The appeal of purity: prior to all semblance of duality. A will unto mastery. To be at ease in the encroaching dark. And to say: here is my home. Is it to be a seer, an image-maker? Or simply to dance yourself into a whirl? Perhaps composition; perhaps improvisation. Regardless, a starting point must be circumscribed. Or else absence of sense in the beholder’s eye.
Is is that all literature falls short of what I mean to mean? Or is the sharp intimation that none of the books I have read cut it the sign of a more incisive book to come? What I wish to capture with the chisel of language is other: it is poetic but not poetry and therefore nearer to it. A phenomenon? A body truly pried into? It could be said that all of my attempts stem from and toward this namelessness. Silent once and for all? No. There is invariably the other. Unfathomable. Nearer to me than I myself. Originary. At times, music impels this aperture without naming it. And then I strive to describe this event in words, always apart. So foment it instead: that much is clear. But how? First off, lone wolf. Alone in the midst of company. One’s own truth, as Celan says. Independence within the world, as Palmer says. Divest yourself of all fear and stand. There – elsewhere. Poetic space only opens up in rupture, in rapture. First the eye slips through a breach and then the body. Whole and no longer belonging to itself.
I must articulate, by any means necessary, beauty. What I have been through already, go through again in writing. Dwelling within a language, no matter which one. Though English cannot but be closest (even music we hear in some tongue). Delve into solitude until it yields an aura of its own and unshells its mouth.
cosmin toma 