Poetically Intangible

There are endless angles of thought that are explorable and unlimited. The thing in itself stands alone, whilst many times we poke and prod it into something it has not yet become, we bring forth a new angle in which to view a particular thing, and so the simplicity cascades into the complexity, becoming entwined into layers of stretchable interpretations, and we decide on the ones to stretch, explore and pour our beliefs or scepticism into, thus living through our will by chosing the determinations of thoughtforms, breathing the air into the meaning of our own life. In another sense it has already existed before, what we bring forth has been bought forth before, perhaps just in different ways and as the saying goes there is nothing new under the sun, so then is art and the imagination the only original and truly individual things that we harbour? Perhaps we are just individualised interpretations of what things are and our actions “now” dictate what they are yet to become. The mind such an anomaly that it uses itself to try and understand itself, we have no solid conclusions or evidence because of its unobtainable tangibility, and this type of curiosity has the ability to kill the "cat" so to speak, but if balanced, it can also revive you back to life.

In a sense we are all in the same sphere of thinking, the only difference is the differences of the threshold within the individual. Some live through a narrow lens or have limited thinking capacity, have a very concrete belief system and a mindset that shifts very little, but few have a wide kaleidoscope, where they are able to shift and change as new information is bought forth and being able to use their own discernment.

One thought thread in itself can be an endless rotation of differential understandings. The threads of thought have threads within themselves, like splitting hairs of continuous thoughts, overlapping, weaving into one another, one topic leads to another, and so the web of infinite topics and information weaves itself into our awareness, silking over the web between the dualities of the patterns created by our own mind. Fine little sprouts splinter off with each passing thought, we decide if they grow or if they die. There’s so much of everything inside of everything, and so the complexities arise, the singular self in the centre watches with endless angles but stands alone and solid with itself, scooping the fragmented pieces and using them for decoration on its body of stillness. Directions with corresponding experience’s and expressions exist in each angle, the world a smorgasbord of infinite interpretations of the singular, extrapolating them into the complexities we see in the world.

When you’ve twisted and hung your mind out to dry, the water that drips from your mind soaks into the dementia from the past. The mind anew seeks for current knowing’s that will be the fragments of future amnesia. The mind just holds the palate of colours, we are the painters but also the painted. The poet just stumbles across many dark valleys and light filled mountains within his very own psyche, which is a finding of internal mirrors, he sees his reflection by turning himself inside out, walking in slow motion through the greatest maze ever known to man, the maze of infinite mirrors which echo’s back what he already knows, seeing gore and filth as a treasure to alchemize and beauty as a melancholy tragedy that he pulls inwards to inhale the poetic gems that he breathes into his life. The connection bringing him to his knees in euphoric pain, forming puddles of imperfected beauty with his tears that were created through the agony of the swords that pierced his soul. His laughter produced by darkness and his pain anchored by light. He knows that nature compels.. desire drives, passion grips, anger takes hostages, humour lightens, depression deprives, happiness hopes, wonder amazes, contemplation ignites, imagination conceives, subjectivity perceives and truth reveals. So he retreats to the stillness and goes onto manifest the inner knowing’s into outer material knowing’s. He hopes to bring the intangible to the surface, to dissect and inspect and to comprehend it through language. He knows of nothing certain, but can see it and feel it, he chisels away at the edges to create the cave for the pipeline between his outer world and inner world, both becoming more demanding as he gets pulled in and out, never being sure about anything as his mind spins on the axis of interchanging states of mind, asking himself a question for each other question that arises.

The only difference between a poet and a non-poetic person is that he tries to understand himself and expresses the passion and desire through sublime art, at the same time the art expresses itself through him. Every human has the capacity for the same findings as the poet, it’s just that most never have an interest in knowing themselves. The overlapping of complexities within any one thing make it difficult for many to see reality how it actually is, with poetic metaphor the poet can pierce through the complexities and slice it back to the singular, like a floating blanket hovering over the complete story, and gracefully landing onto the heart of those truths.

The higher plane of poetry reigns supreme to the senses, contriving and condensing, extending and deflating, playing catch and release with the mind. Although the poetry reigns supreme to the senses, its only in a sense, as the poets’ other sense's can in fact lead him towards the very poetry he creates, and the poetry then must inject itself back through his senses creating a feeling, a knowing, it is supreme in the sense that it is a unifier of connection, a messenger of a deeper truth that dwells within, perhaps it is an infinite loop where the poetic relationship rotates from the inner to the outer and back again, and where it stands still in the background forever making a silent noise.

And finally he knows that there is no higher order than truth and truth then must be love, and love must be truth.

Whatever happened to real poetry, from that mystical mysterious core, the depth of true spirit/core/self?.. infusing itself through “poetic means” poetry?

~Leya Hunter.