Davis Hunt @dvshnt - Tumblr Blog

Now, with a certainty which never after deserted him, he saw the planets — the ‘earths’ he called them in his thoughts — as mere holes or gaps in the living heaven — excluded from and rejected wastes of heavy matter and murky air, formed not by addition to, but by subtraction from, the surrounding brightness. And yet, he thought, beyond the solar system the brightness ends. Is that the real void, the real death? Unless…he groped for the idea…unless visible light is also a hole or gap, a mere diminution of something else. Something that is to bright unchanging heaven as heaven is to the dark, heavy earths…

C.S. Lewis - Out of the Silent Planet (via dvshnt)

C.S. Lewis noodles about Dark Matter before Dark Matter circa 1938.

#dark matter #quotes

#photo #hotel #photography

Good Times

I wonder if words like these warm the minds of others like me. A jab, a punch a lunge, a jump an attempt to capture escaping time. It slips through my fingers but then I remember it. A violin rises from some post– distant, shrouded in a cool night. The warm lamp pours its light onto my paper as the pen skates. I wander to envy as fresh off of some perusal, I am familiar with the lives of others–through pixelated displays and carefully selected photos. A light bleeds towards me–warmer than this lamp it beckons but burns. False lives construed like bill– boards along high– ways heading to the sun. Sun soaked radiance a spectral, holy glow in all depictions of a life. The good times pulse brightly, cached in servers surrounding your central location. Never to be forgotten, but reiterated until the best of times are the only times.

#poem #poetry #social media #modern #progressive #avant garde

Master Earth

The mind and its affinities awakened, as it were, by coffee– is this efficient, is this right? Cars use gasoline to move, right, shouldn't the mind, too, be free of meddling by sources that detract from– Slaves to the Earth, we toil for it, some inert, green–blue mass pleading– can't call it a God, else the seams break. Can't call anything God, which is odd, because it is all God, even the nothings and vacuums, even space. We have much to fear, gas cars and starving people, death and time, bats and birds carrying diseases across land and sea. There exists two types of people: those who live in fear and those who don't know fear. If you live in fear, so should everyone else–thus, the duty to spread warning: Heed, ice covers this dim ambuscade, in the shadows, the outlaws lie, must bring a lantern to phase out darkness and replicate sun. A feeble plea to an inanimate Earth.

#poem #poetry #earth #green #progressive #modern #avant garde

Insects and I

An inky blue day spreads its wings, smirking on bent necks below. The heat of work creates sound and motion on an other– wise lifeless plane. Lifeless in the mod– ern sense–a world ruled by life of thought over action and doing. An insect flaps its synthetic wings towards some imaginary sun– a light bulb. We are not that different–insect and I–we strive after false Gods in search of the real God whose smile comes through sometimes when thought clouds break apart against the lucidity of sunlight in the morning.

#poem #poetry #god #modern #avant garde #progressive

An Expired Poem

A now defunct mass Exp: 1 May, 2014 jaded dates go to trash–as with the ideas of old, worn by much use, the idealist has lost his sheen to harsh realities. The system outdated, man's laws syncopated, and heaven knows we're related–men in leather. It is never good practice to chip away the foundation of a swarthy building–ideas, built, as it were, on stilts, have legions of men (and women) attacking their supports like fiendish termites, not aware the building will fall on top of them– "We are God's fools," they declare in saw dust air, but no God do they mean, except in mockery–a spleen in the side of today's headline–must justify the actions with evidence Study A shows B, aha! the impetus to movement– obscure datum lighting the path not yet built– call in the dorm developers we need an edifice to carry our ambitions towards the lifeless sun that is indifferent, but gracious in its indifference–forget the eyes we use to see, and the mind we use to perceive it, the sun is lord, in its fiery furnace burns life like a cauldron of men scraping the sides to get out because it is HOT–the feeling, the sight, the perception, the beginning of all is traced back to something greater than sun and stars: Our universe a tear drop on its infinite cheek.

#poem #poetry #time #old school #vintage #universe

The Dance

The body and mind combine the sublime a basket of trine– black coal, cement, lime. A rhythmic reprieve from tricks up the sleeve stacked decks, fake checks give man all he needs.

#poem #poetry #dance #rhythm

Dump Truck

A dump truck instead highlight line behind dumpster jackhammer sunrise and leaf blower fog breaks. Some dance, some jive from music of the city a reverie of life– man's horn against nature.

#poem #poetry #dump truck

And again he heard that voice, forced and ringing feebly, but with a penetrating effect of quietness in the enormous discord of noises, as if sent out from some remote spot of peace beyond the black wastes of the gale; again he heard a man’s voice–the frail and indomitable sound that can be made to carry an infinity of thought, resolution and purpose, that shall be pronouncing confident words on the last day, when heavens fall, and justice is done–again he heard it, and it was crying to him, as if from very, very far–’All right.’

Joseph Conrad, Typhoon

#typhoon #joseph conrad #quote

The Grateful Dead

If a band does its job right you don't ask for an encore the shadow cast– continue, do you on paths now more illuminated, but not blindingly so– no sunglasses are needed in a world so reflective of the truth–grateful the servants of earth trudge as we might against the sands of some mighty God– but forget the light, we are now and always THE GRATEFUL DEAD.

#poem #poetry #the grateful dead #short poem #music

Weekday Morning

A quiet morning a stilted time is the foundation on which the world rests. A tonic for sore eyes, the sun breaks apart the dreams of wrought night spent turning in blackness and despair Turning, it seems round infinite suns– brings us with it– a pallbearer of the king.

#poem #poetry #short poem #morning

Traffic Congestion

desert plot on slack sidewalk green, brown, slate play of light on trunk rending upwards in pursuit of sun it totters and splits like a highway to the sun, one lane, multiple routes, that is the best way to ease traffic congestion–

#poem #poetry #traffic #tree

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