Wednesday, 11 November 2009

Darkness II.

Your face is consumed by darkness. Some use language
better than love. What love is this that
conceals hatred? Tell me, is it true that my alienation
is nothing but
your love's negation? Is it true that this
darkling plain
is dark, so dark, this dark
in vain?

For then this pure annihilation
and alienation
and love's negation
This darkness then,
is pristine pain.

Read out my poem; love qua love.
Some use language better than love. This love then
becomes only language. The language then
becomes sole love. But all else dissolves
into a rare nothingness, a dark void-
a pit of horror and bliss.
Language; my abyss.

Tell me why we must then know
The light on the bridge which burns just so
Tell me why I see it burn
Why I cry- but never learn
Never learn, in all it's starkness
Our horrid dissolving mutual darkness.

10 comments:

Bhooter Raja said...

I do not mean to be inane but now we are seeing things through a glass, darkly, and we can only hope that things will become clearer with time.

Baudolino said...

Read out my poem; love qua love.
Some use language better than love. This love then
becomes only language. The language then
becomes sole love. But all else dissolves
into a rare nothingness, a dark void-
a pit of horror and of bliss.
Language; my abyss.

Isn't language a realm beyond which love must lie? Language-a mask for the absent love. Where do the limits of language vanish? Where does your abyss begin?

AUROBOROS banerjee said...

no dark is dark in vain/
for she hides purpose, and yet again/
must dark be in darkness. she must cause pain/
to be purposeful, to hold her longing in disdain/
for longing must be mute, must be weak/
for the dark to even a language seek/
to destroy the one she loved, and hated in vain/
even if that language wounded her private darkness,
and made her insane...

AUROBOROS banerjee said...

give me poetry lessons!! yes??

Elendil said...

This is brilliant. Though I don't want to dissect it. Seems a tad private. We're all becoming Slyvia Plaths aren't we?

Grigori Rasputin said...

Poetry, perhaps, is the only form of writing that can be legitimately private. Poems seem to be fragments of privacy that can be publicized [or to sound a little (Agam)banal, interiority that can be exteriorized]without incurring any loss of meaning.

For poets are not lions. Nor poetry lingua leonica. Notice how cleverly I refer to two writers at the same time. C.S. Lewis, on the one hand, who warned us in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, how we grown-ups would never understand the words of a gentle lion. Wittgenstein, on the other hand, whose obsession with private language finds expression in a Narnian model: "if a lion could speak, we would not be able to understand him."

You, Arse Poetica, if a lion, will have your St. Francises. But, then, you, even if a Leo, are hardly an obscure lion.

Grigori Rasputin said...

By the way, you don't know me. I hope that doesn't curtail my right to admire your work.

Arse Poetica. said...

This poem is about nobody, so yes it is private. It is about language. Me and my language. This poem is love qua love, not love as language.Nobody will quite know what I mean. I don't care. And.

@rasputin-how do you know so much about me if you don't know me? I think we do know each other. But if you want to be known as the gregarious grigori; what concern is it of mine?

Tangled up in blue... said...

"Some use language
better than love."

'Tis true, 'tis true.

Arse Poetica. said...

Grigori Rasputin: I know who you are.

Be afraid, be very afraid. :P