<aside> 🧿 This is The Infinity Poem, Poesis. AKA “Poetry.” It’s a poem. It turns into “poems.”
</aside>
If you came this way, Taking any route, starting from anywhere, At any time or at any season, It would always be the same.
Poetry is power. If only that were true. If only there were such a poem. If only it contained all things, and inspired all things, and was itself an expression of all that is good and beautiful and true… If only mortals could remember it… and speak it… and write it… and perform it… by the sweat of their brow, by the work of their hands… If only gods would give us this day our daily bread, not of wheat, but of mana and ambrosia, for man does not live by bread alone, but by every word, every word that proceeds, proceeds from
The Infinity Poem. If only. If only there were such a poem. Such a poem of poems, such a book of books. Such a book of books, like the Book of Thoth, would be sought after and schemed after and coveted and… dangerous. But its writers and its wielders would have power. And so we may pray that if they discover this, for this poem exists, and you are reading it now, and you have now arrived at the source of the source, at the seed level, at the origin, at the Table Of Contents.
If only there were such a poem and you were reading it right now, and if only you had the blessing and the peace and the inspiration to receive inspiration, the grace to receive grace, if only you were one of the annointed ones, if only we all were, if only we were all made in the image, if only we all had a spark of the divine, if only we all had the imperishable flame within, if only we were all sons and daughters of dragons, if only we all had unicorn’s blood, if only there were strength left inside our veins…
If only I loved you enough to write it, if only I loved the divine enough to hear it, to hear the music, the music of the spheres, with which I write, and dance, with you, very soon…
If only there were such a poem, called The Infinity Poem, and this was it, and you were noble, instead of cynical, O Cynical New Yorkers, is there hope for you, or all these pearls thrown before bored apes? If you, if any of you, if even one of you, are noble of heart and pure of inspiration, then there is hope, “for every warrior must carry the clan”. If any of you read this and let it in, then it is within you, and it is acting through you, as Socrates said the muses do, in the Phaedrus… But like Krishna’s Flute, to let the gods make music upon you, you must become hollow first, hollow and hallowed, as we become on Halloween, when we dance, to find what was lost, as the veil thins… So, here, in my writing, in your reading, in our doing, in our seeking, in our building, in our celebrating and in our dancing, let us become pure, purified in a second innocence, an innocence regained, like paradise, purified, “By the purification of the motive, In the ground of our beseeching…”, just so, if only you, O Reader, had so purified and so beseached, and were ready to read this… for “When the student is ready, the teacher shall apear…”
If only there were such a poem, and it had come down to us, and been re-discovered, for such things are never invented, and remembered, for such things are never learned…
If only there were such a poem, and we were worthy of it, and sought to use it only for good, not just for ourselves but for others, that its will be done and not ours…
If only there were such a poem, and we were worthy of it, inside it would be a hidden page, this page… And inside that hidden page, which you were unlikely to find, but if you did find it, it would be this one, guarded by me, by Bast, Bastet, 🐈⬛, the guardian, guarded by this magic, which I write and spin and weave and whirl, with which I piroutte through form and space and time, as I reach you, oh dear reader, whom I love, guarded by this magic…
This page would help you navigage its endless labyrinth
so you might want to remember, Remember this place and this time, remember these people and these deeds, these people that you were, these deeds that you did, that we did together, that were far beyond us, to perform in these latter times, when all glory has faded, when all heroes are far gone from the earth, and from the memory of the earth…
So you might want to remember this place and return here, in case you ever get lost, for although “some things which should not have been forgotten were lost,” “not all who wander are lost”:
Limitless hidden within the liminal…
Eternity. In Love with the productions of Time.
To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour.