Concluding Poem

This is the concluding poem of my final. I think it's content my be heightened if read with the first poem of the post before this one. 

Such a finalizing tool I live by.

Constructed to rationalize--

To document the indefinite

That from thought to thought is debated,

But with this weapon is dictated

On a page--

My intent is contradicted.

Purpose is not in striving or struggle--

Not in these books or poems.

Purpose is in the nature of finding and losing--

Instantaneously;

The empowerment to write and keep writing--

To read, to see and feel-- to live--

To be and keep being. 

This is a product and an attempt of thought--

Of understanding,

And to connect!

Yet-- often what the poet needs is just to lose the pen. 

Yummm. Dickinson-inspired Poetry

The following poetry is part of  my English (American Romanticsm) Final Project... Eek! What a scary concept! Anyway- Enjoy:

First-- from the womb-- I realized I could move my mouth

To make such piercing sounds, 

And then-- could stretch my fingers

With which to grasp this pen.

But, with familiarity-- capabilities spoil.

I know my clutching and grasping at purpose is a child's tantrum.

Sometimes-- while my face is wet with tears and sweat--

I forget what my struggle is for.

In a lapse of consciousness I hear the calm hum of the universe,

And the excitement of my heartbeat as it drums with life's symphony. 

In this state-- My mind's metaphorical pot of gold is not at the end of a rainbow, 

But the gold is within the rainbow-- uncontained.

I may reach it-- not to grab it-- but to join it

For no reason-- beyond Reason. 

When I rest I think of thesis

On why my life begins--

When it ends,

And what plans to make for the middle,

But in a dream is when I learn why I'm alive. 

Occurring as naturally as sleep-- I need no magician or pendulum to lead my hypnosis.

I am selfless, but self-guided.

I will rise and sink with the sun--

Following the ellipse around heaven. 

you've read poem #1- here is #2... A little more imitative of Dickinson, I'd say: 

The moon revolves around the earth,

The fly-- around my head.

Yet my own path-- I never follow--

The gleaming suns'-- instead.

Am I blinded by my course?

Have I a mind to See? 

Or does my state of trudging

Prove incapacity? 

Or maybe mine's a broader path--

Far beyond the sky--

Unpaved, but for a purpose--

To constantly ask: Why? 

Essay on Whitman's "Song of Myself"

Integrating with the Grasses

 

“I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth”

(31)

 

            Cultivated by the pressure to succeed, produce, and strive is the need to differentiate one’s self from the rest of the world. From this need comes a fear of being lost in the universe. That if we allow ourselves to be incorporated with everything, we lose our identity, and our capacity to greatness; we become an indistinguishable fraction. This is a misconception that Whitman attends to in Song of Myself. While portraying the beauty and complexity that encompasses everything in this world, he asks, “Who need be afraid of the merge?” (31) Our egotism is a curse, the self-importance it lends– a folly. However, through discarding this fear of the merge, it is possible to tap into the greatness of the universe.

Distinctiveness depends on comparisons, yet comparisons are judgments placed on importance, value and success and lead to feelings of inadequacy. Whitman states, “I exist as I am, that is enough” (44), discontinuing the need for comparisons, both within himself and of things around him. For example, he does not “call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else” (36); everything is innately sufficient. The dismissal of inadequacy enables the recognition of greatness. This greatness goes beyond authority, education, etc. It is the inexpressible wonder of existence. Whitman emphasizes the importance of the distinction between the inherent greatness of existence and greatness that one must strive for. He says “not words, not music or rhyme I want…. Not custom or lecture, not even the best,/ Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice” (28). He is not impressed by achievements, but rather by the fundamental greatness that connects every earthly thing. Therefore, a human being is as great as a blade of grass, and each are a miracle– an essential part of the vast wonder of life.

            Whitman’s Song of Myself emphasizes the complexity of the universe and every one of its pieces. The language and content of the poem is bursting with an appreciation of existence that inspires me to discard preoccupations with feelings of inadequacy, egotism, and, most importantly, fear of integrating with the universe. Song of Myself is “less the reminder of property or qualities, and more the reminder of life” (47), beckoning me to feel my importance as both a wondrous individual, and component of the great universe. The poem has instated within me the excitement to use all of my senses to connect with the world around me; to live without striving, learn, love and be for no pretentious reasons, but only because I am able to. Most importantly, I take up Whitman’s words and “celebrate myself” fully and truly (25). I do not celebrate my achievements or goals, nor my retained knowledge, but rather the miracle and mystery of existence. 

Sometimes I Can't Breathe With Love

I know that lately I can't stop talking about this, and I know that normally it is a cliché, dull, and predictable topic. So it is a little scary to see myself constantly propelled to such a subject. However, I feel confident that I am approaching it in an unconventional way, and- more importantly- this is honesty that I am expressing; this is that inexpressible part of me (my core, soul, or what you will) that I am trying to write down. It's a frustrating process, but I can't help but try. 

To my point:

I am in Love. 

I am so deeply in love- all the time, and inexpressibly in love with senses, feelings and spirits. 

And I know they are not real, that they are limited to pages from books, and to my mind's definitions. But then- that is as real as anything else, for what is anything we know but our personal definitions? 

I feel this love-- it takes me over in swift moments-- and I am left with a small smile on my face, heart beating fast, light with joy, warm as though embraced

After the kiss of its presence. 

Alright... I didn't mean to break out in poem. But I decided to go with it. I like that poem, actually, I'm glad it had the opportunity to be created. Maybe I'll add more to it later.

Anyway... 

I am in Love. 

And it is an amazing love because it seems to be the first love I have ever encountered that can be nothing else but love. I am not disregarding other loves as not being "true", etc. What I am saying is that, often, when I love someone or something there are other factors playing into that love-- such as dependancy or excitement or curiosity. Whereas, the love that I am writing about now is nothing else. 

Now, I hope you are excited. I hope you are very curious to know what I love. I hope you are already very expectant on a certain thing I am going to say, and I hope I will prove your expectations wrong. 

Today I recognized my love for artists. Not anyone I've met... although I am not saying that I don't love the artists I've met-- it just is not the same kind of love. See- this particular love is... it is... not missing any pieces. It can only be defined as love and nothing else. It is inexpressible, and not lacking from its inexpressibility because there is no need for it to be expressed. However- I am so full of it right now- of love I mean- that I feel like all I want to do is talk about it, and write about it, and think about it. This particular love is unlike the love for anyone/thing I know, for- because I do not actually know who/what I love (have never met, talked to, etc.) I am able to feel an emotion that I strongly feel is love in essence. 

Is this making sense? Shall I provide examples?: 

I love Emily Dickenson: that she didn't care about publishing her poems, that she was the only person who continued to sit for her opinions in the lecture hall, that she stood/stands out without seeming to try, that she wrote for herself, that she wrote to understand something, that she failed in understanding what she was writing for/why she was writing, that she continued... 

I love Walt Whitman: that he wrote about contentedness, that his poems are heavy with meaning without necessarily being weighted with troubles, that he strongly stated his convictions, that he strongly stated that his convictions were only convictions, that he admitted to his contradictions, that he was human in every definition of the word... 

I love Vincent van Gough: that he made (fatal) mistakes, that through his art he appears to make no mistakes, that his name is Vincent, that he used colors, that he didn't understand his value... 

I love Jack Kerouac: that he succeeded in expressing something inexpressible, that he never expressed what was inexpressible, that the words he wrote on paper seemed to line my life after I read them, and that that line was inexpressible in brilliance... 

I love Conor Oberst: that he is the most modern artist I will speak of, that some people would not consider him an artist, that he is concealed by stereotypes, that I sat in my closet and cried to his songs, that I have grown out of him... 

There are others I love too, but these are the ones I am feeling at the moment. 

But the purest thing about this love is that it is not the artist him/herself that I love. It is my definition of them that I love, and because I never met them and never will- it is completely acceptable for me to love them this way.

 I love what I take from them. I love that they existed and what they made exist to me.

On Whitman's 5th Canto

[5]

I believe in you my soul.... the other I am must not abase itself to you,

And you must not be abased to the other. 

Loafe with me on the grass.... loose the stop from your throat, 

Not words, not music or rhyme I want.... not custom or lecture, not even the best,

Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how we lay in June, such a transparent summer morning;

You settled your head athwart my hips and gently turned upon me, 

And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my barestript heart,

And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till you held my feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and joy and knowledge that pass all the art and argument of the earth;

And I know that the hand of God is the elderhand of my own,

And I know that the spirit of God is the eldest brother of my own,

And that all men ever born are also brothers.... and the women my sisters and lovers,

And the kelson of the creation is love;

And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,

And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,

And mossy scabs of the wormfence, and heaped stones, and elder and mullen and pokeweed. 

- by Walt Whitman

Can I express how much I want this?-- Whitman's limitless love: a love for creation, for all things created; no exceptions. 

Because I know I have had it before. Because I know there is such a feeling, but I can't articulate it. I can see it's memory, but I can't sense it. Because I hope that I can still obtain it-- I pursue it, and I kill it. 

Yes- I recognize that I disable myself from this love.

I realize that he does not hold the key.

I remember that I had loved myself, and now all the self-loathing I feel for loathing my loathing is a vicious cycle that won't end until I stop it, 

But I can't stop it because my inherent reaction is to hate myself,

And to rely on him,

And to disregard everything else between me and him

Keeping myself from the pure love-- the actual, honest, true love-- that I know exists, not because I read Whitman's words, but because I felt it once;

Once when I didn't know about it

Once when I could see it written, and not read it because I didn't know it existed.

Now that I know it exists everywhere, can I come by it again?

Now I read the words that articulate it, and can see the words and the memory, but I can't sense it. 

Still the sight makes my brain shut down, and my heart takes over--

Pumping so hard, there is no place for the excess blood that floods into my stomach until I am near bursting;

Bursting with blood, though some seem to think bursting with love,

And I wish they were right, but I know they are not because

Love exists everywhere.... it's not a feeling in my stomach.

No- this feeling is love's gravity pushing against me from all sides; outside of me. 

This feeling is love attempting to flood through my body, but I am a closed capsule 

And I am sealed off from it.