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writing/poetry/numeno.md
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## Contents
* Numeno
* Numeno
* Overflowing with words
* On numbers
* The year starts not...
* Ode to the end of death
## Numeno
!{In *Eigengrau* and *ally*}
@ -28,7 +30,7 @@ Between joy and fear
Is a place of too much meaning.
Next to understanding, outside wisdom,
It nonetheless expands.
I’m so small beside it
I'm so small beside it
and it is too big.
Incomprehensible,
Incontestible,
@ -204,8 +206,6 @@ Two quick breaths.
One unending death.
'''
-----
'''
Anchor me now to reality.
Pin me to perception
@ -259,116 +259,135 @@ Aged to perfection, mellowed with the years,
You are at your finest.
'''
### Separation
## Liminality
'''
With your sigil,
I draw you from my heart.
With your name,
I consign you to memory.
With your words,
I draw you from my breath
With your voice,
I sing you to peaceful sleep,
Ever soft and white in winter,
Ever svelte and gray in summer.
With your sigil,
I draw you from my heart.
With your name,
I commit you to dearest memory.
A year starts not on January first.
The days may hunder but the seasons speak
of time's long march, of fast time, slow time. Thirst
for "start" and "end" neglects the limen sleek.
So, why do some unsubtle sciences
forget about the in-betweens? Those pure
uncolored dreams made mere contrivances;
"between the years" now simply: "year, then year".
These rough mechanics, held unseen, can spoil
the beauty of our silent spaces, take
from us the liminality, embroil
our lives in cold and tired minutiae.
Come sit with me, come stay with me inside
this place between where strange new loves abide
'''
### Conjugation
## Ode to the end of death
'''
I dedicate my life
To the memory of you:
Long passed though you may be,
That memory will burn fiercely.
To the east, I wash with air,
That the wind be with you.
To the South, I wash with fire,
That the sun warm your fur.
To the West, I wash with water,
That the stream be cool beneath your paws.
To the north, I wash with earth,
That your den may blossom in spring.
I dedicate my life
To the memory of you.
'''
I am at a loss for images in this end of days:
I have sight but cannot see.
I build my castle out of words;
I cannot stop myself from speaking.
I still have will and goals to reach for,
I still have wants and needs.
If I dream, is that not so?
If I dream, am I no longer myself?
If I dream, am I still buried beneath words?
And I still dream even while awake.
### Fermentation
Life breeds life, but death must now be chosen
for memory ends at the teeth of death.
The living know that they will die,
but the dead know nothing.
Hold my name beneath your tongue and know:
when you die, thus dies the memory of me.
To deny the end is to deny all beginnings,
and to deny beginnings is to become immortal,
and to become immortal is to repeat the past,
which cannot itself, in the end, be denied.
'''
Feed, dear fox eat,
For the meal was prepared by you.
I bless this meal
That you be sustained by your work.
Feed, dear cat, eat,
Sup of the love that was left for you.
I bless this meal,
That we may learn the lessons of the fox,
For she has prepared this for you:
Bread for beginnings, mead for endings.
Feed, dear cat, eat,
For the meal was prepared for you.
I bless this meal
That you be sustained by her work.
'''
Oh, but to whom do I speak these words?
To whom do I plead my case?
From whence do I call out?
What right have I?
No ranks of angels will answer to dreamers,
No unknowable spaces echo my words.
Before whom do I kneel, contrite?
Behind whom do I await my judgment?
Beside whom do I face death?
And why wait I for an answer?
### Distillation
Among those who create are those who forge:
They move from creation to creation.
And those who remain are those who hone,
Perfecting a single art to a cruel point.
To forge is to end, and to own beginnings.
To hone is to trade ends for perpetual starts.
In this end of days, I must begin anew.
In this end of days, I seek an end.
In this end of days, I reach for new beginnings
that I may find the middle path.
'''
“We are not so different, you and I,”
Said the cat to the fox.
“We come from the same essence,
Two vintages from the same vineyard.”
“Our fur is soft and thick, true,”
Said the fox to the cat.
“We are hardy, and weather cold.
We travel, hunt, and survive,
But my time is passed and yours begun.
Go with my blessing.”
“We are not so different, you and I,”
Said the cat to the fox.
“We come from the same essence,
Two children of the same eternal mother.”
'''
Time is a finger pointing at itself
that it might give the world orders.
The world is an audience before a stage
where it watches the slow hours progress.
And we are the motes in the stage-lights,
Beholden to the heat of the lamps.
If I walk backward, time moves forward.
If I walk forward, time rushes on.
If I stand still, the world moves around me,
and the only constant is change.
### Coagulation
Memory is a mirror of hammered silver:
a weapon against the waking world.
Dreams are the plate-glass atop memory:
a clarifying agent that reflects the sun.
The waking world fogs the view,
and time makes prey of remembering.
I remember sands beneath my feet.
I remember the rattle of dry grass.
I remember the names of all things,
and forget them only when I wake.
'''
Step forth, Uncia, hale and whole,
For you are truly born this day.
Alopex has gone to sleep and rest,
Dancing now only in dreams and stories.
See the world with new eyes,
For all this is yours.
Smell the air, taste bread and cool water.
Feel the earth beneath your paws.
Know the limits of your body,
And remember always this pain.
Step forth, Uncia, hale whole,
For you are truly born this day.
Alopex has gone to sleep and rest,
Dancing now only at need.
'''
If I am to bathe in dreams,
then I must be willing to submerge myself.
If I am to submerge myself in memory,
then I must be true to myself.
If I am to always be true to myself,
then I must in all ways be earnest.
I must keep no veil between me and my words.
I must set no stones between me and my actions.
I must show no hesitation when speaking my name,
for that is my only possession.
### Anima mundi
The only time I know my true name is when I dream.
The only time I dream is when need an answer.
Why ask questions, here at the end of all things?
Why ask questions when the answers will not help?
To know one's true name is to know god.
To know god is to answer unasked questions.
Do I know god after the end of all things?
Do I know god when I do not remember myself?
Do I know god when I dream?
May then my name die with me.
'''
Out of the flames, into the light,
I rise, Makyo Uncia called Maddy.
Makyo Alopex sleeps now,
A fetch to call at need.
Non sum qualis eram,
I am not who I was.
Ranna, Astarael, Alopex,
Majo, Younes, Happenstance.
When viewed through the lens of Makyo,
I am my own magnum opus.
Out of the flames, into the light,
I rise, Makyo Uncia called Maddy.
Makyo Alopex sleeps now,
Not forever, but for now.
That which lives is forever praiseworthy,
for they, knowing not, provide life in death.
Dear the wheat and rye under the stars:
serene; sustained and sustaining.
Dear, also, the tree that was felled
which offers heat and warmth in fire.
What praise we give we give by consuming,
what gifts we give we give in death,
what lives we lead we lead in memory,
and the end of memory lies beneath the roots.
May one day death itself not die?
Should we rejoice in the end of endings?
What is the correct thing to hope for?
I do not know, I do not know.
To pray for the end of endings
is to pray for the end of memory.
Should we forget the lives we lead?
Should we forget the names of the dead?
Should we forget the wheat, the rye, the tree?
Perhaps this, too, is meaningless.
'''