The only reality is in one place, at one time,
as a fleeting perception of what a truth may be.
That is to say, no reality at all.
Reality is a thought of a truth in the here and now,
only ever understood by one mind in one instant,
only internalised by one heart for less than one heartbeat.
Then lost forever, to ever evolving interrogation, explanation and dissertation.
External attempts at understanding another’s reality and truths are just that, attempts.
Interpretations of another’s reality are creative, transient similitudes at best.
Knowing of another’s truths can only be attempted by association.
Association by its very nature denies the accuracy reality and truth demand.
History is a barely valid interpretation of past reality and its truths.
Yesterday is reappraisal of reality, mere perception of memorable truths.
The future has no reality where truth is elusive and aloof.
Tomorrow is simply anticipation based upon expectation come proof.
Proof is a contextual misnomer ignoring the reality question, what is truth?
A response to this week’s d’verse challenge regarding the Hemingway quote, “There is nothing else but now. There is neither yesterday, certainly, nor is there tomorrow.” - For whom the bell tolls (1940). https://dversepoets.com/2021/06/22/dverse-poetics-one-true-sentence/
These first two lines of the quote cited immediately drew me back to a repeated personal exploration of what I call “The Reality / Truth Paradox”. If the word “certainly“ had been “certainty” it would have been a perfect fit.
I think this is a discussion Hemingway would have willingly engaged in with me if we had met. I would start with the question, “Do you apply fundamental realities and truths to your characters at the time of their creation?”
Art in the pink, the hope that it brings Wings painted from, the smallest of things The joy of the colour, the mess of it all A pleasure to view, this artist's call Not quite abstract, the painting surreal Based in fact, then allowed to congeal Into pastel riot, of colour and lines Into a many makes whole, artwork refined What underlies, there's tissue paper petals The subject mixed up, then left to settle What was the intent, forethought soft light To please the eye, or just to feel right So busy so active, yet here is still life Outlines overshot, not cut like a knife In the blur there is movement, on a canvas full But the subject is lifeless, the message - killed When you look deeper, what do you see Something different to me, most certainly I see part of you, I see part of me I see a gift, a sadness, in humanity Did this idea form, in the artist's mind Develop and grow, the mind to bind An irresistible force, the desire to create A bane and pleasure, that will never wait
This poem is a response to a dVerse ~ Poets Pub challenge