Pocket of Peace.

Pieces of a day
Basis for breathing out
For fifteen minutes
one, long, breath.

Intermittent with hints of a smile
I am content; as that what is contained
I am content; as that what is outgoing

I feel one
with the crisp coldness
slightly heating up mid-air
refracting rays
in colors native
to the moment
from 6:30 in the morning until 6:45AM; on that day of that year.

I feel my molecules
metaphysically dissolve
in the being with
the soil, via the tarmac;
the air, via the vibrations of a lonely horn;
the wood, as flesh of the artificially-pruned

This is one pocket of peace.
Here and now.

--animasuri'17
Beijing line 10 subway. 

Sound-poems | Geluidsgedichten

by animasuri

Animasuri-selfportrait
animasuri – self-portrait

01

DE VLAAMSE SLUIER

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02

RENDERING THE DEVIL

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03

A TORK OF WERROR

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WE ARE THE HU.

Who are we? Knowledge is power some say; sharing is power some spray.

I find spirituality in attribute dependency;

yet coldness in segregation or isolation; more so in submission ‘n’ imposed dependency.

what does one learn on living-with-the-other there? Who is she?

I find horror in attribute depletion or parasitic extraction;

yet value in shared augmentation;
I find poetry in artistic or technical appropriation

On the shoulders of giants, some propagate; on the frontline of communities, others debate. Who are they?

Shame in blunt deprivation from otherwise available information;
or blunt taking for gain or a stockholder’s making

I find beauty in a chameleon of trans-becoming; trans-understanding; trans-discipline;
yet despair ‘n’ fear in fixedness, an obsessed holding dear.  

Grabbing ‘n’ groping; caging and carving; picking and poking; tearing ‘n’ tossing; chipping and choking: as parasites of the opportunity;

Yet sharing of moments, giving of living; letting and leaving; being and receiving; as participant in the HU rather than the being of the man.

WE, they, me, we are the HU; who are you?

--animasuri'17
In ode to Emma Margareta Knyckare and the Man-free Music Festival. 
Thursday, July 6, 2017
Beijing subways 14, 7 & 9

The Lady of The Pond.

As legends go,
Ponds parturated or protected
by a lady of legends,
are so too sharply echoing calls

as honed by sirens,
as reflections of the earthly,
yet non-mondaine,

along its banks and beaches,
surrounded by hills and treetops
as many mamelons feeding the melancholic,

a lady on a road or rail appeared,
If only momentarily,
who, as that Lady of The Pond,
never sleeps.

Walden Pond
Where thought and transcendance
took form as bodies;
a body of water,
a body of text,

Hence where a body, too human
laid a body to rest.

War and peace passes
the Lady of the Pond
Whispers of history
and tribal chanting
made this Lady and the Lady-in-Passing, as one;
as The Lady of The Pond

The Lady’s lasting in memory
churning agnostic agitations by embracing baptising or paddling and diving as to butter
from milk, in the Walden Pond.

imagination transitions
Walden Pond, walden pond, a walled-in pond, succulent pond, to the pondering woman wondering by

Wondering as thinking, of today’s unfound treasure, testing her memory and her rekindling, with her mother’s mother’s mother’s land.

To row on Walden Pond, is to peddle Tho-reau, is to meddle with minds, romantically so.

The Lady of The Pond, evolving, revolving the Lady on the Road; dissolving, involving greetings as intertwined; with wavings from the Walden Pond.

 

-animasuri'17
Beijing, May 22, 2017

Perfection, the Child and The Absurd.

Perfection does not allow me to be real, not to be honest. On the other hand imperfection does.

Perfection does not allow me to enjoy the freedom of admitting I was wrong; and how wrong I am!

Perfection does not allow me to improve since either that what is already perfect can’t be. That what is required to be perfect, will never be.

Perfection does not allow me to enjoy the fleeting moments of esthetics of that time in that space and that moment of becoming. I thought as a child one story was a perfect story, now I perceive its shortcomings; soon I might enjoy it again for its potential.

Perfection does not allow for potentials.

Perfection does not allow me to tinker, to reconsider, to reflect, to undo, to redo, to implement the wishes of myself; let alone another.

Perfection is simply imperfect. Perfection is a substandard construct of a warped mind, and this idea here, in itself as well, is an illusion or rather a fixation as much as perfection is.

Perfection does not allow me to be ethically considerate. It’s simply on or it is not.

Perfection does not allow me to wonder. Perfection is without a doubt perfect since if doubt arose it would not be perfect; I wonder about this though.

Perfection  does not allow me to enjoy my and surely not your idiosyncrasies.

Perfection does not allow me to appreciate to exception to its rule.

Something that does not allow me to become in so many ways, is it perfect?

--animasuri'17
Beijing subway line 10
9 May 2017

The lady along the Hudson.

A mechanical ride along the Hudson
from Greene to York,
newly engaged by a lady;
the lady along the Hudson

Ventured Virginia; that land of George;
Yearning for buffaloes
as the Yak-of-west where land is more
now rides along;
as lady along the Hudson

The Hudson
washing tons of Dutch waves
reminiscing in the pulsations of the mind of its passenger;
once on its back in its waters;
now on its banks
along its reflections of past and promise.
Remembered
by a lady along the Hudson

Ah Hudson from G to Y,
river with character;
gluing east to west
promising establishments that will last
if engaged
with that lady along the Hudson

Its passenger, its lady;
she who brought the beginning of an alphabet
among the steam of trains past,
passing mists
stemming from the Hudson’s exhalations  
under a setting sun.

She is a lady,
if even so momentarily
or of its Dutch echoes past,
a lady along the Hudson.

--animasuri'17
March 2017
On a Beijing train below ground; line 10.

Poetic Pedagogy.

We get crafted
craving the worst
Leading to ignore, ridicule, isolate
of mind into oblivion of
the atypical, the non-conform
as groupings of the not-groupable
reduced to the reality of a model
digestible by fear, force or fact.

We get drafted
into columns
and rows
out of statistical norms
from pruned bell curves and molded turfs
for in-groups as fortresses
flirting and co-opting
with “los otros”
lost to most of us
as freak-shows whisked
with a rough brush;
egalitarian-ly outcast.

We got shafted
as tools,
befitted to handle the arbitrary,
the ministry, the sinisterly,
the expected and as the market’ Joules.
Teeming our memories,
flooding us into fools,
with the notion of belonging,
to be born in,
to die for their shining cause.

All that may be;
We might be laughed-at
while looking in the mirror
since it is I and you
and our conspiracy of self,
who shaft-ed associations
as tools and tunnels
between territories and taxonomies;
I and you draft maps as decompositions
and re-connections of existing attributes;

I and you craft fluid categories
between demarcations,
and  in-between the models
and the frameworks
where territories are newly taken,
given, made and mixed
in multitude of degrees,
dimensions and  continua
as a poetry of auto-pedagogy
as a re- and de-learning of realities.

 

21 Oct 2016
animasuri’16
Beijing

animasuri’s repository pre-2014

http://www.animasuri.com/blog/