barred

a man walks into a bar
and says:

"a man walks into a bar and says . . ."

he has nothing left
to say,
bereft he walks
away.

Copyright © 2005 Marco Alexandre de Oliveira

poiesis . . .

poiesis

poetry is a way with words

the poem is . . . with words

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

the poet is away with words

Copyright © 2005 Marco Alexandre de Oliveira

Can't (under)stand Kant !?!

"Poetry [Dichtkunst] (which owes its origin almost entirely to genius and is least willing to be led by precepts or example) holds the first rank among all the arts. It expands the mind by giving freedom to the imagination and by offering, from among the boundless multiplicity of possible forms accordant with a given concept to whose bounds it is restricted, that one which couples with the presentation of the concept a wealth of thought to which no verbal expression is completely adequate, and thus raises itself aesthetically to ideas. It invigorates the mind by letting it feel its faculty - free, spontaneous, and independent of determination by nature - of regarding and estimating nature as phenomenon in the light of aspects which nature of itself does not afford us in experience, either for sense or understanding, and of employing it accordingly in behalf of, and as a sort of schema for, the supersensible. It plays with semblance [Schein], which it produces at will, but not as an instrument of deception; for its avowed pursuit is merely one of play [Spiel], which, however, understanding may turn to good account and employ for its own purpose."

(Immanuel Kant, The Critique of Judgement)

The "Art of Poetry"

"Simul et jucunda et idonea dicere vitae."
(Horace, Art of Poetry)

"To teach - to please - comprise the poet's views,
Or else at once to profit and amuse."
(Howe's translation)

"Two objects always should the poet move,
Or one or both, - to please or to improve."
(Byron's translation, in Hints from Horace)

"ut pictora poesis"
(Horace)

"in poetry as in painting"
(anonymous translation)

RIP . . .

wRitIngPoetry

one sad poem stands alone
as a lonely, mad poet stumbles,
in a daze, through a maze
of jumbled verses,
fumbles and curses
the lone pen at hand,
then tumbles in a blind rage
over the jagged lines that cover a ragged page,
hurdled by words into an absurd
waste(paper)land . . .

“down again
as I begin to
rise again

high again
as I begin to
fall again

why again?
as I begin to
try again

and again
as I begin to
end again”

. . . and then, when
bound beyond bounds
beforeverafterwords,
very suddenly, he
utters a sigh, stutters,
and mutters a last cry,

“alas, once past . . .”

utterly lost as he
mumbles and grumbles,
still lying still
across the floor.

“. . . forever never ever more”

Copyright © 2005 Marco Alexandre de Oliveira

gringocarioca