Poems
description
sometimes language is like a pocket full of useless keys;
words can only suggest
the best they can do is vaguely point the way,
like a gentleman in a three piece suit who, running late,
when asked for directions,
to a seamless connection
to the inner life of a cloud
left to its own choreography in a vacant parking lot
can only smile, and wave vaguely at the moon.
dark vowels and a loose handful of consonants are like broken wings
to take us from the particular
to the immense.
they can only grope around the way things seem
when reaching for descriptions.
words are poor marooned syllables, washing ashore;
ecstatic, reunited, mysterious remnants of the wholly unsayable.
jor/2012
imagination
imagination wakes me at all hours
and sets, and resets my world
in perpetual motion.
devoted to transcendence,
it points me to the hidden life of everyday things -
it takes them to a clearing
and renames and reclaims them all with bold strokes of colour and sound.
it loves to reinvent the world.
it tastes the sound of the sky and hears the smell of sunlight.
it eats up darkness
and mutters strange utterances
while spinning what is perceived
to inconceivable rhythms,
in wild and unnamable places.
it lays siege to indifference
and paints facts
over with illusions
it is a lost soul prowling the memories of our dead ancestors,
it wanders the purlieus and limits of language
it calls and calls and invites us to answer;
to cross the gap that logic will not bridge
between the incomprehensible,
and the making of meaning.
sometimes language is like a pocket full of useless keys;
words can only suggest
the best they can do is vaguely point the way,
like a gentleman in a three piece suit who, running late,
when asked for directions,
to a seamless connection
to the inner life of a cloud
left to its own choreography in a vacant parking lot
can only smile, and wave vaguely at the moon.
dark vowels and a loose handful of consonants are like broken wings
to take us from the particular
to the immense.
they can only grope around the way things seem
when reaching for descriptions.
words are poor marooned syllables, washing ashore;
ecstatic, reunited, mysterious remnants of the wholly unsayable.
jor/2012
imagination
imagination wakes me at all hours
and sets, and resets my world
in perpetual motion.
devoted to transcendence,
it points me to the hidden life of everyday things -
it takes them to a clearing
and renames and reclaims them all with bold strokes of colour and sound.
it loves to reinvent the world.
it tastes the sound of the sky and hears the smell of sunlight.
it eats up darkness
and mutters strange utterances
while spinning what is perceived
to inconceivable rhythms,
in wild and unnamable places.
it lays siege to indifference
and paints facts
over with illusions
it is a lost soul prowling the memories of our dead ancestors,
it wanders the purlieus and limits of language
it calls and calls and invites us to answer;
to cross the gap that logic will not bridge
between the incomprehensible,
and the making of meaning.
jor/2012
the ecstasy that haunts high places
jor/2012
the language that will shape a new future
jor/2012
the wake behind me widens with time
jor/2012