Wind has lost me again, stirring me far from the eye of the storm. I am in chaos, and not in calm.
I am self wanting peace.
I am self wanting steady.
Watching my abbreviated life transition to mechanical. Churning out fumes from burn fuel, destroying every bit of air that sustains me.
I am self-destruction at its best.
Good art comes from the subconscious desires and spontaneous moments.
I am good art.
I shock the world with an existence of destruction flowing out my palms and encapsulating my days.Yet, the world has slept and my shock value depreciated.
That is the economics of being.
There is no exact calculation, just estimations that either hit the bar or not. And so, like a tree in the forest, i combust for no one. Witnesses, it seems are vital to my creation of truth-reality.
Hence, there is no sound when no one is there to listen. Hence, there is no me, unless there is recognition from another.
Invisibility,destructibility, beauty all exist in my realm of insignificance. For i am not anything, without another. I am nothing.
I am speck with no name and purpose.
I hover around in this burdened heart to suicidal accolade, yet i am not even shadow there is no suicide, and no accolade. Just existence of machinery standards. A possibly better option that breathing out a passionless life (assuming they are different).
Does this matter?
I am but imagination conceived by imagination.
Non-existence contriving story lines to exist.
say what you think.
Sorry, you cannot respond to an archived poemReviews
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I really enjoy the message and the consistency.
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thanks. glad you enjoyed it.
-iphios
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Very very dark, Iphios...
"The existence of machinery standards"... reminds me of the character in There Will Be Blood, ferociously and relentlessly alone. This strikes a chord in me, the possibility that there is no god, which generally i reject, taking as evidence human acts of kindness not just the mechanics of nature. To survive believing in something, create and be art, demands something beyond mere existence, and it is a struggle, like your storm, the effects of which reach far beyond the eye of the storm.
And yet.... in those mechanics there are the timeless and the infinite as well as the inevitable. Perhaps that is what we truly are part of, and we may learn contentment through contemplation of these things rather than their avoidance.
For me, this piece is most moving and addresses the most important questions. I wish I didn't feel so sad at its end but that is perhaps an important lesson in itself. The "happy ending" perhaps is a silly and unnecessary cultural artefact, irrelevant to a sense of completion and satisfaction with our lives - and becoming one with what is is the answer.
Provocative, and I'm glad to have read it.
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Hi RA,
I was hesitant in posting this poem as it is long and different from my usual. The subject matter was a product of a lot of reflection on so many things. The ending was meant to be heavy as my mood in writing it demanded that. I think you capture and understand the thoughts behind this poem. There is much to it, as they are products of my musing and though it was not meant to touch on the presence or absence of someone greater. Its spotlight was more on the person existing and living in a random huge world.
again, im grateful for your read and for the comment.
-iphios
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Iphios, I think that your "attempt" works. I sense something of a breakthrough in your usual style here, while your voice remains uniquely your own. I like the longer lines in this one, the philosophical ponderings in it, the prosey questioning that adds up to real poetry.
This poem, in the format you've chosen, is wonderfully bold for me to take in, your doing this experiment with such daring risk, and it all works for me, especially its dark and honest tone. And its union of the throes of art with the poet herself as a work of art hits me just right: "I am but imagination conceived by imagination." - terrific line, and it's followed by one just as hard and strong: the always present existence of the possibility of non-existence in a person's soul.
What hit me most is the question: "Does this matter?" Does it matter that the poet can see herself as art, wanting beauty, wanting "steady", but also as a cog in machine parts? I think it matters all over the place because of its brutal honesty about meaning - what else is at the heart of poetry but that? Nothing else, and as the poem implies, maybe nothing else is nothing after all. Maybe Sartre and all his existentialist thoughts are right, maybe, and this poem probes that maybe, and then boldly comes to its own conclusion. That takes guts on the poet's part, and I admire it for that.
What a helluva good poem this is. For me, it's utterly modern in its deconstruction of meaning and of language - in other words, it probes the usefulness AND the uselessness of language itself, of words themselves, in words; its inner structure as a poem is put right out there for a reader to see, like a schematic blueprint of inner beams and walls.
In the 13th stanza, "and yet for i" was a stumble for me - maybe needs fixing? But that's it for me, one small stumble in what I think is a great poem, and I use that "great" purposefully. Something's happened here in your style and depth of voice, Iphigene, and it's all to the good in my opinion.
Later...
Lad
. Rewarded 8
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Lad,
There was fear when i decided to post this. There was hesitation in the style and subject matter, but i wrote it because at that moment i wanted to say something and trusted my gut in using this form.
I was possessed by thoughts, and if you have noticed the question of existence...of a poet, of a self in this seemingly random and big world. I question our existence and our work, and wonder if questioning it has any reality. Would it matter if i were truth/reality or if i were imagination? There is no answer, for i exist in a world that can neither confirm or deny that. We just live. I could say more about this poem, but i think i have thrown all my thoughts into this big and long poem. If i had to explain everything in more detail that what i have written in this poem, it would be an essay.
I am grateful for the read and the comment. I didn't know what i was trying to do with this poem. When i wrote it, i just knew this was the best way to go about my thoughts. I suppose whatever it was that happened in this poem has proven that something can come out of darkness...Thank you again Lad for appreciating my efforts and this rather risky choice of form and subject.
-iphios
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When it's this personal...
it's hard to find fault or grounds to criticize. So much turmoil and searching, it's best to let this further develop on its own. I learned my lesson with the son of my closest female friend who is massively brilliant but with a swarm of emotional problems, medicated, institutionalized and I started a correspondence with him. He sent me sheets and sheets of random thoughts, and I said, hey, I know how to put some structure to this and I turned them into poems with what I saw as possible line breaks. I thought he would obviously show his mother and tell her how great they looked. He wrote back and said please don't edit my things, it just doesn't feel right. I want to give you one of his paragraphs. This kid was not far from being a really top chess player and is conversant in much higher math than I can even pronounce.
"I walked the lengthy earth with a slow shuffle attempting to mirror past articulation of spirit. I get thrown from center. Leap at every opportunity to compensate. The procedure is simple enough. Acquire a gait and stick to it. Not too fast. That way you feel every nuance of motion. Which produces a sense of serenity, walking."
I get new sheets of these things almost every day, from this brilliant mind in trouble, so when I read this of yours there was the association, though yours is not so troubled. Yours are logical and sequential, they make perfect sense, his are wildly free associational, quirky,
and looking at things from a perspective not many of us have reached. Sorry about rambling about somebody else, but your piece set me off. There is nothing in your piece that can be argued against or denied, it's yours, hang on to it. MJ. Rewarded 8
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Hey MJ, though this is personal, it is not written in rock. This are thoughts, questions, and pondering that have accumulated inside me. Unlike the son of your close friend, I wouldn't mind editing. The reason i posted this poem is because it was a new to me. The way i presented it is different from usual. Though i appreciate your read and encouragement to hang on to it. I will.
I know this thoughts may change,as my writing and subject matter will change as time goes. I threw this thoughts to the world and wish to see what it mean and where its going. Maybe there are answers, maybe there aren't any. But i don't mind being questioned or criticized for this. I risk that when i posted them.
It was an interesting story and the sample you included does show your point. He's writing is different and poetic.
Thank you for taking the time to read this poem.
-iphios
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solipcism is a dangerous idea to play around with. but i know the feeling. chaos can be beautiful. your random thoughts on this page honestly speak to me in the existential funk i've been dealing with for years now.
. Rewarded 4
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Hi. Though the intention to go into solipsism wasn't there when i wrote this, i see how you mean. Recently the need to assess the world, the universe, and my existence has been magnified by events. I'm glad you liked the 'existential funk' as i write poetry on these abstractions and thoughts often. Though this particular style isn't something i use often. Again, thanks for the read and the thoughts.
-iphios
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Iphigene, I admire your growing confidence about your work and your experiments with breaking through to new ways, new self-explorations, a new rhetoric in your poetry, based on your previous means of expression. Your wondering about whether yours, our, writing, imaginatively or realistically, makes any difference to the spirit of the world is, to me anyway, the surest sign of the serious writer.
I think of a line of TS Eliot's: "...teach us to care and not to care..." Right: I think that when we care so much about what we write, and don't care so much either, we're on the path of wisdom and humility, and intelligence. My opinion only, and it sounds too much like a literary sermon, but I do belive it's true, at least for me.
Your poem under discussion here is one of those rare examples of a poet poeticizing about, and exposing upfront, the very mysterious PROCESS of writing, about its cost, about the bones, the plumbing, the vents of building a poem, and about whether or not all that labor is of any use after all. I think you've zeroed in on any thinking poet's, any thoughtful artist's, question: if I write, and if it means nothing to the world's defiance of spiritual growth, why should I exist? What am I here for? What's the point? Even the very asking of such questions threatens and/or puzzles amateur and hobby writers, but true poets know exactly what you're pondering. More power to you. And, of course, DON'T LISTEN to any comments that don't understand what you're doing in your work. But I'm sure you've got that self-confidence sufficiently by now. Good.
If you haven't read him already, I'd recommend the American poet Wallace Stevens for your perusal. His little collection, The Palm at the End of the Mind (paperback), contain masterful metaphors about the meaning, if any, of poeticizing. For me, he's one of America's greatest poets becaue he fearlessly probed whether or not poetry makes any difference, even to the poet himself. (One of his fine lines: "...he ponders nothing that isn't there / and the nothing that is...") And yet, for all that, his work is almost breathtakingly beautiful, even for just the sounds he conjures up. I've learned so much from his work.
As always, I know that you know that you MUST hang in there. Your work is increasingly amazing to me for its depth, courage and emotional and intellectual honesty. On or off the site, I think your work is some of the best I've ever seen, anywhere, and getting more and more incisive, and still in your own voice.
Later...
Lad -
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Lad,
Thank you for leaving another comment. I am very grateful. You seem to understand my point of view and thoughts clearly.
I haven't encountered the poet you mentioned i will look it up. I sent a message for a detailed response to this overwhelming comment. I will hang on Lad, as hard and as long as i can. Thank you.
-iphios
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EXCELLENT, Iphios! I have long been a fan of your metaphysical forays, so this, to me, is the ultimate foray into asking the unanswerable, examining the intangible.
First off, I LOVE the structure. Not just the itinerant lines and semi-paragraphs; I love the simple declarations, "I am," "That is," "There is," "Hence". I love how you take philosophical or scientific cliches and upend them-- the eye of the hurricane, a tree in the forest "combusting" instead of falling, pollution. With these juxtapositions, you tackle the ancient world and the modern, the literary, the theological.
The imagery is simply stunning. I simply love every line of this. I am trying to type something coherent here, but I can't. My brain has gone into warp-drive here. I think you have hit on something profound, both personally and in terms of this piece.
In case you couldn't tell, I just love this.
I can't wait to see what's next.
Pie
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Pie,
THANK YOU!
I know i should say something more, but recently, the comments to this poem has left me dumb-founded. But i will try....
I wrote this poem half-asleep. I was about to retire for the day when i felt something, the line "Wind has lost me again" rang through. I wrote this originally as a continuous paragraph. Typing unceasingly until i had let it all out. Then i began to put the spaces. I knew one thing, i wanted this to be presented almost like prose. Only the line breaks and spaces between stanzas would matter.
You were one of the people i wanted to get a comment from. And im glad you liked it. This poem is not just a mere poem and you do realize that it has a personal discovery linked to it. I think more than anything, this poem is a reflection of thoughts and questions i had kept bottled up for quite some time. Hopefully, this poem becomes a landmark of something in my life and in my poetry.
Thank you Pie. I am deeply grateful.
-iphios
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March 15, 2008