“Because the idol allows the divine to occur only in [hu]man’s measure, [hu]man can consign the idolatrous experience to art and thus keep it accessible, if not to all and at all times, at least to the worshipers of the god, and as long as the gods have not fled. Art no more produces the idol than the idol produces the gaze. The gaze, by freezing, marks the place where the first visible bursts in its splendor; art attempts, then, to consign materially, on a second level, and by what one habitually calls an idol, the brilliance of the god.”
—Jean-Luc Marion, “God Without Being”
Today a good friend and I texted poetry back and forth (responses, not necessarily continuations). I’d like to do this more.
Karen:
He approaches heart in hand
knee to pebbled path
begging her to speak
Say something… he whispers through his tears
but her mouth and heart are frozen
frostbitten in winter
he is suffocated by her silence
as if she alone holds the oxygen that forlorn lovers breathe
Dane:
Furrowed beneath the hollow wood
amongst rollie pollies and empty butterfly tombs
lie our needed micro-structures for standing
networks of roots
layers of dirt
the silent history of animate beings
Karen:
But what can be said… she wonders
what words will invite the thaw of winters bone
when I pronounce the word “future” the first syllable belongs to the past
imprisoned by History
she dreams of becoming wind
wishes to be the thing no being can hold
baring the impossible lightness of dreams
Dane:
My life has been this and no more
I have held truth in my palm
simple and not misleading
the truth of ignorance, sure
but who isn’t?
Karen:
I have learned from the squirrels and hidden laughter in my cheeks
from the snail caught in my breath in the sand
I have learned to tell pain from everything it is not… and love from everything that is
Dane:
The becoming of wind would happen slowly
steadily her mind would wander
steadily her fear would dissolve to shadow
and the lightness of her dreams would fracture into a million pieces
entombed by a phantom flesh
regrettably comforting
Our space issue is now available!
The golden light of night slips
beneath the clouded sky
tickling electric cords that drape the county lines
the vineyard sigh, our company kind
the beauty of time
the silliness of rhyme
a jovial form
language adorned
with garment and soda wine
-dane cardiel
What great innovation did not originate within the quixotic depths of some great dreamer?
The capacity of human thought has profound influence in the world we live. Imagination is fundamentally a tactile phenomenon. It is a dimension of space as much as height or width or depth. It is as sensory as cubed ice or dense fog. And yet, there is this impassable dichotomy between what rationalists might describe as the “real world” and what empiricists might dream as the “imagined world,” the world of endless possibility:
The economist with their numbers and figures and graphs; the poets with their dreams and metaphors and beauties.
In questioning what is imagined and what is real, it appears to me that imagination is simply the trajectory for reality’s realness toward becoming real. This, of course, taking place in the sliver of time we understand as the present — a narrow and isolated perspective to say the least.
The relativity of reality is always changing. What is “real” today was imagined yesterday. What was foolish and impracticable today will be electricity and lung implants and space tourism tomorrow.
Everything is real.
The day I stop believing this is the day I stop believing in myself and the propensity I have to traverse the very real dimension of my own imagination.
I can’t help but gravitate toward great dreams, and to situate myself in the company of great dreamers.
You, my friend, are a great dreamer; continually to curate delightful ideas within, our reality depends on it!
[And to answer the question above, slavery]
—d. cardiel
- Discover what is exceptional about myself and amplify it
- Execute the thematic episodes on
“Space,”“She,” “_________,” & “__________” for Manor House Quarterly - Implement a weekly volunteer writing/art program for jr. & sr. high students
- Write
twoone speeches (20 minutes) and deliver them to an audience of more than 30 people - Implement monthly writing/art nights for San Diego enthusiasts
- Establish some profound presence in San Diego
- Always organize, always scale down
Travel to Tennessee- Conceptualize & execute the domain vision for craftliterature.com
Build further relationship with Dan Holcomb and Coffee & Tea CollectiveExplore the limitless possibilities with Max TrzcinskiBe a good coach for the PLNU Slam Poetry team- Be a substantial writer
- Be a credible advisor
- Package grad school application for publishing & creative writing
- Publish the rabbit trails series
Always seek new personalities that will disrupt my daily rhythmBuild somethingTravel to Boston- Continually support my friends and their endeavors
The cherry blossoms have bloomed WAY to early… still beautiful, though.
Give audience to your dormant child
who is eager to speak
eager to see, to smell, to touch
who will lead you through this fog covered field
who will gather your innermost symbols
who will recite your poems of love and tragedy in melodic repose:
the child who simply awaits the day you seek counsel
—d. cardiel
I am the founder and producer of the literary journal/arts magazine, Manor House Quarterly. Consider contributing your writing that responds to our next theme: SPACE. Looking forward to starting the new year with new writers!
Visit the website to read the prompt. Submissions needed soon!!!
I stand in the clearing
To conjure some elusive reverie
When does this cease to be poetry?
Late nights and forced language
Dim lighting: check
Cold, eager fingers: check
The slippery language of the subconscious: check
The answer is,
More often than not
—d. cardiel
Take hold of this lip
Stained with temperance
Housed in cages of lust
Against volition
Wild and impatient
Spinning
‘Round and round
Without caution
—d. cardiel
You, dreamer of light and goodness
Mortal of failed eternity
Disillusioned by dystopia
Disheartened by disturbance
A human heart murmurs on
Into nothing, quieting the vibrancy of colors spoiled grey
Heed the story of lost innocence
You, dreamer of light and goodness
Dimmed vessel of misplaced brilliance
When did unconsciousness prevail?
When did boredom douse what was once exceptional and inspiring?
Lost forever at some depth within the caverns of a forgotten soul
That is your eternity
Pacified in some sleeping state
You, dreamer of light and goodness
Filled with such inactive delights
Your potential was once cosmic
Unyieldingly exponential
Only to be lost in the darkness
Where you have died a thousand deaths
And you are dying still
You, dreamer of light and goodness
Misguided melody
Renegade of hope
Come back to the present
Return to lucidity
The morning dawn
Awaits
—d. cardiel
