Philosophical Contemplations & Poetic Snippets by Leya Hunter

Art is not about the final result and as a paradoxical statement, there is no final result within the result, and that is sometimes the whole point. Art drives us inwards to reflect, perceive, conceive, to stir, to ponder, to contemplate, to foster the something else, to inoculate, to imagine. All the doors are flung open, like a worm hole through the internal images since the beginning of time. The chasm of history, the non-existing future, and the now are all mingling in a space of non-coherence to the rational aspects of the mind. Our reflective mood succumbing to the imagery before thought, our responsive reflex stands in the background putting the impulsive ego on idle, and our contemplation takes centre stage silencing intellectual dialogue. No final destination is known on a logical level. The mystery that resides within wonder expands in proportion to how lost we become inside something we have founded, and through the subliminal sphere we delve into the non-linear where our usual sequences of form have all but dissolved. I hold contradictions as if they were a prerequisite to being a human. A true condition of the nature within, I stumble into oblivion becoming an enigma, an absurdist, an existentialist, a mystic, a cynic, a sceptic, an empath, an objective and subjective idealist, a surrealist, a stoic, all requiring attention for different aspects in life. I see too many angles that don’t form concrete outcomes… and don’t know the answer to any…. The problem is that there are too many answers which contradict themselves purely by running alongside their counterpart… standing alone they are sufficient enough… when new ones arise it brings more problems and questions, too many questions with open ended answers… which is dangerous in its own right… and as G.K. Chesterton wrote, “I am incurably convinced that the object of the mind, as of opening the mouth, is to shut it again on something solid”.

Art is wisdom in that it communicates through the loop between a truth of transcendence to perception and makes it a material sense of that perception… whether a feeling, a thought or idea. In the untouched form is where the beauty lies, the beauty of remaining still in its nature, within itself and for itself. Expanding upon it logically distorts it into shapes of our own choosing. Art is not a copy but rather an interpretive process of untouched bias, a connection unfolding the inner and outer. We bend and unify its meaning after the transcendence takes place. The symbolic imagery arises to the poet before the words… the metaphor takes its place in tandem, or perhaps on the border of the symbolic imagery and the thoughts or forming of the words. Perhaps a harmony between the left and right brain takes place, fusing the function of both simultaneously, to synchronise the purpose and potentialities that usually go uninhabited in such a mundane rotation of everyday thoughts… Poetry unshackles the prison of limits into a world of possibilities, maybe a very saturnine vs neptunium/jupitarian dynamic plays with subtle overtones of Venusian influence, and the revolutionary uranium poet strikes change within the consciousness of itself, whilst the mercurial is the one gluing it together.. playing with the archetypes, metaphor, paradoxes, and ironical wit, The overlapping of complexities within any one thing make it difficult to see reality how it is, with poetic metaphor the poet can pierce through the complexities and slice it back to the singular, like a floating blanket hovering over the complete story, and gracefully landing onto the heart of those truths… it’s a unifier of connection, a messenger of a deeper truth that dwells within, perhaps an infinite loop where the poetic relationship rotates from the inner to the outer and back again, and stands forever still in the background making silent noise.. Poetry is alive behind the lifeless, poetic dialogue revives it into being for human inspection, to spark the awareness that lay dormant, to see the world through a new lens, to hear the crackle of the sun and feel the light of the moon, to see a whole world inside a flower that will never exist to the bee.

There is a whole other world available to the poet. Their need for observation is like a survival instinct, it is as important as the air inside a pair of lungs, in which they listen to expand and deflate in harmony with each other. The poet watches the rise and fall of the chest, the movement of feet synchronising with each step amongst the pavement, the smirk of emotion upon the faces of transparency, the smile on the masks of deception, the raised eyebrows of suspicion, the lips that tremble with trepidation, the sparkle in the eyes of innocence, the light that bounces off crystal glassware and into the retina of perception, the enchantment of fear amongst the forest of pines, the façade of a manicured garden, the rustic pathways made from the footsteps of truth, the birds that weave patterns through the dance of freedom, the childlike puppy that needs comfort through adoration, the patchwork quilt that tears at the seams of its own material, the moonlit sky that enhances our curiosity towards it, the light from the ambiance of the sun transmuting our skin into layers of translucency, the flower that reflects the geometry of existence, the windchime that sways to the breath of god. They tend to notice it all, and walk with their senses wide open amongst atoms made of miracles entwined with the nucleus of eternity.

Here is where I write in third person.. but it’s just me, Leya. I’m just a regular person who has a passion for all things poetic and philosophic. My fascination with the universe, its mysteries and its inner workings underpin much of my writing, but will I ever know what they are? Nope, but will I still let intrigue and curiosity push me towards them…yep!

Through story telling one can bring out the deeper aspects that reside in the human mind, the metaphoric style which I love, will hopefully lead people to interpret their own meanings. I like to capture paradoxical thinking as I find it encapsulates a type of curiosity into deeper thinking and a type of knowing. While the paradox is a phenomenon and puzzles the mind, it can also pave the way into further questions… So, where to begin, and where to end…

~Leya.

“A book read by a thousand different people, is a thousand different books”.

“One cannot speak of the infinite world by applying tools that are definite and finite. We can analyze the formula that constitutes a symbol, while metaphor is a being-within-itself, it’s a monomial. It falls apart at any attempt of touching it” ~ Andrei Tarkovsky.

https://www.amazon.com/author/leyahunter

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