Tag: Literature

Poetry as Revelation: Engaging with “Vitruvian Man Unbound”

Michelangelo, The Awakening Slave (c. 1525–30).
A body caught between measure and becoming.

I. On Bloom and the Anxiety of Influence

As the poet of Vitruvian Man Unbound, I find myself drawn to Harold Bloom’s understanding of how poetry functions within tradition—not as mere imitation or influence, but as a creative misreading that transforms both predecessor and successor. Bloom’s vocabulary—his clinamen (poetic swerve), daemonization, and apophrades (the return of the dead)—offers a framework for understanding my own relationship with Leonardo’s iconic drawing.

Yet I would press beyond the confines of Bloom’s categorical system. The strongest poetry, as Bloom himself recognized, resists easy resolution. Vitruvian Man Unbound embodies what he called a tessera—a completion of its precursor that simultaneously preserves and undermines its foundational terms. The poem does not simply revise Leonardo; it retroactively reshapes our understanding of him. It allows us to see Vitruvian Man as an incomplete gesture, one whose implicit metaphysical longing only achieves full articulation through the poem’s unfolding of form, desire, and transcendence.

II. The Paradox of Poetic Creation as Discovery

When I began Vitruvian Man Unbound, there was no conceit of a new idea. Rather, I felt I was unearthing the obvious—articulating for the first time verses that had already been rendered, waiting to be heard.

This situates the poem not as invention but as discovery—a Renaissance conception of artistic creation. Michelangelo spoke of liberating the form already imprisoned within the marble. Leonardo, too, conceived of art as revelation through observation, uncovering structures latent in nature and proportion. I participate in that lineage: the transcendence of the circle was already latent in Leonardo’s drawing. My poem does not overwrite Vitruvian Man but unveils what it always contained.

III. Poetry as Transcription of Revealed Truth

Poetry is primarily, in my conception, the art of transcription. Poetry is ultimately truth revealed, however rendered.

This belief is ancient. Poets once invoked the Muse, believing their songs were received rather than authored. Plato cast poets as possessed vessels of divine madness. In scriptural traditions, the prophet or sage writes not from invention but from vision. In this view, the poet is not creator but conduit.

This understanding reorients poetic practice. What matters most is not novelty of theme or form but receptivity—a cultivated attentiveness to truths that ask to be heard. To compose well is to listen well. The most vital poems do not invent so much as reveal. The poet’s charge, then, is fidelity.

Vitruvian Man Unbound aspires to this kind of transcription. It draws out from Leonardo’s image the philosophical tensions embedded therein: between proportion and possibility, containment and becoming, structure and the longing to transcend it.

IV. The Poem’s Journey: From Containment to Transcendence

At its heart, my poem charts a metaphysical journey—the awakening of a consciousness confined within geometry, gradually realizing its cosmic vocation. The Vitruvian figure, bound in ratios and ruled lines, discovers within himself not mere form but flame. The movement is from being drawn to drawing, from being measured to measuring.

The poem gives voice to this paradox: “I am both bound and boundless, large and small, / Both measured part and immeasurable all.”

This is no empty contradiction. It is the philosophical heart of the work. The circle becomes “not wall but door,” not negated but reimagined. Limitation, as I came to understand, is not the enemy of freedom but its precondition. Form does not imprison; it allows the infinite to appear in the guise of the finite.

This idea resonates with multiple traditions: the Christian theology of kenosis, quantum indeterminacy, the aesthetics of the golden ratio, even the existential struggle of Camus’ Sisyphus. In Vitruvian Man Unbound, I sought to draw them all into poetic coherence.

V. Beyond Influence: Co-Creation and Transcendence

My relationship to Leonardo’s drawing is not one of mere homage or critique. The poem does not simply descend from his vision; it reconfigures how I understand that vision. In Bloom’s terms, it enacts an apophrades: the precursor is altered by the successor, the past rewritten by the presence of the present.

I acknowledged this inversion within the poem itself: “Da Vinci dreamed me into being’s start; / I dream myself anew with conscious art.”

This was not rebellion against the tradition but transcendence through deep fidelity. I did not seek to destroy Leonardo’s Vitruvian Man; I hoped to fulfill him. I entered the drawing and found the voice that seemed to have been waiting there. The Vitruvian Man, for me, ceased to be object and became subject, consciousness incarnate.

VI. Poetry as Epistemological Practice

If poetry is the transcription of revealed truth, then it is not merely aesthetic. It is epistemological. It helps us understand not only what is, but how we come to know what is. The most original poems do not dazzle through novelty alone; they resonate because they name what we already suspected was true, but had not yet heard.

Vitruvian Man Unbound aspires to such resonance. I hope it awakens a dormant dimension in Leonardo’s drawing—and perhaps, in us. I did not set out to create a new form, but to reveal the old form’s silent music. For me, it was an act not of invention, but of listening—not conquest, but witnessing. A poetry of revelation.

Thus the ink that once bound becomes the ink that reveals.

VII. Echoes of Prometheus

In reflecting on Vitruvian Man Unbound, I recognize the shadow of another unbound figure—Shelley’s Prometheus. His liberation from cosmic tyranny, his transformation into a visionary voice of harmony, and his rejection of vengeance in favor of transcendence, all resonate deeply with the arc of my poem. Like Prometheus, the Vitruvian figure is not merely released; he is revealed—as a bearer of fire, of knowledge, of poetic truth. It is not accidental that in striving toward the infinite, we find ourselves echoing those myths and verses where the infinite has already spoken.

James Baldwin on Race: Insights from ‘The Cross of Redemption’

Photo of James Baldwin in 1969
James Baldwin in 1969. Photograph: Allan Warren CC BY-SA 3.0

One of the books I am currently reading is James Baldwin: The Cross of Redemption (Uncollected Writings), edited with an introduction by Randall Kenan and published in 2010. One of the essays in the collection, dated 1984 but still strikingly relevant, is “On Being White … and Other Lies.” A particular passage from that essay stood out to me:

“Just so does the white community, as a means of keeping itself white, elect, as they imagine, their political (!) representatives. No nation in the world, including England, is represented by so stunning a pantheon of the relentlessly mediocre. I will not name names—I will leave that to you.

But this cowardice, this necessity of justifying a totally false identity and of justifying what must be called a genocidal history, has placed everyone now living into the hands of the most ignorant and powerful people the world has ever seen. And how did they get that way? By deciding they were white. By opting for safety instead of life. By persuading themselves that a black child’s life meant nothing compared with a white child’s life. By abandoning their children to the things white men could buy. By informing their children that black women, black men, and black children had no human integrity that those who call themselves white were bound to respect. And in this debasement and definition of black people, they debased and defined themselves.” (The Cross of Redemption, pp. 168–169)

This passage struck me as just as relevant today as it was in Baldwin’s time. The language of racial division may sometimes be more coded—though often, it is not—but the underlying dynamics remain. Some now speak of a mythical golden age to be restored, painting diversity, equity, and inclusion as enemies to be vanquished. Yet Baldwin’s pantheon of the relentlessly mediocre remains firmly in place, with a growing number of elected officials – led by one in particular – who traffic in racial grievance and nostalgia for an edifice of the past that was built upon exclusion. The resentment they cultivate is growing more visceral, more vengeful by the day.

At its core, Baldwin’s essay is a reminder that race is a social construct—one created not out of noble ideals or science but out of moral rot. It was, and remains, a means of defining power and justifying subjugation. Today’s renewed emphasis on racial division in politics—whether explicit or coded—is no less morally bankrupt than in Baldwin’s time.

Mastering Language: Balancing Craft and Emotion in Poetry

As one who is new to crafting poetry, I am aware that my journey is one of growth, learning, and exploration. What follows is a discussion of the approach I have consciously adopted to refine my poems and avoid the criticisms and condemnations so freely voiced by those such as Wilde—“All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling. To be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic”—and Bloom, who remarked, “All bad poetry is sincere.”

The Art of Moving the Soul: My Approach to Poetry

My approach to poetry is grounded in a vision that goes beyond crafting words into aesthetically pleasing forms; it is about shaping language into something that moves the reader deeply. Poetry is, at its heart, the pursuit of connection, of reaching into the depths of an emotion and distilling it into a form that resonates universally. To accomplish this, I focus on balancing the technical mastery of language with an awareness of emotional truth—crafting a poem not to be admired for its sophistication but to stir something fundamental within its audience.

Mastery of Language and Artifice

A poet must be a master of language—but this mastery is more than an extensive vocabulary or a mastery of grammar. It encompasses an intimate understanding of all the artifices of language, from metaphor and rhythm to sound, cadence, and imagery. Each of these elements is a tool that, when used with precision and intention, can amplify the emotional power of a poem.

  • Metaphor and Symbolism are central to my work. I believe that a well-crafted metaphor can reveal truths that straightforward language cannot reach. Metaphor allows me to take the deeply personal and translate it into the universal. It transforms emotions into imagery that transcends the particularity of my own experiences, inviting readers to see their own reflections within the lines.
  • Sound and Rhythm are equally crucial. Poetry is inherently musical, and I strive to create an aural experience that mirrors the emotional landscape of the poem. The rhythm of a line, the careful use of alliteration or consonance, can evoke a specific mood—whether it be urgency, tranquility, or dissonance. This musicality helps bridge the gap between the reader’s intellect and their emotional response, drawing them into the essence of the poem.
  • Precision in Word Choice is another aspect of my approach. Every word in a poem must be chosen with purpose, as the weight each carries is amplified by the brevity and density of poetry. Words must be evocative, precise, and imbued with the potential to convey a spectrum of meanings. The challenge lies in selecting words that are capable of evoking the complexity of emotion I aim to convey, while still maintaining accessibility for the reader

What I Seek to Avoid

While I strive to use all the tools of language, I am cautious of letting craft overpower emotional authenticity. There is a risk in focusing too heavily on technical mastery—in creating something that is elaborate but lacks heart. A poem must not be an exercise in showing off the artifices of language; it must always remain rooted in emotional truth.

Additionally, I seek to also avoid the temptation to use language that is obscure simply for the sake of complexity. My aim is to create poetry that is layered and nuanced but still accessible. Complexity should be employed to deepen meaning, not to obfuscate it. When a poem becomes a puzzle that requires solving, it runs the risk of alienating readers, making them admire or – more likely – curse the poet’s intellect rather than inviting them to connect with the poem’s core. To me, poetry should not be a performance to impress but a bridge to connect—to take a feeling, a moment, and expand it in such a way that it becomes a shared experience.

Lessons from Rhetoric: Demosthenes vs. Cicero

In approaching poetry, I often reflect on an anecdote I read years ago about two of history’s great orators: Demosthenes and Cicero. Cicero was celebrated for his eloquence—when he spoke, people said, “What a fine orator.” His speeches were technically perfect, full of rhetorical sophistication, and they garnered admiration for their artful construction. But when Demosthenes spoke, people said, “Let us march.” Demosthenes moved his audience to action; his speeches were not simply admired, they were felt deeply, and they inspired his audience to do something.

This comparison informs my approach to poetry. While I value the craft—the meter, the rhythm, the careful construction of lines—I strive for something more. I want my poems to move the reader, to evoke a response that goes beyond admiration for a well-crafted verse. I want them to feel the emotional urgency behind the words, to resonate with the core truth of the poem, and perhaps even to be stirred to reflect, to act, or to see the world a little differently. My goal is to use the artifice of language not as an end but as a means—to make my words sing, not just for beauty’s sake but for the sake of the emotion and meaning that lie beneath.

Craft and Emotional Truth in Harmony

Ultimately, my approach to poetry is about finding the balance between mastery of language and emotional authenticity. The artifices of language—metaphor, rhythm, sound, form—are powerful tools, but they must be used with intention. They must serve the deeper purpose of the poem, which is to capture and convey something genuine about the human experience. The artifice should be invisible, or at least secondary, to the emotional impact.

Like Demosthenes, I wish to create not just a polished, skillful verse but something that speaks directly to the heart of the reader, that moves them. The art of poetry, to me, is not in the cleverness of its construction, but in its ability to resonate—to create a moment of connection, a shared breath, a glimpse into the universal truths that bind us all.

I hope that my poetry steadily improves and meets the standards I articulated above, growing in emotional depth, linguistic mastery, and its ability to touch readers in meaningful ways.

The Past Is but a Map: A Poem for Embracing Lessons Learned

The Sower (oil on canvas, 1888) by Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890). Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam.
The Sower (oil on canvas, 1888) by Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890). Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam.

Note on the Origin of This Poem

This poem was inspired by a recent reflection on T.S. Eliot’s Burnt Norton, the first of his Four Quartets (with a nod to Augustine of Hippo’s Confessions, which I have also recently revisited). Eliot’s meditation on time has long intrigued me, particularly his exploration of the eternal present where past, present, and future are interwoven. His lines, “What might have been and what has been / Point to one end, which is always present,” reflect an awareness of unrealized possibilities lingering in memory, resonating with the tension between choice and fate.

While Eliot does not dwell entirely on regret, his imagery—such as “the passage which we did not take / Towards the door we never opened”—evokes a sense of paths unchosen and moments lost, suggesting an undercurrent of melancholy and reflection on missed opportunities.

This contrasts with my own perspective, which views the past not as a source of sorrow or lamentation but as a guide—a map to navigate the future. For me, the past should instruct us, not torment us. I focus not on what might have been but on the lessons that can inform where we must go next. As I recently discussed with one of my sisters, I learned more from my past failures, whether on school exams, work situations, or personal circumstances, than I did from my successes.

In short, regret is the most useless emotion.

Inspired by this distinction, I sought to explore these ideas poetically, offering a reflection on time that emphasizes the instructive value of the past rather than its potential to weigh us down with regret.

The Past Is but a Map

The past is not a chain of sorrow,
Not the dust of what we might have been—
But a map unfolding,
Marked by lines of roads untaken.
The tests we failed are etched more deeply
Than triumphs where we passed unscarred.
The echo of footfalls is not regret’s whisper
But instruction pointing forward.
The door unopened is not lamented
But a path unseen,
Waiting to instruct.
Hard lessons carve deeper than easy ones;
Each misstep, a mark of progress.
The teacher we resisted
Becomes the guide we heed.
There is no torment in yesterday’s shadow,
Only the light of what we must now become.
Ever forward, we glance back—
Not for grief,
But for direction,
For the past keeps its own counsel
As we shape the days to come.

Exploring the Eternal Now: Past Present Future in Poetic Form

Time Transfixed (La Durée poignardée) is a 1938 oil on canvas by Belgian surrealist René Magritte (1898-1967), now part of the permanent collection of the Art Institute of Chicago. The title translates literally as Ongoing Time Stabbed by a Dagger. Magritte reportedly expressed dissatisfaction with the widely accepted English translation, Time Transfixed. The translation issue resonates with the theme of the poem Past Present Future? Which is Now?

Inspired by Where is Am I? and viewing poetry as akin to musical composition, I felt it fitting to create a follow-up variation on a theme. In truth, it took only moments to pen the opening line/title: Past Present Future? Which is Now? How could this not spring readily to mind, given the intense reading, writing, and research I have been immersed in for so long—scientific and philosophical alike? The line is a distillation of a significant part of my existential quest, an attempt to more deeply explore what I have long referred to as the eternal now.

Past Present Future? Which is Now? captures the tension between how we subjectively experience time and the idea that all moments—past, present, and future—are fixed and unchanging. In this static view, consciousness perceives each moment as now, while in reality, every moment already exists. This concept aligns with the philosophical idea of the eternal now, where all of time is present within each instant, even if our perception fragments it. The poem seeks to capture this interaction: the way awareness encounters different moments in time, while time itself remains constant and unchanging. It reflects my broader philosophical inquiries into the nature of reality, consciousness, and time’s interconnectedness.

Where is Am I? and Past Present Future? Which is Now? function as variations on a shared theme, much like movements in a musical composition. While they differ in focus—one on the search for identity, the other on the nature of time—they resonate with one another through recurring imagery and ideas. Both explore existential uncertainty, employing motifs of light and shadow, echoes and breath, to reflect the fragmented nature of consciousness and experience.

Where is Am I? is an introspective meditation on the self’s disjointed sense of being, while Past Present Future? extends this reflection, asking whether time—past, present, and future—exists as distinct moments or as a continuous whole. In this way, the second poem builds on the first, expanding the inquiry into personal identity toward a larger philosophical investigation of time. Together, the two poems form a stylistic and thematic unity, with the second poem deepening the existential questions introduced in the first, offering a more expansive vision of the human experience or, at least, my experience.

Past Present Future? Which is now?

Past whispers in the corners of my mind,
its shadow folded into the fabric of now—
but is it gone, or does it still breathe,
echoing in the present’s fleeting pulse?

The future calls, a distant tremor,
its promise threaded through each thought.
Yet does it truly wait, or is it here already,
quietly draped over the moment’s edge?

Past, present, future—are they separate streams,
or one river coursing through the self,
an unbroken thread of light,
where time is nothing but a veil? Which is now?
All and none—each breath dissolves the question,
as yesterday, tomorrow, and today
collapse into the eternal now.