PURITY

Caught In-between Toxic Thoughts

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Caught In-between Toxic Thoughts

 

Please don't fade away

the Color of jet-black shirts

Tumbling through washes

Forever stressed, stretched, laundered

Just to clean impurities








Author's Notes/Comments: 

 Reedited 07.11.2019, 07.08.2019; 07.03.2019; 07.02.2019; 06.26/27.2019 (for general grammatical &/or semantical errors, misspelled words, & ambiguities/clarifications):  

 

This is, indeed, just another "tanka" exercise.  Like most of the other tankas that have been published here, for the same stated purposes, they were also primarily intended for me to learn from the get-go.  That was the surface reason:  in understanding my own notions of the poetical distinctions between a tanka & a haiku (&/or/versus other poetical forms, their fundamental use as a vehicle for expression in classic/modern/postmodern literature; still considered as modes of expression anyhow despite the varying adaptations even up to now, especially in my investigations of the "indeterminacy of translation", Quine).  Nonetheless, I do not intend to make anything more out of them other than that which was stated, i.e., the didactic part of it.  It neither means anything more than that which was implicitly explained nor anything else that may possibly be assumed (assumptions that may also be expected, which might precede these developments as they get showcased or self-published).—Because it is also a learning experience, so to speak a synonymy of a learning objective, I solely wanted to learn (& relearn the essences) about how language(s) (or theories of language, in general) are distinguished in respect to its many contradistinctions/aspects/properties/use/etc., ie., descriptivism vs prescriptivism, how those [said features] interrelate to meaningfulness/meaninglessness to either myself or others, & penultimately how the Japanese, themselves, supposed to have intended their own expressions/ideas to mean—in relation to my "own" usage).  Of course, that could still mean going to back to historical accounts of their own systematized body of knowledge in its foundational knowledge (as pertains to literature & those multifarious factors that have mainly contributed to those movements (i.e., in their art forms).  I know of the basic premises..that there must exist, either metaphysically or empirically, a divide between two cultural traditions and how my poems could be considered too synthetic, by comparison.  An intellectual's pursuit (e.g., his intellectualisation about anything, or for the matter at hand) can be only deemed so (a so-called "claim", even by him); one may even seem to appear megalomaniac, because like a maxim, that's how intellectualizing may look like (e.g., that's how it may appear to work within a particular linguistic/phenomenological/logical system).  But more than this, there is still an overriding principle which is my aim, i.e., to further analyze the philosophical distinctions between them, as well (when observed through a wide-ranging lens or purview/scope which also could mean its "analyticity" in regards to theoretical analyses that span intersubjectively, e.g., trans-/inter-/multi-/cross-disciplinarity).  Pretty much how Quine have been said to have arrived at one of his theses about translation &/or his ideas on synonymy—as by having his pragmatic stance on one of those said theses (versus, in what I've studied so far, e.g., logicists/logical positivists vs. the continental philosophers' take on Linguistic Philosophy & other sociolinguistical concepts and theories which I will mention in the next instance when given a chance).  There is no definite goal to be achieved right now, but for my own self-discovery of my casual use of language by its direct/indirect applications (about effective communication/communicative action) and for enhancing my unripe understanding of the dichotomies involved in  semantics/pragmatics/syntactics/semiotics which could be one instance alone of that exercise in my daily application.  It is, in fact, a part of current curricula in Sociology & Psychology (according to one of my co-workers).  In an English-speaking world, where English is predominantly taught as primary subject matter in most learning institutions, my self-directed studies may be deemed significant by my own standard of measure due to it has given me a good start to align certain variables versus many other linguistic factors/phenomena (social phenomena) & other traditions in the Western analytic tradition (in Philosophy, as by the use of the English language or its translations from German & French or Latin/Greek for use in both Continental & Analytic Philosophy).  Howsoever, this concept that I just had formed here may be deemed insignificant by others, e.g., in another [specified] way or contrastingly. It is both a phenomenon and a noumenon (e.g., if one should go by Kant's basic descriptions of such).

the fairest of them all

the fairest of them all

a thousand tiny deaths, breaths,

moments from the sky,

melting into the atmosphere untouched,

you do not linger,

i, an evil queen with my ebony-black hate,

i am watching you, the dewy-eyed disney princess,

ephemeral, pure,

but with a pig heart,

your falling grace and your fragile innocence,

you cannot last the season

Author's Notes/Comments: 

it has been snowing non-stop for about a week now. i'm not fed up of it because it doesn't lay. it just falls then melts to nothing. it's pretty great and it sort of inspired me. i'm not sure what this poem really is, it sounds sort of artificial to me. and i haven't written in more than a year. i'd appreciate feedback, good or bad. thank you.

CHRISTELLE

CHRISTELLE.

“FORGET ABOUT IT” LIFE MUST GO ON, EXISTENCE HAS STOP LONG AGO, WHEN THE WEIGHT OF YOUR LOST HIT ME SO VIOLENTLY.”

 

                                       MARGOT.

 

              Shall we reassure them straight away…we would not had it any others ways!

The ultimate price we had to pay to feel so alive was the pain of loosing each other’s.

If we did not too, we would have drift ourselves into the same absurdity of everyone else’s, I shall thank you for it, and I shall, always love you even more for it?

 

since the day, you choose to leave this masquerade, you came forever in our garden, sleeping with our dying flowers, speaking to the fading moon.

While, I am trap into the neglect down below.

How many words could speak about you with justice?

How many pictures could portray the complexity of a human being?

I do not think if I could write these words with my own blood, which I am sure would feel so painless, I could ever give justice to the memories…

 

A muse you have become, a saint, you shall stay, the tragedy somehow have washed it all…

How do you introduce the dead?

Do you speak by making music with your bones? Maybe ashes by now?

How do you explain the shadow of your eyes?

The beautiful intensity of your dark soul?

Shall they ever understand, shall they ever knew?

 

Does it really matter after all? It must, because this is what keep me alive, this is what keep me going my sweet angel, the whispers, I listen in my sleep, oh I know, you are so close, when I speak about you, I promise remember?

Till my last breath you shall exhale…

 

Remember, our first kiss in Paris? Two ignorant lips sealing our goodbye, unknown to the child we were, those split second, shall never leave me.

The world should know, neither for sympathy or anger but if the souvenir of such sweetness can bring peace to one heart, we shall have won all over again, the purity of this magic second, frozen in time of the declining broken clock.

 

You had the luck of misfortune to feel the lost of a dear one, at the time, we did not realised, it would not be long before yours….

God we felt so alive remembers?

 

There is nothing surely, after such a twisted? I spend a long time wondering for you, for my sanity? But somehow diminishing fast into the abyss, I find the comfort of your memory, maybe that is all there is…

 

I bled and bled and never find happiness, so I turned to faith, the devotion of the hollow holiness and suddenly find your face again.

 

Gruesome the body they buried, ghastly and strange was our goodbye 

Striking, the angels are flying high tonight, you must be happy; I almost envy you…

 

Shall we end up this privately for the time being…? I think.

 

 

                     COPYRIGHT@H.NAUDET.2010.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Ode to my first love, passed away at 22 years old .R.I.P.

time might have pass, but the the memories have never fade...Margot.

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