I’m sure many of you will find reading a difficult-to-understand poetry hard to understand. That is what it is, perhaps because most of us are accustomed to deal with what is only pleasing or easily absorbed by the senses we took no time to waste on such things that require a lot of thinking to be able to decipher the code of our subjects. Why waste a time, as some of you will most probably be asking, to read something you would only have hard time knowing about in the first place? In other words, why bother?
But then, if you’re going to ask a poet like myself the same question, I’m going to equally ask you the same question as my answer, why bother bothering to read a work you don’t quite understand in the first place by the way? Yet, once you’re browsing through my works and be puzzled, that is where understanding begins. You have to give the puzzle a chance to soak in or at least a try to confuse you to make such a room for you to understand what it is all about. You need to find ways to understand it yourself, or you will not understand at all.
There’s no such thing, at least if you’re going to ask my opinion about it, as a hard-to-understand poetry. Only dull or what was left of our diverted senses were. Poetry has been around long before human beings learned to know it is there.
It is everywhere for the poets to find, absorb, and interpret. It is to connect to the absurd, to try going the direction of the beyond by bridging the beyond.In the end of it all, it is what you have become, as a poet, of what you have discovered, that matters. This is to introduce you to the poetry of a poet I have become and discovered, in my attempt to Bridge the Beyond:
I was supposed to come up with changing much of the same still point for this morning’s emotional context. Yet, in the process, it lives to caress in my keeping up a steady stream of thought trying to puzzle out some expressions, which didn’t take quite long. It picks me up through space by itself instead just when I didn’t see it coming. The impossible demand somebody was able to capture, in wandering away, has been absorbed. I sat here waiting for it to pass hoping to change the subject. It seemed to please itself by itself. It seemed, to me, a new reason for excitement. Because from nothing I read it was what this diary entry describes, the melding together of all the pieces, by the time I closed it. But now it meant something more than just that: above and beyond.
The weaving together of a poetic narrative is like a lover’s kiss on the lips by which to try to bring everything to occur in the present, as if time stops, is to connect with what separates the boundaries of sharing. It is at this moment that I allowed myself to be completely absorbed with what I have to look forward to: which now belongs to me. A narrative is where words connect with things; the poet interprets as if it was a kiss.
Already I was looking forward to with what I’d come too far although for a long time I just sat here, waiting. Pretend you’re not looking. Because from nothing I read it was what this diary entry describes, the melding together of all the pieces, by the time I closed it. But now it meant something more than just that: above and beyond. The lights and the shadows go by—how natural of their escape.