Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
annh May 19
'Actually, my friend in Taranaki makes the stars. I combine them with my own elements and string them into garlands,' wrote Makery. There was an element of apology about her words. As if she’d been rumbled. As if someone had confirmed the voice of self-doubt that whispered in her ear, 'Who do you think you are, calling yourself an artisan?'

Stringing things together is applied artistry - whether it be words, Scandi-style stars, or fairytale mushrooms threaded on candy coloured twine. We are all hunter-gatherers who construct our creations from discovered elements. Some transmute received knowledge into constructed knowledge. Others beachcomb lexica for found syncretic treasures. All aspire to contribute to the infinite compendium of human self-expression, to create something which says, 'This is who I am.' With the silent addendum, 'I hope you like it.'

'Creating is living doubly. The groping, anxious quest of a Proust, his meticulous collecting of flowers, of wallpapers, and of anxieties, signifies nothing else.'
- Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays
Fheyra May 14
White mares skipping high
Fleeting bows of flight
A delicate sway and tender—
Of nymph water bearers.

Grip to the pole— start bending your toes
Gritty witty Pointes—  slide sailing your stockings
Don't be weary— you all weigh like babies.

When everyone curves below,—
I might cry low
The tug of veins,— Twisting my equity
All for a share of artistry—
That shakes dynamic scaling
How can I fly with this?

A flock of gnasgabs— Forming on the floor
Say, I was bewildered—
By such floating nerves
I suppose, my anchors would stumble!

Muscles shifted miniscules to humongous
I learned the arc's way
How swans scoop to ponds,— and paddle
To split stems without abraded rock scrapes
The pricked would never ill still again— For the element of wind,—is a frolicking mentor of mine.

What shape is imposed?
Is to be trained to sketch enough?—
Or to smother crust on feet?
A little pinch on my nose—
They told me— "Be toned, and not be a cylinder, or you'll be getting misfits."
If groom is to groan,— Then unwinding is not an option.

Stale eyelids, protrude lips;—
With undetermined purple ankles
Presenting, the queue of peacocks—
Crafted by coned imagery!
"Smile darlings, smile.."
"Grant them a magical show!"

A single blow, I think I would fall,—
Or a slip— Brought by fragility
A collapsed bud of covert slim blossoming
What sot titles be lurking—
On this lumpy staging?
I see the curtains closing..

Raggle-taggle pearls, no—
Just piercing prisms
Attach with vessel tubes— providing life
Rates and beats,— I am awake—
While their pupils start bowing—
In a forum with wheezing closed fists
I cannot nod for this; so too, I replied
—"Let brittle vases be a harbinger for naive pottery makers."

"Spin and spin around— Oh stop, I'm not a music box!
I love dancing,— but don't treat me like a doll!"

I escaped, from dry flower fields
Now, I am a deviant— of their snotter lying— of absolute bloom
A standard of fixed chains and keys
No more attending to an epithet of perfection,— For I will be the motion of my own tides and breeze.

I  battle to Ballet,— For 'tis as knight with armored strength— of fenced rivals 'til to bleed
I risk for Ballet,— Like cliff dancing, even on edges— I am steady,—
And tough to dive in lakes and oceans
I fall for Ballet,— How Alice fall to the Wonderland— discovering mysteries in every dooorway
I compose to Ballet,— As I dwell in the well of written poems and tunes,—
I inherit to move..

The wishful dandelions,—
Sprawling with honeybees and butterflies,— of me running with ribbons in Spring time
I feel my hair is brushing,—
As I blew these dandelions,— Sending letters to other gardens—
"Dark, Bright, Tiny, or Huge— Anyone can wear a Tulle,— Come and fly, as we're all free and beautiful like dandelions.."
Just dance to the wings of your heart, and you shall find freedom within your happiness.
Sometimes the body is contagion
To the soul.  Stars in their mission fall
To seed the fertile flesh, ignite
Blue waters of sulfureous hearts,
And so the flash is set to cancel
In the flood.  

Sometimes the lip of soul onto seal
Will not hold, before he first knocked
And let flesh enter, thorny pegs
Pricked nerve and pierced bone on his climb
To the rose, yea, some stars odd as
Meteors crash.

In the swan-sea, song-sangy-frame of crib,
Rough hewn words bent mold to scrape, like
Blasted coral, stood half-submerged
Amid sea and sky, for between the leaves,
Behind the eye, there are little stars
Shining like existence.

In a circle world he fashioned green
Blazons about the darkling day,
Fostered by celestial navigation,
Wrote a language for music, on a map of love
And charted the force of green in a wind-
Rose of discovery.

Sometimes the soul is not contained, it
Bursts in silent sound like well water
From the source.  And of men in streets
He saw the pennies in their grumble
Eyes, and of love and its course he rubbed,
Tickling dim stars.

It was his thirty ninth year in that fall
To heaven when the steeping cell,
Refused to push in its tide.  Homeless
And free on scaffold of bone the middling
Man retracted from sun to sink
With the moon, turn-tiding-toward sea
Like a changeling.

And as ever, nor often, unwavering eyes
Sprout through shifting grains.  And as he spoke
Quite rimless, Dylan Thomas was petrified
In undying light, and solid set within a rill
Of reef sparkling in concert betwixt gas
And sea, so becoming in purple sleeves,
This constellation of mute singers all,
Dried five-fingered-fish, bright embryos
Returned to the shell, they burn between the leaves,
Beset the grounded skies and show sprite flashes
In the dark where He has left his imprints, burning
Above and plastered below.  The first rock stars!
— for Dylan Thomas
Faizel Farzee Sep 2019
I look into a starry sky, mind space is in a decline
these clawing words scratching to be released
In time
gnawing at my soul, they biting,
To them it's a feast
I can hear them crying, wailing, these amazingly horrid beasts
they in control of my being, a puppet, diseased
They need to save me, they want this feelings released
in tandem moving, to these healing pages they flee
the negativity magnetically dispersing, it's positively unlocked
i now have the key, emotions boiling
this becomes it's scroll, it's a decree
words flowing in waves of wonder,
happiness, i'm smiling
flowing with glee
this is the words that i married, a match made in heaven
i feel,
without them, i would have been curse, on my knees
praying for my life to be scythed , the grim reaper
By the one....
They call me
Poetry is my outlet, to get my feelings out there. It's also nice to to know that, i can at least write something, that make you all care.
Faizel Farzee Aug 2019
Living life to aluminate this hidden mask
Is no great task
If you lost all feelings to a bitter past
My minds racing directionless and fast
The words enters my soul
Cutting my Humanity, so cold
My heart embedded in a cast
From all the places it’s broken
Living this continued farce
The one I wear with hated pride
The one I continue to brokenly hide
I confide,
These words to you
So please don’t deny
You feel exactly the same
With your damaged pride
Living in a censored dark
I now embark,
To win this war
Amongst all art
We en devour to hide our true thoughts, we only give it life through our painted words...
Ivan Brooks Sr Jul 2019
This poetry you are reading,
Came to me one evening.
This is just more than a poem,
It's a revolutionary anthem.

This poetry was sent from the deep
Via spoken words in my sleep.
This poetry was baked in the furnace
It's elusive, nobody will ever trace.

This poetry is so hot, it'll burn you
And probably shock you.
Yet it has the propensity to uplift,
So it's not something to play with.

This poetry will slowly creep
From the sole of your feet,
To the crown of your head.
This poetry is a didactic bread.

This poetry is a glitch
Yet it was sent to teach.
It will grasp your attention,
and stretch your imagination.

This poetry is a proclamation
Of our collective emancipation
From total mental slavery.
This poem bears the scars of bravery.

This work is the embodiment of artistry
And the blurry lines and meters of poetry.
It's a poem, it's music and it's a painting.
This poetry is a testament of my calling.

#IBpoetry© #Bassapoet
This poetry was inspired by a great poet.
Glenn Currier May 2019
dings and whistles from the slot alert him escape -
sit before my image enter its wild wolf canyon escape

winding road in lofty forest landscape
beckon her - leave him for my green escape

triple x signs promise writhing bodies
heavy breathing and dark dank escape

the flute lay still of the silent table sparkling
sweet melodic memories of fingered escape

the frothy surging surf traces the seam of the sea -
bathe in my *****, wrap your self in my fluid escape

locked door soft light from below no sounds
inside creative energy sparks a poetic escape

on the placid lake he casts his hopes
awaits the tug - he and his prey escape

she stands eyes closed, smiling face turned upward
feels the breeze in her hair thanks God for this sweet escape

he runs in the field of goldenrod tears stream
and he screams a desperate entreaty for escape

the sylvan spirits flown from the mountain trees
into the green glen whisper as angels - escape!
Author’s Note: This is my first modest attempt at writing in the Ghazal poetic form.  Thanks to poet Rob Kistner whom  I met on for the inspiration for this poem.  Rob is an extraordinary talent who writes with a free yet disciplined artistic brush.  This is the URL for his poetry on that website:
James R Apr 2019
I refuse to let my artistry
be ignored,
broken, beaten,
bruised, or forgotten.
These words hold my truth,
deeper than any flagship
can carry.
I must be butter today, cuz I'm on a roll. I hope to continue to find inspiration in the words that surround us all.
annh Dec 2018
To imbue artistry with life invoke the multitude,
To imbue life with artistry invoke the muse.
Next page