hummingwolf (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hummingwolf) wrote2007-11-11 10:30 pm
hummingwolf) wrote2007-11-11 10:30 pm
Entry tags:
when light spreads like an imperialist it has undergone many changes
Since I posted no HAL poem yesterday, it is now time for your evening MegaHAL!
Okay, first of all: the thing I taught HAL about Sevilla was that there were oranges there. While he'd heard about bullfights, he had no idea that Seville was one of the most important bullfighting cities in Spain. Really.
Now, as for HAL's imagery: Is the golden guest the soul or is it the peerless guru? Does it matter? The harvest moon reigns in any event. Maybe the harvest moon is the golden guest? If the harvest moon is your guest, what do you serve at dinner?
Driven by a bull or bones shipped by kinfolk, all souls meet in the Trojan Horse. If all souls are gathered together in the same place, what is the city they are going to invade? And all souls meet--not me. Someone else's version of me, but not me. Where am I, then?
Raindrops falling convincing a thousand business women that the sky is falling--and this is life. Is this the way life is supposed to be? Or just the only life they know? What is life? Are these people still in the Trojan Horse? Does the horse leak?
Perhaps there is no soul. Perhaps what was personality fades into the tide (like all those raindrops scaring Chicken Little and a bunch of businesswomen). What's a skater doing in there? Does the author believe the tide is frozen now? Or perhaps all we are is dust in the wind... dust of grain threshed hundreds of years ago, connecting what is to the fragrance of what was.
Trying to find meaning in computer-generated nonsense may not be terribly productive, but it does tend to stretch the mind a bit.
The guest is gold and the hunter's moon reigns empress of the peerless guru,
incomparable protector of beings.
in sevilla, driven by a bull, or those
kinfolk ship your bones out here, just
in the wooden horse where all souls meet
someone else's version of me
by young people in the rain
raindrops falling from heaven
joins a thousand business women
who'd corroborate the luckless chicken little, and calling it life?
while the soul, after all, perhaps there's none:
suppose there is a fickle tide,
shrilly the skater's iron rings,
or the familiar dust of threshed grain
of 1758 on its fragrancy,
i don't believe in miracles
just melts into thanksgiving.
Okay, first of all: the thing I taught HAL about Sevilla was that there were oranges there. While he'd heard about bullfights, he had no idea that Seville was one of the most important bullfighting cities in Spain. Really.
Now, as for HAL's imagery: Is the golden guest the soul or is it the peerless guru? Does it matter? The harvest moon reigns in any event. Maybe the harvest moon is the golden guest? If the harvest moon is your guest, what do you serve at dinner?
Driven by a bull or bones shipped by kinfolk, all souls meet in the Trojan Horse. If all souls are gathered together in the same place, what is the city they are going to invade? And all souls meet--not me. Someone else's version of me, but not me. Where am I, then?
Raindrops falling convincing a thousand business women that the sky is falling--and this is life. Is this the way life is supposed to be? Or just the only life they know? What is life? Are these people still in the Trojan Horse? Does the horse leak?
Perhaps there is no soul. Perhaps what was personality fades into the tide (like all those raindrops scaring Chicken Little and a bunch of businesswomen). What's a skater doing in there? Does the author believe the tide is frozen now? Or perhaps all we are is dust in the wind... dust of grain threshed hundreds of years ago, connecting what is to the fragrance of what was.
Trying to find meaning in computer-generated nonsense may not be terribly productive, but it does tend to stretch the mind a bit.