Friday, July 29, 2011

The Lack of Absolute Meaning Breeds Great Poetry




Imlac, would you call me?
Could you call me Imlac?
What might you call me?
What frail, what hale and ardored
dəngəl-masfən-kokab-qasis
would come to call, muezzin-trope,
or trop for blade, the grass
as singular, or such.

Come Imlac, and project your mad astronomy down
into fate's own disc-like color to fashion, this,
our whole mind together is a telescope
whose optical impedance goes disturbed
to the tilted load of image.

Imlac, our secret book like an untorn stomach
has the stars all tatooed upon
the tender lining:

ba-za: hagar
nəguś kəbur
za:ti nəgəśt kəbərt
'əllu nagaśt kəbura:n
bə'si za=qatal-əww-o la=wald-o
wald-a nəguś
səm-a mal'ak
səm-u
səm-u la=neguś
wəsta hagar
'əm=hagar
ba=hagar
Takal-a bə'si ʕətsʼ-a
'Ayya hagar ḥanaṣ-u
nəḥna ʾi-nəkl ḥawira

There is no uncertainty regarding
the continuance of reason
if there is no certainty
that it ever began..

All auto-volitionalities
lack the sanity of silent
empty

space.