pretending to be writing in time, when actually we’re inventing time. one dimension writing forces the reader to necessarily accept the writer’s limitations, to go along with what the writer presents as reality. a grocery list or a novel works just this way.
poetryandpoet 
“inventing time” — is like placing markers in space, space defined by those markers… somewhere between this space and time the reader/poet decorates with images. how do the images deform from their first presentation to fit into the new dimension…?
‘dimensionality’ is always an illusion — you can’t be in two places at once, it’s always an interleaving jump across the boundaries. But, that being said ( and so astutely, i’m sure, ) what is an ‘illusion’?
isn’t an illusion the mind-space itself, the standing wave drawing energy through your body in the form of images?
it’s the plight of the unbelonging to be longing to belong,
bent before their vulnerability, they’re often overwhelmed
and underunderstood, conflicted,
their wounds are open-wide, only to let the light inside …
it’s the plight of the unbelonging to be longing to belong;
bent before their vulnerability,
they’re innocent victims like you and me,
lost between infinite-Love and “I’m not worthy”
the Poet is a burnt-ember constantly remembering fire …
a wounded-feeler wrong-headed in the write direction:
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” – Rumi
”There’s a crack, a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in…” — Leonard Cohen
fuck that. what’s the conscious illusion which we make to make a poem? we’re not so stupid that we actually lose words when we write: we control them. it’s like a dance, where each move can match each music but not exist at the same time.
you make it seem like poets fart roses, they’re so pure. i think we fart thorns, if anything and they just smell like roses across the space/time dimension. the purity is in the distance between the author and the reader.
p’lightly loved
dude, you’re the only other 150 in the room… why’n the fuck are you saying stuff to the stuffed moose on the wall?? for practice??
heh heh — well said, but it’s better than not ’cause it got you to reply, which is why… anyways, I’ve often felt that you’re like a crustacean — hard on the outside and a softy inside — nonetheless, I confess, after taking the MOOC of Modern Poetry, it dawned on me how much you really taught me … I received 94 percent which is kinda’ ironiK in Poetry …
if you don’t have anything to say, though, it’s just interrupting — i’m still going to parse your comment, but since it’s not about the concept it’s not really about anything but you. why would i care, since you don’t seem brave enough to say why something you wrote didn’t get written as honestly as you’d intended?
the illusion of dimension is duality at play where both sides of the brain have their say … any vector that crosses time, goes off the deep end, and half way across heaven, where infinity remains to be seen …
so, einstein, what is a “duality” in a poem and how does it get created? are you really so glib that you can’t say that “heaven” is an invented dimension created in one-dimensional writer’s space? doesn’t any of this grab your attention and make you want to talk about what you’ve intuited about how a word can be in two heads at once?
— what was it that Einstein averred when he spoke in a mathematical show ‘n tell? “if I rode on a beam of light through the deep dark reach of space, what would I see? what would I be? would I be anyplace?” then he chuckled, stuck out his tongue, made his eyes go wide, “I’d be everywhere at once, bent toward the infinite, really deep inside.”
so, what is ‘duality’ in a poem? just a segment, like him and her. and, what is another dimension over this conventional way of seeing a plot? the dimension of sound and light you’ve created through the sounds and the look of your writing.
“…how a word can be in two heads at once?” — that was my thesis for Modern Poetry —
Serendipity: the happenstance of meaning — the happy dance of gleaning —
sometimes meaning is an arbitrary thing we do to fill in our blank looks — nevertheless, the thing we do with words to make them wing on feathers dipped in tears and laughter, to mime the looks we give each other, and woo our reader into our serenade of serendipity with the happenstance-of-meaning gleaming from their eyes…
the happenstance-of-meaning is gleaning that we leak in language; A-lexi–thymia: Literally meaning “no words for emotions.” – there is Beauty in unfettered language — like Jazz, it becomes fluid and undulates meaning within the main components of the Poem –
the happenstance-of-meaning, foundlings of the great or small
the friction made from rubbing the heart ‘n mind together
the imagination aspires from the limits of syntactical-chains
binding us to the tunnel-visions of common sense:
this present imperfect tense
this present imperfect tense in the happenstance of meaning — there is Beauty in these fettered phrasings — as the tongue carries the forms-and-rituals of the word, sounds rolling as a tidal wash upon a wild-worn shore, tumbling, reaching forwards, then, where deep calls to deep, moving back-words for some more…
intertextual ironics uber-lexical sonics — the happenstance of meaning is the happy dance of gleaning
Somehow, the level of meaning, intended and happenstance in a write, are co-dependent upon the level of the reader gleaning, i.e., their ‘comprehension’ their ‘wonderment’ and all of their ‘bad-education.’
it has become evident to me, that the ‘meaning’ envisioned by the Author will probably have been revisioned by the Reader. Hence the subjective like/dislike quality to the tale told. Engrams or HieroGlyphs branded in the brain via synaptic structures are inter-looped: there where you can gather more dendrites by adding new memories to old thus creating a modular set of precepts in the garnering of meaning. Musing further, to use Socrates validation, ‘seeming is often master of the reality’ and we therefore need to agree to terms for an agreed meaning to be garnered. To deter the ‘revisionist’ and march like ‘soldier lemmings’ off an agreed upon ledge, to ‘meanings’ fatal fall, to reasons fatal flaw … that it is co-dependent upon Language=Syntax (agreements of form) for connecting, while Poetry is the flow and rhythm of words, sound-scapes which create meaning from word-movement; reflecting is optional!! and yet we ‘disturb’ meaning by recreating Language in our own image according to these HieroGlyphic-synaptic modules we’ve garnered. Subjective intertextual ironics made of objective (echoing Nature) uber-lexical sonics become the happy dance of gleaning meaning.
Language is a bridge, connecting, but the bridge has a syntax you gotta’ pay to getta’cross what you wanna’ say; Poetry is the stream below, murmuring, reflecting many Suns; meandering modulated-sounds for each ‘n everyone!
In the phenomenology of Love coupled with the visceReality of joyousness which frissons up the spine, what remains is our own courage to change the world from inside out withoutta’ doubt, that lost Art of interior-design … it starts with wonder imbued in awe, unbound by the language of ‘reason’ nor by the fatal-skin we’re in, uncluttered with the pitter-patter of patterns promulgated by all of our bad education nor spoilt by the cliché of tribal-mediocrity!
Caput inter nubila condit.
She hides her head among the clouds.
intertextual fugues
The happenstance of meaning,
in a hodgepodge of words.
with inherent seeming allured.
One is Joy,
another addiction.
Like me,
like my
inflated sense
of word.
Flags waving,
look at me,
and my words
we are WRITEoUS!
We are what we
Write.
Write flowers
and streams
and
windy chimes.
Face facts,
Words escape
meaning
with cowardly
defenses like
paragraphs
and
syntactical
alliances.
Prepositions
pasteurize,
so that whimsy
and
freedom are
battered,
suffering
split infinitives.
Similes with
spiritual
accents
and
distinctive
adaptations of
cunning.
Read liberated, inebriated;
fight the
oppressor, as
the maker of
meaning
is
you!
you
hear infinity in the conch of your ears hissing there
while liquid last eyes
see the numinous that’s moving-us
into an ephemeral shining at the back of the mind,
illuminating the limits of the fatal skin you’re-in –
let’sbe
dumb and
stare at forever!
let’s be this grinning
empty, drooling,
free of meaning, ghost-hunter of the eye…
nevermind worrying in soft murmurs,
let’s linger astutely,
then hardly at-all,
then, nonetheless
when it’s all but over,
wrap it up
in many Mansions
for LotusBlossomslaughter.
nice — “you make it seem like poets fart roses, they’re so pure. i think we fart thorns…” so surgical slaughter and tenderness in the write, not black on white, good and bad, happy or sad …
those are metaphors, not roses, jerry. this isn’t reader’s digest, just poets’ workshop. this site is for writers being able to talk honestly about how they put the lego castle together, and what was wrong with legos and how they had to melt some with the heating iron to find new colors and smells. you can write huggy stuff at poetry critical; nobody’s here, anyway, to hug you back.
Yes, I agree — we create therefore we are — heightened in an existential connectivity, inside out withoutta’ doubt — if Artist equals one who is unconstrained by the Tunnel-Vision of belief-systems where all the dead-ends meet, and the limits of our mortally singular and confined sensibilities, then I agree — as the leading edge of any realEYEsation is that this Artist, this Visionary, this mutation synergises us and brings us all up by the new ways of creation they’re becoming — because in this realm of duality-etudes there are processes that are path-dependant — however, an elegy in wonder or what the Germans call a ‘Fingerspitzengefuhl’ which is a sixth sense of sizing up a situation which transliterates from a word wonder into an exhibit of Poet, while the Poetry becomes a model for the mirrors to his own path-dependence and his own ‘special-ness’ notwithstanding his delusions of hope, or the new age game of soul-search ‘n spiel with language in-yer-end-oh — that Artist may become the leitmotif and Spirit of the Age; a ZeitgeistenMenschen like Übermensch except with the inherent connection to all beings everywhere as Brothers ‘n Sisters…
mostly metaphor is a trick of the light to get these reflections just right, so, you-know, it’s glinting in your eye as you release into the ‘flower of meaning’ with a sigh; like looking at the mesmerizing-sea glimmering-many-Suns, so sympathetic-tessellations resonate in your oceanic-brain, where synapses shivering-sentient luminescence, reflect again ‘n again … you’re an ecstatic swimming in a whirl’d-view, swooning with another oceanic-dream waving inside of you…
“We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.” — Anais Nin
“existential” is also a metaphor, and image. and i din’t get what what you’re saying has to do with the cold existential heat of not exactly getting it right in a poem. i know that you write for fame, but even so there must be times when your verbal brilliance doesn’t illuminate enough of you to really say anything. so, how does that come about? like, Nin’s comment… does she really think there’s an ‘other’ that could co-create the ‘are’? she was awfully vain…