In his essay The Poet and These Times, Hugo von Hofmannsthal said about the poet: “It is as if his eyes had no lids.”
This is the only means by which I judge the quality of a poem, the only constant—if I am made to feel that way about the poet (all other qualifiers seem to be fickle and superfluous). However numerous and creative the patterns, the qualities of the materials, or the opinions of the times, Art will forever be a see-through dress.
The strangers in the woods must mimic squirrels and crackle with the undergrowth. They must not flinch at the cruelty of breaking golden leaves with their feet, or of interring stones. // Rigoberto Gonzáles, The Strangers Who Find Me in the Woods
we follow Moirai down as she points
at the homes of the unturned stones
and once there
we are as graceless as sinking pigs
but a sight less cruel somehow
spouse and spouse
child and child
(there and there
and once there)
archeologists will discover a paradise
in the place no touch died of neglect
the shape of my head gives off the impression that I know something
I have left my family, my culture, my friends
I have stripped. and stripped. and stripped
but I do not know
how to leave behind the shape of my head
or such exposed lines that tell, and lead there
What’s the benefit of an all-powerful immortal genius? The benefits are all-around infinite. But it depends, from its point-of-view are we more trouble than we’re worth?
I personally welcome the singularity with open arms because I equate greater-than-human-intell
The whole The Matrix scenario is based on the false premise that technology would be as cruel/ stupid/ thoughtless/ self-centered/ dopamine seeking as homo sapiens. Doesn’t greater than human intelligence equate with wisdom and doesn’t that equate with active preservation of those less capable and good? Isn’t The Matrix really just an overdressed simple-minded distrust of other homo sapiens with power? It presumes that anything else that’s intelligent and in a position of power will, as most humans have done, turn to enslavement and cruelty. I doubt the singularity would fashion itself in the likeness of Man, I don’t see how that would in any way be intelligent/wise.
If the singularity ever arrives the biggest defining factor as to whether it’ll bring about our destruction or eternal peace will be whether or not the human species does more good than harm in the whole scheme of things. Given our track record I’d say we’re screwed, because we are the bad guys. There’s not one system that can’t be made less dangerous and compromised by a replacement of the human element with technology of equal capability (ask any hacker worth their salt).
…What’s the benefit of the singularity? World peace. Will we be around? Maybe, most likely not if we don’t smarten up. This is a lot like a God question— if God existed, upon seeing us completely would she/he find us in harmony with the other elements and open the gates of Eden, or would we deserve the flood as means of saving the world? Predictable in our self-centeredness, the answers don’t hinge on a non-existent God/Singularity but entirely on us.
Simply put though, the benefit of singularity is that Man will no longer resemble Man; we will either no longer exist or no longer exist as we are by transcendence via cooperation. Both scenarios beg the question as to whether or not there are any benefits at all for what we currently define as Man (as inherently hungry and flawed and capricious and boredom-evading).
take me, as i am
as limp as empty, as limp
take me, anyways
I see this as you stating the same thing many great poets eventually do with a sigh when all they see around them are people in love with how well they can masturbate through words (“Look at how nude they are, how sexy, how shocking, how they allude to nature, to the heart, the good, the dark, the esoteric. Look! Look!! Look how I cry!!!”).
Why do people enjoy this? I want to read poems that move like wrecking balls. And that transform me into the building they long to touch. // Tomás Q. Morín
Good poetry is the difference between just having sex and making love. It is making love; it’s old news and the odds are against you before the very act and yet you participate. And you participate with an open-heart because you know that you’ll never reach that sweet release all emotionally closed up like that (this is old news). It holds yet destroys you completely, and it’s drawn-out yet over too quickly. It’s hard to describe.
But you know what I mean and in that knowledge is exactly where it resides. Good prose makes good fantasy, sci-fi, drama, romantic comedy, and documentary. Good poetry is bare but not proud of it, it’s anti-fantasy, and unromantic even when it is. It’s not really funny and it doesn’t sell well. It’s that art-house film that your weird friend that’s not really your friend dragged you to that moved you so wholly that you were still sitting after the credits were done and the room was dark and your friend just smiled (I recognize you with surprise. In this poem you are by yourself. // Catherine Wagner). It’s that impossible to get up. What you don’t realize is that your weird friend dragged you to this film, and only this film, because all the other ones sucked like an adult performer on her worst day (sure, the sex and performance was there, but…).
It’s that movie with all those reviews that start with “I finally stopped putting this off for some reason and watched it. This is hard to explain, but I’ll try,” because that’s exactly what it’s desperately trying to capture, the unexplainable and desperately avoided. And the impossibility of describing why I enjoy poetry is inherent in that, that it’s a capturing of everything I can’t.
Simply put though, you don’t enjoy reading poetry because of Miley. She’s everywhere, and she has the audacity to call herself inspired and inspirational.
Make time for it, and only it. And above all else, don’t trust yourself.
A writer should always be the first person to wake up and work, that’s the only way anyone will take you seriously. That’s the only way you’ll take yourself, seriously. Remind yourself that you want to be— no, are a writer, a person who writes words; but don’t trust your moods or your loves of them. They, moods and loves, though wonderful, wax and wane to and fro, and those grounds aren’t stable enough to build anything on. Keep a strict schedule of an austere mindset that’s, at minimum; three parts self-chastisement, four parts unavoidable, and five parts very very simple. Ridicule yourself for not putting pen to papers or fingers to board. To paraphrase poet Ilya Kaminsky, “A blank page is the white flag of your surrender.” Only cowards surrender, and the last thing you want to be is a coward.