Taco Sorgdragers woordrivier
Moods of the mind
Moods of the mind

Moods of the mind

Poetry, like love, is selfishness,
disguised as devotion to the non-self.

Poetry is pointless,
for it is linear or concentric,
always emanating from the ego into an empty world
(yes: the poem needs the world emptied by the ego to unfold itself).

Growing from one word into many
the poem pushes itself out of itself
(like the rosebud unbudding into a rose).

Therefore growing is disappearing.

And in the end we are left with these words,
blossoming without origin,
lined up by the mind that can deny nor read
the fading memories of possibilities unchosen.

A poem is a choice
that stops growing while coming into being.

It will always keep you within its borders,
like your lover in his or her embrace,
like your mother once held you at her breast:

Drinking your first milk
was the defloration of the universe
into consciousness.

But will you ever remember?

Will you ever find a new virginity
within thinking?

2 Reacties

  1. “vind ik leuk” – silly machine. Vind ik fantastisch!

    I’ve been doing a lot of knitting (or looking into doing a lot of knitting, glorified researcher that I remain) in this times pinned down as all-crowning. So my poetic musing for you is about wool.

    Woolly Trees.

    The poem pushes itself into the non-self, to make it a pillow for stillness to sit. By this it can be known, the self in bits and pieces sewn into a pouch of wordfabric.

    Growing appears to amass, but infinitissimally, actually beyond the vanishing point known today, stuffing the seat for tomorrow. Hear it grow in time, as to a pulse: labourously as if on life-support.

    I saw – like a virgin for the very first time – unwrapping the gift of Spring: What if the original tree is an ocean of love, not a oak trapped in an acorn? Its (upright, spreading) willing then is never willed by itself, but neither lost to the will of the wind (gnarling and bending) and all is will done as from within a perfectly still point in time. The rest is self-discovery.

    The poem of the tree is woolly. Feel its ply: how it is moved by the the wind’s love running back into its origin. The furze its guage, each leaf a stitch, with a pearl and knit side. Hear its tension and find its ease.

    Where all currents converge, bump into eachother, clash and merge, there is a chaos out of which poetry can be made. Just like love. A carding and spinning and weaving of the lamb – the alpaca, the camel, the goat: hair! that living silica, which encapsulates true mind, that pure solar power known well to advanced knitters of love, as trees are. Just standing in an earth boat beneath a gleaming sky.

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