out and through the other side

on awareness and essence

as i see now and suspected somewhere inside,

my post on what i called the poetry of life

was totally misunderstandable and filled with traps.

still, it is that i don't want to write at all,

and i still don't like to write poems.

what i wrote at night could easily be misunderstood

as following a path of romanticism, and this would be

an immense error. romanticism is deeply connected

to egocentrism, barbarism and indifference to other

beings in their singularity and suffering.

the basic meaning was on awareness from inside,

on stepping out to see essence, in good and bad times.

and poetic view and experience is not blind but tries

to be naked of ego and to go near essence, not to look

away and -for me- to have faith in the presence of

the terrible as well as of the most intense joy.

and to say it clearly, this faith which is so difficult to find

and keep has nothing to do with any religion or church at all,

it comes out of this very awareness of essence in all,

be it a stone, a tree or you.

each you.

and seen from there all life is like a poem talking to us,

changing our awareness, our mind, penetrating our soul

and giving us a chance to look out from routine, troubles

and daily  tasks to find a way to be richer and alive inside,

not for entertainment, distraction or an illusion of happiness.

not all poems are happy, not all poems are sad, but many poems

have an underlying current of melancholia, they deconstruct

and show us fragments in the face of our impermanence.

and i am not talking just about my poems.

this is what happens day for day in life for all of us, it is really: 

not to look away. to be awake and aware.

in these associations and reflections i am not talking

on the other aspects of poetry as a tradition to narrate,

to make rhymes on life, to hand out false hymns and to

re-narrate with all possible elation sad happenings and wars,

to glorify persons and a god and to create heroes and untrue feelings

using our childish emotions and confusion.

this must be clear:

i wrote and write on the poetic experience of essence,

on the awaress of complexity and mortality and on the despair 

on how not to know how to act in the presence of  suffering,

including foremost this daily show on our television, 

the bread and games of  so called civilized countries.

i listen to the traffic here outside,

and writing all this appears absurdly ineffective.

The television screens do not listen,

and it so hard to listen anyway.

why i hate to write poems

I never wrote as much in my own language than

in  this one here.

It is weird, in some ways i reach the same limits

as  with each language and with all words,in other ways

I have to probe so deeply into all communication and meaning

 that i feel at times as much enrichment  as despair.

On the inter-being, the space between two humans filled

with love, touch, joy, compassion and mindfulness as well as

differences, hurt, mistrust and quarrel nothing can be more

difficult than written  language when there are no arms, no voice 

 and no smile  across long periods of time and thousands of miles

and one remains in longing, doubt and loneliness.

And i know well how much writing can construct and destroy.

But  it has no power on life, it can only come out of it

and try to touch another one in the best way possible,

 always with the near  certainty of being

misunderstood or put away in a folder for later.

We all live in our own world and skin, and even with the deepest

feeling and truest presence letters can do nothing but confuse.

So i prefer poetry as my view on and inner experience of  life 

is at root  poetic and flows out of my innocence and unyielding

growth: it is nothing but walking out of the very me.

Only i wonder why i need so many words,

why? One is longing, one is presence-

why must be so much in words?

Life is poetry in suffering, sadness, sharing, love, in dying,

in all ugliness and decay and beauty, in all.

There is no other poetry. It is chaos, incalculable  flow.

It is beautiful and terrible.

It is love in nascendi and consciousness of good and bad.

And if this is true there is a  poetry we cannot want to see.

The poetry of war, abuse, poverty, cruelty, which has seduced

so many and killed so many.

This one calls us to act, to find not to art but to our center

of  kindness, to our way how to be a human on this planet,

not only to travel vaguely like shadows but to participate,

to give our life as in love. To be not Buddha but Bodhisattva,

not to sit next to suffering  but to take our (re)incarnation and 

feeling for others seriously.

And here is the mystery of sacrifice, it is simple,

here is the reason why poetry and art mean nothing

per se if not in doing.

And here is true poetry, in living from inside and in giving.

Now, not tomorrow.

This is why i feel bad writing poems and needing them,

i need them to stay near me and my essence, not to be better,

just to be near me and sometimes a you.

meschugge

Pessoa for sure and me i know
anyway