"maugham" poems - Hello Poetry

Thanks thespis for another muse anew, Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song, To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters, before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin, as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis, neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time giving classical balance for wondrous poetry. Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed, Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity, Warped physique not short of history, Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry, nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times, That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest Of man and woman to the cultural matrix Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia, From which was born Pushkin that took poetry Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars, And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear, The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov, Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky. A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax, Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of ***** bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed, poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany, writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus, that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing, but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal, as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles, the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka, that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.

0

Jun 6, 2014

Jun 6, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC

alexander-k-opicho

NEUROTIC LAW OF POETRY

Thanks thespis for another muse anew, Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song, To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters, before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin, as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis, neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time giving classical balance for wondrous poetry. Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed, Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity, Warped physique not short of history, Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry, nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times, That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest Of man and woman to the cultural matrix Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia, From which was born Pushkin that took poetry Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars, And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear, The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov, Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky. A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax, Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of ***** bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed, poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany, writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus, that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing, but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal, as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles, the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka, that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.

47

I have in me a bit of Tuscan sun The wildness of mistral The calmness of a Cezanne village I often walk around the countryside of Pissaro And see the colors, still abundant, undefeated I stroll around the lilies and the harbor of France where Manet painted being thrown out of his house, not able to pay the rent I dance with the beautiful girls in high society Parisian parties of whom from Zola to Maugham spoke about I learn art in silence, in the bright orange color of the day drawing the French young girl Whose face is like Madonna Her innocence, her laughter, her flawless body Excite me, breaks me, creates me I walk with clean head and red wine in the streets of Montmartre Searching the gone and dusted studio of Renoir, Picasso, Monet I stand exactly there where there is nothing old except the moon And the Sacre Couer In the morning I take the first train to Auvers Sur Oise And walk into the cemetery Where lie in the gorgeous French sun Vincent and Theo Van Gogh I utter to them, "Can dream ever be false?" It is when I heard the footsteps I turned The girl in the yellow dress stands at the gate of the cemetery Whom I draw every day but never captured her beauty The French girl We both stand there as it is As if framed paused Frozen We, the Impressionists!

0

Aug 8, 2020

Aug 8, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC

Subhadip

We, the Impressionists

I have in me a bit of Tuscan sun The wildness of mistral The calmness of a Cezanne village I often walk around the countryside of Pissaro And see the colors, still abundant, undefeated I stroll around the lilies and the harbor of France where Manet painted being thrown out of his house, not able to pay the rent I dance with the beautiful girls in high society Parisian parties of whom from Zola to Maugham spoke about I learn art in silence, in the bright orange color of the day drawing the French young girl Whose face is like Madonna Her innocence, her laughter, her flawless body Excite me, breaks me, creates me I walk with clean head and red wine in the streets of Montmartre Searching the gone and dusted studio of Renoir, Picasso, Monet I stand exactly there where there is nothing old except the moon And the Sacre Couer In the morning I take the first train to Auvers Sur Oise And walk into the cemetery Where lie in the gorgeous French sun Vincent and Theo Van Gogh I utter to them, "Can dream ever be false?" It is when I heard the footsteps I turned The girl in the yellow dress stands at the gate of the cemetery Whom I draw every day but never captured her beauty The French girl We both stand there as it is As if framed paused Frozen We, the Impressionists!

31

Let me tell you what I want…. I want to read Somerset Maugham and Aldous Huxley and Leonard Cohen and Mary Oliver I want to hike bits of the Appalachian Trail and take long walks in the hills around Snowdonia I want to ride about in the DC Metro and the London Underground I want to explore small towns and big cities I want to eat lunch in quaint little bistros and have dinner at the table in my yard I want to browse through antique stores and fancy boutiques I want to play with dogs and rub their bellies I want to take long drives without a destination in mind I want to waste an entire Sunday at home talking about everything and doing nothing I want to build a fire and watch a movie I want to sit on the couch and sip tea Most of all, I want to do these things with you Don't let your addiction take this away With all the bits of my heart….

0

Sep 25, 2013

Sep 25, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC

andrew-monroe

Please, Cate

Let me tell you what I want…. I want to read Somerset Maugham and Aldous Huxley and Leonard Cohen and Mary Oliver I want to hike bits of the Appalachian Trail and take long walks in the hills around Snowdonia I want to ride about in the DC Metro and the London Underground I want to explore small towns and big cities I want to eat lunch in quaint little bistros and have dinner at the table in my yard I want to browse through antique stores and fancy boutiques I want to play with dogs and rub their bellies I want to take long drives without a destination in mind I want to waste an entire Sunday at home talking about everything and doing nothing I want to build a fire and watch a movie I want to sit on the couch and sip tea Most of all, I want to do these things with you Don't let your addiction take this away With all the bits of my heart….

15