Wandering Thought # 50

The invention of aviation was not a utilitarian invention. Reading through its history one realizes that its root and outgrowth came the human imagination, from an irrational fixation on the reveries where man saw himself flying, felt himself in flight, and so ached to achieve flying that from the profundity of a love that persisted through millennia he was finally able to materialize his dream.
 
In the end, much of our modern inventions with which we pride ourselves owe themselves to this — poetry and witchcraft, the ability to imagine new things, impossible things. For all his rationality, man, more than he knows, will always be close to the poet’s heart — his passions, which are inescapable, will make sure of this.

From the Soul of the Philosopher and Poet

What are you searching for?
For a reason, for a way to believe,
For a ruse to trick reason
And reach the realm of faith and certainty
While remaining under his good grace.

What are you willing to pay?
I am willing to sacrifice reason itself,
Only reason and my sense of honesty
Do not allow this weakness and betrayal to prevail,
So I remain caught in the middle,
Cut in half in no man’s land,
And as a result I feel myself
Poor, impoverished, and lacking a center,
As if empty or hollow,
Glancing back and unable to go back,
Looking high but unable to fly upwards,
So I pay my life and time as a result
And linger begging for a crumb of bread,
I whose inheritance and right
Is the banquet of heaven itself.

Wandering Thought # 35

A poet is always writing, a painter always painting, a thinker always reflecting — even when carried by life and its humbug, even in the midst of acts so unlike their silent moments of creativity. Let a poet stay a hundred years (so to speak) without writing — in the end he is not diminished; in the end he is still caught in the eternal act of writing. Poetry is his mistress, his love, and he the hungry bee drowned to death in the cruel and burning sweetness of her honey.

Wandering Thought # 32

A: The woman who allows the poet to write sets his soul ablaze.

B: Ah yes, that is until he stops appreciating her and treats her like a statistic, a number and the face of someone he once conquered. Not all writers, my friend, are delicate souls.

A: The poet is not a player. If he fools her with his words, there’s no heart to his poetry. But can a muse, who is an ocean, truly be fooled by a writer who is frightened even to wade her shallow waters? Can a muse fall for a poet who shivers before her terrible silence, and flees from her roaring waves?

Wandering Thought # 29

Make no mistake about it, if you want to give your ear to a poet then be certain that he will be instructing you in the art of theft! The art of wanting to take pleasure in what is not your own. He will fill you up with a craving so intense you’d want to possess and claim the thing desired as part of your growing and expanding self. He will make a gentle conqueror out of you, and, sometimes, not a very gentle one.