357 lines
12 KiB
HTML
357 lines
12 KiB
HTML
<!doctype html>
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<title>Zk | Numeno</title>
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<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width" />
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<meta charset="utf-8" />
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<body>
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<main>
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<h1>Zk | Numeno</h1>
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</header>
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<article class="content">
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<p><span class="tag">writing</span> <span class="tag">poetry</span> <span class="tag">spirituality</span></p>
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<h2 id="contents">Contents</h2>
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<ul>
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<li>Numeno</li>
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<li>Overflowing with words</li>
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<li>On numbers</li>
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<li>The year starts not…</li>
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<li>Ode to the end of death</li>
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</ul>
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<h2 id="numeno">Numeno</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Eigengrau</em> and <em>ally</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">Inter ĝuo kaj timo
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Estas loko de tro da signifo.
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Apud kompreno, ekster saĝo,
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Tamen ĝi tutampleksas.
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Mi kompareble malgrandas
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Kaj ĝi tro granda estas.
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Nekomprenebla
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Nekontestebla,
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Senmova kaj ĉiam ŝanĝiĝema.
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-----
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Between joy and fear
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Is a place of too much meaning.
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Next to understanding, outside wisdom,
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It nonetheless expands.
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I’m so small beside it
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and it is too big.
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Incomprehensible,
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Incontestible,
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Unmoving and always changing.</div>
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<hr />
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<h2 id="overflowing-with-words">Overflowing with words</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>ally</em></q></p>
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<style>
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.speak {
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line-height: 0.3;
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}
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</style>
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<div class="verse speak">
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speak to me
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speak to me
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speak to me
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speak to me
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speak to me
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speak to me
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speak to me
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that i may see
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that i may see
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that i may see
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that i may see
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that i may see
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the face of god
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the face of god
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the face of god
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</div>
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<div class="verse">god is between me and my heart
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god is not a part of me
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i stand apart from myself
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and god cannot stop me</div>
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<div class="verse">the soul is defined by
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negative space</div>
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<div class="verse">I was born at the edge of the numinous.
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That is why I can tread along the border.
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That is why I’m able to whisper the name of God.
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That is why I’m allowed to know the number and how to factor it.
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That is why I have seven fingers spread wide and three curled toward my heart.
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That is why my limbs trace the curves and lines of power when I dance.
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That is why I sit with my back to the sun in summer.
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That is why my body is a canvas.
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You were born in sunlight.
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Speak secrets into my hair.
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Take my words from me.
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Spend the intercalary days telling me lies.
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Break my dystonia with a breath.
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Wash my face with salt water.
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Tell me the name you call yourself.
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Close my eyes.
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We will sleep in the shade.
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Let me bless you with smoke.
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Let me bathe your feet.
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Let me light the candles.
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Let me place a stone beneath my tongue.
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Let me taste copper.
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Let me draw in ash.
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Let me rise up until my head is in the branches and my hair becomes the leaves.</div>
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<div class="verse">At the beginning of time,
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when chaos birthed to order and disorder,
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we were blessed with two souls.
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One has seven eyes and can see all of the monsters in the dark,
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but is blinded by the sun.
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The other has no eyes,
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but can feel no pain.
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When order and disorder were close as children,
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our souls experienced the world hand in hand,
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but as they drifted apart and began to fight,
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some of us left one of our souls behind,
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and that is why we search.
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</div>
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<div class="verse">Babel was a collaborative effort.
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Once,
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we all spoke the same language,
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but on seeing god grow increasingly anxious with the rate of our progress,
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we agreed to let our tongues be confused,
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so that he could take things at a more comfortable pace,
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and we could be assured he would not understand us unless we prayed in silence,
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for only then do we speak the language of angels.</div>
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<div class="verse">I went for a walk and was driven by impulse to collect five sticks.
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They had to be as straight as possible.
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They had to be balanced as close to the middle as possible.
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They had to be the same length without me breaking them.
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They had to have been from different trees.
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They had to have fallen more than a year prior.
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When I got home, I lay them in a row, asked my question, and, one by one, broke them in half.</div>
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<div class="verse">When I speak, the words drip from my tongue as ink,
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and form writing on the ground,
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and I leave a trail behind me,
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and the ink stains your feet,
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and when you walk, words and phrases and sentences are pressed into the soil,
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and the ink breathes life into the plants,
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and even the grass will flower,
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and the bees will flourish,
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and they will both sting you and provide you with sweet honey.
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The ink stains my chin and my clothes.
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Sometimes, I speak into my hands and stain my cheeks as well.
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I speak against my fingers and press them into my flesh until I am covered in rosettes.
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I stretch my hands to the sky and marvel at how black they are.
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And as with the grass, where the ink stains, growth quickens, and I am covered in soft fur.
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I fall to all fours and hunt amid the rocks and the buildings, between cars and along trails.
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And when I am full, I curl up to sleep, and awake human once again.
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My skin is clean and my mind is clear,
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and I cannot speak.</div>
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<div class="verse">The only time I know my true name is when I pray.
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The only time I pray is at the utmost need.
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To pray is to ask yourself what you dare not ask god.
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To answer your own question, you must step outside yourself.
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To step outside yourself, you must forget your true name.
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The only time I know my true name is when I pray.</div>
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<hr />
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<h2 id="on-numbers">On Numbers</h2>
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<div class="verse">Seven slow hours pass.
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Five doors open in my heart.
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Three versions of me step forth.
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Two quick breaths.
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One unending death.</div>
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<div class="verse">Anchor me now to reality.
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Pin me to perception
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or perception to me.
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Loose me amid fractal walls.
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Let successive numbers claim me
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or me claim them.</div>
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<hr />
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<h2 id="prima-materia">Prima materia</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">Not good enough for basically anything, as it stands (Makyo 2020-06-08)</q></p>
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<h3 id="calcination">Calcination</h3>
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<div class="verse">They say the fire cleanses
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That it purifies.
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Then, cool fire, soft fire,
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Cleanse and purify me.
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Blanket my shoulders
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And sing me to sleep.
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Sing the fox to sleep
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And let her rest
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Content in the work she has done
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And the lives she has touched.
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They say the fire cleanses
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That it purifies.
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Then, cool fire, soft fire,
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Sing me to sleep.</div>
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<h3 id="dissolution">Dissolution</h3>
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<div class="verse">Sweet as honey, spiced with time,
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You were me, and I you.
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Aged to perfection, mellowed with the years,
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I bless your memory.
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You who were me,
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I lay you aside to rest.
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To over-age is to spoil,
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And you are not spoiled.
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Sweet mead to dance on the tongue,
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Soft fox to dance through time.
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Sweet as honey, spiced with time,
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You were me, and I you.
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Aged to perfection, mellowed with the years,
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You are at your finest.</div>
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<h2 id="liminality">Liminality</h2>
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<div class="verse">A year starts not on January first.
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The days may hunder but the seasons speak
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of time’s long march, of fast time, slow time. Thirst
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for “start” and “end” neglects the limen sleek.
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So, why do some unsubtle sciences
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forget about the in-betweens? Those pure
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uncolored dreams made mere contrivances;
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“between the years” now simply: “year, then year”.
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These rough mechanics, held unseen, can spoil
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the beauty of our silent spaces, take
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from us the liminality, embroil
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our lives in cold and tired minutiae.
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Come sit with me, come stay with me inside
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this place between where strange new loves abide</div>
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<h2 id="ode-to-the-end-of-death">Ode to the end of death</h2>
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<div class="verse">I am at a loss for images in this end of days:
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I have sight but cannot see.
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I build my castle out of words;
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I cannot stop myself from speaking.
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I still have will and goals to reach for,
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I still have wants and needs.
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If I dream, is that not so?
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If I dream, am I no longer myself?
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If I dream, am I still buried beneath words?
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And I still dream even while awake.
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Life breeds life, but death must now be chosen
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for memory ends at the teeth of death.
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The living know that they will die,
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but the dead know nothing.
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Hold my name beneath your tongue and know:
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when you die, thus dies the memory of me.
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To deny the end is to deny all beginnings,
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and to deny beginnings is to become immortal,
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and to become immortal is to repeat the past,
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which cannot itself, in the end, be denied.
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Oh, but to whom do I speak these words?
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To whom do I plead my case?
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From whence do I call out?
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What right have I?
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No ranks of angels will answer to dreamers,
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No unknowable spaces echo my words.
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Before whom do I kneel, contrite?
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Behind whom do I await my judgment?
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Beside whom do I face death?
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And why wait I for an answer?
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Among those who create are those who forge:
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They move from creation to creation.
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And those who remain are those who hone,
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Perfecting a single art to a cruel point.
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To forge is to end, and to own beginnings.
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To hone is to trade ends for perpetual starts.
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In this end of days, I must begin anew.
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In this end of days, I seek an end.
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In this end of days, I reach for new beginnings
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that I may find the middle path.
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Time is a finger pointing at itself
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that it might give the world orders.
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The world is an audience before a stage
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where it watches the slow hours progress.
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And we are the motes in the stage-lights,
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Beholden to the heat of the lamps.
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If I walk backward, time moves forward.
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If I walk forward, time rushes on.
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If I stand still, the world moves around me,
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and the only constant is change.
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Memory is a mirror of hammered silver:
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a weapon against the waking world.
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Dreams are the plate-glass atop memory:
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a clarifying agent that reflects the sun.
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The waking world fogs the view,
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and time makes prey of remembering.
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I remember sands beneath my feet.
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I remember the rattle of dry grass.
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I remember the names of all things,
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and forget them only when I wake.
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If I am to bathe in dreams,
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then I must be willing to submerge myself.
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If I am to submerge myself in memory,
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then I must be true to myself.
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If I am to always be true to myself,
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then I must in all ways be earnest.
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I must keep no veil between me and my words.
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I must set no stones between me and my actions.
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I must show no hesitation when speaking my name,
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for that is my only possession.
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The only time I know my true name is when I dream.
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The only time I dream is when need an answer.
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Why ask questions, here at the end of all things?
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Why ask questions when the answers will not help?
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To know one’s true name is to know god.
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To know god is to answer unasked questions.
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Do I know god after the end of all things?
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Do I know god when I do not remember myself?
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Do I know god when I dream?
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May then my name die with me.
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That which lives is forever praiseworthy,
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for they, knowing not, provide life in death.
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Dear the wheat and rye under the stars:
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serene; sustained and sustaining.
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Dear, also, the tree that was felled
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which offers heat and warmth in fire.
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What praise we give we give by consuming,
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what gifts we give we give in death,
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what lives we lead we lead in memory,
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and the end of memory lies beneath the roots.
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May one day death itself not die?
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Should we rejoice in the end of endings?
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What is the correct thing to hope for?
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I do not know, I do not know.
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To pray for the end of endings
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is to pray for the end of memory.
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Should we forget the lives we lead?
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Should we forget the names of the dead?
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Should we forget the wheat, the rye, the tree?
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Perhaps this, too, is meaningless.</div>
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</article>
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<footer>
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<p>Page generated on 2020-06-11</p>
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</footer>
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</main>
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</body>
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