Friday, October 03, 2008

The Continuous Poem - October

And here we are: October.

October, a promise of golden leaves still unmet.

All of a sudden, I am yearning for the music of the hidden violins that reach out to me from above the tree tops.

Monday, April 28, 2008

The Continuous Poem - Day-dreaming in Algonquin Park

You can't help being seized by day-dreaming and daylight in Algonquin Park.

Algonquin has an enigmatic, hidden rhythm, much similar to a buried drum punctuating a march that eludes the ear but submerges all other senses in its stride.

Stop and listen to it - if you can.
Stop and see if you can grope at the menacing magic of Algonquin that makes me want to hold my breath, keep silent and walk on tip-toes.

Let me see if I can describe what I feel, what I dream of, what I am afraid of in Algonquin Park.

It's a spell: a weaving and twisting of meaning that I cannot decipher since it hides deep in the veins of the leaves. It's a spell that glistens with the drizzle dissolving in the lake, and turns me deaf to the resonance of reality.

It's the thrill of Algonquin: a distant whistling, the rustling of the wind, the gliding of a color that changes petals abruptly in the sword dance of a chilly sun ray.

Algonquin is witchcraft in greenery, alert and mysterious; it looks at me from afar, with a myriad of drowsy eyes, through swirls of grey clouds and mosaic mists.

The unseen eyes of Algonquin scrutinize me, keen and intelligent, curious and indolent. They wait patiently for me to make a mistake under the thrall of the Algonquin day.

And I make a lot of mistakes while I am in this park - it is impossible not to fall prey to the beauty of Algonquin.

The beauty of Algonquin traps me, strips me of my identity and mercilessly crushes me in its claws.

I finally let my guard down.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

The Continuous Poem - A Hero's Name

“He who saw everything” is the beginning of someone else’s blog that I have borrowed just to carve out an entry into mine.
It's a blog written on a clay tablet, scribbled under a scorching sun, where letters melt and sway, soar and tremble, crawling back on spidery feet into a name: Gilgamesh.
Gilgamesh is a poem that bears the name of its uncomfortable hero, an oddly beastly fellow, whose tribulations and excessive acts bring about a story and the vision of an uncanny destiny.
More than the making of the narrative, it is the making of the hero's name itself that holds the poem together.
Try it for yourself: sound the hero's name: "Gil-ga-mesh".
Have a go at its hidden resonance, the black power inside its syllable; sense the preface of the realms Gilgamesh is destined to traverse, just by virtue of the melodic and invisible crown he wears - his unusual name.
So there, we have it: a hero is what his/her name allows him/her to be.
A hero's name is not only the herald of episodes that make the story move; rather it is the basis for the success or failure of the story itself. The story, can be argued, is secondary to the name.
Therefore, one can surmise that if one would like to write an immortal poem, continuous (or not) one would do well to judiciously choose the appropriate name for one's hero, one's poem, one's tablet, one blog.
So go ahead and play with syllables.
Chances are that out of an uncanny combination of consonants, randomly etched with vowels, a far-fetched name or even a pure and perfect poem will be born.
But wait...if only this assumption were true....

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