Grasping Poïesis? Keep on trying…

Poets’ definitions—playing God, senseless mud games. Wordsworth defined poetry as "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings." In plain absence of God’s direct guidance?

Emily Dickinson said, "If I read a book and it makes my body so cold no fire ever can warm me, I know that is poetry." It seems she knew something on the matter…

Dylan Thomas defined poetry this way: "Poetry is what makes me laugh or cry or yawn, what makes my toenails twinkle, what makes me want to do this or that or nothing." Sometimes they say “silence is golden.”

As about Poïesis many underline its unwillingness to be defined, labelled, or nailed down. However, one cannot define “becoming” within the “Being.” It is about accessing somehow the Divine or else there is nothing at all to talk about.

Definitely, Poïesis is not Poetry.

Poetry is often seen as the chiselled marble of language. Poetic definitions of poetry usually sink in tautological vortexes or black holes.

The poetic body looks like a clumsy caging process—one tries to lock up the Being into the language. The word's emotive qualities end where the Being begins. Poets encountered huge discomfort in this, as they truly are part of the Being. They tried music, metaphors, spacing, ideas… They might often trigger emotion but not Divine catharsis—this for the happy few only. Did you meet some of them?

Baby-blue poets crisping clouds fried symboleers

Baby-blue poets crisping clouds fried symboleers

Motto:

Loud, heap miseries upon us

yet entwine our arts laughters low!

I) Incant / Discant

You, baby –, baby-blue poets

of whom (as I might remember)

"each separate dying ember

wrought its ghost upon the floor"

Listen!

lease me an

amber-armoured Lenore

a digital Lenore

you say I might need

to vanguard my very front door

against merchandised-sub-nuclear-machine-guns-of-whispers

against hamburgerised never & nevermore

You, baaaaaaaby –, baby-blue poets

of whom (I might have been told)

flesh'n blood mechanisms were supposedly trained

by the brave-new-world & later sold

as tourists’ guides – worn-out and stained

&

of whom (I might have been read about)

little grey neural spare-parts

are giving the mile-stoned Angels out

Listen!

lease me an

initiation ticket for the Craft that I believed'it gone

the Craft of signs & words

&

of the signs of the words & so on

You, baaaaaaaby –, baby-blue poets

dressed in baby-blue silk suits, baby-blue collars & baby-blue ties

of whom (I might say)

poem-like-sacred-books never vanishes or dies

Listen!

lease me an

Arcimboldian look

to de-compose thy faces

to LCD-ers, onliners, & blog mongers

& win their goodwill, benevolence, and graces

for visions of ‘once-upon-a-time’ and ‘had-beens’

visions of true/good/beautiful never revealed before

by your paper-back so called Lenore

by your pixelised never and/or nevermore

II) Fowl revelation

& the baby-blue poets eventually came by…

Like the smoke of dead leaves burned late in autumn came by—in fact it was one of them only who came by.

& as he came by, I saw an old man. All dressed in white shrouds.

“There is no more baby-blue poet left,” he said.

"Sub Divinitate triumviro poetae sunt...gladiator, bombardarius, iustitiarius. Ac hi omnes sub se habent particulares artifices," he said.