Happily, some drunken archaeologist may find some dusty disks that can be deciphered in the rubble. I very much doubt that he will scan for meter, Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall and such--"The Age Demands" or
alternatively "we" demand a poem.
A splintered age, the light shining through the facets of a diamond, fragments, bits and pieces left over from the orgy of a mass madness;
an individual pleasure that outweighed the common good? It is a common question. The handbill floating in the wind usually refers you to a deal that will leave you one up on your neighbor in one way or another, that is should it be you that receives the reward. I am told, that democracy referred to the tyranny of the many (Aristotle)--(Bartleby would be unwelcome; all things considered.)
Hence as the spirit moves me, or a condensed heresy until crisis overwhelms the gestation of the stillborn idea--Modern must be realized always as "not yet". A mad conceit to add post- was it not Baudelaire who was modern? Or Catullus, mourning for Lesbia's sparrow? Perhaps we can borrow from the surreal--encase ourselves in plastic and pretend that the overriding sense of the age is not rage; no, not at all, of course, sitting as we are with our chubby hands clasped upon our fat bellies as if we were all Mr. Bloom quite certain that we know the direction of things.
--in that sense, the History of the poem that is not yet. How would we quantify ourselves within its text? Pander surely to our greed, which is the legacy of our philosophy. (Mr. Pound would cause Mr. Adams to frown at this point most unpleasantly in the latest canto, wherein I straighten the pink flamingo while bending without spilling my coffee to retrieve the morning paper, and call it cognito ergo sum, not neglecting the Hero who is me)
"That was a rather long trope," Mr. Bloom exclaimed, widening the scope of his enquiry.--no matter every couple of hours it is archived upon the ever more meaningless pile of words. Frightfully we must all make a record of our "existence". Even me.
Naturally, that makes us all Poets, which makes the poem of "not yet" that much harder to find; quite, tho one is assured that nowhere is just the same as everywhere. Frankly, I am of the opinion, that Mr. Kees is quite dead, tho robinson is peering over our shoulder noting the dismal failure of definition, disregarding of course the painting of bikinis, or the skirts designed for islands.
affective life . . .life
if dark » . . .
Who said mindless mechanisms are deprived of poetic sensibility?I was dumbstruck . . . "
Posted by Nicholas Manning at 11:21 PM 5 comments
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Standing Thus on the lip of the chasm--Mr. Bloom, would not I presume understand this ejaculation on the modem preferring this last exclamation to express our own scream, rather than letting our precocious child articulate it for us. How sweet it would be to write our own epitaph, to have at least that modicum of control over our own modern, which is to occur time and time again, in the near future.