UPDATED: Dust

The prospect of one's own mortality has always fascinated me, and has been the foci of my obsession for quite some years now. It has even lead to the development of a novel, which is still very much in the works. Of all of life's grand mysteries, the certainty of death lingers ever-present, and appears as both a beacon of apprehension and motivation. Yet, it should be recognized that the very atoms that construct your present anatomy have existed since the birth of the universe. You are recycled, built from the debris of past existence. So, really, death is merely a transference of form and a preservation of existence, rather than the destruction of it.
That is the subject of the present poem "Dust", which deals with this very motif. The poem itself began as a request from a close friend, Samantha Monteleone, who asked that I assist her in constructing the lyrics to a song. She said that the only line she had was "my dust" and proposed the tempo sound like footsteps. So, I worked my craft, and churned out this curious specimen. She has since incorporated it into a brilliant work-in-progress, making it very much her own. I myself experimented with sounds and produced a different version. I'm going to try and post that version up somehow, but in the meantime please enjoy these "lyrics".

Dust

My dust

Hangs

In crisp beams of light

In rain

In every creeping breeze

Breath

Smithereens of me

Death

Is not quite what it seems

It’s a masquerade

A casting off of things once dear to me

To embrace

The celestial divide

To chase

Down dreams once kept inside

Bursting forth

From the flesh that used to line

This silly shell

Cocoon of selfsame diligence

Ne’er-do-well

Metamorphosed

Pieces of the past

Construct the present form

You are just
The dust of what has come before

UPDATE: Samantha has since completed her song and uploaded it to YouTube. She has entitled it "only just Dust". I personally think it's quite brilliant, and highly suggest you Like it and leave feedback for her in the Comments.

only just Dust

Stretch Marks

I know that the majority of my posts as of late have been concerned with poetry. I am also well aware that the description of this webpage contains reference to a plethora of addition mediums of expression that (aside from photography) appear to have been ruthlessly neglected. Fear not, for I shall be bringing you fresh samples of my other preoccupations once I have found the time to do so! I have stuck diligently to poetry simply because I have far too many specimens at my disposal.

Alas, we have here a section from yet another series I am working on. You have already seen me make reference to "The Heart Series", which is composed exclusively of photographs. By contrast, this is a poetic series, consisting of poems of a similar theme that are meant to compliment each other. (I have another poem series in the works, but that's for another post).

This series is made up of poems that glorify the female body. More specifically, they focus on parts of the body that women often frown upon and features that society has enforced as negative to poses. These include things like wrinkles, cellulite, fat, stretch marks, and so on. The poems are meant to convey the message that a woman's body is beautiful, especially those wonderful pieces that we obsess over and try to erase. The poems are very much about women's empowerment, and should fill the female reader with a sense of confidence, sexuality, and individualism. Without further delay, I present the first in the series:

Stretch Marks

Come,

Ride my rivers,

Sail across these muddled maelstroms;  

Get swept away by the currents that mark my 

Stomach,

Thigh, and  

Breast.

I am an expanding star,

A red giant bursting with fervency,

My seams stretched from welling ego and

Hubris drawn in zebra stripes.

These trails are uncharted,

So won’t you map them extensively?

Trace them with your fingertips,

Eager to but scratch the surface.

I have outgrown this skin,

This epidermis hinders,

The butterfly within imprisoned,

Its wings slicing scars toward reality.

         

Carrara

It's been over a week now since my return from Italy and I am still very much attempting to grasp everything I saw and experienced. Because I was so overwhelmed visually, mentally, and even emotionally, I didn't have very much time to compose anything. I did, however, manage to write a little something simple.

 I was inspired by the enormous prevalence of ancient structures and statues scattered all over that wonderful country. When you consider all the museums around the world that house slivers and chips of so many lost monuments, it's really quite incredible how the cultural history of Italy has contributed to the greater concept of human expression. Personally, when I look at such hulking structures as the Colosseum, Pompeii, the Pantheon, and others, I remind myself that each brick was shaped and set by hand; each carved hunk of marble was chiseled away by hand; and I wonder at how many hands had graced these massive monuments during their construction. Was the man who laid this brick thinking of his pregnant wife at home, eager to return to her as he finished his obligation? Was the face that here represents Demeter  designed and pulled from the head of a woman whom the artist adored? There were emotions, personalities, identities, selfhood, life behind those gracing hands. And what ever became of them?

 One can read the following poem from the point of view of either a sculpture itself or of an ancient individual lost to the cockles of time. Also, please enjoy some these quaint photos I took while abroad. Caio!

 Carrara

I consign

Many centuries from now

Someone will find

The calcified remnants of me

Mismatched and incomplete

Broken

Splayed

Scuttled

Frayed

The flesh torn away

But what will remain are signatures of you

Monuments to the love that became a part of me

For you

They will find the gristle in my bones replaced

The marrow having assumed a heart shape

For you  

The Heart Series: Italia

So, in my travels across Italy, (naturally) I stumbled upon several surprises. Italy, it seems, is rife with hearts. Please, enjoy the latest additions to The Heart Series, straight from beautiful Italia.  

Qygen: Confessions of a Super Hero

Caio! I have just returned from the wonderful land of Italia after a month spent studying abroad in beautiful Roma. After traveling all over the country, I'm still very much digesting everything I've seen and experienced. I can assure you, though, that there will be photos up soon (I have a few to add to The Heart Series).
I was, however, quite anxious to get back to the blog. Though I didn't have much time to write while I was there, the experiences certainly refreshed biding seeds of inspiration in me. I can feel their feeble shells beginning to blister.
Seeing as this opportunity has proven to be one of the best experiences of my life, I figured I would share a poem which I consider my own personal axiom upon my return. I wrote it way back in senior year of high school and have since revised it a few times. The name is gibberish and was created accidentally while completing the Chemistry Regents exam in a quiet gymnasium filled with feverish students. I was attempting to write the word "Oxygen", whereupon the X and Y combined to form a hybrid letter, which made the subsequent word resemble "Qygen". I found it quite comical and began to laugh unnecessarily loud in the silent space. That accidental invention of nonsense, which evoked a rather spontaneous burst of enjoyment in me, seemed to represent my character most appropriately. As all humans do, I have since matured and changed, but the principles and ultimate message of the poem still rings true with me, and I still return to it as an example of my own personal philosophy.

Qygen: Confessions of a Super Hero

I have this seething desire,
this responsibility,
this vex:
I must get my hands on you,
wrap you up like china
and coat you in a solarium of Kevlar,
resistant to the groping hands of man
satirically reaching out for love...
Quietly, I conspire,
hiding in the shadows,
burning like a fire.
My mind moves at a googolplex per planck;
I feel like I know something that know one else knows.
Perhaps everyone knows what I know,
they just don't know that they know it
or perhaps they don't want to know.
Perhaps... everyone knows the truth,
but are too afraid to pursue it.
Everybody is tossed into the gambit,
competing for the prize,
the orgy consumes,
while participants juke,
a frenzy ensues
severing tongues and gouging eyes.
I often find loveliness in crowds of filth,
in places where others find only filth,
and filth I often find in droves of agreed upon loveliness,
but maybe it's just because I'm looking for it,
rather than seeking to define it.
Beauty is as beauty does,
and beauty is all around me,
dizzying and intoxicating,
just as it should be.
I am a zealot of such prophesies,
a savior for the misplaced or lost,
for the whitewashed and painted over spirits in your hearts.
I wish to shale the boughs and break them,
untangle you from your suffixation.
I cannot hides my love for you,
for life,
and all it's fickle vicissitudes.
It's ever-present, omnipotent,
this desire to take you up in arms,
to educate you,
for it is said that knowledge is power,
and with you as the weapons
and intellect as the ammunition,
we can take back the world.
I am one without a soul behind this uniform;
a cruciform uniformity.  
I am man's martyr,
for I wear my soul on my sleeve,
for all to judge and charter.
And to what extent shall I wager myself?
Shall I sacrifice for you?
Well, for you,
I would sacrifice it all.
"For me," you wonder,
For you...
your flesh is vindication enough,
your soul, more wealth than the world could muster and waste.
I take pride in indulging in every taste,
race,
shape,
and face.
Yet, there are those who could never see what I see,
understand what I understand,
and it is that bliss of ignorance that all too often corrupts man.
A zeitgeist reining down over head,
scouring over, like locusts, this place
shackling your heart and nullifying your mind,
obliterating that which it tries to replace.
I'll be your tourniquet,
your shoulder,
your prosthetic,
your crutch,
your knees,
your breath.
I'll be your blanket,
your gauze,
your cast,
your pillow,
your needs,
your strength,
your friend.
I grant you the opportunity
to walk hand-in-hand with my heart.
Try to trust my silliness,
for salacity is not the cause.
I want to cradle you,
listen,
appreciate,
heal and hold.
I wish to deluge,
to wipe away the saltiness you wear on your cheeks like rouge,
be there for the overlooked,
misunderstood,
and hidden.
My plight or my gift,
I pursue this novelty, smitten.
I'll take you in like abandoned rubbish,
a discarded button,
a broken toy.
I'll embrace,
clothe,
and spoon-feed
every girl and every boy.
I challenge you
to put me on trial for my crimes,
for the love of humanity,
for the love of your life
and mine;
to assassinate me,
to turn your cheek
so I can cock it back and kiss it,
for once you learn to love yourself,
you can learn to love everyone else,
and when you teach everyone to love themselves,
everyone will learn to love everyone else.

I also want to announce that there is now a Twitter page under the name "TheSvenBo". Feel free to follow that page as well. Toodles!

Bards Annual 2011 and The Guitar Maker's Fireplace

A couple of announcements before I plummet into the nitty-gritty. The Bards Initiative, a poetry-related entity based on Long Island, NY, has just released their second poetry anthology, Bards Annual 2011. Included in the anthology is one of my poems entitled "Smokey Says". I want to sincerely thank James P. Wagner, a.k.a. Ishwa, for inviting me to submit, thereby giving me this wonderful opportunity.


Secondly, in little more than a day, I will be on a plane headed for Rome, Italy, for four weeks with significant friends and colleagues. As such, I will not be updating the blog as regularly. Rest assured, however, I will get right back into it upon my return.

In the meanwhile, please enjoy this poem fresh from my synapses. I completed it merely hours ago! It was inspired by the brilliant guitar maker, John Monteleone. His work is currently being displayed as part of the Guitar Heroes exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in N.Y.C. I strongly recommend that anyone with interests in both art and music check out this extremely unique exhibit, but hurry, because it's only up until July 4th, 2011! I have had the pleasure of being graced by the beauty that is the Monteleone residence on countless occasions. On one such visit, I observed Mr. Monteleone placing some odd shaped wood onto the fire and, well, the rest is poetry. 
May God bless each and every one of you. 

The Sun King by John Monteleone

The Guitar Maker’s Fireplace

We were born from a fire,

But we died in a different fire.

We were conceived when a desire burned

Inside a brilliant man,

Persuading him and his well-worked hands

To erect what his mind aspired.

Chisels biding,

Smiling;

Planes awaiting

Jostling,

To shape, 

Whittle,

Work,

Shave

Spruce, maple, and engelman,

Stripping away the excess anatomy

That hindered them.

We took our place as heaps

Of curlicues and smithereens

That he swept up from the floor

Of his guitar shop to feed

Spitting flames in the fireplace

Of the house in which he sleeps.

He gathers up our jagged,

Rhombus pieces in his arms,

Chips and panels, planks and boards,

That did not suffice in form.

We were the siblings of

Fretboards, heels, and headstocks

Surplus younglings 

Rand from pristine wooden blocks.

Perchance we had been arched,

Clamped, 

Lacquered,

Smoothed,

Anticipating a novel existence to assume,

But our intonation wasn’t right,

Perhaps a flaw bestowed upon us,

A mistake in the wood,

Our shape no good,

A vexing blight or non-euphonic.  

We huddled together in his arms,

Bastard slabs and orphaned scraps,

Bickering amongst ourselves

With woody whispers from rubbing backs.

We were intended to compose beautiful instruments, 

While our brethren were metamorphosed, we were labeled detriment.

At the close of a cold, productive day,  

Never given the opportunity to play,  

The only music we ever made

Was the pluck and vibrato of rising flames.         

    

Somnambulist and The Mind of God and the Teleological Argument for God’s Existence

Today I've included a short poem and the opening paragraph from a philosophical essay I wrote for a Philosophy of Religion course I had taken a few years ago. The poem is entitled "Somnambulist", which refers to one who sleep walks (somnambulism), and I believe is quite fitting for the subject matter.

Somnambulist

by The Sven-Bo! 

I dreamt that I was dreaming while I was awake,

A dream of perfect nothingness

Where you and I locked hands

Looked into one another’s eyes

And whispered something I can’t remember,

But I think I saw you smile

Or did you cry?

I can’t remember

All I see is your perfect eyes

Floating there in some etheric pool of nothingness

When I awoke

I realized that the dream had only just begun

Rolling over,

I stared into your perfect eyes 

In a paper entitled "The Mind of God and the Teleological Argument for God's Existence", I argue that there is indeed evidence for intelligent design in nature, but that this intelligence does not assert the consciousness of God. I cite papers from other philosophers and scientists, including Max Tegmark, Robin Collins, William James Sidis, Alan Snyder, Eric Steinhart, and V. S. Ramachandran, among others, while examined both microscopic components of the human body and juxtaposing them to macroscopic structures in the universe. As always, the full paper may be obtained by request.     

Excerpt from "The Mind of God and the Teleological Argument for God’s Existence":  
The Teleological Argument posits that the presence of purpose, organization, design, and eloquence in nature suggest the existence of an intelligent mind that accounts for their occurrence. The intelligent mind in question is often speculated to be God and the observation of these naturally existing phenomena is cited as evidence of God’s actuality. The argument presented here, however, maintains that the intelligence responsible for the occurrence of these phenomena is essentially a functional attribute of the universe and that it alone does not confirm the consciousness of God. Further, I will attempt to justify the theory that the universe as a whole is a component of the mind of God and that intelligence as a functional attribute of the universe is a consequence of the unconscious intelligence of God. Following from that assertion, I examine whether this intelligence can be inferred as justification for believing in a worshipful deity.