Friday, May 13, 2011
A Critique Of The Phenomenoligical Epoche.
When I sailed via this voyage of reasoning
In a lauded fruitless search for Being,
I greeted Brentano and Husserl on the way
We found the map to Being they mumbled to say,
They named the map 'the phenomenological epoche'
So promising yet sterile like the King's Eunoch.
They promised that by a method of bracketing
Could the cryptic nay veiled Being be seen.
I need not doubt like Descartes bids
Only trap-trace the map to where it leads.
It leads me down the bottomless pit of nothingness
As I wander like Odyseus of Ithaca in wonderlessness.
For all the pigments of wonder,
All objects of beauty that make me ponder
Are now exiled to a void island.
The waving palm trees no longer stand,
The chirpy chirping birds all gone,
And alienated stood the tulip of the jasmin guarded by the spiky thorn.
Suddenly, Being became so silent
Till the time I retraipse, reverse and repent
How can I see the cryptic essences without its vehicle I ask?
The phenomenologist thus embark me on a vain task.
But now I embrace Being and its beauty
Sprawled like a boulevard across the lines of poetry,
For Being is the echo of umpteen sound
Which unto the sences not reason coheres and bound.