Saturday, July 05, 2008

Unwritten, Unvoiced

The unwritten poem and the unvoiced love don't really exist, even if the instigators of such violent acts will make us believe otherwise. Anything that is written is only written to be read and it is the fervent desire of any writer to have an audience, for without the act of reading and listening, any poem or for that matter, even brief prose only exists in a dark abyss, in the sultry corner's of one's heart, in those regions of the mind where misgivings, pain and desires simmer and ultimately die. Unless, and yes unless the written word does not see the light of day, it does not exist.

Any act of writing for itself does not really mean anything, for if writing is an act of catharsis, the cathartic effect is not complete unless it works on a distant reader, in whom it kindles a state of mind, a feeling, a mood. The identification of kindred states between the writer and the reader is part of the drama of creation. It is a moot point as to which of the two acts is more rewarding but writing exists in a nether state unless the reader adds more than thumb marks to the crisp or fading page. It is reading that saves both the written word and its author from oblivion.

And love, when it lies uncertain in the arc of the brow, when it lies trembling on lips and fingers, when it has not yet known what dawn brings, when it has not suffered the atrocity of sunsets, when it has not demonized itself, when the earlier part of coarse evenings and the latter part of merciless nights have not heaved their jungle of mysteries, when it is still if and when, when it only lies nearer me and farther away from you, when I have not released it yet and you have not sensed it still, till then it is only inside, dull, fatigue, odd and just so very dead.

And then something shifts. It is as if the plates that hold the continents from murder have shifted, the word itself blooms, the world too. Any undeclared love is sullen torture, it does not exist, it only perpetrates mayhem. It links in its magical pattern primeval thought and primeval memory. It is neither sweet nor happy, neither gray or dark. The act of loving is the greatest treason against oneself, it blinds the hapless victim, it overpowers the receiver and yet, if not declared or voiced, it is nothing in itself, it has no place, it does not exist, it dies so quickly.

All the injustices in this world must be catalogued. Any unfinished or unremembered torture, any unknown holocaust has not taken place. God would not have existed if man had not been created.


Anonymous said...

This is precisely wrong. Writing is an apology, a confessional, not a directed act at all--either for oneself or any impossible-to-locate audience.

Anonymous said...

Nicely rendered, though--I forgot to say. As if you were indeed nearly helpless, in your attempt to articulate a fine ambiguity or two. (Demonstrating the very point I make above.)

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