~ REALIZATION

Phantasmagoric pressure
Inviting me to somnambulistic reveries:
Will awoken reaction
Create opportune fulfilment?

~ Philosophising poetical

Philosophy is born of wonder, which is then the motor of its proceeding. Art produces wonder which is then its instrumental capacity of knowledge.
Wonder is being in the face of being.
The harmony of the world is the substance of man and all the cosmos.
All things are born of harmony (which gushes from chaos), constitute harmony and continually fight to reconquer it and broaden it.

Poetry guides the course of the stars and guides thus the life of all things. Through poetry and art you discover beauty. But you need to want beauty in order to see it, to bring it into the world.
Perhaps this is the new value to be pursued.
I wish to pursue it. Perhaps pursue it with you...?

In any case, in beauty there's a tension beyond communion: the tension to be a new man, that new man who is in me must come about in order to be my salvation.

This tension makes me see things differently, to conceive with other modality and perspectives until it leads me to certain elementary discoveries, to certain evidence that fills me with wonder.

Perhaps this is a new moral instance, also, which urges me to seek the path towards a new harmony in the world of the nature of human relationships.

Life is a proceeding towards ever greater clarity and knowledge, something much more intense than any intellectuality, and it is a proceeding towards "individuation", because being different does not mean being individual.

Experience always brings knowledge with it, where intellectuality is only a shadow and outline, and provides contrasts, not individuations.
Individuation is a high step that has to be climbed. Its sense is sense of continuous integration with the world, is total adherence. It implies development, capacity to pass fear and regard the different, the world, with an open mind.

The impulse to perceive and to think in "Mind Symbiosis" now appears propitious, indicating a path to follow. It is vision and starting point capable of permeating with self the sense of space, of specific creation, of individual "product". It reshuffles the cards of communication.

If life is yearning, a passionate journey which amplifies the consciousness, it is a moral commitment, without the acrid sense often attributed to the term.

It is joy of moral commitment.
It is joy because it promotes love and life, because it guards the shattering impulse of love.
All this before any possible design that becomes objectivity of vision and verification.
This gives rise to an ideal impulse, a need to project the image beyond the hedge of contingencies. And the design in itself has value.

The permeating and communicative force of the ideal image is put to the test of a real image, which becomes relation, commitment, goal. It walks in the depths: "communication occurs only from depth to depth". In all this, I proceed towards individuation, that is, towards being always more myself. But I still do not know what this is, it is a glimmer that my being pursues, the way I perceive and the light is within me. I know that I do not know, but a recondite part of me does know.

Do you? And if you do, do come and join me in my quest!
How?
You make the first move - the How I leave to you...

~ IMPULSE

I can jump
Puddles
But now
I want
To wade them
Deep

~ ROMA = AMOR

ROMA
AMOR *


Eternal city
Of my renascence
I love you
So deeply
For never failing
To carry me tenderly
Over the memories
Of past pleasures
In youth and age:
Seven ancient hills
Remembered each
For sins of aspiration,
Every visit an embrace
Copulating with instant
Reminiscence.

---

* The reverse of Roma is Amor, which in Latin, Italian, Spanish and Portuguese means LOVE.

~ DREAMING OF SAMARKAND

This title has always fascinated me...

Subliminally
Sublimating
Faraway lands
No longer extant
But in my shivering
Dreams

~ POET'S NEMESIS

Conceive me as a dream of stone:
my breast, where mortals come to grief,
is made to prompt the poet’s love,
mute and noble as matter itself.

With snow for flesh, with ice for heart,
I sit on high, an unguessed sphinx
begrudging acts that alter forms;
I never laugh, I never weep.

In studious awe the poet broods
before my monumental pose
aped from the proudest pedestal,
and to bind this docile lover fast
I freeze the world in a perfect mirror:
the untenable light of my infernal eyes.