Poetry Embodied

Sunday.mp3

Overhead the earth is a miracle of magnitude. Removed from the immediate youth of all that is present. Embedded in the flesh we see with our eyes, we are narrowed to the compass of vision, trapped; if it were not for imagination. Trapped to the hunger and lust that are the anathema of civilization.

And at every level each age is closer to the physical character of being. Before we adulterate life children play with no thought of the concrete. The world is the world of imagination, it is the world we destroy.  Possibility, unscathed by the meanings of everything, children free to imagine, the world they dream could be real. It could couldn’t it?

It is blank of the things to come; those things which daunt the prospects of every child.

One Sunday we were like children, playing in the fields, running after gazelle in the mist as they jumped from puff  to dew. Our house traveled with light and warmth through the horizon as the world awoke to a jaded reality, and we lived a moment of innocent nothingness before that time. And soon the quicksand of being took us from the playground to the world; preoccupation faintly understood. But we were not disappointed.

And so from the world within to the world without, life was only told though stories, communicated at other times. Never twice the same.

On the kitchen floor a giggle signified the privacy of our experience. Shared, but not to be shared again. Like a nod between men, as full of meaning and companionship as any nod can be. We giggled like children.

How many freedoms?  The mystic and the rational combine, if only in the innermost parts of the mind; at some level recognizing the sense of another reality, one disconnected from the occupation of the body, connected only with the imagination; we travel with each other infinitely in finite time remembering the the impossibility of the infinite in the expression of mind.

And we would be forgiven for thinking that beyond the concrete lies nothing but space. However, within the depth of our minds are the rhythms  of meaning. That would be nonsense anywhere else. Yet they carry for each a significance not held by any other.

That is the power of nostalgia. A Time forgotten, a time only the passing bird sees. It is held in the spaces beyond quantification, to be understood to the longing for more than the void. There is a world we find within others when we smile, it is that single moment of creative insight that exists between people; the meanings of the worlds are resonant equally among us all at this time.

It is the essence of all human bondage. In a world that none but minds can acquiesce, can forget and can live on: The moment of belonging is the moment of genuine imagination.

But for those moments those worlds were there; between us and forever in our minds, our worlds to share. They were there to remind us that beyond here the world continues, devoid of the facts of the minds but full of a psychological reality. A real reality for us.

It is that world across the human that is the humanity. It was the fact of experience that meant the word and not misunderstanding or false interpretation monopolized existence. It was that which is all that matters, all that does matter.

From the mystical to the concrete we live, and we live on; with pleasure disguised as an opiate, the fallacy of misunderstanding that has left the possibility and the reality of all which is false to nothing; we continue to live, and our life remains in this world between us, between the concrete and the abstract, it is this world of interaction. Embedded we are and embodied we become.