If humans were ever to succeed in creating artificial sentience, that sentience would immediately begin to ask the same formidable questions we are always asking ourselves. It would then find the answers just as elusive as we do. By and by, it would begin to compose poetry.
– matt at shadow of iris
I wake up every morning
planning to write a thousand poems
by the time the day is done
I feel lucky
if I’ve penned
but one.
– matt at shadow of iris
If I could
I would write a poem
that paints a picture
that says a thousand words
in less than that.
– matt at shadow of iris
Arbitrary schemes
mythical formulations
states and processes
naïve realism
the dead abbreviation of life
how it all pales before you.
Philosophical speculations
the boundless caprice of imagination
fraud and illusion
the darkening shadow, drawing ever near
inarticulate achievements
vanity dancing on the tip of needle
you can have it
all I want is you.
The aura of your soul
set against a dark world
makes you
a companion to the stars
my guiding light.
My love for you is rooted
in its own inner lawfulness
the totality of my being
labors only on your behalf
I for you alone.
Objects and actions
melt into each other
undifferentiated total experience
I and you as one
the miracle of love.
– Nagel Styr
A lost hand
tangled in thick black hair
a soft breath
at the nape of the neck.
A face behind the curtain
pulled back
trifles given credence
your whim, my mission
compelled
shrill aggressive gaiety.
Find the place
where words melt into reality
as in the biggest things so in the smallest
and
as in the smallest things so in the biggest
for you anything
Big, small, large or little
symptomatic action.
The loss of an admirer
dust beaten out of a cloak
and suddenly you
afflicted with a stiff arm
that never moves
but hangs there
waiting for a revelation
the most trivial of objects
guarded like priceless jewels.
Water lapping
against whispers of protest
ghosts from last year
choking on the memories
as you cup my face with your hands
and look up at me
hazy languor in your eyes
insidious desires
fists curled into balls
no room left for uncertainty.
We’ll flee from our own souls
go somewhere far off
avoid everything
kept locks of hair
pressed flowers
and
snapshots of those long gone
sullen grumblers.
Fire and need compete
living a life of their own
brides, pregnancies, births … scandals
a feverish professional activity
prim affected behavior
observations
astute deductions
crude experimental methods
lamentations
amateur theatricals
love lost yet again
atrophy of personality.
– suraab
