February 1, 2016

Rimbaud was poet as seer

Joachim von Sandrart
'Minerva and Saturn protect Art and Science of envy and falsehood'
1644



Rimbaud was poet as seer 


Oedipus thanks Antigone 
and warms his hands 
by the fire...says, now 
I smell the days 
and feel the nights 
on my skin...

calendrical rhetorical observations

are blinded to see 
therefore they bleed time 
are emitted admissions 
they fit to slit tits and tats 
can fill a flatworm sideways 
eyes to futurists 
palmed laughter 
given rides 

(what have you to gift me?...Charon asks liltingly)

I have mere words or so they seem 
seamed music, dancing to between(s) 
there is no chance, to parlay 
nor dug bones, soul sewn, could latch to
there is but me, another born, with want to see 
dressed in repugnant and given over to excess 
I want to know where do souls go, after life, that's best...

so if by promise, you cannot find me passage here alive 
then please, try me dead, for by this means, I will arrive 
as stated and intended to see where the souls are hid
on the other sides of these rivers 
humans stake temporary and infinity to...

and it is not that I want to know 
why you're here or even what you did  
it is that I need to know how the wind 
wears each of us or what scent 
have we to leave behind 
what expression can we carve into eons 
and what with may we let, someone in the future, know 
why it is, at least one soul came, claw-clutched and expressed 
this way home, in poem, wearing hair as hats, more or less...



EJR ©

7 comments:

  1. Dude. This is killer:
    "so if by promise, you cannot find me passage here alive
    then please, try me dead, for by this means, I will arrive"

    Yes. I have realized this about you:
    "it is that I need to know how the wind
    wears each of us" ... A study-er of (in)humanity, you are.

    "what expression can we carve into eons" ... Love this. And this: "at least one soul came, claw-clutched and expressed"

    This is so true, it's making me giggle: "wearing hair as hats, more or less" ... This is why girls are always cutting/growing/dyeing their hair. To change hats/identities/brains. Spot on, Poem.

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  2. Thanks for the Rim-baud. I love him.

    Oh, and I'm here for this. Stimulation. Of the brain. Get your head out of the gutter. (snicker ... head. gutter. She is SO funny. If I talked to people, I'd like to call myself "She." That would be nifty and would surely make me giggle.)

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    Replies
    1. Seeking to fictional-ize my own why, Rimbaud turned his back to his work, once glimpsed, sparked the piece...but, I must say, this third eye omniscient loam star tawdry and bawdy undertow was quite unintended but definitely funny now that you've mentioned it...

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    2. Oh yeah, I read all about him. Found some of his writing. Had a grand time with him. Thanks! I really like it when you and other writers slip in references I'm not familiar with; there's nothing I enjoy more than a jumping off point for my own research.

      And don't worry; I would never presume that anything I "see" is actually there. I fictionalize, and factilize, everything I come across. There's got to be a blur between truth and fiction, or just ... why? Why keep going? Where's the fun in sense and sensibility? I love this guy's take on ... everything. Just let it blur and roll with it. It's like the whole reason artists and writers drink and take drugs. To free their minds.

      If it makes sense, then it probably doesn't. If it doesn't make sense, it presents the most truth. That's how I feel about it all, anyway. I can't stand "true" poetry. Well, I'm nicer than that about it. It's just not what I'm drawn to. If I read something and then think "huh?" then I know I've found a real gem ... something I can really dig into and rip apart. I crave that ooey gooey globby mess that art CAN be, if created with ultimate freedom and abandon. Sooo, thank you. For yours.

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    3. It always amazes me when there is a response here...as if we were always in the middle of a tempest of synapses firing off, fingers of freewill and lightning, choosing when to be ready to burn down the overgrown underbrush of a forest of hardwoods and pines, yoked to chaos, order and a constancy of erode between them...kudos to knowing your whipsaw frequencies...

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