The truest poetry is the most fain-ing
(cf. "she faynes to tell false tales" by the soi-disant Spenser, not the
detective ~ ?)
eros, the rose and the sore ~ ores (et déjà vu)
Den furchtbaren Trank, der der Qual mich vertraut, ich selbst, ich selbst,
ich hab' ihn gebraut!
I? I? I?
And ye?
( that old refrain/keeps Pounding in my ears)
or
I have stared at my face till there is no one there
(says Robert Kelly, my best bet for a mystical/mythological poet of our
time, Maria, and a Buddhist of sorts who refers more to Milarepa ~ or
Milaraspa ~ than Nagarjuna)
may sunyata be with you
Martin
