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by Jan Sand
2008-08-01 09:03:49
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The sharp cold corners of the day
Deny the soft foundries where the I
Undoes all regulation. Not location
Nor chopping minutes' disciplines

Can marshal marching corps from liquid instances
That infiltrate the secret places of the psyche.
Here an eyelash curl can twirl a galaxy.
Here the warm flesh of sex and ecstasy
Erects municipalities of rushing blood,
Of thick fluid smells and salty flavors
Which dissolve known pathways into broken chasms.
Landscapes out of continuities erupt, slide, and slump.
Sounds bark or tinkle into coruscating creatures
That dance or threaten, invite or pursue
Bedecked in pointed talons, needle teeth,
Enrobed in smoking clouds that twist and hiss.
The waking mind cannot confront quotidian cascades
From all the senses, pure and direct.
It must shunt the horrific flow to holding pits
Where trap doors creak wide only in the dark
Wherein the exploring eye may adventure
Safely cloaked in the insanity of sleep.

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Emanuel Paparella2008-08-01 10:02:43
"Children and lunatics cut the Gordian knot which the poet spends his life patiently trying to untie." - Jean Cocteau (Add a comment)

Cocteau was able to transcend the dichothomy tragedy/comedy because he believed that reason transcends mere logic and expresses itself best in the poetic in any artistic media. Indeed children and lunatics who have an abundance of imagination are best able to make grasp the poetical. Rationalists the least able.

Jack2008-08-03 22:24:36
Nice work. I have often dreamt of flying in my sleep. The only thing more enjoyable was (how ironic is this?) that I knew that I was dreaming at the time and so could fly without fear of falling and thus I had this feeling of being invincable. For even if I fell, I knew I'd simply awake.

When I was cramming for my senior's final exams years ago for college, I often dreamt over the notes and readings of the day. It seemed to me that my mind asleep, was more productive that my mind awake. Who knew!?

Chris2008-08-04 01:41:33
I drempt that I red this poem. It was a good dream. Orgasmic and reminicient of Mt. Abora, where the dulcimer of the aolian harp still plays the poet's song of silence. Thank you, Sand. You are a Poet.

Sand2008-08-05 12:09:36
Thanks. I'm glad you found some resonance with the poem. Aside from brief moments of disgust when some nincompoop decides he can proclaim what is and is not poetry I no more claim to be a poet than a mountain can proclaim it is a volcano. On occasion a poem erupts spouting language and images that coalesce into something that seems to be a poem but that sparkling instance is comparable to the random fall of colored shapes within a kaleidoscope to make patterns easily rivaling the delights of a stained glass window. Perhaps I am a kaleidoscope.

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