A little collection of poetic and philosophic contemplations..



I thought I would share some of my ramblings from various poetical and philosophical thoughts I have jotted down over the past few years. I always second guess sharing my writing as I need to make sure I'm sharing it for the right reasons, so as I have sat on these writings for years I decided it was time to put them out into the universe, as I have come to know that Art should be shared, as Art (which always deserves a capital A in my world) is like that of a certain magic, it uplifts, it transcends, it heals, it unifies, it allows us space to contemplate, to wonder, to imagine, to live simultaneously with infinite possibilities, to shrink our material world and enlarge our inner visions, to slice open our hearts and set fire to our neurons and to awaken that which is dormant, and perhaps above all ensures our individuality remains when most other things in the world are becoming synthetic.

I like to think of writing as firstly something you do because a force unknown to us has decided to wiggle its body of knowledge and experience out of fk knows where (soul, spirit, the divine? I will never know, but I do know it feels like something otherworldly) and inject itself out onto paper through automatic writing. Although for it to make sense sometimes the editing process is necessary much to the horror of the metaphysical but to the delight of the intellect and rational mind. I struggle with any of my writing being final as there is rarely any ending to what I say, rarely any solid conclusions, and in a sense there is never an ending to who we are, change is constantly swooping us in its whirlpool of differences and endless directions, therefore we can never really know ourselves with much certainty. One thing I know is that Art will always invoke unlimited creation from presumably the spirit and flow through the flesh and out into the cosmos, which hopefully can spiral into the minds of others in an individualised way to achieve changes in consciousness for the better. I could ramble on forever but for now I'll just post my other ramblings..

My Ramblings,

There is a whole other world available to the poet. Their need for observation is like a survival instinct, it is as important as the air inside a pair of lungs, in which they listen to expand and deflate in harmony with each other. The poet watches the rise and fall of the chest, the movement of feet synchronising with each step amongst the pavement, the smirk of emotion upon the faces of transparency, the smile on the masks of deception, the raised eyebrows of suspicion, the lips that tremble with trepidation, the sparkle in the eyes of innocence, the light that bounces off crystal glassware and into the retina of perception, the enchantment of fear amongst the forest of pines, the façade of a manicured garden, the rustic pathways made from the footsteps of truth, the birds that weave patterns through the dance of freedom, the childlike puppy that needs comfort through adoration, the patchwork quilt that tears at the seams of its own material, the moonlit sky that enhances our curiosity towards it, the light from the ambiance of the sun transmuting our skin into layers of translucency, the flower that reflects the geometry of existence, the windchime that sways to the breath of god. They tend to notice it all, and walk with their senses wide open amongst atoms made of miracles entwined with the nucleus of eternity.

The taste of raindrops upon the tongue of the drought stricken mind,

The smell of roses upon the scentless nose,

The sight of the sun upon the dark night,

The feel of love upon the empty,

The knowing of itself.

Sometimes poetry feels like a pocket of air, like the soul has condensed itself in vapour form in a small crevice, upon expansion it slowly or sometimes even like lightening breezes past the mind and gently lays itself down onto paper, almost like it completely bypasses the intellect, at the same time using the basic function of the brain to filter the symbols into creation.

We will come to know when the mind has been split, cut and tasted in a hundred different ways, when the contradictions inside shake hands and mingle, when all that remains is the ash from the fire that once housed the sanity, when the persona wrestles with the undressing of the layers of deception, we will come to unknow the known.

Streaming into the past of antiquity we touch the relics of remembrance and weave them into the present to ignite waves of awakenings, and In the knowing there is a an undeniable unknowing.

I stand in the whispers of my melancholic chamber where my mind performs symbiotic twirls until the divergence appears separate through the logic of reality.

Through the archives of the mind we swipe left then right and enter into forgotten worlds where the remains of memories are resting. Our very awareness of them resuscitating them back to life and becoming reborn into a new lens of various magnified interpretations. We continue along the lines of remembrance, stringing the meanings back together in new ways, and as we walk the tight rope of inspection we turn back to see reflections of identity unknown. We collect samples of prior lessons to shine them in the face of future reflections.

Ingesting fragments of validation through vulnerability opens the door for manipulation, it lingers because of our unawareness, testing our resistance to psychic invasion, leaving the mind bleeding in confusion, the condensation from the silent attack fogging the vision of purity, it feeds off the wound impaling its parasitic tentacles into the flesh of the dying innocence, discarding its host without morale, awaiting its next feed in the shadows of its own façade, perhaps the turmoil of inner neglect forever chases affirmation through the false validity of outside confirmation.

The mystic poet meets himself beyond the lines of questions and answers, to dance with the propulsion of the unknowing of any truths, whilst inversely singing beside them in harmony.

The simplicity cascades into the complexity of a thing, becoming entwined into layers of stretchable interpretations, and we decide on the one's to stretch, explore and pour our beliefs or scepticisms’ into, thus living through our chosen determinations of thoughtforms, breathing the air into the meaning of our own life. Perhaps we are just individualised interpretations of what things are and our actions now dictate what they are yet to become.

It comes from somewhere I can’t see with my eyes, I see within not without, something weaving, creating the pattern that my fingers type, it types through my fingers only to contend with the logic of my intellectual understandings. The line that boarders my sanity is crossed when the conversation of logic has run dry and no longer makes sense to the powerless form of fragmented data.

My body content, my mind restless,

The air of the mind blows too fast to catch itself sometimes,

The fingers working over time to keep up with the paceless soul,

The breeze gentle, the temperature non-existent,

The symbols free, the dialogue translated,

The dark room lightened only by the awareness of the eye that exists to see itself.

Some people base their self-belief through the perceptions of others, and live through the projections which are not their own.

Sometimes I know before I know,

The knowing waits for my awareness of it then presents itself as the knowledge,

And in the unknowing of how I already knew,

I know there is something more.

Love is but a mystery, a meeting of yourself, in a certain place, in a certain time, in a certain realm, yet none of it certain, it is a reflection upon the deepest parts we have met and a recognition of that in another, a relational space to mingle and breathe soul into.

Things are not always what they seem,

To scratch the surface and reveal the hidden meanings we must first slide down many paths to disregard the things they are not,

Uncovering layers of overlapping subjective truth,

Tending to align with one when our individualised interpretation blends with our intuition and logic, but sometimes our strongest beliefs override logic and reason, which is why we often become best friends with confirmation bias.

The stillness of the air pandering the movement of time,

The reservoir engulfing the beauty of itself,

The encatchment of debris splitting into fragments and becoming unified only by the passage of truth.

I arose with the sun,

The light striking hope in line with the position of my eye,

The morning frost held sparkles of descent,

The melting ice forming puddles of former creations,

Bound to its existence by reincarnating into its later particles of translucent sequences of connection.

Inspiration is like igniting sparks towards the light of spirt, the embers capturing and anesthetising parts of the restless mind, placing the self inside of rested poetry before the mundane knocks at the door of practicalities and the soul is sent back to its silent resting position, until the knocking begins again.

As the moon seeps through our wounds of remembrance, the sun waits under the horizon of our awareness laughing in proportion to the size of its opposite, and as the sun rises it radiates through our happiness made of amnesia, turning the wounds into scars.

The truth sits on the foundation of itself needing nothing more or less than itself, whilst the lie sits on a crumbling facade that uses temporary mortar, having to force its persuasion of theatrics in hopes that the tricks used will be enough to hold the lie together. The manipulation is generally won upon those whom are happy to live amongst the vines of denial and bathe in the man-made utopia of convenience whilst being spoon fed desires that don't even belong to them. What we see in the world is a complete set up of the greatest circus known to man, running on ages old theatrics, continuously pasting that mortar time and time again, creating the appearance of solidity whilst harbouring the fragile undercoat of the lie that dwells inside the crumbling foundation.

If not in the depths then where?

For the shallow holds nothing of substance.

The very things that float on the surface mainly consist of nothing, how else could they float?

For things floating on the surface fade quickly and wash up stranded.

In the depths you will find all of the treasures buried in the shadows.

The hidden worlds of lost and boundless time, the hidden worlds of our greatest asset lives in the bottomless sea between us and infinity, the Imagination.

If indeed it is true we are living in an upside down world, then insanity amongst those driving towards truth and living within the mazes of mystery must be sane in the worlds where things are upright.

When the poetry overrides the circumference of the human before it, we are sentenced to a certain kind of death and renewed anew into the world.

Writing is like a dream within a dream, sometimes dreaming about the bittersweet beauty of it all, sometimes it is an awakening, a realisation, sometimes it is imaginative fantasy, but most of all it’s like the soul bypasses the intellect and leaves droplets of purity in the form of words just so we can materialise the meaning of the soul into the world of humans.

The canvas of the soul paints itself deeper into existence through the endless strokes of exploration and experience.

The shades of colours dependant on the state of mind, a colourful picture doesn’t mean darker shades do not exist, they simply reserve them for a different painting, sometimes intertwining polar shades together before collapsing the picture back to neutral. Injecting the picture with images of perceptive reasoning, translating the symbols into projected materialism.

Solitude is where the mood of your will is satisfied, authentic and uninterrupted. The intersection of moods amongst other individuals makes it almost impossible to keep the will of our mood in succession. Moods amongst others moods fluctuate in accordance within many complexities, it is in solitude where a being truly discovers the self and lives according to their own demands and authentication, their mood stable and genuine, their appetite for freedom grows as they learn the truest of freedoms is held in the chambers of their own authority.

For now there is a mountain filled with the numb crevices of time gone by, upon the dusty shelves sit the numb images, I pick up a collection of the dark, dust them off and turn the images into words. My poetry a reminder of history in still motion, a nostalgic sensation of past events revived into new meanings, snapshot through the lens of my memory, frozen inside tense. Startled by the realisation, shocked back to life, and reborn through the tunnel of death.

The fragmentation of ones disunion proceeds behind the curtain of chaos, vibrating relentlessly inside the eardrums of the tone-deaf.

Playing on the edge of curiosity I observe myself as a continuous stream of interchanging states of mind.

Falling through tunnels of belief systems, watching the projections of my perceptions flash inside the kaleidoscope of thought forms until wiping the lens clean.

I come to a halt and dismantle the previously held beliefs, but new ones await my arrival and once my awareness accepts them as a truth they will sit on the throne of the newly appointed “beliefs in charge” and direct life according to the rules of behaviour.

Man's mind is like a mutable vortex, spinning on the axis of interchangeable states of mind, to run it as though it is a fixed format doesn't leave much room for error without denouncing it is the world that is always wrong.

Show me a rainbow of colours bouncing off a crystal vase and into your retina of perception, show me the stars when the smoke of the day has lifted and met with the clouds, show me the fire in your stomach that sustains your passions, show me the trees that spark your curiosity, show me the afternoon sun as it bathes in the depths of the ocean, show me the moonlit vapour when the night is cold, show me the mirror with the reflection of a sideway glance,

Show me the chandelier that dances between light and shadow,

Show me a calm frosty morning in the country side so I can freeze the moment in time, show me the original ink from the grip of an epic philosopher so I can engrave the memories of sublime thinking,

Show me the mosaic sheets of glass that glimmer despite being crushed, show me the mesmerisation that twinkles in the eyes of a moment in profundity, show me the adhesive of the soul so I can rip off the dusty sealant, show me the depths of the mind so I can pull up a chair, show me the house that encases intrigue and wonder so I can wrap sheets of silk around the porch and stare at the stars until daylight, show me the birds that fly in spite of broken wings, show me grains of white sand under a microscope so I can dissect a billion particles and collapse a whole universe in the palm of my hand, show me the bees' that exist in the beauty of a flower saving the world one pollination at a time, show me the path that was made from the footsteps of truth, show me a tree branch that holds a thousand scars made from the splinters of awareness, show me a world of Art where the poet is safe to release the findings of their heart and soul.. Show me a world of philosophers where the universe and its workings are in harmony with the poetic soul, where self-responsibility and self-reflection are made mandatory to survive..

~Leya Hunter.