"modernism" poems
Static, memories
Emanating, separating
The postcard- perfect
Still life speaks
From its storied past.
Invisible, to drift
Among
The florid aphorisms,
Ending in
Deleterious debris,
Aftermath of
The inevitable.
Empty room, echo hollow
Tabula rasa -
Carpet clean, quite candid in it's
Return to callow.
Consciousness athirst,
Absorbing phenomena
Effervesce, inquisitive
Ideas foment,
Sealed inside a question.
The what -
Against the narrow
Scarcity,
And fatigue of should.
A tender malleable
Youth,
Betrayed, under
An assumed decorum -
Residue of truth,
Flattened emotion
Privations of a self
Unheard;
Misplaced affirmation,
Buried pathologies
In architecture
Fear manifests symbolic.
Harboring apathy
The lunacy of pious
Pedigree,
Import contagion,
Fetters of benignity
Doubt and indecision
Into ******
Cognizance,
Fallow spirits
Seep fumes of decay,
Credulity bleeds a human stain.
Social edifice, inoculated
Heirs of neurosis;
Palpable, sensual pain
And transience, though
Tacit - remain,
Our haunted history,
The blind hyperbole,
Maudlin
Forbearance, this haven,
A portrait
Of immaculate condition,
Nurtured with precision
Under sterling pretense.
Provincial domicile -
House beautiful,
Savage irony -
Unseen treasure
Innocence unabridged,
Faces, tiny creations;
Compliant vessels
Wounded,
While modernism murmurs
Its promise.
Brave New World,
In a late model sedan,
Domestic ranch on a
Corner lot,
Suburban natives,
Silence means security.
The misunderstood
Speak louder -
Consumerism beneath
Unvarnished ambition,
Never could
Repair the brokenness within...
© 2011 & 2018 W. S. Warner
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 5:38 PM UTC
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
I am a thousand different things
I'm people, objects, nature, animal
I'm woman, man, girl, boy, child
toddler, baby, foetus
I'm all you could dream of (not) wanting
I'm all you wish you were (not)
I'm (your) anger, sadness, fear, regret
I'm (your) happiness, joy, hope, love
When I write, I'm a character
fiction, autobiographical, biographical
I'm lived, burned, broken, insane
I'm madness, virginal, loose, free
closeted, bi-curious, let's wait it out and see
I'm intrigue, a passer by,
I'm the observer, the observed,
voyeurism, peeping tom, negative film
Moss, McQueen, Klein
I'm art, symbolism, post-modernism,
I'm poetry; written and spoken
I'm the woman you read of; her
I'm the girl who made you cry
I'm full to the brim of (your) inspiration
I open doors to the past, then slam the door
in your bright doe eyes
I close doors to my future, and sneak back
through cracks in the floor,
just to get back
I laugh in your face, and burn holes
in skin at your absence
I kick dirt in my eye, then cry wolf
blinded,
I'm the severest of contradictions,
I say yes at no, no to yes,
I decide on impulse, and cry on cue
Beauty, romance, love, lust
poetry,
all the questions I am made of
I answer in the written word
mute,
You only know me,
(if of course you dare)
by reading my rhymes,
(non judgmental stance)
and loving me regardless,
(don't expect perfection)
If you're going down
the same road
start today,
face your demons,
be the contradiction.
© Sia Jane
--
*"So unimpressed but so in awe
Such a saint but such a *****
So self aware so full of ****
So indecisive so adamant
So rock and roll, so corporate suit
So **** ugly, so **** cute
So well-trained, so animal
So need your love, so **** you all"*
Robbie Williams - Come Undone
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
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
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
I am living in the 1920s
I am missing the shaking tassel dresses, the whispering red lips and the springing curls
I live through the deep emptiness of an uncurled smile from a boy who has a shine in his eye
A shine from a coin filled with the greed for the nothingness of wealth
His gaping presence has replaced wickedly free men
What remains are toying boys craving meaning
Behind the shade of the thinly golden pattern
Of whiskey blurred nights
Of shivering embraces
Barely touching in numbness
I love you meaning I do not acknowledge your depth or care to know mine
What meaning?
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
oh better not say that
mind of hell
tongue of heaven
better not think depraved
veiled demon, licking ******** for car payments
God watches
what will people think
am i good person
birthday face
shut eyed stiff
not dangerous, like a gun in the face
did i say the right thing,
cypher of morality
the knot of good, a slow strangle
a frightened worm
wont risk tears
eeek
here come the scissors
technology brains wired like weaponized monkeys
eater of crumbs
heatless heart ransomed for the ******* rent
can i evaporate
like a dead cat in a black box
better then tripping all over my self
strings attached with hooks
on shunted limbs
a relic of modernism,
office life
talking scapegoats hissing
always haunted by what's missing
guts spilling through clutched fingers
apologizing to a faceless crowd of sea shells
and bagged heads
minds like the small screens
sitting all day
frenetic fingers and burning eyes
exhaling only
there's a part of me thats been crying since birth
be careful
what you do
in the land of the free and the brave
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 9:49 AM UTC
In another life, I was born a painter.
Gliding colors over canvas to imitate emotion.
Stepping back and marveling at the impressionism or the modernism or the realism of what I just created.
And people could look and gawk
and give gracious complements.
In another life, I was born a dancer.
Helplessly allowing melodies to transfuse my blood and move my limbs the way ocean waves move water.
Elegance in my bones, loveliness in my tendons, beauty in my ligaments.
Boys would leap toward me
and I would jeté toward them or grand jeté away from them.
In another life, I was born a singer.
A voice of gold and diamonds
that people love to eat
and bathe in.
Like summer sunlight in the springtime,
snow on December 25th.
Things people love to experience.
But, in this life, I was born a writer
so I live with what I must.
And I'll paint with my words-
give them color and life and realism, with just a hint of impressionism.
And I'll make my words dance-
across white pages, dressed in black, the smell of sweat and blood soaked within their skin.
And I'll make my words sing-
sing the ballad of my heart and the ballad of my mind and, maybe, even the ballad of the world.
Words are not inadequacy,
even in a world of painters, dancers, and singers.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
Have I ever had
an original thought?
I've been told
that, 'Everything we ever
write is just an accumulation
of all we've ever read,'
or something
like that.
I don't remember
by who, but I've cited him
Chicago Style
in my heart.
It started young, with my name.
Permanent ink on the soul,
a cliche. I hated
hearing it,
over used and
haphazardly
picked out of
a book.
If I have children,
they won't suffer from recycled
personality disorder. I'll
start them off right,
give them names
that don't
exist yet.
One in a sea
of Lindseys. My
post-modernism
lost-cause syndrome
in itself
is unoriginal.
How can I write
in stream of consciousness
with two decades of
songs stuck in
my head?
This isn't new, I've always
plagiarized while I dreamt
of you, hallucinated
my creativity, now I can't
even picture you without
sappy lyrics
sticking to your
clothes.
I am merely stealing like
an artist, another concept
I stole, brilliant,
but don't
thank me.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 10:55 PM UTC
Your sonnets? **** good,
though the rhymes unrhymed today.
Sincerest regards,
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 1:42 AM UTC
Village life, now not the same
Where the relationship is, it's not sweet
Where there is soil but no fragrance
Where there is a pond, but no water
Where mangoes are showered, but do not smell fragrant
Village life, now not the same
Here people are done
People got hungry for happiness
Villages are now transformed into cities
The villages are now dazzled
In the blessings of the elderly
Which was a feeling of affection
In western culture, somewhere gone extinct
Feeling of celebrating together
Burned in a furnace like separation time
Village life, now not the same
Where does man have time to meet man
Humanity and brotherhood lost in urbanization
The intoxication of modernism engulfed everyone
Love that was deceit, it became a show
Every person escapes for money
The house of faith is now a ruin
Village life, now not the same......
Aug 17, 2020
Aug 17, 2020 at 12:32 AM UTC
transient single serving friends now soon long forgotten
cute little quips and long forgotten lines quoted to each other
oh how in depth our minute long conversations spewing minutiae
sick little bedside Prousts as if we had read any of them
but instead really just quote from technology that
makes us lazy shrinking short term memory capacity for facts
'why remember what we can look up on hip-attached devices?'
lose another piece of soul to post-post-post-industrial post-consumerism
post-modernism-shhhh-pedantic
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
It was the rain against the windows
And the moonlight sonata playing
That accompanied my transition
Into melancholy insomnia
In the mid-morning deluge of the overcast sky
The reading of books and Freudian dreams
The watching of movies, Kubrick stare and all
Where emotions are captured and paraphrased
Amidst fight clubs and Fantasia
The Klimt surrealism outreaching from the walls
A lone piano listens, glistens; ripples of time
All dissimilar reinventions
Swirling in the incense smoke rings
Dancing in the flowing spirit air
Free and marvelous among vacant living room eyes
Memories recall the rain of Pasadena
Over rustic-themed modernism for
Eager tourists and the nonchalant few
Whispering words to descend the stairs
From the surface to below where thrusting cocktails reside
Years ago in the same position
But younger than I am now
At another desk with a bleeding pen
Pouring over the torn fickleness and skin I saw
Matchstick men smoking flesh roaches in alleyway shadows
Something hidden underneath the seen frailty
Single mothers courting hairless young men
Cracked anchor teens moving to a beat not of their own
Act of demon from the hand of God
Itching skin and slimy **** for sexes of all;
the men can take a turn in bearing the small.
Tales written from reflection and soul
Those wanderers and solicitors passing over the sick
The dead that laugh and the living that cry
Cold flesh injections stock markets for cattle to imbibe
Like so many humans do
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 7:19 AM UTC
Her face
A decade of over ex-posure
to synthetic radiation coupled with far too much
-Time.
Time spent looking disgusted at non-trivial ventures
created an irreparable
leather-bulldog façade.
A healthy dose of
nepotistic narcissism
and the articulation of
railroad spikes trailing across an empty slate.
A month's compensation
signing the all-too familiar signature
across the fibers of her liver
How to resist
Such a specimen of modernism?
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC
we are not built for modernism
instance of overload pile up
deflecting our attention from life
we are five pound bags, not ten
it takes time to adjust opinion
the result is an overcrowded rootball
unable to absorb water, nutrients
all we now need to know, obstructs
there is no blame and little correction
for tabloid populace stuck along the way
facts being what they are, emotion also,
one worthless stop good as any other
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 11:07 AM UTC
i.
Tread lightly
for you tread upon my heart
those nights the Angels
want to tear you down
those nights you want to talk
about Modernism
those nights you're Kerouac
under the ageless, drunken Moon
those nights on which
I discover that
we both like Columbo
& both have watched '' The Reader'',
'' Russian Ark''
& both Virginia Woolf adore
tread lightly
for you tread upon my heart
i.i
Tread lightly
for you tread upon my heart
those nights when you are
just too smart
for your own good
& wit & kindness
seem to well up
in your every word
those nights you talk of
Northern thunderstorms
when down South
we have none
& Bronte's Kathy
haunts you
Tread lightly
for you tread upon my heart
i.i.i
Tread lightly
for you tread upon my heart
each time you
make the stars seem dimmer
by your absence
when the broken night's soundtrack
is your ' Joy Division'
Those nights you write poetry
at 2 a.m just like me
Those nights I realize
you'll never see in me
the jazz that I found in you
Because you never looked
Those nights I want to tear down
the Angels for keeping us apart;
tread lightly for you tread upon my heart
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 7:07 AM UTC
Hi
Come on
OK
Thank you
See you
Good Bye
and perhaps
I can't do that
but I often observe it all
as a silent picture fixed on a wall
in your deep eyes
about to fall
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC
Modernism:
Self-reflection.
Introversion.
"Reality" Television.
Mid-life Crises.
Subtle Meaning.
Symbolism.
Joyce, Nietzsche, Freud.
Pretentious Jerks?
Philosophers?
All-knowing and
Ready to stir
(the *** that is)?
Self. Centered. Strife.
Views on persons,
Not our treatment.
Love and Sadness,
Not what's smashed.
Rage, anger, hate.
Oblivious
To the world
That surrounds.
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 9:45 PM UTC
The receding horizon,
The fading light of day,
Azure taking a livid hue.
Pokhran's hot, scorching sand,
A lash on our moribund logic.
Death and Life, Life and Death-
Religion and Atheism, Nobel and Booker,
Make us proud and shiver,
Make us happy, rob us of gaiety,
Shoot all our fragile hopes to artistic acme.
Smash all our favourite dreams to smithereens.
The Ganga meanders amidst a maze of
Ripples, crest and trough-
With a dour askance,
With a nonsensical exterior,
At the dead of night,
The hoary-headed ***** rises,
To take stock of pelf,
He keeps in hiding,
Looka yonder, the man with a rice plate in his shack
Stirs out of his lumber, in a jiffy,
Dawns cracks, leaves rustle, breezes whistles,
The nightingale still chirps coo, coo, coo....
Breaking the calm of a nostalgic daybreak.
Love buffoonery, antics of sweet urchin,
Effrontery, betrayal, self-destructive urge,
Blinds love toting niggling details of despair
In it's womb.
A silver of modernism, none can deny,
Gleaning the core of every 'ism' in it's *****
Roads, alleys crisscross, end of tunnel seems dark.
At least, a hairpin bend,
Across the debris of a fresh landslide,
A ray of hope, a shaft of optimism,
A changed universe, a reclaimed Utopia.
Coming true!
-Subhanjan Saha
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
The receding horizon,
The fading light of day,
Azure taking a livid hue.
Pokhran's hot, scorching sand,
A lash on our moribund logic.
Death and Life, Life and Death-
Religion and Atheism, Nobel and Booker,
Make us proud and shiver,
Make us happy, rob us of gaiety,
Shoot all our fragile hopes to artistic acme.
Smash all our favourite dreams to smithereens.
The Ganga meanders amidst a maze of
Ripples, crest and trough-
With a dour askance,
With a nonsensical exterior,
At the dead of night,
The hoary-headed ***** rises,
To take stock of pelf,
He keeps in hiding,
Looka yonder, the man with a rice plate in his shack
Stirs out of his lumber, in a jiffy,
Dawns cracks, leaves rustle, breezes whistles,
The nightingale still chirps coo, coo, coo....
Breaking the calm of a nostalgic daybreak.
Love buffoonery, antics of sweet urchin,
Effrontery, betrayal, self-destructive urge,
Blinds love toting niggling details of despair
In it's womb.
A silver of modernism, none can deny,
Gleaning the core of every 'ism' in it's *****
Roads, alleys crisscross, end of tunnel seems dark.
At least, a hairpin bend,
Across the debris of a fresh landslide,
A ray of hope, a shaft of optimism,
A changed universe, a reclaimed Utopia.
Coming true!
-Subhanjan Saha
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
oh better not say that
weaving tongue
better not cut my ***** off
with malignant algorithm's
better not think lions shredding hyenas
while veiled demons lick ******** for car payments
and boarder children gnash heaping tears of blood
desperate for their parents loving arms
and soft troubled kisses
God looks upon his creation and says
"and it is good"
what will people think
am i a nice person
birthday face
shut eyed stiff
not dangerous, like a gun in the face
did i say the right thing,
cypher of morality
the knot of good, a slow strangle
a frightened worm
that wont risk tears
eeek
here come the scissors
technology brains wired like weaponized monkeys
eater of crumbs
heatless heart ransomed for the ******* rent
can i disappear
like a dead cat in a black box
better then tripping all over my self
strings attached with hooks
to digital shunted limbs
relics of modernism,
office life
boring like seamless gray linoleum
talking scapegoats hissing
always haunted by what's missing
guts spilling through clutched fingers
apologizing to a faceless crowd of sea shells
and bagged heads
spread sheet minds like computer screens
sitting all day, tabulators
data schmata
narrow chairs; bellies cascade and bloat
frenetic fingers and burning eyes
lungs exhaling only
robo faux; shut up
happy chappy snappy
key punchers
punched out
there's a part of me thats been crying since birth
be careful
the wolf is at the door
in this land;
the land of the free and the brave
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
The Harvest of Roses
by Michael R. Burch
for Harvey Stanbrough
I have not come for the harvest of roses—
the poets' mad visions,
their railing at rhyme ...
for I have discerned what their writing discloses:
weak words wanting meaning,
beat torsioning time.
Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer—
images weak,
too forced not to fail;
gathered by poets who worship their luster,
they shimmer, impendent,
resplendently pale.
This poem was originally published by The Raintown Review when Harvey Stanbrough was the editor, then later by Mindful of Poetry. I wrote the poem out of dissatisfaction with the strange idea that poetry should consist entirely or primarily of concrete images. Would the “experts” who espouse this bizarre idea junk the great soliloquies of Shakespeare and Milton and the direct statement poems of A. E. Housman? It also bears noting that the twin titans of English modernism, Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot, did an awful lot of “telling” rather than always “showing.” Keywords/Tags: Harvest, roses, images, imagery, imagism, meter, time, beat, rhyme, shimmer, gloss, perfume, reap, reaping, gossamer
Mar 26, 2020
Mar 26, 2020 at 2:37 AM UTC
Sorting Out Russian Poetry
Avant-garde post-modernism ego
Futurism symbolism acme
Ism constructivism cosmopol
Itanism formalism neo
Formalism futurism imag
Inism proletarian real
Ism absurdism maximalism
Socialist realism, nothingism -
Poetic beauty, in spite of the Isms
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 7:05 PM UTC
If I told you
you were a sonnet,
English, of course,
fourteen lines of excellence
capped with a heroic couplet,
you’d tell me you
only liked the Italian poets.
If I mentioned you
were as subtle as
Water Lilies,
you’d point out that
you preferred modernism
to French Impressionism,
and if I said I loved you,
would you agree with me,
for once?
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC