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Poetry Magnum Opus

After The Show


dr_con
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After The Show

 

No idea where

Cut wood smells

dust and metal cold

electric sounds and

pervasive plastics

The sense it’s all

happening out there

 

The curtains are a clue

Limbo that’s it and no

memories except snatches

of conversation that come

and go with that casual

maniacal feeling of time to

move move Move

 

Out front where the action is

was will be again

 

Behind the scenes how obvious

certainty is death and choice

radical liberation

 

How comforting it must be

to live in an impersonal cosmos

Nothing can ever be private

the ultimate blame game

 

Ha Time to go out

take that bow

Goodbye or Hello

That’s right

one and the same

the illusion of gesture

See how pretty it is?

thegateless.org Come on over and check out my poetry substack y'all;-) Or if your bored, head to the Zazzle store: https://www.zazzle.com/store/gateless. If you buy anything I lose a bet, so consider that before you violate the digital rules.

 

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Covers a lot of ground juris and leaves me thinking perhaps we live under umbrellas of imagery, idealism and imagination, avoiding the pragmatic. Love that line "the illusion of gesture". Your subtle poetry opens different cans of worms for different people. For me the well-used metaphor comes to mind that "life is like a bottle of milk and cream rises to the top"-- and we look to that for some sort of gauge-- but it's a misnomer. I believe that if people are satisfied with their lot wherever they figure in that bottle, then they are successful. All too often the cream (the rich and powerful) are rarely satisfied with their collective lot, unless they are inflicting their values on the rest of us. Ergo they are unsuccessful. And there are far more of us than them. Good poetry really does make you think. :biggrin:

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  • 2 weeks later...

You gave us a tour around the stage - 'move move Move'. I wondered what you were thinking behind the stage, are the curtains lifted, exposed to the audience, and nothing can be private?

"Words are not things, and yet they are not non-things either." - Ann Lauterbach

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David W. Parsley

doc, the piece makes me all too conscious of the hour in which this "poor player frets and struts," telling my own idiot tale. Like all our best work, this one throws a strobing light on the sequence of unexpectedly true tableaux.

 

Thanks,

- Dave

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  • 4 weeks later...

Thank you all for taking the time to read and your insightful comments- Been a challenging couple of months- But know you all have my deepest gratitude! ;-)

 

 

Dr. Con & Juris

thegateless.org Come on over and check out my poetry substack y'all;-) Or if your bored, head to the Zazzle store: https://www.zazzle.com/store/gateless. If you buy anything I lose a bet, so consider that before you violate the digital rules.

 

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Nice one! The Japanese have the expressions "tatemae" and "honne" : tatemae is what one reveals to the world, the image or the illusion on the stage of life, if you like, whereas honne is the way things really are, the true condition of things, which is generally kept deeply hidden, is rarely referred to, and may even be concealed from the individual by himself. Outbursts of honne are thought to be shameful and embarrassing in this society since they are disruptive of "Wa" or group harmony. What a contrast to the "let it all hang out" notions of the West! One classic example of this mental habit was the Emperor's radio address to the nation in August 1945 after the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and just before Japan accepted unconditional surrender to the Allies. The conduct of the war, said the Emperor, "has not necessarily developed to our advantage". In literary terms one of the better examples of this conflict between reality and appearances can be found in "Dubliners", the short story collection by James Joyce. Each of these stories contains an "epiphany" when the honne intersects with the tatemae with often devastating consequences, as when Gabriel discovers that his wife of many years is still secretly pining over the death of Michael Furey, a young boy she knew before she and Gabriel met and married. John Huston's film of this story ("The Dead": his last film, as it happened) is an absolute classic of its kind and I would recommmend it unreservedly! It is only in the last ten minutes of the film that we realise that all the apparently random and inconsequential events that have taken place at the Christmas party of the Misses Morkan have been inexorably leading towards this climax. It is a subtly nuanced and absoloutely marvellous piece of visual story-telling.

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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Like most of my own writing, this makes me want to have another shot of vodka and a pill. I loved it.

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  • 3 weeks later...

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