12-08-2023, 08:35 PM
A buddhist starts dressing a certain way, using a certain jargon, begins hanging around a certain kind of people, the same old psychodramas and reactive behaviors unfold under the, well, blindfold of a step in the right direction.
But you have to have something for there to be art or poetry. There has to be some 'material' to work with. Some drama of personality or society or nature. Or spirit, whatever that is.
To have nothing to say, for imagination and dreams to fade to silence and solace, that is success. No one wants that.
Every religion and philosophy has a built-in destruction lever. And poetry is one of them.
The skillful means of a buddhist has nothing to do with the buddhist only the art. That is buddhist art.
Kenneth Patchen's poems are really bad. This time of year, his books are angelscripts. He's a selfish angry person, his sentimentality is his excuse for violence which he hates and obsesses him. His poetry is of the tone of poem to poem, not one poem. The rage and the b&w mawkish sentimentality on clouds in skies the color of blood before it's left the veins. But a black ink fog mystifies everything. So there's no going back. What's said is said and you take it as it is with a judgment that is fit for this poetry only. A world fully right in itself, like a netflix show.
But you have to have something for there to be art or poetry. There has to be some 'material' to work with. Some drama of personality or society or nature. Or spirit, whatever that is.
To have nothing to say, for imagination and dreams to fade to silence and solace, that is success. No one wants that.
Every religion and philosophy has a built-in destruction lever. And poetry is one of them.
The skillful means of a buddhist has nothing to do with the buddhist only the art. That is buddhist art.
Kenneth Patchen's poems are really bad. This time of year, his books are angelscripts. He's a selfish angry person, his sentimentality is his excuse for violence which he hates and obsesses him. His poetry is of the tone of poem to poem, not one poem. The rage and the b&w mawkish sentimentality on clouds in skies the color of blood before it's left the veins. But a black ink fog mystifies everything. So there's no going back. What's said is said and you take it as it is with a judgment that is fit for this poetry only. A world fully right in itself, like a netflix show.