Posted on: April 13, 2012
Spinozablue welcomes the fine Haiku of Virginie Colline, and the poetic works of Dan Corjescu and Neil Ellmann.
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As long as we are alive, nothing is complete. We define this or that aspect of art, music, religion, life itself, and we kill it. In some way, small to great. Yes, poetry can lift art; art poetry. But neither can define or limit or stifle the other. There is always more. Much more. And the best critics know this. The most attentive, aware, tuned-in admirers of all the arts know this.
Nothing is written in stone, literally and metaphorically. The stone does not last. It crumbles and becomes something else. The metaphors are a bridge to another place and time, another way of seeing.…
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Posted on: February 1, 2012
Van Gogh’s Wheatfield With Crows. 1890
Forty Illusions Before Midnight
Birds never fly away
Fish never swim away
The sun never sets
We are idiots of ego
The only revolutions
That matter are the violent ones
The ones that force us to cast off
Me mine me mine
The only revolutions that matter
Are those that reveal
All is relative
All is contingent and evanescent
Like the leaf that falls because
She says so
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Posted on: December 31, 2011
Golden Pavilion, Kyoto, Japan. Photo by Keith Pomakis
Nothing to learn
Sitting still and awesome like a mountain
No-I thought of nothing
Half-way home
Master Hsueng asked No-I
“Why do you think of nothing
With great intent?”
And No-I said
“Through concentration on nothing
I am liberated.”
Thwack came the bamboo stick
Gong gong gong rang the bell
Birds cawed as they fled into the blue sky
Their sky their home
“Master, why did you strike me!“
No-I asked in great pain
No longer still or awesome like a mountain
And Master Hsueng answered:
“When you grasp after nothing
You make it an object
Outside Mind-Body
You break the flow between void
And form
Form and void
You categorize nothing!”
Thwack came the bamboo stick
Back down on No-I’s shoulders
No-I did not Awaken
For two more years
by Douglas Pinson
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