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Tis the Nature of the Poetic, Is it's Stature the Noetic?

Posted: Tue Feb 05, 2019 7:14 pm
by Eodnhoj7
Poetry binds a sense of romanticism and classical logic into one where quality is the equation in and of itself, self-evident by the observers where beauty is but a "joining" of things; thus giving witness to not just "sense" but a sensing of this "sense".

The Cold and dry classical understanding of reason, the warm and fluid depth of intuition, burns this pathway of definition unfolding both images; rendering the mind back to a child-like state and everything is brought back to its origins of a dark blank womb, the passive "void" prior to the penetration of impression.

It enables a joining of the good to the evil, form to the shadow of the self, in a jungian sense of the term while following the dialectical course of Hegel stemming from a rational base in Pythagoras.

Lucretius, in the "Nature of Things", took horror of nature and spun it into a vine of reason intent of bringing forth fruits for the intellect to feast.

"The Song of Songs" a romanticism of romanticism, bound by a logic of psychology and the interplay of the masculine and feminine effectively subjectifying the objective interplay of "force" in the Tao Te Ching.

Odin, a projection of the mind's prison as but a wanderer and madman, brought forth division and war using the bar's of poetry as measuring rods through from which which the weary rest upon as a staff, and the hunter as a spear.


So with all due intent, of which of am currently all but spent,
I present a diatribe to change the philosophical vibe;
a change in course I guess you can say, about reason's "way".
A battle of beauty over the nature of futility.
Dry philosophical horror will not be tolerated, only artistry to be belated.

Of this I will begin,
weighted under the intention to all but cruelly win:



To pick up a rose is to bleed,
and cut oneself off from beauty
curving itself by a beautiful loss.

A finger pricked is the first lead,
towards a path of futility,
concealed by a futile cross.

The blood is but the soul's reed,
swaying gently in a hand's winding flurry,
a hidden fury, subtle.

A print of the finger but a blossoming beed,
the rose a passive impression,
Red, a mirror to impress.

A warning of garnet, sown as a seed,
the crystalization of two bloods as one
a simple gesture left undone.

Oh, the fading of beauty, a quiet need
for a season of winter in the mind of a children,
but this sacrifice is the child.

How much more is the rose to bleed,
through the hands of intention?
Was all of this ever really my intent?