GREAT ARTISTS & THEIR IMMORTAL WORKS :
CONCLUDING ITALIAN RENAISSANCE IN
VERSE.  -  By Raj Nandy, New Delhi.

Dear Readers, continuing my Story of Western Art in Verse chronologically, I had covered an Introduction to the Italian Renaissance previously. That background story was necessary to appreciate Renaissance Art fully. Now, I cover the Art of that period in a summarized form, mentioning mainly the salient features to curb the length. The cream here lies in the 'Art of the High Renaissance Period'! Hope you like it. Thanks, - Raj.

                          INTRODUCTION
“Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, &
  Poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.”
                                                        – Leonardo Da Vinci
In the domain of Renaissance Art, we notice the
enduring influence of the Classical touch!
Ancient Greek statues and Roman architectures,
Inspired the Renaissance artists in their innovative
ventures!
The pervasive spirit of Humanism influenced
creation of life-like human forms;
Adding ****** expressions and depth, deviating
from the earlier stiff Medieval norms.
While religious subjects continued to get depicted
in three-dimensional Renaissance Art;
Portraits, **** figures, and secular subjects, also
began to appear during this great ‘Re-birth’!
The artists of the Early and High Renaissance Era
are many who deserve our adoration and artistic
due.
Yet for the sake of brevity, I mention only the
Great Masters, who are handful and few.

EARLY RENAISSANCE ARTISTS & THEIR ART

GITTO THE PIONEER:
During early 13th Century we find, Dante’s
contemporary Gitto di Bondone the Florentine,
Painting human figures in all its beauty and form
for the first time!
His masterwork being the 40 fresco cycle in the
Arena Chapel in Padua, depicting the life of the
****** and Christ, completed in 1305.
Giotto made the symbolic Medieval spiritual art
appear more natural and realistic,
By depicting human emotion, depth with an
artistic perspective!
Art Scholars consider him to be the trailblazer
inspiring the later painters of the Renaissance;
They also refer to Giorgio Vasari’s “Lives Of
The Eminent Artists,” - as their main source.
Giotto had dared to break the shackles of earlier
Medieval two-dimensional art style,
By drawing lines which head towards a certain
focal point behind;
Like an illusionary vanishing point in space,
- opening up a 3-D ‘window into space’!
This ‘window technique’ got adopted by the
later artists with grace.
(Giorgio Vasari, a 16th Century painter, architect & Art
historian, was born in 1511 in Arezzy, a city under the
Florentine Republic, and painted during the High
Renaissance Period.)

VASARI’s book published in 1550 in Florence
was dedicated to Cosimo de Medici.
Forms an important document of Italian Art
History.
This valuable book covers a 250 year’s span.
Commencing with Cimabue the tutor of Giotto,
right up to Tizian, - better known as Titan!
Vasari also mentions four lesser known Female
Renaissance Artists; Sister Plantilla, Madonna
Lucrezia, Sofonista Anguissola, and Properzia
de Rossi;
And Rossi’s painting “Joseph and Potiphar’s
Wife”,
An impressive panel art which parallels the
unrequited love Rossi experienced in her own
life !
(Joseph the elder son of Jacob, taken captive by Potiphar
the Captain of Pharaoh’s guard, was desired by Potiphar’s
wife, whose advances Joseph repulsed. Rossi’s painting
of 1520s inspired later artists to paint their own versions
of this same Old Testament Story.)

Next I briefly mention architects Brunelleschi
and Ghiberti, and the sculptor Donatello;
Not forgetting the painters like Masaccio,
Verrocchio and Botticelli;
Those Early Renaissance Artists are known to
us today thanks to the Art historian Giorgio
Vasari .

BRUNELLESCHI has been mentioned in Section
One of my Renaissance Story.
His 114 meter high dome of Florence Cathedral
created artistic history!
This dome was constructed without supporting
buttresses with a double egg shaped structure;
Stands out as an unique feat of Florentine
Architecture!
The dome is larger than St Paul’s in London,
the Capitol Building of Washington DC, and
also the St Peters in the Vatican City!

GILBERTI is remembered for his massive
15 feet high gilded bronze doors for the
Baptistery of Florence,
Containing twenty carved panels with themes
from the Old Testament.
Which took a quarter century to complete,
working at his own convenience.
His exquisite naturalistic carved figures in the
true spirit of the Renaissance won him a prize;
And his gilded doors were renamed by Michel
Angelo as ‘The Gates of Paradise’!
(At the age of 23 yrs Lorenzo Ghiberti had won the
competition beating other Architects for craving the
doors of the Baptistery of Florence!)

DONATELLO’S full size bronze David was
commissioned by its patron Cosimo de’ Medici.
With its sensual contrapposto stance in the
classical Greek style with its torso bent slightly.
Is known as the first free standing **** statue
since the days of Classical Art history!
The Old Testament relates the story of David
the shepherd boy, who killed the giant Goliath
with a single sling shot;
Cutting off his head with Goliath’s own sword!
Thus saving the Israelites from Philistine’s wrath.
This unique statue inspired all later sculptors to
strive for similar artistic excellence;
Culminating in Michael Angelo’s **** statue of
David, known for its sculptured brilliance!

MASSACCIO (1401- 1428) joined Florentine
Artist’s Guild at the age of 21 years.
A talented artist who abandoned the old Gothic
Style, experimenting without fears!
Influenced by Giotto, he mastered the use of
perspective in art.
Introduced the vanishing point and the horizon
line, - while planning his artistic works.
In his paintings ‘The Expulsion from Eden’
and ‘The Temptation’,
He introduced the initial **** figures in Italian
Art without any inhibition!
Though up North in Flanders, Van Eyck the
painter had already made an artistic innovation,
By painting ‘Adam and Eve’ displaying their
****** in his artistic creation;
Thereby creating the first **** painting in Art
History!
But such figures greatly annoyed the Church,
Since nudes formed a part of pagan art!
So these Northern artists to pacify the Church
and pass its censorship,
Cleverly under a fig leaf cover made their art to
appear moralistic!
Van Eyck was also the innovator of oil-based paints,
Which later replaced the Medieval tempera, used to
paint angles and saints.

Masaccio’s fresco ‘The Tribute Money’ requires
here a special mention,
For his use of perspective with light and shade,
Where the blithe figure of the Roman tax collector
is artistically made.
Christ is painted with stern nobility, Peter in angry
majesty;
And every Apostle with individualized features,
attire, and pose;
With light coming from a single identifiable source!
“Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,
and unto God things that are God’s”, said Christ;
Narrated in Mathew chapter 22 verse 21, which
cannot be denied.
Unfortunately, Masaccio died at an early age of
27 years.
Said to have been killed by a jealous rival artist,
who had shed no tears!

BOTTICELLI the Florentine was born half a
century after the Dutch Van Eyck;
Remembered even to this day for his painting
the ‘Birth of Venus’, an icon of Art History
making him famous.
This painting depicts goddess Venus rising out
of the sea on a conch shell,
And the glorious path of female **** painting
commenced in Italy, - casting a spell!
His full scale **** Venus shattered the Medieval
taboo on ******.
With a subject shift from religious art to Classical
Mythology;
Removing the ‘fig-leaf cover’ over Art permanently!

I end this Early Period with VERROCCHIO, born
in Florence in fourteen hundred and thirty five.
A trained goldsmith proficient in the skills of both
painting and sculpture;
Who under the patronage of the Medici family
had thrived.
He had set up his workshop in Florence were he
trained Leonardo Da Vinci, Botticelli, and other
famous Renaissance artists alike!

FOUR CANONICAL PAINTING MODES OF
THE RENAISSANCE:
During the Renaissance the four canonical painting
modes we get to see;
Are Chiaroscuro, Sfumato, Cangiante and Unione.
‘Chiaroscuro’ comes from an Italian word meaning
‘light and dark’, a painting technique of Leonardo,
Creating a three dimensional dramatic effect to
steal the show.
Later also used with great excellence by Rubens
and the Dutch Rembrandt as we know.
‘Sfumato’ from Italian ‘sfumare’, meaning to tone
down or evaporate like a smoke;
As seen in Leonardo’s ‘Mona Lisa’ where the
colors blend seamlessly like smoke!
‘Cangiante’ means to ‘change’, where a painter
changed to a lighter or a darker hue, when the
original hue could not be made light enough;
As seen in the transformation from green to
yellow in Prophet Daniel’s robe,
On the ceiling of Sistine Chapel in Rome.
‘Unione’ followed the ‘sfumato’ quality, but
maintained vibrant colors as we get to see;
In Raphael’s ‘Alba Madonna’ in Washington’s
National Gallery.

ART OF HIGH RENAISSANCE ERA - THE
GOLDEN AGE.

“Where the spirit does not work with the
hand there is no art.”- Leonardo

With Giotto during the Trecento period of the
14th century,
Painting dominated sculpture in the artistic
endeavor of Italy.
During the 15th century the Quattrocento, with
Donetello and Giberti,
Sculpture certainly dominated painting as we get to
see!
But during the 16th century or the Cinquecento,
Painting again took the lead commencing with
the great Leonardo!
This Era was cut short by the death of Lorenzo the
Magnificent to less than half a century; (Died in 1493)
But gifted great masterpieces to the world enriching
the world of Art tremendously!
The Medieval ‘halo’ was now replaced by a fresh
naturalness;
And both Madonna and Christ acquired a more
human likeness!
Portrait paintings began to be commissioned by
many rich patrons.
While artists acquired both recognition and a status
of their own.
But the artistic focus during this Era had shifted from
Florence,  - to Venice and Rome!
In the Vatican City, Pope Julius-II was followed by
Pope Leo the Tenth,
He commissioned many works of art which are
still cherished and maintained!
Now cutting short my story let me mention the
famous Italian Renaissance Superstar Trio;
Leonardo, Raphael, and Michael Angelo.

LEONARDO DA VINCI was born in 1452 in
the village of Vinci near the City of Florence,
Was deprived of a formal education being born
illegitimate!
He was left-handed, and wrote from right to left!
He soon excelled his teacher Varrocchio, by
introduced oil based paints into Italy;
Whose translucent colors with his innovative
techniques, enhanced his painting artistically.
Sigmund Freud had said, “Leonardo was like a
man who awoke too early in the darkness while
others were all still asleep,” - he was awake!
Leonardo’s  historic ‘Note Book’ has sketches of a
battle tank, a flying machine, a parachute, and many
other anatomical and technical sketches and designs;
Reflecting the ever probing mind of this versatile
genius who was far ahead of his time!
His ‘Vituvian Man’, ‘The Last Supper’, and ‘Mona Lisa’,
Remain as his enduring works of art and more popular
than the Leaning Tower of Pisa!
Pen and ink sketch of the ‘Vitruvian Man’ with arms
and leg apart inside a square and a circle, also known
as the ‘Proportion of Man’;
Where his height correspondence to the length
of his outstretched hands;
Became symbolic of the true Renaissance spirit
of Man.
‘The Last Supper’ a 15ft by 29ft fresco work on
the refectory wall of Santa Maria, commissioned
by Duke of Milan Ludovic,
Is the most reproduced religious painting which
took three years to complete!
Leonardo searched the streets of Milan before
painting Judas’ face;
And individualized each figure with competence!
‘Mona Lisa’ with her enigmatic smile continues
to inspire artists, poets, and her viewers alike,
since its creation;
Which Leonardo took four years to complete
with utmost devotion.
Leonardo used oil on poplar wood panel, unique
during those days,
With ‘sfumato’ blending of translucent colors with
light and shade;
Creating depth, volume, and form, with a timeless
expression on Mona Lisa’s countenance!
Art Historian George Varasi says that it is the face
of one Lisa Gherardini,
Wife of a wealthy Florentine merchant of Italy.
Insurance Companies failed to make any estimation
of this portrait, declaring its value as priceless!
Today it remains housed inside an air-conditioned,
de-humidified chamber, within a triple bullet-proof
glass, in Louvre France.
“It is the ultimate symbol of human civilization”,
- exclaimed President Kennedy;
And with this I pay my humble tribute to our
Leonardo da Vinci!

MICHEL ANGELO BUONARROTI (1475-1564):
This Tuscan born sculptor, painter, architect, and
poet, was a versatile man,
Worthy to be called the archetype of the true
‘Renaissance Man’!
At the age of twelve was placed under the famous
painter Ghirlandio,
Where his inclination for sculpting began to show.
Under the liberal patronage of Lorenzo de Medici,
He developed his talent as a sculptor as we get
to see.
In the Medici Palace, he was struck by his rival
Torregiano on the nose with a mallet;
Disfiguring permanently his handsome face!
His statue of ‘Bacchus’ of 1497 and the very
beauty of the figure,
Earned him the commission for the ‘PIETA’ in
St Peter’s Basilica;
Where from a single piece of Carrara marble he
carved out the figure of ****** Mary grieving
over the dead body of Christ;
This iconic piece of sculpture which along with
his ‘David’ earned him the ‘Superstar rights’!

Michel Angelo’s **** ‘DAVID’ weighed 6.4 tons
and stood 17 feet in height;
Unlike the bronze David of Donatello, which
shows him victorious after the fight!
Michel’s David an epitome of strength and
youthful vigour with a Classical Greek touch;
Displayed an uncircumcised ***** which had
shocked the viewers very much!
But it was consistent with the Mannerism in Art,
in keeping with the Renaissance spirit as such!
David displays an attitude of placid calm with
his knitted eyebrows and sidelong glance;
With his left hand over the left shoulder
holding a sling,
Coolly surveys the giant Goliath before his
single sling shot fatally stings!
This iconic sculpture has a timeless appeal even
after 500 years, depicting the ‘Renaissance Man’
at his best;
Vigorous, healthy, beautiful, rational and fully
competent!
Finally we come to the Ceiling of the Sistine
Chapel of Rome,
Where Pope Julius-II’s persistence resulted in the
creation of world’s greatest single fresco that was
ever known!
Covering some 5000 square feet, took five years
to complete.
Special scaffoldings had to be erected for painting
scenes from ‘The Creation’ till the ‘Day of Judgment’
on a 20 meter’s high ceiling;
Where the Central portion had nine scenes from
the ‘Book of Genesis’,
With ‘Creation of Adam’ having an iconic significance!
Like Leonardo, Michel Angelo was left-handed and died
a bachelor - pursuing his art with devotion;
A man with caustic wit, proud reserve, and sublimity
of imagination!

RAFFAELLO SANZIO (1483-1520):
This last of the famous High Renaissance trio was
born in 1483 in Urbino,
Some eight years after Michel Angelo.
His Madonna series and decorative frescos
glorified the Library of Pope Julius the Second;
Who was impressed by his fresco ‘The School
of Athens’;
And commissioned Raphael to decorate his
Study in the Vatican.
Raphael painted this large fresco between 1510
and 1511, initially named as the ‘Knowledge of
Causes’,
But the 17th century guide books referred to it
as ‘The School of Athens’.
Here Plato and Aristotle are the central figures
surrounded by a host of ancient Greek scholars
and philosophers.
The bare footed Plato is seen pointing skywards,
In his left hand holds his book ‘Timaeus’;
His upward hand gesture indicating his ‘World
of Forms’ and transcendental ideas!
Aristotle is seen pointing downwards, his left
hand holds his famous book the ‘Ethics’;
His blue dress symbolizes water and earth
with an earthly fix.
The painting illustrates the historic continuance
of Platonic thoughts,
In keeping with the spirit of the Renaissance!
Raphael’s last masterpiece ‘Transfiguration’
depicts the resurrected Christ,
Flanked by prophets

thunder is your favorite sound
and thunder is what cracked
in our stormcloud lungs
and our pulses
and the brushing of fingers
like lightning rods,
hoping one too many
would be enough to strike us.

petrichor is my favorite smell
and so we're suited to the dark grey
when it looms o'erhead;
every rippling echo an invitation
to be the next rock thrown into the sky --
rain breaks the seal, and immediately
there's no other option than
to be intoxicated with the scent of renewal.

Birds were returning,
Pleasant wind made the atmosphere loving,
The leaves were moving in a rhythmic way,
The sky was cloudy and grey.
The trees were far
Looked like coming near.
I was seating to hear
The sound of leaves and chirps of birds.
The branches seemed dancing with the windy beats,
The wind was sweeping away fallen twigs.
Over there were two kites!
Flying and making childish fights.
Little beautiful flowers
Under the flowery bowers
Attracts every poet for hours.
Then a little rain made everything more romantic,
I wish I was with my angelic.
The symphony was like of a music hall,
How romantic were those all.

The human sacrifices begin at noon. I must hurry to prepare the ruins.

Good: The pyramids retain their purity of line; the hieroglyphs balance out the skulls, more or less. Let us say, oh, two to one.

A Diego Rivera mural stretches from wall to wall of the Mayan ball court. (Are those blues really from nature?)

Heads will roll! I predict.

I need more coffee — any style. Bring me the big, steaming bowls of France that you must slurp two-handedly. Bring me the tiny espresso shots of Italy, bitter and inadequate, always calling for another cup.

Bring me café in an ornamental Mexican jar painted in bright ochres and reds. Set it on a geometrically designed serape with just a hint of purple on the fringe.

I will sop up the last drop of caffeine with my tortilla, while dining room tables multiply like serpents.

I must hurry. The sacrifices begin at noon.

Already, the humidity clings to my skin like a cheap cologne.

How stupid of me not to have worn a white linen suit, huaraches, and a Panama hat  (straw, of course).

In any case, I am the expert. My art criticism begins now.

Rivera’s human figures roll in a wave of revolutionary fervor: too rounded, too cherubic, too pastel. Industry, agriculture, fraternity, socialism. Hand me the hammer. But no bare *******, as in Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People.

A careless oversight. ****** always adds a pleasant focal point to a painting.

Suddenly, bad news breaks. The sacrifices have been called off; the ballplayers  have converted to Communism. Viva la revolución!

                                                 + + +

Frida Kahlo twirls her mustache to match the flair of Salvador Dali’s.

Her heart flutters for the Spanish surrealist, who has bug-eyes only for Gala.

Kahlo deigns to paint his portrait, which turns out to be another of her
 self-portraits. So many selves. So many portraits.

This one sports ample ****** hair and a monkey on her shoulder, who leans across to eat the gardenia behind her right ear. Or is it a carnation? Ah, carnations only calcify into clichés. Let us call it a hibiscus, and be done with it.

(Still, are those lurid colors from nature?)

I must hurry. The exhibition will begin at 2 a.m., the hour when all the wine shops close, and the retablos disappear from the churches. No respect for authority after la revolución. Only the self, the self. Always the self.

Kahlo twists her mustache into a braid for her next self-portrait: Liberty Leading the Mexican People. She squeezes into an orthopedic corset, bare-breasted.

I pull out my droopy Dali watch to eye the time. The hands cross at midnight.

I must hurry. Yet Kahlo insists I sit.

She paints my portrait with a spike through my spine, a shattered pelvis, and partial paralysis of the legs. I can no longer walk a straight line.

She thinks I am she, in trousers. The self, the self. Always the self.

My moustache grows heavier than hers, however, and I painstakingly pluck out the unibrow.

But I adore her monkey, with his close-set eyes. He eats a carnation for penance each morning, then primps before the mirror. The self, the self. The primate self.

More bad news: Dali cancels the exhibition. He has been demoralized by the retablos, which radiate beauty in six dimensions: height, breadth, length and the omnipresence of the Holy Trinity.

A genuine milagro: The streets fill with gardenias and hibiscus. The Mayan ballplayers convert to Catholicism.

A white skeleton dances with Kahlo in the moonlight. He wears her leather-and-steel braces.

No matter. I am the art critic, and I declare all Mexican colors indigenous, naturalistic, and caffeinated. Then I turn out the dining room lights.

A starry, starry night. The humidity sinks into the cenote.

Tomorrow, I shall buy a monkey and teach it to paint. All colors from nature, of course.

x

Narcissistic -
Empathetic;
Automatic
Narcoleptic:

To the dreamers
Divine deceivers
A Sublime message,
The faith's receiver'
Understanding lonesome
Psychic sleepers;
The Destroyers'
Disguised Defeater.

Naturalistic,
Apathetic -
Neolithic?
Unrealistic.

x

little peach colored amphetamine
allows reality
to be a dream
uncertain if it prohibits meaning
or stifles raw creativity
it's hard to decipher when without it
there seems to be no purpose
no motivating factors
are present in its absence

naturalistic existence
e x t i n g u i s h e d
by addictive dependence

lacking attachment to actuality
solely pieces of speed can calm me

why is pixel-white seen as a medium where you're "speaking"? i guess that's due to the immediacy, and bypassing orthodox publishing contracts... i'm not talking... i'm thinking... the difference between the age-old white of canvas used in publishing has changed... in a blink of an eye... the poorest of the poor have now attained a monopoly on the medium... which is why visual art had to become elitist, because artists could never fathom the freedom of having obtained such a freedom of the once monopolised medium of a crisp white page... and yanking the donkey further... i have no intention in treating this as me talking... the talking part is bound to the comment section... and once again, we can bypass the monopoly of literacy with the freedom of the medium also bypassed... i'm not talking... i'm thinking... the talking is done in the comment section... this isn't a care for an intellectual shoot-out... but why in the word do i have to write this, and be remindful? oh wait, now i know: i didn't have to chop a single tree down to then write on it pressed down as paper... but then i wouldn't have... because, if i had enough wine and château... i'd be writing a Dumas novel.

i feel like writing less and less the days,
3 weeks spent in Poland
exhausted me with talking and reading,
and having the rest of the world
alomost forgotten, among the pines
in a wood, with neatly fallen snow...
i can almost hear the words: you should
go back, then!
yes, and having lost investment in
22 years living in england, and perfecting
the tongue...
    had i not perfected the tongue,
i wouldn't see the maggots engaging in crowds
across the western world...
   what a sight...
      should they only be two serpents entwined...
but this is a world much different from 2007...
it's hard to pick-at an almost shared ethnicty
with the people of the Isles...
   the Romans are dead, yet we share the same
alphabetical arrangement...
     i'm not even ahead of my times,
i write less and less every day,
            because as my irish "friend" once suggested,
that i known language like i might
slurp custard, that i should be bound to my
local community of Poles in England...
   i guess like Seven Kings is basically Paddy
O'clock... drowning his sorrows: while
i spend the same hours, infuriating my passions...
and i get the only narrative available to us
these days, i get how darwinism has killed of
subjectivity, we're about to build a robot,
and how we don't like feeling that much...
i get that...
but i spent 22 yeasrs in these lands...
   why am so entrenched to give birth to
the one i had at "home", but feel no care to return
to the place?
        edging toward the third bottle of wine
on an empty stomach, and i write this...
  apparently you can feed your heart that took
to being an apple thrice-over to attract a satanic bite...
   the dalai lama is a *refugee, what a grand
title, better than the pope could hope to be...
   i am an exile, and the worst reasons for exile
are economic...
   but no dumb-bound irishman can really
call that: i too was on the titanic, to better land sown!
i love the scots, spent three years in Edinburgh,
but the society i came to live in, the society i was
schooled in? i remember only 1 englishman
in the school... the rest were primarily irish...
terrible gnats...
               i live in england and it became to late
to meet an englishman...
   i'd sooner meet one abroad...
    i mean, if you knew someone from youth
and he says to you: you be better off with your kin...
my kin? my kin? on foreign soil?
and what? create these pocket like blisters, these
crab scabs of existence, so that i might live in
England but never learn the tongue?
this paddy hadn't even read Joyce, and i had,
and he tells me to be like him, a wasps' nest
kind of existence... the Poles have but one motto:
never congregate in exile... the 'rish evidently
didn't learn that motto... so they congregated...
and started doing the mating pigeon strutt
of a puffed up chest... like skunks they marched...
   i mean, who the **** does that?
i go to Cheltenham and everyone finds my "accent"
undecipherable...
             this coming from the same guy that couldn't
flick a lighter or cite the alphabet...
    i can go to Cheltenham and become lost
in the crowd... i'll go to a poetry reading and
stand, and clap and encore aloud when the poet
finishes...
             i wish i could go back to the native... land...
and go back to a: life, as usual...
but when you have lived 22 years in exile and
the most constructive years up to aged 8...
you dread the reality of being a child once,
and having idealised the life back where,
communism was dying... esp. given that your
grandparents have a steady pension,
and your father can't hope for one with
the state being applauding him for the efforts,
that the state and the worker are no longer
bound to an umbilical chord when pension age strikes...
  not since 2007, when it all began...
i can't be seen with the words of accusation
against my antagonist in any place nearing
a protest, i'd be scrapped-heaped and lost to the usual
comparison that men are:
  with celibacy intact: shoot anywhere other than
the ******, and you're wasting yourself...
but i wasn't circumcised, sure enough,
if you're circumcised and shoot that load into
a tissue... well... you sorta did touch
the philosophers' stone with your phallus...
    ****! ****! the deadpool movie is ****!
and i can't say that the dada art movment
is worth nothing... the girl, this blonde from Seattle
mentions nothing of cubism...
         modern art isn't useless...
        i can't be epileptic bound to faint before
a mona lisa... i can't do that... but dada wasn't
anything anti-art, of whatever movement...
      dada was anti-war... dada was an anti-war
movement.... it ensured that art be equated with
the whole futility of human endeavour...
   art will make no sense if there's no heroism
and men sit in trenches with wet socks and wet
cigarettes and rats will they ever walk the same
on the marble pavement of Florence...
             dada was anti-war... dada wasn't
anti-impressionism or anything like that...
      it's when artists started experiencing mental illness,
a psychic relapse into dough, dull, and lullaby
worth nothing...
                                  it's about the time that dada
emerged (world war i) that warfare had to turn
to guerilla warfare for some sense of Mars enduring...
   i thought people might think it stupid
during the Napoleonic wars... walking up to your
enemy and at point blank range shooting them down...
so no eastern martial arts agility...
      no wars makes the same sense as the depravity to
reproduce: eager soldiers... given there are none
to replace the numbers.
    yet, that language of darwinism, that objectivity,
that language of: no will unless the will of the species,
a species akin to comparison with ant or other
worthy comparative multiplier of insect worth...
     i get it... meaning i feel nothing for the examples
surrounding me, and i get hyper-sensitive about
the theory...
                    which is a great shame that i feel
no great feat before me when looking upon a woman....
  but then again i could merely qualify as
a ***** talking... because that's easier done...
    and you'd think that bilingualism wasn't such
a proper, well, it is, among the poor...
     it's a real... a REAL! a real threat!
           for some reason i get the feeling that Polish
has to become a bit like outdated Gaelic...
           a great story over campfire... that we once might
have spoken it...
                 i still speak the **** tongue
because i like listening to folk songs...
         but hey! that's my private life... i can still
talk English to you in that grand social-contract of
ensuring we interact... evidently that was the least
liked possibility...
                     i was expected to forget it...
and integrated with the ******* Paddies in England
and speak Polish: no more!
                  i don't want to forget Polish in the same
way that the English don't want to learn
a foreign language, and have the empire upon
which the night never sets upon:
   you're telling me it's not bound to perpetual
daylight working your way from Alaska, New Zealand,
South Africa and England?
   insomniac empire not there?
   i swear i could see it for a minute...
oh, my bad... maybe it was really all about
a drunken night in Dooblin...
            as i remember, not since 2007 has everything
been so: bonkers...
       it's just a case of trying to claim why
my native country ejected me from it...
   or why my parents thought it was necessary to
flee...
                but then i can ask any question
i want and will never get a good reply...
               now that i speak the language i don't
know how to erase 22 years of incubation...
      i can drink as many wine bottles and whiskey
bottles, but it never does it justice...
    and will continue to do so...
    when i get my answers...
                  and, as it looks like...
  i'm bound to be prone to being blamed for a tsunami
than take a blame for having friendship-binds
    when growing up,
      because the a.i. needed improvement,
and that Barabbas lived no life spectacular after
being admonished by the crowd prior
to the desecration of the tetragrammaton by
the crucifx wielder.
    well, this would appear a world salad for a paddy...
given that words for him are all merely verbs
and none address pondering them as nouns
  to reach a nuance...
                       and a delay worthy of 2000 years...
but then again...
           what do i know...
                 once i was the lost to pounce
     on the argument, now i seem to be the first
            to say anything...
                  but here's the therapy...
         people can speak such a godly narrative
  and incorporate it from ants to humans,
   bypassing the mammals the prime mammal
is making extinct... and taking no impression from
fellow mammal... bypassing the mammalian
category, for the sake of number, and argue oh so well
many intended arguments... ants...
    and then get ****** over by an avalanche...
and then wonder with the non-bewildered chemists:
dunno... physics?!
    humanism is trapped in the greatest robbery of
the human heart, if it once belonged by the crucifix,
and with due need, become humbled...
it's now under the ******* microscope and "ennobled",
pride hardened...
     it's an objectivity that doesn't encompass all
   categories... i can so much about ants having perfected
its hierarchy... and i try to imitate...
         sure, it works...
                  i have no need for subjective scientists that
poets are... i need more plumbers... but, wait...
i have to import them from Poland...
                   because i actually no actual
   pill for objective anaesthesia to be implemented
   given that i have the same automaton tendency to
feel, as i have to think, as i therefore have to reciprocate
by being existent...
                 but then again being prescribed
the shadow theories of darwinism, while turning
epileptic with paparazzis dumbing me at the catwalk,
work together... they're not mutually exlcusive...
    mutual exclusiveness is the argument usured in
by moral relativism, whereby moral relativism believes
in the non-existence of mutual inclusvieness...
     inclusivelly the standard bearers are bound to
the coordinate functions of (+, -),
       exclusivelly the standard bearers are bound to
the coordinate functions of (x, ÷)...
meaning that inclusviely: 1, 2, 3, includes 4...
                 1 + 1 = 2... 2 + 1 = 3...
        the near proximity... adding and substracting
are less abstract than multiplying and dividing...
   they do interact, the two factions...
     it's not magic, it's the limitation of my ability
to use language... philosophy really is about being
able to reach a limit of having all possible
competence with language morphed from
phonos to the rightly defined logos, as that
which encounters optics and the higher optics of
cognitive experience; deemed thought,
or the moral compass... and how rarely thought
is not bound to it being a moral compass,
how many times the moral compass
exists, pointing toward the θ / N...
    and the -ought is merely squandered to fiction,
and other such pleasures... and rarely
asked to be done to the moral principal that
overshadows mere naturalistic observations...
trans-category... we, the pinnacle of mammal,
behave like no mammal...
              once again i'll hear the retortion:
infantile argument!
                                it has always been infantile and
delusional, haven't you noticed?
     i find it strange to be living in times of
such rational, truly gifted "adults"...
   i could swear to be looking at the current civilisation
as a kind of kindergarten.
     but then... why bother argue the point further,
when you can laugh, drinking the third bottle of
your home-made wine?

DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, a lost poem<3


my pathetic desperacy
all epic with a naturalistic misery
angels hailed my numbers
now my calculations fumble
the rest
the equation unsettled on an aimless quest
everything has changed
but the undeserved trust is an ultimate unattained
my state in dooms
orbiting faces behind moons
a wreckage when asleep
like the neptunes called me
she said hit the lights
but the blinds blinded my sights
wonderful
a little optimism whisks me hopeful
forget forever the features
that lulled me once to my breather
now something broken
don't worry nothing stolen
for me to stick for me to piece neat
queen the rusted diamonds under my seat
follow the heart's revolution
undercover not a solution
alone even if disappointing
even when betraying
let my allusions surf the six temples
shadows bathing my past resembles
to come clean
find the place beyond the cold mean
like the twirl of the system
no one else wanted to resist him
took me there
to the middle of no where
my dilemma is that frightened half
no good to steal no good to laugh
but with a wake up to them dreams such a slap
a wisdom's muse would eventually snap
stars dance
her sky tortures her glance
crimson red and she realizes
that the once for all so be it would summarize this
would the potion grant a pain?
the poison of them affairs regard my chained name
let go
just say yes to saying no
stay awake
don't sleep take a break
                                                                                           ------ravenfeels

I did something I haven't done in forever today
It was so simple that I can't believe it hasn't occurred to me before
I went and lay down in the garden, on the grass
under the sky and beneath the wreath of tree's
I know- I'm proud of me too
It made a lot of sense in my head
mainly because for the first time ever I managed
to clear my thoughts
have you ever tried?
I turned it all off for a split second of naturalistic bliss
and it was like a reboot and revival
of all the conundrums I have been trying to figure out for so long
it was like a little sprinkle of clarity over my day
I lay there and felt my own body, twitching on the itchy grass
I felt the wind blowing harmlessly on my skin
and I felt the goosebumps rise
it all felt so good
I put my hands up, and stretched out
appreciating my size
I placed my hands on my hips and delighted in feeling
my bones beneath my skin
I delighted in squeezing my own fleshy thighs and knowing they were mine
I pulled my legs up and set them down
just to know how I move
it was more powerful than a reflection in a mirror, because I really
knew, and felt myself for the first time in a long time
I have grown out of touch but I want to be back so badly  

I wondered with new found clarity, and not a single fear of
judgement of sensibility
I felt connected to something much bigger than me
bigger than you, and even bigger than the sky
I can't describe what it was,
but it seemed to love easily and forgive quickly
it had a serenity that I haven't know before
and a wisdom beyond all the years of time
I have very suddenly found ...what?
This God, Goddess, Deity?
an agnostic power, force of nature?
Maybe it's just the liveliness of outside
I don't know but I don't think anybody could put a name on it
I can't even begin to explore it's entirety
so with all that said and done
I think I had better go back tomorrow

I can't stand the way we grind, people try to rhyme about how everything is fine, but really they're the ones who blind us while the elitists of this time  commit their crimes, there's no time to become famous cause the ones that provide for us also deprive us, til I came in attempts to revive us, too bad we're self-righteous it's only a matter of time before a mass crisis arises, unless we reverse our ways and go back to naturalistic days, too bad that's just a faded dream like the haze smuggled onto our streets by the same people who object to legalizing it, most are oblivious to the ways of a priest, he's there so you don't **** your ***** niece, stuck in the underground, fell through a crease, but that don't matter cause it's all just for lease, you're kidding yourself if you think this is fiction, open your eyes and stop letting corporate news tell lies to your children via the false ways of a Christian, trying to ruin our ambition and replace it with a tuition, following an unsustainable audition, go ahead start on your trike cause the words I spit are way beyond the concept of a bike

Water flows, as if racing itself to the end of its path,
The dark blue sky is alight with alluring purples and pinks,
with nebulae like otherwordly glistening waves.
Silence surrounds and embraces every being nearby,
as peaceful as even the sweetest of melodies.

Colorful flowers of blue, yellow, and pink grow scattered on a river’s shoreline,
jewels upon nature’s crown.
The river’s lifeblood runs blue, matching the Iris and Brunnera that line its own edges,
enchanting any who lay eyes on them.
Small whitecaps develop, a blemish upon the serenity,
even in complete beauty, nature’s imperfection manifests.

A forest grove spreads nearby,
green leaves and crimson red flowers swirl from shadowy, thick shrubbery.
A purple-blue glow emanates from bulbous pods along the outer edges, pinned on bushes like ornaments.
Pines, towering stalks that pierce towards the enticing but dim sky loom overhead.
There waits within the grove a tender darkness, holding secrets seen by few.

A campfire blazes, illuminating the surrounding tranquility,
warm red-orange flame whipping and snapping back and forth.
Adjacent rocks are scalded black, torched by an agitated inferno.
Sparks are lifted to the ether like minuscule fireworks,
before crashing down to the grass below, as if bombing the terrain.

These wilds are a mystery,
touched by few, but experienced by many.
They await all of us, close by at all times,
but many lack the sight to see them.
If you enter these wilds, enjoy your time,
but do not attempt to control them,
Simply hold on, and enjoy the naturalistic beauty,
It could be yours.

We have sacrificed freedom upon immovable alters
White runny paint is our animalistic blood
We decorate where we pray
frescos, mosaics,
Crete’s naturalistic landscapes
imitation only because we are unsatisfied with the un-safety inherent in Earth’s identity.

look at the wall
imagine your lover on the other side
hold your hand to it
imagine your finger tips touching through the plaster
now see her dead
mutilated on the ground
in a ****** pool
because you couldn’t reach
over the wall

the City is a masquerade ball
things hide behind brick masks
who knows
you could **** a tenement building with a Mac truck
like an aristocrat penetrating his princess
late into Moon’s rise
and find a thousand thousand beetles and cockroaches streaming out of the hole
and prisoners who haven’t seen the sun in years

we are humans
no longer natural, caged.
no longer aware, lost
no longer real, facades.

If I could open up I would let all of these feelings out. I’d let them scatter and fall and sink to and through the oceans of endless pasts. I’d let them live behind me forever where they belong and should have resided from the start. No more aimless wondering, no more thinking of ways to cope. Finally being able to converge onto what truly matters most.

Happiness slightly ahead of my grasp, inching away as I feel the comfort and warmth that seeps from it’s aura. There only waits a void of incomplete, unreachable depths, dark as the blind stare into shut eyelids. Squeezing out every possible ounce of light. Sometimes it seems easy to let go and be lost in the abyss of helplessness to be alone with nothing but forgotten shadows.
The complexity so simple to understand but less likely to be obtained. With a constant urge to grasp and feel. To devour the feelings of endless torment to one day enjoy the soft sweet touch of what we all wish to achieve, to contain, to supply.

I do not perceive the notions of which build to create the enigma which we seem to seek intuitively. A naturalistic view that fuels our will to continue, to thrive, to understand. One day, far away, or closer than that, the end will be the start of what we once did not have and what we will never choose to release.

Henny-yussly mischeevyuss
He orfed growshurries irregardless
Of the rawshussness and disgustment
Of the masonairy surrounding him.
We consistiountly tried to keep aholt
Of his mumbeulizing narrativation,
But he was dissensibly non-coherent
With a naturalistic talent to devaricate.

He was consistively disassembling,
Misindicating his intellectuality
And his irreality noissomely aloud.
Of his malapropicisms he was proud.
His crassy disaparagements reeked
And his ununderstandments peaked
They pointed out his misconstumblement
About his privates and the government.

His blabbermouthedness notoriastic
Rerendered him atombombastical.
His practicication of the irradical
Was mostly piraticalish; nastical.
His pernowncements so disapplaudable
Too bad his words were so megaudible
Unpossible, hyperdisgustisizing,
To the point of indisguising.

The moment I saw you walking towards me,
I was staring at your eyes.
It was sparkling, sensual yet passionate.
It caught me off guard.

The moment you share your life,
Little by little, I linger more.
As naturalistic ambiance seduces me,
Making me want you more.

The moment we walk in the night district,
It wasn't just an ordinary walk,
You keep on knowing me more,
Yet, I'm scared of letting you know.

I'm a slacky icky man, rather a woman.
You're a goddess fallen from the dawn
As we get closer and closer
I was so afraid in falling for more.

Would you rather be seeing me?
If giving you a chance,
To love someone like me?
It's a heaven pretending to be like hell.

We all felt love from the second we were brought into this concious life
Whether we were aware of it or not
Love will always exist in one
Even if that love is only for theselves

We all felt romance from the minute we grasped another's hand
And plunged into countless lusts and short lived feelings
Soon forgotten forever
Until we stopped searching
And found what we were so distant from

Now though I have discovered something far different
Than anything I have ever felt in this lifetime

Apon realization that any glimpse of romanceful love from my past
was utterly fakes and users and hatred and stress
fake smiles and statements of affection beautified
and that what I have now found is my defninition of true love

When you love someones toes, and the way they wiggle in their slumber,
the way they carry themselves, the positions they sit in,
the tones of their voice, all of their expressions,
their personality in all of it's aspects

Somebody could read this and call me obsessive,
really I have found my favorite piece of living art
in all of his human grace, beauty, naturalistic,
and when I find something I adore,
I intend to know every inch of that beauty,
every moment of that lifespan
because I wouldn't miss each of those
Precious, Special moments for the world

In the depths of love I venture
the water is warm and the colors are vivid
the energy is bright and sensitive to the touch
it is more amazing than anything amazing

The dominant drive is the handle on the reducing valve of consciousness.
Consciousness is not merely received, it flows through us,
And one's body is its conduit.

Being has an active role in its synthesis.
It is from this vantage that pharmacophenomenology dares to ask:
Is there something the components of neurotransmission feel like?
For example, what commonalities are felt
under the influence of serotonergic drugs?

What sensate invariants are to be found
in the actions of other neurotransmitters, endorphins and hormones?
Can we identify these felt sensation with those naturalistic concepts?
Could we map the structures and limits of experience from the inside out,
Using neuropsychopharmacology as a cartogram
and the phenomenological tradition as a pathfinder.
Would that be so noumenautic?

Groundbreaking
Policy shaping
Guidance on decision making
Naturalistic teach

T

      H
        
          E
          
            S
            
             I
            
             S

          Reach

© 2024 Carol Natasha Diviney, “PhD (c)”

Before the Euro, you were -- swirling light, sitting pretty.
We kicked it at night along the grungy lanes of Ile de la Cité.
Notre Dame loomed large and long, a battleship on the Seine.
An exoskeleton of Gothic bones, what could it ever do but win?

Hunger hung out among us, an unwanted dog on a wayward walk.
Frenchmen directed us au centre. In those days, I could talk the talk.
Still can, still do, but who needs "J'adore vos diamants de luxe,
calme et beauté" when you must bow down in a row sans your ducks?

Serendipity, man, that's what la Cité seeped. Evening an ermine
blanket tossed effortlessly over the spires of the medieval vermin
that Haussmann hacked into Euclidean lines of parallel charms:
more ordre, beauté et calme. Organic geometry. What's the harm?

Dusk draped us in l'amour du mystère. Cafe awnings as exotic
as Flaubert's Egyptian tours, plump with mistresses for the neurotic
novelist who poisoned Normandy with naturalistic despair. He's
no Parisian, no architect, no monk. We absorb le mot juste; a star flees.

On the sidewalk, a 50-franc note calls out beneath the weeds.
We look for an owner, see nothing, feel nothing but the need to feed
on crepes, chocolat et confiture de fraise. I imagine Camus and Sartre
at Les Deux Magots, nursing black café, pouring noir into your heart.

Aye sandman, I surrender to yar supreme governance
surreal spectacular soiree gifts subconscious sphere
soothing (analogous to natural palliative), ah...REM
member nought, asper exquisite entertaining cerebral
kaleidoscope replete with nonpareil visual trappings

aesthetically tantalizing unforgettable..., but lo' eye can't
captcha scenario upon awakened state, tis bothersome
transcendent, resplendent, quiescent,...transient dream
ticking escapement shuttered against recollections...
aye plead mercy to jog, (and gently jimmy - yeah of

course figuratively) shuttered facet slammed tight soon
nee immediately inaccessible dimension brought forth
teasingly, phantasmagorically, numbingly ephemeral,
nevertheless temporarily liberating, enshrouding, and
cocooning against incessant drubbing mine corporeal

wakeful body electric relentlessly fraught with profuse
inexplicable perspiration (principally palms) recurs
like clockwork (despite prescription medications), this
physiological discomfort hazards livingsocial quotidian
joyless agonizing oft times including courtesy, not

"FAKE" panic attack, these anxiety less debilitating,
when emotionally torturous teenage years wracked
every cell (no matter how fast I ran - just Kuwait, the
mailer daemons threatened) to undermine even flickr
of happiness, hence suicidal ideations (eternal slumber)

tantalized (still populate though processes) as surefire
solution to mitigate despite leaving those who love,
and especially hate yours truly, his existence bereft
of quality, though tranquil physical quasi rural setting
(Schwenksville), a naturalistic, fantastic, holistic balm,

here quiet as a cemetary removed, not considerably
distant from Philadelphia (hubbub disagrees with hair
trigger vulnerability), where madding crowd affects my
innate neurological predisposition, these lovely bones

easily rattled, quite aggravating to live verging upon
tremulous agitation assuaged through writing - catharsis
delivers temporary alleviation as doth solitary voluntary
sequestration poor substitute to relish L'Chaim!

Now Holy cow, I modestly bow vine
and dandy attired with New Times Roman font –
showing off me lix - plus iv ridging
despite afflicting unsuspecting reader  
to experience insufferable oh press
sieve corny word play yes
please lemme know and honestly profess
if profusion of words create lingual Loch Ness,
when hens can't come home to roost
especially, encountering
the following conglomeration
in Matthew Scott Harris patois.

He readily admits writing inventive
attempts usually ten tubby a literary mess,
thus finding innocent cyber cruisers
Angle fishing for Saxony fundamental fluidity
courtesy of Freudian stream of consciousness,
gabbling gibberish, muck not done on purpose
and certainly less
modest ambition to impress.

Gnome hatter intent toward
cogency, fancy ingenuity,
levity, the inevitable
resultant wrought gobbledygook
fascination for Lingua Franca
feeble endeavor splutters, splinters,
and splatters Asia Yukon guess.

Paramour status analogous with twenty six letters,
sans En gull Lush Mother tongue confluence
finds me submerged (as an Arctic Monkey)
swimmingly enervated
via ****** laced sentiments
perhaps finds bravely daring soul madly
hollering, gesticulating floundering,
(in close proximity to Davy Jones's locker)
to avoid drowning at sea
perchance comprehending passionate influence.

Upon espying a signature poem of mine
forces one pre ponder ring lurking predilection
tib hush anonymous re:
dears (dares) adventuresome mettle
taking him/her to the brainy
(briny) deep brink Icon fess

this (NON FAKE) pretense, why
aye metaphorically express
(via medium of ordinary Anglophile
alphabetic wonton soup,
or figurative egg drop soup
bubbling broth (el) doth brew)

pronouns Sibyl affectation
affliction sans plethora,
where each ladle full adrip with
richly flavor Verdana Font lee
and sincerely textured vocabulary.

Pluperfect mortals beings undoubtedly feel
(blindsided, how this hunger stricken author
suffers said sesquipedalian syndrome
particularly expectorating flashy

hoping tum bark on successful literary quest)
hyper aware aspiring paperback writers wannabe
might stoop to conquer, cheat, cadge
vis a vis plagiarize plethora
amidst storied plentiful English droppings.

Rather than succumb pretense feigning paucity
temptation to bask exultantly,
professed glorious unrequited love
announcing required sworn vow,
(el lye ding) avowed consonant covenant.

In the dark womb
of the forest, sun-
light filters through
the canopy like
a mountain
shower. Its progress
is microscopic. A
photon bounces
from branch to
branch. A wave
wraps itself
around an
unsuspecting
leaf.

On the forest
floor, shadows
rule the kingdom,
painting over
the middle distance,
pointing to organic
geometries of color,
where long trunks
of timber lie shorn,
where streams
shimmer past
boulders stained
with orange lichen,
where tawny deer
flinch at the first flick
of danger and
flee on their delicate,
toothpick legs.

This is not Eden.
Decay creeps
across the leafy
floor. No living
creature can escape
its grasp.
Decrepit trees
fall without
aim, buried above-
ground, their
roots like gray,
broken
skeletons,
their bark like
naturalistic
wafers. This
is my body.

We wander
through
the forest
amid pungent smells
of water, earth
and wood. Decid-
uous limbs convert
the moss into soft,
buoyant beds that
nurture us, shelter
us, inspire us as
we arise into
shards of light
and fight our way
along the path
of survival.

The struggle won,
we follow myriad
paths, packed with
a labyrinth of
choices, and so
we mark the paths,
make them
temporarily
our own, only
to discover that
they have
already
permanently
marked us,
imprinting through
our coarse skin
the primeval
genome of the
soul.

We stride
toward the misshapen
mountain that
halts all progress
of the paths.
A glacial lake
reflects the crest.
Forest birds perform
Beethoven's third
symphony, Eroica,
to hail our epic
journey homeward.

Soon we will be
cast out
of the inner
darkness
of the forest
and into the
teeming world
of pollution,
viruses and
the machinery
of hate.

Wounded,
we will keep
our focus
forward,
having gambled
on the path
not taken.
With a sweet,
green shoot
between our
teeth, we shadow
the light, bouncing
from branch
to branch. Abstract
patterns in the sky
write our way
into intricate
vistas of color
and delight.

As sap
seeps from
the wounded oak
we left behind,
our progress
is microscopic,
our canopy
dense.

I'm apprehensive
cause when
people mention
their own fears
it causes me tension.

But, I'm so glad
I brought my
small black
notepad,
so I can write notes
to pass the time,

cause I got 8 hours
of contemplating
devastating
and frustrating
lessons in waiting,
learning patience,
while debating
if now is the time
for innovating,
or for immolating
all of my
addicting devices,
and going back to
a more naturalistic
worldview.

This is what
I work out,
and it works to
ease me through
boring afternoons.