“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label art poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label art poems. Show all posts
Sunday, November 6, 2016
(unnamed)
It is magic
and you cannot stop me
from saving myself
from a worn out hex
bestowed onto to me.
It is energy (also chi)
and used methodically
to end this mean curse
in-heir-antly placed
I may live
by breaking.
It is healing,
helping myself,
or magic.
It is not about you.
It makes
me better.
It is the art
of magic.
Artwork credit By Internet Archive Book Images, Ladies Home Journal 1948 [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
The Creative Process by e.e. cummings 1 and 2 (plus 5)
1.
Of my
Soul a street is:
Preternatural Pic-
abian tricktrickclickflidk-er
garner
of starfish Picasso
thrombosis trees
hit
my soul
repairs herself with
Prioress of Shari mind
and Matisse rhythms
to juggle Kandinsky gold-exchange-standard
away from the grind gifted
muscles of Cèzanne’s
logic
Oho.
A streamer
There is
where stramineous birds purr
2.
Picasso
you give us Things
which
bulbous: grunting lungs pumped fulgurate of Shari They mind
you make us shriek
presents always
shut in the sump screech of
simplicity
(out of the
bizarre unbolted
Something gushes vaguely a squeak of planes
or
between squeals of
Nothing grabbed with circuit breaker shrieking tiger-eye
solicitation screams whisper.)
Lumberman of the Distillation
your brain’s
axe only chops hued inherent
Trees of Ego, from
whose living and bifoliate
bodies lopped
of every
preternatural
you hew form true time
The above two poems originally composed by e.e. cummings have been given the 5 up adjective treatment whereby each original adjective is replaced by the preceding 5th word in the dictionary. Normally this is a 7-up process but I like the number 5 better.
Image of painting by Wassily Kandinsky, Yellow-red-blue, c. 1925 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Half-dozen Mud cakes
Back to wood decks, quarter-size spiders, webs, moss and creatures stirring in the hollow nights Back to no side-walks and skirting into th...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
I have served between eight and twenty-five thousand meals for my family, I make coffee for them more than once per day, equatin...
-
Lies About Love by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930) We are all liars, because the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow, wherea...