the vine (1)

April 20, 2008 at 12:04 pm | Posted in antihaiku, poetry, prosepoemthingy, writing | 13 Comments
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Well calm and composed is all very well
eventually will fill with water, what is that dripdrop on my pinebox?

The pursuit of stasis is pointed like a stake, it is only in death that we can escape change and if i must settle i shall do so without shame,
there is a sense of requirement, a secret duty to which i am bound but which i do not know, it chokes me in the company of others, i wish i had the power to have no effect on the world, i console myself with platitudes i have created, that i am just me and in the end can only operate within the bounds of your consent.

it is an avoidance of responsibility, holding to the hunger of the child, it is my polymorpheus perversity, the vine,

by next Sunday, this will have become a poem again, it will have dried and crystallised,
oh well,

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13 Comments »

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  1. yes, synchronosity is fun:
    I wrote a poem several months ago with a few similar echoes in some key words above . It’s not that good at all but I really want to share it with you after your done crystallizing, just for a laugh, Cheers.

  2. lots to think about here……..

  3. ps the dried and crystallised, great.

  4. Fabulous display of thoughts; but death in itself is simply a state of change – of energy and matter and self;
    Well, you see this one i think is an easy out, Sumedh, because you will have to posit the existance of a unique and individuated soulsomethingorother, that is both uniquely you but which has none of the characeristics of the person you know now who is a human, and that thingo won’t remember you, so there is no continuity of consciousness or physicality, so i ask, in what sense is the thing that comes after death still you the Sumedh of passion, with lifes vision. i prefer to think that when i die, that’s it. if something comes after, it wont be me, cos my beating heart and my personal history are fundamental to whatever i can call me, so death may be a change in terms of the matter and the energy but death is the end of me slayed by Occams razor,

  5. this is excellent–

    by next Sunday, this will have become a poem again, it will have dried and crystallised,

  6. Do you suppose that it is merely coincidence that ‘platitude’ and ‘platypus’ have the same opening syllable? Circular logic aside, I suspect your prose/poetry is here to stay, despite your best attempts to deny it.

  7. Actually no, it’s meta crap not poetry, not sharing, cheers.
    firstly i don’t beleive it is metacrap if you wrote it and secondly you have me intrigued now, it will become a fabled piece of nonliterature, the great missing poem hat scholars will search for, the key to a complete understanding of your ouevre, cheers to you too,

  8. a debate with your maker, perhaps…?

    suppose we are all dangling from some vine or another…

    in fine form, very distinguished…

  9. This line made me pause:
    that i am just me and in the end can only operate within the bounds of your consent.

    Because of “your consent.” Is the narrator at odds with himself? I ask because today I was writing and started sort of listening in to subvoices, the other me. And no, I’m not dissassociative. I’m just as normal as the rest of you!
    Just kidding. But I do like your poem, the enigmas and rich details it presents.
    well, thankyou, i wasn’t thinking that he was talking to himself, more adressing the people he was talking about in the lines before, but then again with me you never know, you have a beautiful blog and some lovely writing,

  10. and to everyone else, thankyou again, wanna group hug? ready steady… (((((((((((((((((((((grouphug))))))))))))))))))
    yayayayayayayayayayaya

  11. Actually, this is brilliant. I came back for another read and read it out loud- wow. well to well- wow! Love your experimentation with form too.

    smoke ThaT next sunday 😛

    PS nothing to intrigued about, it really is a poem (mine) that reads like something a 15-yr-old wrote.
    seriously.

  12. tis the death of an idea, to be a poem

  13. chokes me in the company of others,

    imagine a vine doing that…

    very nice work.


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