Words Clothe the Poet´s Naked Soul.

We draw in dark air
To paint upon sky
To red earth bleeding
Blue seizures we cry
The lush green grown
Shall swallow the sun
Shed sweet life sown
O! Radiant! One!
Beget such dawns
As blind an eye,
Nudge the floating world
Where sleeping dogs lie
Then muse the Becoming
Weave skulls from spine
Pure vision is spirit
Soiled living supine
And Truth shall be crystal
This grim past opaque
Quills cut arid parchment
Black ink shadow a lake
In our desert flesh chains
Of veins tremble and quake
Stretching sinews ´til the heart
Wearing these bones
Must surely break
We shall repair our Will
To care however long
It may take for
Where words clothe
A naked soul
Poets dream us

Wide awake.

 

 

 

 

 

Author notes

Born from a comment made to Celestial Pie. I originally intended to submit only the title leaving the page blank - baring my naked soul so to squeak, but decided to spare my worthy peers from such an unbearably barefaced, self-aggrandizing gesture.
(I just KNOW I m going to regret not doing it however. Damn!)

Comments

• right now

  Adding your comment:
• 
  celestialpie
  December 30, 2007
  
  Edit | Reply
  Hey, Simon. I'm so glad to have inspired, however indirectly or off-handedly, one of your wonderful mind-body-word trips. I've read over this one a couple of times now, and I am, as always, astounded at your knack for fusing words and concepts so poetically and economically.
  
  The first five lines' red-blue-green primary palate is a child's venture. Then the movement into:
  
  "Then muse the Becoming
  Weave skulls from spine
  Pure vision is spirit
  Soiled living supine
  And Truth shall be crystal
  The grim past opaque"
  
  The complication of "Becoming," maturation, transubstantiation-- the colors becoming more complex, more ethereal. Also, did you intentionally enjamb skulls and crystal? I was thinking of the crystal skulls of the Mayans and Aztecs. Wouldn't put it past you.
  
  "Quills cut arid parchment
  Black ink shadow a lake
  In our desert flesh chains
  Of veins tremble and quake
  Stretching sinews ´til the heart
  Wearing these bones
  Must surely break
  We shall repair our Will"
  
  This might be my favorite part. The fusion of ink, parchment, spirit and flesh-- it just floors me.
  
  And the final lines-- seem like a fitting and haunting response to "Human voices wake us and we drown" from old T.S.
  
  I'm so very glad you did not leave the page blank, though I'm glad you warned us-- so if you ever DO, I will know that there is nothing wrong with the site, it's just a barefaced, self-agGrandizing gesture.
  
  Cheers,
  Lauren
  

  
• • 
    gnosisonG
    March 2
    Edit | Reply

    Thank YOU for Inspiration CP

    How rude of me not to reply to this comment before now Celestial, please forgive me.
    A fusion of seemingly disparate, obverse elements is a poetic conceit wonderfully rewarding when attempting to portray the process of intimate transmogrification of ideal to "paper" as it were.
    Describing the advent of Akashic innundation; our suffusing with the MUSE, when inscribing wrought notions upon the face of the Void, is of paramount vitality in correlations of deeper insight as to why we write what we ARE.
    And how delightful it is to discover another inscriber who so totally IS.
    Cheers CP for inspiring.
    Mucho regards
    
    gGeomancer
    
• Terry-too
  December 21, 2007
  
  Edit | Reply

  Actions?

  Actions --as thinking, feeling, doing, all the wealth of permutations thereof-- are on an every-day plateau of existence. Even by yearning, where thought ventures toward higher spiritual levels, too often they fail; for they cannot reach the ultimate realm of being where Spirit dwells. Such communication happens or not, with no fault since effort would defeat it. A lot of thought exists without words altogether, to be translated as it is written as a poem. (If not why would we need to search for a word?)
  
  What does all this have to do with this magnificent poem?
  
  It is because, paradoxically because it is carried on the backs of its verbiage, this poem has no such limit, held aloft by symbolism which conveys meaning, yet is independent of its words, even so. Verbally nonverbal, a direct display. Hard to explain. With words. Easier to know without.
  
  "Excellence," as a word, can never hope to reach the scope of its inspiration because it must pass through the relative density of filters in those who read. There are multiple filters, of which very few were intended, imposed as they are by personal experience. Regardless of individual densities, this power of excellence surpasses all limitations. "naked soul" you say?
  
  Immutable in it all is the clarity of soul, it is on a different level of existence. There were no couturiers to set styles of raiment for our soul, and no real need for attempts at fashions of adornment or concealment.
  The original Olympics relate to this, judging by ancient Greek statues, not encumbered by clothing. It was not until much later that the ubiquitous figleaf appeared, along with losses in the purity of spirit, taught by the concept of sin.
  
  To show how far we are estranged from former spiritual existence, today's nudes are "naked," and their images are porn. --WAY off topic, but strange even so.
  
  I could go on, but must leave, gathering my scattered thoughts in a bundle, out to buy groceries. There now, back to Planet Earth. Fun it was, to escape into orbit for a while. It'll hold me for a while, glad I wandered in. Thank you.
  Terry
  
  

  . Rewarded 8
• • 
    gnosisonG
    March 2
    Edit | Reply

    Delightful DeeCrepit

    Please consider my lax and woefully late response as a compliment beyond bounds of decent propriety feebly attempting to adjudicate the plethora of sparkling thoughts revolving within the words so kindfully conveyed betwixt the web of insight inherent, wielded by such a worthy quill as thine, dear T.
    Your gracious gems of generosity congeal within my soul,
    inscibing scars of forget-me-knots, which will propell my endeavours to attain further refinement of adage and nuance semantisizing slews of sclerotic badinage, one might forgivingly ascribe to poetic fortitude in forthcoming froth of addled mind.
    As always, for always,
    my heartfelt gratitude and regards
    
    Your gG
• beatniksoul
  December 14, 2007
  Edit | Reply

  Wow.

  I really enjoyed reading that. The rhyme was flawless and the imagery was phenomenal.
  Thank you
• • 
    gnosisonG
    December 21, 2007
    Edit | Reply

    Cheers Beatniksoul

    Much appreciated.
    Regards
    
    gG
• darrylblacksr
  November 23, 2007
  Edit | Reply
  This is the first time I am commenting on this site. And to me this is a lovely poetry that's relatively simple as it draws the reader in. Now for the imagery that allows you to clearly see exactly what the writer is thinking as he scribes along with his pen. Outstanding work and I thank you for sharing it with me...

  . Rewarded 6
• • 
    gnosisonG
    November 23, 2007
    Edit | Reply

    An Honour

    to be the subject of your virgin comment here at ScarePoetry, mate, and for the generosity of your positive words.
    
    Cheers
    
    gG
• 
  himanshumodi
  November 20, 2007
  
  Edit | Reply
  Great work to showcase the thought process of a poet... The aspirations... the pain... the effort, sweat and blood, all captured very well.
  
  The first half about the beauty, the hurt everything a poet experiences... The second half, about penning these experiences.
  
  THese two halves, bridged by a smooth transition about probing at the thoughts and events and happenings, the world is too busy to notice.
  
  The aspect that I found the most appealling is that you wrote this from the perspective of "Words". A collective autobiography of a dictionary if you will!
  
  I read it quite a few times... Loved this one. And i don;t know how would a blank page would have served the same purpose as a poem. Seriously... thanks for sparing us the overly philosophical emptiness.
  
  BTW... why the boxing picture??
  
  
• • 
    gnosisonG
    November 23, 2007
    Edit | Reply

    Nice One H

    Thanx for the generous comment mate. You are correct in your assumptions and a great phrase to describe it with: "A collective autobiography of a dictionary".
    A pleasure to spare you the blank page. Heheh, just as well.
    The boxing pic of me and an opponent at a sanshou competition represents pure, unadulterated action where words are not foremost. I try to represent words as being actions in their own right in this poem.
    As always your comments are greatly appreciated Himanshumodi!
    
    Warmest regards
    
    pugGilist.
• dave ochs
  November 19, 2007
  Edit | Reply

  hey gG

  glad you spared us from revealing yourself in your poetic birthday suit, but anyways...
  
  i liked the "color scheme" and the structure. i've been on this thing that its not about the publications, recogintion etc. its nourishment for the soul. glad too you havent' lost your quill.
  dave

  . Rewarded 6
• • 
    gnosisonG
    November 20, 2007
    Edit | Reply

    Takk Dave.

    Heheh. No I wouldn t want to ruin your appetite Dave. This piece attempts in many ways to follow those themes you ve been expostulating lately on writing and why we write. They have doubtless served as grist for the mill in my parallell ideas about why we do this bollox.
    As for my quill, mate, sometimes I have to pull it out of my arse especially when I feel a fucking prick, but its never lost for long!
    Cheers!
    
    gG
• 
  iphios
  November 19, 2007
  
  Edit | Reply
  gG,
  
  i've read this a few times already and as all your poems i must read it again and again. The words are more often than not mere words, but are packed with something more. At first glance it reveals how everything in the world becomes words to a poet, becomes a poem to the poet. And here on i attempt to understand your words:
  
  The first few lines reminded me of the way a poet takes ink and from it paint the world with colors to mean things beyond what the physical state is.
  
  "Nudge the floating world
  Where sleeping dogs lie
  Then muse the Becoming
  Weave skulls from spine
  Pure vision is spirit
  Soiled living supine
  And Truth shall be crystal
  This grim past opaque
  Quills cut arid parchment"
  
  I found on the lines above a sort of fleshing out done by a poet. For there seems that in writing, the poet seeks to move the world, awaken it, and bring to life the truth that is so vague to most. The poet writes into parchment even the 'soiled living supine.'
  
  The next lines after the quoted verse above seems to state how words are the very life of the poet. It also seems to paint that urge to simply write of everything that is part of the human experience. Poet and words inseparable as life it inseparable to words. The poets words are not but words but reality unfolding out of him/her.
  
  I don't know if im getting you right gG. But that is how i see it. The very existence of a poet is his/her words and that alone is his/her means of moving across this world. For the poet is, and his words his only means to put something over his bareness. Enjoyed this read even if it played in my head for sometime. Do enlighten me on your meaning.
  
  -iphios

  . Rewarded 8
• • 
    gnosisonG
    November 20, 2007
    Edit | Reply

    Iphios Rising

    Thanx for your discerning comment, Iphios. As always I am enriched by your interp. I wrote a lengthy reply to Lad about what I was trying to do here but your excellent breakdown of "Words..." warrants further discourse for sure.
    "paint the world with colors to mean things beyond what the physical state is."
    Arming the abstract (or at least alms for the abstract). How does one describe different colours, hues and shades to a blind person??? always seemed to me to be an epitomy of our challenge as poets. To paint with words incurs the use of colour to offer emotional content - chiaroscuro shades of feelings so to speak.
    With words we put flesh to concept as you say and we attempt to awaken or move the inanimate - raise ourselves up from the clay or "Soiled living supine" . We force meaning beyond the constraints of our flesh stretching our own mortality to the breaking point to glimpse at hints of vistas beyond and perhaps on a psychological level prepare ourselves for incomprehensible cessation of self - death.
    Clothing the soul is simply another way of saying: describing the abstract (or conveying colour!).
    "..to paint that urge to simply write of everything that is part of the human experience."
    Wonderfully put, Iphios and I heartily agree yet it is THIS factor that really takes its toll on us.
    As writers/poets/seekers we bare our souls, we stand naked before our peers. WHAT we write tells something about us no matter how "distant" and objective we assume ourselves to be from the source of our inspiration. It can t be helped.
    Being of a shy and retiring disposition myself (ahem!) I am prone at times to cover my embarrassing nudity of thought with too much badinage - no doubt a cutting criticism of part of my scrawling endeavours.
    When we write we open ourselves up to both benign and malign influence thence occurs an often depressive reaction whilst we should be celebrating the apogee of our creativity. Writing for me Iphios is a mental helter-skelter ride where the highs reward the lows.
    "Poet and words inseparable as life is inseparable to words. The poets words are not but words but reality unfolding out of him/her."
    Well said! As only a true poet could.
    Within the macrocosm a poet strives to encapsulate a microcosm of reality.
    As above so below.
    The essence for me of hermetic thought.
    
    Most respectful regards
    
    gG
    
    
  • • 
      iphios
      November 20, 2007
      Edit | Reply
      wow, such a reply. I do understand it well. For i do feel the need to cover my self with the words i use. I veer away from prose, for the instances that i try, i realize i revealed too much. Any comment on our writing is a comment to our being. Amazing how such a few words of a poem can mean so much. Your intention in your poems leaves me amazed as always gG. Thanks for the explanation.
      
      -iphios
• 
  Outlaw Philosipher
  November 19, 2007
  Edit | Reply

  Yes they do Every always say something well like my poem says does anyone act as well

  i Like it
  its confusing but if you get it it opens your eyes
  and lets you see what makes a poet

  
• • 
    gnosisonG
    November 20, 2007
    Edit | Reply

    Cheers Mate.
• poetrygoddess99
  November 18, 2007
  Edit | Reply
  Actions speak louder than... You got me stumped, there Great poem though, made me think...
• • 
    gnosisonG
    November 19, 2007
    Edit | Reply

    Thanx poetrygoddes99.
• 
  Windhover
  November 17, 2007
  
  Edit | Reply

  Unfathomable as always

  As ever, gG, this runs deeper and wiser than I can truly fathom. But I sense a valiant effort to express what only the written word may even attempt to, and to grapple with the nature of spirit and the poet's relationship to it. Your usual preoccupation with death and the macabre is more subdued here than usual, but unmistakeable nonetheless. It flows and flits beautifully as always, your subtly changing rhyme scheme evolving effortlessly with your thoughts. Had to wonder about the pic (and whether you are the striker or the stricken!) . Is man's inhumanity to man the the theme, or is the transcending to spirituality through sport what is inferred?
  Whatever, it's great to see your talented pen gracing our site once more. Welcome back! >W<

  . Rewarded 8
• • 
    gnosisonG
    November 19, 2007
    Edit | Reply

    Cheers Windhover.

    For your infinite patience in perusing my unfathomable flights of phantasmagoria. But you show in your comment that you fathom far more than you give yourself credit for, my friend.
    "the nature of spirit and the poet's relationship to it" is of course spot on. I (woefully inadequately) try to put forth the case that a poets words ARE actions and in a poor take on Plato s shadows on the wall model, pose the query: how can things be fathomed without being explained beyond the context of their immediate surroundings?
    The sport pic is merely a symbol of this "Warrior of Chaos in the War against Order" s fight/struggle with himself and everything else.
    Ego and chance dictates that the striker is yours truly participating in the Norwegian Sanshou Championship last month - in a place where words consisted mainly of monosyllabic grunts.
    
    Loftiest regards
    
    gG
• 
  Lad
  November 17, 2007
  
  Edit | Reply
  I venture to say that in a place without words, actions speak louder than death. And your kaleidoscopic poem, Simon, makes me wonder whether poets' finest hours are spent not with words but with actions, staving off dying. Poets act, scribblers do words; what poets do is really more than words; they do the realest of actions. They bring down the rainbow of Universal and Platonic and Brahmanic Forms, like "Becoming" and "Will" and "Truth", and make them live in color, in "flesh". They act out Beauty, even in ugliness.
  
  Your poem, you see, has got me floating in metaphysics (and maybe I need a good ole-fashioned physic for all my arty-farty BS), but when you get down to it, as I think your poem says, it's the poets who really act, whether they're writers or scientists or painters or bricklayers or pugilists (love that pic!) or mothers or dads or rakes: it's the poets who bring the wordless into real life. And that thought has me dazed.
  
  You've plunged deep in this one, Simon, "awake". And it's magnificent.
  
  Lad

  . Rewarded 8
• • 
    gnosisonG
    November 19, 2007
    Edit | Reply

    Astute and Accurate, Lad.

    Thanx for such a prompt and precise interp Lad. I believe you ve pretty much hit the nail on the noggin concerning what my unworthy efforts are attempting to portray, but in addition you ve raised a vital motivation factor for my personal poetic raison d´etre.
    Namely: asserting/discerning the beautific within ugliness through "clothing" phenomena (the result of "actions") with "explanations" or rather appellations which strive to define apparently incongruous and paradoxical events and their physical manifestations aswell as their emotional impact on us.
    The study of chaos and the ineffable cannot be an exact science and therefore poetic intuition in an almost shamanic sense is essential in Quixotic attempts to convey abstract and seemingly abtruse ideas.
    With the sad and tragic dearth of shamanic mentorship in our modern society we must seek myopically, by our own cognizance, to harness methods of understanding by alternate means.
    Whether through lack of formal schooling or quirks of personality I have pursued throughout my entire moderately wasteful life so far, the study of opposite extremes to try and glean a glimpse of a central tenet delineating whichever particular topic is the subject of my flitting fancy.
    To TWIST meaning out of mundane generalisations, though a favourite pastime, will not supply any absolutist answers because as humans with most of our deeper senses lying dormant (asleep) we glimpse but paltry aspects of the essence of things. To comprehend more we must become more than the sum of our parts - we must transcend them.
    Which brings us (in typically meandering fashion) to the central theme here - a poet´s role - a warrior of chaos in the war against order - resolutely facing all the endless perplexing "ugliness" of vexistence - responding with the beauty of the written Word (In the Beginning there was the Word, as a certain controversal fairytale book opens).
    But staring into or teetering upon the edge of The Abyss is a perilous endeavour that brings to mind the old axiom/riddle: What gets bigger, the more you remove from it?
    Which is why poets so often dig themselves into holes they have immense trouble climbing out of. I know I do, constantly.
    Certain philosophies such as hermeticism (superficially comprehended by my wavering faculties) provide lifelines/guides a bit like maps that nonetheless sketch rather than inscribe upon our consciousness "The Territory". Our understanding must come from within ourselves.
    So we sketch/draw on darkness (the unfathomable) to be able to paint thoughts and concepts upon air with our words - we clothe the naked soul - the abstract, the inexplicable.
    But at the same time we draw into ourselves the darkness of the Void we, with considerable hubris, dare to describe whereby varying levels of "madness" ensue as evinced by some of wierd gobbledegook we "paint" heheh.
    Though I continuously strive to recognize the Fool I am (hell who am I kidding, thats easily done!) my ego likes to style my scribbling as that of a poetic puglist fighting his most devastating opponent - himself (what a cliché!). My sword is my quill and vice versa.
    Please excuse this rather roundabout reply Lad with all the """"marks and allow me to express my indebtedness to you dear friend for providing me with an outlet to expostulate my confused thoughts.
    
    My warmest regards
    
    gGod
    
    (oops,blew my cover)
• 
  riveralex
  November 17, 2007
  
  Edit | Reply

  The playful sage...

  scents more than the turkey. Four passes through and still reading. Still getting into it and colour out of it. Best RA

  . Rewarded 4
• • 
    gnosisonG
    December 22, 2007
    Edit | Reply

    Aha!

    Turkey - sage - as in parsley herbs and spices right? Bloody hell, sorry about not replying earlier but I overlooked your witty little comment riveralex. Sage indeed - idiot-savant with MUCH emphasis on the idiot bit I m afraid!
    Warmest greetings to thee and thine this festive season.
    gG
• 
  ladydwarf
  November 17, 2007
  Edit | Reply
  Ouch! this poem was so full of rich symbollism I hurt my head reading.....but read it nonetheless I did captivated by each stanza and unwrapping each line to savor....very interesting work...love the way you summed it up...." Poets dream us
  
  Wide awake."
  
  

  . Rewarded 6
• • 
    gnosisonG
    November 17, 2007
    Edit | Reply

    Cheers ladydwarf!

    Without the suffocating layers of symbolism it would probably have turned out five times lengthier so tis the price to be payed I m afraid.
    Weighty bollox should I believe be submitted in small dosages.
    Thanx again.
    
    gG