HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Grabbed from deviantart.com, this piece of art has displayed some poetic sense, well, right on his very own skin!
“I have spread my dreams under your feet”, this is a quote from William Yeats’ “He Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven”. If you still can’t get enough of poetry, then maybe you too need to browse your literature notes and get yourself tattooed right away.
The tattoo is just so poetic so if you love tattoos and you love William Butler Yeats, then feel the poetic rush and customize your skin!
I am a conquistador. I travel every space, every hole, on every page, make love with words, lines and curves. Writing is my secret conquest. Poetry is pure seduction – a divine madness.
I am formed by fragments. I am a fragment. My tongue tastes poetry, bitter and sweet. And when words are moved around the pages, I feel sovereign. Writers are gods but readers remain the highest gods. I lust for gods. I rage wars. I want to be Jean Claude Van Damme: I want to sweat and fight. Let the mourning end. I conquer gods.
The only thing that keeps a writer alive is his or her insanity. Insanity carries no restrictions. I want to write naked under the moonlight for my soul to wander in the cold night, finally, to digress. I believe one should write and grow, grow and write. Sanity is boring, thoughtless and dreadful. Sanity is a writer’s enemy. It stops growth, it steals thoughts. Sane people only write pretensions, of the things they thought they know.
I want to write naked because only then can I become real, more natural. I do not hide and pretend, I write and offer every part of my self. And so each day, I become like the Aztecs. I become a human and a god. I sacrifice to please my gods because writing is always a sacrificial ceremony. I am writing naked. The hardest thing is to get naked in front of mere strangers, to get real with them, exposing the scars I never wanted to reveal.
The writer becomes a mother and the readers her children, sucking milk from her breasts until they began to explore every part of her that they can suck. And she becomes an open commodity and she forgets she still owns herself. This is what sacrifice is, selfless. We offer ourselves to die and live again only to understand writing, to give justice to our readers as we give justice to ourselves. Once, I read a book which I found offensive and degrading. It was merely a book full of shit and I realized I spent my precious time reading shit. Shit doesn’t just happen, they are made, written. The writer of that book is a criminal; she must be convicted because she was only inflicting a crime upon her readers. If we write without our best intentions, we are provoking suicide. Writing is a matter of life and death. When we refuse to give justice to our artistic vision, then we must face death.
Faith is not just about gods and religion. Faith is poetry. A poet has to have faith in her skill because only with faith can a poet achieve great poetry. With faith, there is an urge to experiment with words and lines and thoughts. Fear must not nestle inside the poet’s head because it blocks the growth of imagination.
Faith becomes the poison against fear. Faith is the resurrection of the poet from loss and death. A poet experiences “loss” when her imagination stops, and eventually “dies” when she stops being a poet. With faith, the poet is “resurrected.” She gets up after being “dead” and having been “buried” underground, like a vampire who slept underground listening to mortals, she feeds on her victims. A poet feeds on life, death, words, imagination, finally, poetry. A faith that death is not final but only a dark sleep is a faith that explains the idea of resurrection. She comes to life and remembers being a poet again.