"collaged" poems - Hello Poetry

Spanish Guitars A few years ago, in 2011, I went to a concert of young classical guitarists. Just before or after, I don't recall, I saw an exhibition of Picasso's guitars at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1101). This poem ensued. This is one of the lost poems I mentioned, recently rediscovered on an archaeological dig. Spanish Guitars two weeks pass. I have seen two guitars one of wood, one of sheet metal. both were alive, both were inanimate both birthed for display, useful for granting pleasure and heating up le jus d'creation products of a tradesman's craft, animated to pierce my brain and pleasure me with the realization that when you see what I see When you, you hear, What I see we all perforce speak but one language, an alphabet of music, art and love A young, oh so most beautiful Croat guitarist girl, Ana, coaxes an urgency from her love, the blonde wood, she takes Piazzola's notes, as if they were Picasso's thoughts and set them within so days later, the resonance plucks at my temples Picasso, like a little boy, collects collaged bits and pieces of life's stuff most ordinary, postage stamps, playing cards, wallpaper, pieces of cardboard, cutouts from Le Journal, and with fingers delicate sticks and glues discrete notes, individually nothing but pieces of this and that, bits and bobs superimposed on faux woodwork, presenting an instrument tooled to conjures up a milonga^, the sounds of angels dying, a fandango of trembling tones a sonnet of sounds, celebrating human touch upon animal, strings taut, feasts both, a banquet, a triomphe of sounds that tutors my senses to hear sheet metal guitars imprisoned in museum glass gush sounds of parallel lines and delicate contrasts, A duet of animate, inanimate Virtuosity All is clarified. One language. Many dialects. Both, Spanish guitars. ^ a milonga has many meanings, but here, refers to a Argentine tango dance party

0

Aug 21, 2013

Aug 21, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Spanish Guitars

Spanish Guitars A few years ago, in 2011, I went to a concert of young classical guitarists. Just before or after, I don't recall, I saw an exhibition of Picasso's guitars at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1101). This poem ensued. This is one of the lost poems I mentioned, recently rediscovered on an archaeological dig. Spanish Guitars two weeks pass. I have seen two guitars one of wood, one of sheet metal. both were alive, both were inanimate both birthed for display, useful for granting pleasure and heating up le jus d'creation products of a tradesman's craft, animated to pierce my brain and pleasure me with the realization that when you see what I see When you, you hear, What I see we all perforce speak but one language, an alphabet of music, art and love A young, oh so most beautiful Croat guitarist girl, Ana, coaxes an urgency from her love, the blonde wood, she takes Piazzola's notes, as if they were Picasso's thoughts and set them within so days later, the resonance plucks at my temples Picasso, like a little boy, collects collaged bits and pieces of life's stuff most ordinary, postage stamps, playing cards, wallpaper, pieces of cardboard, cutouts from Le Journal, and with fingers delicate sticks and glues discrete notes, individually nothing but pieces of this and that, bits and bobs superimposed on faux woodwork, presenting an instrument tooled to conjures up a milonga^, the sounds of angels dying, a fandango of trembling tones a sonnet of sounds, celebrating human touch upon animal, strings taut, feasts both, a banquet, a triomphe of sounds that tutors my senses to hear sheet metal guitars imprisoned in museum glass gush sounds of parallel lines and delicate contrasts, A duet of animate, inanimate Virtuosity All is clarified. One language. Many dialects. Both, Spanish guitars. ^ a milonga has many meanings, but here, refers to a Argentine tango dance party

67

In seeps life’s deeply rich hypnotic alluring tune. Throngs of pitch tickled with powerful eminent bass. Crisp sounds displayed, tweaked, collaged, and delectably consumed. Stretching our ear’s vast hungering palette to please. Vibrations lead to the tingling mind’s inevitable response. Guiding the body through its purity of sound. Hums and hisses overshadowed by the DJ’s track. Lasers lights dance over the vast sweating fans. The floor is a rhythmic sea of flesh. Dance steps balanced by the DJ’s meticulous craft. Tears of joy creep upon the dancers faces. As bodies succumb to the vibrant enchanting mix. This truly is an ideal moment of bliss. Having one’s mind captured by a DJ’s tryst. The mind thrives forever from their musical kiss. As fans dance the night, refusing to miss.

0

Jul 15, 2013

Jul 15, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC

-K-T-P-

A DJ's Tryst

In seeps life’s deeply rich hypnotic alluring tune. Throngs of pitch tickled with powerful eminent bass. Crisp sounds displayed, tweaked, collaged, and delectably consumed. Stretching our ear’s vast hungering palette to please. Vibrations lead to the tingling mind’s inevitable response. Guiding the body through its purity of sound. Hums and hisses overshadowed by the DJ’s track. Lasers lights dance over the vast sweating fans. The floor is a rhythmic sea of flesh. Dance steps balanced by the DJ’s meticulous craft. Tears of joy creep upon the dancers faces. As bodies succumb to the vibrant enchanting mix. This truly is an ideal moment of bliss. Having one’s mind captured by a DJ’s tryst. The mind thrives forever from their musical kiss. As fans dance the night, refusing to miss.

16

I found your apologies along with a lighter in my pocket the night I burned you away Both were deep down in there. Below the forgiveness It was squeezed between the pieces of your broken promises Collaged into the parts of my shattered heart I found them folded into love letters And engraved into the anxiety marks your lies left in me I dug them out of the hole your deceiving left in the back of my mind Buried right next to suspicion I found your explanations hid beneath the mental memories of teeth They never quite fit together I saw them in the picture show behind my eyes I’ve recklessly recreated to many times I felt your callused pleads for forgiveness on my fingertips after I pricked my pointer on your spikey “I didn’t do its” I slipped on your confessions nearly drowned in what could’ve been Luckily, I realized before it was too late, that water is infinitely too deep As is the pools of sympathy I had for you but never had for me I used that lighter to smoke a cigarette that was packed down as well as your stories You always exhaled like a script for the movie I’ve seen to many times called “Please feel bad for me” I found your I’m sorrys on the bottom my shoe after I kicked the crap out of my “welcome to walk on me” mat I threw away and replaced with a banner reading “please don’t come back soon” I can’t claim I don’t know but I can say this feeling is new Never thought you had what it takes to make me give up on you

0

Feb 19, 2013

Feb 19, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC

dana-ellen

In my pocket

I found your apologies along with a lighter in my pocket the night I burned you away Both were deep down in there. Below the forgiveness It was squeezed between the pieces of your broken promises Collaged into the parts of my shattered heart I found them folded into love letters And engraved into the anxiety marks your lies left in me I dug them out of the hole your deceiving left in the back of my mind Buried right next to suspicion I found your explanations hid beneath the mental memories of teeth They never quite fit together I saw them in the picture show behind my eyes I’ve recklessly recreated to many times I felt your callused pleads for forgiveness on my fingertips after I pricked my pointer on your spikey “I didn’t do its” I slipped on your confessions nearly drowned in what could’ve been Luckily, I realized before it was too late, that water is infinitely too deep As is the pools of sympathy I had for you but never had for me I used that lighter to smoke a cigarette that was packed down as well as your stories You always exhaled like a script for the movie I’ve seen to many times called “Please feel bad for me” I found your I’m sorrys on the bottom my shoe after I kicked the crap out of my “welcome to walk on me” mat I threw away and replaced with a banner reading “please don’t come back soon” I can’t claim I don’t know but I can say this feeling is new Never thought you had what it takes to make me give up on you

28

You are a drink of warm water come to fill The void in my chest, ease its ache for A desperately needed hour of rest, His red hair and charmers smile Set fire to the things I said about Being so void I was numb, Seems dumb now as heat Rushes through my veins. I think of him and his laughter The next night and every after. And how his broad chest and long arms Protect me from all the pains Of complete maturity. He hurries to encourage me To dance in the rain, and play make believe, Maybe that’s how he got me to see I could be happy, I could live in rapture Created by captured moments of his touch, Collaged out of memories of us Like running across campus Bare foot and key in hand, Single piece of hair like superman. Your hand in mine despite Angry words misplaced and The feeling of your chest Rising and falling beneath my cheek. Your eyes mean everything. A Band-Aid across my brokenness, Long desperate kiss To fill my chest with butterflies And play and bliss, no one means as much as this. You are a complete twist ending, To the way my life was spinning And half my reasons to still exists.

0

Apr 26, 2012

Apr 26, 2012 at 5:17 PM UTC

tearani-c

I think of him and his laughter The next night and every after

You are a drink of warm water come to fill The void in my chest, ease its ache for A desperately needed hour of rest, His red hair and charmers smile Set fire to the things I said about Being so void I was numb, Seems dumb now as heat Rushes through my veins. I think of him and his laughter The next night and every after. And how his broad chest and long arms Protect me from all the pains Of complete maturity. He hurries to encourage me To dance in the rain, and play make believe, Maybe that’s how he got me to see I could be happy, I could live in rapture Created by captured moments of his touch, Collaged out of memories of us Like running across campus Bare foot and key in hand, Single piece of hair like superman. Your hand in mine despite Angry words misplaced and The feeling of your chest Rising and falling beneath my cheek. Your eyes mean everything. A Band-Aid across my brokenness, Long desperate kiss To fill my chest with butterflies And play and bliss, no one means as much as this. You are a complete twist ending, To the way my life was spinning And half my reasons to still exists.

34

Oh this miracle of movement, the bird in flight, its bright all-seeing 180 degree eye, black brown bird against autumn’s revelatory colours, you can feel you’re outside in an October wind, but the leaves are hanging on still, and even a cobweb laces through this morning image (it can only be morning with such clarity of colour). This collaged picture lithographed full to the brim with autumnal shades and that rising up of things despite nature’s time of fall. The bird backlit by a cloud-feathered sun, circled in movement. Berries bright red against the black brown bird and such shades of green, impossible colours though they are everywhere in Bawden, Piper, Nash, those English colourists who remind us how light amplifies what our country’s weather reveals. Not a picture to live in the imagination and ponder at, but to look at, marvel at, and then go outside and look and look at those symmetries and repeats, and such colours that even on the darkest winter’s day are there in a corner of the sky, the crack in a wall, a leaf speckled with frost, a white flash of the magpie. And by all accounts this artist is one himself, magpie by nature, collecting the not properly beautiful but when surprisingly placed becoming more than its sole self could possibly be. Unsophisticated. Playing with tensions of different material. Collage. Improbable museums. Lumber rooms even. No mystery, just things collected as they are, for the sheer joy of it all.

0

Dec 27, 2012

Dec 27, 2012 at 2:15 AM UTC

nigel-morgan

Viewing Mark Hearld

Oh this miracle of movement, the bird in flight, its bright all-seeing 180 degree eye, black brown bird against autumn’s revelatory colours, you can feel you’re outside in an October wind, but the leaves are hanging on still, and even a cobweb laces through this morning image (it can only be morning with such clarity of colour). This collaged picture lithographed full to the brim with autumnal shades and that rising up of things despite nature’s time of fall. The bird backlit by a cloud-feathered sun, circled in movement. Berries bright red against the black brown bird and such shades of green, impossible colours though they are everywhere in Bawden, Piper, Nash, those English colourists who remind us how light amplifies what our country’s weather reveals. Not a picture to live in the imagination and ponder at, but to look at, marvel at, and then go outside and look and look at those symmetries and repeats, and such colours that even on the darkest winter’s day are there in a corner of the sky, the crack in a wall, a leaf speckled with frost, a white flash of the magpie. And by all accounts this artist is one himself, magpie by nature, collecting the not properly beautiful but when surprisingly placed becoming more than its sole self could possibly be. Unsophisticated. Playing with tensions of different material. Collage. Improbable museums. Lumber rooms even. No mystery, just things collected as they are, for the sheer joy of it all.

1

i don't notice people much anymore they've become a blur in the landscape i pass while driving or walking or taking a train collaged into one dreary mass of blended colors without definite shapes bobbing with the bumps in the road swaying this way then that subtracting a black mass which is replaced with a greenish shape that curls delicately around a brown one again & again arriving at my destination feeling i've traveled to it quite alone.

0

Mar 31, 2015

Mar 31, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC

susanjj

monotone

i don't notice people much anymore they've become a blur in the landscape i pass while driving or walking or taking a train collaged into one dreary mass of blended colors without definite shapes bobbing with the bumps in the road swaying this way then that subtracting a black mass which is replaced with a greenish shape that curls delicately around a brown one again & again arriving at my destination feeling i've traveled to it quite alone.

24

At the beach house you don’t need much an old mossy table the boards collaged in pine needles a firepit domed by scorched trees huddling stitched together as one quilted canopy hoping for wisdom below A snappy fire fanning air that grows crisp and birds the birds oh the birds their songs above always their songs around.

0

Nov 13, 2020

Nov 13, 2020 at 10:12 AM UTC

WonderCompass

All You Need

At the beach house you don’t need much an old mossy table the boards collaged in pine needles a firepit domed by scorched trees huddling stitched together as one quilted canopy hoping for wisdom below A snappy fire fanning air that grows crisp and birds the birds oh the birds their songs above always their songs around.

21

Those blue eyes I see It reminds me of the sky And even the sea I must admit I'd like to stare at it Those eyes that are moonlit Blue eyes can be camouflaged Into a photo of the sea that is collaged Surely this isn't a mirage Let me paint those eyes So the memory doesn't dies It will be a moment that doesn't say goodbye

0

Nov 10, 2020

Nov 10, 2020 at 8:58 AM UTC

Euphoria

Blue eyes

Those blue eyes I see It reminds me of the sky And even the sea I must admit I'd like to stare at it Those eyes that are moonlit Blue eyes can be camouflaged Into a photo of the sea that is collaged Surely this isn't a mirage Let me paint those eyes So the memory doesn't dies It will be a moment that doesn't say goodbye

12