"guernica" poems
navigator’s balcony cocktail hour
rocket orbit ocean liner rising
clenched no teeth no guernica no bam bam bam
correspondent notary republic
address book dial figure 8
charred with a thousand jigsaw pieces
false as a beach chiaroscuro black
on black graveyard womb naked milk glass lit
footprint tourism by candlelight and flare
vaccination fatigue puke fingernail fish
moving a bandaged echo **** him **** her
familiar bell music **** them both **** them all
stretched shirtsleeves spanish toffee slashed tires
(failure as a painter he shaved his wife’s fur coat)
bust your ***** Barcelona red alert
knock-kneed broken squeezebox no hands
standing room only ladies first (please)
unbuttoned interrogation coffee rolls (stop)
marine’s vegetation (stop) early morning tea (stop)
armless menus (stop) pink cathedral fingers (stop)
and (begin again) move
we move
moving inside an eye this eye
that advances step
by step
10.3k
The beauty of comatose can only be seen through
the eyes of a wizard in a blizzard
strutting in garlic slippers,
or Christ with knees bent at the tabernacle
peeling bananas and kicking prayers
farther than eternity with each gapping second,
or like Basquiat slumped back to the wall,
with ounces of speedball dancing through his veins,
eating 80’s free-based fried chicken *******
as his eyelids paints beautiful nightmares of lemon flowers
and Bacchus bacon over a glycopyrrolate desert
of flagrant cuckold buffoonery.
Or like leprechauns burning chocolate ******* candles
on the mantle of Zion, sipping oatmeal sprinkled
with Staten Island malt liquor bacon.
or like Tupac reading the thoughts of Mother Shipton
through the daze of California cannabis
and hearing the ominous voice of Plutarch sing death assignments
from heaven to Assassins on horsebacks goggling ***** water
to wet the dry bones of their throats as they prepare to fulfill
the gospel of self-fulfilling prophecies of being fell by ***** bullets.
Or like sophisticated wallets of spice and kitchen characters in a bald head
cooking chemical kisses and 18 February nights under Moloch’s skin,
where constitutions are written in charcoal diaries with Egyptian ciphers and razors.
“I had rain sowed into the pockets of my sneakers and composed 1310 eulogies
at the basement of king David’s tower,” said the Kraftwerkian caricature,
as he dangles cigarettes in remembrance of Klaus Nomi and philosophizes on the proliferation
of poetic vandalism at urinals where modernism failed under the phosphorescence of coloration at the avenue of no trees where Picasso's "Guernica" **** Lies All.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
Led down from the tower
Head high and hands bound
Blindfold declined against the wall
Black square pinned to his heart
Eyes afire and shining proud
He sang...
He sang of Caruso, Townes Van Zandt
Pavarotti, Bocelli, Mercury,
Carreras, he sang of Antoine,
Of Sinatra, Lennon, Morrison, Redding
He sang and songbirds paused in flight
He sang like them all
He sang a song of himself
Of leaves of grass, of second comings
Of Byron, and Bharti, and Cummings
He sang of Neruda, and Plath, Tagore
Dickinson, Kamala Das and Naidu
Oh, he sang of them all
He sang of art and beauty
Of Mona Lisa and starry nights
Girls in green dresses and pearls
He sang of Van Gogh, of Picasso
Of Rembrandt, da Vinci
He sang of Michelangelo
He sang of sadness, pain
He sang of My Lai, Sand Creek
Of Guernica and Krystallnacht
He cried and sang of Wounded Knee
Of Katyn Forest, Sabra and Shatila
Oh, he wept as he sang
He sang of history and wonders
He sang of Olduvai and pyramids
Machu Picchu, Tikal, and Angkor Wat
He sang of a great wall, the Taj Mahal
Stonehenge, Easter Isle, Mesa Verde
His song took us to them all
He sang of courage
A song of Bunker Hill, Gettysburg
Of the Alamo, Normandy, Stalingrad
Of Lincoln, Guevara and Dr. King
He sang of Bolivar, Bhutto, Ghandi
He shamed us with their song
He sang his song...
As women sighed and peasants cried
He sang until the rifles fired, he died
Songbirds fell from the sky
Soldiers broke their guns on stones
And marched into the deep blue sea.
r ~ 4/12/14
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
I was once God's Picasso painting
(the Guernica era).
Chuck Jones' illustration
of the tortured artist,
laid out like Wile E. Coyote
on a bed of scalding rocks
and a white flag screaming "SURRENDER"
clenched with both palms.
If it were feasible,
I'd have dove head first
into the smoky center of the sun
if it meant my audience understood
the shrieking woes I had to bellow through
to reach their overwhelmed palates.
But Tragedy is the sitcom foil
that has long outstayed its menopausal welcome,
and I would much prefer a haunting.
To Hell with those
who repulse the flies with
the vinegar of exploitation,
gawking as their spit seeps
through seven layers of collected scars,
who ventilate the wrists
to keep the audience comfortable.
Real aesthetic power
comes from a shower
of light hail on the spine,
the moments a ghostly hand
****** you on the finger
with quietly hidden truths
always whispered from a field away.
It's far more bracing,
the lump in the throat,
not the electrical gasp of shock.
It's a far greater sign
of a forthcoming apocalypse,
the angel weeping in pain,
not the footsteps
of the wailing banshee.
The wisp
over the wallop.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:56 AM UTC
brushstrokes, some broad,
some as narrow as one fine hair,
are often red
scarlet and scattered
across the canvas, splattered
against a crumbling wall, where,
for no rhyme or reason, the artist
may place a wilted wreath of flowers,
pallid, yellow
horses and people, babes
and the ancient not spared
their share of the crimson cream
the painter heaped munificently
on their mangled remains
Paris, Beirut, Yola yet to be painted
but there is still time: in its abundance
someone else will need only lift a hand
to spill the ubiquitous blood
our palettes do own other hues
black for charred crosses, white,
the lightning streaked screaming sky
but none so plentiful as the red
none so plentiful as the red
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
I have observed that history rhymes,
with no exact repeats each time.
As foreign nationals flock to fight
For ISIS and the Caliphate.
It seems I’ve heard this tune before
When socialists fought in the
Spanish war.
That dress rehearsal for World War Two
That played out on the Iberian plains.
Then Communists and Fascists fought
and idealists were slaughtered for their dreams.
Now in the village of Kobane
Its U.S. drones, not **** Planes,
The Kurds expel the men in black
Who leave behind their friends remains.
Foreign fighters by the score
won’t need their passports anymore.
They fought against America,
Is this a second Guernica?
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
My love, this is especially for you, I hope you will like it. With love from, Sylvia / Mijn lieve, dit is speciaal voor jou. Ik hoop dat je het leuk zal vinden, liefs van Sylvia.
as highest as the Chomolungma in Himalaya region
as magic as this Mount Everest correction
as huge as the Nightwatch of Rembrandt
as imposant as the Niagara Waterfalls when you shall land
as friendly as the Ricefields on Bali Island
as generous as the Space Needle together with Manhattan
as lovely as the puppet dolls my fiancé gave me in Jakarta
as beautiful as my wild Rose's voice when speaking about Indonesia
as wonderful as Serfaus at wintersport-season
as warm as Granada could be on Summerdays without a reason
as romantic as Venezia on dark nights
as cool as Paris sparkles in Autumnal lights
as truest as Jesus died on the cross at Calvary
my love for you so loyal as Plath's words, no fata morgana
so honest as Picasso's own Guernica
it means only most important and precious to you and to me,
this I tell to you as my only trustee and devotee.
Truest love ever known, most loyal ever shown !
I have told you all these with the help of God, amen.
Sylvia Frances Chan
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
If I were to write a poem about you,
my haunted Spanish artista,
I wonder what it would look like.
Can words on a paper
simple lines and colorless letters
sum up what I feel when
I see you fears?
The war. A war I cannot imagine,
young and innocent as I am.
Would the words be jarring,
a handful of stinging bullets,
LOUD and TOXIC,
bombs and sirens and screams?
Would they be sloooow and sluuured,
blood seeping into the streets,
or the last rattling breath
of a dying man?
Or would they be quiet?
The quiet would be worst, I think
an aftershock of loss and pain,
salty tears whispering down
the cheeks of mothers holding still children,
prayers murmured into the night.
Mi Dios
Ayudame
Por favor
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 10:59 PM UTC
"...If I could I would shrink myself and sink through your skin to your blood cells and remove whatever makes you hurt , but I am too weak to be your cure...."
written by LACEY, JESSE / ACCARDI, VINCENT
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
The internal battle..eternal....(one from the vault)
Lucifer and Jehovah dancing some mad bossa nova
While angels on horse backs fought devils with black jacks
The white dove of peace had surrendered his lease
So God ripped off his wings.. he no longer sings
Then the Devil ripped out his heart so it could end at the start.
Wagner and Chopin got frightened..
..and off they ran.
But Beethoven and Bach were sat in the park
Composing arias to fight Hells hot fires.
While Chekhov and Handel burned coramandel
But the smoke from that pyre stank like a byre.
Socrates was sat dispensing the ethics
Hippocrates swore while dishing out medics
The Muses were musing one or two were enthusing
Oooh look.. the good against sinner
Let's go down the bookies and have a bet on the winner.
Cometh the day cometh the morn
Cometh the hour cometh the dawn.
Here is Joshua blowing his horn
And here comes Gabriel but all that he meets
Are the countless dead lining up on the streets
And the wounded and deathbound far far below
I feel sorry for Gabriel I wish he could go.
But Picasso arrives and cries
My God it's my Guernica I'll do a pastiche
Oh F*ck it he says and has a pastis (or two)
Then Pollack turns up totally ******
Picks up a paint and says what I have missed?
What a fantastic sight.. angels flashing demons crashing
The hounds of Hell with teeth a gnashing
Then Neptune arrives astride his watery chariot
Scything through Demons and sat beside Judas Iscariot
Mermen and mermaids mercilessly slayed
By Beelzebubs prototypes
Those that live in the black nights.
But as the dawn breaks God knows what it takes
So he sends for his legions calls out to all regions
Take arms and do battle
Till we hears Satans death rattle.
And the heavens rip asunder to the sound of the thunder.
Satan rings on Hells bell.. tells them all is not well
Then disappears from our sight as if he's turned off the light.
Then I awake with a start knowing that I've been a part
Of something vast something grand
A spiritual war being fought in this land
I am alive and I shall survive.
PRAISE BE.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 9:08 AM UTC
Picasso at McDonald’s
super size my eyes--let the glare
of Pablo’s dead desires
burn my retinas, and
indelibly engrave the golden arches
behind my drooping lids
they will be my rainbows,
with pots of dreams
to order at each end
and fast food prophesies
slickly sliding down yelling yellow loops
through the endless blue sky
inside your hallowed halls
the chopped souls of Guernica
are invisible to our eyes
their stillborn screams don’t reach our ears
but their torment will be assuaged
by a Big Mac and large fries
they will no longer hear
the shrill whistle
of the German’s falling shells
the laughter of the children at play
or the other sinking sounds
that get us through the day
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 4:36 PM UTC
(WE ARE!)
The space pioneers, planetary colliders seizing the heavens and placing them on earth, pop pop big bang brain busters that spin galaxies into milky ways and planets into candybars, the alien humanoid reflectors reflecting the sun back into Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
(WE ARE!)
The fire-starters, self-combustion, canvas arsonists. IGNITE! Light the streets on fire with your blood. Explode, implode, and explode again. Pilot to bombardier, we’re dropping bombs like Guernica.
(WE ARE!)
Wild creatures born out of black magic, black mamba, bear your ******* fangs! Be a predator! Find you’re prey, rip it’s ******* guts out, and paint something with them. Then scream, scream so loud that Munch himself would tell you to turn it down a notch.
(WE ARE!)
The creators, the ground shakers, the earth quakers, inventing ideas, gushing thought, and gushing blood because remember, you are alive! Alive with creativity, passion, and energy to create, because we are artists.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 7:46 PM UTC
Goya's not gone
his nightmares and realities still shadow us -
the Los Desastres de la Guerra
still palpitate in our desert lands and hills
beating like hearts the Aztecs offered the sun;
and the barbarism of an axe over heads still thrives -
and barbarians can never hear the plea of a mother
Tampoco
tells us of women and girls ***** in war
and Oh, the Fight with Cudgels
looms large over our skies
and the horror of Saturn devouring his son
pervades the earth
and the Black Paintings
run amok in the form of men shrouded in black
Ah, Picasso is there too in our madness:
Guernica bares its teeth and monstrosities
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 8:18 AM UTC
So ****** says to me:
"It's like Dylan's song
when I paint my masterpiece
See PICASSO paints guernica
But I do ww 2"
I sez "but Adolf!
Guernica was in response to a great destruction !
In itself,it had great meaning and import!"
He sez:
"Oh fer Christ sake!
Look at SHAKESPEARE!
All the violence
Pure art ******** is all!"
---
Then Bill chimed in and said:
"Look, if you're too stupid to see the politics in my work that's your fault!
Death and destruction-- that was your game!"
--
ADOLF
He looked stunned:
" I don't think either of you understand what was going on
I DONT THINK YOU UNDERSTAND WHATS GOING ON NOW!
.
If fact
I didn't understand it then
I over reacted!
Same as people are over re acting in today's world!
Sure I was mad? crazy mad!
What do you want?
An apology?
.
Are you gonna give one when what's happening now
Becomes clear?
Are you gonna come clean?"
--------
The 3 of us just sat there stunned
Waiting
For someone
To do or say something
ANYTHING!
---
Because
Absolutely
Nothing
Has change
Since then
Til now
.:
And for that
THERE'S PLENTY OF SHAME TO GO AROUND!!
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
As a young child I wanted a right hand.
one to ride with my vibe.
a person I don’t mind to see me cry.
i want a love so strong that it is a sin to the world eyes.
i laugh you laugh...shhhhh!!! I can be corny at times.
when one cries we are there to uplift, because love won’t let the inner die.
you Guernica
i Pablo Picasso
you humbling shinning by my side
tru love is what i’m looking for :)
feel this............i bathe you in a fruit bath
to wash away the world stressful sin.
i dry you off then rub you down with warm oil hmph !!
let the magic begin :)
then we make love like the world is going to end.
just to wake up to see the sunrise again
that was a young child
who became a man
still wanting that right hand
Tru Love Is What I’m looking For :)
as my old skool soul wraps around your heart.
the piano sound dances with the wind
because it has found the thing it’s been looking for.
if i said it once i will say it again
tru love is what i’m looking for :)
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 11:39 AM UTC
Lines and cubes, unparalleled construction,
participles that don't dangle, heads of horses,
Guernica in stanzas, feelings contorted,
crying while dying, iambic pentameters,
stiff arms straight up, screams wide open,
metaphors and ****** hanging on walls of
Museo Nacional Centre de Arte Reina Sofia,
blue pillows on the floor, broken legs and
arms, ******* and agonies, montage of
blood and brutality, peace and war, love
and kisses, hits and misses, curves and
angles, bulls beheaded, silence and solemnity,
silver-blue stars bursting through open
windows, helplessness and hope. Picasso
and I.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Apr 8, 2023
Apr 8, 2023 at 5:04 AM UTC
I won't write a letter to some president
Whoever they may be
Because if they ever truly wanted freedom
They would tear down the fences
And make the White House a shelter for the homeless
Or they would fill all the empty houses on my street
And every other empty house on every other street with empty houses
If there is something I've learned from 21 years
Is that its the common people who make the real change in this world
It's the common people who build the world for all to life in
For me this started at Peekskill
When 20 thousand men and women
formed a wall so Paul Robeson could sing safe from harm
Then I learned of Spain in the 30s
From the Asturian miners to the Catalan anarchists
The guns that protected Madrid and thousands of voices singing A Las Barricadas and No Pasarán
And some nights I whisper a curse for every bomb that struck Guernica
Meanwhile in West Virginia common people fought for equality at Harper's Ferry and for the rights of the workers at Blair Mountain
And even today in southern Mexico, it's the common people who are creating Zapata's great dream of a world where land belongs to those who work it
The people of this world are capable of such beautiful things
All the dollars in all the banks can't buy out the human spirit
And all the bullets in all the guns can't lessen the strength of us all standing together
And just as a wise man once said:
"We carry a new world here, in our hearts. That world is growing in this minute."
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 12:35 AM UTC
To my grandma,
Dressed with your antique gold decorations
And your oneiric sets
In a swinging gait, bucolic
You come into view, tall, fabulous
In your museum, my amused
Unveiling the stylized veils
Around marbles, spread
In colors, irised hues
You’re dancing, evolving, fragile
Between Vélázquez and Vergil.
Of the Graces, of Guernica, deft
You know it all, aurora, sybil.
Of your opportune inspiration
I tasted all the delights
Between your eyes and smooth fingers
I’ve seen the masters’ evil spells
But also a pale beauty
We have together moored
On the ocean of eternity
Beside the Arts, carved out of love.
Still reading in your golden voice
Those expert accents of yours out of
Time, your moves back then
A work today, still glistening
To you then this libertine fire
Your impish fingers detain…
September 8, 2015, Lyon
Translated on October 18, 2015
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
a favorite song , that would be like choosing a favorite
child . Or a favorite cloud, or blade of grass, or puppy.
My favorite ice cream , one day is chocolate, the next
strawberry, the next plain vanilla.
My favorite painting depends on my mood.
"The Scream" spoke to me last week when my bills were due.
Van Gogh's "Irises" speaks to my lonely day.
In a protesting mood, sick of the world's atrocities I study
Picasso's "Guernica". My favorite day
was today , at times, then long past or in the future,
depending. When a woman smiles at me,
no matter if I have loved her , or touched her she is my
favorite, and is my favorite smell and taste and kiss.
My next breath will be the only thing that stays constant.
My ability to change, is my favorite trait.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 2:27 AM UTC
You don't begin with Guernica
if that's somewhere you're ever
meant to go
chubby baby hands grip the crayon
someday if you're lucky (or not)
they'll draw a thin straight line
in charcoal
just the least perceptible curve
enough to delight the eye
imperfection thrills the masses
then you paint and paint and paint
time and patience
some money
luck again, always luck
you're a master
maybe someone will recognize in your lifetime
most likely no
unless you're a tireless self-promoter
but your work
your work is sublime
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 2:11 PM UTC
Once I met Picasso -
He told me why he kept us all in cubes
Everything within just an instant
Let me rest on her thereafter -
Such a great man
Today I wanted to fly
**** myself -
Man to Him thereafter
Wish I was not born into this
Guernica is still the real
Mar 17, 2020
Mar 17, 2020 at 4:08 PM UTC
Why do people get louder when they are misunderstood?
Maybe each syllable becomes W I D E R, TALLER, simpler,
Maybe the alarming noise opens a path for the important,
Maybe there is no reason at all,
Maybe there is an element of Guernica in it,
Maybe, just like Picasso ... they just do it.
Oct 6, 2020
Oct 6, 2020 at 11:43 AM UTC
The last day of the year
was cold……another art form lost in translation.
And hardly anything as beautiful
as the sun setting in Xinxiang.
I went for coffee with my friend.
We drank and talked about the picture
of Kurt Cobain on the wall,
and how he blew his brains out.
I told her that Hemingway
went the same way.
And that he was a concrete man.
The girl next to us told me to “be quite”,
she felt I was too loud.
I answered in the negative, and told her
“This is my world as well”.
It was only a moment.
Soon we will both be asleep
and only the shadows will remain
For some reason, I thought of Guernica
and dreams falling from the sky.
So I wished my friend a
‘Happy New Year’, and suggested that she
read more Bukowski next year.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 9:07 AM UTC
.and then it's the drop into reality
the penny picnics and sheer brutality
of modernity,
Oxford Street is Guernica,
the guerrilla revolutionary or
the expeditionary force
laden with *****
she equates it to beauty
the sale is now on
come on down.
I'm going down
slowly
slowly
ready for the show
most
holy
holy
then it's back to reality
the totalitarian
the vegetarian
the vegan
the meagre
the lactose intolerant
the dairy queen?
she was magnificent
the league of the madmen
come on down
pick up your brushes and
paint.
I watch raindrops
nothing stops them
not even
umbrellas.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 2:04 AM UTC