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For the signifier is a unit in its very uniqueness, being by nature symbol only of an absence.

quote by Jacques Lacan
Added by Lucian Velea
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When the creation was not there

When the creation was not there

The darkness stood before its own eyes

A signified without any signifier

And the void burst in loud cries

Unlocking the untold treasure

That silence held in her indeterminate purse

poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
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Geometrical Concepts

geometrical concepts
Or whatever their field of perception
Grow closures
Primarily on attempt
To fight out transcendentalism
Husserl doth try
The reduction out there
And the concept concocted
Are conflictual
And yet linearal
Each in its own way
The scientific
And the religious positions
In conflict
This is what Derrida discovers
Despite the metaphysics of presence
That informs Husserl's writings
Astruggle between the noetic
And the noemic
Or between the semiotic

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poem by Karnail Singh Heirwale
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A Contemporary Critique about Art

I'm troubled by the suggestive complexity of
Distinctive formal juxtapositions in this artwork.
Its disjunctive perturbations & eloquence make it
Difficult to consciously enter this chef d’oeuvre in

A manner in which the sublime beauty of the bio-
Morphic forms verge on codifying its agitated con-
Tent finding this creation remarkable in how it
Handles the figurative-narrative line-space matrix

By spatially undermining the visual gesture while
Abstractly activating critical thinking. As an ad-
Vocate of the issue of content, I feel that here at least
The suggestion of spatial relationships endangers the

Disjunctive perturbation of how disrupting it seems
In light of the eloquence of the substructure that
Conceptually activates the spatial relationships of the
Auto-erotic signifier and appears disturbing in light of

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poem by Alex Nodopaka
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0002 Lonely Dropped Me A Word

lonely
dropped a word to me today

said

you wrote a poem about me thanks
yesterday so
I wanted to explain myself

especially as they’re discussing me right now
in academic though wobbly drawn circles

the older guys say I’m a Concept
and therefore existed
before Shakespeare found a name for me, while
the younger guys
the So-Sures and the Deriders
say I’m merely a Signifier with
an uneasy relationship
with a Signified or

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0082 The New Grave

You brought your watercolour kit.
For it’s so picturesque – the smallish church
in the centre of the village
like a mother hen at drowsy midday
surrounded by her chicks;
the red-white flag of Saint George
the only sign of life, fluttering like
an aerial footnote to history
(or for some, a corner of a foreign football field…)

but there’s a new detail in the picture
since last you sketched here:
the newest arrival is the oldest: death;
the oldest signifier is the fresh-turned earth.

The uninvited thought squirms across the mind
like the exposed worms of that rich soil,
how reassuring to be buried in this ideal
picture-book of continuity amidst the change,
a country churchyard. A cemetery

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0283 A Poet Condescends

It has been brought to my notice
that a review by you of
my latest book of writings
(the term ‘poem’ suggests
false expectations and is not therefore
used by me) claims that, I quote,
‘this poetry is so obscure that
I reckon it’s a hoax’…

Your comment is truer than
you yourself would appreciate.
My writing is indeed a hoax
in terms of your level of
understanding. I do not seek
easy paths to meaning, nor
the standard readymade language of the
avant-garde. So what I have
worked though, you have not,
and therefore, your understanding
however partial would be, in your

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Taking coffee 'with' Jean-Paul Sartre.

It was 1952. We had a limited travel currency.
In Paris, I went one morning to
the Dome Café. There
sat Jean-Paul Sartre, smoking
a large meerschaum pipe
such as Kierkegaard or Nietzsche might have smoked;
he had his morning coffee in front of him.
Simone had not yet joined him.

A circle of young admirers sat at a
discreet distance; most wore black
but the young women could not avoid
a certain Parisian chic in their sombreness,
their existential frown and turned-down lips
around bright eyes.

It was the chance of what we call
a lifetime. Dare I speak to him?
Nothing ventured, nothing gained:
a human being must live his words,

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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