And of reality no-one can tell


Though full of direct knowledge of his fellows
Whose eyes and faces are a script humane;
Though voices sing to him like Lobos' cellos
In lack and loss and woe this man remains..

In times gone by,the voice and face sufficed.
Poets'  music  seemed to us almost  divine;
But now a subtle torture's been devised
To write with pen and letters intertwined.

This man, though wise like cat,or bear or owl,
Has failed in his acquaintance with the pen.
Nor does he have the words which politicians howl.
Nor can he read more than his list of sin.

For now the map is where the mind must dwell
And of reality,no-one can tell.

Where language began

Do we expect more
From some nations than others?
Why do you agree ?

Where language began
alphabets were invented
stories were read or sung.

libraries were cherished here

signs and symbols too
were made possible by sages
where have they all gone?

The ten commandments
Thou shalt not murder ethics
Are we all done for?

George Steiner

Theatrical masks of Tragedy and Comedy. Mosaic...
Theatrical masks of Tragedy and Comedy. Mosaic, Roman artwork, 2nd century CE. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Dionysos mask, found in Myrina (now in Turkey)...
Dionysos mask, found in Myrina (now in Turkey). Terracotta, 2nd–1st centuries BC. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Do the identifications with fictions, the inner, tidal motions of pathos and libido which the novel, the film, the painting, the symphony unleash within us somehow immunize us against the humbler, less formed, but actual claims of suffering and of need in our surroundings? Does the cry in the tragic play muffle, even blot out, the cry in the street?


 What a day

Serebro in the music video Lets Hold Hands.
Serebro in the music video Lets Hold Hands. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Menorah (Photo credit: Lawrence OP)

Like a piece of ground where bombs go off repeatedly,
my inner landscape is perpetually marked
by these explosions of sorrow,
made all the worse
by the lack of a listening ear,
a warm open heart
or an outstretched hand.

I have constructed a map
but it's incomplete,by its nature;
so even now,I might stumble into an old hole
or a new one,created
by reverberations underground;
the noise like distant music,
a  constant drumbeat.

We do not dance
I might call it the Liturgy of Loss,
a dance to the music of rhyme;
Patterns and shapes hold the feelings
and express them.The shape of these forms
is a container for the grief.

In this way,I indicate
that life will go on;I hear the healing music
and sing to its melodies
like a mermaid on the edge of the sea in winter
when the water is cold and green like his eyes,
and the rocks are hard like large fists.Nature can be a symbol for such emotion
we cannot walk without a tear in ech eye
and a softening of our hearts
as tenderly we touch the world
and are touched in turn by each other.Stretch out your hand to meet mine.
We can hold each other better
than each can hold theirself.
Like in sex, the meaning is not the climax
but the giving and being given;
receiving and being received.
The sacredness of the erotic needs no explanation
to a gardener or a fisherman
but may need it for the information saturated,postmodern
who dwell in the fascist virtual reality we call life today