KMC Forums - Poetica

-------Some more poems------

Circular Thought

The origins of ideas are thinking beings.
The thinking being is an idea.

For the mind thinks
that it thinks,
and imagines itself through thinking.

- like the spiral that spirals and nothing else -

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Which is which?

Does the mind create thinking, or thinking the mind?
Does the heat rise, or the cold drop?

Is the cup emptied, or the blood mixed?
Did the body fall to the right, or has the left side disappeared?

Do we think or, think we do?

Is the mirror image distortion or correction?

It�s all one and the same, my friend, one and the same�

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Does the beard really grow?

Does the beard really grow
when it reaches not towards the sun as growing should?
Does it grow when it�s pulled down to the soil,
though not to the inside as the roots and ends of life do?
Does it grow while it�s dead stuff by living process itself?
Oh yes! It is, for growing means diminishing;
growing means growing towards death:
living is death counting down.

Thus the beard is an image of life-death.
But does life kill the poet,
or, is the poetic murder of life?
Are not the poets creators of life, eternity and the meaning thereof?

We are such stuff as reality are made on �
We are the imagining, imagined and rushing as foaming waves
onto the shores of grand dreams;
just to crash violently and flying off
into infinite directions infinitely split
- parted into the void of nothingness�

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The four seasons

Winter

Now is the winter of my frail soul.
Such a pulp, flux of feeling floating while fleeting -
this if the sober mind can suppose a thing as soul
which is not at all�
Is it extending endeavour of mortal will?
It is your God! For each one has his own God
which is born and buried with him, like brain and fiction.
You are cold God himself trembling and freezing over into composed deadness.

Spring

Things are stretching forward in the direction
Of nowhere � we and our things are one
And conceive hope for that which was not and is not
We perfect our tragedy into blossoming dreams of possibility

Summer

The scorching fire flows within us!
It burns to escape from its origin.
But the burning thing always devours itself.
In its finality it slows to its cooler side �
Its chilling phase of blank depression.

Autumn

The boiling sun in my head is gone.
Shivers begin to challenge the frozen solidity of destiny and circle.
My God is briefly revived, but then abandons all of its human origin
And consumes myself and himself to become one with the frozen
Block of wintry being � it is death not dying! Death not dying?
It is the end not ending the beginning not beginning!
It is the nauseous, sickening thought of thought and of life � the creator
And killer of death, for only life awareness can suffer and fear and want.
Death is but the absence of suffering and content.
It is the falling season of cold seeking autumn in between
The extremes of presence and absence � solidified pain and chaos�

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Quatromony

Ban those mad thoughts. Thrust them over
Mountains of our omnipotent
Ramblings in dreams. Don�t submit to
Cravings for sense. Spirals will dawn�

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The Winged Thought

The thought comes lifted into heaven�s fiction
on wings of the unreal body of life.
This so, finds none other than the spinning mind to escape.
Because it�s only a mind
and as time swings its arms at speed
at once, it seems motionless and absurdly swift!

It�s the dreadfully fixed wing of thought
that makes all movement couple senseless orbit.
Yes, the mind is a heavenly corpse
alone in orbiting its own,
while the outside only spirals within�

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