Two Speculations

If we were to have a motto, it would be this:
This poem is not a poem.
It is precisely this presence of the senseless that makes it a poem.
To speak of what makes something a poem is, then, poetic.

Why is it the senseless that makes the poem
(A kind of double poem)?
Does the poem say what cannot be said?

To say what cannot be said is senseless, and hence romantic.
The romantic suffers from the palpable illusion of a speech;
But he is aware that his speech has become a symbol for nothing.
This is the darkness I spoke of earlier --
To surround oneself with the senseless in order to discover sense.

To which one objects:
"It is impossible to say the senseless,
Of that we cannot speak;
It is a logical impossibility."

But is it possible to say nothing?
To experience thought as the absence of thought and still to perceive the world?
This would be a purification, since the arbitrary element has been removed.

What we want is a destruction of language through the very exercise of its capacities.
As long as something can be said, as long as something can be thought,
We have not arrived at the destruction of language.

Not: to experience the world without language,
But to experience the world in such a way that the world is beyond language,
So that language is no longer a possibility,
i.e. We could no longer say, "I have removed myself from language, for the moment",
As if language were something to which we could return,
Because by that point, even to think of language would be unthinkable,
And in this way we would remove ourselves from the possibility, since it would no longer be possible:
This would be the work of a philosophical poetry,
What it would make.

If there were a man, and he said,

"Poetry my consort, I have abandoned you;
I have left you the stallions of Phoebus
Who roll through the chariots of the sky,
Where chaste Diana glares at awakening dawn,
I have dropped below the couches of the world
And am living in a dark place, where the trees
Sprout blood, and Neptune's brother Hades
Rules"

-- If he were to say that, who wouldn't laugh at him now?
We know these are the stories of fairies.
My dear one, you act as if I've stabbed you, "Purging,"
You say, "Eats the vigor of the heart."
Well I have my reasons:
Not to marry poetry to the colorless vigor of logic,
The rigor mortis,
But certainly to reveal the patterns of a mathematical order in her bosom,
To show that a precise structure of symbols, logically arranged,
Is not their water for the fire of our soul, but that, in short,
The soul is just a necessary breath. And if passions cool
Then perhaps we are not the whirlwinds of our thoughts,
Since anything we meet with anger is ill-met.
Poetry should be a greeting, the salutation of truth,
And a psychology, divinity disguised as incarnated in words.