2022-04-29 04:44:02
History passes with its sold-out face, philosophy with its cold features, architecture with its straight lines, morphology with its proportions and impression, poetry sits at the door of the House of Existence, unaware of them, like a child smearing his mouth with broth, amused, and not all those who are satisfied with the arts are never satisfied with that. Everything has its definition, except it, that child will not be defined by two lines, take dictionaries, they will not know what it is, but they know it precisely, when it is, like death.
The inability of anyone to define “poetry”, is what makes it strange, the sparkle between centuries, even battles are forgotten, and epidemics in history books, massacres, and civilization, but it flows alongside it, so you know what happened there from a poet, much more accurate than what you hear from a historian and filmmaker, painter, and philosopher. He is the one who says what ought to be said, how it ought to be said, and slips between the lines of everything, so that all arts seem to be a battle with themselves, by trying to rid them of poetry.
It is the all art in one. It is the wolf that walks under the skin. It stuns a person like the revelation of Muhammed, like the cloud that shades the Children of Israel, and then casts his curse that goes with whoever carries it until the end of the age and time, when all the elements of existence seem qualified and exist only to be within a text, short or long. Presence is important for the poet because it can be some poem.
A muttering in a cave, felt by an ancient man, howled, not content with what he carved on the wall, that was the first poem, a dialogue with nature he did not understand, with cold and heat, and the eternal question: "Who am I? What is that?!"
The teenage poet imagines that he wrote what the world needed to complete, on his cold bed, but the curse makes him wake up on the second day, another poet, destroying the poet who was gnawing on the same bed the day before.
The wolf is under the skin, howling, on a journey that does not know exactly whether it is the hunter or the prey, which prey fills his soul? The prey is imaginary, and being satisfied with it is the same as searching for it.
He meets wolves, who walk with him on the same road, teaching him some steps in walking and running, but they are not his fault, and the wolf in himself searches for steps, for prey, and for the hunter.
The poet sees others and he used that jewel to soar, another to make a political lever, and others throwing snow on it to be a philosophical text, but he knows perfectly well that it is that text that does not benefit from it, except to exist only, except to comply with the usual curse, since the cave moan.
Poetry in the poets brain scattered on ceramics, last breath mixed with gas from Sylvia Plath’s lungs, last sniffles from a palm crowded lung extinguished in a mental hospital at ten fingers embracing a glass of black beer in the name of a toast, the grief of the isolated in the voice of mothers, the fragmentation of supplication in the painful beliefs of the imprisoned.
The wolf scratches the soul from the inside, it is the pollen that wakes a person from his sleep, to take the poem in the corridor, then write it in the kitchen, without leaving it a weed that melts between drowsiness and oblivion.
The wolf that howls, makes the world, the wolf that howls, releases a distorted, innocent, executioner creature, a child on its brothed mouth, an existence that no one knows why it exists, but nothing is right after it or anything else, for this cursed creature, who is touched by poetry. The world returns to him, as it was.
He makes his offerings, books, texts, and drafts, to this hand-devouring hyena, which ends quiet thinking, where everything is sorted, senses extinguished, technique and singularity not yet picked up, but it will not end, and when every trace of him ends, poetry remains until his deathbed; He may cross it so that a poet from the world of spirits returns to write a poem.
296 viewsHubeyb , 01:44
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