Alexandra, your questions are hard. For some odd reason I don’t mind the O. Perhaps it’s so archaic that I hear air quotes around it and even a kind of genial, retro, sentimental, feeling attaches. Ultimately, your poem is dealing with the same issues I’m dealing with in my Heidegger poem, or at least with issues aligned with it. What is being? How do we know being? We know being through time as expressed in the windows of the eyes and the other doors of the senses. Why is there a being instead of nothing? Or, more accurately, why is there nothing, that then becomes being, and then becomes nothing again? Or even more accurately is there really any why to it at all or is it just a what? And then the existentialist query about this, does the end of being give meaning to the presence of being? In other words, does death give meaning to life instead of sap life of meaning? so I interpret your poem as really being one about phenomenology —the doors of perception and reality as manifested in them through passage of time. here’s where I have some issues with your final lines. On the one hand, you’re saying, something remains the same as being passes through time in the window of perception. What remains the same is the frame, yet that frame is dilapidated so it actually changes and only stays still in the N’s perception. That irony could be brought more to the surface.
|