Archives for posts with tag: poetry
Picasso, Pablo (1881-1973): Girl Before a Mirror (Boisgeloup, March 1932). New York, Museum of Modern Art (MoMA)*** Permission for usage must be provided in writing from Scala.

Have the spiritual and physical ever been as connected as today?
Mind and body now as one, the masculine and feminine roam out of
bounds, each bleeding into the other
Every yin-yang a gradient of greys, inadvertently or no

Drowning in push-pull nuance and subtlety
The old dichotomies end up
as little more than fractal creases in a larger plane

What lurks beyond the conscious and subconscious integrated?
Zooming out, out, out – searching
for the most fundamental of all nature, for opposing forces
for clear contrast and structure, for the one line in the sand

But perhaps such a schism had never existed before
in the physical universe, with its unified form and unified laws
So I turned my gaze to the un-natural
and there it was, clear as day
In technology and metal, in the little mirror in my pocket
The crack that would divide, my line in the sand

That virtual rift between our analogue and digital halves,
between alluring social presentations, increasingly filtered
and the decaying lonesome reality they reflect
A difference ever widening, growing deeper by the day

The painting named “Hope, II” by the artist Gustav Klimt

Someone’s roof over our heads
but always our bellies and souls full
These hot sleepless nights take me back
to old stories blurred to one

I’d rub my mum’s belly like a lamp
and pregnant with child as she was
she’d spin tales of genies and of life
and I’d drift off in wonder

I only ever wanted to be a brother
and this woman who gave me life
and such wonderment and then even that purpose
…did I discard her having had my fill?

When did I become such a cruel son?

On Judgement Day 
as we trudged the valleys toward the fields
of our collective reckoning, I saw a sufi soul
among the blackly damned and the brightly blessed

He shone brighter than any other at first sight
but the further I studied him the more I came to see that he was empty of his own light source,
reflective like the moon

A translucent core, yet beaming, pulsing
brimming from the edges of his being
A strange thing to behold
His selfless existence, lived even after death:
to magnify the light of those around him like a lens

So sad I was then, to see him sent to that deepest depth worse than the seven hells
to that great nothing reserved only
for the godliest of nihilists for wasting their earthly hours

For by withdrawing from his fellow man
and brushing away his footprints behind him with each step,
his sublimated ego had committed the biggest conceit of all against his divine Creator:
to reject the divine light of his own life

Great sufi poems tell of the conference of birds that searched for their kind’s greatest, and through great trials and tribulations 
came to find them within their own reflections 

Yet here this sufi mystic who saw God in every reflection but his own…
Oh, but if he had only looked down at the water!

Instead his soul was snuffed out.
As in life, so too after it.
Fanaa.

It’s obvious isn’t it?
That you have as many pasts behind you
as you do potential futures ahead

More, if anything
So be calm

All that accruing life to extrapolate from as you deem fit
Play with the switchboard, flip experiences from noise to signal, and vice versa

Then perhaps your little terrors will subside –
of paths never to be taken, 
of persons that will not become,
of flattened superpositions –
with the assured knowledge
that he who stands here now
came to that point by many ways 
and a multitude of faces, an evershifting story

Inexplicable staircases
intact, in forest
untouched by walkers
wisely the animals avoid
deadened air, disturbed
only by djinni invitation
a woodland sirencall
to ascend the curiosity

Do not climb

Waypoints between worlds
always moving
scattered through neutral lands
where the thread is thinnest
and old eyes observe the old pacts 

Do not violate

Lying in ambush, gleeful
imitation of flesh
the face wearers, voice mimicks
not quite human
enough to bait fools

Do not listen

Innocents rent in two
body portions found years later
unaged, freshly departed
only broken minds return whole

Do not climb

Pocket mirror in Narcissus’ hand
the ever-gazed, most-loved love
Isn’t beauty’s fairness a virtue to consume?

Ruinous mirror whose shattered shards 
reflect a thousand monstrous eyes
Is facade or truth not worth devouring you?

Unventured hero of stillborn soul
lost beyond your surface deep
Is it worthiness that lurks beneath?

Mirror, mirror for lonesome heart
steamed by breath, still cold to touch
Is your company but an artifice?

Standing amid the stream, I am awash with time

knowing each part only the once

before life goes its way beyond me

But beached as I am, well within my mind’s eye

where waves crash over me again and again

I relive the moments lost to me in the stream

What can be said of mathematics
that heavenly theoretic, pure of human taint
a moon we look upon from afar
distant and distorted, can only touch its reflection

And below that rippling surface, another world rages under
Mammon’s poison, scarce lizard impulses

We fleshy mortals sandwiched between the Platonic and Plutonic
yearning for a taste of the divine, a kiss
must sip at muddy waters, must wrestle what lies beneath

‘To new beginnings’, mutters the wormlord as he burrows backwards
Janus, more generously the God of gateways,
squeezes his rear against the walls of the tunnel
Excreted slime eases the laboured movements

He carves new grooves into the tunnel face
Makes new tunnels that cut fresh paths into time
Reaches back to forge new histories for himself

‘In this one I’ll not be a worm’
Janus endures his sufferances twice for every failure
once forward and then back
before he carves again new grooves

Write, re-write, re-write, write
Even Janus, the God of gateways,
cannot change his fate as a worm.

Artwork of Leto II, the God Emperor from Frank Herbert's scifi novel series Dune. Art created by Berkan Ozkan.
Art by BerkanOzkan
The acrylic painting "Joy" by Canadian artist Stella Jurgen
‘Joy’ by Stella Jurgen (acrylic painting)

When you have your life in its entirety before you,
your complete body of work – how to go about experiencing it?
Pre-existence tech is such a trip these days

Previous versions were only available for linear consumption,
moving from birth to death like a worm – sequential existence, how outdated a concept
With v2.0 our aim was to achieve something less passive

We call it the sampler model:
drop in to key moments for a variety of appetisers
before selecting how to program the remainder as the main meal

Some clear their veggies first, others their carbs
Some like their foods segregated – why not the same choice with the seconds of your life?
Rip through the pain first if you so wish
or alternate pain and joy to better tolerate the bad times

v2.0: How you choose to feast on your life is finally up to you

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