deepundergroundpoetry.com
Making Sense
Elegantly handsome
sentences
formulate
a specific point
of view
that culminates
in a universal
understanding
that can be shared
with everyone else,
whereas vague
and cryptic sentences
that leave the reader
scratching his head
as to what could
possibly
have been meant
become, in the end,
merely gibberish.
We are charged
with the duty
to bring
the words to life
and give them every hope
of making their way
into the pantheon
of intelligible statements
so that our legacy
is not an easy task accomplished
but rather a difficult
and demanding search
has been completed,
the search for meaning
in an otherwise
chaotic world
of abstractions
and idiosyncratic thoughts
that remain lost
in the minds
of mad genius.
runningturtle87
sentences
formulate
a specific point
of view
that culminates
in a universal
understanding
that can be shared
with everyone else,
whereas vague
and cryptic sentences
that leave the reader
scratching his head
as to what could
possibly
have been meant
become, in the end,
merely gibberish.
We are charged
with the duty
to bring
the words to life
and give them every hope
of making their way
into the pantheon
of intelligible statements
so that our legacy
is not an easy task accomplished
but rather a difficult
and demanding search
has been completed,
the search for meaning
in an otherwise
chaotic world
of abstractions
and idiosyncratic thoughts
that remain lost
in the minds
of mad genius.
runningturtle87
Published 7th Dec 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 4
reading list entries 1
comments 17
reads 897
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
Anonymous
7th Dec 2012 1:24am
<< post removed >>
7th Dec 2012 1:48am
7th Dec 2012 2:13am
:)
That line of understanding between the writer, and the reader is an interesting line indeed isn't it ?
Enjoyed reading this :)
That line of understanding between the writer, and the reader is an interesting line indeed isn't it ?
Enjoyed reading this :)
7th Dec 2012 2:29am
It seems to me to be a relationship, like lovers...and we need to be able to read the needs and satisfy....not merely meet our own needs....MaggieG.
7th Dec 2012 2:36am
Yes indeed, give and take. Be true to yourself, and as encompassing as possible with the reader as well :)
7th Dec 2012 4:15am
I rather see the path to real intimacy as our coming to know the reader as ourselves, and so to know ourselves truly is a pre-requisite for knowing the reader as self, MaggieG., and thus the true value of reflection. Introspection is trans-dimensional in nature, as are empathy and compassion.
7th Dec 2012 4:23am
Hmmmm
You have peeked my curiosity. :) Give me an example of a writer that does that for you please ?
You have peeked my curiosity. :) Give me an example of a writer that does that for you please ?
7th Dec 2012 4:32am
The Descent
by William Carlos Williams
The descent beckons
as the ascent beckoned.
Memory is a kind
of accomplishment,
a sort of renewal
even
an initiation, since the spaces it opens are new places
inhabited by hordes
heretofore unrealized,
of new kinds—
since their movements
are toward new objectives
(even though formerly they were abandoned).
No defeat is made up entirely of defeat—since
the world it opens is always a place
formerly
unsuspected. A
world lost,
a world unsuspected,
beckons to new places
and no whiteness (lost) is so white as the memory
of whiteness .
With evening, love wakens
though its shadows
which are alive by reason
of the sun shining—
grow sleepy now and drop away
from desire .
Love without shadows stirs now
beginning to awaken
as night
advances.
The descent
made up of despairs
and without accomplishment
realizes a new awakening:
which is a reversal
of despair.
For what we cannot accomplish, what
is denied to love,
what we have lost in the anticipation—
a descent follows,
endless and indestructible .
by William Carlos Williams
The descent beckons
as the ascent beckoned.
Memory is a kind
of accomplishment,
a sort of renewal
even
an initiation, since the spaces it opens are new places
inhabited by hordes
heretofore unrealized,
of new kinds—
since their movements
are toward new objectives
(even though formerly they were abandoned).
No defeat is made up entirely of defeat—since
the world it opens is always a place
formerly
unsuspected. A
world lost,
a world unsuspected,
beckons to new places
and no whiteness (lost) is so white as the memory
of whiteness .
With evening, love wakens
though its shadows
which are alive by reason
of the sun shining—
grow sleepy now and drop away
from desire .
Love without shadows stirs now
beginning to awaken
as night
advances.
The descent
made up of despairs
and without accomplishment
realizes a new awakening:
which is a reversal
of despair.
For what we cannot accomplish, what
is denied to love,
what we have lost in the anticipation—
a descent follows,
endless and indestructible .
7th Dec 2012 4:36am
Waxwings
Four Tao philosophers as cedar waxwings
chat on a February berry bush
in sun, and I am one.
Such merriment and such sobriety--
the small wild fruit on the tall stalk--
was this not always my true style?
Above an elegance of snow, beneath
a silk-blue sky a brotherhood of four
birds. Can you mistake us?
To sun, to feast, and to converse
and all together--for this I have abandoned
all my other lives.
Robert Francis
Four Tao philosophers as cedar waxwings
chat on a February berry bush
in sun, and I am one.
Such merriment and such sobriety--
the small wild fruit on the tall stalk--
was this not always my true style?
Above an elegance of snow, beneath
a silk-blue sky a brotherhood of four
birds. Can you mistake us?
To sun, to feast, and to converse
and all together--for this I have abandoned
all my other lives.
Robert Francis
7th Dec 2012 4:50am
Here is the one that has always done it for me,
The Excrement Poem
by Maxine Kumin 1978
It is done by us all, as God disposes, from
the least cast of worm to what must have been
in the case of the brontosaur, say, spoor
of considerable heft, something awesome.
We eat, we evacuate, survivors that we are.
I think these things each morning with shovel
and rake, drawing the risen brown buns
toward me, fresh from the horse oven, as it were,
or culling the alfalfa-green ones, expelled
in a state of ooze, through the sawdust bed
to take a serviceable form, as putty does,
so as to lift out entire from the stall.
And wheeling to it, storming up the slope,
I think of the angle of repose the manure
pile assumes, how sparrows come to pick
the redelivered grain, how inky-cap
coprinus mushrooms spring up in a downpour.
I think of what drops from us and must then
be moved to make way for the next and next.
However much we stain the world, spatter
it with our leavings, make stenches, defile
the great formal oceans with what leaks down,
trundling off today's last barrowful,
I honor shit for saying: We go on.
The Excrement Poem
by Maxine Kumin 1978
It is done by us all, as God disposes, from
the least cast of worm to what must have been
in the case of the brontosaur, say, spoor
of considerable heft, something awesome.
We eat, we evacuate, survivors that we are.
I think these things each morning with shovel
and rake, drawing the risen brown buns
toward me, fresh from the horse oven, as it were,
or culling the alfalfa-green ones, expelled
in a state of ooze, through the sawdust bed
to take a serviceable form, as putty does,
so as to lift out entire from the stall.
And wheeling to it, storming up the slope,
I think of the angle of repose the manure
pile assumes, how sparrows come to pick
the redelivered grain, how inky-cap
coprinus mushrooms spring up in a downpour.
I think of what drops from us and must then
be moved to make way for the next and next.
However much we stain the world, spatter
it with our leavings, make stenches, defile
the great formal oceans with what leaks down,
trundling off today's last barrowful,
I honor shit for saying: We go on.
7th Dec 2012 5:11am
Yes, it is as you say here, the most basic and fundamental of all notions....momentum, propelled by the inertia of the organic. It is in our nature to meld into our own, the tar pits, the oil fields, the mass cities of anonymity. And yet, naming it, it both disappears and is given station and oblivion. We are the sparks that together firefly the evening of a single moment, tracers of a pattern that can only be caught in flight by the eyes of those who do not blink to squabble about why we are here.
7th Dec 2012 2:18pm
*smiles*
I rarely give thought to the why. No reason to really. It is not like you are gonna change it. I have always loved that poem because Ms. Kumin found dignity in our less than dignified side, showing in my opinion that it is all necessary.
I rarely give thought to the why. No reason to really. It is not like you are gonna change it. I have always loved that poem because Ms. Kumin found dignity in our less than dignified side, showing in my opinion that it is all necessary.
7th Dec 2012 4:00pm
And I love that about your work...what is point of being anywhere but here? In the forums I sometimes wonder about my own rubber necking....I could be writing poetry...and we've had this conversation and shared....and been right here. Thanks
7th Dec 2012 2:51am
Do you know that I had almost this conversations with one of my most favorite persons, and we were talking philosophy. I think I said something like... writing is like a form, you know? It's like magic, or witchcraft, that you can transfer an IDEA, a THOUGHT, an IMAGE, an EMOTION from one mind to... any... it's stunning when you think of it. Really. Just stunning.
Your first half of the first stz, points that out. Then you warn of the folly of not doing so. Then you charge the world? That's ballsy. Charge the world of writers to write clear, bring the idea to life.
That, my friend, is freaking cool. Liked it.
B
Your first half of the first stz, points that out. Then you warn of the folly of not doing so. Then you charge the world? That's ballsy. Charge the world of writers to write clear, bring the idea to life.
That, my friend, is freaking cool. Liked it.
B
7th Dec 2012 4:22am
Thank you, Betty, for your thoughtfulness. My thesis is that emotions are pre-formative of thoughts. We feel our way, and thoughts are the rationalizations of those feelings. In this way, thoughts reveal feelings, but no amount of reasoning can change an emotion. The imprinting process is a direct perception, however ill formed, and can only be overwritten by a more powerful emotion: Trust. It is thus our job to win trust. This is interactive and personal.
13th Dec 2012 2:56am
This is inspiration for writers, a reminder that if you post or publish in hopes of your material being read and felt by other souls. It first has to be understandable. In my opinion the three tools that makes us human are our mental capacity (brains/minds/psche/reasoning/creativity/curiosity), our hands (literally thumbs are a blessing), and our language. Miscommunication and lack of understanding is the cause of most human conflict, even disagreements are some form of miscommunication unless the ideas are polar opposites. "Whew" im done rambling you've already said it in the poem and more. Keep doing what you do RT, you are the Yoda of DU. The Yoda of DU, you are.
13th Dec 2012 3:46am
Welcomed I feel, and supportive you are...writing more poems I will be doing...
