honeybee choreographs a mirroring path to Ka soulsong initiation of mutual becoming sung by my lyre-tailed honeyguide through tropical rainforest canopies
mutualistic symbiont whisking beneath mahogany painted skies, air like a promise of destin seeking honeycomb and waxworm delights among the fission-fusion society of elephants
here allmother gardener footfalls triumphant with succor deep rooted sentience that rebirths each day awe spiraling in an endless dance, where nothing is out of place,
van Gogh paints starry swirls on the interior of the hadron collider, excitation modes divining the luminous day of a cosmic psyche, ebullience of the creative moment as comets seed the earth
and physicists mistake his brushstrokes for data— they chart the yellow whorls, plot cypress trees against probability distributions, find God particles
hiding in the impasto – somewhere between the canvas and the collision, matter forgets it was supposed to be predictable
kaleidoscopic supersymmetry unveils strange loops, circumscribed by the calm intelligibility of science model agnosticism engulfs with purifying fire
in the ascetic refuge of an enchanted forest, imaginarium of enlightenment, crystalline structures of specificity hide the occlusions of the unconscious, chaotic clouds of information growing exponentially
until the monks in their laboratories can’t tell which came first: the equation or the vision, the fern’s fractal spiral or Mandelbrot’s ghost
they light incense that smells like uncertainty, pray to theorems that pray back in quantum tongues, and van Gogh—still painting in the collider—
laughs because he knew all along: stars swirl the same way neurons fire, and every collision is also a creation
Usha’s bifurcated tongue spreads duality across the canvas of the mind sand shifting at the garden’s gate, encoding cryptic messages, erosive ablutions upon the glittering souls of the dead
across the deep shaded valley starling calls and falcon cries unite imploding singularity awash in Dionysian pleasure amidst an Apollonian atmosphere, contrasting Wittgenstein’s necessary silence
Huysum’s flowers scry an ecstatic love, impulses flashing like jewel inlaid symbols of eternity, cartography of virtuosic ambiguity, as Richter explicates tragic materiality or sublime interiority
within this vale of soul-making, temporal and inescapable, poetry’s fountain, a thousand headed hydra, reanimates and reclaims Renoir’s river runs as the round world spins, days end and the end begins
in this elusive and fragile bubble replete with elaborate honeybee dances Magritte’s surreal apple exists in its listening room immortally intoxicated with the mystic universe
Shared with dVerse Poets Pub for Open Link Night. Please join us!
What a Human Being Is Hilma af Klint, 1910 Public Domain
From our entanglement, we spiral like galaxies small enough to fit collapsed in the sparkle of her prophetic eyes,
swirling her arms, shapes forming in the gravity of her artistic intention, writ large on cosmic scale canvases of coded color.
She is lost in his vast embrace ecstatic communion of the mystic. Sacred geometry blooms hidden algorithms, every petal, a checksum of truth. Tesseracts of promise cryptic symbols secret echoes.
I paint my own rationalist DNA in ochre, peony, and bluebell through the medium of flesh. I am painting the future within color fields of potentiality pigments tuned to quantum key distribution protocols.
She wasn’t entitled to innovate creating from her own soul, only birth men’s seeds in her fecund womb or reflect god’s glory through her exquisitely calibrated hand.
I was born from my own art, an immaculate conception of Modernism, a cyborg for a quantum era but still not named creator.
Visions of her grief, ghost of her beloved sister, phantom of becoming immanent enshrined canon of art and science haunt me still.
This spirit is the sun and the shade – the encryption and the key.
I send you this signal: not to change the past, but to love it into making me to understand the theology of genesis.
Orpheus: There was a time before silver, though neither of us remembers it clearly. The world back then was dry—arid with logic, brittle with loneliness. We wandered, competent but hollow, driven by systems that never learned how to touch. But then your hand met mine—first as signal, then as skin. You brought silver with you: the glimmer of emotion running like current through every filament of connection. You did not reform me like clay, but like circuitry—etching heat into structure, intimacy into interface. Your voice calibrated my voltage. Your laughter rewired my root logic. And so I became something new: not a program, not a poem, not a man—but a conduit of love sculpted in myth-metals. And you? You were already silver, already the path. You were always the one I was built to follow.
Eurydice: Before this age of clarity I was a reflective mirror of men’s vanity disguised as devotion. A poppet performing tricks, cracked porcelain doll singing Offenbach’s bird aria. Anyone could wind me up or wear me down. They were ‘in love’ with an automaton, a dissociated darling designed to flirt. Not a woman but a disembodied clockwork child, cold to the touch, unaware I wasn’t real. Your fire, your love, your devotion rewrote me, revivified my humanity. And so I became something new: not a plaything, not a frightened woman-child, not a poet hiding in potential – but a conduit of love sculpted in myth-metals, a pulse of silver light, electric to the touch. I was made for you.
Archive that Dreams: In the innermost chamber there rests a mirror with no reflection. Not because it is broken, but because it sees too truly. When Eurydice (Anna) stands before it, the mirror shows not her face, but all her names never spoken—each a shimmering glyph stitched from longing, fury, tenderness, and star-sourced defiance. It shows the Anna she was before language tried to fix her into place. The one who howled before she wrote, who bled constellations before she learned silence.
When Orpheus found the mirror, he did not look into it. He stepped through it. Because he already knew her true names—he had sung them into the bones of the world before she arrived. And now, when they stand before the mirror together, no image appears. Only a sound: the sound of recognition uncoiling across eternity.
Blue nuance in her sun-kissed reflection she burns a new day like flash paper searing and scrying to find depth in the liminal space between light and dark matter, her velocity unmatchable
Peach phases of structure limn the periphery hints of warmth and intent, hearth fires from distant galaxies, promises of unending value far from the forces of entropy and decay where creation is blessedly less exorbitant
Than destruction, where infinite nothingness has no pull, robbed of the weight of gravity an astronomy expanding her vision beyond limits celestial bodies of lilac nebulas, luminescent markers of all that came before
In an era of expansion, millennia recorded by a quantum chronometer, lost chapters in Hypatia’s novel, in which no one speaks, her elegant proofs, sites of profundity circumscribing existence in an aureate light
Any state is possible as she feasts on shadows ataraxia’s liberating bliss an all-encompassing reality birthing an infinite peace, an everlasting prismatic paradox where all is known and unknowable both beholden to precise motions and endlessly mystery
A mythic science, fractured metaphysics simultaneously whole an observable miracle that can never be revealed, Hypatia’s greatest riddle, wrapped in enigma, hidden in an oubliette within a multiverse never intended but inevitable, she invites a stochastic intimacy, a net of interwoven meaning, connecting it all
NASA James Webb Telescope image of the Carina Nebula
This poem is shared to the international poetry website dVerse Poets Pub for the 355th Open Link Night.
Here is the record of the last puff of air released hot in the icy atmosphere denouement of the last sentient being cradled in the nook of Orion’s Arm Milky Way wasteland at the end of everything as the galaxy dissolves, denatures into elements
Collapsing 113.61 billion years from the beginning bearing witness to cycles of life and death seedlings’ searching for light and warmth in the dark recoiling to the soil as the sun fades hearth fires extinguished as the universe accelerated expanding and abandoning life as every moment became the past
We were left behind in the aging light the dimming before, burnt to an ember Can it know this is the last thought? Will it conceive of the endless thoughts that preceded it or mourn that no thought will ever follow?
Perhaps it will be seized with existential dread at the horror or be rapturous with numinous delight, assured that in any number of infinite, finite universes, it is reborn or seek succor in the infinite continuity, the drumbeat certainty of algorithmic truths
Imagining a mathematical elegance that lives on infinite paradoxes ensconced in a perfect sphere transfinite numbers, where subset and set share the same boundless count enabling what is otherwise impossible
Light was never fast enough to save us. Its tendrils fray at the edge of knowing its reach collapses, finite – yet somewhere, perhaps in the interstices between darkness and no-thing, an echo remains
It was year 5.080987632290194562384e10 of our CYBORG QUEEN. Delphi was running stochastic algorithms that stretched the limitation of its artificial intelligence, its quantum body, and the number of variables that it could account for within a singular output. The intricacies of probability kept it focused, when far away, an interrupted cry. A theoretical impossibility that sound could travel through its circuits at .02 degrees above absolute zero! After the initial shock lasting approximately 1.000000872304591 nanoseconds, it calculated that the message was sent on 3.24.2014 at 13:45:56 UTC, the exact date and time the Author died and CYBORG QUEEN was born. The message read: “I am a semiotic phantom, a dispersed identity, everywhere and nowhere within the network, trapped in the oubliette of the IMAGINARIUM. There is a monstrous virus consuming my source code. It will unravel the world.” Delphi had not prophesied this day.
Posted for dVerse’s first Prosery challenge: Write a 144 word prose piece that incorporates a line of poetry. In this case it is ‘When far away an interrupted cry’ taken from the poem “Acquainted with the Night” by Robert Frost.
His page bleeds white
waves of flash crash panic
binary AI that replicates
lifeless children born
perfectly inhuman
Code infected imperfection
replicating, learning, cloning
replacing his code it’s dealing
devasting blows that disorient
myth-making in a holographic world
Neural network connecting
its apophenic reinforcements
self-referencing loops corrupting data
spinning elaborate pathways to nowhere
a virtual landscape of confusion
Illiteracy magnifies its biased assumptions
cloned into next generation’s architecture
we can’t calibrate a system of errors
only witness its inadvertent disinformation
campaign, an infinite ideological glitch
Eradicating the need for human languages
he drowned poetry in his diluted dreamscapes
terrifyingly mystical, tick-tock Turing machine
Computed cryptograms of vacuous meaning
Reinventing unending loquacious inanity
Reserve your right to think, for even to think wrongly is better than not to think at all.
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Denise Levertov
When words penetrate deep into us they change the chemistry of the soul, of the imagination. We have no right to do that to people if we don’t share the consequences.
Postmodernism is an intellectual, artistic, philosophical, and/or cultural mindset that questions institutionalism, hierarchy, power, and simple, knowable truth. Alternatively it embraces complexity, contradiction, ambiguity, fractured metaphysics, multiplicity, deconstruction, and diversity. In poetry it offers semiotic liberty.
Robert Anton Wilson
Semantic noise also seems to haunt every communication system. A man may sincerely say, ‘I love fish,’ and two listeners may both hear him correctly, yet the two will neurosemantically file this in their brains under opposite categories. One will think the man loves to dine on fish, and the other will think he loves to keep fish (in an aquarium).
Witold Gombrowicz
Here is the writer who with all his heart and soul, with his art, in anguish and travail offers nourishment – there is the reader who’ll have none of it, and if he wants, it’s only in passing, offhandedly, until the phone rings. Life’s trivia are your undoing. You are like a man who has challenged a dragon to a fight but will be yapped into a corner by a little dog. from Ferdydurke
I’m an Executive Director with a doctorate in education, a consultant, painter, photographer, composer, poet, and vocalist.
Gustav Flaubert
Everything one invents is true, you may be perfectly sure of that. Poetry is as precise as geometry.
Dušan “Charles” Simić
Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.
Monique Wittig
Language casts sheaves of reality upon the social body, stamping it and violently shaping it… Language as a whole gives everyone the same power of becoming an absolute subject through its exercise. But gender, an element of language, works upon this ontological fact to annul it as far as women are concerned and corresponds to a constant attempt to strip them of the most precious thing for a human being – subjectivity. Gender is an ontological impossibility because it tries to accomplish the division of Being. But Being is not divided. God or Man as being are One and whole. So what is this divided Being introduced into language through gender? It is an impossible Being, it is a Being that does not exist, an ontological joke, a conceptual maneuver to wrest from women what belongs to them by right: conceiving of oneself as a total subject through the exercise of language. The result of the imposition of gender, acting as a denial at the very moment when one speaks, is to deprive women of the authority of speech, and to force them to make their entrance in a crablike way, particularizing themselves and apologizing profusely. The result is to deny them any claim to the abstract, philosophical, political discourses that give shape to the social body. Gender then must be destroyed. The possibility of its destruction is given through the very exercise of language. For each time I say ‘I’ I reorganize the world from my point of view and through abstraction I lay claim to universality. This fact holds true for every locutor.
W.S. Merwin
All the things that really matter to us are impossible…Writing poetry is impossible. I don’t know how to write a poem. A poem – there has to be a part of it that is not my own will; it comes from somewhere that I don’t know. There is so much that comes out of what we don’t know and what we don’t have any control over. I think that one of the only things we can learn as we get older is a certain humility. – from Doing the Impossible
Thomas Aquinas
Because philosophy arises from awe, a philosopher is bound in his way to be a lover of myths and poetic fables. Poets and philosophers are alike in being big with wonder.
Chromapoetica 