It is absolutely obvious that Prometheus was punished by Gods before fire was brought to humans, eventually by him.
In the same order of ideas it is obvious that poverty and isolation are not sins at all and that the progress of human civilization cannot be stopped, at least until human brains exist.
It is obvious and even a child knows : first the punishment, then the deed.
I never wondered why and how stars die, but I am still confused why they should be created and where. Or until when. And I know for sure that I will never try to find out the truth about this. I was only a humble and innocent woman.
I think that pure knowledge does not exist for humans or humane-like creatures, all that exists is a seed planted somewhere. If you don’t cuddle it, it does not grow. Only God knows. I also think that there is a fine line between gnoseology and ontology.
The Past came too close to my thoughts, the Future cannot hold my words. Someone stole Jacob’s ladder from my ear.
I open my arms as if I were a clock holding time. And I can’t, I feel rusty.
I started to grow old the moment I began to dream.
(hence the differences between gnoseology and epistemology, but regarding this my mind is a little bit confused now, because my body betrays me and spell-check on the net accepts only the first of these two)
signed — just me, known&unknown by everybody
between known and unknown you can find either sunset or sunrise
between useless and beneficial you can find either death or life
between me and you can find either nothing or everything
between all the things that I told you can find either truth or lies
between good and bad you can find all the above
postscriptum — words are meaningless unless God wants to fulfill them
post-postscriptum — anyone can use another word or another name instead of God, I prefer God
Someone entered my thoughts saying that such a thing is unacceptable — what?! Reality or my humble existence? I accept everything and I think that very few things are unacceptable only for some people and I am not guilty that I told the truth. My fate is in God’s hands.
Wars, revolutions and love affairs: all of them are a matter of synchronizing. Depending on the moment when you enter or leave the scene, you become either hero or victim.
Poverty means to wear handcuffs in the crib. Wealth means to wear them in your coffin.
I realized that I am not the only one who keeps old books in a closet.
We dislike you, said the thorns to the rose. You’re not like us. Then the rose died poisoned by its own thorns. And the thorns got divided because they lost their stem.
Uphill a graveyard, downhill a water source.
You cannot share your own dreams with others the same as there is no such thing as half of a shadow or half of a silence.
Be logical and they will say that you’re an idiot. Be emotional and they will say that they don’t understand you. Be both at the same time and they will say that you’re insane.
Memories are like autumn leaves that can’t fall down from a dying tree.
Non idem est si duo dicunt idem, said the owl to the nightingale.
When I was a child they taught me that vineyard sap turns into wine. There is a brand of wine with a religious name, Lacryma Christi. Therefore, do not get drunk on God.
Is poetry knowledge or participation, immersion in written or spoken words?
Is the need to write poetry a need to complete the circle of one’s understanding about himself or about the world or a simple roll of the circle, a play, like many say that art is only the human functioning in his homo ludens dimension?
My opinion is that poetry is a question thrown in the murky ocean of poetry reading.
Like all other artistic efforts it can have an answer or no answer at all. Long-lasting creations become volcanic rocks piling up countless answers. Undefined questions are buried in the depths and others bring their own sediments and lava, making them grow.
It is a truism to say that every artistic act comprises the relation between creator and public, otherwise the art dies like a butterfly in its chrysalis. And it is better to fly at least one day than to die suffocated in your own weaving.
I can see in poetry, more than in other arts, the human thriving to be born, to give birth and to be reborn from questions. A poet writes a poem-question for himself or for the others. If the message is received, his question becomes an answer. Then he writes a poem-answer. Which will become another question. Time is modeling the artistic form, the shape of the individual creation through questions and answers. The scientific effort is like a construction in a bee or ant house, growing cell after cell, while poetry is a passage from the aleph state to the omega state of a poet’s knowledge.
Being like this, poetry lives as a proof for what is timeless in the human spirit. It breathes in each era inside the same alveolus, while prose creations change like sea foam under storms. Poetry represents the epoch’s vibration within the individual, not the opposite, therefore it is less vulnerable to social or political upheavals, which can overturn the poet’s life but not the immutability of his creation.
Poetry stands still. Like a dew drop that cannot decide to fall from a leaf’s ridge. The poet is consuming his inner light, following his own road from question to question, from an answer to another answer. Behind him each poem stands on the road like a viable question or answer.
I don’t think that poetry can reach the omega state of knowledge in the artist’s life. She is always bringing things into another light. My question is if poetry can be written walking the road back, from omega towards aleph. Maybe not. Maybe that is the role of philosophy. I think that poetry is written and received from the seed towards the grown-up tree. Poetry doesn’t look back.