beast

Things are coming back. Things are thoughts. Or thoughts projected into things, sounds and images. The permutations and combinations that make a self at a particular point of time repeats itself, reminding or rather turning the being into that which was and which never leaves: like the repetition that never LOOKS repetitive like nature in its very own repetition. At a surface level there seems to be a change: in the manifestation of relationships. But that which feels deep inside, that which absorbs and reacts, that which SEES and FEELS is the same. It is the very SAME self that won’t let go, or that very matrix that had been constituted as my SELF, will not let go the very same self into a varied direction.

The moon outside is blazing like sun, and it BURNS and RADIATES more than sun: NOW, at this moment. The air of this early march, the texture and silence of the leaves and my MOTHER – who incarnates in different forms of women – leave me longing: throbbing with the blood of some ancient memories: it is just an animal, primary and primordial, struggling to set itself free from the binding environment that is unseen of, which it was never part of:

An animal: POETRY is an animal. Poetry is an animal that is trying to transcend its animosity. Poetry is a beast trying to reach a memory of divinity that it senses in its deepest instinct. Is poetry an act of transcending bestiality to divinity that never is?

An animal speaks of the thousand moons and rivers of sunlight. A beast sings about the thousand flowers caressing the rain and breeze: of butterflies that turn to flowers and float on the thousand rivers of moonlight.

They are coming back. The images that one has created so carefully and so unconsciously, with sounds and colors, with smell and touch, with words that have become one’s very own existence: they are coming back. And the beast that has become an angel and an animal, who has become a man-eater and savior, is holding a trace unto to himself: Now. A word. Of you. Of that I that never was and is:

I am coming back NOW: to YOU. MY child.


P.S


POEM OF THE BE/EAST:

We know, we don’t know
We know that we don’t know
We know, we don’t know
We don’t know that we know