YuHeng's blog

The transparency of white on white.

I read a very good poem today. I stopped and wondered why anybody would bother with poetry and the pomp of poetry like it erupted out of the ass of some goddess. Is it the desecration of defecation that defaces poetry? Would it still be poetry if someone smeared it over with shit. No because a poet has to assume poetry with a higher order–poetry. No poet would praise themselves and see themselves as a poet, for no one would stand from a distance and abstract the self into an image–that is, of the poet. No one stands in relation to the poet, for he is alone when he writes. And no one stands with him because that is not who he is. He is a poet insofar as people demand a reference of him. Who is he? He is a poet. A name. The poet himself is not a poet; he is only a person. One needs a relation with the poet to form the relation between reader and writer, without which none of them would exist. Who am I reading a work of? Of no one or someone? If no one, who am I a reader of? Of nothing? That is, am I nothing? Or am I reading nothing? And so on. So yes, a reader needs a poet’s name, but only to defecate on it later. And more sickening is the poet who uses the poet’s name to form a union with himself through the other poets. They assert themselves as poets through others, and demean themselves in the process. “Oh so you’ve heard I’m a so and so.” With an excess of ego and illusion, these people arise out of a dimension of nothing and only fulfill the nothingness of themselves. It is empty. A debasement. An absence of thongs that explode out of shadows. A demonizing of people.

“As the narrowness became increasingly narrower, an unreined Beauty became more and more Beautiful, Profundity more Profound, Nobility more and more Noble, Purity more and more Pure. Because, on the one hand, the poem, deprived of all brakes, inflated itself to the limits of a gigantic poem, and on the other, began condensing itself to dimensions too synthetic and homeopathic.” (Witold).

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