Do Words Describe Themselves?

Hi, again. I am sorry that I haven't posted in more than a week. (The amount of time between successive posts to this blog is getting bigger and bigger, if you haven't noticed.) I should say that if you are craving some poetry (or computer art), but I haven't posted in a while, then go back and read some of my older posts. I have posted 50-60 posts to this poetry blog, as of now.

Today's theme: Poetry and poems. (No computer art, though.)


Some poetry about poetry:
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A Haiku Of Nearly A Million Words
-----------------------------------

Drawn upon the sky
Was a haiku of almost
One million sad words.


Upon the sky I drew
A haiku of nearly a million words.
But yet only one metaphor was remembered; and
Yet the ghosts stared upwards onto surreal night.
Yes. Of geometry, of each dimension, of imagination
Always imprecise -- I was conscious of this verse
Hewn from rotation and stagnation,
Cut from dichotomy and solitude surely
Perceived in this hallucination of everything.

Ah, upon the sky I drew
Atoms of epitome and wonder.
And, still, my vowels became my verbs, became
The poetry without antagonism or amnesia. For,
Phonemes sketched inside me, oh, they demanded
I write of their pronunciation. But, alas, these
Wings of my fingertips, they took the pen, and
Then I was conjugated; then I was haphazard
And literal. But never was I strained by
Any such curious allegory coarsely comprehended.

+++++++++

A Poem Aloft And Forgone
-------------------------

In those dreams, in my dreams of her, I presumed
To write this forgotten poem. And I might
Have woken to draw again the words. But such
Was false. Those verbs and nouns and
Tender adjectives failed me and my senility.

Oh, I told her the parables of un-described and
Indescribable verse. But she retreated to her intellect.
She spoke of the substance of my mathematics. She
Spoke of tangled truth coiled anew in polyhedra.
And then I grasped her beauty, and I kissed
Her imagined mouth, a tangential nexus once puckered.
Then the pleasure unknown to my reality
Overcame us both. And I recited the poem
That is now aloft and forgone. I recited
The tragedy of solitude, the tragedy of concealment
Soon denied, soon to be depicted and questionable.

============

Of Such Purple And Words
-----------------------------------

She was so the angel perfect
Caught within the maze an abacus.
I know, yes, I have written previously
Of such purple and words.
But the powers of good desire
My rotation upon the inside
Of a spiral mandala illuminated.
Okay.
She was every circle without center,
Without circumference or emotion.
And caught among our world,
A game of cobwebs
And unwoven silk,
We knew nothingness,
And still we slept again.
Again we read this poem
While time-travelling to the present,
This poem of madness benign,
This poem of purple, of words.

..............................

A Poem Made
------------------

This poem contains not a soul,
Possesses not an essence,
Does not equal meaning aside from its words
Combined and arranged
In an unexpectedly simple sequence
Falsely of the patterns
Plaid, square, circular, and curved,
Falsely triangular and hexagonal,
Truly just of an edge
(Its own encompassing),
Truly an edge which is ours,
An edge yet never defining any more
Than this unspectacular poem,
A poem made and written so as to only justify
My seeming intellect
Waking, woken, and resisting,
Resisting the returning night.
(For night,
It shuns such composition.
And day,
It only writes again
What has already been recreated.)


********************

Mind Knot
-------------

My mind is intertwined in cliches of its own construction,
All incredible laziness and pseudo-beauty.
No thoughts can overcome this malaise.
No dreams occur when I’m awake,
Yet my awake soul is caught in a dream.
And the tangle has permanently trapped me;
And I think that maybe I can use anger at myself
To cut myself free.
Maybe poetry will severe the bonds.
But I am only entangled more
By those cliches and that laziness.
For it seems that my only escape
Is the spontaneous pair-production of the opposites
Of creativity and wisdom.
Will this universe ever save me?
Or will it suffocate my mind
In this knot of consciousness?

oooooooooooo

Implode As Words
-------------------------

The maze itself (yes, you have seen such
As these paths written {and equal to}
Their unproven conjecture), it contained
Myself and never another. But again it is
Vacant, is so empty a game, so much a riddle
Told relating to its answer, a
Phrase implied by these antecedents
Returning to be defined by only this
Single hypothesis which I have endured.

For these unexpected revelations, these
Deities of numbers, these flat and curved
Points, they are themselves and within
The poem of colors incongruous; they
Each implode as words of my introspection,
Each impose nothingness into every verse
Of poetry only beheld as paths in conscious mazes,
In my very consciousness
Unaware of its corridors.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Poetry Arrogant And Unjust
----------------------------------

It is just this one obstructed
And obscenely-unfocused word,
This blurred and eclipsed phrase
Superimposed with itself ...within
Its indeterminate sphere, existing
Always inside this which it is:
The poetry arrogant and unjust and
Angering (as it is too its anger) and
Unpurposed and seemingly fantastic --
For its bombast is cliche. But
It is somehow still the spawn of:
No ancestor nor predecessor, of
The loop itself created
From creation entwined
With its perfect, its absolute, oneness.

##############

Unexpressed And Blank
-------------------------------

This might had been the final poem,
Whether written or only indirectly implied,
If only my hatred was the truest solution,
If but my salvation was, were the questions
Themselves, the questions themselves asked,
Focused only into their inward centers,
Into my ignorant, my insignificant, existence.

And, alas, as I, this poem is simply trivial,
Is too unoriginal and unspectacular
To be any more than
Of words never defined,
Of words found exclusively in dictionaries
Consisting entirely of crumpled pages
All unexpressed and blank.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

(I don't really like this next one. But it certainly is on-topic.)

Poetry
-----

Poetry of circles and grids
And numbers and logic
And rhetoric and punditry
And exploration and deception
And spirituality and magic
And insanity and psychosis
And dreams and the soul
And understanding and meaning
And meaninglessness and oblivion
And fate and collapse
And fear and anger
And hate and love
And poetry itself.

()()()()()()(())())()(()()

Mumbled Scrawl
----------------------

One short poem written: had this
Mumbled scrawl aspired to achieve
As its soul, as its self-awareness.

For it had longed to finally be
Created. And
So its very truth was found
Among my mind's hideousness and
Loveliness. But, as sadly seen,
As I did know would be this fatefully
Uncertain (yet inevitable) conclusion,
It had failed
To be anything but another obscured and
Insignificant particle of simple emotions,
Of once-beloved beliefs now
Not to ever again be worthy of analysis.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Poetry Askew
-----------------

Each of our enshadowed souls
Has a poem to guide it somehow, a poem
Sometimes cliche, sometimes brilliant,
Sometimes ranting and bizarre.
And it speaks to every and each
As an angel, as a schizophrenic hallucination.
And it guides us to the abyss
Or to enlightenment or to triviality,
Triviality amused.

And if we dare write this poem ourselves,
Rather than let conformity write it for us,
We will be chastised and resented,
Misjudged and misunderstood.
And if we let society’s stupidity, however,
Place the words within our book,
We will gain esteem, love, money,
And a false sense of truth.

So it is to be expected, it would seem,
That the masses all recite the same poem
Using the same voice.
And who would dare question such a voice?

So it is to be expected that I, that I
Would live to the melody of those
Most strange and convoluted
And confusing words,
That poetry askew, so wondrously askew.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

Somewhere Among The Text
-----------------------------------

From beneath the haze,
From beneath the tired sleep woken from,
Not yet completed,
Comes imagination inspired by dreams fading,
Inspired by cliches imposed
Upon myself by myself, by the sum total
Of all realities conceived.
And my pencil dulls as I write,
Dulls as my poetry itself.
For the point is becoming lost
Somewhere in pasts once remembered,
Now feared.
And how I would love to believe
That the shape of my soul has been imprinted
Somewhere among the text I have spoken.
But the final awakening has whispered
Unto my once-shut eyes
That I have been begotten out of the zeitgeist,
Just as every other pitiful slug of humanity,
Every other soulless amorphous fool.

///////////////////


Utterance
-----------

Utter the sounds of spite,
The phonemes arranged upon the glass.
Speak the scribbles, the aural tangles
Of lines and crayon and squiggles
And hues never perfectly earth-tone.
Retort, orate to the sickening masses.
Tell them stories of paradise.
Tell them poems of paradox,
Poems of a darkness so dim,
So black as to glow in florescence.
Shout truths figured out long ago
On the crowded page of a shredded notebook.
Scream your proud anger to the electric stars,
To the swarm of idiots, plugging their ears,
Attempting to hide their incorrect views
Of a sad sad world, hide them from
Your counter-intuitive pleasures
And your insanity manifesto.
Whisper, whisper so softly as to destroy
Those walls of Jerico with the song,
The song of a youth long past
And of a frustrated soul
Not yet able to answer
Its own prayers.
Pray, pray to a mortal god, a god
Of solace and pity,
A god you only just recently
Have scribbled upon that remarkable page.

[][][][][[[[[]]]]]][][][][][[]

Generic Poem
------------
In the something of the something weird,
I gaze upon the something
And know it is just something else.
The somethings of the something
Do something to my somethings.
And I realize, the somethings
Are just something elses.

--Quet


@@@@@@@@@@@@@


The Last Poem Spoken
----------------------------

The last thought written into paper
And matter condensed into simplicity;
The last poem spoken, the last spell
Cast; before our destruction and
The annihilation of every virtue
Once dear, it was a thought
Unimaginably pleasant, unattainable
Now from within this pain and blackness.
It was a prayer for enlightenment,
A celebration of understanding
Finally achieved.

But now all is only misunderstood,
Only begotten out of the gods
Of deception. Now all is only lament.

And still we hunger, yes, but
Only for war and mass-murder
And our encaging within
Such bigotry and desires for our
Very own repression, within that
Which is hidden, unexplored prior,
And now erasing that last poem
From every book burning.


---

Thanks,
Leroy Quet