Poetically, Man Dwells

Author: Kristin Reynolds
Word Count: 258
previous browse writing next

Poetically, Man Dwells

This poem came about after reading from Heidegger’s, Poetry, Language, Thought.
There is a section titled: Poetically Man Dwells, which is taken from a poem by: Holderlin with the same title.
Basically, Heidegger is saying that man is born a poetic creature – with a full house; seeing the world poetically, living his own life, a natural poet – words to page or not.
But upon growing, living, ”...our dwelling is harassed by work (for another), made insecure by the hunt for gain and success, bewitched by the entertainment and recreation industry.” etc…

there is much more I could quote, but, basically he is saying that in today’s world, there is not much room left in one’s house for living as we were intended…
”...poetry does not fly above and surmount the earth in order to escape it, and hover over it…poetry is what first brings man onto the earth, making him belong to it, and thus brings him into the dwelling.”
Thank goodness for RedBubble, where so many still find time to fill up their houses.

Poetically, Man Dwells belongs to the following groups:

! Creative Writing & Poetry !, "Poetry and Beautiful Women" , All Things Poetic, Artistic, Philosophical, Core [C.O.R.E], Creative, Talented, and Unknown, Light In The Darkness, Masterpieces: Literary Workshop, The beauty of poetry, Up & Coming Writers, Vibration in Art and Verse - VAVoom! and WMG

Roots
blinding their twists
to vapors
binding their home
to roots
winding themselves
to death.

It wasn’t always this way…
dwellings of former tenants
on the borrowed man sphere
letting their blood
from their abandoned
milk-carton
crops;
ghosts in dead wheat
holding the other captive
haunting the other’s dreams
parting
themselves
like prairie grass
screaming
through abandoned windows
howling
through their whistling cracks
like madmen
behind shredded curtains
waltzing
with wind-devils
gathering rain
in holey buckets
as an easement
for the one
who owns the wind.

Yet, there are still a few left.

Those whose dung-boots
still reek
of freedom;
still fit the soil
as perfectly
as the glove
that holds them,
whose easements
are still his own
black clouds
of vows –
creation’s mind,
God’s breath,
the church
upon
a
rock
with only
one
member
whose heart still beats
unaware
of winding, rewinding and waiting,
time-grease
for an other’s
machine,

those packed room poets
on contra dance farms
whose patched leather boots
still lick their own sun
rising north with the dawn
still chinked
with
The Master’s Sweat
stomping out
their madness
to the magpies
alone,
filling fragrant fields
with full rotation
from earth
to satisfied mouths
and through
and down
and back to his own hands
and off
of his humble feet,
feeding his soil
with expanding
full house
roots.

I swear…
I sense the living, still;
one licked finger up
to the cool violet dusk,
smiling from cloudless windows,
lighting up
the page.

Trenchtownrock

Loving this piece my friend.. so much truth in those words…love these lines
those packed room poets
on contra dance farm
whose patched leather boots
still lick their own sun
rising north with the dawn,
who are still chinked with
The Master’s Sweat
stomping out
their madness
to the magpies
alone;
Kristin Reynolds replied

thank you so much, Chris. :)
and thank you, especually for quoting that verse, as I see i forgot an ’s’ in farms! lol
xoxox
erich biemer

you examine his concept oh so much more beautifully….
Kristin Reynolds replied

I appriciate that, Erich, thank you so much. :)
Christie Moses

This is so full of the beauty that enimates from within you.
“those whos dung-boots still reek of freedom” I love that line.
yes…thank god for RB :) and people like you…
Love you lady xoxo
Kristin Reynolds replied

Thanks, lady C! xoxo
Michael Degenh...

Kristin, your interpretation and presentation of poetry being born in to us and basically suppressed later is evident in this peace. it speaks loudly of the natural process and how yet, there still exists those who see through poetic eyes. This is a lovely write that no one else could have written better. Michael
Kristin Reynolds replied

awww, you are too kind, Michael, thank you so much. xo
Trenchtownrock

That wasn’t the intent…LOL…you know how many times I to forgt word or mispeled something…as you can tell by the previous sentence..LOL..
Kristin Reynolds replied

hahaha! yes, my fingers tiny brains malfunction all the darn time. lol
cosimopiro

Kristin, this is the third time I came back to this piece for it exhausted me. Fast pace read…had to stop and take in the imagery. So much a whirl….so much movement…’ghosts in dead wheat ’....’howling through their whistling cracks, like madmen behind shredded curtains etc’......the more I read this the more it comes alive. Oh, but I do need to stop to take it all in. Great stuff. xo
Kristin Reynolds replied

cool. :)
I like fast. They don’t call me a whirling dervish for nothin! lol
Thanks, man. :)
Skypilot

That was just so incredibly beautiful, no one verse could stand from the whole….really from my heart to the bottom of my shit stained boots! ...But somehow I doubt you needed Hiedeger to show it to you…lovely hon….xxx
Kristin Reynolds replied

cheers to those boots. mine prefer poop to nothing.
and no, I did not need him to tell me that, but everyone with insight has a unique voice, and It’s always interesting to hear how they say it. plus…it sparked poetry, and for that i am always grateful. :)
thank you!!!
autumnwind

oh so beautifully written and hopeful. yes, thank goodness for RB. I had an analogy in my head as soon as I started reading your description – even before I read your amazing poem. how when we wake we do not remember our dreams anymore because within seconds we are so overcome with the thoughts of responsibilities for the day ahead of us. (of course somehow the nightmares stay vivid) but I try to hold onto my dreams and ask myself what have I learned from then. cannot do that when I am so consumed with superficial matters the second I wake up. know what I mean? well, not exactly your poem, but strange the things we take away. love you. xoxoxo
Kristin Reynolds replied

darn pervasive day-shit-meaningless-mechanical thoughts taking our BEING away…poof! forgotten. it is a realy hard chore remembering to remember the true self apart…
I know what you mean, and thank you. :)
love you, too lady. xoxox
ArcadiaTempest

I had to think a little before wanting to respond to this…. the way this turns over the soil to expose the toil of life that layers us in ways we have just come to expect not even necessarily want…I guess the materialism of the world is the idol that is worshiped and the voice of the poet has to find a way to navigate around ears wearing the latest trends…and also the fact that it seems to me we need more than ever now in life….poets to sound out the messages that are being forgotten about the simple recipe we need to live a life that is rich.. It is a tribute to the spirit of the word….I think a theme I find in so many of your wonderful verses… XXX
Kristin Reynolds replied

exactly!
thank you, wise woman, always for your insight into my very being. :)
xo
linaji

I am with Erich.. your heart is so much a part of all you do and perhaps it was his too.. but I feel much more understanding where you pen from.. Gosh Kristin.. that last stanza has me reeling.. incredible work.. I bow my darling.xxx
Kristin Reynolds replied

thank you dear, Lina!
I’m glad you liked this, lady, thank you so much. xoxo
JRGarland

You definitely light up the page with your script. I take so much delight in the images you create. Yes, thank God for RB in giving us the means to fill our homes.
Kristin Reynolds replied

Awww, thank you again JR, you are such a bright light. :) xo
raymondoantonio

THE 9-5 GRIND WILL DESTROY A POETIC MIND…. FREEDOM FROM BULLSHIT AND MATERIALISM AND LISTENING IN THE SILENCE IS WHAT WE NEED!! KEEP ON BEING A ROLLING STONE KRISTIN!!! XOXO
Kristin Reynolds replied

a poem unto itself! yes indeedy, it will for sure.
I will keep rolling, and you do the same. xoxo
I know you will!
Jane17

beautiful poem, and a reminder to follow our path as poets, as these messages shouldn’t be forgotten amongst the materialism and routine.
Kristin Reynolds replied

Thanks, Jane!
Blanchot

creation’s mind,
God’s breath,
the church
upon
a
rock
with only
one
member
whose heart still beats
unaware
of winding, rewinding and waiting,
time-grease
for an other’s
machine,

Brilliant read love. It is not too often that someone takes Heidegger, and understands, much less can transform his words into something as moving and beautiful as this piece. You have gotten to the heart of his piece and in such a beautiful manner.

The section that I quoted above is brilliant. It does two things at once and both fantastically: you brilliantly transcribe Heidegger’s meaning and intent, but more importantly, you make it your own, which is what a true poet should do, after all. And you are a poet, from head to toe, from your veins and vessels to the heart to which they lead. I love every inch of you, my brainy love. You know it, RBG
Kristin Reynolds replied

thank you, Rusty. :)
That is a huge compliment, and a testiment to my very Being..hehehe. really, being and time is how I roll…they intrigue my every sense, and thwart my every turn. the paradox of being. you have got to love that.
i love you, too brainiac.
always, K xo