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"garde" poems
Ilion gray poet extraordinary is away learning the codes hidden in raindrops no reason for surprise; for the mountains of Brooklyn, the Manhattan caverns of Sunhenge^, corridors of narrow focus for trapping the declining sun rays, neither high enough, narrow blinding, to keep a good man from doing good things that life provides as opportunities to do the right thing he muses that it took five years for the other poets to understand our poem-dreams; avant-garde he says, but I laugh, never felt more misunderstood and reply take care, be en garde! no matter for he is learning a new language, the codes hidden in raindrops in a land of wheat once called Indian Territory and eager await his return so we may walk along the Brooklyn shoreline, beginning from under the Brooklyn Bridge where Washington’s men escaped a British trap and he can decode for me the whispery thunderous noises of NY showers that come up so sudden,  so roughened, but right now, the seductive sun blinks in Manhattan windowed towers reflecting back on to our East River as golden blinks of nature We will walk lost in the absorption of our different commonalities, holding the hands of his young son, and my Wendy, both of them equal in possession of round saucer eyes that give us poems He calls me me friend, I call him brother, teacher, master, better than the best, well recalling a late night message that bred a five year conversation ongoing not everything need be coded what you read here it is not coded, for the raindrops come clear and clean and the poems land on our tongues bounce on the foreheads and eyes of the babes, all stored and saved for the future blessings spoken in a single tongue 7/18/18 ^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manhattanhenge
0
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
poetoftheway
Ilion is learning the codes hidden in raindrops
Ilion gray poet extraordinary is away learning the codes hidden in raindrops no reason for surprise; for the mountains of Brooklyn, the Manhattan caverns of Sunhenge^, corridors of narrow focus for trapping the declining sun rays, neither high enough, narrow blinding, to keep a good man from doing good things that life provides as opportunities to do the right thing he muses that it took five years for the other poets to understand our poem-dreams; avant-garde he says, but I laugh, never felt more misunderstood and reply take care, be en garde! no matter for he is learning a new language, the codes hidden in raindrops in a land of wheat once called Indian Territory and eager await his return so we may walk along the Brooklyn shoreline, beginning from under the Brooklyn Bridge where Washington’s men escaped a British trap and he can decode for me the whispery thunderous noises of NY showers that come up so sudden,  so roughened, but right now, the seductive sun blinks in Manhattan windowed towers reflecting back on to our East River as golden blinks of nature We will walk lost in the absorption of our different commonalities, holding the hands of his young son, and my Wendy, both of them equal in possession of round saucer eyes that give us poems He calls me me friend, I call him brother, teacher, master, better than the best, well recalling a late night message that bred a five year conversation ongoing not everything need be coded what you read here it is not coded, for the raindrops come clear and clean and the poems land on our tongues bounce on the foreheads and eyes of the babes, all stored and saved for the future blessings spoken in a single tongue 7/18/18 ^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manhattanhenge
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44
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin) Something's wrong... you don't belong here. I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza. I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni. I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf. He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public. Like I'm a creep.  I'm a ****** What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here. You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table. When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates. Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion. After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu. So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.   Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.   They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.   They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.   They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.   They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.   They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies,  if you know what I mean. In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.   They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes! I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.   And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.   I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!   I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay. ... except for anchovies, of course.
0
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
PseudoPoet
Pineapple Pizza
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin) Something's wrong... you don't belong here. I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza. I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni. I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf. He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public. Like I'm a creep.  I'm a ****** What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here. You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table. When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates. Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion. After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu. So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.   Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.   They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.   They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.   They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.   They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.   They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies,  if you know what I mean. In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.   They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes! I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.   And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.   I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!   I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay. ... except for anchovies, of course.
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26
Twelve o’clock. Along the reaches of the street Held in a lunar synthesis, Whispering lunar incantations Dissolve the floors of memory And all its clear relations, Its divisions and precisions, Every street lamp that I pass Beats like a fatalistic drum, And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium. Half-past one, The street lamp sputtered, The street lamp muttered, The street lamp said, ‘Regard that woman Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door Which opens on her like a grin. You see the border of her dress Is torn and stained with sand, And you see the corner of her eye Twists like a crooked pin.’ The memory throws up high and dry A crowd of twisted things; A twisted branch upon the beach Eaten smooth, and polished As if the world gave up The secret of its skeleton, Stiff and white. A broken spring in a factory yard, Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left Hard and curled and ready to snap. Half-past two, The street lamp said, ‘Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter, Slips out its tongue And devours a morsel of rancid butter.’ So the hand of a child, automatic, Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay. I could see nothing behind that child’s eye. I have seen eyes in the street Trying to peer through lighted shutters, And a crab one afternoon in a pool, An old crab with barnacles on his back, Gripped the end of a stick which I held him. Half-past three, The lamp sputtered, The lamp muttered in the dark. The lamp hummed: ‘Regard the moon, La lune ne garde aucune rancune, She winks a feeble eye, She smiles into corners. She smoothes the hair of the grass. The moon has lost her memory. A washed-out smallpox cracks her face, Her hand twists a paper rose, That smells of dust and old Cologne, She is alone With all the old nocturnal smells That cross and cross across her brain.’ The reminiscence comes Of sunless dry geraniums And dust in crevices, Smells of chestnuts in the streets, And female smells in shuttered rooms, And cigarettes in corridors And cocktail smells in bars.’ The lamp said, ‘Four o’clock, Here is the number on the door. Memory! You have the key, The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair, Mount. The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall, Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.’ The last twist of the knife.
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8.2k
T. S. Eliot
Rhapsody On A Windy Night
Twelve o’clock. Along the reaches of the street Held in a lunar synthesis, Whispering lunar incantations Dissolve the floors of memory And all its clear relations, Its divisions and precisions, Every street lamp that I pass Beats like a fatalistic drum, And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium. Half-past one, The street lamp sputtered, The street lamp muttered, The street lamp said, ‘Regard that woman Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door Which opens on her like a grin. You see the border of her dress Is torn and stained with sand, And you see the corner of her eye Twists like a crooked pin.’ The memory throws up high and dry A crowd of twisted things; A twisted branch upon the beach Eaten smooth, and polished As if the world gave up The secret of its skeleton, Stiff and white. A broken spring in a factory yard, Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left Hard and curled and ready to snap. Half-past two, The street lamp said, ‘Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter, Slips out its tongue And devours a morsel of rancid butter.’ So the hand of a child, automatic, Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay. I could see nothing behind that child’s eye. I have seen eyes in the street Trying to peer through lighted shutters, And a crab one afternoon in a pool, An old crab with barnacles on his back, Gripped the end of a stick which I held him. Half-past three, The lamp sputtered, The lamp muttered in the dark. The lamp hummed: ‘Regard the moon, La lune ne garde aucune rancune, She winks a feeble eye, She smiles into corners. She smoothes the hair of the grass. The moon has lost her memory. A washed-out smallpox cracks her face, Her hand twists a paper rose, That smells of dust and old Cologne, She is alone With all the old nocturnal smells That cross and cross across her brain.’ The reminiscence comes Of sunless dry geraniums And dust in crevices, Smells of chestnuts in the streets, And female smells in shuttered rooms, And cigarettes in corridors And cocktail smells in bars.’ The lamp said, ‘Four o’clock, Here is the number on the door. Memory! You have the key, The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair, Mount. The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall, Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.’ The last twist of the knife.
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78
there is no value in a poem that reads ____________________ ____________________ ____________________ M M l i f e s u c k s x x x n o p o e m i g o t just nerve; crap bs, a denial of craft seek the intelligent intelligible, kiss the sensational thrill that emotion harvests with resonating tenses that beg our brains to differ, sense this claims, there is no value in no words is a hoax cloaked as art by the weak, make thy metaphors metastasize, my every cell, a preposition, preposterous and precious and comforting in their privations and provocations speak to us in alpha and line our eyes wide, with pictures at an exhibition of a faun immobile and beauteous let me hang on every word of yours and let it be the raft that sees me happily unsafe home take your bs line poem   shove it down your silent voice this is not avant garde; this is insulting p.s.  write me a smile and all will be_______________.
0
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
false-poets
**** the BS: this craft is the raft we hang onto
there is no value in a poem that reads ____________________ ____________________ ____________________ M M l i f e s u c k s x x x n o p o e m i g o t just nerve; crap bs, a denial of craft seek the intelligent intelligible, kiss the sensational thrill that emotion harvests with resonating tenses that beg our brains to differ, sense this claims, there is no value in no words is a hoax cloaked as art by the weak, make thy metaphors metastasize, my every cell, a preposition, preposterous and precious and comforting in their privations and provocations speak to us in alpha and line our eyes wide, with pictures at an exhibition of a faun immobile and beauteous let me hang on every word of yours and let it be the raft that sees me happily unsafe home take your bs line poem   shove it down your silent voice this is not avant garde; this is insulting p.s.  write me a smile and all will be_______________.
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30
Dar Al-Hekma University hosted its second fashion show on Sunday that featured the work of its second batch of fashion design undergraduates. The event, titled “Luminosity” was held under the auspices of Princess Reem **** Muhammad Al-Faisal. President of the university Dr. Suhair Hassan Al-Qurashi said: “Providing such events to our students before graduation exposes them to industry leaders of their prospective industries and gives them a head start in their careers. “Dar Al-Hekma University’s students stand out because of the combination of their high caliber and the opportunities the university provides for them.” Along with industry leaders, families of participating students attended. The event started with an opening speech by the department chair for the fashion design program Dina Kattan, who then introduced the sophomore and junior students’ work. Afterward, models wearing three-piece collection garments designed by senior students scheduled to graduate this year took the stage and were graded by four judges. Kattan said: “I am so proud of the work my students presented today; they worked really hard and they deserve a big hand. “Everyone was impressed with the level of creativity and attention to detail they demonstrated.” The judges were Batool Jamjoom, businesswoman in the fashion industry and manager and owner of Jamjoom Fashion House; Amra Alabdalilsharif, director of the innovation and visual merchandising department at Rubaiyyat; Dalal Al-Hasan, a fashion designer; and Aram Kabbani, Dar Al-Hekma alumna and fashion stylist. The grades students received during the fashion show will form part of their final grade. One of the students whose designs were featured at the show, Zahar Algain, said her collection was inspired by Mexican artist Frida Kahlo. “Studying fashion has altered my perspective. I view fashion, in the same way that I view life; it’s a matter of balance and proportions. “My interest in avant-garde fashion has led me to believe in using creativity to solve difficult situations. Algain’s collection was meant to blur the line between art and fashion. “It is inspired by Frida Kahlo but with a fictional twist. “The story behind my collection is a daydream, a magical love story, an artwork; it is splattered with Frida’s colorful soul and spirit.” Following this women only event, Dar Al-Hekma is organizing a one-day fashion design exhibition on Tuesday, which is open to all. The event starts from 7 p.m.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses
0
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC
judy-smith
Dar Al-Hekma’s second fashion show becomes an industry hit
Dar Al-Hekma University hosted its second fashion show on Sunday that featured the work of its second batch of fashion design undergraduates. The event, titled “Luminosity” was held under the auspices of Princess Reem **** Muhammad Al-Faisal. President of the university Dr. Suhair Hassan Al-Qurashi said: “Providing such events to our students before graduation exposes them to industry leaders of their prospective industries and gives them a head start in their careers. “Dar Al-Hekma University’s students stand out because of the combination of their high caliber and the opportunities the university provides for them.” Along with industry leaders, families of participating students attended. The event started with an opening speech by the department chair for the fashion design program Dina Kattan, who then introduced the sophomore and junior students’ work. Afterward, models wearing three-piece collection garments designed by senior students scheduled to graduate this year took the stage and were graded by four judges. Kattan said: “I am so proud of the work my students presented today; they worked really hard and they deserve a big hand. “Everyone was impressed with the level of creativity and attention to detail they demonstrated.” The judges were Batool Jamjoom, businesswoman in the fashion industry and manager and owner of Jamjoom Fashion House; Amra Alabdalilsharif, director of the innovation and visual merchandising department at Rubaiyyat; Dalal Al-Hasan, a fashion designer; and Aram Kabbani, Dar Al-Hekma alumna and fashion stylist. The grades students received during the fashion show will form part of their final grade. One of the students whose designs were featured at the show, Zahar Algain, said her collection was inspired by Mexican artist Frida Kahlo. “Studying fashion has altered my perspective. I view fashion, in the same way that I view life; it’s a matter of balance and proportions. “My interest in avant-garde fashion has led me to believe in using creativity to solve difficult situations. Algain’s collection was meant to blur the line between art and fashion. “It is inspired by Frida Kahlo but with a fictional twist. “The story behind my collection is a daydream, a magical love story, an artwork; it is splattered with Frida’s colorful soul and spirit.” Following this women only event, Dar Al-Hekma is organizing a one-day fashion design exhibition on Tuesday, which is open to all. The event starts from 7 p.m.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses
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12
Verdant eyes, translucent pearls speak in silent witness, wounds unfurl meaning revealed, interrupted girl. Safe in solidarity prolific eccentricity, the scandal of particularity. Pouting mouth grief - filled lips alluring, set sail a thousand ships; tempt me to leave harbor. Arousing euphoria as such, resistance, amity and distance amour sans touch her sense of humor transcends, appeasing the mind’s thirst a vogue sultana, seasoned swagger hair resplendent flame, alternating cool, black asymmetrical coiffure; nonconforming demure the renegade metaphor - singular for sure, no cure. Muted vanity, bathos piercing the jaded circumference of banality; pale protagonist servitude the sapient palaver of the urbane, covered patina of pretense, induced coercion, the commodity self appearing abased wearing lesions of lassitude. Artistic chattel - eminent domain preempting genius, subsidiary of consuming narcissism external locus of control; surrender to the tentative, fettered pendant, Venus in chains arrested visionary bane sterile savant, edifice of pain. The soubrette, dubious incarnation gravid ingénue of prevarication imperceptible venue - theatre of the absurd; withdrawn siren, solitude of necessity - skin - slender veil of shame, nearness loitering redemption; moments envisage the appointment with the soul; ambiguity eschews clarity awareness; ineluctable anxiety, imago - centric confession sacred pardon, seraphic venation intravenous textures presume, the tactile margins of liberty. Therapeutic retrieval, Sanguine, beneath the portico of individuation; Your smile I hear, recovered autonomy blessed emancipation, The scandal of particularity; peculiar treasure ironically captured film, canvas, prose profundity. Ciphering as an ambling book, I peruse you, rendered captive hypnotic avant-garde fiction, spectator of denuded opacity analogous reflection, I Mirror you. A modest proposal - pontificate the imperative, forgo the disposal, adapt your narrative, the scandal of particularity - resonate the echo, cogitate our propinquity Love, imagination and destiny. ©2008 & 2011 W.S Warner
0
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
WSWarner
The Scandal of Particularity
Verdant eyes, translucent pearls speak in silent witness, wounds unfurl meaning revealed, interrupted girl. Safe in solidarity prolific eccentricity, the scandal of particularity. Pouting mouth grief - filled lips alluring, set sail a thousand ships; tempt me to leave harbor. Arousing euphoria as such, resistance, amity and distance amour sans touch her sense of humor transcends, appeasing the mind’s thirst a vogue sultana, seasoned swagger hair resplendent flame, alternating cool, black asymmetrical coiffure; nonconforming demure the renegade metaphor - singular for sure, no cure. Muted vanity, bathos piercing the jaded circumference of banality; pale protagonist servitude the sapient palaver of the urbane, covered patina of pretense, induced coercion, the commodity self appearing abased wearing lesions of lassitude. Artistic chattel - eminent domain preempting genius, subsidiary of consuming narcissism external locus of control; surrender to the tentative, fettered pendant, Venus in chains arrested visionary bane sterile savant, edifice of pain. The soubrette, dubious incarnation gravid ingénue of prevarication imperceptible venue - theatre of the absurd; withdrawn siren, solitude of necessity - skin - slender veil of shame, nearness loitering redemption; moments envisage the appointment with the soul; ambiguity eschews clarity awareness; ineluctable anxiety, imago - centric confession sacred pardon, seraphic venation intravenous textures presume, the tactile margins of liberty. Therapeutic retrieval, Sanguine, beneath the portico of individuation; Your smile I hear, recovered autonomy blessed emancipation, The scandal of particularity; peculiar treasure ironically captured film, canvas, prose profundity. Ciphering as an ambling book, I peruse you, rendered captive hypnotic avant-garde fiction, spectator of denuded opacity analogous reflection, I Mirror you. A modest proposal - pontificate the imperative, forgo the disposal, adapt your narrative, the scandal of particularity - resonate the echo, cogitate our propinquity Love, imagination and destiny. ©2008 & 2011 W.S Warner
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82
Women of the ROK [South Korea] unite to protest the rash of digital camera up-skirting, hidden toilet cams & dressing room holes by an avant-garde subculture whose sole aim is to redefine beauty from  the bottom up; tearing down the old order    of mere very pretty faces for the surprise   the unseen; online ******* poets who wax romantically;  over South Korean women who wear the shortest skirts of any westernized Asian country; therefore, where the average woman is expected to be above average, what could be better than a possible *** or period stain; [        ], Rupi Koar laid the foundation [her soiled garments stinking of Canadian Desi BO; dreaming wistfully of the blossoming cherry-trees in the hidden grove, streams of crystalline blood threading through the golden grass; (dead as if she was [Sleeping Beauty (on the toilet)]) & w/ healthy [or unhealthy] doses of Baudelaire, Swinburne, Poe, Sade & Wilde; this new school of poets celebrating female underwear & bottoms & beyond; what could future generations make of various Internet pseudo-intellectual movements all coalescing into a monolithic computer culture driven by the embarrassment & shame of its female members & their ***** backsides & underwear; essentially odes on her laundry basket, odes on her farts, odes on her leavings, odes on her mother's droppings & leavings, &        her grandmothers' mothers leavings; South Korean women are the original race,                their intestine driven by pure lust [a South Korean woman's soul  is in her belly]
0
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 12:53 AM UTC
johnny-noiπ
the new korean ******* poetry
Women of the ROK [South Korea] unite to protest the rash of digital camera up-skirting, hidden toilet cams & dressing room holes by an avant-garde subculture whose sole aim is to redefine beauty from  the bottom up; tearing down the old order    of mere very pretty faces for the surprise   the unseen; online ******* poets who wax romantically;  over South Korean women who wear the shortest skirts of any westernized Asian country; therefore, where the average woman is expected to be above average, what could be better than a possible *** or period stain; [        ], Rupi Koar laid the foundation [her soiled garments stinking of Canadian Desi BO; dreaming wistfully of the blossoming cherry-trees in the hidden grove, streams of crystalline blood threading through the golden grass; (dead as if she was [Sleeping Beauty (on the toilet)]) & w/ healthy [or unhealthy] doses of Baudelaire, Swinburne, Poe, Sade & Wilde; this new school of poets celebrating female underwear & bottoms & beyond; what could future generations make of various Internet pseudo-intellectual movements all coalescing into a monolithic computer culture driven by the embarrassment & shame of its female members & their ***** backsides & underwear; essentially odes on her laundry basket, odes on her farts, odes on her leavings, odes on her mother's droppings & leavings, &        her grandmothers' mothers leavings; South Korean women are the original race,                their intestine driven by pure lust [a South Korean woman's soul  is in her belly]
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32
Je suis exatlé de voir dans ce ciel de nuit, Auquel je dois cette plaisante fortune. En compagnie d’étoiles clignotantes, Subjugué par ce spectacle, j’admire ma Lune. Lave-moi dans ton eau argentée, translucide. Sois près de moi lors de mes blanches nuits. Veille sur moi tel un garde sans faille. Enveloppe-moi de murmures, un calme répit. Ô comme tu guides les flots ardents de mon âme! Baisse les yeux, les eaux abordent ma plage… Érode le fardeau qui étouffe mes écueils brûlants, Des sables noyés, oppressé, tendres otages. Peu de nuits à présent… Épris alors que tu t’en vas. Des brins épais et sombres de cheveux en cascades, Dissimulent ton visage d’une manière séduisante. Il n’en reste qu’un croissant, qui s’efface dans le noir. Les nuits s’écoulent… Maintenant la lune se délite M’en laissant qu’une moitié; la nuit le veut ainsi. Reste encore, plus longtemps; ne pars pas si tôt, Je ne me sens pas prêt à être anéanti. Je lève la tête sans dire un mot, alors que les nuits passent. J’ai vu mon amour lunaire se dissoudre dans l’espace. My coeur, aussi, déchiré bout par bout… Enfin, elle était partie; partie, sans laisser de trace. Depuis, chaque nuit abonde de vide et de souffrance. Je supplie les étoiles d’apaiser le vide en moi… Mais ils se contenteraient de briller, indifférents… Même suite à tous mes appels, mes émois. Desormais je suis incertain sur le nombre de passages. Les nuits n’amenèrent que l’assaut des étoiles moqueuses. Cependant je joue des promesses celestes, Pour le retour de ma folle quête amoureuse. Je sais que c’est frivole de penser que je suis le seul… C’est vrai, ils languissent; ma souffrance est la leur. Mais c’est moi qui désire le plus ton fameux regard, Car nos coeurs ont chanté dans toutes les couleurs. Ma détresse à son zénith, emplis, presque brisé, Lorsque soudain j’entends une belle chanson, lointaine. Une chanson pareille à celle que l’on prononçât, Encore garnie d’argent translucide, je soupire avec peine…, “Te voilà....”
0
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
ryn
Lettre de ton Astronome
Je suis exatlé de voir dans ce ciel de nuit, Auquel je dois cette plaisante fortune. En compagnie d’étoiles clignotantes, Subjugué par ce spectacle, j’admire ma Lune. Lave-moi dans ton eau argentée, translucide. Sois près de moi lors de mes blanches nuits. Veille sur moi tel un garde sans faille. Enveloppe-moi de murmures, un calme répit. Ô comme tu guides les flots ardents de mon âme! Baisse les yeux, les eaux abordent ma plage… Érode le fardeau qui étouffe mes écueils brûlants, Des sables noyés, oppressé, tendres otages. Peu de nuits à présent… Épris alors que tu t’en vas. Des brins épais et sombres de cheveux en cascades, Dissimulent ton visage d’une manière séduisante. Il n’en reste qu’un croissant, qui s’efface dans le noir. Les nuits s’écoulent… Maintenant la lune se délite M’en laissant qu’une moitié; la nuit le veut ainsi. Reste encore, plus longtemps; ne pars pas si tôt, Je ne me sens pas prêt à être anéanti. Je lève la tête sans dire un mot, alors que les nuits passent. J’ai vu mon amour lunaire se dissoudre dans l’espace. My coeur, aussi, déchiré bout par bout… Enfin, elle était partie; partie, sans laisser de trace. Depuis, chaque nuit abonde de vide et de souffrance. Je supplie les étoiles d’apaiser le vide en moi… Mais ils se contenteraient de briller, indifférents… Même suite à tous mes appels, mes émois. Desormais je suis incertain sur le nombre de passages. Les nuits n’amenèrent que l’assaut des étoiles moqueuses. Cependant je joue des promesses celestes, Pour le retour de ma folle quête amoureuse. Je sais que c’est frivole de penser que je suis le seul… C’est vrai, ils languissent; ma souffrance est la leur. Mais c’est moi qui désire le plus ton fameux regard, Car nos coeurs ont chanté dans toutes les couleurs. Ma détresse à son zénith, emplis, presque brisé, Lorsque soudain j’entends une belle chanson, lointaine. Une chanson pareille à celle que l’on prononçât, Encore garnie d’argent translucide, je soupire avec peine…, “Te voilà....”
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41
Puisque de Sisteron à Nantes, Au cabaret, tout français chante, Puisque je suis ton échanson, Je veux, ô Française charmante, Te fredonner une chanson ; Une chanson de ma manière, Pour toi d'abord, et mes amis, En buvant gaiement dans mon verre À la santé de ton pays. Amis, buvons à la Fortune De la France, Mère commune, Entre Shakespeare et Murillo : On y voit la blonde et la brune, On y boit la bière... et non l'eau. Doux pays, le plus doux du monde, Entre Washington... et Chauvin, Tu baises la brune et la blonde, Tu fais de la bière et du vin. Ton cœur est franc, ton âme est fière ; Les soldats de la Terre entière T'attaqueront toujours en vain. Tu baises la blonde et la bière Comme on boit la brune et le vin. La brune a le con de la lune, La blonde a les poils... du mâtin... Garde bien ta bière et ta brune, Garde bien ta blonde et ton vin ! On tire la bière de l'orge, La baïonnette de la forge, Avec la vigne on fait du vin. Ta blonde a deux fleurs sur la gorge, Ta brune a deux grains de raisin. L'une accroche sa jupe aux branches, L'autre sourit sous les houblons : Garde bien leurs garces de hanches, Garde bien leurs bougres de cons. Pays vaillant comme un archange, Pays plus *** que la vendange Et que l'étoile du matin, Ta blonde est une douce orange, Mais ta brune ah !... sacré mâtin ! Ta brune a la griffe profonde ; Ta rousse a le teint du jasmin ; Garde-les bien ! Garde ta blonde Garde-la, le sabre à la main. Que tes canons n'aient pas de rouilles, Que tes fileuses de quenouilles Puissent en paix rire et dormir, Et se repose sur tes couilles Du présent et de l'avenir. C'est sur elles que tu travailles Sous les toisons d'ombre ou d'or fin : Garde-les des regards canailles, Garde-les du coup d'œil hautain ! Pays galant, la langue est claire Comme le soleil dans ton verre, Plus que le grec et le latin ; Autant que ta blonde et ta bière Garde-la bien, comme ton vin. Pays plus beau que le Soleil, Lune, Étoile, aube, aurore et matins. Aime bien ta blonde et ta brune, Et fais-leur... beaucoup de catins !
0
3k
Germain Nouveau
Chanson
Puisque de Sisteron à Nantes, Au cabaret, tout français chante, Puisque je suis ton échanson, Je veux, ô Française charmante, Te fredonner une chanson ; Une chanson de ma manière, Pour toi d'abord, et mes amis, En buvant gaiement dans mon verre À la santé de ton pays. Amis, buvons à la Fortune De la France, Mère commune, Entre Shakespeare et Murillo : On y voit la blonde et la brune, On y boit la bière... et non l'eau. Doux pays, le plus doux du monde, Entre Washington... et Chauvin, Tu baises la brune et la blonde, Tu fais de la bière et du vin. Ton cœur est franc, ton âme est fière ; Les soldats de la Terre entière T'attaqueront toujours en vain. Tu baises la blonde et la bière Comme on boit la brune et le vin. La brune a le con de la lune, La blonde a les poils... du mâtin... Garde bien ta bière et ta brune, Garde bien ta blonde et ton vin ! On tire la bière de l'orge, La baïonnette de la forge, Avec la vigne on fait du vin. Ta blonde a deux fleurs sur la gorge, Ta brune a deux grains de raisin. L'une accroche sa jupe aux branches, L'autre sourit sous les houblons : Garde bien leurs garces de hanches, Garde bien leurs bougres de cons. Pays vaillant comme un archange, Pays plus *** que la vendange Et que l'étoile du matin, Ta blonde est une douce orange, Mais ta brune ah !... sacré mâtin ! Ta brune a la griffe profonde ; Ta rousse a le teint du jasmin ; Garde-les bien ! Garde ta blonde Garde-la, le sabre à la main. Que tes canons n'aient pas de rouilles, Que tes fileuses de quenouilles Puissent en paix rire et dormir, Et se repose sur tes couilles Du présent et de l'avenir. C'est sur elles que tu travailles Sous les toisons d'ombre ou d'or fin : Garde-les des regards canailles, Garde-les du coup d'œil hautain ! Pays galant, la langue est claire Comme le soleil dans ton verre, Plus que le grec et le latin ; Autant que ta blonde et ta bière Garde-la bien, comme ton vin. Pays plus beau que le Soleil, Lune, Étoile, aube, aurore et matins. Aime bien ta blonde et ta brune, Et fais-leur... beaucoup de catins !
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63
Numerous number systems beyond the real: complex numbers, octonions, omnions which can eat whole black       holes. It's axiomatic that your personal history, preferences, how you feel account for nothing at all. $30 buys a flock of chickens for a needy family (International Rescue       Committee) $29 gets a girl a school uniform (CARE), for $300 you can stock a fish       pond (Heifer International) $69 can start a female entrepreneur in the sewing business (Mercy       Corps) $5 will buy a bed net that protects a family from mosquitoes (Against       Malaria) 20th century experiments demonstrated that electrical charge is       quantized; that is, it comes in multiples of individual small units called the elementary charge, e,       approximately equal to 1.602 x 10-19 coulombs (except for particles called quarks which have       charges that are multiples of 1/3e). Why has the experimentalism of the avant-garde, which has failed in       the novel, succeeded in poetry? Because poetry is always experimental; while the novel, on       the contrary, by its nature, cannot be . . . which is to say that experimentalism is synonymous       with poetry, and that applied to the novel, it leads simply to the substitution of the novel with       poetry. --Alberto Moravia Man made the town, Fibonacci inflated zero to be the wheel around which the universe turns and language is the soul walking and talking quietly or going angrily to war. "Counting is in its very essence magical, if any human practice is at all.       For numbers are things no one has ever seen or heard or touched."       As are words. Joan Didion thought the scariest stanza in all of poetry begins Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream. The elements, the material penumbra, irresolvable for the mortal, readily dissolve in words and numbers.
0
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 4:08 PM UTC
robert-ronnow
The Scariest Stanza in All of Poetry
Numerous number systems beyond the real: complex numbers, octonions, omnions which can eat whole black       holes. It's axiomatic that your personal history, preferences, how you feel account for nothing at all. $30 buys a flock of chickens for a needy family (International Rescue       Committee) $29 gets a girl a school uniform (CARE), for $300 you can stock a fish       pond (Heifer International) $69 can start a female entrepreneur in the sewing business (Mercy       Corps) $5 will buy a bed net that protects a family from mosquitoes (Against       Malaria) 20th century experiments demonstrated that electrical charge is       quantized; that is, it comes in multiples of individual small units called the elementary charge, e,       approximately equal to 1.602 x 10-19 coulombs (except for particles called quarks which have       charges that are multiples of 1/3e). Why has the experimentalism of the avant-garde, which has failed in       the novel, succeeded in poetry? Because poetry is always experimental; while the novel, on       the contrary, by its nature, cannot be . . . which is to say that experimentalism is synonymous       with poetry, and that applied to the novel, it leads simply to the substitution of the novel with       poetry. --Alberto Moravia Man made the town, Fibonacci inflated zero to be the wheel around which the universe turns and language is the soul walking and talking quietly or going angrily to war. "Counting is in its very essence magical, if any human practice is at all.       For numbers are things no one has ever seen or heard or touched."       As are words. Joan Didion thought the scariest stanza in all of poetry begins Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream. The elements, the material penumbra, irresolvable for the mortal, readily dissolve in words and numbers.
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38
Urdhva Hastasana Salida del sol. Her paws are bare Ablaze against the black stone heat of the morning stroll Pausing for the last monsoon, whispering Salut? There would not exist consequence for a dampened nose of pusillanimity Carelessly drawn to the astrophysical realm of celestial bodies Illuminating the chivalry once more. We'll sing chansons Oh cabaret! The circumstance and pomp eliding Lavishly rouged lips from sterling glances Exposed by the slow and sultry raise of copper eyes Premeditated, so that they lift in perfect timing Beneath dark lashes to seem accidentally mesmeric. I still lose amethysts They drop from the back of my ears unexpectedly Their plunge of contact against the water Catches my attention but no more Of a thought should surface except to surface The stones from the depths pooling around my ankles. The rain won't drain and hasn't for months She scratches her hair but the pining never stops. I rub her ears so she'll display such an ardor Revealed in company and solitude simultaneously To be weighed and doubted and accepted and declined Beneath the stony gaze of the eyes of a god Swindling a wrinkle in the shower curtain. Alas what a shame it is Besitos aren't quite fancied here. Ne prennent pas garde aux berceaux, Que la main des femmes balance. Puesta del sol.
0
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
faeri-shankar
Urdhva Hastasana
Urdhva Hastasana Salida del sol. Her paws are bare Ablaze against the black stone heat of the morning stroll Pausing for the last monsoon, whispering Salut? There would not exist consequence for a dampened nose of pusillanimity Carelessly drawn to the astrophysical realm of celestial bodies Illuminating the chivalry once more. We'll sing chansons Oh cabaret! The circumstance and pomp eliding Lavishly rouged lips from sterling glances Exposed by the slow and sultry raise of copper eyes Premeditated, so that they lift in perfect timing Beneath dark lashes to seem accidentally mesmeric. I still lose amethysts They drop from the back of my ears unexpectedly Their plunge of contact against the water Catches my attention but no more Of a thought should surface except to surface The stones from the depths pooling around my ankles. The rain won't drain and hasn't for months She scratches her hair but the pining never stops. I rub her ears so she'll display such an ardor Revealed in company and solitude simultaneously To be weighed and doubted and accepted and declined Beneath the stony gaze of the eyes of a god Swindling a wrinkle in the shower curtain. Alas what a shame it is Besitos aren't quite fancied here. Ne prennent pas garde aux berceaux, Que la main des femmes balance. Puesta del sol.
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33
Sometimes I think We speak different languages Yours is so thick and harsh and punc-tu-a-ted, And mine, mellow and soft and op-en-heart-ed. When we walk around, people stare and glare, Looking at some interracial couple From the nineteen-twenties' But you know what? They're just freakin' tone-deaf; Our harmonies are way too Avant-garde
0
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 12:01 PM UTC
ezra
Harmonies
Sometimes I think We speak different languages Yours is so thick and harsh and punc-tu-a-ted, And mine, mellow and soft and op-en-heart-ed. When we walk around, people stare and glare, Looking at some interracial couple From the nineteen-twenties' But you know what? They're just freakin' tone-deaf; Our harmonies are way too Avant-garde
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11
People will often say That those who have trouble Letting others in Are "guarded". And maybe that's true In most cases. They wear an emotional Suit of armor And build imaginary walls Around their hearts. I also have trouble Letting people get close. But I would not, In any circumstances, Say that I am "guarded". To call someone "guarded" Insists that they are protected, Safe from harm. That's where the word loses its Relevance to me. I am not protected. Not in the slightest. I wear no suit of armor And have no walls Around my heart. I'm as vulnerable as a baby deer Who's lost it's mother And broke it's leg. I am susceptible To any and all types of injury. I am not safe from harm Or impervious to heartbreak. In fact, I'm fragile. My heart is brittle And will break as easily as glass. I have trouble letting people in, But I am by no means "guarded". I have trouble letting people in Because I am extremely unguarded. I am not protected or safe, But I am evasive. Which is probably The smartest thing to be, For people like me. I run from danger And emotional intimacy Because I know I'm too frail To handle being mistreated Or left alone. After letting myself fall Over and over again, I've learned that love Is not worth the pain It inevitably causes. I am done risking My delicate soul To feel close to someone. At least for now, I don't want to love Or be loved by anyone. For now, I'm still recovering. I'm still learning how to live With myself and without the Infatuation of someone Who will most likely end up Being nothing but a memory. I won't correct you If you call me "guarded". But those who do not wish To be emotionally close Are not always so hardened. Sometimes they're soft And scared of the world around them.
0
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
lizzy15
En Garde
People will often say That those who have trouble Letting others in Are "guarded". And maybe that's true In most cases. They wear an emotional Suit of armor And build imaginary walls Around their hearts. I also have trouble Letting people get close. But I would not, In any circumstances, Say that I am "guarded". To call someone "guarded" Insists that they are protected, Safe from harm. That's where the word loses its Relevance to me. I am not protected. Not in the slightest. I wear no suit of armor And have no walls Around my heart. I'm as vulnerable as a baby deer Who's lost it's mother And broke it's leg. I am susceptible To any and all types of injury. I am not safe from harm Or impervious to heartbreak. In fact, I'm fragile. My heart is brittle And will break as easily as glass. I have trouble letting people in, But I am by no means "guarded". I have trouble letting people in Because I am extremely unguarded. I am not protected or safe, But I am evasive. Which is probably The smartest thing to be, For people like me. I run from danger And emotional intimacy Because I know I'm too frail To handle being mistreated Or left alone. After letting myself fall Over and over again, I've learned that love Is not worth the pain It inevitably causes. I am done risking My delicate soul To feel close to someone. At least for now, I don't want to love Or be loved by anyone. For now, I'm still recovering. I'm still learning how to live With myself and without the Infatuation of someone Who will most likely end up Being nothing but a memory. I won't correct you If you call me "guarded". But those who do not wish To be emotionally close Are not always so hardened. Sometimes they're soft And scared of the world around them.
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76
An art movement is a tendency or style in art with a specific common philosophy or goal, followed by a group of artists during a restricted period of time, usually a few months, years or decades or, at least, with the heyday of the movement defined within a number of years. Art movements were especially important in modern art, when each consecutive movement was considered as a new avant-garde; According to theories associated with modernism and the concept of postmodernism, art movements are especially important during the period of time corresponding to modern art. The period of time called "modern art" is posited to have changed approximately halfway through the 20th century and art made afterward is generally called contemporary art. Postmodernism in visual art begins and functions as a parallel to late modernism and refers to that period after the "modern" period called contemporary art. The postmodern period began  during late modernism, which is a contemporary continuation of modernism;             and according to some theorists postmodernism ended in the 21st century.       During the period of time corresponding to "modern art" each consecutive movement was often considered a new avant-garde. Also during the period of time referred to as        "modern art" each movement was seen corresponding   to a somewhat grandiose rethinking of all that came before it, concerning the visual arts. Generally there was a commonality of visual style linking the works and artists included in an art movement.                      Verbal expression and explanation of movements has come from the artists themselves, sometimes in the form of an art manifesto, and sometimes from art critics and others who may explain their understanding of the meaning of the new art then being produced; In the visual arts,                           many artists, theorists, art critics, art collectors,                                     art dealers and others mindful of the unbroken continuation of modernism and the continuation of modern art even into the contemporary era, ascribe to and welcome new philosophies of art as they appear. Postmodernist theorists posit that the idea of art movements are no longer as applicable,                    or no longer as discernible, as the notion of art movements had been before the postmodern era. There are many theorists however who doubt as to whether or not such an era was actually a fact; or just a passing fad. The term refers to tendencies in visual art, novel ideas and architecture, and sometimes literature. In music it is more common to speak about genres and styles instead. See also cultural movement, a term with a broader connotation. As the names of many art movements use the -ism suffix, for example cubism and futurism, they are sometimes referred to as isms
0
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
johnny-noiπ
After Modernism, The End of the Road.
An art movement is a tendency or style in art with a specific common philosophy or goal, followed by a group of artists during a restricted period of time, usually a few months, years or decades or, at least, with the heyday of the movement defined within a number of years. Art movements were especially important in modern art, when each consecutive movement was considered as a new avant-garde; According to theories associated with modernism and the concept of postmodernism, art movements are especially important during the period of time corresponding to modern art. The period of time called "modern art" is posited to have changed approximately halfway through the 20th century and art made afterward is generally called contemporary art. Postmodernism in visual art begins and functions as a parallel to late modernism and refers to that period after the "modern" period called contemporary art. The postmodern period began  during late modernism, which is a contemporary continuation of modernism;             and according to some theorists postmodernism ended in the 21st century.       During the period of time corresponding to "modern art" each consecutive movement was often considered a new avant-garde. Also during the period of time referred to as        "modern art" each movement was seen corresponding   to a somewhat grandiose rethinking of all that came before it, concerning the visual arts. Generally there was a commonality of visual style linking the works and artists included in an art movement.                      Verbal expression and explanation of movements has come from the artists themselves, sometimes in the form of an art manifesto, and sometimes from art critics and others who may explain their understanding of the meaning of the new art then being produced; In the visual arts,                           many artists, theorists, art critics, art collectors,                                     art dealers and others mindful of the unbroken continuation of modernism and the continuation of modern art even into the contemporary era, ascribe to and welcome new philosophies of art as they appear. Postmodernist theorists posit that the idea of art movements are no longer as applicable,                    or no longer as discernible, as the notion of art movements had been before the postmodern era. There are many theorists however who doubt as to whether or not such an era was actually a fact; or just a passing fad. The term refers to tendencies in visual art, novel ideas and architecture, and sometimes literature. In music it is more common to speak about genres and styles instead. See also cultural movement, a term with a broader connotation. As the names of many art movements use the -ism suffix, for example cubism and futurism, they are sometimes referred to as isms
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64
Chanson. Mimi Pinson est une blonde, Une blonde que l'on connaît. Elle n'a qu'une robe au monde, Landerirette ! Et qu'un bonnet. Le Grand Turc en a davantage. Dieu voulut de cette façon La rendre sage. On ne peut pas la mettre en gage, La robe de Mimi Pinson. Mimi Pinson porte une rose, Une rose blanche au côté. Cette fleur dans son coeur éclose, Landerirette ! C'est la gaieté. Quand un bon souper la réveille, Elle fait sortir la chanson De la bouteille. Parfois il penche sur l'oreille, Le bonnet de Mimi Pinson. Elle a les yeux et la main prestes. Les carabins, matin et soir, Usent les manches de leurs vestes, Landerirette ! A son comptoir. Quoique sans maltraiter personne, Mimi leur fait mieux la leçon Qu'à la Sorbonne. Il ne faut pas qu'on la chiffonne, La robe de Mimi Pinson. Mimi Pinson peut rester fille, Si Dieu le veut, c'est dans son droit. Elle aura toujours son aiguille, Landerirette ! Au bout du doigt. Pour entreprendre sa conquête, Ce n'est pas tout qu'un beau garçon : Faut être honnête ; Car il n'est pas **** de sa tête, Le bonnet de Mimi Pinson. D'un gros bouquet de fleurs d'orange Si l'amour veut la couronner, Elle a quelque chose en échange, Landerirette ! A lui donner. Ce n'est pas, on se l'imagine, Un manteau sur un écusson Fourré d'hermine ; C'est l'étui d'une perle fine, La robe de Mimi Pinson. Mimi n'a pas l'âme vulgaire, Mais son coeur est républicain : Aux trois jours elle a fait la guerre, Landerirette ! En casaquin. A défaut d'une hallebarde, On l'a vue avec son poinçon Monter la garde. Heureux qui mettra sa cocarde Au bonnet de Mimi Pinson !
0
2.3k
Alfred de Musset
Mimi Pinson
Chanson. Mimi Pinson est une blonde, Une blonde que l'on connaît. Elle n'a qu'une robe au monde, Landerirette ! Et qu'un bonnet. Le Grand Turc en a davantage. Dieu voulut de cette façon La rendre sage. On ne peut pas la mettre en gage, La robe de Mimi Pinson. Mimi Pinson porte une rose, Une rose blanche au côté. Cette fleur dans son coeur éclose, Landerirette ! C'est la gaieté. Quand un bon souper la réveille, Elle fait sortir la chanson De la bouteille. Parfois il penche sur l'oreille, Le bonnet de Mimi Pinson. Elle a les yeux et la main prestes. Les carabins, matin et soir, Usent les manches de leurs vestes, Landerirette ! A son comptoir. Quoique sans maltraiter personne, Mimi leur fait mieux la leçon Qu'à la Sorbonne. Il ne faut pas qu'on la chiffonne, La robe de Mimi Pinson. Mimi Pinson peut rester fille, Si Dieu le veut, c'est dans son droit. Elle aura toujours son aiguille, Landerirette ! Au bout du doigt. Pour entreprendre sa conquête, Ce n'est pas tout qu'un beau garçon : Faut être honnête ; Car il n'est pas **** de sa tête, Le bonnet de Mimi Pinson. D'un gros bouquet de fleurs d'orange Si l'amour veut la couronner, Elle a quelque chose en échange, Landerirette ! A lui donner. Ce n'est pas, on se l'imagine, Un manteau sur un écusson Fourré d'hermine ; C'est l'étui d'une perle fine, La robe de Mimi Pinson. Mimi n'a pas l'âme vulgaire, Mais son coeur est républicain : Aux trois jours elle a fait la guerre, Landerirette ! En casaquin. A défaut d'une hallebarde, On l'a vue avec son poinçon Monter la garde. Heureux qui mettra sa cocarde Au bonnet de Mimi Pinson !
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61
_New York                                after a trip to Mexico, & not finally explored_.    In 1991, shortly before he died,                                   Motherwell   remembered a "conspiracy of silence"                        regarding Paalen´s innovative role in the genesis of Abstract Expressionism. Upon return from Mexico,                       Motherwell               spent time developing his creative principle               based on automatism:    "what I realized was that Americans      potentially could paint like angels,              but that there      was no effective                        creative principle around,                      so that everybody      who liked modern art        was copying it;                            Gorky was copying Picasso;                          ******* was copying Picasso;                   De Kooni                                   ng was copying Picasso;               I mean,          I say this unqualifiedly,                   I was painting French intimate pictures or whatever:             All we needed was a creative principle,             I mean something that would mobilize this capacity to paint in a creative way,                   & that's what Europe                         had that we                         hadn't had;                                                 we had always followed in their wake                         &       I thought of all the possibilities             |               [                    ], [                 ]    of free association—because I also had    a psychoanalytic background & I understood the implications of—let's just say it might be the best chance                           to really make something entirely new which everybody agreed was the thing to do;" Thus, in the early 1940s,          Robert Motherwell played a significant role in laying the foundations for the new movement of Abstract Expressionism (or the New York School):                  "Matta wanted to start a revolution,  m [a movement w/in                    Surrealism].                   He asked me to find some other                   American artists that would help start   a new movement;                   it was then that Baziotes                                            & I went to see ******* & de Kooning       & Hofmann & Kamrowski &     Busa & several other people;      &                                           if we could come with something;      Peggy Guggenheim, who liked us said that she      would put on a show of this new business;      ... so I went around explaining         _the theory of automatism_      to everybody because _the only way_      that you could have a _move - - - ment_      was that it had some _common_                                                        _principle_. It sort of all began that way." In 1942 Motherwell began to exhibit        his work in New York and in 1944        he had his first one-man show at        Peggy Guggenheim’s _“Art of This Century”_ gallery;                   that same year,                   the MoMA                   was the first museum                   purchase one of his works;   From the mid-1940s,                   Motherwell [                   ], [                 ]. (            )                   became the leading spokesman                   for _avant-garde art in America_;                   his circle coming to include                                           William Baziotes,                   David Hare, Barnett Newman,                         & Mark Rothko, with whom he eventually             started the Subjects of the Artist School (1948–49). In 1949 Motherwell divorced             Maria Emilia Ferreira y Moyeros    and in 1950 he married Bettie                                                                   Little,                                                                   with whom he had two daughters
0
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
johnny-noiπ
Eli Simple as MOTHERWELL in "Automatic" [w/ Milky Toes as Peggy Guggenheim]:::NOW:::PLAYING:::w/ IT
_New York                                after a trip to Mexico, & not finally explored_.    In 1991, shortly before he died,                                   Motherwell   remembered a "conspiracy of silence"                        regarding Paalen´s innovative role in the genesis of Abstract Expressionism. Upon return from Mexico,                       Motherwell               spent time developing his creative principle               based on automatism:    "what I realized was that Americans      potentially could paint like angels,              but that there      was no effective                        creative principle around,                      so that everybody      who liked modern art        was copying it;                            Gorky was copying Picasso;                          ******* was copying Picasso;                   De Kooni                                   ng was copying Picasso;               I mean,          I say this unqualifiedly,                   I was painting French intimate pictures or whatever:             All we needed was a creative principle,             I mean something that would mobilize this capacity to paint in a creative way,                   & that's what Europe                         had that we                         hadn't had;                                                 we had always followed in their wake                         &       I thought of all the possibilities             |               [                    ], [                 ]    of free association—because I also had    a psychoanalytic background & I understood the implications of—let's just say it might be the best chance                           to really make something entirely new which everybody agreed was the thing to do;" Thus, in the early 1940s,          Robert Motherwell played a significant role in laying the foundations for the new movement of Abstract Expressionism (or the New York School):                  "Matta wanted to start a revolution,  m [a movement w/in                    Surrealism].                   He asked me to find some other                   American artists that would help start   a new movement;                   it was then that Baziotes                                            & I went to see ******* & de Kooning       & Hofmann & Kamrowski &     Busa & several other people;      &                                           if we could come with something;      Peggy Guggenheim, who liked us said that she      would put on a show of this new business;      ... so I went around explaining         _the theory of automatism_      to everybody because _the only way_      that you could have a _move - - - ment_      was that it had some _common_                                                        _principle_. It sort of all began that way." In 1942 Motherwell began to exhibit        his work in New York and in 1944        he had his first one-man show at        Peggy Guggenheim’s _“Art of This Century”_ gallery;                   that same year,                   the MoMA                   was the first museum                   purchase one of his works;   From the mid-1940s,                   Motherwell [                   ], [                 ]. (            )                   became the leading spokesman                   for _avant-garde art in America_;                   his circle coming to include                                           William Baziotes,                   David Hare, Barnett Newman,                         & Mark Rothko, with whom he eventually             started the Subjects of the Artist School (1948–49). In 1949 Motherwell divorced             Maria Emilia Ferreira y Moyeros    and in 1950 he married Bettie                                                                   Little,                                                                   with whom he had two daughters
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70
Wee Wee Missure excusez-moi pendant que je prends un pipi gardez votre imagination les chaussures haut refaites un talon de la voie les cris si désolés j'ai un pauvre but projetait de le fixer plus **** aujourd'hui si triste que je ne garde pas de contrôle le monsieur partez s'il vous plaît envoyez-moi la facture faisante le ménage Je mendie humblement votre clémence Translater translation2.paralink excuse me while I take a *** keep your fancy high heeled shoes out of the way whoops so sorry I have a poor aim was planning to fix that later today so sad that I do not keep control mister please will you move away send the cleaning bill over to me I humbly beg your mercy Gomer LePoet...
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Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 9:18 PM UTC
david-nelson
Wee Wee Missure
Wee Wee Missure excusez-moi pendant que je prends un pipi gardez votre imagination les chaussures haut refaites un talon de la voie les cris si désolés j'ai un pauvre but projetait de le fixer plus **** aujourd'hui si triste que je ne garde pas de contrôle le monsieur partez s'il vous plaît envoyez-moi la facture faisante le ménage Je mendie humblement votre clémence Translater translation2.paralink excuse me while I take a *** keep your fancy high heeled shoes out of the way whoops so sorry I have a poor aim was planning to fix that later today so sad that I do not keep control mister please will you move away send the cleaning bill over to me I humbly beg your mercy Gomer LePoet...
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19
I imagine you a bloodcurdling scene, with your avant-garde of conscious stream slaying syntax smearing words like the battered wife whose entity shadows identity. and your rose is a rose is a rose is a rose revolves a continuous, endless carousal repeating controversies without just end, just being oh, You voodoo Queen of rare success how does this convince the modernist?
0
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:05 PM UTC
carly-salzberg
What do you Mean Gertrude Stein?
I imagine you a bloodcurdling scene, with your avant-garde of conscious stream slaying syntax smearing words like the battered wife whose entity shadows identity. and your rose is a rose is a rose is a rose revolves a continuous, endless carousal repeating controversies without just end, just being oh, You voodoo Queen of rare success how does this convince the modernist?
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14
Have you heard about old Erik Satie? He was quite slim and not un fatti; Son père was a Frog, his Ma a wee **** (which must have given quite a shock to his musical chums at the Conservatoire where he wrote "Trois morceaux en forme de poire"). While sitting 'au piano' one fine day At his Honfleur home so bright and gay, Our Erik felt himself come over queer, (le résultat triste de beaucoup de bière). He hadn't felt so odd since he didn't know when (that's when he wrote his "Gnossiennes"). Now I don't want you to think Erik was bent That certainly wasn't what I meant; But there's no doubt he was a little odd (indeed many called him an asexual sod); For, although French, he loved not the ladies (and he also wrote three nice "Gymnopédies"). Many piano pieces which Satie penned Are rather silly and round the bend; One was called "Prélude for a Dog" (which he wrote whilst sur le bogue); Perhaps his best known work is called "Parade" Which some people think is quite avant-garde. He was a bit ***** and collected umbrellas Which set him apart from saner fellers; He had lots of velvet suits to his name (and for some reason, they all looked the same). But he over-did it on the ***** was often ****** Thus he died prematurely, and is sorely missed.
0
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 8:46 AM UTC
edna-sweetlove
A Poem About Erik Satie, the Eccentric Half-A-Scot
Have you heard about old Erik Satie? He was quite slim and not un fatti; Son père was a Frog, his Ma a wee **** (which must have given quite a shock to his musical chums at the Conservatoire where he wrote "Trois morceaux en forme de poire"). While sitting 'au piano' one fine day At his Honfleur home so bright and gay, Our Erik felt himself come over queer, (le résultat triste de beaucoup de bière). He hadn't felt so odd since he didn't know when (that's when he wrote his "Gnossiennes"). Now I don't want you to think Erik was bent That certainly wasn't what I meant; But there's no doubt he was a little odd (indeed many called him an asexual sod); For, although French, he loved not the ladies (and he also wrote three nice "Gymnopédies"). Many piano pieces which Satie penned Are rather silly and round the bend; One was called "Prélude for a Dog" (which he wrote whilst sur le bogue); Perhaps his best known work is called "Parade" Which some people think is quite avant-garde. He was a bit ***** and collected umbrellas Which set him apart from saner fellers; He had lots of velvet suits to his name (and for some reason, they all looked the same). But he over-did it on the ***** was often ****** Thus he died prematurely, and is sorely missed.
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| Cubism brought the omniscient narrator into the visual arts & | traveling far enough from the center of the universe makes the universe seem actually     tiny & finally, imperceptible, all that is time-travel, god & ordinary life: is relativity, the math of the diameter; quantum mechanics, that of the circumference | the Russian avant-garde of the 'teens & 20's applied these principles to typography to serve the supposedly omniscient Soviet State; | an early cold war project of the NSA was to fund the arts as propaganda | 1950's & early 60's America saw unbridled expressions of mass, individual, artistic & intellectual creativity: facilitated in large part by the invention of LSD by the CIA | so far the greatest mind of recent times has been essentially a disembodied brain; RIP Stephen Hawking | the future points to our brain being salvageable from the polluted mess of the body; | Under Gretchen Carlson Miss America is to be judged on brains alone | _That's Avante-Garde, *****
0
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 8:45 PM UTC
johnny-noiπ
golden mean vs. scales
| Cubism brought the omniscient narrator into the visual arts & | traveling far enough from the center of the universe makes the universe seem actually     tiny & finally, imperceptible, all that is time-travel, god & ordinary life: is relativity, the math of the diameter; quantum mechanics, that of the circumference | the Russian avant-garde of the 'teens & 20's applied these principles to typography to serve the supposedly omniscient Soviet State; | an early cold war project of the NSA was to fund the arts as propaganda | 1950's & early 60's America saw unbridled expressions of mass, individual, artistic & intellectual creativity: facilitated in large part by the invention of LSD by the CIA | so far the greatest mind of recent times has been essentially a disembodied brain; RIP Stephen Hawking | the future points to our brain being salvageable from the polluted mess of the body; | Under Gretchen Carlson Miss America is to be judged on brains alone | _That's Avante-Garde, *****
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52
1. your moustache is ******* disgusting. do us all a favor and get rid of that ****
 2. your “I don’t date” **** gets old really quickly. you’re not “avant garde”, you’re just a ***** who hides his feelings. good luck with that in the future. 3. *** is not an obligation. my body is not a commodity. I do not owe you a ******* my lips are sacred, my tongue is a queen, my ***** is a ******* throne. your peasent *** is not near worthy
 4. you can not buy happiness. unfortunately your daddy taught you at a young age that a new car can fix any problem. unlike you, when I’m 40, ill be earning just enough to get by, but won’t need gin to fill the gaping hole which your money can’t fill 
5. karma, is a ***** in fact, karma is the biggest ***** you will ever meet. 
 6. I am not weak because of my depression. I am not weak because of my sobriety. in fact, my sobriety is the reason my depression is gone, it is the reason my wrists are clean, it is the reason the train tracks I had on my arms have faded to a weird looking tan line. 
7. I loved you. 
 8. loved. past tense. 9. I thank you. you have rid me of darkness. you have emptied me of hate. you have filled me with nothing but the sweet, sweet taste on my tongue from cursing your name. 
10. you will never, find anyone who will treat you as good as I did. I opened my fists for you. I let the flies that were lodged between my fingers free. I made you laugh. god **** did I make you laugh. 
11. you made Chicago my favorite city. the wind whispers your name at every moment and I’m forever reminded of the person I left behind. 
 12. I memorized your lips like the keyboard I type on. I’m forever wondering if you bothered to memorize mine.
0
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC
olivia-grace
all the things I have left unsaid
1. your moustache is ******* disgusting. do us all a favor and get rid of that ****
 2. your “I don’t date” **** gets old really quickly. you’re not “avant garde”, you’re just a ***** who hides his feelings. good luck with that in the future. 3. *** is not an obligation. my body is not a commodity. I do not owe you a ******* my lips are sacred, my tongue is a queen, my ***** is a ******* throne. your peasent *** is not near worthy
 4. you can not buy happiness. unfortunately your daddy taught you at a young age that a new car can fix any problem. unlike you, when I’m 40, ill be earning just enough to get by, but won’t need gin to fill the gaping hole which your money can’t fill 
5. karma, is a ***** in fact, karma is the biggest ***** you will ever meet. 
 6. I am not weak because of my depression. I am not weak because of my sobriety. in fact, my sobriety is the reason my depression is gone, it is the reason my wrists are clean, it is the reason the train tracks I had on my arms have faded to a weird looking tan line. 
7. I loved you. 
 8. loved. past tense. 9. I thank you. you have rid me of darkness. you have emptied me of hate. you have filled me with nothing but the sweet, sweet taste on my tongue from cursing your name. 
10. you will never, find anyone who will treat you as good as I did. I opened my fists for you. I let the flies that were lodged between my fingers free. I made you laugh. god **** did I make you laugh. 
11. you made Chicago my favorite city. the wind whispers your name at every moment and I’m forever reminded of the person I left behind. 
 12. I memorized your lips like the keyboard I type on. I’m forever wondering if you bothered to memorize mine.
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12
Stellar flûte, la chaleur fulgurante, battant éthérée, tandis que son âme à moi, que tu qui garde ... (french tongue) (English tongue) Stellar flute, meteoric heat, flying the ethereal, whilst its mine soul, that thou keepeth... ©Brandon nagley ©Lonesome poet's poetry ©Elsa angelica dedication
0
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
brandon-nagley
Flûte Stellar( stellar flute) french tongue
Stellar flûte, la chaleur fulgurante, battant éthérée, tandis que son âme à moi, que tu qui garde ... (french tongue) (English tongue) Stellar flute, meteoric heat, flying the ethereal, whilst its mine soul, that thou keepeth... ©Brandon nagley ©Lonesome poet's poetry ©Elsa angelica dedication
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7
She was a lovely looking thing, A beautiful young blonde girl/woman She hadn't been with us long... at    work She was smart and sassy, even a little    scary Held strong opinions on some things, She lived close to where I lived, only    a few miles away So I was sitting amongst them one    day, the girls/the ladies They were a little bored that day and    for some sport Were trying to draw me out, to get me        to open up a little To reveal some more about my ways    and my life So I thought I'd have some fun with    them I told them I did some painting as a    hobby And that my speciality was 'the    female Nude' But alas! I had a problem, I had no    one to sit for me "If only I had some beautiful nymph, some haughty Queen, some dazzling princess", I lamented And then I'd gaze over at Her, give her    a longing look, Then of course, someone upped and    said the obvious " Jen....don't you live close to where he lives, would you not go sit for him " My face it lit up and I smiled "No! I would not!!! she said    emphatically, disgusted Now I knew from the Christmas party    she liked to drink Gin So I said enticingly "I'll throw in a    few bottles of Gin" "I'd never pose **** for anyone", she replied again emphatically, "it'd be embarrassing, it'd be degrading! Sitting naked before some man!", " But ", I replied, " you wouldn't be embarrassed sitting for me 'Cos when I paint a **** I insist on    being in the **** myself as well So as to make my Sitter feel more at    home, more at ease Yeah, Me! I'm very... Avant Garde" (said with a devilish twinkle in my eye) Still she resisted my painterly    charms So as to further entice her I said "I'll even cook you breakfast, no one can resist my lovely sizzling sausages". I felt as though I'd dangled my carrot    right in her face But still she wouldn't take the bait. I suppose I was lucky she hadn't for if    she had of (agreed) I would have had to have learnt how    to paint Nudes real fast And how to cook sausages and other    breakfast repast.
0
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 9:38 AM UTC
bardo
**** with Violins
She was a lovely looking thing, A beautiful young blonde girl/woman She hadn't been with us long... at    work She was smart and sassy, even a little    scary Held strong opinions on some things, She lived close to where I lived, only    a few miles away So I was sitting amongst them one    day, the girls/the ladies They were a little bored that day and    for some sport Were trying to draw me out, to get me        to open up a little To reveal some more about my ways    and my life So I thought I'd have some fun with    them I told them I did some painting as a    hobby And that my speciality was 'the    female Nude' But alas! I had a problem, I had no    one to sit for me "If only I had some beautiful nymph, some haughty Queen, some dazzling princess", I lamented And then I'd gaze over at Her, give her    a longing look, Then of course, someone upped and    said the obvious " Jen....don't you live close to where he lives, would you not go sit for him " My face it lit up and I smiled "No! I would not!!! she said    emphatically, disgusted Now I knew from the Christmas party    she liked to drink Gin So I said enticingly "I'll throw in a    few bottles of Gin" "I'd never pose **** for anyone", she replied again emphatically, "it'd be embarrassing, it'd be degrading! Sitting naked before some man!", " But ", I replied, " you wouldn't be embarrassed sitting for me 'Cos when I paint a **** I insist on    being in the **** myself as well So as to make my Sitter feel more at    home, more at ease Yeah, Me! I'm very... Avant Garde" (said with a devilish twinkle in my eye) Still she resisted my painterly    charms So as to further entice her I said "I'll even cook you breakfast, no one can resist my lovely sizzling sausages". I felt as though I'd dangled my carrot    right in her face But still she wouldn't take the bait. I suppose I was lucky she hadn't for if    she had of (agreed) I would have had to have learnt how    to paint Nudes real fast And how to cook sausages and other    breakfast repast.
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