"ars" poems
i've moved past my belief
in the Christian trinity...
for me...
the meditation stands
on the pivot of
the following translation
the hexagon,
start of david -
which translates
as the Holy Ghost -
which denotes
a congregation...
the pentagon?
of the befitting analogy
to the five senses...
the "son of man" -
or simply...
the myopia of man
having to excavate
the sixth sense
using telescopes,
microscopes, the like...
and, finally?
on a hand of five extensions,
there are four...
the square...
Y H
⠁⠑ read clockwise
like English traffic
H W on a roundabout.
which? denotes the father...
if the Hebrews "think" they
can hide their vowels?
the Latin answer is...
to interpolate Braille into
their language...
and Emperor Nero would have
appreciated it...
whether with, or without
the Byzantine propaganda machinery
of the nevus testamentum...
and it wasn't a propagandist
piece?
how much longer did the eastern
Empire, outlive the Western
empire, when the onslaught
by the Ottoman's reached
Constantinople?!
the Greek were craving
a cultural revival!
they believed the Romans
to have origins in Troy!
they plaid the weakest cultural
card of Judaism,
revamping it into Christianity...
hell... that's what i believe...
and i'm not about to meet
a Jehovah's Witness propagandist,
or some aged Pakistani
citing the Quran on a park
bench...
or some Scientologist
on Oxford St. with his wacky
machine...
or some pseudo Hare Krishna
monk with a book about
some guru, pushing it like
marijuana...
to change my mind on what
i'm digesting!
plus?
⠽ ⠓
Æ ( read anti-clockwise)
⠓ ⠺
fits in perfectly into the Adam
and Eve narrative -
as with all mythology -
given the extent of time...
nuance, metaphor...
abbreviation...
ars poetica!
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
it is like the many nights
sleepless
intone of light
on the tiled floor
and surreptitiously
under the
influence
wringing out poems
while looking
at
8th and 7th street
fondling darkness
like virgins on
the absolute
a mutiny of
dead cigar butts on the
corner as "kuya Louie"
passes by with a wrench
half-drunk with "Emperador"
half-mad with ars poetica.
other sense of self
somewhere brash and brazen
awash with modern
sensibilities
as this night deepens
whiter like the color
of new bones
to fledgling movements,
just like any other night.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 1:48 AM UTC
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
*
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind—
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.
*
A poem should be equal to:
Not true.
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—
A poem should not mean
But be.
3.5k
Once upon a Time there lived a peasant
whose poems were whisperings of nature.
Nature aims toward growth, abundance
and decays softly back to succulent soils.
My homeland is not for your feet to step
upon, you belong to surrealistic cynicism.
My psychedelia does not approve of horrors
mundi and skips on every third classical tune.
What was impulsively chosen, can be a mistake
in pompous rituals on established compilations.
Apologies, for all the misdeeds lacking a true
appearances. You implied my life is a great lie.
No, it's not! Sometimes it is a knotted charade,
noose chameleon dreams wanting to create in
Castles build upon puffy clouds, youthful Ars
Poetica meeting a Pat Metheney's wonderland.
Beck is a phenomenal artist loving green lands.
Bachus was a goat. And Artemis protects us all!
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC
I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.
In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn't know we had in us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail.
That's why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion,
though its an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel.
It's hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from,
when so often they're put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.
What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons,
who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues,
and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand,
work at changing his destiny for their convenience?
It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today,
and so you may think that I am only joking
or that I've devised just one more means
of praising Art with thehelp of irony.
There was a time when only wise books were read
helping us to bear our pain and misery.
This, after all, is not quite the same
as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.
And yet the world is different from what it seems to be
and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.
People therefore preserve silent integrity
thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.
The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.
What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry,
as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,
under unbearable duress and only with the hope
that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.
1.9k
Augur well, on a left ward spirral.
I never meant to ignore
the residential Wren or lazy Cat,
who always knew better
than my list of dreams.
In the alleyway with dahlias,
I wanted to think as my own,
a perchance a symbol!
now there's sacks of pebble stone and sand,
no rub of green
builders mucking in for someone's joy to settle,
side gate entrance
into a little abode no longer possibly mine.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 6:54 PM UTC
Poetry whirls down drains,
cruises down highway lanes..
toll free.
Poetry is a clear potion,
a natural motion.
Poetry is the bird gliding high,
and of course, the sky.
Poetry is thundering elk
through forests and glades,
and the wolves that keep pace.
Poetry is the ****
Poetry is democracy,
and its unfortunate hypocracy.
Poetry is eternity vanished in an instant.
Poetry is a slaughterhouse,
a vegetable garden.
Poetry is cat and mouse.
Poetry ascends to descend,
breaks to repair,
it's uncommonly rare.
Poetry is the longest minute
and the shortest hour.
Poetry lives when it is dead.
Poetry comes from the body,
thought by the head.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 1:51 AM UTC
It's a beautiful day,birds singing as I'm walking Mill Lane,
listening to a few Me Fein Refrains,
I'm whistling,feeling pretty fine and dandy,
with my eyes red rovering all the eye candy,
when I hear it,brakes shriekin'-women Shriekin',
a mans voice-Hoarse, "Jaysus Someone do somethin",
I spin on me heel,eyes centred as ****
wishing this was all a dream-A runaway Truck,
tires peelin' brakes smokin' rubber burnin',
A runaway load,it's not gonna make the turn and it's
**THEN that I feel true terror in me soul,
I see a little boy playin' at the edge of the road** ,
he's a sturdy little lad,stick in hand,
pokin' at the grasses growin' up from the path,
and he's right in the Path of the Truck from hell,
Theres no decision,I'm runnin' like a bat outta hell,
and it's then that I get a feeling it's a Lucid dream,
languidity covers me,no more screams,
theres a Figure in my way that's wasn't there the last breath,
then I'm literally starin' in the face of Death...
and I FEEL his thoughts as he turns blank Orbits,
on me and his words are like this "One Obit,
uary in my Ferry is my Task today,
do you really want to be the one who gets in MY WAY?(way way way),
and he can HEAR my thoughts,just as I heard his,
"get out the fuckin' way you long streak of ****
"you said one has to go,well that's fine with me!",
"I've got coins in my pocket if you need your fee!"
and with a glint in his eye and a plangent refrain,
he touches me centre forehead and declaims "NO PAIN"
Then things speed up and I'm off fists pumpin',
feet slappin' on the pavement head down, heart jumpin,
I'm not the Flash,but I can move it when I need to Run,
and the long drawn screech is a Hell of a starters Gun,
I'm across the road like a bolt from the blue,
grab the little Man and throw him,then BANG there I flew,
its all earth,sky,earth,then a terrible jolt,
but no pain as was promised as I come to a halt,
then his Mother is there(he's on her hip) and she's holding my(only)hand,
tellin' me theres ambulances and I'm gonna be grand,
but theres a Grand Piano layin' on my Chest,
and no pain,but to be honest here-I'm not at my best,
and just as I start to think of family and friends,
before Distress can manifest too much in my mind,
a tall RATHER BONY figure stretches out his hand,
and intones into me bones,"OFF TO THE NEXT LAND(land,land,land)"
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 9:01 AM UTC
Imitation is the ******* of creativity.
So where for art thou romantic silopsisms?
Meta-physical lotion, rubbing Prufrock's
bald head. Where are the errors, syntactical?
Intimation is the blow job of canon,
The body, electric, ******* on Mt. Abora's
Cliff face. Short syllabic thrusts put the pallet
in trouble. Sharp edged thoughts caught in the throat of the speaker, leaving them mush-mouthed,
Sentimental.
The poor rhyme scheme, literary analysis 101
feet, and meter abandoned for fun,
Or played with weakly piling on what will
Fit neatly enough in the bottom swill.
Unrequited love notes, star-crossed cries,
Knotty tangled sentences to explain the deep ties,
Out of focus snapshots of pixilated lives
Even this bad poem, escaped the editor's knife.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
They’d crashed the party at midnight
Surely, a motley looking crew,
All of them dressed in the weirdest best
That the Monster Shop could do,
There was Beelzebub, and Astaroth
And the pale Witch of the North,
Ahead of the Prince of Darkness in
A goats-head mask, of course.
They didn’t look out of place, for all
The guests were dressed to ****
One attired as a Fairy Queen
While others were dressed to chill,
Out of the mouth of Frankenstein
The blood poured in a stream,
And though it was only cochineal
It brought the odd party scream.
Most had thought it a great idea
(Except for her folks, who’d cursed),
They’d all dress up in the neighbourhood
For Emily’s twenty-first,
They’d even formed a committee so
They knew what they had to do,
And each would be wearing a different face
So there’d only be one, not two.
They studied the Ars Goetia
And scanned it for demon names,
The butcher had come as Malphas for
He only had brawn, not brains,
The newsagent was Vapula
And his errand boy was Baal,
While the postmaster was Sallos
And he came there, bearing mail.
They all were full of the grapes of wrath
As it chimed the midnight hour,
While Emily surged out like a goth
From the depths of her wardrobe bower,
The house, at 22 Rankine Street
In the ‘burb of Astral Downs,
Was built where an ancient charnel house
Had piled the bodies in mounds.
Her folks had put in a swimming pool
Where there’d been a village well,
Right on top of a demon school
In the seventh circle of hell,
The water began to heave and churn
As Beelzebub drew near,
And it cooked a few of the swimmers there
As their laughter turned to fear.
‘You thought that you could make fun of us,’
Said the Prince of Darkness then,
‘For that, we’re making you one of us,
You won’t bother us again!’
The ‘burb dropped into a bottomless pit
That glowed with the flames of hell,
‘A subterraneaun coal seam fire,’
Said the Fire Chief, Adam Schnell.
Emily’s parents came back home,
Sat in the car, and cried,
‘I told her that Goth stuff wasn’t good!’
‘Too late! Our Emily’s fried!’
They filled it in, there’s a parking lot
Where her parents had sat and cursed,
I’d like to bet, they’ll never forget
Their Emily’s Twenty-First!
David Lewis Paget
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 10:53 AM UTC
My best memories are not with her,
And I will forever remember them,
The reason I built my imagination,
Till my childhood was there to stay,
Enjoying the imaginary car crashes,
Less than an ambition it was never.
How clearly I remember myself,
Often playing with glistening toys,
They were mostly cars and tracks,
When my mind drove 'em like an elf,
Healing my loneliness with their jumps,
Eyes glittering with the picturization,
Ears hearing the imaginary blasts,
Love was simple & objective then,
Seemed the best life to a kid me.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 4:27 AM UTC
am a scouser la
dont want ya la dee da
grew up wid a yard
saw gardens from afar
jus me an me ma
wid ar windows barred
against da smackheads
an da scallys
dat wanted wots ars
not dat wot wuz ars
wuz ars anyway
stuff lifted off a wagon
dat got lost on edge lane
comin off da 62
could get ya waylaid
passin thru where i grew up
back in da day
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
They say to play with words.
I see each page is a slide and we
*smile
while
we're
going
down*.
We're make-shift,
Doctor Frankenstein,
piecing together
words that
would lay lifeless
without our spark.
We're other people, dress-up,
with our lens-less glasses,
pens in hands
that can't quite reach the tallest shelf.
Through our words we rebel,
show the world we are more than naïve.
Just because we don’t think
in refunds and rebates and 401k plans...
Doesn’t mean our futures won’t be bright if
we only hope to gain
a sense of ourselves, in that
moment when the tire-swing
goes so high, you try
to touch the sun.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 12:30 AM UTC
at 16 they taught u
s about shakespea
re, how? but now I
realize there was m
ore learned than bl
ank stares at teache
rs waiting for bells
to slide departures
under the doors of
blank minds. balco
ny preachings in fr
ont of loveless tang
ents foreshadowing
the curvature of the
then mindless. 5 ye
ars gone i still find m
yself wandering aim
lessly to the next cla
ss with the thought o
f the useless priors a
nd the books are get
ting heavier
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 6:36 PM UTC
I wish
I had freckles
on my shoulders that would
t
r
ick
le
down to my blades
and show that
I have tasted the sun
And I wish that my sc
ars
would show
and
not (hide neath my skin and in
my heart’s shadows)
to let you know
that I have
seen
my share
of hurt
and
Overcome.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
bold glitch grip
you've been colored violent by It
code writ scrapes
large like star whorls flake
one solitary chromium petal fell
into a river with a mien of mum
where it wilted
filled with ****
and you watched it come from afar
you saw the small sun become runny
don't lie
dear scar
you must collect yourself or
the ruin of ars
will still
what is ours
into petrified mime
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 12:58 PM UTC
Crinkled and knotted,
Your mind pushes far beyond the last
Fluid dimension of thought.
Words and images
****** out, crossed out, and beaten.
Their meaning disentangled
From the syllables they’re bound to.
Stretched,
Pulled,
Prodded,
Poked,
Rolled,
And torn open.
Mile by mile, down a endless road,
Making no explicable progress.
Broken and battered,
Words, attempting equilibrium,
Burn off energy enough to care.
The unthinkable dread of empty canvas
Impedes on the black and white tile
That clangs too loudly
For reason to be heard.
Inspiration becomes an
Agonizing, ever-twisting labyrinth.
The climactic moment drawn out too far,
Centuries too far,
Tortures and torments you,
Tears you to pieces
Until, at last, you
Are indistinguishable from
The pain you’ve offered,
The discomfort you’ve endured,
The itch you’ve tolerated.
And the balance finally restores itself.
Rights you just at the point of ultimate collision,
Lets you steal a breath,
Before the next thought starts to pull.
Jan 29, 2010
Jan 29, 2010 at 12:57 PM UTC
“A poet's qualifications include common sense, knowledge of character, adherence to high ideals, combination of the dulce with the utile, intellectual superiority, appreciation of the noble history and lofty mission of poetry, and above all a willingness to listen to and profit by impartial criticism.”
Ars Poeti a (ll. 295–476).[10]
Nov 20, 2021
Nov 20, 2021 at 9:10 AM UTC
“Art washes away,
from the soul the dust of everyday life.”
No more pain, stress or strife.
“Have no fear of perfection,
you'll never reach it.”
So don't ever throw a fit.
“I saw the angel in the marble,
and carved until I set him free."
Amazed by what beauty could come from me.
"Art is not a thing;
it is a way."
So carpe diem... seize the day.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
Th lost l tt r
Cam to m
V ry far in th futur
Missing th targ t dat by mil s
It r ad of lov
A lov w had miss d
Sw pt away, gon
In th s achang of y ars
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 2:16 PM UTC
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown--
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves.
Memory by memory the mind--
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.
A poem should be equal to:
Not true.
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea--
A poem should not mean
But be.
Archibald McLeish
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
Truly gifted poets
Straddle their crafts early on
Some even in adolescence
They have been cursed or blessed
To be kings and queens of utterance.
I never dreamed of becoming a poet
It was furthest from my mind
Then in a sudden twist of eardrum
It happened in my Mid-thirties.
Out of the recesses of Time
Came the lure and a hook
Shining in enchanted brook
And before i knew it
My heart was snatched
And my movements flustered
When i bit on ambrosiac bait
Drenched in Muse's wine
Drugged and drunk
On sounds and images
I struggled in a pool of words
To assemble what held me infused
To make sense of orphaned views
Swaying between shade and light
Like dancers deprived of audience.
My poetic rapture began
In frenetic rain of ink
preposterous in direction
A poetaster rapt on vapid rhymes
With sounds of poetic crimes
But my craft developed
In piecemeal fashion
And rendered my pen composed.
A minnow of long ago
Has grown into a mackerel
And longs to become a whale
In the ocean Ars Poetica
Though it seems a pipe dream.
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 1:09 AM UTC
lips cur l l ips a bo u t th en ak e d for tre s s of your s t r ain i ng hips
in w hich resi de s the resi d ueof loves h ars hes tb ase notes
a single molting instant when bodies uncleverly address each
other rudely with loose and tight squirming tissues
commonly beginning muscles
rapid and dismaying
and to fluffless
orchards
scurry
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 3:27 AM UTC
I.
You have to taste the words
like salt or earth
And chew them up and let them grind between your teeth
Let them crumble, coagulate.
II.
Know them, then introduce yourself.
Court them and waltz them and spoon under moons
and breathe in their air;
their atmosphere.
III.
Comb your fingers through them
and braid them and pinch them;
Let them drip sticky down to your elbows,
Let them stain and run, away even.
IV.
Leave them when it’s too much.
And kick them, and scream
And scream
Until you’re hoarse and the tears stop,
Until you know they know,
Until you can both take a deep breath and sleep through the night.
Then tomorrow:
Spit them out.
Sit them down.
Whisper a secret,
and watch.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 8:47 PM UTC