Saturday, May 10, 2008

Even non-bardic heads buried sand-like and ignorant - the straw wo/men of our bunch - stubbornly count time within; spell a game between what was behind, in front and yet to come, somewhere between these three states of imagination, where a truth of letters and two linguistic realities lie.

Few aware of the filidh/poets tradition -- though all filidh when bardcraft was practiced -- know as solidly as do not the hordes of contemporary practitioners, the fully nuanced particulars of this ancient verbal craft.

The twelve hundred centuries in which the art of this tradition existed in print, composed by numberless bardic poets whose base level of training (in comparison to today) is - to all but a handful - entirely unknown; contain keys to unlocking this fascinating verbal system, based on a sophisticated, intuited set of principles divined by speculatively casting into mirrored pools, for a poetic knowledge, returned via reflecting the essence of reality, in textual attempts which bear the imprimatur of oneself.

Communicating effectively in print and person on bardic matters, is a complex and entirely speculative discourse from which we lead ourself into a unique web of self-made literate sensibility and process, with which the poet practices blind - in effect - attempting to mark out his and her datums, constructing what level plane s/he can project onto, slowly at first, the stuff of our mental doings, and if lucky, decant some real strain of ourself into verse, on a printed page

But before we have our plane a sheened smooth surface of reflection at the well of Self, musing on whatever our instinct lead us to, we must first launch headlong into the unknown, as a total fraud, imitating what fake it is we think we should be to enter a fictional citadel of Literature and literacy an absence of intellectual self-worth and paranoia creates.

At first we are fearful of a poetic grading device imagined others calibrate our minuscule measure of natural ability with. And devoid of experience, we look to the mind/s of these imagined others constructed from a questioning, self-testing force within, and our placebo-hacker against whom one pits and measures what it is we do, forms before us.

Failure on a grander scale than what amounts to the imagined rival/s who puncture our dream and rent one's confidence asunder. The practicing cynics whose game is donning a clever mask of poet troll manqué, devoted to issuing solemn, sombre sermons in tones of high gravitas and hieratic airs woven to bluff the poorer scholar/s with a sharper wit.

Adopt a pose in which the pretended position -- that intellectual inheritance is a question of birth and not the democratic application -- advocates our intelligence and the imagination, creating with instinct alone, print in this ultra-conservative tradition of druidic precedent and principles ordered by a society's entirely civil legal system, in a way even our most skillful would need several lifetimes to fully crack and understand, in the original and ultimate impulsing idiolect and pattern of things our sworn source adheres upon.

Few contemporary poets emerge from this tradition (ultimately rooting in the Ogham alphabet), to reconnect and practice the somewhat incomprehensible rules which - for all but a few members in the guild - appear odd and illogical.

The writers ludicrously attached to this form -- offering scant return to our lovers and trolls competing in the contemporary quick thrust poetic tank of virtual bruisers (on the surface) -- attempt to compose a plea wrought wholly from love, measuring our progress in the challenge-of-self-against Self, yielding in a demonstrable process whose charted arc of knowledge, in a hopefully straightforward and logical narrative; course into the pave of forms and potential proofs proven (or in a state of proving) speculatively - to oneself - and provide perceptions within that convey one's inner-provincial strain to the exterior, universal audience, in the sense of one's poetic sounding the manner of our own essential note.

The rhyming period of always fifty 50 splits, eternity's second minute, hour ad infintum makes until re-waking, births again in any measure the key intelligence time creates, armed with only forgotten doors into modernism of yore today and now; beacons the tomorrow of our collective will our thought being in the fabric reality, can spell...

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