In the wilderness of words
Baudelaire’s hideout
Mallarme’s lair
It is the symbolic order
That is the forest for the trees
It is the language, unrealized
Waiting for a book
Indicating nothing
In the trees of the word
Mallarme’s bee buzzes
A basket of symbol
A picnic of signified
And only a dream of lace
In the forest of the word
Somewhere is Baudelaire’s dream
Bad flowers, ailing gutters
And the Palace of the Real
With pillars named
All named, each referring
Only to itself
Where meaning stops
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2 comments:
’where meaning stops’...the absence of meaning/order...frightening or comforting or both or none of the above...
It is the language, unrealized
Waiting for a book
Indicating nothing
In the trees of the word
Mallarme’s bee buzzes
A basket of symbol
A picnic of signified
And only a dream of lace
I know not Mallarme's bees, but to my spirit, this dearly intricate poem reveals lush piles and heaps of words, all a-scramble, waiting for meaning. Capturing mystical dreams within a group of letters - as much as is possible. Defining the ultimate joy, the epiphany so far as one can with that blend of direct and curvaceious lines formed into words.
Viewed as such, it seems little wonder that words alone, without winces and grimaces, impart only a hint of our meanings.
Still ... it's a happily endless, infinite store of explanations, directions and fine exhaultations! Words are the compliant Play-Doh in the minds of the Wisdom shapers~
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