One more time I am bold enough to cherish your image in
I tire myself out
bringing back a dream, not without sorrow or anxiety I
pointing out what
our love was.
Our many years do
fly, they go on changing, they change everything, they change
Just yesterday I
was still singing your person, but today I see you be shrouded
in a sepulchral shadow,
Yesterday you were
a friend, today you are just a faded fire.
henceforth remote, just take in my farewell, that my heart
addresses to you,
like a widowed wife
could do to a friend who embraces his friend
meekly at the very
doorstep of a prison house.
This is a poem by Pushkin; it might be a Word
by the Father reminding mankind, the Child that
abandoned Him (Rev of Arès 2/1-5, vii/7-11), that they
erstwhile used to love each other. Which of the Father or
Pushkin draws his inspiration from either ? This has never been
mentioned anywhere, but I think that the man-poet replicates the
God-Poet. because he is His image and likeness (Genesis
1/26). Poetry gives one more proof of the kinship
between Life (Rev of Arès 24/3-5) and life.
Besides, the Word cannot be but poetic, for to words,
which stop in brains, poetry adds a song that goes on down to
hearts. Now, the heart is the seat of life, a mirror of Life
(Rev of Arès 24/3-5).
Marxian poet Pablo Neruda while making his
speech to the Nobel Academy said, "A poet is not a little god. His
destiny is not greater than that of people with any other jobs.
The best poet is the human being that provides us with daily
bread, the baker." This was a statement from a rationalist, but
one breaking out beyond himself tormentedly, who feels the hot
breath of love from the bread oven when opened. His
poems "Cien sonetos de amor" dedicated to the woman he loved,
Matilde Urrutia, are breathtakinglyly beautiful and well beyond
any craft. So doing Neruda woke up the Father Whom he had knocked
out deep inside hinself. His poetry cleanses him, spreads him like
the Spread One (Rev of Arès ii/4) beyond matter, propels
him between here and the infinite.
Poetry is the only means that man has, whether he is a
believer or an unbeliever, to be clearer than his inadequate
language and express his hope for a good world. So the Father
likewise is the First to use poetry. For a few years I was
disconcerted by the terse Message of the Theophanies
(1977) until I understood its formal nature: It is a poem.
The people who nowadays find it incomprehensible or messy, have to
understand its poetic nature as well.
Does the Word have another means to move people in a highly
dramatic scope? Life has to look for ways to bring the
rebellious being back to the Being That is ultimately faithful. So
Life strives to seek strong surpassing means. Poetry is a
strong surpassing means.
I as a poet am not worth a dime. Nevertheless, although I am a
pitiful philistine, I like the poetry that the true Word
has helped me learn. Previous to 1974 I had not missed that
poetry, I had never dreamt of it; I had never been
biblicalpoetry-sensible. The poetry of Arès's Word just happened
to me as the blazing glint of the Light of Life,
Which aeons ago probably used to keep Eden with no days or nights
just as the Earth of men will be kept after the Day
(Rev of Arès 31/8) when the time rife with one-eyed
materialism, rigged rationalism and humanism vanish. Good
will reign again then. Science, which is the queen today, is just
a faint glow changed into imperious frenzy — who could ignore it
in covid-19 times? —; it is just a ridiculous candle in front of
the sun. The busy pursuit of truth about human life — what is it
from? where does it go? — died with Socrates. Plato rang its bells
one last time and, even though there has been a few echoes of it
since then (Buddha, Adi Shankara, Spinoza, etc.), they will not
peal out like a sublime poem until we succeed in dispelling the tenebrae
through which we are crawling.
The poetry of the Word is much more than a special turn
of writing or recitation standing for a special meaning; it brings
about Life, makes language lively by giving it
that which Plato called "forms" ou "ideas" when he wrote that
"first there exists what forever stays the same as an idea, and
what is never born or dead, or never receives anything from
elsewhere, or never goes anywhere, or is inaccessible to eyesight
or another sense, and which is only perceived by intelligence;
furthermore, what stays sensitive, is born, constantly moves,
suddenly appears and then disappears, is accessible to man's mind
and is backed up with sensation" (Timaeus). In other words, poetry
is never young or old; it stays vibrant ad infinitum and lives
beyond time; this is very obvious in poems by Homer, by David
(psalms), both of them were poets at the same time, or by Muhamad,
but they are still poets nowadays, wear-free aedes.
The ancient love of wisdom (φιλοσοφία, philosophy), which was
always poetic, has been substituted by the authority of dull
obscure reasonings and coded prattlings between scholars,
politians, administrators, scientists, judges, clerics, etc., all
those which are called serious who speak seriously. I am aware
that I run idle just as The Revelation of Arès does in
the current world, which does not know what to do with this book
and me as the witness of its Messenger, Living Jesus
(1974), and of Life (1977). Intelligence is
not offside in our penitent harvesting activity,
instead we are onside. But in the wordly concrete where the Word
of Arès very slowly breaks through only poetry, not necessarily in
words but at least in life, gives it the capability of working its
way. Within the dark we are still barely invisible and soundless.
The same is true of the Maker Father, Life, God, the
Totally Other, Logos, the Eternal, I-am-who-I-am, Who
knows that He will not be listened to, at all, if He fails to make
His Word poetic.