“My conversation with the poet took place in the summer before the war.” ~ Sigmund Freud, On Transience
A Poet is a conduit of Destruction. The success of a Poet is contingent upon the accuracy of weather forecasts. Poetic potency is unassailable, equally liberating and constrictive, while technically precise. The Poet is the Destroyer's editorial technician, but a free agent.
Sigmund Freud hosted a despondent Poet who anticipated impending doom. That is the Poet's Job: not to interpret transient signs, but to reveal them, before destruction commences. Embedded in the Abrahamic Hindu concept of Karma is destruction, then reconstruction, if merited. A poem, then, is an invitation to mourn decay, which is largely unseen. Your touch, whether intentional or not, can sway a Vine in completely unfathomable directions. Right after Freud's pessimistic encounter, World War broke out. The Poet accompanying Freud through the countryside (literally evoking Eden before The Fall, presumably) found his colleague's aesthetic admiration for a landscape that hid the underlying evil of Nazism absurd and destroyed it, simply by noting their fleeting existence.
Sometimes, all a Poet needs to do to confirm foreboding imagery is just show up. Their mere presence destroys paradigms. Recitations are useless theatrical pining, at that point flailing about nonsense. Seasoned poets are accustomed to marinating within unfolding creation, maturing with lush vegetation to be consumed at the threshing floor. Whether they're aborted and burnt asunder, replanted, or grafted is of no consequence to the astute poet identifying tares from wheat, however indistinguishable they may appear to be.
A good indication of unquenchable power is a Poet's silence. A Poet is expert at standing still. A Poet's fruit are their choice words, better left unspoken, in writing. Poet is cognate of Puwet meaning Ass in Tagalog. Anytime a poem is invoked, a Poet turned Heckler conjures Red Tides from exposed Bullshit, what Professor Dam calls Beautiful Assassins. A Poet transmits Curses or blessings embedded with conditions. A Poet's hand signals angelic winds or lack thereof, when conditions aren't met. A Poet is not immune from uprooting. When a Poet shivers, storms brew. A Poet arrives and the earth is moved. If a Poet arrives and the earth is moved, don't be surprised. A Poet just as quickly vanishes. That is all.
Forbidden.
At least, that's how I gage Mediocre Art apart from unhallowed arts. You won't find a Poet of a Generation posing on a red carpet. Their ability to envision being rolled up like a scroll and swallowed by a sinkhole is best suited for a blank sheet.
Sometimes, all a Poet needs to do to confirm foreboding imagery is just show up. Their mere presence destroys paradigms. Recitations are useless theatrical pining, at that point flailing about nonsense. Seasoned poets are accustomed to marinating within unfolding creation, maturing with lush vegetation to be consumed at the threshing floor. Whether they're aborted and burnt asunder, replanted, or grafted is of no consequence to the astute poet identifying tares from wheat, however indistinguishable they may appear to be.
A good indication of unquenchable power is a Poet's silence. A Poet is expert at standing still. A Poet's fruit are their choice words, better left unspoken, in writing. Poet is cognate of Puwet meaning Ass in Tagalog. Anytime a poem is invoked, a Poet turned Heckler conjures Red Tides from exposed Bullshit, what Professor Dam calls Beautiful Assassins. A Poet transmits Curses or blessings embedded with conditions. A Poet's hand signals angelic winds or lack thereof, when conditions aren't met. A Poet is not immune from uprooting. When a Poet shivers, storms brew. A Poet arrives and the earth is moved. If a Poet arrives and the earth is moved, don't be surprised. A Poet just as quickly vanishes. That is all.
Forbidden.
At least, that's how I gage Mediocre Art apart from unhallowed arts. You won't find a Poet of a Generation posing on a red carpet. Their ability to envision being rolled up like a scroll and swallowed by a sinkhole is best suited for a blank sheet.
Rashi: “‘the cherubim: Angels of destruction.’ — [from Exod. Rabbah 9:11]”
Rebbe Nachman: prophecy comes from the ‘cherubs,’ as it is written, ‘He heard the voice… from between the two cherubs’ (Numbers 7:89).
