MAINTAINING METALOGUES

by Hugh M. Lewis

The way is forever nameless

Though the uncarved block is small

No one in the world dare claim its allegiance.

Should lords and princes be able to hold fast to it

The myriad creatures will submit of their own accord,

Heaven and earth will unite and sweet dew will fall,

And the people will be equitable, though no one so decrees.

(Verse XXXII of Book One of the Tao Te Ching, D. C. Lau, 1963:91)

A metalogue is a statement, a conversation, a communicative event, the mechanical structure of which conveys meaning about the message. Metalogues create a feedback between the medium and the message such that the resulting configuration effectively transcends the structure of the moment, and in turn reflects back upon that structure.

Metalogues occur more frequently than we realize. A large part of our cultural and social context refers back to itself in a way that is coherent and consonant with its own meanings. The "structure" of our order resonates at various levels, and we can become aware of this resonance if we attune ourselves to its wavelengths.

The level of metalogues to which I am referring are those at which the structure and patterning of the natural order become reflected in a metalogue of our own cultural order. Attuning ourselves to these natural metalogues allows ourselves to become in tune to patterns of our existence that are both consonant and clearly discordant with a transcendent sense of earth being. Tapping into these metalogues allows us to exert greater influence and to cultivate our sense of earth being in more sophisticated and effective ways.

Such in-tuneness to natural metalogues allows us also to participate more effectively and to achieve more metalogues--to construct and realize such metalogues in our everyday life and in our activities.

Metalogues are the outcome of the symbolic process of the human organization of meaning--because symbolisms are borrowed from and based upon the natural order, natural metalogues are also a frequent and common part of the human organization of meaning. Such metalogues are vital and useful because they help to put us in touch with our earth being.

Poetry is inherently meta-logical, and a poetic nature is by definition full of the sense of earth being, especially when such poetry is tuned to nature. A poem mechanically conveys the message and meaning of the poem on several levels simultaneously--when it is effectively done it becomes art.

Being poetic does not necessarily mean writing literary poetry. The poetic spirit can be expressed and made manifest in virtually all human relations that we maintain on earth, with one another, and with the many facets and things of our lives. We can even find poetry in those elements of our existence that would otherwise be deemed to be without any connection to the poetic. Science and technology for instance that drives development and which seems to lead us historically further and further away from our own earth being, is replete with natural poetry on many levels.

We rendezvous in your small office

with the overgrown spider plant still hanging in the window

we discuss all the big things in our world and lives

a brief academic appointment

a meeting of minds upon important intellectual affairs

a temporary line drawn upon a piece of official paper

long-lasting questions of what classes to take

and all that professors have taken

between our words I feel an uneasiness

our chairs are hard and cold to sit upon

so much wasted and turbulent water beneath our bridge

you a professorial student

and I am an amateur professor

never the twain shall meet

this knot of our mutual existence

twisting and turning in so many different directions

our impatience growing

threatening to prematurely sever our ties

before they've had a chance

Million dollar miracle

the money-faced Buddha

there is no brand of sacredness

that cannot be made more golden

by a more expensive offering

all qualities can be thus transmuted heaven bound

touch its hand, kiss its feet

rub its shoulder with your palm

burn the paper money

and the joss in copious quantities

receive the blessing of the head priest

the gates of heaven will open wide

to receive all those beautiful Buddhists

who've been so bountifully blessed

Nirvana awaits the healthy

however so patiently

silence hangs upon your words

which fall like so many small stones

ever downward into the bottomless abyss

the accumulating echoes weigh heavily

upon my tired mind

the grand game

life's lottery

who's first in line

who gets left behind

the daily race

the unending roll of the dice

today you win and I lose

tomorrow you lose and I win

gambling against the odds

playing musical chairs

with our over-inflated egos

tiptoeing on thin ice

your seeming superiority

is merely the cosmetic veil

of life's illusion

you've invested everything

on the critical moment

of the marketplace

the superficial show of class

the arrogant privilege of money

that buys so much opportunity

making more money

a spiraling stairway to Heaven

or the vicious descent into Hell

I pop the bubble of your illusion

To find only the thin emptiness of your ego

a life bereft of great significance

status forfeit its balance and symmetry

ugliness that has worked its way

down deep beneath the skin

Now that you have framed my life

In a way that suits your fancy

How convenient to find a place upon the shelf

upon which you can securely put me

so that you may take me down whenever you like

brush off the dust and handle me as you will

and then put me back again as before

objects of love

objects of hate

used and perused

mark well your final words

for they will be the last you will speak to me

at the very moment you have captured me

you have lost me

irretrievably

we do not yet know that this marks our final farewell

a parting of our ways

without words

without understanding.

I close my eyes

and the bright light still shines

upon my face

small shinning circles and stars

float about in the darkness

of my eyelids

and there another strange face

comes into full view

staring directly into my eyes

it glows and glowers in a look

of angry madness

its eye's dark hollow holes

blank spaces between its cheeks

it grows in intensity and contrast

burning its imprint upon my brain

then explodes in a shower of sparkles

its impression slowly fades into the shadow

I try to follow it

as it drifts to the corner of my eye

and then disappears from sight

I open my eyes and look around

nothing is there but my own shadow

hiding our motives

beneath a veneer of thickened

weather worn skin

and multiple layers of clothes

our nakedness of our natural condition

kept from public view

beneath the veil of grand illusion

something we are made to feel ashamed of

guilty of its taboo exposure

our bodies are but the outer layers

of the inner-most sources of our soul

our spirits enchained by basic

insatiable biological needs

mortal we are and will always remain

imperfect and incomplete

from beginning to end

looking for a victim

hunting for a target

stalking the sidewalks and concourses

nameless and faceless

absolutely anonymous

it is important

not to get to know

those one decides to hate

or take advantage of in life

it is important to ignore

those one has created failure in

transforming them into convenient

instruments and objects of possession

and private designs

we do not have to sympathize with their suffering

or suffer from their sympathies

creatures of our darkness

half-human and half-animal

who come to dwell permanently in our shadow

twisting and turning

bending and unending

trials and tribulations

I have burned all the bridges behind me

and the ghosts have all been left on the other side

though we meet each other once again

in this small world

it is no longer quite the same as before

something vital is missing

and there is no longer much to talk about

except the weather and the time of day

and how we both are what we've both been doing

since we had last seen each other

we exchange our current addresses and phone numbers

and make empty promises of getting together again

both of us knowing we never will

running out of much more to talk about

we both hesitate, and then say good-bye

"It's been nice seeing you again"

"Quite a pleasant surprise"

those were bridges I burned long ago

and have since forgotten about

things seem to have changed

I do not know exactly how

it was all so slow to happen

and there were so many things happening at once

all in between

and now I am a little stranger than before

I no longer laugh at much

except in passing humor

to hid my disillusioned seriousness

I sit now in solitude and silence

and still stand out from a crowded placed

I've given up most every hope and ream

as so much false illusion

I no longer can enjoy the shallow waters

by making big splashes

I only seek to cool my bare feet

and to sometimes wet my whistle

now that it all seems so different

I can no longer recover my spirit and strength

I get sleepy early in the evening

and the day has grown only shorter

living in a shoe box

drinking through a paper straw

tiptoeing around on eggshells

trying to skate on thin ice

afraid of falling

tunnel vision

blinded

by a single

solitary point of light

our horizons are the brim of a coconut shell

little do we realize what lies beyond

until we try slipping over the edge

I know that you know that I know that you know that I know that you are not paying any attention to me

How good you are at it as we stare into each other's unfriendly faces at long distance

neither will be the first to avert our eyes in a show of prideful weakness

all petty things we do

to impress ourselves

of our importance