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More from *sharayanan

About poetry -- IIHaving a meaningless thought, that is to say in our intuition of things lacking the feeling of understanding it. It appears to us unfathomable, yet given, unquestionable. In all its thickness, we come to realize this foreign body isn't subject to the laws of language, and we cannot analyze it in terms of "who? where? why?" -- or rather, doing that is less about finding the explanation that making the whole thing up, fabricating something that would borrow the consistency of discourse but loose the very nature of what it claims to throw light on. The thought is, first, there, and by that we mean it cannot be ignored. Providing it with meaning,
About poetry -- IAll my stories are not sad ones. Don't ask me to explain them! I don't write poetry for the fun of it, rythm reveals the way I am shaken, wording betrays how the idea made its way through me, filtered and filtered again, as crystalline as it spent a long time in there, as raw as it violented me; jerky when hiccup seizes me, breaking what shouldn't be beautiful.

Poetry isn't meant to make sublime. I want to go beyond language to tell what language doesn't enable me to tell. In order to tell, to make visible how hard it is to speak. Feeling behind the broken style the unrest; in a short sentence, the matter of urgency; in a long sentence, asph
DrowningInside this thick water, a shapeless mass immerged
Deformed phalanges by bipedal walking constrained
Greasy fur strewn with holes infesting the surface of a flabby water
Stocky worn-out hands, large useless, homeless hands
Risible genitalia squeezed and bloated as a bit of flesh floating under the surface
Endless stomach sheltering a noisy digestion, streaked with pink creases
Everything leaves its trace on it. Clothes. Time. Water.
Soon, furrows groove those trembling fingers
As rubber band frescos fade underwater
Every motion yields waves, moving the liquid as much as the body in it,
Mixing sour lingering whiffs of cheese and vin
A dying KnightMy Queen,
An archer cherub stroke me with a bolt
My wounded dark heart sobs heavy drops
Of sorrow.

Lands of love are hostile valleys
Red with dense forests and harrowing brambles
Licking voraciously the still gaping wounds
Bleeding in drear and pulsating calls.

The freezing dismay of an ancient nostalgy
Is slowly drying the last thoughts,
A black bark grows and invades ideas
That were beautiful and gay and joyful, calm and full and serene.

Yesterday again,
I think,
You hurt me.

Here comes the dark sky as a frowned eyebrow,
Bathing a valley blue of cold slow tears
With the arid reality.

Every word is a weapon, invisible, cutt
My Light, Poem in Two PartsI surmised your presence
In a prison of glass
As if crisscrossing a driveway
On a pedestal

I thought I saw you
Trembling and yet so far
Pinned onto the sky
Sparkled over the night

I dreamt I fell on me
Your crazy yellow dance
Ripping wax apart
Shaking the shadows

So, I closed my eyes
Opened wide my hands
My arms to welcome
Your warmth

My Light

--

My eye
Burns
The valleys of light's endless waters
With material sadness-stained rays
No one
Hears no more the colours of caresses
Dying in ideas and declaiming in rivers
My mourning

Original French:

J'ai cru te deviner
Dans une prison de verre
Comme sur un piédestal
Qua
Sisyphus' lamentWhen you understand me, you'll understand how repetition is painful, as a symbol of an endlessly recurring time.

Everything must flow, otherwise I don't live!

Why anger? In order to let a fragile wall hang between desperation and I. When I don't have enough strength to stand up anymore, I won't have any strengths anymore. Then even this rempart will be destroyed by the industrious goings-on of human incoherence. I know I am still human because I am still affected. When I don't feel anything anymore, when I'm calm, when they have brought me down, when I am kneeling, docile, mute, there won't be very much of me left already. Nor anything valu

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December 23, 2012
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[x]
:iconsharayanan:
Algorithmic art: ongoing project. 4D DeJong-Pickover modified attractor.
:iconpoetically-yours:
*Poetically-Yours Dec 25, 2012
The colours meld so well in this one, very abstract yet the subject still remains visible. If you'd named it Hippopotamus Dance Party, the imagination would have to be stretched just a tad. Kudos, beautiful indeed.
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