Remember the way that time cloaked you in glitter

and you spun through the night

recall the way that you soaked up the whiskey at the bar

high on heels

higher on reels


your watch clicks in time and your headphones hide

your eyes find

someone else, lost

fighting demons in the night

picking at hangnails in the soft light

you longed to move towards the richness of destruction and

the life of creation

we walked like we are going somewhere

wishing for a place to call home

I curled up into something that smelled like memories

without knowing where I would go

you drifted off

I see you sometimes on benches, smoking cigarettes, dressed in black

your hair falls over your eyes and you don’t see me.

I stare fixated, hoping you will remember,

all of the times that night held us

and all of the times that we were going to run,

you look at me

my face yours

yet you never saw me

everything has changed

*yeah, this is me posting cheesy poetry that very much is cheeseeeee but hey if we don’t make bad stuff we can never make good stuff*

*poetry verse philosophy*

my friend Nietzsche was talking shit about poetry today he says things like this

“Poets are shameless with their experiences: they exploit them.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche

this is from an article titled: Why Do Poets Lie Too Much? Nietzsche, Poetry and the Different Voices of Zarathustra

They lie and their lies don’t have depth, they are superficial, shallow seas; neither their thoughts nor their feelings penetrate the depths. They are guided by boredom and lust, present shallowness as depth, pose as reconcilers, but they are, in fact, mixers, bring the unmixable together and create eclectic forms. They are poor in style and mix eclectically where the form and the content remain apart, where a variety of disparate elements is not creatively appropriated, which is the mixing of modern style, or lack of style.

Verily, their spirit itself is the peacock of peacocks, and a sea of vanity!

I thought this very interesting because well Zarathustra is a poet and as I think Nietzsche is too. But really Nietzsche is getting all pompous saying certain poets are shallow and trite while HE, isn’t. He is a poet of blood, experience and life.

Here is an interesting article Nietzsche, Philosophy, & Poetry  who makes this argument ” Therefore, we cannot draw a distinction between the philosopher as a seeker after objective truths and a poet as a seeker after wholly ‘subjective’ and relativistic experiences.”
But I think that there are some distinctions that can be made between poetry and philosophy. I don’t think that there is much reason or rhyme (this is an joke to myself) in making the distinction. Perhaps poetry is an expression of what is known while philosophy is an expression of knowing and the unknown. Here is a debate on the topic.

But more so when I read poetry I look for similarities. I see pieces of myself in the work. I feel the depths of the emotion and the impact of the experience. Oscar Wilde spoke that the artist has a great responsibility to expand experiences  to make them more vibrant that the actual event. In that the act of reading about it is a greater emotional sensation that actually being in it. To me, that is what poetry strives for. Philosophy on the other hand, I read differently, I read for similarity and consistency with my own mode of thought but I also read it to breach my own experience to bring me to a place of uncertainty.

Nietzsche is a bit inconsistent from what I am gathering and he also loved poetry. His “favorite poet” was Friedrich Hölderlin he was diagnosed with extreme hypochondria and later declared “mentally unfit.” Who wants a “mentally fit” poet?

‘Another day’

Another day. I follow another path,
Enter the leafing woodland, visit the spring
Or the rocks where the roses bloom
Or search from a look-out, but nowhere

Love are you to be seen in the light of day
And down the wind go the words of our once so
Beneficent conversation…

Your beloved face has gone beyond my sight,
The music of your life is dying away
Beyond my hearing and all the songs
That worked a miracle of peace once on

My heart, where are they now? It was long ago,
So long and the youth I was has aged nor is
Even the earth that smiled at me then
The same. Farewell. Live with that word always.

For the soul goes from me to return to you
Day after day and my eyes shed tears that they
Cannot look over to where you are
And see you clearly ever again.

*thoughts that linger*

“That is why the better part of our memory exists outside ourselves, in a blatter of rain, in the smell of an unaired room or of the first crackling brushwood fire in a cold grate: wherever, in short, we happen upon what our mind, having no use for it, had rejected, the last treasure that the past has in store, the richest, that which when all our flow of tears seems to have dried at the source can make us weep again. Outside ourselves, did I say; rather within ourselves, but hidden from our eyes in an oblivion more or less prolonged.”
-Marcel Proust, À l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs, trans. Moncrieff and Kilmartin

“So few things we need to know.
And the old wisdoms shudder in us and grow slack.
Like renunciation. Like the melancholy beauty
of giving it all up. Like walking steadfast
in the rhythms, winter light and summer dark.
And the time for cutting furrows and the dance.”
—  Robert Hass, from “Against Botticelli”

“I wish that I had spoken only of it all.”
—  Gertrude Stein, from “Stanzas in Meditation”

“You sent for me to talk to you of art; and I have obeyed you in coming. But the main thing I have to tell you is,—that art must not be talked about.”
-John Ruskin, Sesame and Lilies

“I’ve let the frost go too far away.”
—  Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 5 January 1939

“awkwardly we bump into stars
we see nothing we hear nothing
we beat with our fists on the dark ether”
—  Zbigniew Herbert, from “First the Dog,” trans. Czeslaw Milosz and Peter Dale Scott

“Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.”
—  Pablo Neruda, from “Keeping Quiet,”

“So, I say, what of the night, the terrible night?”
—  Djuna Barnes, Nightwood

“It is thanks to my evening reading alone that I am still more or less sane.”
—  W. G. Sebald, Vertigo, trans. Michael Hulse

“It is all very well our loving people, the pain of losing them, when in our isolation we are confronted with it alone, to which our mind gives, to a certain extent, whatever form it chooses, this pain is endurable and unusual as an accident in the moral world and in the region of our heart, which is caused not so much by the people themselves as by the manner in which we have learned that we are not to see them again.”
—  Marcel Proust, Albertine disparue, trans. Moncrieff and Kilmartin

“I forgive your hand, right now rising, falling, and leaving trace
unlike what it praises; I forgive your shadow for never becoming
a stain to mark this road, this bed, but mostly this sea.”
—  Valzhyna Mort, from “Island”

“I miss your wingspan miss your hollow bones.”
—  Dora Malech, from “Flight, Fight Or”

“‘There is a charming quality, is there not,’ he said to me, ‘in this silence; for hearts that are wounded, as mine is…’”
—  Marcel Proust, Le Côté de Guermantes, trans. Moncrieff and Kilmartin

“In which way are stars brighter than they are. When we have come to this decision. We mention many thousands of buds. And when I close my eyes I see them.”
—  Gertrude Stein, from “Idem the Same, A Valentine to Sherwood Anderson”

“I have had—to be frank—a bad and worried and depressed and inconvenient winter…”
—  Henry James, from a letter to Edith Wharton, 19 April 1909

“For most of us, there is only the unattended
Moment, the moment in and out of time,
The distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight,
The wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning
Or the waterfall, or music heard so deeply
That it is not heard at all, but you are the music
While the music lasts.”
—  T. S. Eliot, from “The Dry Salvages” in The Four Quartets

“Apparently there is nothing that cannot happen today.”
—  Mark Twain, Autobiography (via risky wiver)

“The immense space suddenly becomes vacant: then illuminated.”
—  Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 2 February 1940

“Reading is a dialog with oneself; it is self-reflection, which cultivates profound humanity. Reading is therefore essential to our development. It expands and enriches the personality like a seed that germinates after a long time and sends forth many blossom-laden branches.”
—  Daisaku Ikeda (via whiskey river)

“The world is simply throbbing with rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting people. Forget yourself.”
—  Henry Miller (via risky wiver)

“I will meet you on the nape of your neck one day,
on the surface of intention, word becoming act.
We will breathe into each other the high mountain tales,
where the snows come from, where the waters begin.”
—  Luke Davies, from “[In the yellow time of pollen]”

“I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words.
I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree.”
—  Czeslaw Milosz, from “Dedication” (thanks to growing-orbits)

“Thicker than rain-drops on November thorn.”
—  Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Fragment 8”

“… perhaps it was also because of the extraordinary tricks dreams play with time that they fascinated me so much. Had I not in a single night, in one minute of a night, seen days of long ago which had been relegated to those great distances where we can distinguish hardly any of the sentiments we then felt, melt suddenly upon me, blinding me with their brightness as though they were giant aeroplanes instead of the pale stars we believed, making me see again all they had once held for me, giving me back the emotion, the shock, the vividness of their immediate nearness, then recede, when I woke, to the distance they had miraculously traversed, so that one believes, mistakenly however, that they are one of the means of recovering lost time.”
—  Marcel Proust, Le temps retrouvé, trans. Moncrieff and Kilmartin

“I tell you: one must still have chaos in one to give birth to a dancing star.”
—  Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, trans. Thomas Common

“Be present in all things and thankful for all things.”
—  Maya Angelou

I love words