Mariusz uwielbia matchę

Moja fascynacja herbatą, a od niedawna matchą, ewidentnie zainspirowała Martę do napisania tego uroczego wierszyka.

Na co ma dziś Mariusz smaczek?
Oczywista, że na macze!
Miesza, dmucha, siorbie, mlaszcze,
Strasznie mu wykręca paszczę ...
Pije ją i prawie płacze, z poświeceniem - nie inaczej! 
Wszystkim wokół zaś tłumaczy, jakie są walory maczy.

Jesienna melancholia

Popijając świeżą kawę w jednej z moich ulubionych warszawskich kawiarni, na skrzyżowaniu alej Solidarności i Jana Pawła II, spoglądam przez zakurzoną szklaną witrynę na złocące się we wczesno-popołudniowym jesiennym słońcu liście pobliskich, już prawie całkiem nagich klonów, oraz na złoto-czerwone sznury cicho snujących tramwajów. Przepełniona tęsknotą piosenka Zaz, 'Éblouie par la nuit', odrywa mnie od opowiadania Kena Lin z październikowego numeru Nowej Fantastyki, i nagle nie potrafiąc się oprzeć fali nadchodzącej melancholii, wpadam w zadumę nad przemijaniem i nad żyjącym cudem tego zmartwychwstałego miasta.

MAJOWY WIECZÓR

W lipowym zagajniku, z nad usłanej puszystyą bielą trawy unoszą swoje główki delikatne dmuchawce, jakby chciały odgadnąć które to gwiazdy wskazują skierowane ku niebu stożkowe kandelabry kwiatów samotnego kasztanowca.

Bracia

Bajeczka kórą wymyśliłem lata temu (w 2003!)---wersja tekstowa poniżej nie byłaby możliwa bez udziału i zdolności literackich przyjaciela, Jerzego Rybińskiego, alias 'Stryjaga'.

BRACIA

Pewnego razu, w pewnym miejscu świata,
Brat Duży przybywa do Wielkiego Brata
I prośbę przedstawia chyląc się mu do nóg
By ten w kwestii wzrostu Dużemu dopomógł
- zechciał bratu nadać kilkanaście cali…
by się podzielił…by ciut użyczył
Duży by tego bardzo sobie życzył.

Wielkiemu mimo zdziwienia koncept nagły się jawi,
Tedy tając obawę czy Duży to strawi rzecze:
- „Nie tylko wzrost mój jest wielki przecie…
Z miłości do was, co chcecie zrobię…
Zatem postawcie sobie na głowie
Ten dzban wysmukły…o tam stojący
Lecz uważajcie, aby niechcący nie zbić!”

„Dzięki niemu bowiem…od Dużych większy o łokieć,
z Wielkimi się zrównacie.
- Wniosek z tego drogi bracie,
bez ochyby się znajdziecie
w gronie Wielkich – w Wielkim Świecie.”

Duży Wielkiego dobrocią wzruszony,
z wdzięcznością pyta:
- Co ze swej strony mógłby dla brata czynić w odpłacie?
Wielki odpowie:
„Mój drogi bracie, ja bym zaledwie o drobiazg Cię prosił,
abyś codziennie mi wodę przynosił.”

A Sneeze

"It might be an interesting literary exercise to try to describe a sneeze. And all the feelings that precede it." - Oliver Sacks.

Challenge accepted. 

With a latent and barely perceptible tickle of the sinus, comes the announcement of this explosive fanfare of the face. As this initially innocent phantom tingling spreads and overwhelms us with its intensity, pushing tears aside in its tyrannical claim to our nasal cavity, an inner revolt brews.  This somatic protest elevates rapidly, as we tense up and inhale spasmodically liters of air, only to expel them all again, extraditing the unbearable intruder in a convulsive wave of euphoria.

Zen Koan Therapy

A careless monk experienced a fall,
Thus dislocating his fragile soul.

Reflecting on the apparent pain,
He puzzled over the insight that came.

For there was nothing beneath at all,
upon which one may even fall.

Reason then led him to finally state:
"There is no soul to dislocate."




This poem has been published in the New Lotus magazine.

Olympian Spring Song

There is a place one ought to know,

Since reason’s envoy had told me so.

One may rest also firmly assured,

That no virtue’s boundaries here will be blurred.

For I would never dare to reveal,

That which is lacking heart’s precious seal.

The rays of Spring in sunrise borne,

Whilst mending clouds that have been torn,

Decided finally to bring the song,

One which Olympians have known for long.

The world Olympus which bears their name,

Witnesses wonders our minds can't tame,

Among their many abilities,

Olympians utter infinities!

This springtime favorite, Olympian rhyme,
Has been composed to last all time,
Hush little human! and lend an ear,
Is that spring's anthem that you can hear?



Music is currently being written for this piece,

Notions

...notions, as it happens to be the case, obtain, period. However, there are those that half obtain, obtain only in part, or don't obtain at all. Some even believe, that those that do both, that is to say obtain and don't obtain - all at once - are not that uncommon at all! And who could forget those that obtain only when others don't, and vice versa. Not to mention those that passively obtain - by default, as it were - while those who wish nothing else but to obtain, attempt to comfort themselves with the belief that, surely were they to obtain at all, they would be stuck with it - "it", being that which one presumably discovers once one obtains. I wish to say only this: it appears to me, that the most curious of all, are those which I shall call notions. For...


à la Carroll, Lem, Russell, Dr. Seuss.

Some thoughts on William Blake's ..... AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE

‎To see a World in a Grain of Sand 
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, 
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand 
And Eternity in an hour.
[...]

Upon some reflection, one may start developing a sense of empathy for the somewhat romantic and existential character of that perennial plea uttered by humanity, ringing out with a tone of longing, it’s echo reverberating through the Platonic realm, and reflecting back here so softly that only the hearts of poets can hear it.

[...]
Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight,

Some are born to endless night.

[...]

God appears, and God is light,

To those poor souls who dwell in night;

But does a human form display

To those who dwell in realms of day.

I'm sure there may be numerous ways of interpreting this poem, and maybe even some of them could be considered as better than others? But it seems that the content of the poem itself opposes the existence of any hierarchy which should serve as the absolute measure of any interpretation's alleged objective adequacy. This, perhaps could be an interesting direction of inquiry in itself, but not one which I presently wish to pursue. Instead I will share some of my reflections inspired by the poem.
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What I've noticed, prompted by reflections meandering toward the blurry boundaries of the poem's subject matter, is the apparent content-relational continuity between the first, and the last few stanzas, and the message their interplay carries. It's plausible that the author intended this symmetry, if not throughout the entire poem then at least between its first and the last stanzas.
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What it reveals, if one entertains this observation as one not entirely devoid of merit, is the conditioning of one's conceptual repertoire to the attributes (nature) of the "realm" they inhabit and experience.
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Those who are "doomed" - "to endless night", which is some otherworldly-Heavenly domain - and united with God's immanent presence, are perchance privileged having such direct and immediate access to the divine and transcendental nature of reality. Being familiar with that realm, they know too well how it permeates everything, and that it should be evident - "seen" - even in a wildflower - a worldly entity. Sadly, such a particular form of being is absent from the realm of the universal which they dwell in. (Note the mysterious and uncrystallized nature of that which cannot be "seen" i.e. during the "night", and consider the magnitude of that mystery with "endless" predicated of it.)
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As they dream of seeing (a blank concept, although entertainable, yet devoid of any experiencial referent), they imagine seeing that which they only know - "heaven" - in an object (the wild flower) endowed with a particular, grounded yet unique nature. If only they were granted that possibility - to experience, if only an infinitesimal fraction of the "realm of day" - no larger than a grain of sand would suffice.
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But alas! - their gaze invariably transcends the flower's earthly, finite form, failing to appreciate its pure and simple beauty.
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Those who dwell in the "sweet delight", are "blessed" with the clarity offered by the world bathed in the "light of day", and unperturbed by that which cannot be seen, can only relate to the divine in terms of the spatiotemporal boundaries, imposed on them by the "realm" they inhabit, and cannot help but reduce the transcendental to such a conceptual confinement: “Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, and Eternity in an hour”.
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This is also why, despite persistently harbouring hopes and dreams - which resemble restless chimeras that rummage anxiously through the most elusive depths of the soul, where mystery, doubt and wonder seek refuge from the syrupy tentacles of the hedonistic bliss - they occasionally experience fleeting suspicions with regard to the "all revealing" "sweet delight" - whether there may not be some paradoxical, and double edged nature to it.
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Being conditioned to the "explicated", worldly realm, which overwhelms the eyes with demonstrative, verging on obtrusive, clarity (hence a presumed "absolute clarity"), and crystallized, unambiguously delineated finite forms, one experiences God accordingly - in a familiar and non hesitant manner.
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A still further stretched interpretation, on a somewhat relatively deeper reading, would allow seeing those diverse realms, presented in the poem, as analogues of certain attitudes which we're all free to adopt - or maybe not entirely free, hence the somber tone and categorical emphasis on the phrases "born to ..."? 
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Upon adopting, or tentatively veering toward some preferred set of attitudes, we progressively develop, and subsequently reinforce, the positive feedback driven interdependence of our experiential and conceptual repertoire - their character in turn, ultimately presents us with a corresponding manifestation of Being.

The Flame

At first it flickers giddily in the solitary confinement of the candle, unperturbed by the inevitable end awaiting at the end of the wick.

This initial interval the flame enjoys is followed by the realization of its doom, which manifests in hysterical quivers of despair.

Following a smoldering agony some soot remains, blemishing the nearby wall.

Ode to Conformity

Oh the pleasure of reassuring nods,
and the soothing blankness of undisturbed sleep.
You are the loud-speaker which guarantees a vast audience.

You taught me well the value of mass delusion,
and the benefits of ostracizing difficult rivals.

I bow before your power to overwhelm truth - the notoriously elusive dissident.

How I enjoy the smooth ride in your comfortable canoe, meandering swiftly downstream through the difficulties of life.

Spiritual Taxonomy

There are two types of spirits - those in whose company, immediate or remote, our spirit blooms or withers.

Punished for love

An innocent heart needs to be restrained so it doesn't hurt itself.

With the “age of reason” comes the ability to lock it away in an asylum of reason, where it sobs quietly.

Then the apparent coldness of the host is in fact the face of a warden.

* * *

On rare occasions however, in a futile spasm of defiance, the prisoner gathers all of its residual strength and attempts to free itself by striking the cell door with clenched fists...till they start bleeding. 

The warden doesn't stir, as the dull banging resounds accross the hollow corridors of the prison.

This paroxysm of agony ends as the heart collapses to the cell floor, once again having depleted the last breath of love.

The disillusioned role of friendship

The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that a true friend is but a refuge. A healing, illusory sanctuary from ourselves or from the rest of the world, when either of them becomes unbearable.
That's why true friends need to be kept in an existential quarantine, away from all that they are meant to heal - ready to offer their idealised self on cue, whenever we need it. Also this is why the elimination of this necessary isolation ruins friendships or gives them the grotesque intermittent form.

Why do the Muses abandon the heart?

What inevitable curse forces the Muses
to abandon the shelter of the living heart?
What had once flourished with a glittering rhythm of song
becomes a howling pit tormented with ghosts of memory.
Those eternal beauties get weary of this weathered shell
and its dull beat forced by the merciless reigns of night and day,
so they flee, dancing to the quiet, hollow requiem of the soul.