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Overcoming the Great Dismal

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What did you expect -- a perpetual glide across eternal pools of bliss while lounging upon some kind of cosmic pool toy? There would only be a tinkling top to such music; it would be devoid of the heartbeat of an earthbound bottom -- the vital rhythm section of the monster's heart.

Here at the crossroads of Eternity and the Living Moment, and near the last exit ramp of Empire's End, the roadside attractions have become more than a bit empty and garish, i.e., a Cracker Barrel of the bottomless cravings attendant to the marketing of counterfeit desires.

"What we speak becomes the house we live in." ~~ hafiz

Is it any wonder then, in the U.S., enmeshed as we are in the consumer paradigm of late capitalism, that we exist within a Landscape of Nada that is reflective of an inner Architecture of Nowhere? Sterile malls and ugly strip malls, big-box stores, fast-food outlets, convenience stores and agora-devoid subdivisions -- these flimsy, banal structures, we have conjured into existence by our hollow, poetry-devoid incantations.

Wasteland within. Wasteland extant. The word and the landscape are one.

So what is the Grail that will restore the dry, sterile landscape to fecundity? And whom does the Grail serve? And where can it be located? The question pertains both to where and to whom. The who in question is you. And the where is: the living landscape of your stalwart heart. The first step in allowing the wasteland to bloom is a reclamation of empathy and the embrace of imagination. Or else, all you hold dear will be rendered dust and ash -- and find dismal dominion in the indifferent winds of fate.

"Art evokes the mystery without which the world would not exist." ~~ Rene Magritte

We must sing the world back into vital and vivid being. The heart will awaken once the task has begun. Art bestows flesh on phantoms; music spins garments for reborn flesh.

"Music is a moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life and to everything." ~~ Plato

The Imagination is a charming seductress, an enchanter of harsh Verities. Baudelaire averred that when we love we have found a means of subsisting on the essence of invisible flowers. A sublime forgetting and relearning takes hold, as lovers take up residence in redolent air.

The act of looking upon the world as if it is the face of your beloved can serve to lift life's burdens over grim landscapes, like Chagall's lovers wafting over dour, quotidian rooftops, beneath which squat the compulsive folly of foolishly earnest men.

Bring an end to the Empire of Endless Burgers by giving voice to inspiration. Bring down the walls of airless, gated subdivisions of the mind with the heart's reverberant soundscape. Without your voice, nothing is possible, and nowhere is where you are bound. Therefore, the only sound choice becomes ... to arrive singing.

Words, Phrases, Sentences -- they are more than simply verbal constructs. They are living things -- the progeny of the union of the image-plangent soul of earth and sea -- and the holy spirit's lambent, inhuman illuminations. We know them as the dance of affinities attendant to the mating rituals of eros and logos -- the Word and Flesh made one.

At paradigm's end, buffeted and shaken -- yet held enthralled within the maelstrom -- by the vast and sweeping scope of unsolvable governmental/cultural forces -- we feel the pull of a gravity that feels akin to love. We yearn for some remedy, like lovers whose blazing love threatens to burn away all their moorings and upend all they know.

Thus, rejoice in this: There is rebirth, dwelling deep, in the irreparable problem we know as the world. Find solace in the knowledge that poets (who should not be imagined as an elitist covenant of the elect -- but those who have chosen to avail their hearts to the art of living in a poetic manner) are out there now: wounded by beauty; indentured to logos.

And even when exploring our current day wilderness of alienation, poets are laboring to limn a psychical map of its terrain of terror and beauty. All who live pass through this soul-plangent landscape. Know this: It is an illusion that you have ever been alone, even within the nadascape comprising The Great Dismal of the current era.

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http://www.philrockstroh.com/

Phil Rockstroh is a poet, lyricist and philosopher bard living in New York City. He may be contacted at: phil@philrockstroh.com. Visit Phil's website: http://philrockstroh.com/ or at FaceBook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000711907499
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The sweeping, gauzy abstractions here forego not j... by Robert S. Becker on Friday, Jan 25, 2013 at 3:38:27 PM
Not everyone is a mechanic or mechanically incline... by Ned Lud on Friday, Jan 25, 2013 at 5:32:28 PM
Brilliant poesy meets a rock of ugly stupid, loves... by Don Caldarazzo on Friday, Jan 25, 2013 at 7:15:27 PM
"And this is where we stand, at present: We are tr... by Robert S. Becker on Saturday, Jan 26, 2013 at 12:59:25 PM
  And are these two partners "despai... by Theresa Paulfranz on Friday, Jan 25, 2013 at 9:33:48 PM
 Education and leaning does not consume ... by Ceric on Friday, Jan 25, 2013 at 10:22:34 PM
I did not expect to see such a comment to this art... by Ad Du on Saturday, Jan 26, 2013 at 11:01:01 AM
 I think that Manufacturing Consent, whi... by Ceric on Saturday, Jan 26, 2013 at 2:18:28 PM
"We acknowledge that in order for the generous, hu... by E. J. N. on Saturday, Jan 26, 2013 at 9:13:18 PM