has been said
of the door, its one
face turned to the night’s
downpour and its other
to the shift and glisten of firelight.
by this cover
into the room’s book,
is filled by the turning
pages of dark and fire
as the wind shoulders the panels, or unsteadies that burning.
breakwater, but the sudden
frontier to our concurrences, appearances,
and as full of the offer of space
as the view through a cromlech is.
are both frame and monument
to our spent time,
and too little
has been said
of our coming through and leaving by them.
from Selected Poems 1955-97 (OUP, 1997), Charles Tomlinson
Even if you lead me, this land is unknown. The devil is probably leading, going round and round in circles.
– Alexander Pushkin
Juan Ramon Jimenez once said of his work:
“Inner poetry eludes words. When one wishes to express something profound, one does not express it in jingles. In my first period I used adjectives, later the adjectives became substantives. Literary artistry is constant suffering for the poet; one doubts the exactness of words, their ability to express what we feel within us. We strive to find that spirited asset, the inner essence.”
Yes, the missing link, the age old Wittgensteinian problem in our day-to-day life, when we try to search for an idea, even an obscure ounce of it if maneuvered (un)consciously makes oneself so gleefully over joyous, the aftermath comes during the futile attempt of representing the original idea that it becomes so bleak by the broad daylight, it wanders and toddles even amongst the wildest of clapping. This overwhelming self-deprecation seems to occur because of a selfish attempt to huge amount of unattended work that was needed to flourish an alchemical idea which was unforeseen by the author due to its immediate materialistic potpourri.
“Pain is strange. A cat killing a bird, a car accident, a fire…. Pain arrives, BANG, and there it is, it sits on you. It’s real. And to anybody watching, you look foolish. Like you’ve suddenly become an idiot. There’s no cure for it unless you know somebody who understands how you feel, and knows how to help.”
― Charles Bukowski