the shudder of poetry and (f)(l)ight

Simply glorious, it is, when one feels embraced by Poetry in its relation to the living. There’s such a Whole prone or compelled or willing to achieve freedom by the double movement of purging away and espousing what can be alluded to as “elements of fleshly existence”. Even above and beyond, as imaginations. In those works of style, beauty, critique. Pieces of liberation, as a matter of fact. [And as a matter of Dream.] (Dis)(re)engagement, experience, and passion. True motion. They butterfly, disturb you, they dance [around and toward]. A Vision. Today, I opened the page-window of my morning bedroom; Enchantments leaped off the page at me. Incantations on air. Everywhere. Reminding me of so many things… To see, wonder of, desire, grapple with, struggle against, clack along, beat for. There are and there are not cars, clothes, lanes, thrones, howls embedded within. But Joy, there is much Joy. When you’re invited to Poetry realm and have conditions to step into, at least for a fleeting whenever, there is much Joy. A primary source of pleasure courses through your veins. A vivid, pennate, life-swarming sensation that you exist. Even by delusion or engorged by droves of brutalities. Even in that paltry space left to you. You exist. That’s big, beautiful, and pulsates. No possible resentment, no blame, no realities you cannot shoulder, no ecphoneses of blah-breathtaking whatever hurting you because that’s offensive both for your intelligence and sensibility to listen to/read it in a dear expanse where should lie dulcet secrets or, at most, pathetic poems waiting to be written for the universe...for you; no exasperation, no helpless waiting-for-the-sun, no lies being blown toward you any longer from close-by grounds or distant (land-)lines; no systematic remaining but a very natural one: that of the spirit, “into its own changeless purity”, or indignation, or extreme passion, explosion, compassion, desire…just yearning for life. As if rejoicing in such exhilarating moments. Transitory, or even visibly inexistent at all. But yours. Your own vision. As unique as shared as relentless in its incantation to make you perceive of your effulgent or wrecked life and, nevertheless, walk on air…
(I cannot remember to have received a gift like this Yeats which lit me up so delicately, passionately, and dearly this way. All my gratitude to poetess Eabha Rose, a precious friend, the kindest soul I’ve ever known who’s always beautifully willing to achieve freedom herself and so generously blows it toward you. By writing, with her poetic (uni)verses, her own Poetry exhilaration. And then, these passages excerpted from the Yeats she sent me as a gift this week, dazzling me with much-much Enchantment):

I cannot imagine an age without metropolitan poet and singing girl, though I am convinced that the Upanishads—somebody had already given her the Pyramids—were addressed to the girl.
Certain Upanishads describe three states of the soul, that of waking, that of dreaming, that of dreamless sleep, and say man passes from waking through dreaming to dreamless sleep every night and when he dies. Dreamless sleep is a state of pure light, or of utter darkness according to our liking, and in dreams ‘the spirit serves as light for itself’. ‘There are no carts, horses, roads, but he makes them for himself.’
The Spirit is not those changing images—sometimes in ancient thought as in the ‘Cimetière Marin’ symbolised by the sea—but the light, and at last draws backward into itself, into its own changeless purity, all it has felt or known. I am convinced that this ancient generalisation, in so far as it saw analogy between a ‘separated spirit’, or phantom and a dream of the night, once was a universal belief, for I find it, or some practice founded upon it, everywhere…
(“Book III: The Soul in Judgment”, in A Vision, The Collected Works of W. B Yeats, vol. XIV, edited by Margaret Mills Harper and Catherine E. Paul.) 


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