"eponym" poems
With obsolescent clarity
Amid moribund metaphysical
Mutations
As the iridium ball rolls
From eponym to epitaph
Engeneering an epoch diarama
In surfeit metronomic hysteria
While time chases time into infinity
Episodic vagaries celebrate
The metaphoric metamorphosis rising to
Metaphysical majesty as vacuous
As any minutiae will
When abstract vagaries
Become the vagrant epitome
Of a mordant mosaic
Made entirely of the lost causes
Torn from the very core
I surmise
As being the virulent....
.....Tragic and irridescent pieces
Left along the allegorical antipathy
Where those that are left behind
By the stigmatation
Of any irascible involutions
Mired in the mesh
Of scribbles and scribes
Left
After the iridium ball rolls By
Leaving vacuous irridescent
Symbols of epigraphical
Proportions
Stymied by
The obsolescent clarity
Amid moribund metaphysical mutations.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
I have no patron saint. But if I should
I doubt that Doubting Thomas would be him.
Though well he worked with what he understood,
I cannot emulate my eponym:
too squeamish still to press your ****** palms,
too cowardly to bear the cross you bore.
too blind to fall and sing believing psalms.
With other saints called Thomas, all the more.
But then there's Thomas Cantilupe's career,
So concrete: he was born in 1218,
was chancellor of Oxford for a year,
gave countless counsellings to king and queen
and years of selfless service to his see;
and lives today recalled by God, and me.
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 6:17 PM UTC
Irrelevant and inexperienced tongues speak
of things that are merely meek
borrowed thoughts, charred and dark
none got the zeal or spark
of the original mark
behold the originator of thought
Fierce and finesse
opulent and neoteric
complex yet tangible
veridical and factual
juxtaposing tradition and aesthetics
original stands out better
Pursue your thoughts
deliberately choose
perdurable possibilities
disparate spheres of same thought
well deserved appreciation
eponymous hero, you will be !!
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 11:21 AM UTC
Fri Feb 10
8:12 AM
“As artists, we are exposed to a heavy level of scrutiny, mostly from ourselves,” adds Villarini-Velez. “At times we might be insecure when a choreographer asks us to do something that takes us away from our usual, classical vocabulary. I felt like some of my peers who aren’t exposed to this movement would feel insecure at times, but nonetheless, rise up to the challenge of exploring new levels of artistry. It’s easy to rely on our usual bag of tricks, but I enjoy the risks of detaching from what looks good and moving in a way that feels good. It’s our responsibility to rise to these challenges and expand our artistic horizons.”(1)
<>
guilty. as charged.
so, incorporating new words,
differing styles.
do what does not come naturally.
“detach from what looks good,
moving in a way that feels good”
make radicalization your ethos
make new-for-you your eponym.
give your name to what you create,
a mere signature insufficient, it is not part of the work!
taste the wet words upon tongue and lips,
let the saliva linkage be to the following morseling phrase,
the mouth sac moist be where verbal embryos are birthed.
hear them spoke in your voice, but,
silently, in your mind, and yet, speak-say them inside
with the shocking thunderous force of a newborn’s first cry.
and when you read them assembled,
weep with pleasure, relieved, this, your child,
looks exactly like no one, with but trace elemental traits of you.
but it is all yours, sinew and cell, fiber and skin,
drawn unformed, ejected from the intramural hollows of the body,
then and only then, mark them at last as truly
mine..
Mar 23, 2023
Mar 23, 2023 at 2:05 PM UTC
it was winter when i wrote you ;
crags, rocks, trees, were all black
on white and ice --
ice,
it beat on my door --
slivered on the mattress,
sheets of it --
a bedfellow, willing,
eager.
when did the scorpion bring
warm coals to temper the night?
the howl of the moon,
the scorch of the sun --
inside was fire, gurgling.
it was froth and magma.
i heard the tempest, both sea and sky --
faith,
they called
it a rock.
a deep,
black,
rock
in ice.
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 9:11 AM UTC
This idea
is so distorted,
transfixed,
to mark our bodies
as shame
or lack of respect
when in their maternal
******
that rags
they wear
ornate us
and dictate
what our respect
is
when it is completely on
the contrary
and such rules
made by society
are claimed to be of God.
Our nature and self-confidence
of it
(can)
make even the most
shaggy rags radiant
and worth of envy.
As if coming to meet Them
purely from your own
will so eager no matter
if you’re even
just
in
a
towel
didn’t count as a great
act of devotion.
That ****** is illegal,
that beaches where you can be
non-clad are
only for the “major” persons
(because underage ones
are supposedly
not
in their right mind),
and as Dante Quintana,
my eponym,
noticed truly:
how shoes
are unnatural
and how not wearing them
is not
a sign of poverty
or lousiness.
Sep 1, 2020
Sep 1, 2020 at 1:59 PM UTC
A strange pilot this
world is, fighting glassy,
distant nomads for space.
In time, vends names.
Foam alone in fear.
“Did you see that?”,
I fear not dear.
No one was watching.
Or they didn’t care.
- Gods
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 10:45 PM UTC