the dreaming seed

Letter to a poet...

Perhaps in worlds I linger not, there gathers the people of which poetry finds no solution. A streamline of flowers which denote no order, gathered randomly to disappear as soon as they are awakened. Words which open the innate rebellion of which remains largely a fight upon the other worlds. A resistance to those who lead seemingly harder lives, lost to the mundane grind of labour where work is completed, and then left without ponder.

A poet remains isolated, building shrines with invisible stones.. laying words here and there to dominate the invisible landscape. Like a bee who drinks the nectar of flowers, a poet gathers its secrets to building maps of sacred portholes where dreams are housed and cherished, and upon which the building of such geometries secure a foundation and remain the dominant source of nourishment.

Crossing the bridge into the songs of the outer worlds can seemingly remain an escaped life, where the ragged and the lost remain.. running endlessly from the pain of life, the struggle of the independent soul to remain free. Freedom has no greater value, and yet, it is for those who have fought hard, and journeyed far. Running not into comforts and instead, traveling ever deeper into the portals of self which remain undiscovered, conquering personalities which have eluded the whispering of soul.

As human spirits, we cling to the obvious. Our minds are full of images which demand immediacy, where most find salvation in the turning of mirrors within ourselves into the external, to validate the choices of a complex mind. It is in this eversion that we are no longer considered strange and can hang our questions on the hooks of ethical solutions which shelter us within a controlled social life. To this formula an ocean remains a long stretch of blues resting gently under the expanding sky. To a poet it remains an ever expanding depth of darkness. A hidden world where exists a multitude of worlds. A poet who dares to dive and to uncover the secrets and return to the surface holds then an impossible task of trying to translate such mysteries in a chorus of word. A language largely unable to unmask the tonal and still the poet whispers to them.. he has heard the song of silence.

We allow the masters of music to utter to us that they have harvested a mystery which is universal. A complex alignment of notes which something within can hear and translate. We acknowledge this because music denotes the translation of the ungraspable, and we are willing to leave it as such. Experiencing the immediate to dance at its doorway and yet not to question the presence of a key. What of the poet that attempts to unmask his secrets with word? Knowing the encompassing beauty and attempting to create a voice upon which we can travel into the birthplace of philosophers.

To what does a society suggest to these travelers of sound? An increasingly disciplined education? An institution? Medication to relax and subdue the exploring mind? A reflection that exposes the poets maps as delusions and their geometries as incurrent textures.

A poet then must search within memory to unbind the declaration of insanity, and not only prove this to his inner world, but face a blinding fear within which forces him to continue his search, to plunge ever deeper into the depths, diving into the ocean which serves him not by sitting by the gentle tides of its shores. Crossing the bridge and leaving the comfort and support of his world behind.

As adults we tend to cling to the ideas which we have built ourselves. Wisdoms which become our own. Knowledge which has dictated to us the foundations of our existence. Rare is it that a soul emerges to confront these mathematics as suggestions that the geometries of a flower are equal to the geometries of thoughts within. Harboring gardens and landscapes upon which we translate our souls.

Indeed the poet will question his sanity as he walks into the abyss. Indeed the world will question and rebel against such a nature which deploys their own. Yet a poet must awaken and strive to return. His books are the doctrines of a beyond which know no horizon distant to self. It is his journey that allows us witness to our greatest truth.

The poet holds the key and a promise that we too can return, if only we dare to open, and cross the bridge of shadows, laying sleepless in a dormant dream of light.

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