Thursday, April 22, 2004
ETHICS - WEEK 4
"...beauty's effect with beauty was bereft..." ~Shakespeare, Sonnet V
For this week's post, I have decided to put up two poems that I have written, which I feel help to portray some of my sentiments after today's class.
An Artist's World
Some people speak through words,
but many cannot.
Some people speak through signs,
but many cannot.
Then, that’s where the artist lives,
In that state of limbo
Where only visual ideas exist.
He reaches out into that darkness,
into that chaos.
He reaches for what he cannot see,
only feel.
Pulling it together through the
darkness of his cluttered mind;
pulling it into what makes
him sensible.
He thrives on it,
even if to no one else
it is making sense.
It is good.
It is good.
It is good.
Who are you to say otherwise?
If you do, I may pull you
from that darkness next,
into this
darkness.
Poet
These words mean nothing,
Come to no consequence,
But I speak them because they burn.
Two separate entities,
Neither here nor there,
But I feel them gripping me.
My soul has raped my mind,
Compelling me to shout nonsense,
But I shout anyway to avoid the flames.
Desire overtakes rationality,
Intellect suppresses instinct,
But war nonetheless, constant.
You cannot feel this, know this pain
From which comes this joy,
But it is not lost to me.
I can say, feel, speak, know
Tall grass whispering in the wind,
But you cannot understand peace.
I can taste, touch, savor, absorb
The color of anger demanding an answer,
But you cannot understand rage.
I have been violated by my own selves
And now I am forced to be their slave,
But I envy you, now. Tomorrow, no.
-R
"...beauty's effect with beauty was bereft..." ~Shakespeare, Sonnet V
For this week's post, I have decided to put up two poems that I have written, which I feel help to portray some of my sentiments after today's class.
An Artist's World
Some people speak through words,
but many cannot.
Some people speak through signs,
but many cannot.
Then, that’s where the artist lives,
In that state of limbo
Where only visual ideas exist.
He reaches out into that darkness,
into that chaos.
He reaches for what he cannot see,
only feel.
Pulling it together through the
darkness of his cluttered mind;
pulling it into what makes
him sensible.
He thrives on it,
even if to no one else
it is making sense.
It is good.
It is good.
It is good.
Who are you to say otherwise?
If you do, I may pull you
from that darkness next,
into this
darkness.
Poet
These words mean nothing,
Come to no consequence,
But I speak them because they burn.
Two separate entities,
Neither here nor there,
But I feel them gripping me.
My soul has raped my mind,
Compelling me to shout nonsense,
But I shout anyway to avoid the flames.
Desire overtakes rationality,
Intellect suppresses instinct,
But war nonetheless, constant.
You cannot feel this, know this pain
From which comes this joy,
But it is not lost to me.
I can say, feel, speak, know
Tall grass whispering in the wind,
But you cannot understand peace.
I can taste, touch, savor, absorb
The color of anger demanding an answer,
But you cannot understand rage.
I have been violated by my own selves
And now I am forced to be their slave,
But I envy you, now. Tomorrow, no.
-R
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