A modern aesthetic rebellion against bourgeois existence. Its an ambiguous rhetoric, an in-between, between aesthetic and political radicalism that never commits to either; like the British promising the same dunams of land to jew and arab. As protest, it is often faking the real, especially when articulated by “committed” artists; the emobodies paradox of being conscious of their lyric and melody andbeing caught up in the heat, the passion of confrontation with the other, a welcome respite from self where one can slip from aesthetic posturing to political gesture.
The Separation Wall itself, and its reluctance to submit to demise, acts as a monolithic identity; the natural foil of the poet, serving as pretext for him or her to open up new creative possibilities with this affective otherness, escaping from semantic demands of what they see as the ego of the Old Testament, the vibrancy and immediacy of this god, anathema to the atheist, yet intrinsic to their own identity; to deny the existence y’know, with the one that created the world, that one; and it allows the other, this other to be felt, to break into the psychic frozenness, not as some vague discursive effect, but like a sharp knife that jabs the ego’s emotional defenses, exposing its own triviality and inherent inability to blandly know anything more than empty shop talk.
The poet is a faker
Who’s so good at his act
He even fakes the pain
Of pain he feels in fact.
And those who read his words
Will feel in what he wrote
Neither of the pains he has
But just the one they don’t. ( Pessoa )
Soren Keikegaard: “art is missing home, even when we are at home. in order to do so, one must be an expert in delusions.”
Maybe its just an anguish that results in an ecstatic song, which when distilled is an empty rhetoric; stuffy warm air as an egoistic defense. An “a-ha” moment of the supreme pleasure when one discovers and realizes the non-existent as Oscar Wilde pronounced on the phenomenon of fractured identities, fragmented pieces of philosophical and aesthetic ideas that allow the subject to feel himself, to experience the kind of affective self identity and to engage in a little role playing, tampering with multiple singularity; after all being a poet means being more than one person in a basic, significant and fundamental tissue the individual’s ego and identity, the poetic voice would need heavy sedation to be reduced to the governance of the ego. Put it down to irrational aesthetics of post-post modernism…
( see link at end) …faith is sustained by absurdity, and this is why we cling to poetry with such despair. this is the observation that matters most in all of poetry: is there poetry after words? is poetry only about words relating to other words, image relating to image? or in other words, is there such thing as a poetic life? we give words too much credit and poets know that. many tell us it is better to abide in silence and then dutifully proceed to write copious volumes to explain it’s virtues. it seems silence inspires the most words. the poetic life is not just a life of writing poetry. we live poetry by the way we live, and some of us also like to write about it. i enjoy that too. but art is not just artifacts. the poetic life is a social project, it is what martin buber called the “dialogical life.” poetry is in the between of an i and a thou.Read More:http://tiferetjournal.com/2012/06/11/teachings-dialogue-2/
And the poets down here
Don’t write nothing at all
They just stand back and let it all be
And in the quick of the night
They reach for their moment
And try to make an honest stand
But they wind up wounded
Not even dead
Tonight in Jungleland …( Springsteen)