A practical manual for the impractical. (Hagnýt handbók fyrir hið óhagnýta.)
“Of what use is it to me
To read this cryptic poetry?
Life is mystery enough as is,
Without my wrestling with this.”
“On the whole, the more I read,
The more I doubt
What it’s about,
And what words can say, in-deed.”
“Calmly back away from the blowtorch,” said I to the pyromaniac…
Walking down the forest one day,
I found an axe hidden away,
And wondered what it meant to me
To find an axe next to a tree.
Should I cut down
The one where I found
The axe stashed away?
Was this a sign,
A source divine,
A method,
A way
To somehow say
Something to me,
Anyway?
As the tree shivered,
Expectantly,
For this person
To decipher the non-message
It hoped to become,
In the worst of cases,
A book where a page
Would have a poem
About the day
Hand and axe were stayed,
Or at least was read
With kindness…
Not all that is, and claims to be,
Comes from the place
Of utility.
Methinks it is probably
Used by the ones who used to be
Used, you see.
When All is the case, there is no need.
Beautiful ways to plant a seed
Without regard for what blossoms be.
It may sometimes become an “unfelled” tree,
Or a soft, ruffled page
Where a non-sage
Wrote a poem for thee.
“May we all be blessed with knowing we are, regardless of the cursed habit of trying to know.”
