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 Apr 2014 Lumiere
DyalaNG
Flirty!
 Apr 2014 Lumiere
DyalaNG
She whispers
"I'm psychic"
He Gasps
"Whoa"
he said
"I bet I can read your mind"
she said
"You’ll never read my mind"
he said
He closes his eyes
Her face closer to his
He takes a peak
She leans
kissing his cheeks
He smiles
opening his eyes
"Good guess"
he said
She smiles
"I predict it"
she said
He smiles
"I am thinking about it"
he said.
 Apr 2014 Lumiere
Paul M Chafer
In the summer of my life,
When I swore, promised, even,
If only to my sad-broken-self,
Nurturing a heart beyond repair,
I would never venture abroad,
Never again sail from safe shores,
I awake, open my eyes, smile,
I am in love, and I’m not afraid.

Beyond anything previously known,
A new experience, fresh, bright,
A meeting of not only hearts,
But emotionally bonded, strong,
Immeasurable depths, mind, spirit,
Two coalesced as one, bliss,
Forging a blended alloy of love,
In the summer of my life.

©Paul Chafer 2014
 Apr 2014 Lumiere
Nizar Qabbani
Oh, my love
If you were at the level of my madness,
You would cast away your jewelry,
Sell all your bracelets,
And sleep in my eyes.
 Apr 2014 Lumiere
r
Water and Flame
 Apr 2014 Lumiere
r
As water is to cleansing rain
and heat as to burning flame,
so are you to me; the same.
My fiery rain.

Fill the gutter of my mind.
Fire the coal your heart has mined.
Burn me to the end of time.
Your fire does reign.

r ~ 4/1/14
 Apr 2014 Lumiere
st64
If I were doing my Laundry I'd wash my ***** Iran
I'd throw in my United States, and pour on the Ivory Soap, scrub up Africa, put all the birds and elephants back in the jungle,
I'd wash the Amazon river and clean the oily Carib & Gulf of Mexico,  
Rub that smog off the North Pole, wipe up all the pipelines in Alaska,  
Rub a dub dub for Rocky Flats and Los Alamos,
Flush that sparkly Cesium out of Love Canal

Rinse down the Acid Rain over the Parthenon & Sphinx, Drain Sludge out of the Mediterranean basin & make it azure again,
Put some blueing back into the sky over the Rhine, bleach the little Clouds so snow return white as snow,
Cleanse the Hudson Thames & Neckar, Drain the Suds out of Lake Erie  

Then I'd throw big Asia in one giant Load & wash out the blood & Agent Orange,
Dump the whole mess of Russia and China in the wringer, squeeze out the tattletail Gray of U.S. Central American police state,
& put the planet in the drier & let it sit 20 minutes or an Aeon
till it came out clean.




                                                     Allen Ginsberg
                                                    Bou­lder, 26 April, 1980








.
Allen Ginsberg (1926–1997)


One of the most respected Beat writers and acclaimed American poets of his generation, Allen Ginsberg enjoys a prominent place in post-World War II American culture.
He was born in 1926 in Newark, New Jersey, and raised in nearby Paterson. The son of an English teacher and Russian expatriate, Ginsberg’s early life was marked by his mother’s psychological troubles, including a series of nervous breakdowns.
In 1943, while studying at Columbia University, Ginsberg befriended William Burroughs and Jack Kerouac, and the trio later established themselves as pivotal figures in the Beat Movement. Known for their unconventional views, and frequently rambunctious behavior, Ginsberg and his friends also experimented with drugs.

On one occasion, Ginsberg used his college dorm room to store stolen goods acquired by an acquaintance. Faced with prosecution, Ginsberg decided to plead insanity and subsequently spent several months in a mental institution. After graduating from Columbia, Ginsberg remained in New York City and worked various jobs.

Ginsberg first came to public attention in 1956 with the publication of Howl and Other Poems.
“Howl,” a long-lined poem in the tradition of Walt Whitman, is an outcry of rage and despair against a destructive, abusive society.
Kevin O'Sullivan, writing in Newsmakers, deemed “Howl” “an angry, sexually explicit poem”, considered by many to be a revolutionary event in American poetry.
The poem's raw, honest language and its “Hebraic-Melvillian bardic breath,” as Ginsberg called it, stunned many traditional critics.

Richard Eberhart, for example, called “Howl” “a powerful work, cutting through to dynamic meaning…It is a howl against everything in our mechanistic civilization which kills the spirit…Its positive force and energy come from a redemptive quality of love.”
Appraising the impact of “Howl,” Paul Zweig noted that it “almost singlehandedly dislocated the traditionalist poetry of the 1950s.”
In addition to stunning critics, Howl stunned the San Francisco Police Department. Because of the graphic ****** language of the poem, they declared the book obscene and arrested the publisher, poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

Ginsberg's political activities were called strongly libertarian in nature, echoing his poetic preference for individual expression over traditional structure.
In the mid-1960s he was closely associated with the counterculture and antiwar movements. He created and advocated “flower power,” a strategy in which antiwar demonstrators would promote positive values like peace and love to dramatize their opposition to the death and destruction caused by the Vietnam War. The use of flowers, bells, smiles, and mantras (sacred chants) became common among demonstrators.

Sometimes Ginsberg's politics prompted reaction from law-enforcement authorities. He was arrested at an antiwar demonstration in New York City in 1967 and tear-gassed at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago in 1968.
In 1972 he was jailed for demonstrating against then-President Richard Nixon at the Republican National Convention in Miami.
In 1978 he and long-time companion Peter Orlovsky were arrested for sitting on train tracks in order to stop a trainload of radioactive waste coming from the Rocky Flats Nuclear Weapons Plant in Colorado.
Ginsberg's political activities caused him problems in other countries as well.

Another continuing concern reflected in Ginsberg's poetry was a focus on the spiritual and visionary. His interest in these matters was inspired by a series of visions he had while reading William Blake's poetry, and he recalled hearing “a very deep earthen grave voice in the room, which I immediately assumed, I didn't think twice, was Blake's voice.”
He added that “the peculiar quality of the voice was something unforgettable because it was like God had a human voice, with all the infinite tenderness and anciency and mortal gravity of a living Creator speaking to his son.”
Such visions prompted an interest in mysticism that led Ginsberg to experiment, for a time, with various drugs.
After a journey to India in 1962, however, during which he was introduced to meditation and yoga, Ginsberg changed his attitude towards drugs. He became convinced that meditation and yoga were far superior in raising one's consciousness, while still maintaining that psychedelics could prove helpful in writing poetry.

Ginsberg's study of Eastern religions was spurred on by his discovery of mantras, rhythmic chants used for spiritual effects.
During poetry readings he often began by chanting a mantra in order to set the proper mood.
In 1972 Ginsberg took the Refuge and Boddhisattva vows, formally committing himself to the Buddhist faith.

In 1974 Ginsberg and fellow-poet Anne Waldman co-founded the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics as a branch of Trungpa's Naropa Institute.
“The ultimate idea is to found a permanent arts college,” Ginsberg said of the school, “sort of like they have in Tibetan tradition where you have teachers and students living together in a permanent building which would go on for hundreds of years.”

Ginsberg lived a kind of literary “rags to riches”—from his early days as the feared, criticized, and “*****” poet to his later position within what Richard Kostelanetz called “the pantheon of American literature.”
He was one of the most influential poets of his generation and, in the words of James F. Mersmann, “a great figure in the history of poetry.”
Because of his rise to influence and his staying power as a figure in American art and culture, Ginsberg's work was the object of much scholarly attention throughout his lifetime.

In the spring of 1997, while already plagued with diabetes and chronic hepatitis, Ginsberg was diagnosed with liver cancer.
After learning of this illness, Ginsberg promptly produced twelve brief poems. The next day he suffered a stroke and lapsed into a coma. Two days later, he died.

How would Ginsberg have liked to be remembered?
“As someone in the tradition of the oldtime American transcendentalist individualism,” he said, “from that old gnostic tradition…Thoreau, Emerson, Whitman…just carrying it on into the 20th century.”
Ginsberg once explained that among human faults he was most tolerant of anger; in his friends he most appreciated tranquility and ****** tenderness; his ideal occupation would be “articulating feelings in company.”
“Like it or not, no voice better echoes his times than Mr. Ginsberg's,” concluded a reviewer in the Economist.
“He was a bridge between the literary avant-garde and pop culture.”
 Apr 2014 Lumiere
st64
I learnt to tie my shoes
I learnt to ride my bike
I learnt to smoke
I learnt the vulnerability of fully exposing an idea
I learnt to tie my shoes
I learnt to adapt my behavior in the light of others' actions.
I learnt the difficulty of sustaining the hopes of youth.

I remember a French girl with an English name.
'Leave me now, return tonight,' she told me every morning, and I did.

I remember an English girl with an French name.
We were the circle that no one could break, or so I thought.


Yesterday I was there.
Today I am here.
The two are light years apart.

I dance with a friend,
holding her hand realize,
how disconnected I have become,
from the simple beauty of touch.


I return and sense,
that things are not the same as before,
but feel had I stayed,
everything would likely seem the same.


Your words touch me.
Your thoughts excite me.
I want to try all that.
Explore everything with you.



Alone.
All one.


If and but and maybe and whatever.
I hate those words.


Everything doesn't have to be perfect.
To idealize is also a form of suffering.

                          
                                             ------ by Julian Hibbard



st...26 march 2014
Julian Hibbard is an English-born fine art photographer.

His enigmatic, award winning images have been exhibited in London, New York, Los Angeles, Scotland, Santiago de Chile and at the prestigious Fundación RAC Gallery in Spain.

Editorial assignments and profiles include: Afterimage, Fascineshion.com, Surface Magazine, Elle, Label, Dpict, Victor by Hasselblad, Wallpaper, The Huffington Post, Observor Life, Popular Mechanics, Honey, Blink, Pictured, Spin, Antenna, The New York Times Style Magazine, Sony Music and Bliss Lau.

His first book, "The Noir A-Z", a visual alphabet to accompany dominant terms from the noir universe, was published in 2009.

A second title - "Schematics: A Love Story" - a diagrammatical mapping of love, loss, time and memory, was released in December 2011.
 Apr 2014 Lumiere
st64
dive
 Apr 2014 Lumiere
st64
dive.. dive..
dive*


1.
I am eating fog on this pre-dawn bridge
an overcoat of no particular mood
     keeping intact considered-sincerity of warmth
     inhaling air tight with thin droplets
the c-cold of someone's click-clack in the distance
only an echo of studious-oblivion
glancing over the rail as the water swirls, dense

the silent hum of a slow-passing vehicle
windows darkly stare
I wonder who'd possibly be passing by here
and would they be connecting with that swirl, too


2.
there must be a walrus under there
         (shrinking-violet, that it is)
its projections long and probably needing plumbs
the departing fingers of night gnaw
attempt to steal what little shelters here
consent delayed by vertical-curses in bloom
and I'm thinking of a cat I used to have
who certainly didn't favour water

protests become latent-airborne, take off
as screeching squawks swoop by
hungry heartbeats gurgle, drip valiant
station within view.. phew, made it!



an accordion starts to play..
an elegy fit
for a dive.







st64, 3 April 2014
lovely weather these days.



sub-entry: goad-change

nothing like lifting the lid
insects swarm
sun exposing
giving rays

(thanks forever.. for all the help)

change is so good
change is healthy
what a goad-change!
 Feb 2014 Lumiere
Theia Gwen
If our love story were in photographs
You'd see two socially awkward teenagers
Completely candid and unchoreographed
Quick little snapshots of two people who slowly became friends

You'd see moments of a girl falling for a boy with black curls and skinny jeans
Her depth of field was shallow and she couldn't see she was obsessing over the wrong person
Her mind was muddles by her crush and she couldn't see clearly through her lens

You'd see her slowly lose affection for the boy in skinny jeans
And her f-stop finally let the light in
Her brunnette best friend started occupying her dreams
Oh no, she couldn't be falling for her best friend?

You'd see time lapse photography of a girl who couldn't admit the truth
Every girl thinks of kissing her best guy friend, right?
She knew that in a game of love, she would always lose
He occupied her brain like works of modern art

You'd find a picture of a girl who finally accepted how she felt
And stopped seeing things in monochrome
She took a chance at love
And captured the best picture of them all
Oh, god. All of the bad photography puns. It fits though since I met him in photography. I wanted to expand the ideas in my poem B21 and I mean the world of photography puns was wide open!
 Feb 2014 Lumiere
Sebastian
I wish
 Feb 2014 Lumiere
Sebastian
I wish I could turn her voice into a song
And play it for everyone to hear
And it would sell out concerts
But no one would sing along with it
They would just listen
Because her voice is so beautiful
I wish I could turn her voice into a song
But I can’t get the notes right
And the lyrics don’t fit

I wish I could capture her beauty in a painting
And display it in a gallery
And everyone would come
To gaze at the canvas
Just to see how perfect I think she is
Because I think she’s so close to it
I wish I could capture her beauty in a painting
But I can’t get the strokes right
And the colors don’t fit

I wish I could turn her into a movie
And it would play in every theater there is
And everyone would buy a ticket
To stare at a moving screen
Just so they could see two hours of her life
Because two hours seems like enough
I wish I could turn her into a movie
But I can’t get the lines right
And the actors don’t fit

I wish I could turn her into a book
And give them away as presents
And everyone would tell their friends about it
So they would go buy one
Just so they could read what’s been written
Because she is worth every page
I wish I could turn her into a book
But I can’t get the title right
And the words don’t fit

I wish I could show her to our child
And raise our daughter in her image
And everyone could see her again
And they would be happy
And they’d know she’d be happy
Because her daughter would be perfect
Just like she was
I wish I could show her to our child
But the pictures all burned
And I might never see her again
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
©Sebastian @http://hellopoetry.com/sebastian/
 Feb 2014 Lumiere
Sebastian
She was pretty.
Scratch that.
She was beautiful.
Scratch that too.

She was more beautiful,
Than a sunrise on a winter morning.
Or a rainfall on an autumn day
Where the leaves dance in the wind
And fill the sky with life.
More beautiful than a flower
That breaks through the cracks
Of a concrete garden
And brings color to the air.
She was more beautiful,
Than any poem that's ever been written.

She was beautiful.
Scratch that.
She still is.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
©Sebastian @http://hellopoetry.com/sebastian/
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