Intellectual Musings and Poetic Experiments

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
These are poetic experiments made while daydreaming over Mahler symphony, a Wagner Opera or just plain daydreaming over beneath the searing sun. Some of them appeared in my Facebook account.
Others will be added but in a different post.

Submitted: May 19, 2013

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Submitted: May 19, 2013




16th of May, 2013


If the truth is a line,
then the truth is a fact.
If a truth is moveable,
as the current of the sea
or the roaring of waves
or the clashing of thunder,
a truth is subtext to another truth.
If truth is all encompassing,
black and white,
true or false,
and everything is subsumed
under its fatal wing,
truth is a fabrication,
by men of high regard.
If truths do exist,
let no one claim or proclaim
its existence in one.


Ode to a Magnitude (17th of May, 2013)


The conductor lifts his baton,
with eyes gleaming at an army
of strings, percussions and horns,
and moves his hand, a beat early.
With a flicker he sends them flying,
through the theather's padded walls.

The air pushes through the canals
of brass, wood and skin,
thumping inside the a man's oily ear.
"Too many to hear at once,"
responded the simpleton in gray.
No one looks at him, 
the army silences his voice. 

Through Mahler's and Wager's excesses
the ugly is made sublime,
the human, exulted.
the soil, uplifted beyond heaven's gates!

My ear had only heard a speck
of what these people have made.
For my mind is preoccupied with verse,
while theirs has already transcended,
beyond the human realm.

I can only sit and wonder,
yet play no other.


A Pervert’s Dream


Supine above the roof’s dusty wood,

My eyes reached through a small gaping hole,

Bored through the reeky wood.

As I peer into the room of such sweet delight,

A woman’s body appeared, naked and open.


Her breasts faced the mirror,

Her pink nipples as well,

All for me to see and such bushy beaver’s dam,

Emanating the life abound.

Oh! How I sweat and tremble

Upon such a lovely sight!

My pants are tightening,

My desire grows hot.


Shall I go down and rape her

And claim the conquest’s trophy,

A cherry plucked from a deep forest?

Shall I continue peering down,

Upon this lovely daughter of Eve?

And within the confines of myself,

Stimulate the tightening snake?


But as I sweat and fantasize,

About an erotic adventure as this,

I have surmised that feeling

Of none other than love.

Such madness has filled me,

With that uneasy feeling of desire,

As I lay my eyes upon her,

Either in this dusty roof or in an imaginary world,

I have a profound love for her.


The simple dream of a pervert is to love,

In both body and soul.

Yet, nature called to desire the body

That felt no soul,

But inside her, I shall know

Directly from her,

Upon the height of orgasmic pleasure,

The nature of her soul.


An Intellectual's Dilemma

The poet sits on his wooden chair
and writes on his wooden table;
sure to win or offend the human heart,
with his own effort of writing,
in closed and free verse.

Enjoyed for himself
and himself alone,
the poet sits atop the writer's dream.
With ink he destroys hearts
or hide messages
of grief or victory.

But the intellectual also sits on his wooden chair
and writes on his wooden table.
In front of a crucifix or a glass of absinthe
he explores the world of minds.

Is he greater than a poet,
because he writes in direct prose?
Is he lesser than a poet
because he lacked imagination?
His grief starts at his own,
when torn between his self 
and others
he becomes a questionable entity
and while the poet is lauded
by his own individuality,
the intellectual is abhorred
by his recluse.

It is here that I shall endeavor to clear
the path of the mapper of minds
and to search his fate
with other minds.

© Copyright 2020 Pater Profundus. All rights reserved.

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