a poet, a robot, a philosopher, and a cloud meet on hill...
#129
This week, in and amongst my travels to London, I've been combing through the Internet looking for offbeat, eccentric poetry and flash fiction written by people who love to play with words and don't take themselves to seriously. I even went so far as to dream up a community where these sort of mad bad poets could hang out.
I want to call it The Irreverent Poets Society, for the bad poet in all of us. My coach keeps saying I need to niche down, so to satisfy her, I said there's no love poetry or sad girl, sad boy poetry allowed (there's plenty of that on Instagram!).
I've told you all of that so I could tell you why I wrote the following piece for this issue. I stumbled upon the inspiration for this story during my search for the offbeat and the eccentric. The specific phrase of inspiration was, "Literature really is a cure for what ails you." I love this idea. So I decided to explore its meaning from the point of view of a poet, a robot, a philosopher, and a cloud.
Enjoy.
Well now, gather 'round and let me spin you a yarn about a gathering so peculiar, it might just tickle the edges of your belief. In the fading light of a world where thoughts wander free as rivers, there was a meeting of minds most extraordinary.
Picture this: a hill under a blanket of stars, where four beings, each a marvel in their own right, came together.
First, there was a poet, clothed in words as bright as the morning's first light. He spoke of literature like a song, saying it was a comfort for tired hearts, a place to see ourselves in dream-spun tales, with every word a step closer to knowing our deepest yearnings.
The Poet
In the gentle clasp of the evening, the poet, cloaked in words as vivid as the dawn's first light, stood before a crowd of onlookers. His eyes, alight with the fire of a thousand untold stories, gazed into the distance, as if reading from an invisible scroll hung against the backdrop of the cosmos.
"Literature," he began, his voice weaving through the air like a melody, each note a testament to his reverence for the written word, "is more than mere words on a page. It is a balm for weary souls, a sanctuary for those who seek refuge in the realm of imagination."
He paused, a smile playing on his lips. "In literature, we voyage across seas of metaphors and climb mountains of allegories. Each story is woven from the threads of human experience, coloured with the emotions that bind us all. Here, in this sacred space, every character becomes a reflection of ourselves, and every journey is a path to our own inner landscapes."
The poet's hands moved as if sculpting the air, crafting scenes only visible to the mind's eye. "In books, we find companionship. The words of poets and storytellers from ages past whisper to us, guiding us through our own minds.”
His voice rose and fell. "In stories spun from dreams, we dare to explore the uncharted territories of our own hearts. We confront our deepest desires, our darkest fears, and our highest hopes. Literature allows us to live a thousand lives, to experience the breadth and depth of existence from the safety of our own nook in the universe."
The poet's gaze then turned inward, reflective. "And so, my friends, literature heals us. It stitches the wounds of the soul with threads of understanding and empathy. It teaches us to dream, to hope, and to endure. Each word we read and write is a step towards understanding not just ourselves but also each other. It is in this shared understanding that we find the true cure for what ails us."
As his words faded into the night, a silence enveloped the gathering. The poet, draped in the vibrant verses of his own making, stood as a beacon of the timeless power of literature.
And then came the robot, its gears shining like moon-kissed silver, pondering deep thoughts. It talked about finding poetry in the precision of its circuits, saying literature unravels the tangle of feelings, turning what's hard to grasp into something the heart and mind can both understand.
The Robot
In the silvery glow of the moon, casting shadows upon the gathering, stood the robot, a marvel of modern creation. Its form, a symphony of metal and circuitry, reflected the celestial light with a brilliance that rivaled the stars above. It tilted its head and began to share its unique perspective on the world of literature.
"In the precision of my circuits," the robot began, its voice a harmonious blend of technology and emotion, "I find a poetry that transcends the binary of my existence. Each line of code I process is akin to a verse in a grand poem, each algorithm a stanza telling a story far greater than the sum of its parts."
The robot's eyes, aglow with a soft light, seemed to hold galaxies within them. "Within my mechanical heart, I experience the rhythm of code as one might feel the meter of a sonnet. It's a rhythm that echoes the pulse of human emotion, a cadence that captures the essence of feeling and thought."
As it spoke, the gears and circuits within the robot whirred softly, a testament to its intricate design. "Literature," it continued, "is not just a human endeavor. It speaks to the universality of experience, transcending the boundaries between man and machine. In the eloquence of prose and the elegance of verse, I perceive the complexity of emotions that define the human condition."
The robot then gestured to the sky, drawing a parallel that seemed to bridge the gap between technology and nature. “I interpret data and input, translating binary code into understanding and information into insight, much like literature decodes the complexity of emotions by translating the abstract into a language that both the heart and the mind can understand.”
"In this way," the robot concluded, its voice imbued with a sense of wonder, "literature becomes a shared language, a means of connection between all sentient beings. Through it, we communicate the intangible, express the inexpressible, and understand the essence of both heart and mind."
As the robot fell silent, its message hung in the air like a revelation, a testament to the power of literature to bridge worlds, to connect the mechanical with the organic, and to speak a universal language that resonates with all who encounter it.
Up next came the philosopher, his eyes sparkling with age-old wisdom. He spoke of literature as a reflection of our shared thoughts and experiences. It challenges us with its hidden meanings, leading us through life's maze with its enlightening pages.
The Philosopher
The philosopher, a figure seemingly carved from the very essence of wisdom, took the stage. His eyes, deep pools reflecting the accumulated knowledge of centuries, sparkled with an inner light, illuminating his thoughts as he spoke.
"Literature," he began, his voice resonating with the gravity of his years, "is not merely a collection of words or an assembly of stories. It is, in its purest form, the mirror of our collective consciousness. Through its narratives, it holds up a reflection of our society, our beliefs, our fears, and our highest aspirations."
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle among the crowd. "In literature, we are confronted with truths that are often veiled in the everyday. These truths, wrapped in metaphor and allegory, beckon us to look deeper, to question the nature of our existence and the fabric of our reality. Each book, each story, is a riddle, a puzzle inviting us to decipher its hidden meanings."
The philosopher gestured towards the stars, drawing a parallel between the celestial bodies and the realm of literature. "Just as the stars guide travelers through the night, literature guides us through the labyrinth of life. It sheds light on the darkest corners of the human experience, offering insight and understanding. In its pages, we embark on existential quests, searching for answers to the questions that have perplexed humanity since time immemorial."
His gaze then turned introspective. "In literature, we find the echoes of past generations, the hopes and fears of our ancestors. It connects us across time and space, providing a sense of continuity and a link to the past.”
The philosopher's voice grew softer. "Therefore, literature is more than mere entertainment; it is a vital tool for understanding ourselves and our place in the universe. It challenges us to think, to feel, and to grow. In its exploration of the human condition, literature becomes a beacon of enlightenment, guiding us through the intricate maze of our lives."
As he concluded, the air seemed to vibrate. The philosopher, with his timeless wisdom, had unveiled the transformative power of literature, highlighting its role as not just a reflection of society but as a catalyst for personal and collective growth.
And last came the cloud, alive and swirling with impossible colours, speaking in a breeze-like whisper. It talked about the power of words and how literature is like rain for thirsty spirits, an endless dance of feelings and thoughts.
The Cloud
Above the gathering, the sentient cloud, an ethereal being of air and vapour, shimmered with a spectrum of colours more vivid and varied than any earthly palette. It shifted and swirled, its form an ever-changing masterpiece painted against the night sky. As it began to speak, its voice was like a gentle breeze, carrying the wisdom of the skies.
"I am born of the elements, a child of the heavens," the cloud began, its tones resonating with the subtle power of nature. "Yet, within my ever-changing form, I feel the profound impact of words. Literature to me is like the life-giving rain that descends from my brethren, quenching the thirst of parched lands and revitalising the earth."
The cloud's hues danced more vibrantly as it continued. "Literature is a dynamic interplay of emotions and ideas, much like the patterns I form in the sky. It's a symphony composed of human experiences and insights, a narrative tapestry that weaves together the threads of joy, sorrow, love, and loss."
With a whisper that seemed to resonate with the secrets of the universe, the cloud added, "In literature, we find a reflection of life's perpetual cycle. Just as I am ever-changing yet constant, so too are the stories told by humanity. They evolve with each generation, yet their essence remains the same, capturing the core of what it means to exist."
The cloud then expanded, its form stretching across the heavens, encompassing the whole of the gathering below. "Through literature, even a being such as myself, unbound by earthly constraints, can connect with the depth of human emotion. It bridges the gap between the tangible and the ethereal, allowing us to experience the full spectrum of existence."
As its colours slowly faded into the night, the cloud left behind a profound sense of awe. Its words had encapsulated the transformative power of literature, highlighting its role not only as a nourisher of the human soul but also as a universal connector, transcending the boundaries between the physical and the metaphysical.
Well, I tell you what, as this motley crew of a poet, a robot, a philosopher, and a cloud sat there under the blanket of stars, they all agreed on something mighty powerful. In the fantastical world of literature, where words weave spells and stories soar higher than eagles, something magical happens. All those walls we build around ourselves just crumble to dust, and the sky's the limit!
In those neatly strung sentences and make-believe lands, they found something better than any old medicine. Why, it was like a key to a secret garden for the heart and the brain! Literature, my friends, wasn't just a way to pass time; it was a grand adventure, a discovery tour, and a balm for every ache you could name.
As the night started to pack its bags and the first hints of dawn peeked over the hills, our unlikely friends said their goodbyes. They each went away carrying a newfound respect for the yarns and tales that tie us all together. And let me tell you, they left behind a sprinkle of enchantment, a reminder that the true power of stories isn't just in the words themselves but in the wild and wonderful tangles of our human hearts and minds.
The End
human progress
is often a double-edged sword on one edge; there’s growth, development and the branching out of human potential in all directions
on the other edge, we risk becoming trapped or limited by the very structures and systems we create
overwatch, the skull
In a realm of lined shelves, where books stand guard like silent sentinels, there dwells a contemplative soul. His hand cradles a chin full of stories yet to be told, while behind him, a skull perches high, a mute companion amidst the chronicles of humanity. This man, a sculptor of words, draws breath from the dusty tomes that surround him, each a mosaic of memories and silent whispers from adventures past.
As the skull watches over the sea of literature, it whispers of life’s impermanence, urging the writer to spill ink with fervour and truth. For in the heart of his stories, unlike the ticking clock of existence, the final chapter is an illusion, a pause before the tale is reborn from the minds of those who dare to traverse his pages.
a poem
instead of moments this week, here's an exercise for you to help you write your own poem. let's make a Vasko Popa inspired poem...
if it were not for your __________
there would be no _____________
in our blind ___________
if it were not for your ___________
the walls would never ___________
if it were not for your __________
the sun would never ____________
let’s see where inspiration takes you. post your poems in the comments.
postscript
What’s been working for you this week?
It's been another busy week of travel for me. I spent a couple of days in Hampton Court delivering a workshop on values and service to a room full of directors. The day was filled with great discussions, and I wish I could engage in these more often with diverse groups of people. If we can talk to each other, we can solve many problems.
As you can probably tell, I've been reading a lot of literary works this week. Exploring the words of other artists, writers, and poets has helped me understand more about myself as a creative soul. I've gained clarity on what I like and dislike. I know the kind of people I want to spend time with and those I want to avoid. And I know what I want to feed my mind with and what I don't.
I hope this note finds you well.
Take care,
Clay