07-26-2014, 04:02 PM
I was always obsessed with the "moment", that great intersect where everything converged, the past and the future, eternal recurrence and something distinctly new, open-eyed knowledge and forgetful innocence, the creation and the fall. etc, etc...
I always felt the ancient Gnostics and the 13th century Kabbalahists were the greatest depth psychologists of such a moment. I studied them till my eyes went bleary, the greats like Valentinius, Moses Cordero, and especially Isaac Luria, one of the great mystics ever. Gershom Sholem was a great writer of the Kabbalhists, read his two great works on the subjects till the spines of the books exploded and rendered their pages unbounded.
I tried to write a four sonnet sequence about this moment, but have some heavy editing to do on the last three yet. The first, however, was like the 4th or 5th poem I ever wrote, and, for the life of me, can't get myself to change it. It was hard to write because it takes place before/after corporeality of any kind.
It sucks, of course, that's a given. lol
OUR FATHER
I
Time's evoking memory…once…there at last,
the substance and the movement of a dream
born of forlorn space, ensuing to contrast
one sentimental moment to redeem
of a father…enthralled in ecstasy
beholding but the beauty of the gift,
itself…only distinct in recognition
of this relation: responding harmonies.
Free…beyond the obscuring condition,
unending image, wherewithal of myth,
nature…awe inspiring composition,
aesthetically unerring labyrinth...
this…the sweetest sorrow…could never belie
the creation in the remembrance of why.
I always felt the ancient Gnostics and the 13th century Kabbalahists were the greatest depth psychologists of such a moment. I studied them till my eyes went bleary, the greats like Valentinius, Moses Cordero, and especially Isaac Luria, one of the great mystics ever. Gershom Sholem was a great writer of the Kabbalhists, read his two great works on the subjects till the spines of the books exploded and rendered their pages unbounded.
I tried to write a four sonnet sequence about this moment, but have some heavy editing to do on the last three yet. The first, however, was like the 4th or 5th poem I ever wrote, and, for the life of me, can't get myself to change it. It was hard to write because it takes place before/after corporeality of any kind.
It sucks, of course, that's a given. lol
OUR FATHER
I
Time's evoking memory…once…there at last,
the substance and the movement of a dream
born of forlorn space, ensuing to contrast
one sentimental moment to redeem
of a father…enthralled in ecstasy
beholding but the beauty of the gift,
itself…only distinct in recognition
of this relation: responding harmonies.
Free…beyond the obscuring condition,
unending image, wherewithal of myth,
nature…awe inspiring composition,
aesthetically unerring labyrinth...
this…the sweetest sorrow…could never belie
the creation in the remembrance of why.
You can't hate me more than I hate myself. I win.
"When the spirit of justice eloped on the wings
Of a quivering vibrato's bittersweet sting."
"When the spirit of justice eloped on the wings
Of a quivering vibrato's bittersweet sting."