
then he is not the sly deceiver,
the trickster, the haughty
or proud prince of demons,
but the greatest of all buffoons....I wanted something stronger than "buffoons," but maybe that is appropriate
If you wish to scare me, do not trot out
this worthless gomeral goat.
If you wish to convince me
of the rightness of your dogma ..."rightness" did not strike me as the best word
come instead to where I am at this instance:
feel what I feel, see what I see,
experience this that I experience.
The paradox of Hell: to be only for one second,
completely separated from God,
any person would commit
the worst sin to come back into his presence.
...again, I like the ideas (especially the final 4 lines), but I don't feel as though I have a role here
v

Hot molten lead of despair pours
into the mold of Hell that is my gut. ...need these two opening lines?
I stare into the mirror of my soul,
a skull of deepest horror looks back.
Without a friend, or even an enemy
to hold my hand, or offer the barest idea of comfort.
It would be worth the most terrible torture on earth
just to have the presence of another here with me:
but each world of Hell is individually tailored,
this rite of passage has berth for only one.
In the end, that is what makes it Hell.
Not just separation from God,
but the separation from any other.

vi

Tell me then, you the answers. ....are "the answers" people or should there be a comma after "you"? I may be off
What will you do when all prayers fail,
falling still-born to the ground?...how about just "when all prayers/ fall still-born (etc.)?
Can you find communion when
all of your rituals ring hollow,
and are exposed as pointless façades? ..."pointless" could be replaced with a word that gives imagery. how about "crumbling" or something?
Can you find meaning when all
the words of scripture blur,
and are rejected as tainted and impure profanities?
Tell me then poor wretch, self-deceiving fool,
wastrel of time:
when no question is asked,
tell me you have the answer.
When you feel only despair,
tell me your faith is strong.
When the smallest sound,
sight, or utterance of scripture
makes you heave as though the lining
of your stomach is anathemic poison: ..I like the return of the vomiting image
When everything that you have ever believed
is reveled to be shallow and hollow,...these ideas were already expressed
and you find yourself reveled as
the most empty and superficial all:
tell me then of your belief!
When the smallest sign of life within yourself
is pain more encompassing and dejecting
than you could ever before have comprehended,
and the only thing you can think to do is to ask why?
Why this pain? What must I do to make it stop?
And the only answer is laughter,
laughter at your confusion,
laughter at your pain.
and they will laugh at the agony ...not sure how I feel about both questions and answers in a poem. a personal, stylistic thing
that crushes your soul,
as they bring forth the ones you love most,
and work all manner of evil upon them,
while you stand impotent and helpless.
Tell me then of your acceptance.
When you have stood where I stand,
endured what I endure,
when you have looked into
the eyes of Satan and know him,
in your deepest shame, to be yourself!
When you have done these things,
then will I listen to your proselytizing.
Until then, be silent! ...this ! would have more weight if you lost the one several lines before
You have not earned the right
to inflict upon me your childish syllogisms,
and you fairy tale religion.
You are so self-deluded you can no longer
distinguish what is false from what is true.
I would rather converse with the great deceiver,
that such an insipid fool as you,
even from him I more chance of the truth.
The great deception is he has no need to deceive.

vii
Mistake this not my friend, and be assured,
you are my friend; I beg your forgiveness,
for I speak through my pain,
and this pain has ripped from me all gentle sensibilities.
Although I know I speak the truth,
I know I speak the truth raw.
Truth devoid of equivocations,
without regard for the inherent foibles of human beings.
It would be my wish to speak
with more care and subtly
as has been my wont in times past.
I am sorry, for I am without
those oratory balms which I once possed.

You are my friend, I would that I be yours,
but know this for the truth, for in hell
all lies are stripped away.
If you want truth, come to hell,
it is poured out by the bucketfuls,
a sharp stinging brew of the most potent acid:
it never ceases to burn.
What did you believe they ...i think "believe" is a great word for the piece, rather than "think" or other options
punished one with, lies?
No my friend, for self-deceivers such as we,
there is no more hurtful punishment than the truth.
So truth you may believe I speak,
for they will allow me nothing less,
for anything less would ease my pain.
So even were you my worst enemy,
I would do no less than give you the truth.

Here in the solitude of hell,
the lowest, ugliest, meanest human on earth,
who could break this Godless solitude
with his presence,
would be the greatest lover
anyone here could know.
For yet while he lives,
any human carries with him
some part of God, and though
hidden on earth, it would burst forth
like a supernova here in the blackness of Hell.
But I wonder off, and I still have that which
I am compelled to tell you,
even though you will hate me
and cast aside my words,
I have been tasked with this message.


So my friend, while I am yet able,
I will tell you this which you have need to hear.

--time is fleeing from you–
can you feel it sliding away?
Do you feel the anticipation?
Anticipating…what? Death?
Worse…much worse.
Rest assured the day is coming,
it is a day already known,
and it is coming nearer each clock tick,
with each pleasure spent,
each race won,
each meal eaten,
each joy overlooked,
every pain rejected.
Each pulse of blood through
the miles of your veins
brings the shadow of eternal night closer.
There will come a time
when the ticking clock stops.
-For You,
as it is now for me.
Then you will find no act pleasurable:
all sights will be ugly and grotesque:
all you taste will be bitter.
You will taste only the
ashes of the dead upon your tongue.
No matter where you seek, no joy will you find.
Every pain that has ever been,
shall return upon a thrice barbed arrow.

That day has yet to come,
you are still safe,
you yet have time,
but know this, let there be no doubt,
that day comes…
-for you,
-come it does, and come it will.

On that day, you will look around, astonished.
Everything will appear the same,
but it will not be the same.
It is then that you will begin to realize that Hell
is not some place…
out there.

©2012 –Erthona

again, my biggest comments would have to be that 1) this is an immensely personal piece on part of the speaker, which leads to 2) as a reader, I have little investment or stake in what happens. Yeah, some good ideas and lines are peppered throughout this. I like the opening; it gave me something to grapple with, but as the sword goes, I felt like I was floundering a bit. Again, just my own take; I hope some of this can help

[Roy Hobbs]

If the good on earth be the slightest reflection of heaven
then this must be only the slightest shadow of Hell,
***
I am not sure what noun this pronoun stands for--
of course 'this' expands to cover what the poet
wants covered-- and the word can throw back to
a thousand words, or 11 words.

The conditional 'if; then,' here (I'll stab at it), cut,
says, "If good is a reflect of heaven; then, it is a
reflect of hell."

The entire poem, taken bulkly is one major premise and
one minor premise in an Aristotelian syllogism of the
First Figure, Mode AAA-- figure and mode optional
(I chose the simplest).

The poem is a sustained deduction where clause after
clause pile and pile and build and build. This is not an
immediate poem, but one that lives in a kind of causal
efficacy. It relies on strict dependencies on truth state-
ments made earlier and later, each to each.

A difficult poem.

This poem is 'composed.' Runs in sequence. There are
no radiations and unfoldings. No slips into immediate
experience; all though carefully erected filtres.
**
for I know I am not yet fully in hell.
Milton then was twice the fool.
**
These 'thens' force the reader back to antecedents;
thus, the reading triples in re-runs.
**
No Being of any awareness would choose
even this mild reflection of Hell
above the faintest echo of Heaven.
***
Now the poem becomes, and earlier, dialectic--
divided, uncertain. This Heart of Darkness is not
eating hippo meat, but 'crossing' with St John.
**
Only owing to the fact that we are never without
the presence of God could one believe such an inanity.
***
One must define 'belief.'
rh
(unedited for context-- but I am to blame for
the nonesense I have written)

[Erthona]

Thanks for the read Geoff, just getting through it is yeoman's work. I think I agree with most of your suggestion, and a number I will incorporate. I'll respond to others below just to give you my thoughts on it, although not necessarily to justify how I wrote it. In regards to your end statement:

"again, my biggest comments would have to be that 1) this is an immensely personal piece on part of the speaker, which leads to 2) as a reader, I have little investment or stake in what happens. Yeah, some good ideas and lines are peppered throughout this. I like the opening; it gave me something to grapple with, but as the sword goes, I felt like I was floundering a bit. Again, just my own take; I hope some of this can help"

I don't know if that is good or bad. I was trying to go for the feeling of extreme isolation, as though one were looking at a drama occurring within a bubble and the observer is on the outside looking in. Not unlike someone looking through the thick glass window in the door that leads to a padded cell, at a person in a strait-jacket. You can see him writhing and screaming but really can't hear the sound.
I think you make a valid point, but I am unsure if I can, or even should try to do something about it, as the point is that hell is being isolated from everything except yourself.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"the requisite two hundred times. ..."requisite" felt a little extra to me" I may need to look at that, if for no other reason it seems somewhat clumsy. It was meant to refer to the number of times the metal of a samurai sword must be folded in order to give it the necessary strength and tensile cohesion needed to produce such a sword.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
""concentrated" and "cancerous mass" feel redundant to me"

Got a little too carried away with the alliteration
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"inexorably downward toward greater darkness....these three lines have been rather abstract; grounding them in something more tangible could be helpful"

Actually that's sort of funny, as there was more and I cut it thinking it was too wordy. Of course I didn't save it. I will think on what I can do there. I want to emphasize the idea of an exposed nerve more, maybe something along the lines of having the skin flayed from your body. This idea originally comes from the stories of the Shaman's journey where he is dismembered and then put back together as a new being. Of course in this there is no being put back together. BTW, I did actually experience something quite close to what I am describing. Two incidents actually, ironically, neither having anything to do with actual physical pain, but rather the response of an imbalance in brain chemicals. One self induced, and the other as a result of medication given to me prior to a surgery I was going to have, and the abrupt cessation of medicine they already had me on. Very unpleasant!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"...ok; something like "my will is no longer mine" could be a little more striking I think"
That's a very good suggestion.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"...now this "whet-stone of my despair" felt a little too romantic for me"
Oh.. I kind of liked that one

I was trying to distinguish that this was a psychic experience, although ai was describing it in terms of physicality. Plus the fact that it was for the most part self induced.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"... I liked the beginning because it gave me something to imagine and connect with, what with the image of the sword. as the poem gets more personal and individual, I lose touch personally"

Not sure I have an answer for that.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"...the quotations were interesting. I don't think you need them, especially when you drop them in the second half of the stanza! I would either drop all of them or add more, but I'm in favor of the former"

Nah, the quotation marks are clumsy, they should have been removed. I will when I revise it...if I don't forget again
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"What is this talk about a devil . . . Satan,...why the ellipsis? if you can explain it to me, ok, but I don't get much from it"

I was trying to go from the general devil, or demon, to the specific "Satan", as this, as will later on show, is referencing Milton's "Paradise Lost". Probably not the best way to go about it though.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"...the ideas I am ok with, but the presentation I was not fond of. So you are having this battle/ monologue with yourself. and that is just it; as a reader, I felt I had no part in this"

I think I conveyed what I wanted, it was not done however, in the most "euphonious" of ways I'll have to agree.

I'm not sure that you not connecting as a reader is because I am failing to give you something to connect with, or your experience only allows an intellectual comprehension of what I am describing. That's not derogatory. I can remember people describing things they were going through when I was younger that I really had no conception of until I had similar experiences. I suspect it is some of both, as this is a challenging piece to put out there in a viable way, and there also must be some personal experience on the part of the reader to be able to connect to it. Regardless, there is no doubt it needs some shaping up, I'm just not sure I will every be able to overcome this particular hurdle.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"of the rightness of your dogma ..."rightness" did not strike me as the best word"

"correctness" would be about the only other word I could think of, but maybe that would be better. "Rightness" is maybe to close to "righteousness". I'm open to suggestions.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Tell me then, you the answers. ....are "the answers" people or should there be a comma after "you"? I may be off"

That's a typo. I think I meant to say, "Tell me how will you answer when all your prayers fail, falling still born on the ground"

or something like that.

OK, found it. A result of editing and leaving something off that shouldn't have been.

"Tell me then, you with the answers, so say you!"

Obviously not a very clear line
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"and are exposed as pointless façades? ..."pointless" could be replaced with a word that gives imagery. how about "crumbling" or something?"

Actually just "facades" would probably be sufficient. what do you think?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"...not sure how I feel about both questions and answers in a poem. a personal, stylistic thing"

That passage needs some work. I think you are getting a misreading on it because it lacks clarity.

"You ask, "Why must I suffer this pain; what must I do to stop it?
The only answer you receive is laughter,
laughter at your confusion,
laughter at your pain.
It is the laughter of sadistic,
they feed on your agony,
and laugh because hey know there is nothing you can do"

Something like that.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Anyway, as I said, thanks for taking the time to read and comment, it's a long and difficult piece to wallow through. You have pointed out so things where I see I need to go back and rework a number of passages to get the meaning across, I would say more clearly, but as they are not clear at all...

Anyway, I'll let you know when I get it reworked if you want to slug through it again

Dale
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[Philatone]

I'm not sure that you not connecting as a reader is because I am failing to give you something to connect with, or your experience only allows an intellectual comprehension of what I am describing.

no need to worry; I think something like that has to apply to at least some situations. it is entirely possible that I can approach this piece up to a certain level only. that being said, I fear that I would not be the only one who felt a little isolated in reading it, and just wanted to bring that to your attention. only raised it as something to consider.

i'm glad some of what i suggested may be of use; should an edit arrive, i'll be in line to tango with it

[Erthona]

Hi Roy, thanks for the comments.

"If the good on earth be the slightest reflection of heaven
then this must be only the slightest shadow of Hell,
***
The entire poem, taken bulkly is one major premise and
one minor premise in an Aristotelian syllogism of the
First Figure, Mode AAA-- figure and mode optional
(I chose the simplest).

Of course this is a poem more along the lines of "Job", and less as a philosophical treatise. If anything it would be more along the lines of the Socratic dialogue, rather than in the form of the anal pseudo logic of Aristotle who I personally despise for screwing of philosophical thought for the next, well I was going to say, next 2400 years, but we never really have gotten over his mucking things up, case in point "reductionism". Of course without him we probably wouldn't have and/or gates, and thus no computers, so one takes the good with the bad.
Were I writing a philosophical treatise I would probably have phrased it thus:

It is posited here that if Heaven and Hell actually exist as generally laid out in Christian theology, the following relationship between the two realms and their causal relation to earth would have a high statistical correlation with the following argument, with an ancillary acknowledgement that such conclusions are only valid as they relate to personal experience, and have no reality in terms of external objectivity.

The good that a person perceives and/or seems to experience during life on earth, must be like a weak reflection of what one would suppose one would experience/perceive in heaven where one would encounter, by definition, absolute good, and if that correlation is true, then the converse would also be true. That those characteristics of which hell is composed must also be only weakly represented in ones apprehension of them as experienced during life on earth. Of course, the validity of such an argument rest on whether one at a personal level concedes the actual existence of such places as heaven and hell as traditionally define within Christian theology. What is equally true is, that in order to come to any kind of comprehension of either such realms, a certain amount of Cartesian dualism is necessary because understanding comes only by comparison and contrasting with the other. Thus what becomes apparent is, although heaven could exists without hell and vice versa, no understanding of either can come about without at lest supposing the existence of the other. However, the initial example does not just include these two realms alone, but also posits life on earth as a fulcrum between the two. This quite naturally puts the idea of heaven in the role thesis, hell as antithesis and earth as synthesis, thus the language, often misapplied to Hegel, in this instance becomes at the least representative of the form of the argument.

Thus refuting the idea that this argument follows the pattern of an Aristotelian syllogism of the mode AAA, or any of the 24 variations, and commits no existential fallacy as it is completely self contained, and based upon a defined premise that is presupposisitional for the sake of this discussion and constitutes the philosophical "ground" for the argument, i. e., "Heaven and Hell" as defined in Christian theology. As it is acknowledged that said argument is based solely upon this predefined premiss, and that for the sake of said argument such premiss is taken as a given, there is no legitimate discussion that can involve the legitimacy of said premiss, as this argument needs show that it is consistent within the conditions set forth in the premiss, and need not demonstrate that the premiss has any provable validity.

The above is of course tongue in cheek, but thanks for the opportunity to play pseudo philosopher. I haven't gotten the chance to pontificate in such a totally obnoxious way in some time and it is much enjoyed...well, at least by me
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"Only owing to the fact that we are never without
the presence of God could one believe such an inanity.
***
One must define 'belief.'"

As stated above the poem is conducted within the realm of Christian theology, as it's backdrop is Milton' Paradise Lost, thus belief is defined within that system. So to believe means to take as factual.
I am not saying this is my personal view of reality, I am merely using the most convenient and well known setting as a backdrop for playing the scene out. The pro side of that is it allows one to do a whole lot less set up, the negative is that one is forced to work within those constraints.
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"A difficult poem."

No doubt. Made more so by the clumsiness of the writing at times. I will endeavor to make it less difficult after the next rewrite.
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Thanks for taking the time to slug through the thing. I probably should have gotten it in better shape before posting it, but it has been around a long time, and I was tired of it, so I thought I would let someone else tire of it


Dale

[Roy Hobbs]

Hi Roy, thanks for the comments.

"If the good on earth be the slightest reflection of heaven
then this must be only the slightest shadow of Hell,
***
The entire poem, taken bulkly is one major premise and
one minor premise in an Aristotelian syllogism of the
First Figure, Mode AAA-- figure and mode optional
(I chose the simplest).

Of course this is a poem more along the lines of "Job",
**
I argue provisionally that it is not ...

The balance between God and Job is knocked askew
by God's absolute distance. In this poem, the 'other
side' in the dialectic, meets on the 'narrow ridge'
(Martin Buber translated by Maurice Friedman), where
A admits to the unique in B (both the same person)
speaking in a kind of stalled thesis/antithesis, and
of course, fettered by restraints imposed by poetry.

These restraints, felt in semi-consciousness and sub-
immediacy, affect context to the degree the poet has
given himself over to the form-- his self-imposed
poetic honor, as it were.

I pause here. I may have already gotten in too
deep to work my way out. "Pull back, the better
to leap"
rh

[Erthona]

Mixing synthetic a prior categorical imperatives as referential ideas of absolute forms can quickly turn into phenomenological quicksand that no hip waders can save you from. Besides, I think this is the Hobsons's Choice syllogism to begin with

Dale

[Roy Hobbs]

"Mixing synthetic a {{prior}} categorical imperatives as referential ideas of absolute forms can quickly turn into phenomenological quicksand that ..."

Lol-- this is perfect grist to understand what Wittgenstein
said about philosophy-- that's it's mostly nonesense.

Why Lewis Carroll and Ludwig are so linked.

Mixing with what? I can get 'mixing syn. a priori cat. imp.'
but the 'as' is not a mixing. Huh?

Mixing ice cream with spit can quickly get yourself fired
at the Blue Bunny Ice Cream Palace.

Explain please.
rh

[Erthona]

Different tautological modalities require different input forms in order to output a satisfactory sum.