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On Muses
4 min read
What is the mortal poet without a Muse? Is he not an unspirited and aimless Cassandra--though prophet, gaining the ear of none?
But, nay--it's absurd to conceive of such a creature as a poet; for guides the pen, the mind, the soul of that Creative Being something higher still.
Yet, a word of caution: sacrifice not every creative thought to a single Muse--divide your faith, pilgrim of Truth! Aye, one must be wary of being too faithful too, for there remains the constant threat of stagnancy looming over his inner-mind's ambition of immortality like an awful shadow. The poet, should he with this third eye look at (and into) himself too (as he should), will learn when certain Muses must be quit.
And so have I, impressionable poet though I am, reached this conviction. Though I normally disdain from speaking for my works (for I hope they speak for themselves!), my latest work "あばよ、山娘" (i.e., "Abayo, yamamusume") concludes a collection of works titled "K.C." (found here: shinato-kawasaki.deviantart.co… ). As I have of late spoken about my confidence in my recent growth, these works serve as a true testament of it; these works, with the help of my Muse, have summoned every creative fancy with such sophistication that they may even serve, to some extent at least, a true start of my so-called poetic youth (for dream do I at times, within my inner-mind, that should my name be remembered at all for my poetry, that these works serve as some early sign of some creativity within some boy!). I indeed consider these works to have some significance; and should you wish to discover the welled sentiments within my latest poem, I do suggest you consult them first.
But one must not stagnate as I have! I have, in more recent days, been reminded quite severely of my inadequacies as a poet; and while at first the realization was a bit disillusioning but blank, I have been taught well by the great masters before me of how I err. I conceive of myself as a child with adult ambitions; thus, my projects, though grand in intention, are often executed poorly. I have yet to learn to channel my creative energies in a manner that speaks an untiring word.
What do I mean? Let me retrogress a bit: poetry has always been for me a catharsis of sorts; but as I've hinted in my last entry, I lack the temperance to make most of such a phenomenon. Thus, it passes through me in episodes: like an unnamed cloud, providing a weathered soul shade, but soon to pass forgotten and unthanked. These works of mine in their stubborn (albeit colorful) subjectivity suffers this very fate: they speak a message today which tomorrow is forgotten--or, worse--they speak a language which is only understood by me! My third eye! How narrowly it sees!
But, this shall change; my Muses unnamed command it. For to call myself a poet, first I must learn to write poetry! Thus, for the time being, I shall quit blank verse (except my works for The Meditations on Childhood); for I as a poet am not ready for such heavy freedom; first I must bear better the heaviest freedom as a poet: rhyme. And so, once I have studied rhyme and, thereafter, blank verse, may I return to it (should I find myself having any business with it, too, that is).
For now, dear Reader, patience! for cometh anon the long-sought Light!
～シナト
But, nay--it's absurd to conceive of such a creature as a poet; for guides the pen, the mind, the soul of that Creative Being something higher still.
Yet, a word of caution: sacrifice not every creative thought to a single Muse--divide your faith, pilgrim of Truth! Aye, one must be wary of being too faithful too, for there remains the constant threat of stagnancy looming over his inner-mind's ambition of immortality like an awful shadow. The poet, should he with this third eye look at (and into) himself too (as he should), will learn when certain Muses must be quit.
And so have I, impressionable poet though I am, reached this conviction. Though I normally disdain from speaking for my works (for I hope they speak for themselves!), my latest work "あばよ、山娘" (i.e., "Abayo, yamamusume") concludes a collection of works titled "K.C." (found here: shinato-kawasaki.deviantart.co… ). As I have of late spoken about my confidence in my recent growth, these works serve as a true testament of it; these works, with the help of my Muse, have summoned every creative fancy with such sophistication that they may even serve, to some extent at least, a true start of my so-called poetic youth (for dream do I at times, within my inner-mind, that should my name be remembered at all for my poetry, that these works serve as some early sign of some creativity within some boy!). I indeed consider these works to have some significance; and should you wish to discover the welled sentiments within my latest poem, I do suggest you consult them first.
But one must not stagnate as I have! I have, in more recent days, been reminded quite severely of my inadequacies as a poet; and while at first the realization was a bit disillusioning but blank, I have been taught well by the great masters before me of how I err. I conceive of myself as a child with adult ambitions; thus, my projects, though grand in intention, are often executed poorly. I have yet to learn to channel my creative energies in a manner that speaks an untiring word.
What do I mean? Let me retrogress a bit: poetry has always been for me a catharsis of sorts; but as I've hinted in my last entry, I lack the temperance to make most of such a phenomenon. Thus, it passes through me in episodes: like an unnamed cloud, providing a weathered soul shade, but soon to pass forgotten and unthanked. These works of mine in their stubborn (albeit colorful) subjectivity suffers this very fate: they speak a message today which tomorrow is forgotten--or, worse--they speak a language which is only understood by me! My third eye! How narrowly it sees!
But, this shall change; my Muses unnamed command it. For to call myself a poet, first I must learn to write poetry! Thus, for the time being, I shall quit blank verse (except my works for The Meditations on Childhood); for I as a poet am not ready for such heavy freedom; first I must bear better the heaviest freedom as a poet: rhyme. And so, once I have studied rhyme and, thereafter, blank verse, may I return to it (should I find myself having any business with it, too, that is).
For now, dear Reader, patience! for cometh anon the long-sought Light!
～シナト
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A Meditation
4 min read
I wish to, since my last entry more than three months ago, reflect on my progress as a writer; and in doing so, of course, share my thoughts with you.
In reading Eckermann's Conversations with Goethe, I have never found myself in greater agreement with a genius: poetry chronicles the life of the poet. How does one, in fact, disagree with such a point? for what is poetry--nay more, Art--than a tempered catharsis that reaches, with every attempt, into the depths of even the most slender crevices of our psyche--revealing, thus, all that we know and do not know about ourselves.
My works since my last entry serve as a clear testament to this. Although I have been writing poetry seriously for nearly six years now, the last three or four months mark my greatest leap as an poet. I have become but a conduit of ceaselessly flowing ideas; and so, my submissions, too, have become more and more frequent (in the history of my deviantART account, this has certainly been the most productive year). Each work evokes my greatest efforts, thus, pushing me further and further into myself and beyond myself. Gradually, I have evolved to bearing a confidence with which I may say I have found my poetic maturity in my ability to manipulate the English language and subject matter.
Nonetheless, I am wary of becoming too confident. There is still much more studying to do of the greats that have come before me, and of poetic form. Currently, I am obsessed with Graeco-Roman mythology, so it may be appropriate to say I have entered the Hellenic period of my so-called poetic career, haha. But studied have I intensively, too, German and English poetry in recent months. What I fear most is stagnation, so I must make a consistent and conscious effort in exposing myself to different works and attempting different approaches; thus, I have returned to haiku and have decided to try my hand at blank verse before returning to my fascination (and stubborn tendency) for rhyme, which manifests in the several sonnets I have penned since my last journal entry. I must, therefore, develop better temperance over my inclinations, which would include not only rhyme, but word choice as well. All too often, despite my better incorporation of the concrete within my conceptually founded works in recent months, I worry that perhaps my use of words, which comes naturally to me, impedes my message at times; but a good poet should have something worth saying.
One of my latest guilty pleasures is to frequent my older works--that is, those works composed prior to having any proper conception of poetic form (namely written in 2008-2010). What an experience it is every time--I'm urged to both laugh and cry at once! And yet, I do neither: rather I smile with a certain satisfaction in knowing that I've improved tremendously since then in finding my poetic voice and (personal) identity; and, more importantly, that I have overcome the griefs which plagued me in those times.
Despite my growing sophistication as a writer--make no mistake: each work is a beloved child to whom I have conferred my deepest sentiments and a part of my innermost self. And, thus, if you wish to know of a poet's life--read his works, I say; and while this entry is perhaps not the smoothest transition from my last one, I am sure my works until now will maintain a continuity sufficient to answer any curiosities that you might bear from my last entry.
Thus, I leave my life, as always, sincerely in your hands.
～シナト
In reading Eckermann's Conversations with Goethe, I have never found myself in greater agreement with a genius: poetry chronicles the life of the poet. How does one, in fact, disagree with such a point? for what is poetry--nay more, Art--than a tempered catharsis that reaches, with every attempt, into the depths of even the most slender crevices of our psyche--revealing, thus, all that we know and do not know about ourselves.
My works since my last entry serve as a clear testament to this. Although I have been writing poetry seriously for nearly six years now, the last three or four months mark my greatest leap as an poet. I have become but a conduit of ceaselessly flowing ideas; and so, my submissions, too, have become more and more frequent (in the history of my deviantART account, this has certainly been the most productive year). Each work evokes my greatest efforts, thus, pushing me further and further into myself and beyond myself. Gradually, I have evolved to bearing a confidence with which I may say I have found my poetic maturity in my ability to manipulate the English language and subject matter.
Nonetheless, I am wary of becoming too confident. There is still much more studying to do of the greats that have come before me, and of poetic form. Currently, I am obsessed with Graeco-Roman mythology, so it may be appropriate to say I have entered the Hellenic period of my so-called poetic career, haha. But studied have I intensively, too, German and English poetry in recent months. What I fear most is stagnation, so I must make a consistent and conscious effort in exposing myself to different works and attempting different approaches; thus, I have returned to haiku and have decided to try my hand at blank verse before returning to my fascination (and stubborn tendency) for rhyme, which manifests in the several sonnets I have penned since my last journal entry. I must, therefore, develop better temperance over my inclinations, which would include not only rhyme, but word choice as well. All too often, despite my better incorporation of the concrete within my conceptually founded works in recent months, I worry that perhaps my use of words, which comes naturally to me, impedes my message at times; but a good poet should have something worth saying.
One of my latest guilty pleasures is to frequent my older works--that is, those works composed prior to having any proper conception of poetic form (namely written in 2008-2010). What an experience it is every time--I'm urged to both laugh and cry at once! And yet, I do neither: rather I smile with a certain satisfaction in knowing that I've improved tremendously since then in finding my poetic voice and (personal) identity; and, more importantly, that I have overcome the griefs which plagued me in those times.
Despite my growing sophistication as a writer--make no mistake: each work is a beloved child to whom I have conferred my deepest sentiments and a part of my innermost self. And, thus, if you wish to know of a poet's life--read his works, I say; and while this entry is perhaps not the smoothest transition from my last one, I am sure my works until now will maintain a continuity sufficient to answer any curiosities that you might bear from my last entry.
Thus, I leave my life, as always, sincerely in your hands.
～シナト
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Writing from the Blessed Isle
3 min read
Dear Reader,
As you have perhaps noticed in the last few days, my works have been rather frequent; with all modesty, I hope to think of them as some of my best works as well. Where does one find the source for such creativity than through sudden inspiration? Indeed, I have been the recipient of a wealth of inspiration from my girlfriend.
After years of lovelessness, a reminiscent air of my younger style returns with all its passion-- although now it has lost an edge of its recklessness. Forsooth, till now I have been relatively more structured in my approach to poetry (in free-verse, I dare say). As a result, I find myself in a pleasant intermediate state in which I summon my passions according to my artistic will. I suppose one may call this a sort of "artistic maturity": form fitting function.
I wish to further expound upon the influence my girlfriend has had on my works, but I suppose the works speak for themselves. Perhaps difficult to extrapolate through my works is the sense in which I feel I have grown closer to the essence in human existence. To love and be loved-- how lovely the world seems, and O! how I wish to paint this world with my words. To speak more clearly on the subject, I feel as though a previously resting state of my being has been stirred: my intrinsic desires as a socio-political animal fulfilled by this budding relationship. Thus, I find myself content on every existential level; I have come to know every shade of happiness.
As an artist, there is perhaps a slight worry insofar as that I find myself gravitating towards that cliché practice of writing about Love (having Rilke's "Letters to a Young Poet", this is not only cliché, but potentially disastrous should the habit continue); yet, I would like to believe that I am not merely writing about Love-- rather, that I am writing while in love. This distinction may appear subtle (or, conversely, overly obvious), yet it is a distinction worth mentioning, I think. I have, as an artist, focused upon Love in my youth, but I bear a certain confidence that my current work delves deeper into the philosophical undertones entailed in romance; that is to say, that I am not merely tossing words wantonly to convey my feelings, but that my maturity as an artist allows me to portray the very depth and height of my feelings with both magnification and resolution.
Will this phase of my artistic life cease? I hope not, but it likely will. Soon? Probably not. At the present I know nothing but these feelings, and like a child who has felt warm sand for the first time, I wish to play a little longer. Whatever the case may be, it will undoubtedly leave me a changed artist-- a coastline transfigured forever by a single wave. Forgive me if I should bore you, but I hope at the very least that my words should evoke a sense of awe at the various dimensions of this unfathomable thing we call Love.
～シナト
As you have perhaps noticed in the last few days, my works have been rather frequent; with all modesty, I hope to think of them as some of my best works as well. Where does one find the source for such creativity than through sudden inspiration? Indeed, I have been the recipient of a wealth of inspiration from my girlfriend.
After years of lovelessness, a reminiscent air of my younger style returns with all its passion-- although now it has lost an edge of its recklessness. Forsooth, till now I have been relatively more structured in my approach to poetry (in free-verse, I dare say). As a result, I find myself in a pleasant intermediate state in which I summon my passions according to my artistic will. I suppose one may call this a sort of "artistic maturity": form fitting function.
I wish to further expound upon the influence my girlfriend has had on my works, but I suppose the works speak for themselves. Perhaps difficult to extrapolate through my works is the sense in which I feel I have grown closer to the essence in human existence. To love and be loved-- how lovely the world seems, and O! how I wish to paint this world with my words. To speak more clearly on the subject, I feel as though a previously resting state of my being has been stirred: my intrinsic desires as a socio-political animal fulfilled by this budding relationship. Thus, I find myself content on every existential level; I have come to know every shade of happiness.
As an artist, there is perhaps a slight worry insofar as that I find myself gravitating towards that cliché practice of writing about Love (having Rilke's "Letters to a Young Poet", this is not only cliché, but potentially disastrous should the habit continue); yet, I would like to believe that I am not merely writing about Love-- rather, that I am writing while in love. This distinction may appear subtle (or, conversely, overly obvious), yet it is a distinction worth mentioning, I think. I have, as an artist, focused upon Love in my youth, but I bear a certain confidence that my current work delves deeper into the philosophical undertones entailed in romance; that is to say, that I am not merely tossing words wantonly to convey my feelings, but that my maturity as an artist allows me to portray the very depth and height of my feelings with both magnification and resolution.
Will this phase of my artistic life cease? I hope not, but it likely will. Soon? Probably not. At the present I know nothing but these feelings, and like a child who has felt warm sand for the first time, I wish to play a little longer. Whatever the case may be, it will undoubtedly leave me a changed artist-- a coastline transfigured forever by a single wave. Forgive me if I should bore you, but I hope at the very least that my words should evoke a sense of awe at the various dimensions of this unfathomable thing we call Love.
～シナト
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Remember me?
3 min read
Dear Reader,
As always, I will begin by say, "My oh my, what a long time it has been!" A long time indeed-- two years! Where does the time go?
So much has changed with deviantART; and although I have occasionally popped up on deviantART every so often, tonight I actually decided to submit a piece. Firstly, it's a lot easier to submit pieces, huh? I remember back in the day (like six years ago, that is) when the process was a slightly more cumbersome. It's good to see that they've updated the interface--good job, dA! Secondly, it's great to be back! I feel as though I've acquainted myself with my past self. After submitting my pieces, I was indeed curious to see what I had submitted in the past. To look at those pieces and relive (for the most part) the sentiments associated with each piece was a bit emotional for me, to be honest; I feel a tad bitter for not coming back sooner to re-visit my work, but alas! this is the fate of every artist! To hate and love his works with every fiber of his soul--can you not empathize? Art works are like children; to see them after two years had moved me to a strange sensation of guiltiness. But, I digress.
So much has changed with deviantART; and although I have occasionally popped up on deviantART every so often, tonight I actually decided to submit a piece. Firstly, it's a lot easier to submit pieces, huh? I remember back in the day (like six years ago, that is) when the process was a slightly more cumbersome. It's good to see that they've updated the interface--good job, dA! Secondly, it's great to be back! I feel as though I've acquainted myself with my past self. After submitting my pieces, I was indeed curious to see what I had submitted in the past. To look at those pieces and relive (for the most part) the sentiments associated with each piece was a bit emotional for me, to be honest; I feel a tad bitter for not coming back sooner to re-visit my work, but alas! this is the fate of every artist! To hate and love his works with every fiber of his soul--can you not empathize? Art works are like children; to see them after two years had moved me to a strange sensation of guiltiness. But, I digress.
Anyway, I would like to discuss my plans with you, dear Reader. I'm not going to lie to you and say that I'll be posting everyday--nay, that would the grandest lie to have ever crossed these lips (well, "fingertips", actually). I haven't remained idle, Reader! Nay, that much I can promise you! I have forsooth been busying myself with a variety of personal projects (mostly writing projects). I have been reading, and so, I have also become inclined to write.
Reading what? You ask. Why--Philosophy, of course! And so I've been diligently updating my blog since June ( www.theabysmalthought.blogspot… ); but this is not the place to speak of Philosophy! No, Plato wouldn't allow it! Thanks to my three-hour lectures on Monday nights, I have returned to drawing again (in my notebook... bad me. BAD!), so you could expect some drawings in the near future. They will likely be like my recent drawing: abstract, and detached from the manga style which originally characterized my works. If you must ask why, I simply believe the manga style to not correlate to my current tastes; although there's no denying that my style will ultimately find its foundations in manga. I have also read Goethe's The Sorrows of Young Werther recently, and I feel like writing some poetry sometime! Not sure when though... I haven't written a poem since the summer (and those were terrible). I won't make any promises here, mostly because my philosophical writings have come to adversely affect my figurative writing; but I'll try my best, nonetheless, to write some poems (haikus, among free verse, most likely).
Well, I could go on and on about my life nowadays, but I think I'll stop myself here (lest I should bore you further... if anyone is actually reading this, that is). You can expect more posts from me in the near future.
Till then!
～シナト
Reading what? You ask. Why--Philosophy, of course! And so I've been diligently updating my blog since June ( www.theabysmalthought.blogspot… ); but this is not the place to speak of Philosophy! No, Plato wouldn't allow it! Thanks to my three-hour lectures on Monday nights, I have returned to drawing again (in my notebook... bad me. BAD!), so you could expect some drawings in the near future. They will likely be like my recent drawing: abstract, and detached from the manga style which originally characterized my works. If you must ask why, I simply believe the manga style to not correlate to my current tastes; although there's no denying that my style will ultimately find its foundations in manga. I have also read Goethe's The Sorrows of Young Werther recently, and I feel like writing some poetry sometime! Not sure when though... I haven't written a poem since the summer (and those were terrible). I won't make any promises here, mostly because my philosophical writings have come to adversely affect my figurative writing; but I'll try my best, nonetheless, to write some poems (haikus, among free verse, most likely).
Well, I could go on and on about my life nowadays, but I think I'll stop myself here (lest I should bore you further... if anyone is actually reading this, that is). You can expect more posts from me in the near future.
Till then!
～シナト
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Farewell, My Beloved.
2 min read
Today it ends and tomorrow it begins. The final year. The be all and end all. My future is not predetermined. Not yet, anyway. Thus, the first few months will be hectic. In fact, they will probably be chaotic. 'Tis a sad fate for one who did not have much to worry about in the past two and a half months, but they will pass like everyday. Like today.
In retrospect, I failed. Failed in embracing the Carpe Diem lifestyle; I did little to nothing for preparing for college and currently I have a grand total of zero hours of community service (which the next three months will be teeming with). Yet, even these worries will be behind me and the pressure will be alleviated.
As for my Art, it seems to be the sole aspect of my life that has thrived this summer. Twenty-three submissions this summer: more than what I normally submit in a single year. Of those twenty-three submissions, the highlight of my works over the summer would have to be my latest piece, The Temptress. It seems very different from my other pieces, and is my first attempt with the sonnet form. Moreover, it represents a shift in my style. From spineless free verse poems, I have begun to restrict myself with rhyme and structure. Yet the word "restrict" seems oddly out of place for I have begun to delve more than ever into the depths of the poetic form and the English language. My days have also been occupied with playing the Piano; I would spend an average of two to three hours everyday playing and practicing. I have not played yet today, yet my calloused fingertips will surely long for those long summer days with the Piano.
Alas, today is near its end and tomorrow is near its beginning. Tomorrow is an enigma like everyday. Like today. So I bid you adieu, reader, in a wearily wary tone. Always remember, reader, I am a skeptic.
~しなと
In retrospect, I failed. Failed in embracing the Carpe Diem lifestyle; I did little to nothing for preparing for college and currently I have a grand total of zero hours of community service (which the next three months will be teeming with). Yet, even these worries will be behind me and the pressure will be alleviated.
As for my Art, it seems to be the sole aspect of my life that has thrived this summer. Twenty-three submissions this summer: more than what I normally submit in a single year. Of those twenty-three submissions, the highlight of my works over the summer would have to be my latest piece, The Temptress. It seems very different from my other pieces, and is my first attempt with the sonnet form. Moreover, it represents a shift in my style. From spineless free verse poems, I have begun to restrict myself with rhyme and structure. Yet the word "restrict" seems oddly out of place for I have begun to delve more than ever into the depths of the poetic form and the English language. My days have also been occupied with playing the Piano; I would spend an average of two to three hours everyday playing and practicing. I have not played yet today, yet my calloused fingertips will surely long for those long summer days with the Piano.
Alas, today is near its end and tomorrow is near its beginning. Tomorrow is an enigma like everyday. Like today. So I bid you adieu, reader, in a wearily wary tone. Always remember, reader, I am a skeptic.
~しなと
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